and I won't let you choke- Freddie, Emily- PG-13
Title: and I won't let you choke
Fandom: Skins (Gen 2)
Characters/Pairings: Freddie, Emily
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: mention of drugs, sex
Word Count: 835 approx
Summary: Dishing out sage advice from his eighteen year old mouth. “That’s how I should have loved Effy, from a distance.”
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Author’s Note: FOR redsilverchains WHO PROMPTED here’s to pretty girls who went to our heads, here’s to witty girls who went to our beds AT THE SHINY HAPPY COMMENT FICATHON
“What are you on?”
“Something lovely,” she says, knocking back a shot- her tongue is already bright blue.
---
Through the music, through the crowds, he wraps long fingers round her wrist in cautious repetition. How many nights are we going to keep doing this dance? The beat in perfect rhythm with her pulse, travelling down the vein to the heart- to the one that's breaking in stressed and unstressed syncopated cracks.
"I'm okay. I’m okay."
She's sweating, mascara streaked, dripping down her chin. Hands on her from every direction.
She is anything but.
---
“I don’t need anyone to look after me,” she pushes his arm off of her, lets it hang limp at his side.
His fingers twitch, he’s not really used to not having someone to fill his hands.
“Yeah, well--” he starts at her back, “I think I might need someone to look after.”
---
"Are we going home now?" he says, eyes narrowed on the girl next to her. Tanned, brunette, entirely the opposite of someone we’re not allowed to mention anymore.
Not in this capacity anyway: First Rule Of Fucking Up.
"Come on."
"I'm okay," she repeats for the second time tonight, hundredth time this week; eyebrow kinked to the side, smile dancing on her mouth. Look what I have.
"Come on," and now he's the record tripping in the background. "You don't want her."
"No," she answers, her voice is husky from screaming the same song for hours. Her eyes are still on the right side of glassy; right now, they're just sparkling back the orange streetlights at him. "I do want her."
"So go home."
---
She meets him on the curb maybe an hour later; there's a girl crouched at his ear, thighs on either side of his shoulder.
"Freddie?!" she yells, "What are you doing? Who the fuck is this?"
His mouth twists slightly. "No one, nothing. Just a girl. I don’t know!"
"He didn't say," this blonde slurs back. "He didn't say anything."
And maybe it's the little bit of Katie left behind from the womb, but she’s face-to-face with the girl, ignoring the hair strand stuck in her lipgloss. “Well, now you know.” Close to spitting. “You wanna fuck off then?”
“Yeah, yeah.” she drags her heels in her hands behind her.
He sighs when Emily joins him. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
He knocks his shoulder with hers. “So that was quick.”
She smiles. “Not all girls like to cuddle, Freds.”
---
Naomi’s at home; bottle in her hands like another appendage. No, she solves her problems in different ways.
“That’s up to her then,” Emily explains. “I didn’t tell her to.”
“You want her to?”
“What?”
“Just love you-- From over there. Far away.” He keeps swigging at the bottle tucked in his coat, picking at the label when there’s nothing else to do. Dishing out sage advice from his eighteen year old mouth. “That’s how I should have loved Effy, from a distance.”
“That’s no fun,” she mutters, stretching her arms above her head, bending to drink at his bottle when he raises it. “You have to touch people to love them, Freddie. That’s how people like to be loved.”
“Not Effy.”
“She just doesn’t know how to be, that’s the problem.”
---
Another girl stomps over, this one has her shoes on. She’s classy like that. Her tongue flicks against his ear. “Hey, your girlfriend can watch.”
“Nah, we’re alright,” he says, smiling, rubbing his jaw with precarious flattery.
“I’ve always been a doer, love.” Emily finally chimes in.
The girl shrugs, skulks off, probably does the same thing to someone else just down the road. Told you, classy.
“Oh, shut up,” she laughs, punching his arm.
“What?”
“Stop looking so upset about it-- ‘Oh shit, more people want to shag me?’ You’re so transparent.”
“Guess that stuffs wearing off then, eh?” he grins, “Not so lovely anymore.”
She sniffs, pushes her nose with her cardigan.
“You want to go home now, Em?”
---
It gets to four in the morning, and her lips are blue with cold now.
“You want my jacket?”
She shakes her head.
“Would you fuck her?” she asks, nodding in the general direction of someone bending over in a short skirt.
“Uh--”
Turns out, she’s vomiting on the street. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand.
“Oh, definitely.” he says, half-grimace, half-laugh. “That’s exactly what I look for.” He scans the sporadic crowds, bunches of people trying to keep warm and wait for taxis. “What about her?”
“Which one?”
“Blue hair.”
“Nice, yeah.”
“But--”
“But nothing, I would.”
He shakes his head, finishes the beer now. It clinks on the concrete next to them. “Nah, you wouldn’t.”
---
“I can walk you home.”
“I’m okay.” Third time’s a charm. She leans her head on his shoulder. "It won't work, you know."
"What won't?"
"The lips, the brooding thing. I'm immune."
"Because you're gay?"
She smirks, "That too."
Fandom: Skins (Gen 2)
Characters/Pairings: Freddie, Emily
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: mention of drugs, sex
Word Count: 835 approx
Summary: Dishing out sage advice from his eighteen year old mouth. “That’s how I should have loved Effy, from a distance.”
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Author’s Note: FOR redsilverchains WHO PROMPTED here’s to pretty girls who went to our heads, here’s to witty girls who went to our beds AT THE SHINY HAPPY COMMENT FICATHON
“What are you on?”
“Something lovely,” she says, knocking back a shot- her tongue is already bright blue.
---
Through the music, through the crowds, he wraps long fingers round her wrist in cautious repetition. How many nights are we going to keep doing this dance? The beat in perfect rhythm with her pulse, travelling down the vein to the heart- to the one that's breaking in stressed and unstressed syncopated cracks.
"I'm okay. I’m okay."
She's sweating, mascara streaked, dripping down her chin. Hands on her from every direction.
She is anything but.
---
“I don’t need anyone to look after me,” she pushes his arm off of her, lets it hang limp at his side.
His fingers twitch, he’s not really used to not having someone to fill his hands.
“Yeah, well--” he starts at her back, “I think I might need someone to look after.”
---
"Are we going home now?" he says, eyes narrowed on the girl next to her. Tanned, brunette, entirely the opposite of someone we’re not allowed to mention anymore.
Not in this capacity anyway: First Rule Of Fucking Up.
"Come on."
"I'm okay," she repeats for the second time tonight, hundredth time this week; eyebrow kinked to the side, smile dancing on her mouth. Look what I have.
"Come on," and now he's the record tripping in the background. "You don't want her."
"No," she answers, her voice is husky from screaming the same song for hours. Her eyes are still on the right side of glassy; right now, they're just sparkling back the orange streetlights at him. "I do want her."
"So go home."
---
She meets him on the curb maybe an hour later; there's a girl crouched at his ear, thighs on either side of his shoulder.
"Freddie?!" she yells, "What are you doing? Who the fuck is this?"
His mouth twists slightly. "No one, nothing. Just a girl. I don’t know!"
"He didn't say," this blonde slurs back. "He didn't say anything."
And maybe it's the little bit of Katie left behind from the womb, but she’s face-to-face with the girl, ignoring the hair strand stuck in her lipgloss. “Well, now you know.” Close to spitting. “You wanna fuck off then?”
“Yeah, yeah.” she drags her heels in her hands behind her.
He sighs when Emily joins him. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
He knocks his shoulder with hers. “So that was quick.”
She smiles. “Not all girls like to cuddle, Freds.”
---
Naomi’s at home; bottle in her hands like another appendage. No, she solves her problems in different ways.
“That’s up to her then,” Emily explains. “I didn’t tell her to.”
“You want her to?”
“What?”
“Just love you-- From over there. Far away.” He keeps swigging at the bottle tucked in his coat, picking at the label when there’s nothing else to do. Dishing out sage advice from his eighteen year old mouth. “That’s how I should have loved Effy, from a distance.”
“That’s no fun,” she mutters, stretching her arms above her head, bending to drink at his bottle when he raises it. “You have to touch people to love them, Freddie. That’s how people like to be loved.”
“Not Effy.”
“She just doesn’t know how to be, that’s the problem.”
---
Another girl stomps over, this one has her shoes on. She’s classy like that. Her tongue flicks against his ear. “Hey, your girlfriend can watch.”
“Nah, we’re alright,” he says, smiling, rubbing his jaw with precarious flattery.
“I’ve always been a doer, love.” Emily finally chimes in.
The girl shrugs, skulks off, probably does the same thing to someone else just down the road. Told you, classy.
“Oh, shut up,” she laughs, punching his arm.
“What?”
“Stop looking so upset about it-- ‘Oh shit, more people want to shag me?’ You’re so transparent.”
“Guess that stuffs wearing off then, eh?” he grins, “Not so lovely anymore.”
She sniffs, pushes her nose with her cardigan.
“You want to go home now, Em?”
---
It gets to four in the morning, and her lips are blue with cold now.
“You want my jacket?”
She shakes her head.
“Would you fuck her?” she asks, nodding in the general direction of someone bending over in a short skirt.
“Uh--”
Turns out, she’s vomiting on the street. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand.
“Oh, definitely.” he says, half-grimace, half-laugh. “That’s exactly what I look for.” He scans the sporadic crowds, bunches of people trying to keep warm and wait for taxis. “What about her?”
“Which one?”
“Blue hair.”
“Nice, yeah.”
“But--”
“But nothing, I would.”
He shakes his head, finishes the beer now. It clinks on the concrete next to them. “Nah, you wouldn’t.”
---
“I can walk you home.”
“I’m okay.” Third time’s a charm. She leans her head on his shoulder. "It won't work, you know."
"What won't?"
"The lips, the brooding thing. I'm immune."
"Because you're gay?"
She smirks, "That too."