I do not own Power Rangers: Jungle Fury.
I do not know why I'm on such a tangent lately except it's fun.
Ruining Pepperoni
The Answer
And he's there and she's there and she's really doing this, well, having him to do it-
"Okay. What do you want me to do, Fran?"
She shrugs.
"Take off your clothes."
And his grin at her bold bluntness makes her very happy.
Along with everything else.
Yeah, I said it.
And she grins back.
Then she watches as he shrugs out of his plaid overshirt.
Lays it on the arm of the couch.
Pulls his white undershirt over his head.
Oh my marinara-
Lays that down too.
Looking at her each time a piece of clothing is removed.
Presumably to see if she's changed her mind and wants him to stop.
Which. She. Doesn't.
Thank you very much.
Not. At. All.
He sits on the arm of said couch.
Takes off his boots.
Socks.
And stands.
Fran feels her blood racing.
Now that they've already, well, already, she isn't quite as nervous as she was last time.
Oh, she's plenty nervous, excited geared up.
But the anxiety is gone, the worry.
This is just . . .
The best-
And she watches as Dom unbuckles his belt.
"Wait."
And then she changes her mind.
He stops, glances up at her, thumbs hooked into his waistband to pull down and-
"I want to."
Then she hesitates.
"Is that okay?"
And his response is exactly what she should have expected.
"Whatever you want, Fran."
And now we're back to that.
But she really likes it.
It makes her feel safe.
Dom always makes her feel safe.
Especially . . .
"Okay."
. . . when she lets him.
She takes a deep breath.
And steps forward.
Reaches out.
And takes hold . . .
Here we go.
. . . of the waistband of his green cargo pants.
I can do this.
And pulls down.
For a little cheeky fun for herself and to take this, no matter how much she wants it, in manageable steps, she keeps her eyes locked with his as she does what she wants.
His eyes.
Dom's eyes.
Bright blue.
Resolved ice shards against a threat, an adversary.
Warm summer skies when he's looking at her.
Something else she hasn't been quite brave enough to try to identify when they're, well, when they're-
Like now.
She keeps her eyes on his as she tugs his pants off his hips.
Down his hairy guy legs, much like he did her the previous time, revealing more boxer briefs, dark red this time, Dom's a guy of few clothes and consistent, comfortable style.
And pulls them off entirely.
And lays them with the rest.
Because 'throes of passion', right?
Just like before.
No fluffing and folding here, nope.
Ha.
Out of the way.
She's kneeling in front of him, a million thoughts racing through her fevered brain-
Oh my gosh-
But she's not really quite ready for that right now, give her some time, she'll get there when she's ready-
What I want.
He said.
And she retraces her path, just like he did before.
Until she's standing straight up again.
And feels herself smiling at him and that look of his she hasn't identified yet.
Except he likes me.
Like, really really.
And she's fully dressed and he's nearly naked and-
"You do the rest."
And he does.
And then he is.
Naked.
Not nearly naked.
Completely naked.
Completely naked Dom.
Standing there in her shared living room and if for some reason her roommates came back unexpectedly, she would have a lot of explaining to do.
Or maybe they would just run for it.
To her bedroom, the bathroom, she can just see it, Dom naked and huddled and his clothes out of reach on the couch-
Never mind that, we are alone, completely alone.
And I'm not getting distracted from this.
And Frances Faye Fugleman takes a step back from him.
Okay.
Okay okay okay okay okay-
And looks.
Makes herself look.
Because she can.
Because she should.
Because she . . .
"Oh."
"What?"
. . . wants to.
Thanks for reading.