[ fic ] hard burn
title: hard burn
author: sardonicynic
summary: he don't feel like wash.
rating: NC-17 for adult content and situations
character(s): zoë, mal; mentions of wash
pairing(s): zoë/mal
spoilers: set during serenity; spoilers for the movie
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine, the words are. joss, please don't sue -- lowly copy editors aren't worth the effort.
a/n: written for whedonland's fic-fest. completely unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. while feedback is love, be brutal; i welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.
He don't feel like Wash.
He's hard planes and sharp angles where Wash was softer, sweeter, and his mouth ain't a thing like her husband's. Kissing Wash was flying (soaring) and kissing the captain is falling (tailspinning).
She don't know if anything'll break this rough landing they're sure to find, but mostly, she just don't care.
She does know he's got his reservations. Still, she's pressing her lone advantage: She's hurt, half-whole -- and she knows he knows it.
And she knows he'd do gorram near anything to right what went so wrong if he could.
The simple truth is, he can't.
So there's this -- the cold comfort of a soldier's hands (not pilot's hands) mapping her curves and learning her sweet spots, a hot mouth and chapped lips, and wŏ de mā, a tongue that's getting more clever by the second.
She don't make a sound, and maybe that helps. Maybe he can imagine it's Inara he's licking and laving. But her fingers fist in his hair with a strength that's everything but gentle and Companion-like, breaking the would-be spell, and --
"Zoë."
Her breath hitches.
"Zoë -- "
His hands are tight on her, one squeezing her hip, the other her inner thigh, encouraging her while she burns hot under his attentions. Her hips rock, sudden and involuntary; air leaves her lungs, harsh and ragged.
He's a smart man, 'cause he don't lift his mouth to speak. He works his tongue over her clit and eases a finger into her slick, tight heat, and it ain't long before a second joins the first.
Oh, she ain't thinking now, not about hurt or comfort or Wash; she can't. Her world shrinks to Mal's lips and tongue and touch, to the bright, sweet sensations stabbing at her defenses and nerve endings. And when the tension breaks inside her like a crumbling front line, she shudders, coming harder than she has in a long gorram time under her own ministrations.
"Zoë ... "
She don't like this, the soft-rough sound of his voice when he looks up at her, licking his lips and studying her face in the gunmetal-gray half-light of his bunk. This ain't the time for niceties or platitudes, not from him, 'cause she don't want kid gloves or --
"Zoë."
He slides up so he can cup her face. He traces her jaw with the pad of his callused thumb, and she ain't sure if she can stomach such tenderness from a man who don't play make-believe with plastic dinosaurs.
Her heart's a trip-hammer, beating harder than just a minute ago, when she lost herself in a wave of want and need while the room shrank and shattered around her.
"Sir -- "
He's already shaking his head.
"Ain't no reason we gotta talk on this right now."
She takes in his shadowed features; he's a handsome man, now that she lets herself look at him -- truly look at him.
"Then -- "
He shakes his head again, brushing a stray curl from her sweat-damp forehead.
"Ain't no reason to talk, not at this juncture." His lips find her shoulder. "Ain't no reason to be movin' right now, neither."
"'Fraid you're mistaken there," she says, rolling so she's straddling him, and he don't argue.
It ain't her bed and this ain't her husband, but it's Mal, and she'll fall with him 'til they both hit the ground.
(In more ways than one, it's what she's always done.)
- - - - -
translation
wŏ de mā: mother of God
author: sardonicynic
summary: he don't feel like wash.
rating: NC-17 for adult content and situations
character(s): zoë, mal; mentions of wash
pairing(s): zoë/mal
spoilers: set during serenity; spoilers for the movie
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine, the words are. joss, please don't sue -- lowly copy editors aren't worth the effort.
a/n: written for whedonland's fic-fest. completely unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. while feedback is love, be brutal; i welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.
He don't feel like Wash.
He's hard planes and sharp angles where Wash was softer, sweeter, and his mouth ain't a thing like her husband's. Kissing Wash was flying (soaring) and kissing the captain is falling (tailspinning).
She don't know if anything'll break this rough landing they're sure to find, but mostly, she just don't care.
She does know he's got his reservations. Still, she's pressing her lone advantage: She's hurt, half-whole -- and she knows he knows it.
And she knows he'd do gorram near anything to right what went so wrong if he could.
The simple truth is, he can't.
So there's this -- the cold comfort of a soldier's hands (not pilot's hands) mapping her curves and learning her sweet spots, a hot mouth and chapped lips, and wŏ de mā, a tongue that's getting more clever by the second.
She don't make a sound, and maybe that helps. Maybe he can imagine it's Inara he's licking and laving. But her fingers fist in his hair with a strength that's everything but gentle and Companion-like, breaking the would-be spell, and --
"Zoë."
Her breath hitches.
"Zoë -- "
His hands are tight on her, one squeezing her hip, the other her inner thigh, encouraging her while she burns hot under his attentions. Her hips rock, sudden and involuntary; air leaves her lungs, harsh and ragged.
He's a smart man, 'cause he don't lift his mouth to speak. He works his tongue over her clit and eases a finger into her slick, tight heat, and it ain't long before a second joins the first.
Oh, she ain't thinking now, not about hurt or comfort or Wash; she can't. Her world shrinks to Mal's lips and tongue and touch, to the bright, sweet sensations stabbing at her defenses and nerve endings. And when the tension breaks inside her like a crumbling front line, she shudders, coming harder than she has in a long gorram time under her own ministrations.
"Zoë ... "
She don't like this, the soft-rough sound of his voice when he looks up at her, licking his lips and studying her face in the gunmetal-gray half-light of his bunk. This ain't the time for niceties or platitudes, not from him, 'cause she don't want kid gloves or --
"Zoë."
He slides up so he can cup her face. He traces her jaw with the pad of his callused thumb, and she ain't sure if she can stomach such tenderness from a man who don't play make-believe with plastic dinosaurs.
Her heart's a trip-hammer, beating harder than just a minute ago, when she lost herself in a wave of want and need while the room shrank and shattered around her.
"Sir -- "
He's already shaking his head.
"Ain't no reason we gotta talk on this right now."
She takes in his shadowed features; he's a handsome man, now that she lets herself look at him -- truly look at him.
"Then -- "
He shakes his head again, brushing a stray curl from her sweat-damp forehead.
"Ain't no reason to talk, not at this juncture." His lips find her shoulder. "Ain't no reason to be movin' right now, neither."
"'Fraid you're mistaken there," she says, rolling so she's straddling him, and he don't argue.
It ain't her bed and this ain't her husband, but it's Mal, and she'll fall with him 'til they both hit the ground.
(In more ways than one, it's what she's always done.)
- - - - -
translation
wŏ de mā: mother of God