Firefly - Playing With Fire
Title: Playing With Fire
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters and settings referred to here are not mine, they belong to Joss. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
Summary: River suggests a test to determine if she and Mal are compatible.
Author's note: One of these days I suppose I shall have to stop writing these, but, here's another little pre-relationship thingy. As usual, set at some point well after the movie, and, also as usual, thanks to geek_mama_2 for editing.
Playing With Fire
by Hereswith
She eyes him, sidelong and calculating, trying the words out in her head for impact and consequences, then says, “We should kiss.”
Serenity is steering on autopilot; there’s no danger, even though his attention slips, tumbles to confusion. “Shénme?”
“Kiss,” she repeats, turning the co-pilot’s seat toward him. “With tongue.”
He controls his reaction, limits it to a swallow, his lips thinning, marking the line she’s asked to cross, but he can’t hide the inward surge, the heat she wants to curl around. “And that’d be a good idea-why?”
“To determine if we’re sexually compatible,” she replies, and he snorts, but she lets a hand fall to her leg, traces an idle pattern over her knee, bare below the hem of her dress, and it’s one, two, three, on the beat, until she has him absorbed. “It’s logical. If we prove to be mismatched, we could stop with the staring.”
“What staring?”
“That staring.” To indicate, she waves the fingers she’s inched up her thigh, and he averts his glance, caught and stung. “I’m no better,” she offers. “When you’re wearing those tight pants and bend over-”
“That’s enough.” His brows snap together so fast she can almost hear the sound. “I get the picture fine, and it ain’t like I haven’t noticed.” He pauses. “One kiss, and that’s the end of it?”
“It will probably feel awkward,” she says. He isn’t entirely sober, the alcohol of an earlier bar round is in his bloodstream, and it doesn’t have him slurred, but maybe-she hopes-more receptive. “But then we would be certain. Won’t have to wonder.”
The issue’s being weighed, the scale could tip either way, but he’s tempted, so tempted, she can tell. Just once, say the tendons flexing in his hand, the shift of his feet like indecision. Just once. It burns in him, curiosity, like it burns in her, the build-up of days and weeks of this, the thick, heavy potential of this, unspoken.
“So,” he begins, his voice carefully flat, “how would we go ‘bout it?”
She allows her lips to curve. “I would have thought you knew how to kiss.”
He looks blank, then lets out a slight laugh and it settles between them, smoothing the edges of tension.
“Can’t say there’s been anyone complaining.” He smiles a little. “But what I meant was where and when.”
“We could,” she suggests, “do it here. Right now.”
He hesitates, he won’t move to initiate, but she will. She gets up, approaches and halts. Waiting. He’s about to lift himself from the seat, but sinks back, brushing his palms against his pants, refusal threatening to spill, then his shoulders set and he rises, mumbling, “Might as well.”
She reaches for him, before doubt can overtake the impulse, hooking her fingers in his suspenders. It’s as close as they have ever been, she can smell his shaving soap and his skin, and awareness runs in shivers down her arms, flushing goosebumps. “Tongue,” she reminds him. “Don’t forget.”
“Ain’t likely to.”
His breath tickles, making her restless. She skims her lips over one corner of his, and he grumbles acceptance, leaning into the kiss. It is awkward, the first moments, she can’t find a fit, frowns, and opens her mouth more. He slides his tongue in and there, that works, she presses harder, eager, and he buries his hands in her hair, cradling the back of her skull.
The break is slow and incomplete, his splayed fingers lingering to frame her cheeks. She’s kissed him into disorder, his expression all mussed, the emotion showing through, but she’s quivery for him, so it’s no more than right. He licks his lips and a throat-noise of frustration escapes her, solidifying to a structured sentence. “Do that again.”
He seems torn, disapproval clashing with helpless amusement. “You look about ready to jump me.”
The idea takes hold, spreading warmth. “I am. Would you like me to?”
His eyes close against it, briefly. “Gorram it.”
She puts her hands on his, crosswise, when he attempts to withdraw them. “Don’t tell me you can’t,” she says, very firm. “Not even the dinosaurs would believe you.”
Surprise widens his gaze, the blue of it stark when unveiled. “They wouldn’t?”
“No. They are old, and wise to the ways of the world. Roamed Earth-That-Was before humans existed.” She releases him, and he her, fingertips last. “Besides,” she continues, “the result won’t be conclusive unless we do more extensive testing. At length and in depth.”
The muscles in his jaw clenches. “We’d be playing with fire, darlin’.”
She nods. They would, they are, singeing themselves soot-blackened on the sparks, but, “There’s no one else I would rather play with.”
He half-glares. “I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
The struggle writes creases across the planes of his face, and he tips his head back on a sigh, like he’s searching for patience, answers amidst the whirring susurration of his thoughts. Seconds unfold from out around them, like the space around Serenity’s hull, then he straightens his neck.
“I must be out of my mind,” he mutters. “Fēng le. And don’t you give me that smug-as-anything grin of yours.” She wipes it clear, schooling her features, but he still harrumphs. “I’m gonna be regretting this, ain’t I?”
It could have been grated out harsh, but it isn’t, too much affection colours it, and there’s a bounce in her, a hop-skip, but she remains still on the outside, and says, “You won’t. You’ll see.”
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters and settings referred to here are not mine, they belong to Joss. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
Summary: River suggests a test to determine if she and Mal are compatible.
Author's note: One of these days I suppose I shall have to stop writing these, but, here's another little pre-relationship thingy. As usual, set at some point well after the movie, and, also as usual, thanks to geek_mama_2 for editing.
Playing With Fire
by Hereswith
She eyes him, sidelong and calculating, trying the words out in her head for impact and consequences, then says, “We should kiss.”
Serenity is steering on autopilot; there’s no danger, even though his attention slips, tumbles to confusion. “Shénme?”
“Kiss,” she repeats, turning the co-pilot’s seat toward him. “With tongue.”
He controls his reaction, limits it to a swallow, his lips thinning, marking the line she’s asked to cross, but he can’t hide the inward surge, the heat she wants to curl around. “And that’d be a good idea-why?”
“To determine if we’re sexually compatible,” she replies, and he snorts, but she lets a hand fall to her leg, traces an idle pattern over her knee, bare below the hem of her dress, and it’s one, two, three, on the beat, until she has him absorbed. “It’s logical. If we prove to be mismatched, we could stop with the staring.”
“What staring?”
“That staring.” To indicate, she waves the fingers she’s inched up her thigh, and he averts his glance, caught and stung. “I’m no better,” she offers. “When you’re wearing those tight pants and bend over-”
“That’s enough.” His brows snap together so fast she can almost hear the sound. “I get the picture fine, and it ain’t like I haven’t noticed.” He pauses. “One kiss, and that’s the end of it?”
“It will probably feel awkward,” she says. He isn’t entirely sober, the alcohol of an earlier bar round is in his bloodstream, and it doesn’t have him slurred, but maybe-she hopes-more receptive. “But then we would be certain. Won’t have to wonder.”
The issue’s being weighed, the scale could tip either way, but he’s tempted, so tempted, she can tell. Just once, say the tendons flexing in his hand, the shift of his feet like indecision. Just once. It burns in him, curiosity, like it burns in her, the build-up of days and weeks of this, the thick, heavy potential of this, unspoken.
“So,” he begins, his voice carefully flat, “how would we go ‘bout it?”
She allows her lips to curve. “I would have thought you knew how to kiss.”
He looks blank, then lets out a slight laugh and it settles between them, smoothing the edges of tension.
“Can’t say there’s been anyone complaining.” He smiles a little. “But what I meant was where and when.”
“We could,” she suggests, “do it here. Right now.”
He hesitates, he won’t move to initiate, but she will. She gets up, approaches and halts. Waiting. He’s about to lift himself from the seat, but sinks back, brushing his palms against his pants, refusal threatening to spill, then his shoulders set and he rises, mumbling, “Might as well.”
She reaches for him, before doubt can overtake the impulse, hooking her fingers in his suspenders. It’s as close as they have ever been, she can smell his shaving soap and his skin, and awareness runs in shivers down her arms, flushing goosebumps. “Tongue,” she reminds him. “Don’t forget.”
“Ain’t likely to.”
His breath tickles, making her restless. She skims her lips over one corner of his, and he grumbles acceptance, leaning into the kiss. It is awkward, the first moments, she can’t find a fit, frowns, and opens her mouth more. He slides his tongue in and there, that works, she presses harder, eager, and he buries his hands in her hair, cradling the back of her skull.
The break is slow and incomplete, his splayed fingers lingering to frame her cheeks. She’s kissed him into disorder, his expression all mussed, the emotion showing through, but she’s quivery for him, so it’s no more than right. He licks his lips and a throat-noise of frustration escapes her, solidifying to a structured sentence. “Do that again.”
He seems torn, disapproval clashing with helpless amusement. “You look about ready to jump me.”
The idea takes hold, spreading warmth. “I am. Would you like me to?”
His eyes close against it, briefly. “Gorram it.”
She puts her hands on his, crosswise, when he attempts to withdraw them. “Don’t tell me you can’t,” she says, very firm. “Not even the dinosaurs would believe you.”
Surprise widens his gaze, the blue of it stark when unveiled. “They wouldn’t?”
“No. They are old, and wise to the ways of the world. Roamed Earth-That-Was before humans existed.” She releases him, and he her, fingertips last. “Besides,” she continues, “the result won’t be conclusive unless we do more extensive testing. At length and in depth.”
The muscles in his jaw clenches. “We’d be playing with fire, darlin’.”
She nods. They would, they are, singeing themselves soot-blackened on the sparks, but, “There’s no one else I would rather play with.”
He half-glares. “I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
The struggle writes creases across the planes of his face, and he tips his head back on a sigh, like he’s searching for patience, answers amidst the whirring susurration of his thoughts. Seconds unfold from out around them, like the space around Serenity’s hull, then he straightens his neck.
“I must be out of my mind,” he mutters. “Fēng le. And don’t you give me that smug-as-anything grin of yours.” She wipes it clear, schooling her features, but he still harrumphs. “I’m gonna be regretting this, ain’t I?”
It could have been grated out harsh, but it isn’t, too much affection colours it, and there’s a bounce in her, a hop-skip, but she remains still on the outside, and says, “You won’t. You’ll see.”