Fic: Contrast
Title: Contrast
Pairing/Characters: Grace/Rich, Alo, Franky
Rating: PG if you disregard the cursing
Warnings: Almost fluffy, Abba, no metal
Wordcount: ~1500
Summary: Abba songs and picnics are much easier for Rich to tolerate when Grace is around. Snogging, however, remains nerve-racking.
Author's Note: This is the first time I've ever done Skins fic, but my love for the new gen/season is the first time I've actually been inspired to do it. I can't promise amazing quality or strong plot as this is an unbeta'd one shot that I literally just came up with last night. My other fics take me months and are pretty heavily beta'd so JUST A HEADS UP. I hope it's at least readable.
Also, in case you've never heard of the song referred to in this fic, here you go: ♪♪♪
. . .
He's annoyed. He's really annoyed. There is never proper justification to blast Abba in small spaces. Frankly, as far as Rich Hardbeck is concerned, there is never proper justification to blast Abba period. And yet, he’s managed to find himself riding shotgun in The Van next to a ginger lunatic who enjoys blasting “Summer Night City” and accompanying it with sporadic, high-pitched vocals and head bobbing.
His eye begins to twitch as the chorus kicks in, and as a distraction he grabs an old Iron Maiden cassette off the dashboard. His old Iron Maiden cassette that The Van suddenly decided was shit last week and subsequently distorted it into an explosion of cheap plastic and black ribbon.
“For fuck’s sake,” says Alo, glancing into his rear-vision mirror. “Have a wank over it and move the fuck on.”
“Your fucking van-”
“Oy, don’t have a go at her.” Alo strokes the steering wheel before scratching his stomach, which is shrouded by a Union Jack smock, paired with green trousers and black boots. Rich doesn’t ask, he never does.
There is one thing about this random excursion to some anonymous grassy hillside in Bristol that isn’t shit, and Rich sees it as he turns slightly in his seat and looks over his shoulder.
Franky and Grace are seated at the small table and their voices are hardly audible over screeching Swedes. Franky rolls up the sleeves of her navy collared shirt and peers at Grace’s fingers, currently wrapped in Cat’s Cradle string. His eyes can’t help but dart from Grace’s bracelets to her cream coloured blouse tucked into a skirt of dark green tweed. Pink tights and mustard yellow ballet flats completed the look, his chromatic opposite in literally every way possible. A moment passes-The Van hops over an uneven patch of ground, Franky coughs, Alo belts the chorus again-and suddenly Grace’s eyes are on him. There is nothing shy or bashful about her smile: it’s open and inviting and his lips don’t hesitate to curl upwards during this bout of wordless communication.
Rich turns back around, looking at the stretch of road in front of him behind curtains of long hair, smile still intact. It’s strange, the subtle and not so subtle nuances of relationships. But realistically, given his track record-or lack thereof-awkwardness should have been a given.
“WHEN THE NIGHT COMES WITH THE ACTION-“
“Shut the fuck up, Alo!”
“CAN’T RESIST THIS STRANGE ATTRACTION, FROM THAT GIANT DYNAMO!“
Rich gives Alo a withering look, sending Franky and Grace into a fit of giggles. Alo soon joins in, cheeks red with laughter. Against his will, Rich quickly finds himself silently chuckling with the rest of them, smile wavering before betraying him fully.
Several more twists and turns and a few Abba songs-including a rather poor duet of “Dancing Queen” with Grace and Alo-later, The Van rolls to a stop at the bottom of a grassy hillside.
“Here we are, lads!” Alo announces, fishing one of three bottles of wine from a brown paper bag. They all clamber out and away from the stale stench of old salt and vinegar crisp bags and cannabis, into the fresh late afternoon air of the countryside. Alo nods towards Franky, who is busy untangling the Cat’s Cradle string from her fingers. “Franky, milady, I reckon we should give these two lovers some space.” He uncorks the bottle and takes a swig before offering her a hook of his arm.
“Oh, right, yeah.” Franky throws Grace an impish smile before accepting the very pale arm given to her. The two march towards a thicket of bushes and trees on the other side of the green until they are out of sight.
Rich leans against the van and pulls out a fag from the battered carton in his pocket. He lights it and takes a slow drag. Grace sets out two large multi-coloured quilts and places a giant picnic basket and the rest of the wine atop it. She’s still humming “Dancing Queen” as she organizes the food.
“My family and I went to New York last summer. At the Chinese restaurants there your take away comes in these cute little containers, see?” Grace holds up a little white box with a grin. “I bought oodles of them. Aren’t they the cutest thing?”
Rich doesn’t answer immediately as she happily organizes each container-full of food she prepared-into columns and rows of four.
“It all looks a bit posh, really,” Rich mutters around his fag, eyebrows knitted and nose wrinkling.
“You’ll enjoy it,” Grace replies, not sharp but firm. There is clearly nothing left to debate on the matter.
Rich pushes himself away from the Van and joins Grace on the grass, reclining and getting bits of earth stuck in his hair. He closes his eyes, vaguely hearing Grace edge towards him, scooting on her knees. Grass rustles and shifts and he can feel the silk texture of Grace’s blouse chafe against his bare, left elbow. His eyes flicker open as one of Grace’s long, coiled locks of hair tickles his nose and her turns his head to find himself face to face with her.
“Did I startle you?” Grace asks, voice shaking with amusement. “Your eyes have gone all wide, you see. Ah, they look hazel. I never noticed the green bits before.”
He holds her gaze for a moment before noting her lips, covered in crimson lipstick.
“You want to snog me,” Grace continues, very matter-of-factly. She’s playful yet serious, and the knowing gleam in her eye compliments a small smirk.
Rich plays along, taking another drag of his fag before exhaling with a scoff. “And how do you know that then?”
Grace says nothing as her fingers brush against Rich’s bony wrist, glowing brown atop pasty white, and claims the fag. She takes a quick drag, looking refined and elegant like she’s Ava bloody Gardener. Smoke streams skyward from lips hardly parted as she returns the fag. Her lipstick lingers along the white paper but he doesn’t mind. Her laugh lights up her entire face and her eyes crinkle at the edges.
“When someone wants to kiss you they stare at your lips, that’s how.”
“What if I was actually staring at a massive cold sore?”
“Ha! I’ll have you know that my mouth is perfectly healthy and sore…less.”
He laughs, taking another drag as he continues to marvel at the glaring contrast between them. Her ballet flats against his clonking black boots, her tights with grass stains along her knees against his dark jeans…and as he’s about to note other miscellaneous differences, Grace’s warm fingers glide across his chin. She directs his gaze towards her and, without preamble, presses her lips against his.
It lacks the hesitation of his first awkward attempt at a kiss during that ridiculous after-party. Grace isn’t delicate or dainty as one might expect-as he might have expected. Passion and pluck easily overtake prim and proper as her hands grab on to his shoulders. After several seconds of Rich hoping that he’s not making a complete arse of himself in the snogging department and debating where the hell he should put his hands without burning her or receiving a slap in the face, Grace stops.
“Your false bravado amuses me, Rich,” Grace says, voice airy and lilting. Her lips hover centimetres over his and they graze with every uttered syllable. “You talk a lot of shite, but you’re really quite shy.”
Rich makes an indignant noise of protest. “I don’t-”
“It’s alright, you know,” Grace says, silencing him with another quick peck. “I find it rather endearing to be honest.”
“Endearing my arse, you think it’s a laugh.”
“A bit of a laugh, yes.”
Rich rolls his eyes in surrender before sitting up, bringing Grace with him. It’s become difficult not to smile whenever she is, even if it’s at his expense. But this is Grace and he’s become resigned to the fact that she’s somehow just magical. This one individual-this posh girl with curly hair and colourful clothes and an almost tangible spontaneity-has left him spellbound and, in all honestly, it scares the shit out of him. She’s managed to make him weep for fuck’s sake. And though he can dwell on how Grace has left him with an altered outlook on life and what’s beautiful and the point of little Chinese take away boxes, Grace will have none of it. With a laugh she grasps his hand and tugs on it until they’re both standing.
“I’m going to go find Franky and Alo. You watch the food,” Grace says, snatching Rich’s dangling, waning fag from his fingers. “I’ll be back so fast you’ll think I’ve apparated!”
“Er, right,” Rich says, ignoring the Harry Potter reference and doesn’t bother hiding the broad grin that stretches across his face. “I’ll guard these stupid boxes with my life, yeah?”
“As you should!” Grace nods before skipping off in the distance, spinning and leaping and taking drags between rotations and doing what she does best: being Grace fucking Violet.
Pairing/Characters: Grace/Rich, Alo, Franky
Rating: PG if you disregard the cursing
Warnings: Almost fluffy, Abba, no metal
Wordcount: ~1500
Summary: Abba songs and picnics are much easier for Rich to tolerate when Grace is around. Snogging, however, remains nerve-racking.
Author's Note: This is the first time I've ever done Skins fic, but my love for the new gen/season is the first time I've actually been inspired to do it. I can't promise amazing quality or strong plot as this is an unbeta'd one shot that I literally just came up with last night. My other fics take me months and are pretty heavily beta'd so JUST A HEADS UP. I hope it's at least readable.
Also, in case you've never heard of the song referred to in this fic, here you go: ♪♪♪
. . .
He's annoyed. He's really annoyed. There is never proper justification to blast Abba in small spaces. Frankly, as far as Rich Hardbeck is concerned, there is never proper justification to blast Abba period. And yet, he’s managed to find himself riding shotgun in The Van next to a ginger lunatic who enjoys blasting “Summer Night City” and accompanying it with sporadic, high-pitched vocals and head bobbing.
His eye begins to twitch as the chorus kicks in, and as a distraction he grabs an old Iron Maiden cassette off the dashboard. His old Iron Maiden cassette that The Van suddenly decided was shit last week and subsequently distorted it into an explosion of cheap plastic and black ribbon.
“For fuck’s sake,” says Alo, glancing into his rear-vision mirror. “Have a wank over it and move the fuck on.”
“Your fucking van-”
“Oy, don’t have a go at her.” Alo strokes the steering wheel before scratching his stomach, which is shrouded by a Union Jack smock, paired with green trousers and black boots. Rich doesn’t ask, he never does.
There is one thing about this random excursion to some anonymous grassy hillside in Bristol that isn’t shit, and Rich sees it as he turns slightly in his seat and looks over his shoulder.
Franky and Grace are seated at the small table and their voices are hardly audible over screeching Swedes. Franky rolls up the sleeves of her navy collared shirt and peers at Grace’s fingers, currently wrapped in Cat’s Cradle string. His eyes can’t help but dart from Grace’s bracelets to her cream coloured blouse tucked into a skirt of dark green tweed. Pink tights and mustard yellow ballet flats completed the look, his chromatic opposite in literally every way possible. A moment passes-The Van hops over an uneven patch of ground, Franky coughs, Alo belts the chorus again-and suddenly Grace’s eyes are on him. There is nothing shy or bashful about her smile: it’s open and inviting and his lips don’t hesitate to curl upwards during this bout of wordless communication.
Rich turns back around, looking at the stretch of road in front of him behind curtains of long hair, smile still intact. It’s strange, the subtle and not so subtle nuances of relationships. But realistically, given his track record-or lack thereof-awkwardness should have been a given.
“WHEN THE NIGHT COMES WITH THE ACTION-“
“Shut the fuck up, Alo!”
“CAN’T RESIST THIS STRANGE ATTRACTION, FROM THAT GIANT DYNAMO!“
Rich gives Alo a withering look, sending Franky and Grace into a fit of giggles. Alo soon joins in, cheeks red with laughter. Against his will, Rich quickly finds himself silently chuckling with the rest of them, smile wavering before betraying him fully.
Several more twists and turns and a few Abba songs-including a rather poor duet of “Dancing Queen” with Grace and Alo-later, The Van rolls to a stop at the bottom of a grassy hillside.
“Here we are, lads!” Alo announces, fishing one of three bottles of wine from a brown paper bag. They all clamber out and away from the stale stench of old salt and vinegar crisp bags and cannabis, into the fresh late afternoon air of the countryside. Alo nods towards Franky, who is busy untangling the Cat’s Cradle string from her fingers. “Franky, milady, I reckon we should give these two lovers some space.” He uncorks the bottle and takes a swig before offering her a hook of his arm.
“Oh, right, yeah.” Franky throws Grace an impish smile before accepting the very pale arm given to her. The two march towards a thicket of bushes and trees on the other side of the green until they are out of sight.
Rich leans against the van and pulls out a fag from the battered carton in his pocket. He lights it and takes a slow drag. Grace sets out two large multi-coloured quilts and places a giant picnic basket and the rest of the wine atop it. She’s still humming “Dancing Queen” as she organizes the food.
“My family and I went to New York last summer. At the Chinese restaurants there your take away comes in these cute little containers, see?” Grace holds up a little white box with a grin. “I bought oodles of them. Aren’t they the cutest thing?”
Rich doesn’t answer immediately as she happily organizes each container-full of food she prepared-into columns and rows of four.
“It all looks a bit posh, really,” Rich mutters around his fag, eyebrows knitted and nose wrinkling.
“You’ll enjoy it,” Grace replies, not sharp but firm. There is clearly nothing left to debate on the matter.
Rich pushes himself away from the Van and joins Grace on the grass, reclining and getting bits of earth stuck in his hair. He closes his eyes, vaguely hearing Grace edge towards him, scooting on her knees. Grass rustles and shifts and he can feel the silk texture of Grace’s blouse chafe against his bare, left elbow. His eyes flicker open as one of Grace’s long, coiled locks of hair tickles his nose and her turns his head to find himself face to face with her.
“Did I startle you?” Grace asks, voice shaking with amusement. “Your eyes have gone all wide, you see. Ah, they look hazel. I never noticed the green bits before.”
He holds her gaze for a moment before noting her lips, covered in crimson lipstick.
“You want to snog me,” Grace continues, very matter-of-factly. She’s playful yet serious, and the knowing gleam in her eye compliments a small smirk.
Rich plays along, taking another drag of his fag before exhaling with a scoff. “And how do you know that then?”
Grace says nothing as her fingers brush against Rich’s bony wrist, glowing brown atop pasty white, and claims the fag. She takes a quick drag, looking refined and elegant like she’s Ava bloody Gardener. Smoke streams skyward from lips hardly parted as she returns the fag. Her lipstick lingers along the white paper but he doesn’t mind. Her laugh lights up her entire face and her eyes crinkle at the edges.
“When someone wants to kiss you they stare at your lips, that’s how.”
“What if I was actually staring at a massive cold sore?”
“Ha! I’ll have you know that my mouth is perfectly healthy and sore…less.”
He laughs, taking another drag as he continues to marvel at the glaring contrast between them. Her ballet flats against his clonking black boots, her tights with grass stains along her knees against his dark jeans…and as he’s about to note other miscellaneous differences, Grace’s warm fingers glide across his chin. She directs his gaze towards her and, without preamble, presses her lips against his.
It lacks the hesitation of his first awkward attempt at a kiss during that ridiculous after-party. Grace isn’t delicate or dainty as one might expect-as he might have expected. Passion and pluck easily overtake prim and proper as her hands grab on to his shoulders. After several seconds of Rich hoping that he’s not making a complete arse of himself in the snogging department and debating where the hell he should put his hands without burning her or receiving a slap in the face, Grace stops.
“Your false bravado amuses me, Rich,” Grace says, voice airy and lilting. Her lips hover centimetres over his and they graze with every uttered syllable. “You talk a lot of shite, but you’re really quite shy.”
Rich makes an indignant noise of protest. “I don’t-”
“It’s alright, you know,” Grace says, silencing him with another quick peck. “I find it rather endearing to be honest.”
“Endearing my arse, you think it’s a laugh.”
“A bit of a laugh, yes.”
Rich rolls his eyes in surrender before sitting up, bringing Grace with him. It’s become difficult not to smile whenever she is, even if it’s at his expense. But this is Grace and he’s become resigned to the fact that she’s somehow just magical. This one individual-this posh girl with curly hair and colourful clothes and an almost tangible spontaneity-has left him spellbound and, in all honestly, it scares the shit out of him. She’s managed to make him weep for fuck’s sake. And though he can dwell on how Grace has left him with an altered outlook on life and what’s beautiful and the point of little Chinese take away boxes, Grace will have none of it. With a laugh she grasps his hand and tugs on it until they’re both standing.
“I’m going to go find Franky and Alo. You watch the food,” Grace says, snatching Rich’s dangling, waning fag from his fingers. “I’ll be back so fast you’ll think I’ve apparated!”
“Er, right,” Rich says, ignoring the Harry Potter reference and doesn’t bother hiding the broad grin that stretches across his face. “I’ll guard these stupid boxes with my life, yeah?”
“As you should!” Grace nods before skipping off in the distance, spinning and leaping and taking drags between rotations and doing what she does best: being Grace fucking Violet.