"Fun and Games" by madsciencechick (posted 10:00 AM PDT)
Title: Fun and Games
Pairing: Frannie/various
Summary: Frannie plays.
Prompt: "play", from phineasjones. ♥
Rating: uhh...hard R? NC-17?
Notes: Unbeta'ed. Also, I'm sorry; I got plot in my porn. My apologies. It was an accident.
Disclaimer: If Frannie were mine, I would be nowhere near this computer right now, for serious.
Length: 1400 words (seven double drabbles, because apparently writing meta essays in the other window makes me OCD.)
1. June 6, 1977
Frannie plays. She is an Indian princess, a pirate queen, a kitchen girl destined to fall in love with a king. She charts the stars from the attic, hunts dragons on the stairs, maps the forests of their downstairs with Mama's green eyeshadow smudged into camouflage on her cheeks. Her waltz traces Spirograph shapes on the carpet (one-two-three, her voice keeps time to her feet); makes her uniform skirt billow out like a gown; twirls her right smack into the flat of Papa's hand.
Mama is there. She picks Frannie up; wipes Frannie's cheeks with corner of her skirt, pushes Frannie's hair off her face. "Are you hurt?" she asks. Mama will whisper until Papa is gone.
Frannie sniffles, swallows, shakes her head. "I didn't mean to," she whispers. "I didn't mean to be loud. I won't, I promise, never again. I didn't mean to."
"No, Francesca," Mama's eyes are tight at the edges. "You were just playing, yes?" Frannie nods. Her palms still sting, so she rubs them on her skirt. "There's nothing wrong with having fun." Mama's voice is quiet, steady, fierce. "On this, your papa is wrong. You have as much fun as you can."
2. February 23, 1985
Cassie's parents are gone, so they can be as loud as they want. Cassie is dancing, stocking feet on her bed, the bottom of her uniform shirt tied in a knot at her belly. "Something in your eyes is makin' such a fool of meeeeeee!" she howls, eyes squinted up, badly off-key. Frannie can't stop laughing long enough to sing along. "When you hold me in your arms, you love me 'til I just can't seeeeeeeeee!"
"C'mon, c'mon--" Frannie gasps. "I can't breathe!"
"Okay, fine, fine," Cassie says, and drops down next to her, making the mattress shake. "Okay, if you don't like my singing." She nudges Frannie's shoulder.
"I like your singing fine." Frannie leans in and kisses Cassie on the cheek. "Just, just don't make me laugh so hard."
"Why not?" Cassie says, and leans in and kisses Frannie back, a great big smacking smooch. "Laughing's good for you."
"But it hurts my ribs." Frannie drops her head to Cassie's shoulder, and Cassie tilts her head to rub her ear against Frannie's hair.
"You don't do it enough, then." Cassie's voice is lower, softer.
Frannie smiles. "I do with you," she says, and reaches for Cassie's hand.
3. August 19, 1994
She almost forgot it could be fun, in those awful two years with Tom, but she's remembering.
It's easy to remember, here, now, in the hot, slow slide of their bodies on the dance floor; the easy movement of their mouths and their tongues; their shared body heat fogging up the windows of his car. Victor bites a lot and really likes to grab her ass, and he asks her, "How do you--what do you--" and she says, "Anything, anything," and he makes a noise that's half groan and half laugh, and draws her body closer, like she's given him a present. She ends up in his lap in the back seat of his car, leather seats sticky under her bare knees, rocking against his hand while he murmurs, "God, God," and tongues the sweat-sticky hollows of her collarbones. When he finally slides up into her, she gasps. He's panting, but manages a mumbled, "What, what?" as he slides one hand over her hip, down to the sweat-slick space between them; presses up, sending electric shocks through her blood and her bones.
"Like riding a bicycle," she murmurs, and catches his mouth with her own, and laughs.
4. May 11, 1995
Frannie's worst dates always end up like this, sprawled out on Elaine's floor with her shoes off, drinking margaritas that are more tequila than ice and watching Elaine throw back her head and laugh, laugh, laugh.
"Oh my God," Elaine manages. "He didn't."
Frannie nods, nods, nods and refills Elaine's glass from the blender. "Oh, you bet he did. And that was before he even started talking about his mother."
Elaine howls, laughing until tears leak out of the corner of her eyes. Frannie leans in, and Elaine keeps right on laughing, giggling against Frannie's lips as her fingers hit Frannie's blouse, working on buttons she probably knows better than her own. Frannie's got her fingers on the smooth warm stretch of Elaine's belly, ribs, breasts, sliding up under her shirt, and Elaine shivers, and laughs, lower, deeper, hotter now.
Frannie closes her eyes and maps Elaine without sight: the tequila-sharp cavern of her mouth, the sweat-salty swells of her belly and thighs, the warm sharp taste of her clit on Frannie's tongue. Elaine gasps and tangles her fingers in Frannie's hair, and Frannie takes a second to grin, because her evening's starting to look up after all.
5. December 28, 1997
Renfield doesn't make her burn with passion. He doesn't make her swoon. He's just a nice Canadian guy who likes country music and cooking her dinner. He's polite and sweet and he brings her flowers and tips his hat to her mom. Sometimes he takes her to the movies, and holds her hand, and they make out in the back row during the chase scenes. He doesn't have a car, and whenever she brings up his apartment he just changes the subject, but it turns out he's pretty good at sneaking in windows, quietly, so no one else in the house will hear. They lock the door; she giggles into his tunic; he pets her hair. He falls over while trying to undress her because she's trying to undress him at the same time, but he lands on the bed. He kisses her shoulders and her earlobes, licks her ribs and her belly, and offers her a pillow, very politely, very seriously, before he slides down between her legs. It's a lot like high school, actually, in a lot of ways, just with much better manners. She bites down on the pillow, and doesn't bother to try to not grin.
6. September 7, 2000
She picks them up from the airport and they barely make it through the door of her little apartment.
It was awkward the first time, but now it's like the best full-contact sport ever, Ray pulling her forward with his fingers looped around her red leather belt, grinning against her mouth while Fraser giggles and pushes them both towards the bedroom. Half the time she and Ray can conspire to keep him on the couch, spread out and panting and too far gone to criticize the inappropriate venue, but not today.
Their skin is salty. Ray licks her shoulders and her spine, and she bites down on Fraser's shoulder in reply. She can't even keep track of their hands, except when they leave her body, Fraser reaching for her nighttable out of instinct.
"No," she says. "No, we talked about this. Frase."
Fraser hesitates. "Are you sure?" he asks.
He looks so serious that she can't help but look back over her shoulder at Ray. He grins back and kisses her, flexing his hands on her bare hips.
"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I'm sure."
"We are going to be completely awesome," Ray says, and Frannie laughs, because they are.
7. June 6, 2007
Bee plays. She is an Inuit Cinderella, a pirate queen, a star right-winger destined to bag the cup for the 'Hawks. She charts the stars from the cabin window, hunts dragons at the lake, maps the forests of Illinois and Inuvik with thick green facepaint smudged into camouflage on her cheeks. Her waltz traces Spirograph shapes around the park (one-two-three, her voice keeps time to her feet); makes her pink skirt billow out like a gown; twirls her over a crack in the sidewalk and flat onto the ground.
Mama is there. "Uh-oh!" She crouches, one hand on the stroller, and helps Bee up. "Are you hurt, baby?"
Bee sniffles, swallows, nods. "My knee," she says. It's bleeding. "I tripped."
"Well, I can fix that." Mama's smiling. She's already got the Band-Aids out of her purse, along with Neosporin and a Wet-nap. "Harry Potter or pirates?" she asks.
"Hmm." Bee frowns. "Pirates."
"Okeydokey." Mama cleans Bee's knee, kisses it better, slaps on the Band-Aid. "Better?"
Bee considers the question, then nods, grins, wide as the sky.
Mama smiles, pushes Bee's hair off her face, and steps back. "All right, sweetie. Go have fun."
And I tag pir8fancier with the prompt "nails". Do with it what you will.
Pairing: Frannie/various
Summary: Frannie plays.
Prompt: "play", from phineasjones. ♥
Rating: uhh...hard R? NC-17?
Notes: Unbeta'ed. Also, I'm sorry; I got plot in my porn. My apologies. It was an accident.
Disclaimer: If Frannie were mine, I would be nowhere near this computer right now, for serious.
Length: 1400 words (seven double drabbles, because apparently writing meta essays in the other window makes me OCD.)
1. June 6, 1977
Frannie plays. She is an Indian princess, a pirate queen, a kitchen girl destined to fall in love with a king. She charts the stars from the attic, hunts dragons on the stairs, maps the forests of their downstairs with Mama's green eyeshadow smudged into camouflage on her cheeks. Her waltz traces Spirograph shapes on the carpet (one-two-three, her voice keeps time to her feet); makes her uniform skirt billow out like a gown; twirls her right smack into the flat of Papa's hand.
Mama is there. She picks Frannie up; wipes Frannie's cheeks with corner of her skirt, pushes Frannie's hair off her face. "Are you hurt?" she asks. Mama will whisper until Papa is gone.
Frannie sniffles, swallows, shakes her head. "I didn't mean to," she whispers. "I didn't mean to be loud. I won't, I promise, never again. I didn't mean to."
"No, Francesca," Mama's eyes are tight at the edges. "You were just playing, yes?" Frannie nods. Her palms still sting, so she rubs them on her skirt. "There's nothing wrong with having fun." Mama's voice is quiet, steady, fierce. "On this, your papa is wrong. You have as much fun as you can."
2. February 23, 1985
Cassie's parents are gone, so they can be as loud as they want. Cassie is dancing, stocking feet on her bed, the bottom of her uniform shirt tied in a knot at her belly. "Something in your eyes is makin' such a fool of meeeeeee!" she howls, eyes squinted up, badly off-key. Frannie can't stop laughing long enough to sing along. "When you hold me in your arms, you love me 'til I just can't seeeeeeeeee!"
"C'mon, c'mon--" Frannie gasps. "I can't breathe!"
"Okay, fine, fine," Cassie says, and drops down next to her, making the mattress shake. "Okay, if you don't like my singing." She nudges Frannie's shoulder.
"I like your singing fine." Frannie leans in and kisses Cassie on the cheek. "Just, just don't make me laugh so hard."
"Why not?" Cassie says, and leans in and kisses Frannie back, a great big smacking smooch. "Laughing's good for you."
"But it hurts my ribs." Frannie drops her head to Cassie's shoulder, and Cassie tilts her head to rub her ear against Frannie's hair.
"You don't do it enough, then." Cassie's voice is lower, softer.
Frannie smiles. "I do with you," she says, and reaches for Cassie's hand.
3. August 19, 1994
She almost forgot it could be fun, in those awful two years with Tom, but she's remembering.
It's easy to remember, here, now, in the hot, slow slide of their bodies on the dance floor; the easy movement of their mouths and their tongues; their shared body heat fogging up the windows of his car. Victor bites a lot and really likes to grab her ass, and he asks her, "How do you--what do you--" and she says, "Anything, anything," and he makes a noise that's half groan and half laugh, and draws her body closer, like she's given him a present. She ends up in his lap in the back seat of his car, leather seats sticky under her bare knees, rocking against his hand while he murmurs, "God, God," and tongues the sweat-sticky hollows of her collarbones. When he finally slides up into her, she gasps. He's panting, but manages a mumbled, "What, what?" as he slides one hand over her hip, down to the sweat-slick space between them; presses up, sending electric shocks through her blood and her bones.
"Like riding a bicycle," she murmurs, and catches his mouth with her own, and laughs.
4. May 11, 1995
Frannie's worst dates always end up like this, sprawled out on Elaine's floor with her shoes off, drinking margaritas that are more tequila than ice and watching Elaine throw back her head and laugh, laugh, laugh.
"Oh my God," Elaine manages. "He didn't."
Frannie nods, nods, nods and refills Elaine's glass from the blender. "Oh, you bet he did. And that was before he even started talking about his mother."
Elaine howls, laughing until tears leak out of the corner of her eyes. Frannie leans in, and Elaine keeps right on laughing, giggling against Frannie's lips as her fingers hit Frannie's blouse, working on buttons she probably knows better than her own. Frannie's got her fingers on the smooth warm stretch of Elaine's belly, ribs, breasts, sliding up under her shirt, and Elaine shivers, and laughs, lower, deeper, hotter now.
Frannie closes her eyes and maps Elaine without sight: the tequila-sharp cavern of her mouth, the sweat-salty swells of her belly and thighs, the warm sharp taste of her clit on Frannie's tongue. Elaine gasps and tangles her fingers in Frannie's hair, and Frannie takes a second to grin, because her evening's starting to look up after all.
5. December 28, 1997
Renfield doesn't make her burn with passion. He doesn't make her swoon. He's just a nice Canadian guy who likes country music and cooking her dinner. He's polite and sweet and he brings her flowers and tips his hat to her mom. Sometimes he takes her to the movies, and holds her hand, and they make out in the back row during the chase scenes. He doesn't have a car, and whenever she brings up his apartment he just changes the subject, but it turns out he's pretty good at sneaking in windows, quietly, so no one else in the house will hear. They lock the door; she giggles into his tunic; he pets her hair. He falls over while trying to undress her because she's trying to undress him at the same time, but he lands on the bed. He kisses her shoulders and her earlobes, licks her ribs and her belly, and offers her a pillow, very politely, very seriously, before he slides down between her legs. It's a lot like high school, actually, in a lot of ways, just with much better manners. She bites down on the pillow, and doesn't bother to try to not grin.
6. September 7, 2000
She picks them up from the airport and they barely make it through the door of her little apartment.
It was awkward the first time, but now it's like the best full-contact sport ever, Ray pulling her forward with his fingers looped around her red leather belt, grinning against her mouth while Fraser giggles and pushes them both towards the bedroom. Half the time she and Ray can conspire to keep him on the couch, spread out and panting and too far gone to criticize the inappropriate venue, but not today.
Their skin is salty. Ray licks her shoulders and her spine, and she bites down on Fraser's shoulder in reply. She can't even keep track of their hands, except when they leave her body, Fraser reaching for her nighttable out of instinct.
"No," she says. "No, we talked about this. Frase."
Fraser hesitates. "Are you sure?" he asks.
He looks so serious that she can't help but look back over her shoulder at Ray. He grins back and kisses her, flexing his hands on her bare hips.
"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I'm sure."
"We are going to be completely awesome," Ray says, and Frannie laughs, because they are.
7. June 6, 2007
Bee plays. She is an Inuit Cinderella, a pirate queen, a star right-winger destined to bag the cup for the 'Hawks. She charts the stars from the cabin window, hunts dragons at the lake, maps the forests of Illinois and Inuvik with thick green facepaint smudged into camouflage on her cheeks. Her waltz traces Spirograph shapes around the park (one-two-three, her voice keeps time to her feet); makes her pink skirt billow out like a gown; twirls her over a crack in the sidewalk and flat onto the ground.
Mama is there. "Uh-oh!" She crouches, one hand on the stroller, and helps Bee up. "Are you hurt, baby?"
Bee sniffles, swallows, nods. "My knee," she says. It's bleeding. "I tripped."
"Well, I can fix that." Mama's smiling. She's already got the Band-Aids out of her purse, along with Neosporin and a Wet-nap. "Harry Potter or pirates?" she asks.
"Hmm." Bee frowns. "Pirates."
"Okeydokey." Mama cleans Bee's knee, kisses it better, slaps on the Band-Aid. "Better?"
Bee considers the question, then nods, grins, wide as the sky.
Mama smiles, pushes Bee's hair off her face, and steps back. "All right, sweetie. Go have fun."
And I tag pir8fancier with the prompt "nails". Do with it what you will.