fic: chances are, sister (you've travelled too far)
So here is my first shot at writing femslash (here, the boys have always been, uh, girls). Hope you like it?
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; ~1,000 words; brief mentions of De/OFC; some public fondling (because my girl!De apparently cannot keep her hands off of her little sister. And now that I just typed that I feel weird. Hm); also, I wrote this, so you know. Blanket warning.
chances are, sister (you’ve travelled too far)
Sam always wears her hair too long. It tangles easily in De’s hands, threads through her fingers, keeps her skin close to the heat of her sister’s scalp. When De pulls away, brown strands curl like snakes in her palms.
De can read everything Sam wants to say on her face. Ow, you bitch, and do you mind? are the top contenders, but when De bends down she tastes her sister’s laughter instead, bright like the sun.
**
Sam has her share of scars. Small, flesh colored ones that are so old De can barely recall how her sister got them; trailing, twisting white ones, curving through skin and over bone that De will never forget, no matter how drunk she gets, no matter how hard she tries.
De knows every one of them, has learned them and calmed them. She scratches her own marks into Sam’s skin, long sharp red scratches, finger nail thin.
Sam always rolls her eyes when she stands naked in front of the mirror and assesses the damage. Long, feathered bangs drift over cheekbones, tickling over her forehead and resting near her lips, longer strands teasing and hiding the jagged marks De put on her body. De wants them uncovered, obvious, wants to lick and kiss them just because she can.
Possessive much, De? It’s always prim and neurotic, that tone Sam’s so good at using, and it makes De want to bitch and argue, cow Sam into the corner until her voice smoothes back into the rich honey that makes De ache.
This time, though, the bed’s rumpled, the air smells like sex, and De can only stretch, the ghost of Sam’s voice quiet and needy, thick with night, moaning in her ears (please, De, god oh god, please) better than anything else De can imagine.
De cocks an eyebrow, presses the backs of three fingers to her lips with a smile.
Sam goes to shower.
**
It’s always been easier to pretend they’re together. Something John started, when Sam hit fourteen, started coming out to hustle with them, and they needed a way to make her seem older. It worked, must have, or at least it kept the attention intrigued but distant, less a threat than run down dives would’ve been otherwise to two girls walking in, looking like lambs and playing like sharks. Free beer because damn, you’re hot together; a smile and wink, lingering looks, but no hands, and De, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, arm drifting down Sam’s back, loose around her waist, breathing soft into her little sister’s neck, didn’t see a need to press their luck.
Now, there’s no one around to care different, anyway. Bobby’s far away, stashed in his junkyard, his shadowed house (that Sam had wanted to clean and fix up, we should help him, De, it’s not right to leave him like that. But De knows loss, maybe in ways Sam doesn’t, and it’s not about doing a favor, it’s about false hope, it’s about more memories and more pain than Bobby could survive), and everyone else is dead. So when De slides her arms around Sam, lays hands on her sister, she goes farther now, presses deeper, slipping under soft cotton and rough denim, touching skin, flirting with heat and wetness.
She loves how Sam shifts her stance to something wider, how she trembles and almost bucks into De’s hand before controlling herself, how she says the fuck are you doing, De, how it’s grit and anger, but never no, never stop.
It makes hustling so much fun.
**
De’s all curves and pale skin, freckles and green eyes. She knows what works for her, how the leather jacket brushes inward at her waist and melds to the flare of her breasts and hips. She’s on the taller side of average, but she knows that a drunk and stupid man will lean in and say things like lush and De will roll her eyes and order another shot to put on his tab; he’ll say delicate and Sam will laugh and shake her head, and the man will wake up with bruises he can’t remember getting.
Sam’s on the taller side of tall, dusky skin, cat eyes and a mass of hair that flips and curls its way down to her narrow hips. She’s thin, moving to gaunt when she’s afraid or stressed or grieving, but her eyes always glow, sharp green and amber and gold, and De swears she smells like rain and fresh air, no matter where she’s been. De checks, too, says she’ll catch her sister at less than her freshly scrubbed best when she presses her nose into the dip of Sam’s neck, fits her curves into the hollows of Sam’s bones.
She never does, never loses the smell of Sam or the home lodged under her sister’s skin.
**
De was twenty-two the first time she ever went down on a girl. She remembers a deep tan and legs that went for miles.
She remembers the girl licking the taste of herself out of De’s mouth, and she remembers thinking yeah, okay, and coming hard from soft fingers that knew what they were doing.
She remembers looking over her shoulder as she was leaving, nameless body in the bed, hair half over the sleeping face, and knowing who the girl looked like and what it meant.
De was twenty-two and in love with her sister. Three months later she would be leaning against the Impala, arms crossed, watching Sam board the dusty, broke-down bus that’d take her all the way to California.
**
Sometimes she thinks that was the best of their luck. Right there, right then, when she was sure she was dying and Sam was waving goodbye.
She thinks Sam has the same thoughts about the seconds when nothing was settled, nothing decided, with the open road on either side, and the sun at midway in the bluest sky they’d seen in ages. They could have been anything, De thinks, and she sees the thought echoing in Sam’s eyes.
But now De can brush her lips against the skin of Sam’s hip, taste the sweetness and heat that lives there. She can rest her cheek against her sister’s stomach; hear the heartbeat hiding deep, rushing in with every breath, with every pass of Sam’s fingertips over her neck and back.
Maybe here is where they find the best of them. Maybe that’s enough.
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; ~1,000 words; brief mentions of De/OFC; some public fondling (because my girl!De apparently cannot keep her hands off of her little sister. And now that I just typed that I feel weird. Hm); also, I wrote this, so you know. Blanket warning.
chances are, sister (you’ve travelled too far)
Sam always wears her hair too long. It tangles easily in De’s hands, threads through her fingers, keeps her skin close to the heat of her sister’s scalp. When De pulls away, brown strands curl like snakes in her palms.
De can read everything Sam wants to say on her face. Ow, you bitch, and do you mind? are the top contenders, but when De bends down she tastes her sister’s laughter instead, bright like the sun.
**
Sam has her share of scars. Small, flesh colored ones that are so old De can barely recall how her sister got them; trailing, twisting white ones, curving through skin and over bone that De will never forget, no matter how drunk she gets, no matter how hard she tries.
De knows every one of them, has learned them and calmed them. She scratches her own marks into Sam’s skin, long sharp red scratches, finger nail thin.
Sam always rolls her eyes when she stands naked in front of the mirror and assesses the damage. Long, feathered bangs drift over cheekbones, tickling over her forehead and resting near her lips, longer strands teasing and hiding the jagged marks De put on her body. De wants them uncovered, obvious, wants to lick and kiss them just because she can.
Possessive much, De? It’s always prim and neurotic, that tone Sam’s so good at using, and it makes De want to bitch and argue, cow Sam into the corner until her voice smoothes back into the rich honey that makes De ache.
This time, though, the bed’s rumpled, the air smells like sex, and De can only stretch, the ghost of Sam’s voice quiet and needy, thick with night, moaning in her ears (please, De, god oh god, please) better than anything else De can imagine.
De cocks an eyebrow, presses the backs of three fingers to her lips with a smile.
Sam goes to shower.
**
It’s always been easier to pretend they’re together. Something John started, when Sam hit fourteen, started coming out to hustle with them, and they needed a way to make her seem older. It worked, must have, or at least it kept the attention intrigued but distant, less a threat than run down dives would’ve been otherwise to two girls walking in, looking like lambs and playing like sharks. Free beer because damn, you’re hot together; a smile and wink, lingering looks, but no hands, and De, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, arm drifting down Sam’s back, loose around her waist, breathing soft into her little sister’s neck, didn’t see a need to press their luck.
Now, there’s no one around to care different, anyway. Bobby’s far away, stashed in his junkyard, his shadowed house (that Sam had wanted to clean and fix up, we should help him, De, it’s not right to leave him like that. But De knows loss, maybe in ways Sam doesn’t, and it’s not about doing a favor, it’s about false hope, it’s about more memories and more pain than Bobby could survive), and everyone else is dead. So when De slides her arms around Sam, lays hands on her sister, she goes farther now, presses deeper, slipping under soft cotton and rough denim, touching skin, flirting with heat and wetness.
She loves how Sam shifts her stance to something wider, how she trembles and almost bucks into De’s hand before controlling herself, how she says the fuck are you doing, De, how it’s grit and anger, but never no, never stop.
It makes hustling so much fun.
**
De’s all curves and pale skin, freckles and green eyes. She knows what works for her, how the leather jacket brushes inward at her waist and melds to the flare of her breasts and hips. She’s on the taller side of average, but she knows that a drunk and stupid man will lean in and say things like lush and De will roll her eyes and order another shot to put on his tab; he’ll say delicate and Sam will laugh and shake her head, and the man will wake up with bruises he can’t remember getting.
Sam’s on the taller side of tall, dusky skin, cat eyes and a mass of hair that flips and curls its way down to her narrow hips. She’s thin, moving to gaunt when she’s afraid or stressed or grieving, but her eyes always glow, sharp green and amber and gold, and De swears she smells like rain and fresh air, no matter where she’s been. De checks, too, says she’ll catch her sister at less than her freshly scrubbed best when she presses her nose into the dip of Sam’s neck, fits her curves into the hollows of Sam’s bones.
She never does, never loses the smell of Sam or the home lodged under her sister’s skin.
**
De was twenty-two the first time she ever went down on a girl. She remembers a deep tan and legs that went for miles.
She remembers the girl licking the taste of herself out of De’s mouth, and she remembers thinking yeah, okay, and coming hard from soft fingers that knew what they were doing.
She remembers looking over her shoulder as she was leaving, nameless body in the bed, hair half over the sleeping face, and knowing who the girl looked like and what it meant.
De was twenty-two and in love with her sister. Three months later she would be leaning against the Impala, arms crossed, watching Sam board the dusty, broke-down bus that’d take her all the way to California.
**
Sometimes she thinks that was the best of their luck. Right there, right then, when she was sure she was dying and Sam was waving goodbye.
She thinks Sam has the same thoughts about the seconds when nothing was settled, nothing decided, with the open road on either side, and the sun at midway in the bluest sky they’d seen in ages. They could have been anything, De thinks, and she sees the thought echoing in Sam’s eyes.
But now De can brush her lips against the skin of Sam’s hip, taste the sweetness and heat that lives there. She can rest her cheek against her sister’s stomach; hear the heartbeat hiding deep, rushing in with every breath, with every pass of Sam’s fingertips over her neck and back.
Maybe here is where they find the best of them. Maybe that’s enough.