I do not own Power Rangers: Jungle Fury.
I have not written anything quite like this before.
Francis Faye Fugleman Finds Her Voice
But Not Yet
She's never had a real boyfriend before.
And though it would come as a shock to marinara and absolutely no one, Frances Faye Fugleman has no idea what she's doing.
Parts of their blossoming relationship are easy.
The chatting, the pizza, the books.
They have been there from the beginning.
Some parts are navigable.
The lopsided smiles, caresses on her cheek.
The hugs.
The times when Dom threads his fingers through her hair, massages her scalp, her temples with firm, soothing pressure until she almost falls asleep standing up with her eyes closed in the middle of the day.
Over their wandering jaunt across Europe, she slowly became accustomed to his easy familiarity with her.
She still blushes, still giggles.
Still feels like she should pinch herself just to make sure she isn't dreaming.
And she loves all those things, it's everything she ever has wanted in a boyfriend.
But these new things.
Well.
She wants to love them.
Wants to embrace them, wants to embrace him, climb him like a tree, if she's being honest.
But.
She's not some wild and ravenous vixen.
Bold and sensuous, an undulating siren to those of the male persuasion.
She's Fran. She's her.
And she hasn't yet figured out how to be anyone else.
So when they are alone, privately alone, not just alone in Jungle Karma's kitchen while RJ lounges in his ratty recliner upstairs surrounded by various snacks and television screens, she falters.
Becomes hesitant.
Even in private they still talk.
Still eat.
Still laugh and smile and act like the friends they started out being, albeit her with a crush bigger than JK's Monster Mozzarella Mass o' Meat.
They are still, well, them.
But she knows it's there, it's there.
And she wants it,she wants it with Dom.
Dom's it.
She just, well, feels like her.
Shy. Timid. Mousy Fran.
Who still cannot believe somebody like Dom is interested in somebody like her.
And not only does she not know how to well, "go for it" when he kisses her or touches her in some completely respectable way, . . .
Oh my mozzarella -
. . . she doesn't feel ready for it.
Oh, I can't . . . I don't know how . . . um . . .
And she worries.
She worries a lot.
Because she is just her and he is Dom and if their relationship doesn't progress . . .
"Goodnight, Fran."
"Goodnight, Dom."
. . . he may eventually get bored.
"Sleep well."
"You too."
And find somebody else that's well, less Fran and more Fran.
Not that he's a bad guy.
But-
Guys have needs and Frannie knows enough that she doesn't want to be a tease, that when Dom kisses her, put his hands in her hair, and really kisses her, his body is having reactions that, well, will probably cause him frustration and maybe even pain if they aren't brought to, well, fruition.
Or something.
She knows he's feeling things because his mouth changes.
Becomes softer. Or harder.
Or something.
It's hard, ahem, it's difficult to explain how both those descriptions can perfectly apply to the situation at the exact same time.
But they do.
And she . . .
"Dominic-"
"Fran-"
. . . loves it.
Absolutely loves it.
And dreads it.
Completely dreads it.
She loves it because it feels so good and she wants more of it, she wants all of it.
Every single bit until she's bursting with fireworks and crying out to the, well, whatever.
But she dreads it because she is not ready.
And she can't make herself be ready.
Force herself to let go, take the leap, one more thing.
And so she stiffens, and not in a good way.
She draws back in Dom's embrace, becomes rigid to his kisses.
"Hey, are you alright?"
"Yes. I'm fine. I'm sorry."
And he stops, he always stops immediately, he never pushes, never tries to keep going.
"No, it's okay. Let's slow down a little bit, take a break. You want something to drink?"
And he's always gracious, always friendly.
Never sullen or resentful or hostile or rude.
"Um, yes, thank you."
Which only proves to make her feel even worse about the entire situation.
Because she knows it hurts him to stop, a girlfriend told her that once too.
And Dom doesn't deserve pain.
And she likes what they've been doing.
Kissing. Cuddling.
Very light caressing, a truthteller couldn't even really call it real second base.
And then he brings her water or a soda, open Dom smile on his face.
"You alright?"
And she always wants to bury her face, hide.
Apologize.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."
And he always smiles, always puts a gentle hand to her cheek, or brushes fingers through her hair.
"Frannie, I promise it's okay."
And then they talk.
About books or movies or trips or the weather.
Or watch a movie.
Go for a walk.
Or it's the end of the evening and Dom has to leave.
Or Frannie has to leave.
Or they both have to leave together.
And that's the way it is.
And she worries that . . .
This is not how this is supposed to go.
. . . it is all . . .
. . . my fault.
So to offset the private and graphic nature of the subject matter, yes, there will be goofy pizza references sprinkled all throughout the story.
Not because I am that particularly cheesy in my descriptions of things.
But because Fran is.
And whatever she experiences in this story, she is still, at her core, her.
And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Also, same with the weird chapter titles. They are their own stream-of-consciousness commentary on the story and title and may not make sense unless all read together.
But, also, yeah. It's supposed to be that way.
Anyway, thanks for checking out this new story if you decide to; I appreciate that.
:)
