MOTHY. It's Catfish Day and I am here with a question. Unshowered Frankie after 5 days in the jungle: could you make that...work?
(also I think about Frankie's sex tape weekly so thank you for that and I adore you and your writing and your whole energy and I'm glad you're here)
Thank you for blessing me with this ask. I am willing to make any kind of Frankie work despite my best judgements.
I imagine he comes out sweaty and smelly and BLOODY but also so needy. He’s been at the edge of death and he’s ready to put it all behind him and lose himself in you.
“Frankie, you stink,” you tell him as he’s nuzzling into your neck, kissing and biting. “Shower first. I’m not going anywhere.”
His skin is covered in a layer of grime, hair caked under his hat, fingernails packed with dirt and dried blood. The scent coming off of him is ripe— iron and sulphur and the spicy musk of body odor. It makes you gag yet you can’t stop inhaling him.
You haven’t even been able to get an explanation out of him as to where the fuck he’s been. As soon as he laid eyes on you, his lips were crashing into yours, hands pushing your shirt up. Was he crying?
“Uh uh,” he grunts. “Now.”
His dirty fingers are under the waistband of your panties, circling you with precision and desperation. Your body doesn’t care about what your mind knows, that he’s absolutely filthy and you’re going to end up with a UTI if he keeps doing that. You’re melting and clenching under his touch.
“Shit, Frankie. Okay. Fuck me,” you hiss.
And he’s more than happy to oblige.
