Sta.sh
Fifteen - C
by ~ilikemysarcasticsideFifteen, she thinks, is such a tender age, all awkward growing bones and childish arrogance and rose-tinted views of the world.
He's only fifteen when he asks her. He asks her for knowledge he isn't ready for, for experience he doesn't have, for something far beyond his years. And she doesn't know it then, but she falls a little bit in love.
She thinks about showing him sometimes, about what might happen if she says yes.
She wonders what it would be like to teach him. What it would be like to bring that young, nervous mouth to hers and feel his heartbeat stumble and his breathing waver. She pictures him biting his lip, cheeks stained pink and eyes too bright. She imagines stroking that soft, lovely hair, imagines the gentle slope of his neck underneath her lips and the low, excited flutter of his pulse. And when she imagines him kissing her back—hesitant, slow, tentative—she smiles to herself.
She knows that it's wrong. Fifteen crosses the line. Fifteen is unforgivable, inexcusable, illegal even. And yet, for all that fifteen is, it's also perfect, fumbling, pliant, supple, sweet and so sinfully young.
In the end, she still says no. But she keeps on wondering and never looks back.
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I pledge allegiance to United Turtles of America and to the fruit bats of Borneo, one planet in the Milk Way, incredible, with justice and black bean burritos for all.