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hsavinienTitle: Physical Splendor
Author: H. Savinien
Disclaimer: Characters belong to due South, and no infringement is intended in this fanwork.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 300
Prompt: "I came to talk you into physical splendor" --C. D. Wright
Francesca hangs up the phone probably a little harder than she needed to but jeez, she wanted to talk to a person, not a machine, how hard was it to pick up the phone once in a while? and she's sick of thinking about it, sick of wasting her time pining after somebody who never notices and sick of hanging her hopes on a guy, even a great guy, instead of doing something herself. She drops back on her bed in a floomph of feather comforter and sighs at the jiggle of her breasts and you know she is freaking sick of it of being overlooked or looked at just by scumbags and sleazes and she is better than that and she hugs her arms tight around herself. She likes herself, you know, most of the time, likes her body and her quick mouth (best defense is a good offense, Frannie, like in sports, doesn't matter what kinda sports, all of 'em), and she's not the smartest, but she works on that too, goes to classes to learn new things, reads books from the nonfiction shelves in the library, chooses things that sound interesting even if sometimes they're not after all. She touches her breasts, nudges them to feel them shift and jiggle again and she likes that, wishes there were somebody to touch her. But this is good, she likes her own hands and even if there were some vague things in school about that being bad, it makes her feel more like herself, in herself, ready to be herself again. She flattens her palm over her chest, trails fingers down her stomach and kicks all the bozos and dirtbags of the day out of her head because this is her and nobody else gets a piece of it.
Author: H. Savinien
Disclaimer: Characters belong to due South, and no infringement is intended in this fanwork.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 300
Prompt: "I came to talk you into physical splendor" --C. D. Wright
Francesca hangs up the phone probably a little harder than she needed to but jeez, she wanted to talk to a person, not a machine, how hard was it to pick up the phone once in a while? and she's sick of thinking about it, sick of wasting her time pining after somebody who never notices and sick of hanging her hopes on a guy, even a great guy, instead of doing something herself. She drops back on her bed in a floomph of feather comforter and sighs at the jiggle of her breasts and you know she is freaking sick of it of being overlooked or looked at just by scumbags and sleazes and she is better than that and she hugs her arms tight around herself. She likes herself, you know, most of the time, likes her body and her quick mouth (best defense is a good offense, Frannie, like in sports, doesn't matter what kinda sports, all of 'em), and she's not the smartest, but she works on that too, goes to classes to learn new things, reads books from the nonfiction shelves in the library, chooses things that sound interesting even if sometimes they're not after all. She touches her breasts, nudges them to feel them shift and jiggle again and she likes that, wishes there were somebody to touch her. But this is good, she likes her own hands and even if there were some vague things in school about that being bad, it makes her feel more like herself, in herself, ready to be herself again. She flattens her palm over her chest, trails fingers down her stomach and kicks all the bozos and dirtbags of the day out of her head because this is her and nobody else gets a piece of it.
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