Ground
Ground
Close your eyes/Try to breathe/Feel the ground beneath your feet/
It's still there/The world still turns around
Word Count: 505
Pairing: Naomi/?
Fandom: Skins
Quote from Ground, copyright Tom Shear and Assemblage 23
Notes: 5 connected drabbles, of exactly 100 words each, plus titles. Once I'd done the first it struck me that what little plot/theme there was basically focused around sensation and the senses, so that's where I took it. All rather teenage, but whatever ;)
I'm not actually quite this sweary in real life (although my language at work would probably make Gordan Ramsey blush (I don't count work as real life though)).
A couple of you may recognise this as the story I posted, in very slightly altered form, on LKL. I'm posting this here rather than the other because the characterisation is far more appropriate to the characters here than L and K, even though I'm more pleased with how the other variant turned out despite the fact that the changes were extremely minor.
This is dedicated to zagury, who I've been enjoying rambling back and forth with across the Atlantic for the last few weeks about all and sundry. Cheers. It's been fun :)
Constructive criticism is always very welcome.
1) Watching
Not love at first sight, not that at all. Another emotion entirely; harder, more brutal, more basic.
The look in the red-head's eyes as she catches Naomi's stare is cool, hostile even. The corners of her mouth twitch in - what was that? A sneer? Well, it wasn't a smile, certainly, nowhere close.
Naomi rolls her eyes, annoyed, unable to avert her gaze as something clenches deep inside her. She watches as the girl - lips parted now, her tongue flickering, moistening them - grinds her arse into her partner's crotch.
Naomi watches, breathless, and the girl looks back.
Naomi watches.
2)Tasting
She takes a step backwards, and then another, leans back against the walls - slick, sweating, almost alive - steadying herself. Clutching her bottle of vodka she drags hard on a cigarette, feels the smoke, harsh in her throat; cloying, acrid. Naomi swigs at the vodka, replaces one burn with another.
She regrets coming here - curses herself for allowing her mother to nag her into sociability. Stupid.
Naomi tastes bile, the bitterness mixing with fag smoke and vodka, increasing her nausea, her self-hatred. Why is she here? And why the fuck can't she keep her eyes off that girl?
Yet still she watches.
3)Hearing
The walls of the - what the fuck is it? A deserted mansion? And come to that, how the fuck did she get here? - whatever, they enfold her, closing in. They seem to absorb the music - pounding bass line, euphoric synth, swooping vocal - and throw it back, ten times louder, no less shit.
Naomi feels the pulse of the bass through her feet, in her skull, between her legs. It surges, harder faster, pulling her with it, and finally the pill that she took - how long ago? - makes its presence felt. Heart racing; irritation, anxiety, inhibitions left far behind.
She grins.
4)Smelling
Her grin widening, she sparks another fag, drawing deep and feeling the individual particles of smoke flow into her lungs. The rush and surge, adrenaline and euphoria, course through her. The voice - ever criticising, ever questioning, never silent - is stilled. She is sensation, and light, and love. And she grins.
Inhaling deeply, the odour of smoke and warm sweat, alcohol and poppers, almost overwhelms her. Steadying herself, she steps forward, her eyes locked on the red-head once more.
The girl is briefly alone, and still, blowing hard, her brown eyes held by Naomi's blue ones. Nervous almost, quizzical perhaps, she waits.
5)Touching
Unhesitating, slightly wobbly but grinning broadly regardless, Naomi covers the distance quickly, bobbing and weaving - what is she, a fucking boxer? - to avoid the press.
“You fuckin' fancy me, yeah?” It's an accusation, almost.
Naomi doesn't respond. Hands on the girl's shoulders, her grin less feral, more questioning now, she closes the last couple of feet inch by inch. Looking for signs of rejection, she sees none. The girl seems tense but willing, gasping only slightly as their mouths mash together.
Naomi's tongue swipes at closed lips; sharp teeth reply, even as lips part. Naomi hisses, nips back playfully, grinning.
Close your eyes/Try to breathe/Feel the ground beneath your feet/
It's still there/The world still turns around
Word Count: 505
Pairing: Naomi/?
Fandom: Skins
Quote from Ground, copyright Tom Shear and Assemblage 23
Notes: 5 connected drabbles, of exactly 100 words each, plus titles. Once I'd done the first it struck me that what little plot/theme there was basically focused around sensation and the senses, so that's where I took it. All rather teenage, but whatever ;)
I'm not actually quite this sweary in real life (although my language at work would probably make Gordan Ramsey blush (I don't count work as real life though)).
A couple of you may recognise this as the story I posted, in very slightly altered form, on LKL. I'm posting this here rather than the other because the characterisation is far more appropriate to the characters here than L and K, even though I'm more pleased with how the other variant turned out despite the fact that the changes were extremely minor.
This is dedicated to zagury, who I've been enjoying rambling back and forth with across the Atlantic for the last few weeks about all and sundry. Cheers. It's been fun :)
Constructive criticism is always very welcome.
1) Watching
Not love at first sight, not that at all. Another emotion entirely; harder, more brutal, more basic.
The look in the red-head's eyes as she catches Naomi's stare is cool, hostile even. The corners of her mouth twitch in - what was that? A sneer? Well, it wasn't a smile, certainly, nowhere close.
Naomi rolls her eyes, annoyed, unable to avert her gaze as something clenches deep inside her. She watches as the girl - lips parted now, her tongue flickering, moistening them - grinds her arse into her partner's crotch.
Naomi watches, breathless, and the girl looks back.
Naomi watches.
2)Tasting
She takes a step backwards, and then another, leans back against the walls - slick, sweating, almost alive - steadying herself. Clutching her bottle of vodka she drags hard on a cigarette, feels the smoke, harsh in her throat; cloying, acrid. Naomi swigs at the vodka, replaces one burn with another.
She regrets coming here - curses herself for allowing her mother to nag her into sociability. Stupid.
Naomi tastes bile, the bitterness mixing with fag smoke and vodka, increasing her nausea, her self-hatred. Why is she here? And why the fuck can't she keep her eyes off that girl?
Yet still she watches.
3)Hearing
The walls of the - what the fuck is it? A deserted mansion? And come to that, how the fuck did she get here? - whatever, they enfold her, closing in. They seem to absorb the music - pounding bass line, euphoric synth, swooping vocal - and throw it back, ten times louder, no less shit.
Naomi feels the pulse of the bass through her feet, in her skull, between her legs. It surges, harder faster, pulling her with it, and finally the pill that she took - how long ago? - makes its presence felt. Heart racing; irritation, anxiety, inhibitions left far behind.
She grins.
4)Smelling
Her grin widening, she sparks another fag, drawing deep and feeling the individual particles of smoke flow into her lungs. The rush and surge, adrenaline and euphoria, course through her. The voice - ever criticising, ever questioning, never silent - is stilled. She is sensation, and light, and love. And she grins.
Inhaling deeply, the odour of smoke and warm sweat, alcohol and poppers, almost overwhelms her. Steadying herself, she steps forward, her eyes locked on the red-head once more.
The girl is briefly alone, and still, blowing hard, her brown eyes held by Naomi's blue ones. Nervous almost, quizzical perhaps, she waits.
5)Touching
Unhesitating, slightly wobbly but grinning broadly regardless, Naomi covers the distance quickly, bobbing and weaving - what is she, a fucking boxer? - to avoid the press.
“You fuckin' fancy me, yeah?” It's an accusation, almost.
Naomi doesn't respond. Hands on the girl's shoulders, her grin less feral, more questioning now, she closes the last couple of feet inch by inch. Looking for signs of rejection, she sees none. The girl seems tense but willing, gasping only slightly as their mouths mash together.
Naomi's tongue swipes at closed lips; sharp teeth reply, even as lips part. Naomi hisses, nips back playfully, grinning.