Love's a Boat That's Slowly Sinking
Title: Love's a Boat That's Slowly Sinking
Pairing: Naomi/Emily
Rating: R for language
Summary: She doesn't say 'I love you' anymore.
Disclaimer: Not my universe, not my characters. Sad but true.
The spirits will lift of those young men you provoke
But I'll be laughing knowing I will take you home
There ain't no lover like the one I got
Ain't no lover like the one I got
- Brand New Start by Little Joy
She doesn’t say ‘I love you’ anymore. Not verbally, unless I ask her to. Unless she mouths it from across the table whilst everyone’s bickering, or if we’re down at the pub and she’s got that growing pink shade on her cheeks and we’re sweating from the heat and noise and giggling at some event Cook has cooked up and she mentions it in passing.
But I see it in the way she looks at me, fucking cliché as that sounds. The way she lets me readjust her bangs, the way she lets a smirk slip by when she thinks I’m not looking. The way she silently eats the ends of the raisin bread because she knows I can’t stand how dry they are. The way she looks up from her notebook when I’m on her bed and she’s on the floor and we’re studying for a final that won’t even count for anything worth anything and I ask her what and she says nothing. And the way her hand slips into mine when we’re walking, and I look at her and she’s not even looking at me, still chattering about the Tibetans and global warming and acting like it’s the most normal thing to do, walk with me, holding my hand.
She doesn’t say it when we make love. She doesn’t even look at me closely, either. She presses our heads together and kisses me, lets her hands roam my body slowly, like I’m going to disappear. She doesn’t say anything, usually. I used to think it was because she was scared. I still think it is. Scared then that she could actually have something to lose. Scared now that it’s come true. She sets me down on the bed slowly, generously giving me her body to use as a cover, lets me take her in because she’s mine, all mine, and I can’t have enough. And she knows it and she’s so willing and fucking terrified. Every time, it’s always like I’m going to leave her, and it’s ironic when I think back on it. Every time, it’s like I’m about to lose interest or grow impatient and finally come to my senses. When we make love she touches me slowly, whispers ‘stay’ and ‘Em’ in between long kisses or short pecks on my lips, nose, ear-lobes. She sighs and pants and it makes me feel like it’s all just a calm boat ride, slow and steady and filled with time and promises. Sometimes she takes my hand in hers and we squeeze when we come, gasping for air or groaning each other's names.
When we fuck it’s needy and painful and fire. She grips me like I’m trying to run away and growls like a lion, pants like a wolf. It’s hard and fast and usually against a bathroom wall, the closest empty room, the shaky shower curtain. She mumbles words like ‘Can’t’ or ‘Need’ or ‘Now’. Sometimes when she tugs my skirt down and slides her fingers against me, something flashes her in eyes and she snarls ‘Emily Fucking Fitch’ before I lean my head back and lose it. We slip inside of one another so quickly, biting and squeezing and licking and so so warm we come so hard we yell. Sometimes our names. Sometimes the first word that comes to mind. Sometimes nothing at all, just yelling. When we finish, she always holds me. Holds me for the longest time, as though I’ve fallen asleep and she’s taking care of me, my dreams. Sometimes she cries, and I kiss her tears, caress her cheeks and shoulders until she smiles and kisses me and makes me feel like I can fly.
When I cry, she holds me. Doesn’t say anything, maybe because she doesn’t know what to, just lets me soak up her shirt in tears, crumple the side with my fingers, weigh my head on her shoulder till it aches. She’ll whisper ‘I’m here’ because saying ‘It’s okay’ isn’t always true. And she’ll put me to bed and lie down next to me, pull me on top of her, caress my hair while I nuzzle into her chest, listening to our heart beats. Sometimes I fall asleep. Sometimes I don’t, and we talk about what’s bothering me, and she swears like a sailor and mutters phrases like ‘fucking pompous-ass cactus’ and ‘prim and proper bitch’ until I giggle and she kisses me again and we fall asleep and have a more serious discussion tomorrow when she hands me a warm mug of Earl Grey tea.
When she cries she clamps up more than I thought she ever could. Wipes her eyes furiously, like she’s ashamed of them, ashamed of having me see her. She lets me hold her and kiss her, listens to me when I tell her ‘It’ll be alright’ because there’s something about that phrase that when I say it, she likes it, believes it. Sometimes she'll make love to me, because it's something to distract her with, sometimes she'll let me fuck her worries away. Usually we do neither and sit, holding one another, until she gets over it, or finally tells me what's wrong in cryptic, complicated broken sentences. She'll get over it quickly, brush it off like it doesn't bother her, cry when I hold her head and tell her it's okay to be upset. And she kisses me, and holds my chin, and rubs our noses together. Whispers words like ‘I need you’ and ‘Don’t go’ and ‘Stay with me’.
She doesn’t say ‘I love you’ anymore. I thought it would bother me more than it doesn’t.
Pairing: Naomi/Emily
Rating: R for language
Summary: She doesn't say 'I love you' anymore.
Disclaimer: Not my universe, not my characters. Sad but true.
The spirits will lift of those young men you provoke
But I'll be laughing knowing I will take you home
There ain't no lover like the one I got
Ain't no lover like the one I got
- Brand New Start by Little Joy
She doesn’t say ‘I love you’ anymore. Not verbally, unless I ask her to. Unless she mouths it from across the table whilst everyone’s bickering, or if we’re down at the pub and she’s got that growing pink shade on her cheeks and we’re sweating from the heat and noise and giggling at some event Cook has cooked up and she mentions it in passing.
But I see it in the way she looks at me, fucking cliché as that sounds. The way she lets me readjust her bangs, the way she lets a smirk slip by when she thinks I’m not looking. The way she silently eats the ends of the raisin bread because she knows I can’t stand how dry they are. The way she looks up from her notebook when I’m on her bed and she’s on the floor and we’re studying for a final that won’t even count for anything worth anything and I ask her what and she says nothing. And the way her hand slips into mine when we’re walking, and I look at her and she’s not even looking at me, still chattering about the Tibetans and global warming and acting like it’s the most normal thing to do, walk with me, holding my hand.
She doesn’t say it when we make love. She doesn’t even look at me closely, either. She presses our heads together and kisses me, lets her hands roam my body slowly, like I’m going to disappear. She doesn’t say anything, usually. I used to think it was because she was scared. I still think it is. Scared then that she could actually have something to lose. Scared now that it’s come true. She sets me down on the bed slowly, generously giving me her body to use as a cover, lets me take her in because she’s mine, all mine, and I can’t have enough. And she knows it and she’s so willing and fucking terrified. Every time, it’s always like I’m going to leave her, and it’s ironic when I think back on it. Every time, it’s like I’m about to lose interest or grow impatient and finally come to my senses. When we make love she touches me slowly, whispers ‘stay’ and ‘Em’ in between long kisses or short pecks on my lips, nose, ear-lobes. She sighs and pants and it makes me feel like it’s all just a calm boat ride, slow and steady and filled with time and promises. Sometimes she takes my hand in hers and we squeeze when we come, gasping for air or groaning each other's names.
When we fuck it’s needy and painful and fire. She grips me like I’m trying to run away and growls like a lion, pants like a wolf. It’s hard and fast and usually against a bathroom wall, the closest empty room, the shaky shower curtain. She mumbles words like ‘Can’t’ or ‘Need’ or ‘Now’. Sometimes when she tugs my skirt down and slides her fingers against me, something flashes her in eyes and she snarls ‘Emily Fucking Fitch’ before I lean my head back and lose it. We slip inside of one another so quickly, biting and squeezing and licking and so so warm we come so hard we yell. Sometimes our names. Sometimes the first word that comes to mind. Sometimes nothing at all, just yelling. When we finish, she always holds me. Holds me for the longest time, as though I’ve fallen asleep and she’s taking care of me, my dreams. Sometimes she cries, and I kiss her tears, caress her cheeks and shoulders until she smiles and kisses me and makes me feel like I can fly.
When I cry, she holds me. Doesn’t say anything, maybe because she doesn’t know what to, just lets me soak up her shirt in tears, crumple the side with my fingers, weigh my head on her shoulder till it aches. She’ll whisper ‘I’m here’ because saying ‘It’s okay’ isn’t always true. And she’ll put me to bed and lie down next to me, pull me on top of her, caress my hair while I nuzzle into her chest, listening to our heart beats. Sometimes I fall asleep. Sometimes I don’t, and we talk about what’s bothering me, and she swears like a sailor and mutters phrases like ‘fucking pompous-ass cactus’ and ‘prim and proper bitch’ until I giggle and she kisses me again and we fall asleep and have a more serious discussion tomorrow when she hands me a warm mug of Earl Grey tea.
When she cries she clamps up more than I thought she ever could. Wipes her eyes furiously, like she’s ashamed of them, ashamed of having me see her. She lets me hold her and kiss her, listens to me when I tell her ‘It’ll be alright’ because there’s something about that phrase that when I say it, she likes it, believes it. Sometimes she'll make love to me, because it's something to distract her with, sometimes she'll let me fuck her worries away. Usually we do neither and sit, holding one another, until she gets over it, or finally tells me what's wrong in cryptic, complicated broken sentences. She'll get over it quickly, brush it off like it doesn't bother her, cry when I hold her head and tell her it's okay to be upset. And she kisses me, and holds my chin, and rubs our noses together. Whispers words like ‘I need you’ and ‘Don’t go’ and ‘Stay with me’.
She doesn’t say ‘I love you’ anymore. I thought it would bother me more than it doesn’t.