Fic: Baby Girl, I'm a Blur - Chapter 4
Title: Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
Author: interpol_ice
Fandom: Skins - Second Generation
Pairing: Naomi Campbell/Emily Fitch
Rating: T (naughty naught-T! not exactly T)
Summary: Naomi Campbell and the complications of having a twin for a girlfriend. Distracting flashbacks and a lovesick mind keep her from telling the night's story straight.
In this comedy of errors, the first thing that got right was letting Naomi narrate.
[Pre-Season 4]
CHAPTER 1 - How We'd Be (You and Me)
CHAPTER 2 - Swim or Die Without
CHAPTER 3 - Try Me On To See If I Fit
Get it while it's hot! New chap stew!!
Author's Notes: Please put up with Naomi in this chap. She’s under the influence of various substances... So if she’s a little sentimental and a little unoriginal with her profanities.
Blame it all on sex, drugs, rock ’n’ alcoholllll!! :)
It’s another Eff-Naomi tie-in. And it got rather long. While I was writing it, I was all like, “shit, stop growing!” and then the room got smaller and smaller and the fic pinned me against the wall and everything. Crazy, crazy shit. So I had to cut the chapter again.
Oh well, more chapters for you! XD
Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the previous chaps! I love you guys so much!! YEAH! :D
Expect: Fitch TWINteraction! EFFY CHRIST! The COOKie jar! Read on and enjoy!
Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
by interpol_ice
Chapter 4: Lover Undercover
= = = *** = = =
*
= = = ** EFFY ** = = =
*
Turns out, my grab-Emily-and-fucking-leg-it plan worked. I was able to
detach her from Naomi without much of a problem. I escaped unscathed. I’m
lucky. No, really, I consider myself utterly fortunate.
It was also sweet, you know. If you could’ve only seen the look on Naomi’s
face the moment I took Emily away from her, well, maybe you wouldn’t have
had the heart to go through with what I just did.
I stole Emily away like some really bad-ass villain from a Disney movie,
leaving Naomi pathetically torn. And let me tell you this. It’s not exactly
a look you see everyday. Well, not on Naomi at least. So it’s all new to me.
Naomi has always been the hardest to read. In our little group of friends,
it’s Naomi who’s the most unpredictable. Me and her, we used to be alike. We
like hiding who we are. Not really happy with our inner selves.
I don’t know about Naomi, but I lost touch with my inner self ages ago.
It’s just that, we’ve got so much... love in our hearts. That we’re too
scared to let it out. Scared that if we give that love away, it’ll never
come back to us. That it will leave us essentially emptier than we already
were.
But there’s a bloody difference.
Naomi has Emily.
Now, she has actual emotions on her face. She has Emily in her heart. She
has that heart on her sleeve.
It shows. It just fucking shows.
= = = = = = = =
It’s not that I’m jealous or anything. No, not really.
I push those thoughts away as I lead Emily through the club.
= = = = = = = =
Emily is the second girl I’ve dragged into this ladies room. At this rate,
I’d be qualified enough to be called a Fitch Bounty Hunter or something. How
fucked is that?
On second thought... it does sound like an interesting vocation.
Yeah, this might be the most my life can possibly amount to. I’m rounding up
pretty, little hobbits. Wow, gee-whiz, isn’t that just glamourous?
When Emily walks into the loo, spotting Katie perched on the sink counter,
the first thing she says is, “The fuck, Katie? You’re smoking now?”
Katie flashes her twin a cheeky smirk, makes a show of taking in a deep drag
of her cigarette. “Yeah. S’what?” Katie manages to answer back, blowing
smoke into Emily’s face. That is, before she starts coughing like an old man
again.
“So what?” Emily repeats disbelievingly, her voice raised. “So what? You’re
not even doing it right, Katie, fucking cow.”
Emily slaps Katie’s hand that’s holding the fag and the fag jumps over the
moon, into oblivion. When done right, like one Emily Fitch just did, no one
gets burned by the hot ash. Emily has skills, obviously.
I can see Emily’s face screw up instantly when she examines Katie’s
‘helpless’ state. “You smell. Really bad,” Emily says, much to Katie’s
displeasure.
“Cook gave her the old heave-on-the-hoe,” I say while passing by them,
giving Emily all the info she needs in a nutshell. I kick open a stall, flip
the toilet-lid down and take a seat.
Emily turns to me, a little smirk on her face. “Nice way of putting that.”
“Fuck you.” Katie shoots my way, in her defense.
“Yeah, I love you too, Katie.” I say, with like, zero sincerity.
Katie flips me off, her face screwed up, clearly frustrated. Panda is right.
Katie Fitch is definitely Hulk with a vagina.
There’s a sound of a foot tapping in impatience. And yes, it’s the sole of
Emily’s lady skate shoe repeatedly hitting the tiled bathroom floor. Emily
has her arms crossed and she’s looking at Katie with eleven types of
disapproval.
After Emily’s quick assessment, she decides, “You can wear my shirt.”
“Fine. I’ll wear anything as long as it doesn’t reek of Cook.”
Like being told an order, Emily takes her sweater off.
Surprise, surprise. Emily is wearing a shirt with a pig on it. A pig on it.
And I know it’s Naomi’s. Anyone with eyes would know that shirt belongs to
Naomi Campbell. Who else in college cares about Animal Rights? Who else has
the balls to wear a pig shirt out in the open?
Naomi Campbell, that’s who.
“Fuck no, I’m not wearing that.”
Emily makes a sound of disbelief. “You said you’d wear anything,” Emily
says. She’s frowning now, obviously annoyed as hell.
Katie’s jaw drops, absolutely baffled.
Oh, Emily, don’t you get it? Katie will never wear that pig shirt. Not in a
million years. When will you get a clue? Surely you’re cleverer than you let
me in on.
“Yeah, I said anything normal. And for your information, normal doesn’t
include over-sized shirts with pigs on it!” Katie says, exasperated.
“It’s a fucking pig, Ems!” she adds, not missing a beat.
Emily lets out a frustrated sigh. “Well, I’m not letting you borrow my
sweater,” she says, crossing her arms, a pose of pseudo-defiance. She’s
pretty decided about what she just said. Looks like Emily’s going to really
stand by it this time.
“Ems, please? I need you, okay?”
Emily, I can tell, is dying to refuse point-blank. But it so happens that
Katie has an effective puppy dog pout. I fucking swear, it makes her look
like a pitiful primary student who just dropped her ice cream cone. Before
the poor thing could even get a single lick on it.
It’s precious enough to break anybody. The look on her face at the moment is
so... irresistible. It almost makes me forget that she’s the devil
incarnate.
Emily sighs again. This time, in submission. “Alright, but you fucking owe
me.”
Now I see why Emily has put up with her all this time. Katie knows which
buttons to push to get what she wants. Considering Emily’s her twin and all,
Emily’s buttons are probably the most familiar to her. The easiest to push.
Emily’s hand reaches for her opposite wrist. I’ve noticed that she has this
scrunchy clipped around it. She takes the accessory off and ties her long
red hair up in a this-will-have-to-do ponytail. It shows her desire to get
this whole damage-control business sorted already. “Can we make this quick?
I need to get back to Naomi.”
“Alright, then,” Katie agrees. She takes her top off, revealing a bra with
zebra-patterns on it.
The zebra bra. In short, the zebra.
A small smile plays on my lips at my secret amusement. I watch as Katie
curls her top into a haphazard ball. She catches my eye, and throws her
shirt to me, the bundle resembling a baby leopard. Katie then points to the
rubbish bin inside the stall I’m occupying.
Oh well, it was nice knowing you. Then I drop it into nonexistence.
After that dirty deed, I check up on them. Just in time to see Katie
struggling to break through the sweater hole and then… pop goes the weasel,
she succeeds.
“Soft. So fucking soft.” Katie mumbles in approval, she’s smiling now. “Why
the fuck is it so soft?” she asks Emily, weirdly amazed by the sweater. “Can
I have this, Ems?”
Emily’s eye twitches, ever so slightly, undoubtedly irked. “Fucking hell,
Katie! It’s a sweater. It’s supposed to be soft. And no, you can’t have it.
It’s mine, not something that you made me buy, but all mine.”
Funny. It’s almost as if Emily said ‘duh’ in between every word.
“Right,” Katie says, drawing the word out in that special way of hers. And
then it’s like something clicks in her head. “This what she gave you for our
birthday then? Well, that’s pretty lush. Lucky you, all she got me was a
strap-on,” she says glumly.
Emily’s eyes grow wide, like two fleshy grapes stacked on top of each other.
That is, if you could stack grapes, anyway. “She got you a strap-on?”
Emily asks, her jaw dropping slightly.
Oh God, I could watch these two for days. They argue oh-so-amusingly.
“Yeah, quite the comedian, your girlfriend. It was rather fucking funny of
her, you know, to have done that.”
“And you kept it?”
“For your information, it came with leopard-print knickers! Of course I
fucking kept it.”
The room falls silent. I catch the look on Emily’s face upon the
introduction of this new, rather interesting, fact. She’s trying so hard to
suppress her laughter. I’m feeling the same thing. I want so fucking badly
to laugh.
Naomi, you smart-ass. I give you props for your genius.
Then Katie breaks the serious ice. She snorts, once, twice, before setting
off on a rather strong laughing fit. That’s it, what me and Emily were
looking for. The go-signal. We’re finally allowed to laugh now.
And we join in, the humorous sound, echoing all over the room. Me and the
twins. Who would’ve fucking thought?
The room isn’t vibrating as threateningly as it used to. I can’t make out
the music that’s playing outside. I can’t make it out over our laughter. The
tension that was there before, it’s gone now. I find it easier to breathe,
to focus on the now, on the inside.
Not on what’s happening out there, not on what happened before or on what
would happen when I get out of this loo.
The past hurts. The future probably will.
But I’m having a fucking laugh with Katie and Emily Fitch. It’s feels that
they hate me less. This. This is the now.
The before and after, they don’t matter much, those things. Not to me,
anyway.
I feel less heavy already.
= = = = = = = =
Not quite finished with catching her breath, Katie says, “Well, at least
she’s got good taste.”
I don’t know if she’s talking about the sweater or the strap-on.
Both. I decide. Katie is talking about both.
= = = = = = = =
“There, good as new,” Emily says, tucking Katie’s hair neatly behind her
ears.
Tony, he used to do that to me too. I used to come down late for breakfast
and catch him at the bottom of the stairs. Just as he’s putting on his coat.
Then he’d do that. You know, fix my hair. Then he’d quote me a line from a
poem he read the night before. And he’ll walk out the door.
Me and Tony. We used to laugh every time we happened to talk in accidental
rhyme. Oh, Lord. I did it again.
Katie hops off the sink counter to throw her arms around Emily. I see that
Emily stiffens, like she didn’t see that one coming. But she eventually
eases into Katie, lets Katie hug her properly.
The first time I caught sight of the Fitch twins, they were getting out of
Danny Guilermo’s ridiculous, yellow (yellow? Couldn’t you pick a gayer color
please, Danny Guillermo?) monstrosity of a convertible. And I saw it. I saw
it in the air.
I saw that Emily hated Katie.
At the small of Katie’s back, Emily’s fingers find each other. And they
mesh.
They mesh like twins.
And what I see now? Well, it’s actually nothing like that.
I mean, how can you honestly hate a part of yourself?
They separate and Katie turns to the sink again. She grabs her purse off the
counter. She takes out two lippys. She hands Emily one. They take off the
caps, twist the lipsticks into visibility, and they re-apply.
The twins do this in an unreal, synchronized fashion. Their movements are so
exact. So in tune that it almost freaks the fuck out of me. Like they popped
out of the Twilight Zone or something.
When they’re done, they lean into the mirror together. They press their lips
against it, leaving two kiss marks, side by side, one a darker shade than
the other. Emily writes an ‘E’ in hot pink, next to her lip-print. Across
this, there’s a ‘K’ in deep rouge.
They step back and view their masterpiece. From the looks of their
reflections, I can tell they’re pretty pleased with themselves.
This twin thing, it’s cute... I guess.
= = = = = = = =
I want Tony back. I want him home.
= = = = = = = =
Katie and I are alone again. Emily’s gone off, itching to get back to her
girlfriend. Without a doubt, Naomi and Emily, they have attachment issues.
I get off the toilet seat and walk over to where Katie is. Standing in front
of the mirror, I make myself presentable too.
My hair’s a bit shite, so I run my fingers through it, lazily. There, it’s
all nice and proper again. After I’m satisfied with that, I add another coat
of lipstick. Then a thought comes across. I lean into the mirror and place a
kiss next to the K. Then I write my initial beside it.
A K sandwiched between two E’s.
When I pull back, I catch Katie staring at me in a way she shouldn’t have.
Again. She needs to say something. I can feel her reluctance from a mile
away, though. Needs to say something but doesn’t exactly want to.
“What?” I ask softly, taking a step closer.
She reacts by taking a step backwards. “I don’t know...” she trails off.
“Don’t know what?” I press, inching closer.
“Don’t know if you’re actually sincere or if you’re just headfucking me all
over again,” she lets out in a straight stream. And then, her voice a little
lower, she says, “I don’t fucking know if you’re a Jesus or a Judas.”
For every step I take forward, she takes two steps back.
I snort. It’s derisive, I know. But Katie’s being really ridiculous, going
all biblical on my ass.
Katie stands straighter, more alert than ever because I believe I have
deeply offended her. It shows all over her puppy face. “Umm, ’scuse me?”
“That’s a cliché to say.”
There I go again, with the rhymes.
One small step forward for me, one giant leap backward for Katie Fitch. Her
back makes a soft thump against the tiled wall. She’s two heads
taller than the hand dryer she’s standing next to. Even so, she’s still so
small.
“Fuck you,” she says, lunging herself forward, in a movement that makes me
back off in reflex. There’s this fire in her eyes. Something I couldn’t
place.
I don’t back down, I stare at her unrelentingly. My head dips, until our
foreheads are crashing angrily with one another.
“Well, fuck you too,” I say coldly.
This is it. We’re never going to fix whatever the fuck is going on between
us. She’ll never forgive me and I’ll never be free of this guilt.
A feeling has grown inside of me. A feeling I couldn’t place. All I know is
that it’s strong. It’s terrifying.
And the mother of all WTF moments, Katherine Fitch kisses me.
Katie’s kissing me.
= = = = = = = =
And honestly, it’s rather nice.
= = = = = = = =
“Jesus.”
This is what Katie says right after we part and just before coming in for
another round. Jesus, she says. Like a prayer.
Yeah, Katie. Exactly, I’m a fucking Jesus.
= = = = = = = =
*
= = = ** NAOMI ** = = =
*
It’s getting really old, dancing alone and all. I come to a slow halt and I
look around me. Strobe lights slice through the moving bodies and they all
look like technicolor scars on everyone’s skin. This place, this club is a
battleground where teenagers, armed with alcohol, drugs and sex, banish
their demons into oblivion.
With the proper combination of artificial happiness and a single-mindedness
to get trashed, you could forget your own name in here. This is a place
where your mind is bound to play tricks on you.
Where the fuck are they? Emily and Effy have been gone quite a while now. It
was pretty exhausting. I’ve been looking for Emily’s blue jumper in the
crowd the moment Effy whisked her away.
The DJ spins on Bon Jovi.
And for fuck’s sake, it’s Bon Jovi we’re talking about here. We all know
what’s going to happen. Boys who can’t dance for shit will start jumping
around with intense abandon, not really caring whoever’s poor foot they land
upon.
Right on cue, some reckless bastard’s trainer stomps on mine. And fucking
right you are if you think it hurts. Because it does, like a bitch. That man
probably weighs three hundred pounds.
Life-preservation instincts kicking in, I get the fuck out of there. So I
head over to the bar, temporarily giving up my search.
Just as I’m taking a seat, I hear a familiar voice.
“Whoooah-oh! Naomi-oh!”
It’s Cook. And there are two things that I notice about him. One, he is
wearing a track suit. Ha, that just blows me away. I can hear myself
laughing in my head. Hahahaha and then some. Yeah, it’s that
funny.
And the second thing? Well, secondly, his breath stinks like road kill that
wore cheap perfume for its funeral. Yeah, talk about precision description.
Unbelievably awful.
“Cook,” I say in acknowledgment, sort of glad he happened to find me. “Those
are some nice threads,” I point out, raising a brow at him.
He glances down at his attempts to conform. “Right. Had to blend in,
blondie,” he says with a toothy smile and a wink.
Cook hops onto the stool next to mine. Getting a good eye at him, I have to
say he looks a little worse for wear.
“Fucking glad you guys came. Class-A mates, fucking Class-A. Really
appreciate it.” He looks around suspiciously, says to me, “Say, any sign of
Johnny White, give me and Thomas a heads-up, alright?”
“Alright.” I answer automatically, not understanding a thing he just said.
Okay, maybe I am... a bit trashed.
“And Katie. Tell me if you see Katie,” he adds as an after-thought.
“Why? What’s with Katie?”
“Oh, nothing. Just threw up on her, that’s all,” he says, appearing to be
totally unaffected by it.
Oh, nothing? Really, Cook?
It’s never really nothing with her. This is Katie we’re talking about. She
doesn’t let anyone get away with anything. He fucked with Katie Fitch, in my
book that makes him a dead man.
“Hang on,” he pipes up quickly, “you’re all by your lonesome.”
To that, I just roll my eyes. I’m alone, so what? It’s not like the end of
the world. It’s not like I can’t function without her. No, it’s nothing like
that at all.
“Where’s ya’ lady love?” he asks, holding four fingers up at the barman.
“I dunno. She’s gone somewhere with Effy.”
Cook just nods at this. Seems like he doesn’t want to talk about her. Yeah,
okay, I’m not bringing her up again.
The barman sets the four shots up on the counter and Cooks face lights up
again. He leans in closer to me. Cupping a hand near my ear, he says, “Hey,
listen here, blondie. I’m lettin’ you in on a little secret. So promise to
keep schtum, yeah?”
He leans back and he has expectation written all over his face. And I’m all
like, ‘Really, Cook? Do I seriously have to promise?’
But anyway, I just nod at this.
Then I watch as he digs into a pocket of those Sporty Spice trousers of his.
He takes out what looks like a little packet of something. Of course, drugs.
It’s so typical of him.
“Don’t you think it’s unwise to be waving that around like nobody’s
business?” I ask while scanning around to see if anyone’s noticed.
He ignores my question completely.
“Uncle Keith’s mixed up a new blend. His advice? Pop these little fuckers
into some alcohol and you’ll have yourselves a fuckin’ par-tay.”
“Cook, I don’t think this is such a good idea. I mean, I don’t even do...” I
trail off, not really knowing how to finish that sentence aloud.
“Oh, come on. Live a little!” Cook insists, with his stupid face. The one
that makes him look like he’s having the time of his life. The one that
makes you feel like you’d miss out on the eighth wonder of the world if you
didn’t join in on his fuckery campaign. Christ, his stupid face. It
surprises me, how it’s so convincing.
And really, it’s not like I could say no to anything at this point.
He opens the Ziploc bag and puts a pinch or two in each glass. Then he licks
his fingers, taking good care not to waste the precious powder.
“Let’s get this shindig started then, shall we?”
“Cheers,” I slur before we clink our shot glasses.
It goes down fast, but not without a fight. The mix adds a nice, sweet burn
to the vodka. And I’ve got to admit, Uncle Keith nailed this recipe, taste-
wise. This is some excellent stuff.
“How long ‘til it kicks in?”
He reaches for his second shot. When he’s finished with it, he pulls off a
sour face. Cook’s skin is a flushed red when he finally answers, “Not long,
not long.”
Something in the crowd catches his attention. I follow his gaze and when I
see it land on... well, a crowd of complete strangers, nothing special, I
give up trying to figure out what he was looking at.
“Hey, I gotta run. I think I just saw that girl I came here with,” he
quickly explains, already out of his seat.
“Cook, wait!” I call out, suddenly remembering something.
He turns around. “What?” he asks, ambling back to me.
Rummaging through a tiny purse is easy. Even when you’re as drunk as a
Russian on a good day. I find what I’m looking for in a second. There, I
pull out the rest of my Soothers. He has to have them. If he wants to stand
a chance with that girl he should at least have acceptable-smelling breath.
I force it into his grasp. “You need that, trust me.”
He laughs. “Sure, whatever,” he says, before cutting through the crowd,
popping the collar of his track suit up.
Some things never fucking change.
Like Cook and his ‘fashion statements’.
= = = = = = = =
A couple of schnapps later, I start wondering about the 6 most statistically
full of shit professions. Half-way through my list, between wine tasters
(those chums say they know the difference between two bottles of the same
fucking wine. Real, hilarious shit) and weather forecasters (reading
from a teleprompter isn’t exactly a gift of premonition now, is it?), a girl
takes the seat beside me.
She smells like all the good things in life. Like a freshly-opened orange
that fills the whole house with its sweet, fruity zest. Like Emily.
I swing my seat and I’m thoroughly disappointed to see no trace of that blue
jumper I so expected to find.
Instead. It’s Katie sitting there. Emily’s sinister twin sister, all coy
smiles and devious eyes.
Now listen, there are some things you allow yourself to think when you’re
drunk as shit. Like this thought in particular... which I’m sure would’ve
made me off myself if it was thought whilst sober. And being sober? Well
it’s something that I was far from, really.
And those drugs Cook gave me? Not helping at all.
But... Fuck it, but Katie has certainly gotten incredibly fit since
the last time I saw her. Maybe even hotter than Emily.
It’s wrong on so many levels. But I couldn’t help myself. Katie is looking
really fuckable to me tonight. Bollocking shite, I sure am strung out of my
pissing mind.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. I will myself to stop staring. But I can’t. I just
can’t look away. Katie’s too... attractive.
She has her hair up in a messy ponytail, leaving her neck exposed. Leaving
little red tendrils sticking out in contrast to her white skin. Fuck, she
does have a lovely neck. I’ve only noticed that now.
My stare wanders south. I wonder what her tits look like. If they’re as
grope-inducing as Emily’s are. But no, I stop myself, dragging my eyes back
to her face.
What I see though, when I have the decency to divert my stare back up, is
even more absurd. Katie’s almond-shaped eyes are looking at me with this...
hunger. It’s surreal. But it looks like Katie’s desiring me. I mean,
seriously. I know enough about body language to make subtitles for that.
I break eye contact and scan the rest of her face. Same button nose, same
strong jaw line, same deliciously defined lips. Same agonizingly pretty face.
She’s a fit fox. And it strikes me. She looks so much like Emily.
She crosses her legs, my stare shifts immediately. Her legs, they go on
forever. Fucking hell, I’m perving on Katie. Here I am, lapping up every
inch of thigh and calve. From her knees to her-oh no, something doesn’t look
right.
Wait just a fucking minute.
Those shoes. Those Vans Ferris Lo-Pros. Those are Emily’s. I bought those
for Emily on You Know What? I Don’t Need a Holiday To Show You That I’m
Madly In Love With You Day. Sugar Daddy habits aside, why the fuck is
Katie wearing them?!
She gets off of her stool. And I get mindfucked even more because the white
shirt she’s wearing stretches to its full and glorious length as she takes a
confident step toward me. Fuck no.
Are my eyes deceiving me, or is Katie really is wearing a tee with a giant
pig on it? Because if she is... One, that’s my pig shirt. And two,
Katie wearing it is more impossible than Obama going off his rocker
and turning Republican! It’s that unlikely!
So while we’re on the topic of impossibility... I should probably tell you
about the part where Katie, Katie fucking Fitch, comes right up and just
puts her lips against mine. With no permission whatsoever.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’m totally caught off my wanking guard. I mean, this is the last thing on
earth that could happen to me... And it’s bloody happening! I shit you not.
It’s actually happening!
I freeze. And just let her... keep doing this to me. Let her go on with
sucking my upper lip.
Because somewhere along the way, my mouth starts hanging open.
And I’m not doing a thing to stop her. I’m even kissing her back. I told you,
I’m too pissed off my tits to say no to anything. My mind just bails on me.
Christ, everything is such a blur. This girl is a blur.
She gives my top lip another little kiss and pulls away before I can even
gather enough will power to stop this two-to-tango thing myself.
Holy hell, what the fuck am I going to tell Emily?
So... I snogged Katie by accident. I mean, you guys are twins and all.
Honest mistake, Ems. Please don’t break up with me?
Like she’d buy that? Dream on, Campbell. Dream the fuck on.
I’m there, thinking of a million more plausible excuses. To be honest
though, each one gets shittier than the last. I go on and on, freaking
myself out to the limit that is... until she speaks to me, for the first
time this night.
“Hey, I’ve missed you,” she says breathlessly.
And it hits me, her voice. Deep and raspy. Two parts husky, one part smooth
(that’s right. I know how to make PVA glue, loser). I mean, it’s a bedroom
voice that I hear every night. I’d recognize it anywhere. Anywhere.
Even if I was a deaf person wearing earmuffs.
= = = *** = = =
A/N: Thank you for reading this long chap! Any thoughts, bbs? Comments do
help get a writer going. C’mon, send me some lovin’. :)
Oh, and look what I got... VISUALS!! (This is why lj wins at life!) XD
Enjoy your extra eye treats!
= = = =
Naomi thinks that an appropriate present for Katie Fitch is an inappropriate one.
A really inappropriate one.
= = = =
Katie,
Got you a nice utility belt, you know, like Batman.
Come on, STRAP it ON.
Happy birthday.
Cheers,
Naomi
= = = =
On You Know What? I Don’t Need a Holiday To Show You That I’m Madly In Love
With You Day, Naomi (aka Ems’ Sugar Daddy) gets Emily these...
= = = =
Remember our little trip to Gloucester Road? We went to that new shop, Avalaan. And
you pointed these out to me. I could tell you wanted to have them. You practically eyed
them like you eye me. Kidding. ;D
These were their last pair. Luckily, in your size.
I love you so much, Ems. Don’t forget that. :)
= = = =
Another thing I want to tell you. It took me so damn long to get this up and posted
because I struggled with the Naomi/‘Katie’ kiss. I just didn’t know what to do with it.
So I based it on one of the hottest gay kisses I have ever seen in my life. And you can
now check it out for yourself! Suh-weet kiss below. ;)
NEXT: Naomi and the Dream Dance Routine! KEFFY gettin’ cosy!
Oh, and try climbing up the Ladder of Doom and Debauchery! Just when you thought the
PANDAS have disappeared completely, along comes our favourite one. Guess who?
And for our OTP, there’s the long journey back. Will our two lovers get home safely?
All that and more, next time!
Chapter 5 found here:
(next)
Author: interpol_ice
Fandom: Skins - Second Generation
Pairing: Naomi Campbell/Emily Fitch
Rating: T (naughty naught-T! not exactly T)
Summary: Naomi Campbell and the complications of having a twin for a girlfriend. Distracting flashbacks and a lovesick mind keep her from telling the night's story straight.
In this comedy of errors, the first thing that got right was letting Naomi narrate.
[Pre-Season 4]
CHAPTER 1 - How We'd Be (You and Me)
CHAPTER 2 - Swim or Die Without
CHAPTER 3 - Try Me On To See If I Fit
Get it while it's hot! New chap stew!!
Author's Notes: Please put up with Naomi in this chap. She’s under the influence of various substances... So if she’s a little sentimental and a little unoriginal with her profanities.
Blame it all on sex, drugs, rock ’n’ alcoholllll!! :)
It’s another Eff-Naomi tie-in. And it got rather long. While I was writing it, I was all like, “shit, stop growing!” and then the room got smaller and smaller and the fic pinned me against the wall and everything. Crazy, crazy shit. So I had to cut the chapter again.
Oh well, more chapters for you! XD
Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the previous chaps! I love you guys so much!! YEAH! :D
Expect: Fitch TWINteraction! EFFY CHRIST! The COOKie jar! Read on and enjoy!
Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
by interpol_ice
Chapter 4: Lover Undercover
= = = *** = = =
*
= = = ** EFFY ** = = =
*
Turns out, my grab-Emily-and-fucking-leg-it plan worked. I was able to
detach her from Naomi without much of a problem. I escaped unscathed. I’m
lucky. No, really, I consider myself utterly fortunate.
It was also sweet, you know. If you could’ve only seen the look on Naomi’s
face the moment I took Emily away from her, well, maybe you wouldn’t have
had the heart to go through with what I just did.
I stole Emily away like some really bad-ass villain from a Disney movie,
leaving Naomi pathetically torn. And let me tell you this. It’s not exactly
a look you see everyday. Well, not on Naomi at least. So it’s all new to me.
Naomi has always been the hardest to read. In our little group of friends,
it’s Naomi who’s the most unpredictable. Me and her, we used to be alike. We
like hiding who we are. Not really happy with our inner selves.
I don’t know about Naomi, but I lost touch with my inner self ages ago.
It’s just that, we’ve got so much... love in our hearts. That we’re too
scared to let it out. Scared that if we give that love away, it’ll never
come back to us. That it will leave us essentially emptier than we already
were.
But there’s a bloody difference.
Naomi has Emily.
Now, she has actual emotions on her face. She has Emily in her heart. She
has that heart on her sleeve.
It shows. It just fucking shows.
= = = = = = = =
It’s not that I’m jealous or anything. No, not really.
I push those thoughts away as I lead Emily through the club.
= = = = = = = =
Emily is the second girl I’ve dragged into this ladies room. At this rate,
I’d be qualified enough to be called a Fitch Bounty Hunter or something. How
fucked is that?
On second thought... it does sound like an interesting vocation.
Yeah, this might be the most my life can possibly amount to. I’m rounding up
pretty, little hobbits. Wow, gee-whiz, isn’t that just glamourous?
When Emily walks into the loo, spotting Katie perched on the sink counter,
the first thing she says is, “The fuck, Katie? You’re smoking now?”
Katie flashes her twin a cheeky smirk, makes a show of taking in a deep drag
of her cigarette. “Yeah. S’what?” Katie manages to answer back, blowing
smoke into Emily’s face. That is, before she starts coughing like an old man
again.
“So what?” Emily repeats disbelievingly, her voice raised. “So what? You’re
not even doing it right, Katie, fucking cow.”
Emily slaps Katie’s hand that’s holding the fag and the fag jumps over the
moon, into oblivion. When done right, like one Emily Fitch just did, no one
gets burned by the hot ash. Emily has skills, obviously.
I can see Emily’s face screw up instantly when she examines Katie’s
‘helpless’ state. “You smell. Really bad,” Emily says, much to Katie’s
displeasure.
“Cook gave her the old heave-on-the-hoe,” I say while passing by them,
giving Emily all the info she needs in a nutshell. I kick open a stall, flip
the toilet-lid down and take a seat.
Emily turns to me, a little smirk on her face. “Nice way of putting that.”
“Fuck you.” Katie shoots my way, in her defense.
“Yeah, I love you too, Katie.” I say, with like, zero sincerity.
Katie flips me off, her face screwed up, clearly frustrated. Panda is right.
Katie Fitch is definitely Hulk with a vagina.
There’s a sound of a foot tapping in impatience. And yes, it’s the sole of
Emily’s lady skate shoe repeatedly hitting the tiled bathroom floor. Emily
has her arms crossed and she’s looking at Katie with eleven types of
disapproval.
After Emily’s quick assessment, she decides, “You can wear my shirt.”
“Fine. I’ll wear anything as long as it doesn’t reek of Cook.”
Like being told an order, Emily takes her sweater off.
Surprise, surprise. Emily is wearing a shirt with a pig on it. A pig on it.
And I know it’s Naomi’s. Anyone with eyes would know that shirt belongs to
Naomi Campbell. Who else in college cares about Animal Rights? Who else has
the balls to wear a pig shirt out in the open?
Naomi Campbell, that’s who.
“Fuck no, I’m not wearing that.”
Emily makes a sound of disbelief. “You said you’d wear anything,” Emily
says. She’s frowning now, obviously annoyed as hell.
Katie’s jaw drops, absolutely baffled.
Oh, Emily, don’t you get it? Katie will never wear that pig shirt. Not in a
million years. When will you get a clue? Surely you’re cleverer than you let
me in on.
“Yeah, I said anything normal. And for your information, normal doesn’t
include over-sized shirts with pigs on it!” Katie says, exasperated.
“It’s a fucking pig, Ems!” she adds, not missing a beat.
Emily lets out a frustrated sigh. “Well, I’m not letting you borrow my
sweater,” she says, crossing her arms, a pose of pseudo-defiance. She’s
pretty decided about what she just said. Looks like Emily’s going to really
stand by it this time.
“Ems, please? I need you, okay?”
Emily, I can tell, is dying to refuse point-blank. But it so happens that
Katie has an effective puppy dog pout. I fucking swear, it makes her look
like a pitiful primary student who just dropped her ice cream cone. Before
the poor thing could even get a single lick on it.
It’s precious enough to break anybody. The look on her face at the moment is
so... irresistible. It almost makes me forget that she’s the devil
incarnate.
Emily sighs again. This time, in submission. “Alright, but you fucking owe
me.”
Now I see why Emily has put up with her all this time. Katie knows which
buttons to push to get what she wants. Considering Emily’s her twin and all,
Emily’s buttons are probably the most familiar to her. The easiest to push.
Emily’s hand reaches for her opposite wrist. I’ve noticed that she has this
scrunchy clipped around it. She takes the accessory off and ties her long
red hair up in a this-will-have-to-do ponytail. It shows her desire to get
this whole damage-control business sorted already. “Can we make this quick?
I need to get back to Naomi.”
“Alright, then,” Katie agrees. She takes her top off, revealing a bra with
zebra-patterns on it.
The zebra bra. In short, the zebra.
A small smile plays on my lips at my secret amusement. I watch as Katie
curls her top into a haphazard ball. She catches my eye, and throws her
shirt to me, the bundle resembling a baby leopard. Katie then points to the
rubbish bin inside the stall I’m occupying.
Oh well, it was nice knowing you. Then I drop it into nonexistence.
After that dirty deed, I check up on them. Just in time to see Katie
struggling to break through the sweater hole and then… pop goes the weasel,
she succeeds.
“Soft. So fucking soft.” Katie mumbles in approval, she’s smiling now. “Why
the fuck is it so soft?” she asks Emily, weirdly amazed by the sweater. “Can
I have this, Ems?”
Emily’s eye twitches, ever so slightly, undoubtedly irked. “Fucking hell,
Katie! It’s a sweater. It’s supposed to be soft. And no, you can’t have it.
It’s mine, not something that you made me buy, but all mine.”
Funny. It’s almost as if Emily said ‘duh’ in between every word.
“Right,” Katie says, drawing the word out in that special way of hers. And
then it’s like something clicks in her head. “This what she gave you for our
birthday then? Well, that’s pretty lush. Lucky you, all she got me was a
strap-on,” she says glumly.
Emily’s eyes grow wide, like two fleshy grapes stacked on top of each other.
That is, if you could stack grapes, anyway. “She got you a strap-on?”
Emily asks, her jaw dropping slightly.
Oh God, I could watch these two for days. They argue oh-so-amusingly.
“Yeah, quite the comedian, your girlfriend. It was rather fucking funny of
her, you know, to have done that.”
“And you kept it?”
“For your information, it came with leopard-print knickers! Of course I
fucking kept it.”
The room falls silent. I catch the look on Emily’s face upon the
introduction of this new, rather interesting, fact. She’s trying so hard to
suppress her laughter. I’m feeling the same thing. I want so fucking badly
to laugh.
Naomi, you smart-ass. I give you props for your genius.
Then Katie breaks the serious ice. She snorts, once, twice, before setting
off on a rather strong laughing fit. That’s it, what me and Emily were
looking for. The go-signal. We’re finally allowed to laugh now.
And we join in, the humorous sound, echoing all over the room. Me and the
twins. Who would’ve fucking thought?
The room isn’t vibrating as threateningly as it used to. I can’t make out
the music that’s playing outside. I can’t make it out over our laughter. The
tension that was there before, it’s gone now. I find it easier to breathe,
to focus on the now, on the inside.
Not on what’s happening out there, not on what happened before or on what
would happen when I get out of this loo.
The past hurts. The future probably will.
But I’m having a fucking laugh with Katie and Emily Fitch. It’s feels that
they hate me less. This. This is the now.
The before and after, they don’t matter much, those things. Not to me,
anyway.
I feel less heavy already.
= = = = = = = =
Not quite finished with catching her breath, Katie says, “Well, at least
she’s got good taste.”
I don’t know if she’s talking about the sweater or the strap-on.
Both. I decide. Katie is talking about both.
= = = = = = = =
“There, good as new,” Emily says, tucking Katie’s hair neatly behind her
ears.
Tony, he used to do that to me too. I used to come down late for breakfast
and catch him at the bottom of the stairs. Just as he’s putting on his coat.
Then he’d do that. You know, fix my hair. Then he’d quote me a line from a
poem he read the night before. And he’ll walk out the door.
Me and Tony. We used to laugh every time we happened to talk in accidental
rhyme. Oh, Lord. I did it again.
Katie hops off the sink counter to throw her arms around Emily. I see that
Emily stiffens, like she didn’t see that one coming. But she eventually
eases into Katie, lets Katie hug her properly.
The first time I caught sight of the Fitch twins, they were getting out of
Danny Guilermo’s ridiculous, yellow (yellow? Couldn’t you pick a gayer color
please, Danny Guillermo?) monstrosity of a convertible. And I saw it. I saw
it in the air.
I saw that Emily hated Katie.
At the small of Katie’s back, Emily’s fingers find each other. And they
mesh.
They mesh like twins.
And what I see now? Well, it’s actually nothing like that.
I mean, how can you honestly hate a part of yourself?
They separate and Katie turns to the sink again. She grabs her purse off the
counter. She takes out two lippys. She hands Emily one. They take off the
caps, twist the lipsticks into visibility, and they re-apply.
The twins do this in an unreal, synchronized fashion. Their movements are so
exact. So in tune that it almost freaks the fuck out of me. Like they popped
out of the Twilight Zone or something.
When they’re done, they lean into the mirror together. They press their lips
against it, leaving two kiss marks, side by side, one a darker shade than
the other. Emily writes an ‘E’ in hot pink, next to her lip-print. Across
this, there’s a ‘K’ in deep rouge.
They step back and view their masterpiece. From the looks of their
reflections, I can tell they’re pretty pleased with themselves.
This twin thing, it’s cute... I guess.
= = = = = = = =
I want Tony back. I want him home.
= = = = = = = =
Katie and I are alone again. Emily’s gone off, itching to get back to her
girlfriend. Without a doubt, Naomi and Emily, they have attachment issues.
I get off the toilet seat and walk over to where Katie is. Standing in front
of the mirror, I make myself presentable too.
My hair’s a bit shite, so I run my fingers through it, lazily. There, it’s
all nice and proper again. After I’m satisfied with that, I add another coat
of lipstick. Then a thought comes across. I lean into the mirror and place a
kiss next to the K. Then I write my initial beside it.
A K sandwiched between two E’s.
When I pull back, I catch Katie staring at me in a way she shouldn’t have.
Again. She needs to say something. I can feel her reluctance from a mile
away, though. Needs to say something but doesn’t exactly want to.
“What?” I ask softly, taking a step closer.
She reacts by taking a step backwards. “I don’t know...” she trails off.
“Don’t know what?” I press, inching closer.
“Don’t know if you’re actually sincere or if you’re just headfucking me all
over again,” she lets out in a straight stream. And then, her voice a little
lower, she says, “I don’t fucking know if you’re a Jesus or a Judas.”
For every step I take forward, she takes two steps back.
I snort. It’s derisive, I know. But Katie’s being really ridiculous, going
all biblical on my ass.
Katie stands straighter, more alert than ever because I believe I have
deeply offended her. It shows all over her puppy face. “Umm, ’scuse me?”
“That’s a cliché to say.”
There I go again, with the rhymes.
One small step forward for me, one giant leap backward for Katie Fitch. Her
back makes a soft thump against the tiled wall. She’s two heads
taller than the hand dryer she’s standing next to. Even so, she’s still so
small.
“Fuck you,” she says, lunging herself forward, in a movement that makes me
back off in reflex. There’s this fire in her eyes. Something I couldn’t
place.
I don’t back down, I stare at her unrelentingly. My head dips, until our
foreheads are crashing angrily with one another.
“Well, fuck you too,” I say coldly.
This is it. We’re never going to fix whatever the fuck is going on between
us. She’ll never forgive me and I’ll never be free of this guilt.
A feeling has grown inside of me. A feeling I couldn’t place. All I know is
that it’s strong. It’s terrifying.
And the mother of all WTF moments, Katherine Fitch kisses me.
Katie’s kissing me.
= = = = = = = =
And honestly, it’s rather nice.
= = = = = = = =
“Jesus.”
This is what Katie says right after we part and just before coming in for
another round. Jesus, she says. Like a prayer.
Yeah, Katie. Exactly, I’m a fucking Jesus.
= = = = = = = =
*
= = = ** NAOMI ** = = =
*
It’s getting really old, dancing alone and all. I come to a slow halt and I
look around me. Strobe lights slice through the moving bodies and they all
look like technicolor scars on everyone’s skin. This place, this club is a
battleground where teenagers, armed with alcohol, drugs and sex, banish
their demons into oblivion.
With the proper combination of artificial happiness and a single-mindedness
to get trashed, you could forget your own name in here. This is a place
where your mind is bound to play tricks on you.
Where the fuck are they? Emily and Effy have been gone quite a while now. It
was pretty exhausting. I’ve been looking for Emily’s blue jumper in the
crowd the moment Effy whisked her away.
The DJ spins on Bon Jovi.
And for fuck’s sake, it’s Bon Jovi we’re talking about here. We all know
what’s going to happen. Boys who can’t dance for shit will start jumping
around with intense abandon, not really caring whoever’s poor foot they land
upon.
Right on cue, some reckless bastard’s trainer stomps on mine. And fucking
right you are if you think it hurts. Because it does, like a bitch. That man
probably weighs three hundred pounds.
Life-preservation instincts kicking in, I get the fuck out of there. So I
head over to the bar, temporarily giving up my search.
Just as I’m taking a seat, I hear a familiar voice.
“Whoooah-oh! Naomi-oh!”
It’s Cook. And there are two things that I notice about him. One, he is
wearing a track suit. Ha, that just blows me away. I can hear myself
laughing in my head. Hahahaha and then some. Yeah, it’s that
funny.
And the second thing? Well, secondly, his breath stinks like road kill that
wore cheap perfume for its funeral. Yeah, talk about precision description.
Unbelievably awful.
“Cook,” I say in acknowledgment, sort of glad he happened to find me. “Those
are some nice threads,” I point out, raising a brow at him.
He glances down at his attempts to conform. “Right. Had to blend in,
blondie,” he says with a toothy smile and a wink.
Cook hops onto the stool next to mine. Getting a good eye at him, I have to
say he looks a little worse for wear.
“Fucking glad you guys came. Class-A mates, fucking Class-A. Really
appreciate it.” He looks around suspiciously, says to me, “Say, any sign of
Johnny White, give me and Thomas a heads-up, alright?”
“Alright.” I answer automatically, not understanding a thing he just said.
Okay, maybe I am... a bit trashed.
“And Katie. Tell me if you see Katie,” he adds as an after-thought.
“Why? What’s with Katie?”
“Oh, nothing. Just threw up on her, that’s all,” he says, appearing to be
totally unaffected by it.
Oh, nothing? Really, Cook?
It’s never really nothing with her. This is Katie we’re talking about. She
doesn’t let anyone get away with anything. He fucked with Katie Fitch, in my
book that makes him a dead man.
“Hang on,” he pipes up quickly, “you’re all by your lonesome.”
To that, I just roll my eyes. I’m alone, so what? It’s not like the end of
the world. It’s not like I can’t function without her. No, it’s nothing like
that at all.
“Where’s ya’ lady love?” he asks, holding four fingers up at the barman.
“I dunno. She’s gone somewhere with Effy.”
Cook just nods at this. Seems like he doesn’t want to talk about her. Yeah,
okay, I’m not bringing her up again.
The barman sets the four shots up on the counter and Cooks face lights up
again. He leans in closer to me. Cupping a hand near my ear, he says, “Hey,
listen here, blondie. I’m lettin’ you in on a little secret. So promise to
keep schtum, yeah?”
He leans back and he has expectation written all over his face. And I’m all
like, ‘Really, Cook? Do I seriously have to promise?’
But anyway, I just nod at this.
Then I watch as he digs into a pocket of those Sporty Spice trousers of his.
He takes out what looks like a little packet of something. Of course, drugs.
It’s so typical of him.
“Don’t you think it’s unwise to be waving that around like nobody’s
business?” I ask while scanning around to see if anyone’s noticed.
He ignores my question completely.
“Uncle Keith’s mixed up a new blend. His advice? Pop these little fuckers
into some alcohol and you’ll have yourselves a fuckin’ par-tay.”
“Cook, I don’t think this is such a good idea. I mean, I don’t even do...” I
trail off, not really knowing how to finish that sentence aloud.
“Oh, come on. Live a little!” Cook insists, with his stupid face. The one
that makes him look like he’s having the time of his life. The one that
makes you feel like you’d miss out on the eighth wonder of the world if you
didn’t join in on his fuckery campaign. Christ, his stupid face. It
surprises me, how it’s so convincing.
And really, it’s not like I could say no to anything at this point.
He opens the Ziploc bag and puts a pinch or two in each glass. Then he licks
his fingers, taking good care not to waste the precious powder.
“Let’s get this shindig started then, shall we?”
“Cheers,” I slur before we clink our shot glasses.
It goes down fast, but not without a fight. The mix adds a nice, sweet burn
to the vodka. And I’ve got to admit, Uncle Keith nailed this recipe, taste-
wise. This is some excellent stuff.
“How long ‘til it kicks in?”
He reaches for his second shot. When he’s finished with it, he pulls off a
sour face. Cook’s skin is a flushed red when he finally answers, “Not long,
not long.”
Something in the crowd catches his attention. I follow his gaze and when I
see it land on... well, a crowd of complete strangers, nothing special, I
give up trying to figure out what he was looking at.
“Hey, I gotta run. I think I just saw that girl I came here with,” he
quickly explains, already out of his seat.
“Cook, wait!” I call out, suddenly remembering something.
He turns around. “What?” he asks, ambling back to me.
Rummaging through a tiny purse is easy. Even when you’re as drunk as a
Russian on a good day. I find what I’m looking for in a second. There, I
pull out the rest of my Soothers. He has to have them. If he wants to stand
a chance with that girl he should at least have acceptable-smelling breath.
I force it into his grasp. “You need that, trust me.”
He laughs. “Sure, whatever,” he says, before cutting through the crowd,
popping the collar of his track suit up.
Some things never fucking change.
Like Cook and his ‘fashion statements’.
= = = = = = = =
A couple of schnapps later, I start wondering about the 6 most statistically
full of shit professions. Half-way through my list, between wine tasters
(those chums say they know the difference between two bottles of the same
fucking wine. Real, hilarious shit) and weather forecasters (reading
from a teleprompter isn’t exactly a gift of premonition now, is it?), a girl
takes the seat beside me.
She smells like all the good things in life. Like a freshly-opened orange
that fills the whole house with its sweet, fruity zest. Like Emily.
I swing my seat and I’m thoroughly disappointed to see no trace of that blue
jumper I so expected to find.
Instead. It’s Katie sitting there. Emily’s sinister twin sister, all coy
smiles and devious eyes.
Now listen, there are some things you allow yourself to think when you’re
drunk as shit. Like this thought in particular... which I’m sure would’ve
made me off myself if it was thought whilst sober. And being sober? Well
it’s something that I was far from, really.
And those drugs Cook gave me? Not helping at all.
But... Fuck it, but Katie has certainly gotten incredibly fit since
the last time I saw her. Maybe even hotter than Emily.
It’s wrong on so many levels. But I couldn’t help myself. Katie is looking
really fuckable to me tonight. Bollocking shite, I sure am strung out of my
pissing mind.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. I will myself to stop staring. But I can’t. I just
can’t look away. Katie’s too... attractive.
She has her hair up in a messy ponytail, leaving her neck exposed. Leaving
little red tendrils sticking out in contrast to her white skin. Fuck, she
does have a lovely neck. I’ve only noticed that now.
My stare wanders south. I wonder what her tits look like. If they’re as
grope-inducing as Emily’s are. But no, I stop myself, dragging my eyes back
to her face.
What I see though, when I have the decency to divert my stare back up, is
even more absurd. Katie’s almond-shaped eyes are looking at me with this...
hunger. It’s surreal. But it looks like Katie’s desiring me. I mean,
seriously. I know enough about body language to make subtitles for that.
I break eye contact and scan the rest of her face. Same button nose, same
strong jaw line, same deliciously defined lips. Same agonizingly pretty face.
She’s a fit fox. And it strikes me. She looks so much like Emily.
She crosses her legs, my stare shifts immediately. Her legs, they go on
forever. Fucking hell, I’m perving on Katie. Here I am, lapping up every
inch of thigh and calve. From her knees to her-oh no, something doesn’t look
right.
Wait just a fucking minute.
Those shoes. Those Vans Ferris Lo-Pros. Those are Emily’s. I bought those
for Emily on You Know What? I Don’t Need a Holiday To Show You That I’m
Madly In Love With You Day. Sugar Daddy habits aside, why the fuck is
Katie wearing them?!
She gets off of her stool. And I get mindfucked even more because the white
shirt she’s wearing stretches to its full and glorious length as she takes a
confident step toward me. Fuck no.
Are my eyes deceiving me, or is Katie really is wearing a tee with a giant
pig on it? Because if she is... One, that’s my pig shirt. And two,
Katie wearing it is more impossible than Obama going off his rocker
and turning Republican! It’s that unlikely!
So while we’re on the topic of impossibility... I should probably tell you
about the part where Katie, Katie fucking Fitch, comes right up and just
puts her lips against mine. With no permission whatsoever.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’m totally caught off my wanking guard. I mean, this is the last thing on
earth that could happen to me... And it’s bloody happening! I shit you not.
It’s actually happening!
I freeze. And just let her... keep doing this to me. Let her go on with
sucking my upper lip.
Because somewhere along the way, my mouth starts hanging open.
And I’m not doing a thing to stop her. I’m even kissing her back. I told you,
I’m too pissed off my tits to say no to anything. My mind just bails on me.
Christ, everything is such a blur. This girl is a blur.
She gives my top lip another little kiss and pulls away before I can even
gather enough will power to stop this two-to-tango thing myself.
Holy hell, what the fuck am I going to tell Emily?
So... I snogged Katie by accident. I mean, you guys are twins and all.
Honest mistake, Ems. Please don’t break up with me?
Like she’d buy that? Dream on, Campbell. Dream the fuck on.
I’m there, thinking of a million more plausible excuses. To be honest
though, each one gets shittier than the last. I go on and on, freaking
myself out to the limit that is... until she speaks to me, for the first
time this night.
“Hey, I’ve missed you,” she says breathlessly.
And it hits me, her voice. Deep and raspy. Two parts husky, one part smooth
(that’s right. I know how to make PVA glue, loser). I mean, it’s a bedroom
voice that I hear every night. I’d recognize it anywhere. Anywhere.
Even if I was a deaf person wearing earmuffs.
= = = *** = = =
A/N: Thank you for reading this long chap! Any thoughts, bbs? Comments do
help get a writer going. C’mon, send me some lovin’. :)
Oh, and look what I got... VISUALS!! (This is why lj wins at life!) XD
Enjoy your extra eye treats!
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Naomi thinks that an appropriate present for Katie Fitch is an inappropriate one.
A really inappropriate one.
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Katie,
Got you a nice utility belt, you know, like Batman.
Come on, STRAP it ON.
Happy birthday.
Cheers,
Naomi
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On You Know What? I Don’t Need a Holiday To Show You That I’m Madly In Love
With You Day, Naomi (aka Ems’ Sugar Daddy) gets Emily these...
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Remember our little trip to Gloucester Road? We went to that new shop, Avalaan. And
you pointed these out to me. I could tell you wanted to have them. You practically eyed
them like you eye me. Kidding. ;D
These were their last pair. Luckily, in your size.
I love you so much, Ems. Don’t forget that. :)
= = = =
Another thing I want to tell you. It took me so damn long to get this up and posted
because I struggled with the Naomi/‘Katie’ kiss. I just didn’t know what to do with it.
So I based it on one of the hottest gay kisses I have ever seen in my life. And you can
now check it out for yourself! Suh-weet kiss below. ;)
Click to viewNEXT: Naomi and the Dream Dance Routine! KEFFY gettin’ cosy!
Oh, and try climbing up the Ladder of Doom and Debauchery! Just when you thought the
PANDAS have disappeared completely, along comes our favourite one. Guess who?
And for our OTP, there’s the long journey back. Will our two lovers get home safely?
All that and more, next time!
Chapter 5 found here:
(next)