Cheradine one shots

Routine

Cheryl’s sitting on her bunk, trying to maintain an attentive expression as Kimberley regales her with the latest Walsh sibling gossip, but her gaze keeps edging over to Nadine.

She’s been making deliberate eyes at the Irish girl for the past fifteen minutes but Nadine’s completely oblivious;  phone glued to her ear, talking in that rapid Derry dialect that she reverts to when talking to her family. She’s surrounded by bags from designer stores – a sizeable haul from Manchester, which the tour bus is currently hurtling down the M6 away from – caught up in telling her mam (Cheryl assumes) about this latest shopping spree.

Tired of her seemingly futile attempts to get Nadine’s attention, Cheryl sighs inwardly.

Kimberley pauses, tilts her head in concern. “Are you alright, Cheryl?”

It’s then that the Geordie realises that she’s not as subtle as she thinks she is. She gives Kimberley a weak smile. “Just a bit tired, babe.”

“Oh,” Kimberley frowns. “Do you want to have a lie down?”

“No. I’ll just go and stretch me legs for a bit.”

She touches Kimberley’s hand to reassure her and gets up. As she brushes past Nadine, the other girl glances up at her and Cheryl meets her stare dead on.

Something seems to dawn in Nadine’s dark eyes then because she stumbles over her next words to her mam. “A-aye, and I got a pair of heels to go with it.”

**

It’s almost exactly five minutes before Nadine seeks her out. Cheryl knows because she counts the seconds in her head, the passage of time sufficient enough not to raise suspicion. It’s become routine for them now, well-practiced over weeks and months of subterfuge and the girls are none the wiser.

She’s in the cramped cupboard that passes for a bathroom, arms braced on the sink and staring at her reflection in the mirror when Nadine slips in behind her, closing the door. 

“What’s up with you?” Nadine asks without preamble and her accent is back to that mid-Atlantic drawl again. There’s so little space between them that Cheryl feels Nadine’s breath disturb her hair as she speaks. It makes the knot of tension in her belly tighten further still, causes a delicious tingle to travel down her spine.

“Nothin’. Why would anythin’ be wrong?” she responds flatly.

Nadine just gives her a significant look, their eyes meeting in the mirror. Nadine has no patience for mind games, never has. To onlookers her apparent indifference to Cheryl’s moods just adds fuel to the rumours that they don’t get on. Which is laughable, really, considering.

Nadine doesn’t stick around to coddle her ego. Instead she moves to leave.

“Wait,” Cheryl says with a sigh, turning and putting an arm out to bar the other girl’s exit.

She’s aware of her hips, nearly but not quite touching Nadine’s, of the cloud of perfume that surrounds them, the floral notes of Nadine’s scent mixing with her own to form something potent and heady in this tiny enclosed space. 

Without another word Cheryl leans in, curbing the impulse to say something damaging, something that will make Nadine walk out, by otherwise occupying her mouth. Cheryl’s gratified when the other girl yields, pleased by the whimper elicited as she licks over a full bottom lip, tasting waxy lip gloss and the lingering trace of the cigarette Nadine had smoked before they boarded the bus. That little noise of surrender makes Cheryl uncomfortably conscious of the sudden ache between her legs.

Hands cup her face as the kiss deepens, long fingers sinking into her hair, stroking over and behind her ears. Even these simple touches wreak havoc with Cheryl’s nerve endings because her mind keeps jumping ahead to thoughts of where else those hands will roam. Because Nadine’s fingers, despite their freakishly odd proportions, are perfect and they know exactly where and how to touch her and – fuck, Cheryl can’t contain the groan of anticipation that escapes her throat.