Fic: Bristol Dreaming
Title: Bristol Dreaming
Author: interpol_ice
Fandom: Skins - Second Generation
Pairing: Naomi Campbell/Emily Fitch
Rating: R (for sexual situations, language, themes)
Disclaimer: Skins isn't mine. Neither is e.e. cumming's "somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond". Story's mine though.
Summary: “...all it took was for the back of my knees to hit the edge of the bed so that she could start to make my toes curl.” Future fic. A quick read. Featuring everyone’s favourite power couple.
Author's Notes: Now, here’s that short fic I promised. This one’s set in the future. It’s up to you how far into it you want them to be. I really had to try my hand at this... whatever this is. Either way, I hope you people like it. Cheers! :)
Bristol Dreaming
by interpol_ice
= = = *** = = =
Oh, how I love making love to the girl I love.
Especially in the afternoons.
When I'd be sprawled atop the sheets after the rush, with my damp blue polo still on but
open. Four buttons undone and the fifth would be missing (because she was in such a hurry).
I’d be half-lying on the mattress, because maybe, we’d have kissed in the kitchen and have
felt our way blindly, breathlessly, until we reached the stairs (and even then, we couldn’t
have bolted up them fast enough). Half-lying because all it took was for the back of my knees
to hit the edge of the bed so that she could start to make my toes curl.
Sheen with sweat and slightly out of breath, we’d just lie there, half-awake. Already in our
own little world of dreams. There, clocks would stop. Watches would go unwatched. Only
two people measuring time in heartbeats. Because this is the part of the day that we wish
could go on forever. It’s in this time we’re just… us.
Her head would be on my shoulder and she’d be running her palm over my stomach when I
wonder about it. Because here she is, this tiny thing. Then there’s the rest of the world, in all
its vastness. But she’s all my favourite things and I already feel so complete, with someone so
small in my arms. And I’d think…
How can anything else exist?
After a while, she’d sit up and reach over me, for the book I left on my side of the bed that
morning. Our chests would press against each other along the way. And I’d be made acutely
aware, time and time again, that she and I are built the same.
A breeze would come in and caress the curtains. They'd fly this way and that, like patterned
ghosts. The wind would pick wisps of her hair up and make it this fiery colour in the sunlight
and before I know it, I’m warm all over again.
It’d be graceful and quiet, the way she’ll move. She’d flip through the pages with excited
eyes. Until she’d find something that’ll make her hold her breath.
That’s the time she’d get to her knees and start to move about on them. She’d turn around;
making the mattress shift like one certain bouncy castle we used to know. Her face would be
glowing. A sight so heavenly that I wouldn’t be able to contain my smile.
She’d be holding my stare, making sure I’d be paying attention (not that I needed reminding),
lowering herself until the backs of her thighs meet her calves. Sitting as if she were about to
go through a sacred Japanese ceremony.
I’ll hook an arm around her bundled legs. Her knees would be touching my bicep. The back
of my fingers would be grazing her feet. And I’d feel like some sort of god because I have the
freedom to touch her anywhere in any way I wanted. To have her any way I wanted.
And it’d still get me. How she’ll be holding the paperback (with one hand, her fuck finger
inside of it, to mark her place). How she’ll be brushing the hair out of her eyes. How the sun
will suddenly soften and make an orange crown around her head.
She’d reread her discovery for the last time so that the book’s purple cover would be hiding
her face. And I’d use this opportunity to shift my head a little to the side so that I could catch
a glimpse of her breasts from the inside of her half-buttoned pyjama top. It’d be difficult, but
I’d stop myself from reaching out to get a hold on one, not wanting to distract her. I’d resort
to drawing little circles around her ankle instead.
We’d be locking eyes when she’s ready. It’d be intense, how she’ll lick her lips like she’s
about to kiss me, looking so eager to sweep me off my feet with a little sweet talk. It’d be
intense, the moment she’ll breathe in and break eye contact to get her focus back on whatever
lovely piece she had picked out.
She has such a pretty mouth. It’s only fitting for pretty words to come out.
(It's this same mouth that will go down on me again later. And when she’ll go down on me,
she’ll kiss those words between my legs, where it'll be felt the most.)
And I’d close my eyes. Let her voice drown me…
= = = = = = = =
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
- e.e. cummings
= = = = = = = =
When she’s through, I’ll put my hand on her thigh. And she’ll put the book down. She’ll pull
her hair back and she’ll bend over my body. She’ll map my stomach, my chest, my
collarbones, my land of skin with the softest kisses.
And then I’d die and I’d die and I’d die some more.
= = = = = = = =
Later, in the night, when I’m stripped bare. She’ll rest her hand in the valley between my
breasts. Her way of telling me that she owns whatever’s underneath it.
And it’s just fucking amazing. Knowing what my heart is for.
I’ll tilt my head down so that I could look into her eyes. What I find in them are mysteries and
certainties of every kind. After that, I’ll forget who I am, completely losing myself in her
honey brown.
And I’d think again…
How can anything else exist?
= = = = = = = =
When I’d happen to wake up in the middle of the night, the first thing I’d do is check if her
feet are still cocooned under the duvet because I know her biggest fear in the world is
someone grabbing them from under the bed while she’s asleep. And when I’d see that they
still are, I’d get up anyway and tuck them in again, as snug as they can possibly get. Just to be
absolutely sure.
And when I’d climb back into the bed, back next to her, I’d wonder if I’d do the same if it
were for anybody else…
= = = = = = = =
Some days, I know exactly what it is I love about her. Other days though, most of them really,
I honestly… don’t.
And perhaps, it isn’t about knowing. Maybe it’s more about finding out.
She’ll give me days and days to do just that. To find out. And if I’m lucky, she’d give me the
rest of my life.
I have a good feeling about that, though. So I’m not really worrying.
Because something tells me she’s going to keep sleeping beside me for a while.
A very long while.
It’s in the way I can already hear the good morning’s in her goodnight’s.
Oh, how I love the girl I make love to.
***