the purest sin

Frances looks up at Camilla’s tiny blonde figure, hunched in one of Charles’ oversized sweaters, her eyeliner smeared and her freckles stark against her milky skin, and she wants desperately to kiss her, wants to wrap her hands around Camilla’s impossibly narrow wrists and slide their mouths together, hot and wet and messy in a clash of teeth. She knows that Camilla will taste like smoke and gin and violets, and she knows that Camilla will kiss her back, if she makes the first move. She doesn't, though. Not yet.

Or, a Francis Abernathy character study, if Francis was a girl.