Untitled Short Fiction

Fandom: Original Fiction

Rating: Teen/Mature

Romantic/Sexual Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character

Characters: Original Female Characters

Tags: Second Person, Femslash, Short Fiction

Originally posted Tumblr on April 18th, 2019. Incomplete.

She mutters your name into your ear, and your fingers flit over her skin, skimming her hip, her bra strap, her waist. Your legs are numb and tingling, tangled up in hers with the checkered fabric of her skirt splayed over your jeans.

And she kisses you, or maybe you kiss her, and there’s something electric and intangible (checking off the clichés one by one, you think), but it’s there. Your thoughts swell into hers and there’s a rhythm between you, and your fingers catch on the clasp of her bra and her hands fumble to take it off—

and your phone rings. It buzzes in your shirt pocket and you pull away, cursing under your breath. You know exactly who it is, and you couldn’t possibly hate him anymore than you do right now because Goddammit, Shane, just let me kiss my damn girlfriend in peace—you slam your phone against your ear. 

“Eff you,” you hiss before he’s said anything.

“Nice to speak with you too, sister,” he drawls, and all you can think is you’re fucking tired of his shit. You tell him so. He ignores you.

“What are you doing? Mom wanted you home half an hour ago and you aren’t answering her texts.”

“It’s for a reason,” you say shortly. Kaitlyn’s staring at you, breathless and wide eyed, unsure whether to tug her shirt back on or not. you roll your eyes at her and mouth I’m sorry. She nods. She has an older brother too.

“Well, reason or lack thereof, you’re needed at home. So end your…ahem…study session and put your butt behind a steering wheel.”

“Do Mom’s dirty work for her, will you,” you snap into the phone, but he’s hung up already.

You shove it into your pocket and reach out into the semi-darkness for Kaitlyn, whose fingernails cut into your forearms as she tugs you close.

“Ruby,” she breathes. “Are you gonna go?”

She crumples into you, and you can feel her collarbones against your ribs. She’s relying on you for something, somehow. She doesn’t know she’s one Jenga tower built on the unsteady foundation of another. Imagine… one sentence, only one sentence out of hundreds could tear what you have apart. The sentence Kaitlyn’s mother might say if she decided to ally with the beliefs of a church she only attends twice a year. The sentence your dad might say if he accepted a job offer three states away. The sentence both of your families might say if they saw you not as people, not as children, but as twisted sinners. 

“I’m sending you to conversion camp.”

“We’re moving.”

“You’re disowned.”

So much but so little could tear you two apart, you realize, Kaitlyn’s breath on your skin, your fingers running through her hair. It’s no surprise when your voice comes out low, throaty.

“No. No, I’m not gonna go.”