fic: Velvet Underground (rps: chim)
Title: Velvet Underground
Author: noclueontheloo
Rating: PG - R
Fandom: Girls Aloud, Cheryl Cole/Kimberley Walsh (RPS)
Word Count: 2600 (26x100)
Summary: 26 drabbles done as part of the Alphabet Soup challenge set by ripptyd
A is for… Argument
“It’s art Cheryl!” Kimberley protests, “You totally showed us up, saying that there. Besides, a ‘beached whale’ would hardly be floating, would it?”
And Cheryl won’t back down because she knows she’s right. “God’s sake, it’s a fucking metaphor, alright?”
“Simile,” she corrects pointedly.
“Whatever.”
Nadine looks up, frowning. “Are you twos actually arguing?”
“We’re having a discussion,” they snap back simultaneously. Then, turning to each other, promptly collapse into fits of giggles.
“What, Chez and Kimba are fightin’?” Nicola shouts across the room.
“Forget it, “ Nadine rolls her eyes and returns to her magazine, “They’ve made up.”
B is for… Bite
She hadn’t been happy, that much was obvious, when you turned up on his arm. Especially given the conspicuous absence by her side.
They’d noticed the glares and deliberate avoidance, but hid their embarrassment behind champagne glasses and masterfully managed to distract you from each other.
Yet she followed you into the ladies room, pulled you almost roughly, almost smiling, into the cubicle.
Brown eyes full of hurt demanded an apology, but her mouth covered yours before it was forthcoming, fingernails digging mercilessly into your hip. She left you there, breathless and confused, tracing the bite marks on your neck.
C is for… Chim
“Cheryl, look at this,” she calls out, delighted that YouTube has solved the mystery.
“Chim - it’s Cheryl and Kimberley. They’re talking about our friendship.”
Cheryl wanders over as the video ends, clicks the next one on the list as Kimberley takes a sip from her coffee.
A saccharine love song starts up, images flashing before her eyes: her hand on Kimberley’s bum, their constant embracing, a drunken kiss captured by the paparazzi.
“Friendship me arse!” she exclaims.
“Aaaww,” coos Kimberley, taking another look.
Cheryl barely contains her eyeroll.
“Bunch of pervs,” she mutters, but she’s smiling all the same.
D is for… Dare
“Oh God, here we go!” she sighed as they hurtled up the M1- girls, dancers and a caseload of vodka.
“Stop picking on her,” Cheryl demanded.
“I’m not mooning anyone again,” she warned Sarah.
“Fine! Kiss….”
Cheryl clutched her glass, praying for invisibility yet inexplicitly disappointed when she’s passed over for another- muscular and distinctly male.
Suddenly she felt tired, agitated, huffed, “Truth” for her turn.
When Sarah asked whom she wanted to kiss she snapped, “Kimberley, so you’ll leave her alone!”
A hush descended.
Eventually Kimberley spoke.
“No one’s stopping you.”
The bus erupted. Cheryl blushed into her drink.
E is for… Eyes
She feels their weight upon her and uses all her willpower to keep focused on the camera. So she sings her line and gives a quick glance. Only it’s never that quick because as soon as they connect she smiles, and those dimples require a few seconds of their own attention.
When they’re out and she’s made up, lashes thick, eyeliner expertly applied, she can admire them more freely and any number of photographs proves that she does.
And when the room is dark and she’s crawling towards her, they flash and she thinks they can see right through her.
F is for… Fucking
It’s not gentle when it finally happens and certainly isn’t pretty. There’s no soft focus, no declarations of love, no tentative touches or loving whispers.
She’s not hesitant or shy at all, not really a surprise, given her propensity for telling it exactly how it is.
It isn’t beautiful, isn’t the stuff of broken hearts or dreams fulfilled, isn’t a reason to get up in the morning, isn’t even why they’d gone out that night.
It’s urgent. It’s shameless; right there, with the curtains still open and the dawn creeping in. It’s fucking. And, she thinks, it’s about fucking time.
G is for… Good Morning
She forgets for a silent second, a fraction even, of whom it is she is waking up next to. The luxurious warmth radiating beside her.
And Kimberley is awake and staring back sleepily, toying with her hair between her fingers, murmuring good morning, offering her that languorous smile that had gotten them both into this position in the first place.
So Cheryl cannot help but press into her some more, to reach across and claim, to lazily nuzzle her neck and breathe in her scent, to plant small imperfect kisses and relish that this is, indeed, a very good morning.
H is for… Hangover
They’re halfway through their Australian promo week when Cheryl decides to empty Nadine’s mini-bar.
Kimberley watches as management attempt to mask the fact she’s vomiting right into an airport bin.
She glowers at Nadine who shrugs, “I’m not her mam!”
So she sighs and tries to clean the younger girl up.
“Idiot, you knew we were flying today.”
“Kimba,” she croaks, “Please… be nice to me.”
She relents, carries her bag, tries hard not to feel like an absolute sucker.
“If you’d let me in last night, this wouldn’t have happened,” Cheryl begins. The icy glare promptly shuts her up.
I is for… Irreversible
You’re breathing hard into her ear and she’s calling you baby -not babe- baby, and gasping and sucking on your ear lobe, dragging her nails down your spine.
And it hurts just enough that you groan unashamedly. And somehow she manages to wrap one leg completely around your hip, so that her foot is rubbing across your lower back and without warning you’re there.
You shudder against her face and she pushes away stray hairs and kisses your eyelids. And you know that whatever just happened cannot be explained away anymore and her eyes tell you she knows it too.
J is for… Justin
He’s your rock. Even you need one of those occasionally. He takes you to Hawaii. You sip exotic cocktails, swim in translucent seas, wrap yourselves in white fluffy towels and believe this could be real.
On the third night you go for a moonlit stroll and think - here - he’s finally going to do it and you can end this ridiculous chaotic mess you’ve gotten yourself into. You’ll be home and safe.
But he doesn’t and you’ve barely landed two hours before she’s calling and begging to see you and you think you’d rather the chaos than a lifetime of safety.
K is for… Kissing
“Kimberley,” she murmurs, and it’s so low, so animalistic, it takes all of her willpower not to just dissolve completely. Instead she’s making way for a probing hot tongue that’s busy entering her mouth, melting into her as they move and mesh together.
She thinks that Cheryl is probably the best kisser ever. She’d thought that even before they had started kissing like this. Back when it wasn’t real kissing, was snatched, drunken, urgent moments.
But now, when she whispers “kiss me,” they’re already kissing and it’s the best kissing ever because she knows when one ends she’s guaranteed another.
L is for… Love
She sat crumpled, defeated, having driven as far into the countryside as she dared without her sat nav’s guidance. When the tears had intensified, became dangerous while behind the wheel, she’d swung her SLR into a gravely lay-by and unleashed.
And though relinquishing her car’s warmth for the lashing rain, the release felt good, felt justified by the dramatic backdrop.
The clouds swirled and her heart went into spasm. Why her? Why now? Why, having just experienced the most earth-shatteringly exquisite kind of exaltation, was she soaked, shivering, alone on a hillside?
She was in love. And it terrified her.
M is for… Mountain
She’s lost her phone. It didn’t work anyway, but now she’s lost it and she’s freaking out.
They had warned you that the altitude could do this, but it’s so unlike her that you’re overwhelmed.
You walk, arms linked, pleading with her to calm down.
“Why are we here?” she wails.
“You’re here to raise money and I’m here ‘cos you said you wouldn’t do it without me.”
She’s temporarily stunned. Then her lip quivers and the tears return full force.
She sobs, “I don’t deserve you!”
And it’s so ridiculous that you just pat her hand and push on.
N is for… Now
She’s done in. She loves her passion, her little moans, her lusty slight laugh, lips sticky against her ear.
But the girl is just insatiable. Kimberley feels delirious from it, never wants it to end, but worries about not keeping up, about how, untethered, she’ll never come back.
So when slim fingers brush her thigh, she says not now, one hour, but not with footsteps looming, audiences waiting.
And the hand is insistent against her hip, even when she’s implored to wait.
And suddenly she’s against the wall, skirt riding high, and her mouth is everywhere all at once.
“Now.”
O is for… Opaque
She says that the label said opaque, but Kimberley isn’t quite so sure. It’s certainly an eye-catcher, short and clingy, lacey lattices criss-crossing over her modesty.
“Here, stand under the light,” she instructs and Cheryl obliges, posing, twirling, giving her every angle.
“Is it okay from the side?” she’s glancing dubiously, adjusting the material.
Kimberley attests it is, but Cheryl’s now uncertain, wants a photo taken.
As it turns out, the flash reveals all.
“Shit,” she sighs as they examine the digital screen.
“Right, I’m changing. And Kimba, you can stop staring at me bits now,” she turns and winks.
P is for… Paparazzi
And you’re falling away, clinging to each other, pavement rushing towards you, flashes erupting all around, pushing, crushing…
And if the pulsating club had made you feel heady and claustrophobic then this is something altogether different, more dangerous, more unpredictable.
But she’s holding you with a grip so fierce, when he springs forward - blinding you temporarily - you’re still right with her, connected.
And it isn’t until security finally ploughs through, until you’re bundled into the sanctuary of the car, until she declares, “take us home”, still clutching your hand, that you realise you’ve been holding your breath the entire time.
Q is for… Quiet
Sometimes, when they’d been in each other’s company for long stretches they lapsed into total contented silence. They would move effortlessly around each other, instinctually accommodating, communicating with a look or gesture what they didn’t need to articulate.
These were the moments when Cheryl felt at peace, knowing she’d found her soulmate.
“I don’t get it,” Sarah would mutter, “They gas away all night- keep me awake- and then sit around making googly eyes at each other all day and not speakin’.”
And Kimberley would smile slyly, with Cheryl’s hand resting on her knee, the other raising her middle finger.
R is for… Regret
She’s been crying again, although refuses to acknowledge it and you know why. Her conversation is frenetic as her fingers fidget and her eyes dart nervously. You fight the urge to grab her hands and tell her it’s alright to stop talking, you’re not going to judge her because, really, who are you to judge.
You spy the crumpled tabloid on the next table, wincing at the headline, hoping she doesn’t notice. She doesn’t even meet your eye as she leaves, but runs her finger along the inside of your wrist and tells you that you were right all along.
S is for… Shampoo
“You’re early.”
“Oh.”
“I haven’t washed me hair yet.”
And so, because she’d rather be doing then waiting, she offers.
They take one of the kitchen chairs into the bathroom, fix the cheap shower attachment to the basin taps, their own makeshift salon.
Cheryl’s shampoo smells of jasmine and, thinks Kimberley, is every bit as intoxicating as Cheryl herself.
She savours the feeling of her fingers against her scalp, gently massaging, as intimate as she’ll ever surely get. When she rinses it all out and the water runs cold, slender fingers curl around her wrist.
“But I’ve finished.”
“Don’t stop.”
T is for… Texting
Can’t believe it here - evry1 has a story - so brave but such poverty. Plus quite cold! Glad am here but feel so much more could be done. Miss u xx
Babe ur doing what u can, v proud of u, wish I was there 2. Keep warm. Hope 2 C U vv soon! xxx
Shit totally forgot to ask about xf- who’s thru?
Lol- hardly important where u r. But of course Joes thru. And will win. FACT.
Sum1 is confident! Fingers crossed you’ll do the double! x
You know me, once is never enuf ;)
Oh I know! xxx
U is for… Umbrella
She’d intended to get some air, remove herself from the bustling bodies for five minutes and just breathe. The darkness had already descended by the time she’d found herself an exit and the intensifying downpour halted any plans for a quick stroll. She leant against the brickwork and exhaled, her breath fogging in front of her.
“Kimberley,” the voice was quiet and familiar and she could just make out the end of her cigarette illuminated under the massive golf umbrella.
She welcomed her under it and they stood in silence and listened to the rain falling through the night air.
V is for… Velvet Underground
The first time you truly felt it was in a scruffy non-descript pub, bleary-eyed, stale smoke ingrained in the carpet, filling the air.
Nadine was at the bar trying to order some food with Sarah. Nicola had retreated to the toilet clutching her belly.
She rested her head against you, her cigarette smouldering, you leaned back, eyes closed against your hangover.
She hummed gently along to Sunday Morning, drawing imaginary patterns along your naked arm.
Your stomach plummeted and you knew it had nothing to do with last night.
“Me Dad always loved Velvet Underground,” she murmured into your shoulder.
W is for… Whatever
“I think… we should talk about this.”
It’s broad daylight. They’re both sober. And in public.
“What?” she’s half-listening.
“This, Cheryl,” finger darting between them both. “You and me.”
“What about us?”
“Come on,” she murmurs amid the backstage hustle.
”Last night… and before… You’re not even… and I don’t think I am, so…”
She leans toward her then, the stylist still preoccupied, “Kimberley,” her voice so low she strains to hear it, “You’re me best friend,” she squeezes her hand for emphasis.
“So…? It’s…?”
“Whatever,” Cheryl shrugs, glancing sideways.
“Whatever?”
“Whatever you want it to be,” she adds softly.
X is for… x
They assume the flowers are from him. They always do when there’s no name. Just a quick scrawled “I love you”, an encouraging, thoughtful “Good Luck!” a hastily scripted “Miss you so much.”
Always signed with an x.
It’s the same with her letters, her texts and emails. Silly really, she thinks, knowing if someone were to delve, it’s all easily traceable. But they pretend they’re being discrete. And no one’s ever argued the point.
So when they lie together and she’s asked what she’s thinking, she reaches, tracing her fingertip over her heart.
“X marks the spot,” she whispers.
Y is for… Yoga
“What are you doing?” she’s alerted by a crash and greeted with the sight of a backside sticking up in the air, trackies low enough that her back dimples are on show.
“Yoga,” she grumbles, kneeling up and rubbing her elbows despondently.
“Is it meant to be this noisy?” she asks.
“I was doing me tree,” she mumbles, frowning, and it’s too adorable and Kimberley has to pull her towards her right then.
“I thought you said this stuff was boring.”
“It’s meant to make you more flexible,” she sulks.
Kimberley laughs. “Better show me what you got then, hey.”
Z is for… Zzzzz
She’s sleeping now and you’re awake and watching. She asked you once if she snored and you lied and told her she did. She blushed and called you a liar anyway.
But it’s a gentle rustling and seems to soothe your very soul.
Occasionally she turns, fleetingly half-conscious, a delicate whimper as you touch.
And all at once she seems so small and fragile, but her presence is so very firm and real. And as you lie next to her, mould into her, you think how perfectly you fit together, as if you’d been created at the exact same time.