Girl With One Eye - Part 2/?
Title: Girl With One Eye
Pairing: Naomi/Effy (eventually)
Rating: Some strong language and sexual references, a bit of raunchy stuff so i reckon an R.
Word Count: 1,500ish
Disclaimer: i obviously don't own Skins, although if i did my life would be sooo much better :P
Summary: A fic about Naomi and Effy, from Effy's pov. Been having some trouble with 'A Place To Hide' so i thought i'd have a go at something else. I don't think that this fic is gonna be too long, maybe 5 or so parts. Title and cut from Florence and the Machine's 'Girl With One Eye'.
She cries after that, for a long time. I sit on the edge of my bed, awkward and uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. I don’t deal with this sorta shit, it’s not how my life goes, so I just carry on acting like she’s not bawling her fucking eyes out and pass her a fag or the quickly emptying bottle of vodka every now and then. I can’t figure out what she expects from me. Of all the people in the world for her to go to, to talk to about whatever the fuck’s going on, why the fuck would she come to me? I’d ask her as much but I’m fucking terrified that the answer will be something painfully honest like I’m her only friend, and then everything would get so much worse, so I just don’t ask.
This isn’t my usual silence. It’s not like when I flash people that knowing smirk and wait for them to tell me all their ugly secrets - even though I normally know them all anyway - no, this is so much worse. I want to fill the silence, I want her to say something, because if she doesn’t then I’m worried I’ll have to ask. But what if she does start to speak rather than sob, what if she tells me everything and it’s exactly what I don’t want to know. No, this is the exact opposite of my usual silences; I’m not waiting for her to speak, because I know it would be just fucking awful.
Her sobs begin to quieten, I hear her gasping for breath and just the noise of it is almost painful. She wipes at her eyes and sniffles - all the hallmarks of a classic crying fit. I don’t want to look at her, to look at her would just be a hideous reminder of what love can do to you, of what it will do to you. I know by now that it must be love, it must be Emily - that much she doesn’t have to tell me. Nothing else in the world can make a person sob like this, not a single thing. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried like this... well, maybe just once.
It’s one of those memories that’s both shockingly clear and soothingly hazy. I can’t exactly remember the flow of time that night and the following day but I remember specific things with startling clarity. It was the day after that night in the forest. The night with the shrooms, and Cook being a fuck, and Katie, and Freddie. I know that bits of it weren’t real, I know I was tripping, but it’s hard to tell which bits were created by my fucked up mind - so hard to tell. I hit her, I know that much. I fucked Freddie, that’s true as well. But the rest of it is something of a haze, maybe it was the drugs, maybe I’ve just repressed it. The next day is so much clearer, sitting on my bed and calling everyone I could think of. Going to the hospital, seeing the way they looked at me and feeling just as disgusted as they did. And then going home and crying like I’d never cried before, my mum for once actually being a mum and taking care of me. I can so clearly remember the way that great choking sobs racked my body as she poured hot water over my head, pulling the hair away from my face, and shushing me until I felt like a kid again and everything was ok - at least for a bit.
Maybe I should do that for Naomi, maybe I should hold her and soothe her, but I wouldn’t have a fucking clue how. She’s not a child and I’m sure as hell not a mother, how the fuck would it even work. I look over at her again, it’s been a while since my last glance, and she’s clutching the empty bottle in a shaking hand. I slip the cool glass from her clammy grasp and drop it to the floor. Her hand’s still shaking, it’s all I can look at now, all I can see and I want it to stop. People don’t come into my room like this, they don’t come into my room at all; hell people don’t expect this kind of thing from me, they don’t expect me to be human or sympathetic. Her hand keeps shaking - it reminds me of the clubs, of the pulsating bodies, of the flashing lights. But this isn’t religion, this isn’t release, this isn’t a quick fuck in a grimy bathroom; this is her falling apart, and I’m expected to put her back to together... or maybe even to stop her falling.
I can see her now, really see her. She’s fallen so fucking far from grace. Whatever she’s done it doesn’t matter, but I know she must have done something, because she’s so broken right now. So much more broken than I’ve ever been. Because that’s something I’ve learnt about life - the harder you love, the further you fall. And Naomi loves so fucking hard. That’s when I slip my hand into hers because, God, I can’t bear that shaking any more.
A while later, when it’s dark and I don’t have to see the tear stains on her cheeks and the haunted shine in her eyes, I pull her back onto the bed and we lie there, hardly touching. She sniffs again, a sound which has occasionally punctuated the long silence since we first - and last - spoke, and presses her hand into mine. Her hand is suddenly hot against me skin, I want to snatch mine away from this sudden invasion of my body. That’s what it feels like, an invasion. She’s pressing the heat of her own body against mine through the tiny patch of connecting skin and I can feel it burning me, fucking scorching my skin. I imagine her hand as a white hot branding iron, pressing to my skin like to the hindquarters of cattle - branding me, making me hers. But I’m not hers, Emily is hers and she is Emily’s, that’s how this all works. I imagine the skin crackling and sizzling, contracting until it splits and the muscle beneath is revealed - shining pink through the black. I feel myself wanting to raise my hand to my eyes just to check that it’s still intact, that she hasn’t burnt away my flesh and revealed my internal structure, that she hasn’t exposed me.
I can’t fucking stand this anymore, this tenuous contact just for comforts sake - it makes me want to scream or throw up or something. So I straddle her, so quickly that she could hardly fucking stop me and I don’t even think she would, and do the only thing I know that might help her now. I press my lips to hers hard and fast, nipping at her lip and swiping at her tongue; it’s messy but she doesn’t push me away, in the emotional state she’s in why would she. Her hands come up against my back, pushing up my shirt and burning again, but this time it’s good. This time it feels like it’s going somewhere. I slip my hand round the back of her neck - holding tight, anchoring - and whisper against her cheek:
“Tear it out, just fucking tear it out.”
After that it’s all moaning and sweat and friction. It’s her biting my lip until it splits and pushing her knee up in just the right spot. It’s me ignoring the tears on her cheeks and the way she’s squeezing her eyes shut so fucking tight. Right before she comes around my fingers I hear her gasp so softly the only word that could possibly be appropriate in this situation, where we’re both giving and taking so much from each other:
“Please.”
And then it’s all over, and there’ll be no more pleading tonight.
Pairing: Naomi/Effy (eventually)
Rating: Some strong language and sexual references, a bit of raunchy stuff so i reckon an R.
Word Count: 1,500ish
Disclaimer: i obviously don't own Skins, although if i did my life would be sooo much better :P
Summary: A fic about Naomi and Effy, from Effy's pov. Been having some trouble with 'A Place To Hide' so i thought i'd have a go at something else. I don't think that this fic is gonna be too long, maybe 5 or so parts. Title and cut from Florence and the Machine's 'Girl With One Eye'.
She cries after that, for a long time. I sit on the edge of my bed, awkward and uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. I don’t deal with this sorta shit, it’s not how my life goes, so I just carry on acting like she’s not bawling her fucking eyes out and pass her a fag or the quickly emptying bottle of vodka every now and then. I can’t figure out what she expects from me. Of all the people in the world for her to go to, to talk to about whatever the fuck’s going on, why the fuck would she come to me? I’d ask her as much but I’m fucking terrified that the answer will be something painfully honest like I’m her only friend, and then everything would get so much worse, so I just don’t ask.
This isn’t my usual silence. It’s not like when I flash people that knowing smirk and wait for them to tell me all their ugly secrets - even though I normally know them all anyway - no, this is so much worse. I want to fill the silence, I want her to say something, because if she doesn’t then I’m worried I’ll have to ask. But what if she does start to speak rather than sob, what if she tells me everything and it’s exactly what I don’t want to know. No, this is the exact opposite of my usual silences; I’m not waiting for her to speak, because I know it would be just fucking awful.
Her sobs begin to quieten, I hear her gasping for breath and just the noise of it is almost painful. She wipes at her eyes and sniffles - all the hallmarks of a classic crying fit. I don’t want to look at her, to look at her would just be a hideous reminder of what love can do to you, of what it will do to you. I know by now that it must be love, it must be Emily - that much she doesn’t have to tell me. Nothing else in the world can make a person sob like this, not a single thing. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried like this... well, maybe just once.
It’s one of those memories that’s both shockingly clear and soothingly hazy. I can’t exactly remember the flow of time that night and the following day but I remember specific things with startling clarity. It was the day after that night in the forest. The night with the shrooms, and Cook being a fuck, and Katie, and Freddie. I know that bits of it weren’t real, I know I was tripping, but it’s hard to tell which bits were created by my fucked up mind - so hard to tell. I hit her, I know that much. I fucked Freddie, that’s true as well. But the rest of it is something of a haze, maybe it was the drugs, maybe I’ve just repressed it. The next day is so much clearer, sitting on my bed and calling everyone I could think of. Going to the hospital, seeing the way they looked at me and feeling just as disgusted as they did. And then going home and crying like I’d never cried before, my mum for once actually being a mum and taking care of me. I can so clearly remember the way that great choking sobs racked my body as she poured hot water over my head, pulling the hair away from my face, and shushing me until I felt like a kid again and everything was ok - at least for a bit.
Maybe I should do that for Naomi, maybe I should hold her and soothe her, but I wouldn’t have a fucking clue how. She’s not a child and I’m sure as hell not a mother, how the fuck would it even work. I look over at her again, it’s been a while since my last glance, and she’s clutching the empty bottle in a shaking hand. I slip the cool glass from her clammy grasp and drop it to the floor. Her hand’s still shaking, it’s all I can look at now, all I can see and I want it to stop. People don’t come into my room like this, they don’t come into my room at all; hell people don’t expect this kind of thing from me, they don’t expect me to be human or sympathetic. Her hand keeps shaking - it reminds me of the clubs, of the pulsating bodies, of the flashing lights. But this isn’t religion, this isn’t release, this isn’t a quick fuck in a grimy bathroom; this is her falling apart, and I’m expected to put her back to together... or maybe even to stop her falling.
I can see her now, really see her. She’s fallen so fucking far from grace. Whatever she’s done it doesn’t matter, but I know she must have done something, because she’s so broken right now. So much more broken than I’ve ever been. Because that’s something I’ve learnt about life - the harder you love, the further you fall. And Naomi loves so fucking hard. That’s when I slip my hand into hers because, God, I can’t bear that shaking any more.
A while later, when it’s dark and I don’t have to see the tear stains on her cheeks and the haunted shine in her eyes, I pull her back onto the bed and we lie there, hardly touching. She sniffs again, a sound which has occasionally punctuated the long silence since we first - and last - spoke, and presses her hand into mine. Her hand is suddenly hot against me skin, I want to snatch mine away from this sudden invasion of my body. That’s what it feels like, an invasion. She’s pressing the heat of her own body against mine through the tiny patch of connecting skin and I can feel it burning me, fucking scorching my skin. I imagine her hand as a white hot branding iron, pressing to my skin like to the hindquarters of cattle - branding me, making me hers. But I’m not hers, Emily is hers and she is Emily’s, that’s how this all works. I imagine the skin crackling and sizzling, contracting until it splits and the muscle beneath is revealed - shining pink through the black. I feel myself wanting to raise my hand to my eyes just to check that it’s still intact, that she hasn’t burnt away my flesh and revealed my internal structure, that she hasn’t exposed me.
I can’t fucking stand this anymore, this tenuous contact just for comforts sake - it makes me want to scream or throw up or something. So I straddle her, so quickly that she could hardly fucking stop me and I don’t even think she would, and do the only thing I know that might help her now. I press my lips to hers hard and fast, nipping at her lip and swiping at her tongue; it’s messy but she doesn’t push me away, in the emotional state she’s in why would she. Her hands come up against my back, pushing up my shirt and burning again, but this time it’s good. This time it feels like it’s going somewhere. I slip my hand round the back of her neck - holding tight, anchoring - and whisper against her cheek:
“Tear it out, just fucking tear it out.”
After that it’s all moaning and sweat and friction. It’s her biting my lip until it splits and pushing her knee up in just the right spot. It’s me ignoring the tears on her cheeks and the way she’s squeezing her eyes shut so fucking tight. Right before she comes around my fingers I hear her gasp so softly the only word that could possibly be appropriate in this situation, where we’re both giving and taking so much from each other:
“Please.”
And then it’s all over, and there’ll be no more pleading tonight.