Rumi O. and Juliette | Mary Shuttleworth

Wonder Woman wonders at another woman.

Rumi. O. & Juliette

By Mary Shuttleworth

For the What We Talk About When We Talk About Love Award

The party is crowded but I spot her immediately.

“Julie!” I call out, pushing my way through at least five Batman’s and fifteen Elsa’s. She turns around and almost topples over as I throw myself onto her.

“Rumi! You came!” She grabs my shoulders and looks up at me, her face breaking out in an incredulous smile, “You look amazing!”
I want to tell her that I feel amazing. Sure, the plastic breastcups are pressing into my sides and every ten steps I get a semi-wedgie, but I have never felt more like Me. I am Wonder Woman, and I will crush the skulls of non-believers between my voluptuous thighs.

She squeezes my hands and I feel heat in my chest – but it’s a different heat, a good heat. A stupid smile breaks out on my face. She’s dressed like some sort of ancient, fairy-tale princess. I know who she is immediately.

“Ophelia,” I say. My brain is foggy and I reach out to touch her hair.

“The fallen woman,” Julie laughs, “I thought I may as well make it official.”

I lace my fingers through, feeling the softness between my fingers, “Well then, we’re both fallen.”

My fingers stay in her hair. She doesn’t move away. My chest tightens.

She pulls me down until her mouth is at my ear and I am almost certain that I will pass out. Her breath is hot and fast against my neck. She mumbles something but it’s drowned out by the screeching call of a Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus mashup.

“What?” I yell, subtly (I hope) moving closer.

She looks at me, her nose scrunching, before shaking her head and grabbing my hand, gently tugging me through the house. The music is blaring and the lights are low and people are dancing but somehow they manage to stare anyway. But my armour protects me, and I protect Julie.

I pull her close and I feel her straighten and press herself into me. We walk with our heads high and our bodies touching through throngs of dancing people. We round a corner, and walk through a door, and suddenly it is just me and her.

Oh my god.

She clicks the door closed behind us and gives me a small smile, stepping closer. Her fingers tap my chest. Heat burns in my gut and rushes into my cheeks. I give her a wild smile and she gives me one back and then lunges into my arms. I pull her close. Her heart beats hard and fast. I nuzzle into her hair and breathe in deep. She smells of jasmine.

“I’m really glad you came,” she whispers into my neck.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper back, and then quickly wish I had died instead.

I hold my breath and my face grows hot against her shoulder.

There’s a half second that beats on like it’s an eternity, and then she makes a high-pitched noise.

She pulls back briefly, her lips against my ear, “You’re beautiful too,” she whispers. And then her fingers are in my hair and her lips are on my cheek, and she’s pulling me close and feathering kisses on my neck and we become a tangle of heat and hair and quick and desperate kisses. She is so small against me. Small and pretty and dainty and like a Proper Girl.

I can feel my body through my clothing, too large in the wrong places, and even though the alcohol is making my brain fuzzy and daring, I feel a heat – the bad kind of heat – deep in the pit of my stomach. I breathe in sharp. My stomach curves outwards and I’m suddenly aware of how this looks, this too-big girl in a too-small costume.

I feel myself freeze. She feels it too.

Julie’s cheek stops brushing against mine and I look away, blinking hard.


I can feel her looking at me and I practically snatch my hands out of hers.

She looks up at me, “Rumi?”

I shake my head at her quickly, “No, it – it’s not…” it’s not you, I want to say, but instead I just gesture. Her eyes follow my hands as they point to my thighs, to my stomach, to all of it. Everything. I wrap my arms around myself. I no longer want her to see me.

Julie takes a step closer, gently prying my arms away from my body. Her cheeks are coated in fairy dust, the silver on her skin making her eyes dark and deep. “Rumi,” she says, and then, “Rumi,” again. She reaches up on her toes. Her hands cup my cheeks, “That’s the part I love the most.”

And then she is against me again.

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