For a change of pace - Firefly fic
Title: Flights of Fancy
Author: Jules
Summary: Spoiler for the scene that isn't. Inara at the training house.
Rating: R
Spoilers: Serenity movie
Distribution: If you want it take it, just tell me.
Disclaimer: Not mine, mores the pity.
She couldn't blame the girls; she imagined it herself. No matter how hard she tried to forget, her discipline always failed her. She had told stories to hasten the arrival of sleep on long nights in an empty shuttle, to try to distract herself from listening for the sound of his tread outside her hatch, old military-issue boots pacing, hesitating, leaving. Told them now trying to dull the ache of emptiness, remind herself of the impossibilities.
Never in a temple, let alone a burning one. Malcolm Reynolds was a practical man, and she had waited too long to spend the event worrying about the competition, wondering which passion most consumed him, his anger with God or his hunger for her body. She wanted his full attention.
He had rough skin; 'accidental' touches - fleeting, coveted and feared, had told her at least that much. Taunted her that much. A soldier's hands: split knuckles, old scars. Steady on her.
Gentle on her lips, tangled in her hair, strong on her hips, finally on her breasts, her sex. Finally.
Never in her bed; keep the workplace separate. She'd entertained the possibility of the sofa more than once. It had often crossed her mind in the split seconds between the cessation of whatever latest hostilities and Mal's inevitable hasty departure. Their shouting echoing in the confined space, chests heaving, face to face, staring each other down; how easily that passion could be converted, channeled into a much-needed release. It would never happen that way; it would be the coward's way out - too easily explained and excused, then dismissed. Mal would never take that path and she would always resent him for it. For making her think and choose and feel.
He never acts as she expects. When she suffers yet another disappointment, tries to resign herself to his faults, he blindsides her with kindness and nobility. She can't figure him out; a year of study and Mal remains a mystery. He's an honest criminal, a moral petty thief. He spends his days fighting his better angels and his nights tortured by his demons.
On the walkway, hands braced against the railing. Skirts hiked, bodice askew and tight pants around his knees. Up against a grimy wall in a deserted corridor; Serenity pressed as firmly against her back as Mal against her front.
They had never been civil. She had come to treasure that. She lived in a world of masks and charades, never revealing truth. They had never been honest, had often hid, but it was real, without artifice or agenda.
In the dining area, on the counter, against the wall, knocking dishes off the table, sprawled on the chairs. Urgent and joyful, in every way and as often as possible.
He's contrary by nature and it's going to get him killed. He lives his life as if to spite the universe with his survival, to thumb his nose at the ruling powers. He wears his defeat on a chain around his neck to replace the cross he abandoned in the valley of death; he's made his pain and his loss into a comfort - familiar, bitter company to keep him warm. Then there were good days when the ghosts haunting the crew quieted and they were free to relax and enjoy one another. When they were family.
Never in his bunk. He wouldn't allow her that close.
She had had to leave. He had never laid a finger on her and she was drowning in what-might-have-beens.
FIN
Author: Jules
Summary: Spoiler for the scene that isn't. Inara at the training house.
Rating: R
Spoilers: Serenity movie
Distribution: If you want it take it, just tell me.
Disclaimer: Not mine, mores the pity.
She couldn't blame the girls; she imagined it herself. No matter how hard she tried to forget, her discipline always failed her. She had told stories to hasten the arrival of sleep on long nights in an empty shuttle, to try to distract herself from listening for the sound of his tread outside her hatch, old military-issue boots pacing, hesitating, leaving. Told them now trying to dull the ache of emptiness, remind herself of the impossibilities.
Never in a temple, let alone a burning one. Malcolm Reynolds was a practical man, and she had waited too long to spend the event worrying about the competition, wondering which passion most consumed him, his anger with God or his hunger for her body. She wanted his full attention.
He had rough skin; 'accidental' touches - fleeting, coveted and feared, had told her at least that much. Taunted her that much. A soldier's hands: split knuckles, old scars. Steady on her.
Gentle on her lips, tangled in her hair, strong on her hips, finally on her breasts, her sex. Finally.
Never in her bed; keep the workplace separate. She'd entertained the possibility of the sofa more than once. It had often crossed her mind in the split seconds between the cessation of whatever latest hostilities and Mal's inevitable hasty departure. Their shouting echoing in the confined space, chests heaving, face to face, staring each other down; how easily that passion could be converted, channeled into a much-needed release. It would never happen that way; it would be the coward's way out - too easily explained and excused, then dismissed. Mal would never take that path and she would always resent him for it. For making her think and choose and feel.
He never acts as she expects. When she suffers yet another disappointment, tries to resign herself to his faults, he blindsides her with kindness and nobility. She can't figure him out; a year of study and Mal remains a mystery. He's an honest criminal, a moral petty thief. He spends his days fighting his better angels and his nights tortured by his demons.
On the walkway, hands braced against the railing. Skirts hiked, bodice askew and tight pants around his knees. Up against a grimy wall in a deserted corridor; Serenity pressed as firmly against her back as Mal against her front.
They had never been civil. She had come to treasure that. She lived in a world of masks and charades, never revealing truth. They had never been honest, had often hid, but it was real, without artifice or agenda.
In the dining area, on the counter, against the wall, knocking dishes off the table, sprawled on the chairs. Urgent and joyful, in every way and as often as possible.
He's contrary by nature and it's going to get him killed. He lives his life as if to spite the universe with his survival, to thumb his nose at the ruling powers. He wears his defeat on a chain around his neck to replace the cross he abandoned in the valley of death; he's made his pain and his loss into a comfort - familiar, bitter company to keep him warm. Then there were good days when the ghosts haunting the crew quieted and they were free to relax and enjoy one another. When they were family.
Never in his bunk. He wouldn't allow her that close.
She had had to leave. He had never laid a finger on her and she was drowning in what-might-have-beens.
FIN