Drabble: a liar is a thief and a thief is a liar (Skins US/UK, Tea/Effy, PG-13)
Title: a liar is a thief and a thief is a liar
For: theatrebob1 for the girlslash comment ficathon: original link.
I hope that you've had enough to drink. It's going to take courage.
- Lost in Translation
You're asking all the wrong questions when you shouldn't be asking any at all. None of that matters, not really. Not when you get down to the bone of things, the real... meat. (And you're not hungry, but you think in food metaphors. It'd be strange if you weren't already. Strange.)
The facts (and even those are blurry): You're here. You're alive. You're (not) crazy. You have a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The dress you are wearing is "fabulous" and you (think you) threw your heels at a passing taxi.
No one here has your name on their lips, and it's nice not to hear echoes, constantly, all around you. So deep that you drown in it. You aren't drowning so much as floating, here. Drifting, a little. A little.
She throws you up against a wall and you suck her finger, the one with a daring tablet on the end, resting, waiting for you.
Her eyes go dark, and she still doesn't know your name. The waves crash against your ears and your skin feels like wings beating underneath. There are lips against yours and you don't ask any questions, because none of that matters; just movement and light and the breath you take when she pulls back and whispers against your neck, "I'm Tea."
For: theatrebob1 for the girlslash comment ficathon: original link.
I hope that you've had enough to drink. It's going to take courage.
- Lost in Translation
You're asking all the wrong questions when you shouldn't be asking any at all. None of that matters, not really. Not when you get down to the bone of things, the real... meat. (And you're not hungry, but you think in food metaphors. It'd be strange if you weren't already. Strange.)
The facts (and even those are blurry): You're here. You're alive. You're (not) crazy. You have a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The dress you are wearing is "fabulous" and you (think you) threw your heels at a passing taxi.
No one here has your name on their lips, and it's nice not to hear echoes, constantly, all around you. So deep that you drown in it. You aren't drowning so much as floating, here. Drifting, a little. A little.
She throws you up against a wall and you suck her finger, the one with a daring tablet on the end, resting, waiting for you.
Her eyes go dark, and she still doesn't know your name. The waves crash against your ears and your skin feels like wings beating underneath. There are lips against yours and you don't ask any questions, because none of that matters; just movement and light and the breath you take when she pulls back and whispers against your neck, "I'm Tea."