ficpost: "What Not To Wear" Violet/Naomi
Jul. 14th, 2008 06:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wisdomeagleTitle: "What Not To Wear"
Fandom: Private Practice
Pairing: Violet Turner/Naomi Bennett
Rating: R
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ijemanja in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash08
Disclaimer: Not mine, never was.
Summary: Violet can, in fact, be good in bed.
Wordcount: ~1000.
What Not To Wear
Violet is more precarious than usual when her last client shuffles out, so Naomi takes her shopping, because Addison won't. Addison is starting to understand office friendships (maybe) but she doesn't understand shopping, not with them, not like a girl shops. Addison shops like a doctor, goal-oriented. She smirks at sales. Addison is rich and famous, and really, honestly, in her soul believes that retail therapy is bunk.
"Will this make him --" There's nothing left for Violet to try on, but she does anyhow, and there's nothing left for Naomi to say but she does, too.
"That swimsuit? Polka dots? Violet. What have you yourself said about self-fulfilling prophecies?"
But it's different with Violet. Violet is everywoman, tries on seventeen swimsuits a size too small, convinced that the next one will sculpt her ass and enhance her boobs, that the next fertility treatment will be the one, the next thousand dollars will implant themselves -- Violet's hope is bottomless, though her body is not.
It's a nice bottom. Because Violet is a friend, it's not her gluteus maximus or her buttocks or her ass -- it's her bottom. Exactly the shape it is, not the shape Violet wants it to be or the shape that Naomi imagines it could be.
Naomi doesn't look at women the way she does at men. She can't. Naomi can't see any woman without also seeing the part that that woman hates, the stomach she holds in, the biceps trying to make themselves bigger. Just as she sees potential fertility in every woman, she sees the potential for devastation in every inch of Violet's awkward frame.
Violet swings her arms dramatically, strikes a pose that accents everything that's wrong with her body and everything that's trying-too-hard about her personality, and Naomi knows this is a Girls' Night, Out-or-In, Violet's pick so long as she buys the booze.
Women like Addison don't understand Girls' Nights. They're too high-powered and focused, on medicine or money or men, ever to look in the direction of a friend and see, in the sashay of her limbs and the tangles of her hair, not competition and not a nonpaying patient but a girlfriend. No trouble. Not serious. Almost like fun, but without the obligation to smile constantly.
Violet is a fixer-upper friend, but she's a friend. If Cooper really wanted -- that is, if Cooper failed fundamentally to be Cooper and understood about women over the age of eight, if Cooper wanted Violet, he wouldn't look past her flaws, he'd look at them and see Violet bare, and he'd know, like Naomi knows, all the ways Allan was excellent in bed and all the ways Violet likes her nipples touched and then Cooper, like Naomi, could take Violet Out-or-In and help her get drunk and kiss her without moving past any barrier or dissolving any inhibitions, just demonstrating, the way teenagers do, What Kissing Is Like.
It's like sucking on a very energetic chocolate bar, like being drunk on air, like settling into a soft bed after a long day. It's not like kissing men and that's the point. If you were kissing a man you wouldn't need to be kissing Violet.
Only, and this is what Addison will never understand, because Addison, for all her phenomenal knowledge of the insides of women, doesn't know the way their outsides work, the way an orgasm can shudder from them like distant thunder or erupt like a pustule, showering your hand with come -- only, kissing women isn't worse. Just different.
Because Addison doesn't touch herself, and Addison doesn't do women, and Addison thinks of lesbianism as a fashionable accessory for her queerer colleagues but not something that happens in her friends' houses when they are drunk and tired, when Violet is in the middle of a monologue and her hand just automatically rests on the inside part of Naomi's thigh.
"I'm wearing -- I'm still wearing the underwear. You know. The pink frilly thong he got me like my pussy actually doesn't decorate itself and I'm wearing it like --"
"So don't wear it."
In locker rooms girls change behind towels, pretend to each other that they don't have bodies. In her office women undress awkwardly, clinically -- and there are those women, the born-in-California women who live naturally in their skin and move like they aren't sure they should be allowed to consult a professional for something that should be natural and intimate and above all easy.
Violet undresses like she's in front of a mirror.
The panties are a fetish object revealed in broad daylight to be not horrific after all but just ugly, sheer and simpery and feminine. Violet moves comfortably in them, like Sam in boxers, and someone -- it's so easy to blame Allan at times like this -- has given her the wrong idea about the kind of sex appeal she has. Violet could understand, in theory, about domestic sensuality and innocence and the seductiveness of age, but she could not name on a map the locus of her desirability.
Her desire, she can find. His name is Allan.
Undressing Violet is unbinding all her preconceptions and untying her preoccupations, removing her Allan-colored glasses, tickling her until she laughs and remembers that, at some extremely distant point in history, sex was happy. Sex with Violet is happy; there is no anger in her kiss, and little passion, and her fingers are too jittery to attain the kind of penetration that makes Naomi moan for hours. She's not like Sam. But Naomi's not like Allan, and Violet is like herself. Patient. Eager. Self-deprecating to the point where you almost think you're going to fall asleep out of frustrated boredom and then, suddenly, amazingly skillful, amazingly insightful, just amazing.
Every kind of amazing, the fingers kind of amazing, the tongue kind of amazing, the showerhead-ain't-got-nothing-on-this-intensity kind of amazing amazing that makes Naomi remember why her hindbrain keeps letting her body do this, move her on autopilot from upright and professional to spread-eagled on Violet's carpet, wanton, wailing, high-pitched, trying to remember the flickery feeling of Violet's tongue and afraid she'll squirm out of her own body if she doesn't come right now.
The layers between boss lady and secret sometime lover fall away just like tissue paper, like they were never there, like there was never anything separating her from herself, from Violet, from the terror of naked climax.
Fandom: Private Practice
Pairing: Violet Turner/Naomi Bennett
Rating: R
Notes: For
ijemanja in femslash08Disclaimer: Not mine, never was.
Summary: Violet can, in fact, be good in bed.
Wordcount: ~1000.
What Not To Wear
Violet is more precarious than usual when her last client shuffles out, so Naomi takes her shopping, because Addison won't. Addison is starting to understand office friendships (maybe) but she doesn't understand shopping, not with them, not like a girl shops. Addison shops like a doctor, goal-oriented. She smirks at sales. Addison is rich and famous, and really, honestly, in her soul believes that retail therapy is bunk.
"Will this make him --" There's nothing left for Violet to try on, but she does anyhow, and there's nothing left for Naomi to say but she does, too.
"That swimsuit? Polka dots? Violet. What have you yourself said about self-fulfilling prophecies?"
But it's different with Violet. Violet is everywoman, tries on seventeen swimsuits a size too small, convinced that the next one will sculpt her ass and enhance her boobs, that the next fertility treatment will be the one, the next thousand dollars will implant themselves -- Violet's hope is bottomless, though her body is not.
It's a nice bottom. Because Violet is a friend, it's not her gluteus maximus or her buttocks or her ass -- it's her bottom. Exactly the shape it is, not the shape Violet wants it to be or the shape that Naomi imagines it could be.
Naomi doesn't look at women the way she does at men. She can't. Naomi can't see any woman without also seeing the part that that woman hates, the stomach she holds in, the biceps trying to make themselves bigger. Just as she sees potential fertility in every woman, she sees the potential for devastation in every inch of Violet's awkward frame.
Violet swings her arms dramatically, strikes a pose that accents everything that's wrong with her body and everything that's trying-too-hard about her personality, and Naomi knows this is a Girls' Night, Out-or-In, Violet's pick so long as she buys the booze.
Women like Addison don't understand Girls' Nights. They're too high-powered and focused, on medicine or money or men, ever to look in the direction of a friend and see, in the sashay of her limbs and the tangles of her hair, not competition and not a nonpaying patient but a girlfriend. No trouble. Not serious. Almost like fun, but without the obligation to smile constantly.
Violet is a fixer-upper friend, but she's a friend. If Cooper really wanted -- that is, if Cooper failed fundamentally to be Cooper and understood about women over the age of eight, if Cooper wanted Violet, he wouldn't look past her flaws, he'd look at them and see Violet bare, and he'd know, like Naomi knows, all the ways Allan was excellent in bed and all the ways Violet likes her nipples touched and then Cooper, like Naomi, could take Violet Out-or-In and help her get drunk and kiss her without moving past any barrier or dissolving any inhibitions, just demonstrating, the way teenagers do, What Kissing Is Like.
It's like sucking on a very energetic chocolate bar, like being drunk on air, like settling into a soft bed after a long day. It's not like kissing men and that's the point. If you were kissing a man you wouldn't need to be kissing Violet.
Only, and this is what Addison will never understand, because Addison, for all her phenomenal knowledge of the insides of women, doesn't know the way their outsides work, the way an orgasm can shudder from them like distant thunder or erupt like a pustule, showering your hand with come -- only, kissing women isn't worse. Just different.
Because Addison doesn't touch herself, and Addison doesn't do women, and Addison thinks of lesbianism as a fashionable accessory for her queerer colleagues but not something that happens in her friends' houses when they are drunk and tired, when Violet is in the middle of a monologue and her hand just automatically rests on the inside part of Naomi's thigh.
"I'm wearing -- I'm still wearing the underwear. You know. The pink frilly thong he got me like my pussy actually doesn't decorate itself and I'm wearing it like --"
"So don't wear it."
In locker rooms girls change behind towels, pretend to each other that they don't have bodies. In her office women undress awkwardly, clinically -- and there are those women, the born-in-California women who live naturally in their skin and move like they aren't sure they should be allowed to consult a professional for something that should be natural and intimate and above all easy.
Violet undresses like she's in front of a mirror.
The panties are a fetish object revealed in broad daylight to be not horrific after all but just ugly, sheer and simpery and feminine. Violet moves comfortably in them, like Sam in boxers, and someone -- it's so easy to blame Allan at times like this -- has given her the wrong idea about the kind of sex appeal she has. Violet could understand, in theory, about domestic sensuality and innocence and the seductiveness of age, but she could not name on a map the locus of her desirability.
Her desire, she can find. His name is Allan.
Undressing Violet is unbinding all her preconceptions and untying her preoccupations, removing her Allan-colored glasses, tickling her until she laughs and remembers that, at some extremely distant point in history, sex was happy. Sex with Violet is happy; there is no anger in her kiss, and little passion, and her fingers are too jittery to attain the kind of penetration that makes Naomi moan for hours. She's not like Sam. But Naomi's not like Allan, and Violet is like herself. Patient. Eager. Self-deprecating to the point where you almost think you're going to fall asleep out of frustrated boredom and then, suddenly, amazingly skillful, amazingly insightful, just amazing.
Every kind of amazing, the fingers kind of amazing, the tongue kind of amazing, the showerhead-ain't-got-nothing-on-this-intensity kind of amazing amazing that makes Naomi remember why her hindbrain keeps letting her body do this, move her on autopilot from upright and professional to spread-eagled on Violet's carpet, wanton, wailing, high-pitched, trying to remember the flickery feeling of Violet's tongue and afraid she'll squirm out of her own body if she doesn't come right now.
The layers between boss lady and secret sometime lover fall away just like tissue paper, like they were never there, like there was never anything separating her from herself, from Violet, from the terror of naked climax.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 01:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 05:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 06:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 12:39 pm (UTC)I have no real insight on the fic, though, because I dunno the fandom. Good writing, though! :)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 03:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 03:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 07:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 10:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 10:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-15 10:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-25 08:42 am (UTC)Dude, awesome. She's right. I love it. I love the comparisons to Addison and why Addison just wouldn't get it (except in my head she does because she has complicated affairs with Meredith Grey, in the 'verse where Meredith and Cristina aren't Totally DOing It), I completely see Violet's awkwardness even as I cringe at it, I love the girl's night out-or-in, I just. I like the complexity. I like that it's a thousand words and there's so much back and forth, such a challenge, everything so complicated when Naomi's sitting there and thinking hey it doesn't need to be.
NICE. Want to friend? I'm georgiaclaire, I write fanfic and journalism, I'm australian, femme, I have an opinion on everything, I travel a lot, I basically just like to write...
Yes?
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-26 05:51 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for your feedback! I think that the Addison of Grey's Anatomy is more sexually aware and both swings that way and is in control when doing it. But then, I can't imagine the Addison of GA not masturbating. Seriously. Major moment of wtf and boggle.
Anyhow, thanks for the feedback. <3<3 Welcome to my life.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-27 03:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-27 11:54 am (UTC):)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-28 04:55 am (UTC)