(no subject)
Title: Honesty is...
Author: Claire
Word Count: 940 or so.
Summary: Fraser/Frannie, post the Deal, on pearl_o's prompt. This is what Francesca likes best.
Notes: This is... late, because I lose at timezones and all, and also many, many thanks to the wonderful women who made cheerleading noises in my direction and helped out, most especially ChinaShop, Kat and Chris. Much love to you guys. And to BLG, for passing the torch and then not kicking my ass for being so damn Special about it. Pearl - this isn't quite what you prompted, and I hope it still works for you.
ETA: Also? Wow with the special. Uh, I'm not sure how long's left in the challenge, but I tag justbreathe80 with Fraser/Smithbauer.
* * *
This is the way it should have gone:
Francesca standing in Fraser's doorway, in get-up that truly does not leave much to the imagination. By that virtue alone, it has to have been expensive.
She speaks softly, outlined by the flickering bulb in the hall before kicking the door closed behind her, completely steady and confident on the impossible heels, robed dimly as she stalks towards the bed. Fraser is- held frozen, transfixed, mouth open and eyes wider, and there's a 'no' hovering behind his lips, because he's a gentleman, the perfect gentleman (it's what Francesca likes best) and this is not proper, but it's what she wants and it's how it's going to be. But the 'no' never makes it out, because there's good manners and there's considerate behaviour, and then there's a half-naked worn-out man confronted by the offer of temporary amnesia, and he'll be damned if he's going to say no to that.
Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.
But she's sought forgiveness already, for what it's worth (she'd whisper in his ear, and tell him to forgive himself), and they're both adults, both grown, neither as innocent as they may seem, and as her hand pushes against his chest, against his shoulder, he hisses (touching the bruises, firm to the touch, a little hotter than the surrounding skin, flushed with blood, just like... other parts). He lets her guide him back down onto the narrow cot, fills his hands with her, heat wound through with willingness, the most honest offer he's had in a long time. Her hands are just as confident as her gaze, as her walk, gliding over his skin, proprietary. There's not a hint now of the vulnerability she's shown at other times; this, he would suspect, is the Francesca who is aching to grow into her own life, who makes him ache in turn, the way she tries so hard and reaches for the goals least worthy of her. Perhaps, having achieved one, she will find a new calling.
She tucks her face into his shoulder as his hands slip over her hips, curl over her backside and underneath the flimsy elastic, shifting, restless, needy. Her mouth laps neatly, greedily over the muscle at his collar; there would be bruises from that, too, indistinguishable from the damage of the day. For once, he'd be able to wear a mark unquestioned.
Her hair brushes against his cheek, stinging pressure against the little cuts speckling his face, and her clothing - what little there is of it - simply seems to melt away, discarded and unnecessary around his bed. The delicate material would've only torn under his hands if he'd let himself; better for her to take it off. She likes the way he could just look at her, too. Her breasts are warm against his belly, thighs pressing hot against his own, and he groans out loud as she arches, undulates against him, rubbing and teasing, skin scraping against hair against skin. He ducks his chin, whispers something (a curse, an endearment, either is appropriate) into the crown of her head, bits hard at his lip (another cut, well-earned) as her own hand slips down, does something wicked and wonderful to a head significantly lower.
He'd have to close his eyes, then, slide inside her, let her hands guide him where he should not tread, hips snapping up, forward, hard and fast as she'd like to start, and then slow, because she deserves time and tenderness, deserves a slow build and a steady burn, and despite what- what people may think, he can do that. Can give her that. Can be just as clever with hands and mouth (with the wire-taut control over body and mind) in bed as out in the field, at work in the city.
They don't kiss.
Francesca would probably like to, but she's a realist, pragmatic even when she needs to be, and even in this fantasy the limits are clear.
They continue to move together, instinct and passion, the quiet stirrings of the night swelling through the open window and curling around the bed. She shudders, tightens, bears down hard on him as she comes, and there's a hot burst of pleasure at his core (something he doesn't let himself feel all that often, especially not these days), both from sharing that with her, and from his own orgasm.
She pulls away at last, reluctant, satisfied as far as he can give. Dresses, and leaves. Her mother would be wondering where she is.
Fraser thinks he should walk her home, or at least acquire a cab. Even in a fantasy there's a degree of solicitousness that would be expected, would be right.
It should have happened like that.
Francesca would certainly like it to have, although perhaps with more kissing, with loving words and surrendered secrets, with a tall beautiful boy in a uniform she can take home for dinner, who will wipe away the last lingering image of a husband unworthy of the name. Francesca would like to have stayed, to make love again and again and bring home grandchildren for her mother, for herself.
Fraser's father would have liked it to happen like that, too; see his son settled and happy with a woman who could stick by him, would do him right. And he'd mention the grandchildren, too. Probably critique the proposal, hound Fraser until he did speak up and 'make an honest woman of her'.
Fraser would love to make them all happy. Could nearly do it, would let himself if only it could be honest.
And in absolute, down to the bone honesty?
It's not Francesca that Fraser shares his bed with. Not even in fantasy.
Author: Claire
Word Count: 940 or so.
Summary: Fraser/Frannie, post the Deal, on pearl_o's prompt. This is what Francesca likes best.
Notes: This is... late, because I lose at timezones and all, and also many, many thanks to the wonderful women who made cheerleading noises in my direction and helped out, most especially ChinaShop, Kat and Chris. Much love to you guys. And to BLG, for passing the torch and then not kicking my ass for being so damn Special about it. Pearl - this isn't quite what you prompted, and I hope it still works for you.
ETA: Also? Wow with the special. Uh, I'm not sure how long's left in the challenge, but I tag justbreathe80 with Fraser/Smithbauer.
* * *
This is the way it should have gone:
Francesca standing in Fraser's doorway, in get-up that truly does not leave much to the imagination. By that virtue alone, it has to have been expensive.
She speaks softly, outlined by the flickering bulb in the hall before kicking the door closed behind her, completely steady and confident on the impossible heels, robed dimly as she stalks towards the bed. Fraser is- held frozen, transfixed, mouth open and eyes wider, and there's a 'no' hovering behind his lips, because he's a gentleman, the perfect gentleman (it's what Francesca likes best) and this is not proper, but it's what she wants and it's how it's going to be. But the 'no' never makes it out, because there's good manners and there's considerate behaviour, and then there's a half-naked worn-out man confronted by the offer of temporary amnesia, and he'll be damned if he's going to say no to that.
Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.
But she's sought forgiveness already, for what it's worth (she'd whisper in his ear, and tell him to forgive himself), and they're both adults, both grown, neither as innocent as they may seem, and as her hand pushes against his chest, against his shoulder, he hisses (touching the bruises, firm to the touch, a little hotter than the surrounding skin, flushed with blood, just like... other parts). He lets her guide him back down onto the narrow cot, fills his hands with her, heat wound through with willingness, the most honest offer he's had in a long time. Her hands are just as confident as her gaze, as her walk, gliding over his skin, proprietary. There's not a hint now of the vulnerability she's shown at other times; this, he would suspect, is the Francesca who is aching to grow into her own life, who makes him ache in turn, the way she tries so hard and reaches for the goals least worthy of her. Perhaps, having achieved one, she will find a new calling.
She tucks her face into his shoulder as his hands slip over her hips, curl over her backside and underneath the flimsy elastic, shifting, restless, needy. Her mouth laps neatly, greedily over the muscle at his collar; there would be bruises from that, too, indistinguishable from the damage of the day. For once, he'd be able to wear a mark unquestioned.
Her hair brushes against his cheek, stinging pressure against the little cuts speckling his face, and her clothing - what little there is of it - simply seems to melt away, discarded and unnecessary around his bed. The delicate material would've only torn under his hands if he'd let himself; better for her to take it off. She likes the way he could just look at her, too. Her breasts are warm against his belly, thighs pressing hot against his own, and he groans out loud as she arches, undulates against him, rubbing and teasing, skin scraping against hair against skin. He ducks his chin, whispers something (a curse, an endearment, either is appropriate) into the crown of her head, bits hard at his lip (another cut, well-earned) as her own hand slips down, does something wicked and wonderful to a head significantly lower.
He'd have to close his eyes, then, slide inside her, let her hands guide him where he should not tread, hips snapping up, forward, hard and fast as she'd like to start, and then slow, because she deserves time and tenderness, deserves a slow build and a steady burn, and despite what- what people may think, he can do that. Can give her that. Can be just as clever with hands and mouth (with the wire-taut control over body and mind) in bed as out in the field, at work in the city.
They don't kiss.
Francesca would probably like to, but she's a realist, pragmatic even when she needs to be, and even in this fantasy the limits are clear.
They continue to move together, instinct and passion, the quiet stirrings of the night swelling through the open window and curling around the bed. She shudders, tightens, bears down hard on him as she comes, and there's a hot burst of pleasure at his core (something he doesn't let himself feel all that often, especially not these days), both from sharing that with her, and from his own orgasm.
She pulls away at last, reluctant, satisfied as far as he can give. Dresses, and leaves. Her mother would be wondering where she is.
Fraser thinks he should walk her home, or at least acquire a cab. Even in a fantasy there's a degree of solicitousness that would be expected, would be right.
It should have happened like that.
Francesca would certainly like it to have, although perhaps with more kissing, with loving words and surrendered secrets, with a tall beautiful boy in a uniform she can take home for dinner, who will wipe away the last lingering image of a husband unworthy of the name. Francesca would like to have stayed, to make love again and again and bring home grandchildren for her mother, for herself.
Fraser's father would have liked it to happen like that, too; see his son settled and happy with a woman who could stick by him, would do him right. And he'd mention the grandchildren, too. Probably critique the proposal, hound Fraser until he did speak up and 'make an honest woman of her'.
Fraser would love to make them all happy. Could nearly do it, would let himself if only it could be honest.
And in absolute, down to the bone honesty?
It's not Francesca that Fraser shares his bed with. Not even in fantasy.