fic: Love is a fool star (Firefly, Mal/various)
Title: Love is a fool star
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: Five ways Malcolm Reynolds didn't have sex with members of his crew.
Rating: Adult
Pairings: Mal/Inara, Mal/Jayne, Mal/Kaylee, Mal/Zoe, Mal/River
Spoilers: all the way through the movie
Disclaimer: It's all Joss's, baby.
Archive: Achromatic.
Feedback: Makes my day
Notes: Thanks to leadensky and luzdeestrellas for betaing; all mistakes are mine. Thanks to hwmitzy for letting me force her to read bits of it on AIM as I wrote. Title and section headers from Offering and Rebuff by Carl Sandburg.
Word count: 2,840
Date: February 10, 2006
~*~
Love is a fool star
i. I could love you
as dry roots love rain.
He's nearly to his bunk -- won't spend the night in the infirmary if he don't have to -- when Inara finds him.
"Stubborn húndàn," she says, but her tone lacks its usual edge and her hands are gentle as she drapes his arm over her shoulders. She ain't near tall or strong enough to really be much use, but she's soft and warm and she smells nice. Mal can't help but lean a little bit on her, still a little woozy from the lack of oxygen and the being shot. He brushes his hand along the wall, Serenity's cool metal on one side of him, the warmth of Inara's body on the other, two of the women he loves holding him up, keeping him strong.
He follows her down into his bunk, clinging tightly to the ladder so he doesn't fall and send them both crashing to the floor. Trip seems twice as long as it ought to, his head light as a balloon, and he starts to wonder if the whole thing is a dream, if he's still passed out on the bridge and this is the last thing his brain could conjure before he dies.
He don't think he minds so much if it is.
She pushes him down onto the bed, and eases open his shirt, blood red nails flicking quickly over the buttons.
"Mal, Mal, Mal," she whispers, as if his name is some kind of mantra and she's meditating on him like he's the road to nirvana.
He kind of likes that thought. Likes the feel of her hands, too, gentle against his chest, brushing above and below the white bandages the doc wrapped him in.
"You stupid man," she mutters, and that sounds more like the Inara he's used to, makes him sure she knows who she's with, but then her lips, those lush, red lips he's been dreaming of for the past year, press against his and she's kissing him, no art in it at all, just soft heat and ragged breathing. She tastes of tea and lipstick and desire, better than anything he's ever imagined, and he's imagined a lot in the year she's been renting his shuttle.
He wraps his arms around her, ignoring the stinging pain, and tangles one hand in her hair, which is softer even than the silk she's wearing.
"I got shot," he says when she pulls back.
"You could have died," she answers, her nails bright against his bloodless skin, the stark white bandages. "You could have-- And then we'd never have-- You stupid, stupid man."
Tears cling to her lashes like jewels; the shimmer makes her eyes seem even bigger, softer. He's like to drown in those eyes, and he don't mind at all. He reaches up, brushes her tears away with his thumb, so careful in the way he touches her, as if she might realize what she's doing and think better of it. Then he puts his thumb in his mouth and tastes the tears she's crying for him, more rare and precious than rain in the desert. The salt on his tongue makes it real.
He tries to focus, whisper something sweet to her, but the words won't come. It don't matter anyway. She's kissing him again, and they don't need words to speak.
She moves over him like a blessing, heat and need and pleasure all tangled up until the tension in him shatters and he comes, the black behind his eyelids studded with stars. It's almost enough to make him believe in God again.
When she climaxes, hot and tight around him, she sighs his name, so soft he ain't even sure he heard it, but when he's drifting off to sleep afterward, she says it again, her mouth against his neck, leaving traces of lipstick on his skin. In the morning, the red marks look like wounds he doesn't want to heal, and he hesitates before washing them away.
*
ii. Forgive me for speaking
so soon.
Jayne's real contrite after what happened on Ariel. Makes him almost pleasant to be around, 'specially when he's down on his knees, begging for forgiveness, that smart mouth stretched tight and hot 'round Mal's cock instead of snitching to the Feds.
Truth be told, Mal's more angry with himself than he is with Jayne. Man can't help being who and what he is -- Mal knows that better than anyone. But somewhere in the past few months, he'd forgotten, started thinking maybe Jayne could be something more. He'd forgotten he'd stopped believing anyone could be.
Jayne swirls his tongue over the head, and Mal lets out a low moan, one hand gripping the edge of his desk, the other tightening in Jayne's short hair, fingers digging into his scalp. Jayne growls in response, and the vibrations make Mal shiver, the edges of his vision going white.
Jayne ain't never seemed sly to Mal, but he reckons he's not the best judge of these things, 'cause he's never seemed sly his own self, and yet here they are, Jayne with Mal's cock in his mouth and one big, warm hand wrapped around the base, the other shoved down his own pants and pulling hard.
If this is how Jayne wants to make amends, Mal ain't gonna raise a fuss, though he knows it's wrong to take advantage. Maybe that's why it feels so good. Jayne is sloppy and a little rough, but the slide of his lips sends sparks up Mal's spine, and he can't help thrusting into the wet heat of his mouth. Mal's going to come, but he doesn't give any warning, just grabs hold of Jayne's shoulder and shoots his wad. Jayne swallows, grimacing, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand when he's done.
Mal sags against the desk, legs still shaking, as Jayne stands, dark stain spreading across the front of his pants. Jayne meets his eyes square, and Mal gives him a little nod.
"Well, that was... Don't you have work to be doing?"
"Finished it. Even cleaned out the septic vat this morning."
"Good, good." There don't seem anything else to say, and Mal sighs in relief when Jayne scrambles up the ladder.
In the morning, they act like it never happened, but Jayne seems a mite less jumpy, which could be a good thing. Mal ain't sure.
Next time they're planetside, Jayne comes back to Serenity with a crate of apples, all juicy, red-gold and sweet, as an offering to the crew. Mal wants to laugh, but he don't think Jayne would get the joke.
*
iii. I could hold you
as branches in the wind
brandish petals.
Mal keeps a close eye on Kaylee after their run-in with Early. He don't know exactly what happened -- she won't say -- but he has a pretty good idea of what a man like that would threaten to do to a girl like her. It's taken some of the shine from her smile, and for that, more than anything, Mal is glad of the gruesome death he's sent the man to.
One night, when the bruises around her wrists have begun to fade, but there are still circles under her eyes too often for comfort, he finds her camped out in the common area, huddled beneath one of the tatty old blankets he'd bought second-hand when he first outfitted the ship.
He sits down in the chair next to her, sinking into the soft cushions, and opens his arms. "C'mere."
She hesitates for a second, then unfolds herself from where she's sitting and curls up in his lap. She's wearing nothing but a faded yellow t-shirt so worn from washing he can almost see through it; it's as soft against his fingers as the bare skin beneath it, which he tries hard not to notice. He almost succeeds. He wraps his arms around her and breathes her in -- soap and sweat and engine grease -- and she squirms a little, getting comfortable.
"Ain't nobody gonna hurt you," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple, but they both know it's a lie -- she's already been hurt too often while in his care. He tries not to tell those kinds of lies anymore -- they just end up adding insult to inevitable injury -- but she's pressed so close he can feel her trembling in his bones, and this is Kaylee, and there ain't no one who should raise their voice or hand to her, let alone threaten her the way Early did. It makes him sick to think on it, that it happened on his boat. That it happened at all.
"Cap'n," she says, twisting to look at him, and he can feel her breath on his lips, her hands tightening on his shoulders. "Mal," she says, and that startles him, because he can't remember the last time she called him by name, "please."
He ain't sure, at first, what she's asking for, but she makes it all too clear when she kisses him, mouth open and desperate against his, body shifting so he's cradled between her thighs, her knees digging into the cushion by his hips.
He runs his hands up her arms -- she feels fragile as a bird, like she'll break under his touch -- and curls his fingers around her shoulders, pulling her back, ready with all the reasons why this is a bad idea. His words die on his lips at the dark, lonesome look in her eyes, the need he sees there, deeper than lust.
Her hands shake a mite as she unbuttons his pants and curls her fingers round him, lower lip half-caught between her teeth in concentration, like he's some kind of new engine she's learning to love. The sigh she makes when he's deep inside of her, the way she holds his gaze, warm and trustful, makes his chest ache. She's a little frantic, a little wild, like she wants to climb inside his skin, and he holds her close, letting her set the pace. He slips his hands up beneath her t-shirt, rubbing her back, cupping her breasts, murmuring, "It's all right, Kaylee, I got you, I'm right here," against her neck, her cheek, her lips.
He kisses her tenderly, swallowing the soft choked cries she makes when she comes, and follows her over the edge, bright hot pleasure pulsing through him. She slumps against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and he keeps her cradled against his chest, shifting only long enough to grab for the blanket and tuck it around them.
He's not sure what time it is when he wakes up, but it's still early enough they can both sneak back to their bunks with no one the wiser. He shakes her awake gently, brushes his thumb over her cheek as she opens her eyes.
"You okay?"
"Shiny, Cap'n," she answers, and her smile blooms like a daisy in spring sunlight, for the moment free from shadows.
*
iv. Let your heart look
on white sea spray
and be lonely.
He'd wondered if she'd come for him, expected it almost, wanted it, if he was being honest -- wanted the burn of her hatred, maybe the sharp jolt of her fist to his jaw, or the silent slide of her knife 'twixt his ribs, or a bullet in the brainpan if she was feeling particularly vengeful.
Either way, it would have been easier than this.
He never saw this coming, and that might be what bothers him most.
She sinks down onto him, hot and slick and tight, and his body responds to her, has always responded to her, years of silent communication via head tilts and knowing glances training him to her orders as much as the war trained her to his.
She fucks him hard and silent, her hands tight on his shoulders, nails raking down his chest, clenching her muscles around him until his eyes roll back in his head and the 'verse explodes in white light, white heat, best he's ever had, edged with every ounce of pain he's ever caused her, paid back with interest. He deserves the pain, at least, wishes he could take on all her pain, give her peace in return.
But he can't even tell if she comes -- her body tightens around him and she lets loose a low growl, but the tension never leaves her shoulders and the desolation never leaves her eyes. He used to be able to read her as easily as the angle of the sun, the curve of the earth. Used to know what she was going to say before she'd finished thinking it, where she was going to land before she'd taken a step. Now, it's all static on the line -- he's more directionless than he's ever been before, and what little comfort he can offer will never be near enough.
He never knows when she'll grab him in the corridor and pull him against her, one long leg hooked around his hip while agile fingers undo his belt and fly, or follow him down into his bunk and shove him to the floor to fuck in some grotesque parody of romance, knowing he'll never raise a hand to stop her.
She doesn't speak, but then, she doesn't have to, because every roll and thrust of their hips burns the accusations into his skin, his soul. He led her into hell again, and this time, he don't know how to lead her back out, so he'll live with the consequences as long as she lets him.
*
v. You and a ring of stars
may mention my name
and then forget me.
River slips into the empty spaces, fills them up somehow, and it's easier to be on the bridge when she's there next to him, long dark hair shining around her pale face. She glows when she flies, like she's a star herself, and he has to stop himself from reaching out and touching her, knowing he'll get burned. Whenever she catches him, she glances over with a smug smile and he curses, but sometimes he can't help himself.
It's even worse when he starts dreaming of her, of lying between smooth pale thighs and tangling his hands in silky black hair, pressing kisses to soft skin and full lips.
He wakes with a jolt to see her at the foot of the ladder.
"Want to burn up with you," she says, walking towards the bed.
"River, you're a beautiful girl," he says, pulling the covers up like a schoolmarm faced with an unexpected nighttime caller, "but don't go thinking on what you might find in my head. It's just dreams, the likes of which any man'd have about a pretty girl."
"You don't dream of Kaylee, or Zoe."
"Gorrammit, girl, you oughtn't go poking about in a man's dreams."
"They're my dreams too," she answers, "and my thoughts, my feelings." She sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out one white hand to cup his cheek, leans forward to press full pink lips to his, feather-light. He can feel the heat of her body through the flimsy dress she wears, see the outline of her breasts and legs. He curls his hand into a fist at his side, resisting the urge to trace the lines of her body.
He settles for brushing her hair back; she's got sparkly beads braided through it, glimmering like stars in the darkness.
She wraps her fingers around his wrist, and smiles at the way his pulse jumps at the touch.
"You can't lie to me," she says, gently tugging the covers down with her other hand, laying her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. "I know you want me. Can feel you singing in my blood."
"Wanting ain't having." He doesn't know why he's trying to argue logic with her -- it's a fight he can't win. But then, he seems to specialize in those.
"You don't know how to have what you want," she answers. "Offering it to you on a silver platter, and you just say no, like a nuòfu, too afraid to take a chance--"
"Don't want to hurt you."
"Chûnrén. You're hurting me now."
He knows it's probably just a crush, but she ain't got many choices; he's the best of a bad lot, and at least he'll try to be good to her for however long she wants him. He ignores how much that sounds like rationalizing away something he knows is wrong, and brushes his thumb over her cheek.
"You may have a point."
She nods and smiles, and it's like the sun's come up. "Told you." She leans in and kisses him again, and this time, he kisses her back. The first touch of her tongue against his sets a shock of heat rushing through him.
"This is gonna get out of hand real quick, little albatross," he murmurs when he breaks the kiss, and she giggles against his mouth.
"I hope so."
He shakes his head. "You tell me if I step out of line, dong ma?"
"Want you to." She lies back and pulls him on top of her, cradling him between her thighs. "Want you to want me, no lines left between us, just a single vector."
And Mal finds he can't say no to that.
end
***
Offering and Rebuff
I could love you
as dry roots love rain.
I could hold you
as branches in the wind
brandish petals.
Forgive me for speaking
so soon.
::
Let your heart look
on white sea spray
and be lonely.
Love is a fool star.
You and a ring of stars
may mention my name
and then forget me.
Love is a fool star.
::
Carl Sandburg
***
Feedback is adored.
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: Five ways Malcolm Reynolds didn't have sex with members of his crew.
Rating: Adult
Pairings: Mal/Inara, Mal/Jayne, Mal/Kaylee, Mal/Zoe, Mal/River
Spoilers: all the way through the movie
Disclaimer: It's all Joss's, baby.
Archive: Achromatic.
Feedback: Makes my day
Notes: Thanks to leadensky and luzdeestrellas for betaing; all mistakes are mine. Thanks to hwmitzy for letting me force her to read bits of it on AIM as I wrote. Title and section headers from Offering and Rebuff by Carl Sandburg.
Word count: 2,840
Date: February 10, 2006
~*~
Love is a fool star
i. I could love you
as dry roots love rain.
He's nearly to his bunk -- won't spend the night in the infirmary if he don't have to -- when Inara finds him.
"Stubborn húndàn," she says, but her tone lacks its usual edge and her hands are gentle as she drapes his arm over her shoulders. She ain't near tall or strong enough to really be much use, but she's soft and warm and she smells nice. Mal can't help but lean a little bit on her, still a little woozy from the lack of oxygen and the being shot. He brushes his hand along the wall, Serenity's cool metal on one side of him, the warmth of Inara's body on the other, two of the women he loves holding him up, keeping him strong.
He follows her down into his bunk, clinging tightly to the ladder so he doesn't fall and send them both crashing to the floor. Trip seems twice as long as it ought to, his head light as a balloon, and he starts to wonder if the whole thing is a dream, if he's still passed out on the bridge and this is the last thing his brain could conjure before he dies.
He don't think he minds so much if it is.
She pushes him down onto the bed, and eases open his shirt, blood red nails flicking quickly over the buttons.
"Mal, Mal, Mal," she whispers, as if his name is some kind of mantra and she's meditating on him like he's the road to nirvana.
He kind of likes that thought. Likes the feel of her hands, too, gentle against his chest, brushing above and below the white bandages the doc wrapped him in.
"You stupid man," she mutters, and that sounds more like the Inara he's used to, makes him sure she knows who she's with, but then her lips, those lush, red lips he's been dreaming of for the past year, press against his and she's kissing him, no art in it at all, just soft heat and ragged breathing. She tastes of tea and lipstick and desire, better than anything he's ever imagined, and he's imagined a lot in the year she's been renting his shuttle.
He wraps his arms around her, ignoring the stinging pain, and tangles one hand in her hair, which is softer even than the silk she's wearing.
"I got shot," he says when she pulls back.
"You could have died," she answers, her nails bright against his bloodless skin, the stark white bandages. "You could have-- And then we'd never have-- You stupid, stupid man."
Tears cling to her lashes like jewels; the shimmer makes her eyes seem even bigger, softer. He's like to drown in those eyes, and he don't mind at all. He reaches up, brushes her tears away with his thumb, so careful in the way he touches her, as if she might realize what she's doing and think better of it. Then he puts his thumb in his mouth and tastes the tears she's crying for him, more rare and precious than rain in the desert. The salt on his tongue makes it real.
He tries to focus, whisper something sweet to her, but the words won't come. It don't matter anyway. She's kissing him again, and they don't need words to speak.
She moves over him like a blessing, heat and need and pleasure all tangled up until the tension in him shatters and he comes, the black behind his eyelids studded with stars. It's almost enough to make him believe in God again.
When she climaxes, hot and tight around him, she sighs his name, so soft he ain't even sure he heard it, but when he's drifting off to sleep afterward, she says it again, her mouth against his neck, leaving traces of lipstick on his skin. In the morning, the red marks look like wounds he doesn't want to heal, and he hesitates before washing them away.
*
ii. Forgive me for speaking
so soon.
Jayne's real contrite after what happened on Ariel. Makes him almost pleasant to be around, 'specially when he's down on his knees, begging for forgiveness, that smart mouth stretched tight and hot 'round Mal's cock instead of snitching to the Feds.
Truth be told, Mal's more angry with himself than he is with Jayne. Man can't help being who and what he is -- Mal knows that better than anyone. But somewhere in the past few months, he'd forgotten, started thinking maybe Jayne could be something more. He'd forgotten he'd stopped believing anyone could be.
Jayne swirls his tongue over the head, and Mal lets out a low moan, one hand gripping the edge of his desk, the other tightening in Jayne's short hair, fingers digging into his scalp. Jayne growls in response, and the vibrations make Mal shiver, the edges of his vision going white.
Jayne ain't never seemed sly to Mal, but he reckons he's not the best judge of these things, 'cause he's never seemed sly his own self, and yet here they are, Jayne with Mal's cock in his mouth and one big, warm hand wrapped around the base, the other shoved down his own pants and pulling hard.
If this is how Jayne wants to make amends, Mal ain't gonna raise a fuss, though he knows it's wrong to take advantage. Maybe that's why it feels so good. Jayne is sloppy and a little rough, but the slide of his lips sends sparks up Mal's spine, and he can't help thrusting into the wet heat of his mouth. Mal's going to come, but he doesn't give any warning, just grabs hold of Jayne's shoulder and shoots his wad. Jayne swallows, grimacing, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand when he's done.
Mal sags against the desk, legs still shaking, as Jayne stands, dark stain spreading across the front of his pants. Jayne meets his eyes square, and Mal gives him a little nod.
"Well, that was... Don't you have work to be doing?"
"Finished it. Even cleaned out the septic vat this morning."
"Good, good." There don't seem anything else to say, and Mal sighs in relief when Jayne scrambles up the ladder.
In the morning, they act like it never happened, but Jayne seems a mite less jumpy, which could be a good thing. Mal ain't sure.
Next time they're planetside, Jayne comes back to Serenity with a crate of apples, all juicy, red-gold and sweet, as an offering to the crew. Mal wants to laugh, but he don't think Jayne would get the joke.
*
iii. I could hold you
as branches in the wind
brandish petals.
Mal keeps a close eye on Kaylee after their run-in with Early. He don't know exactly what happened -- she won't say -- but he has a pretty good idea of what a man like that would threaten to do to a girl like her. It's taken some of the shine from her smile, and for that, more than anything, Mal is glad of the gruesome death he's sent the man to.
One night, when the bruises around her wrists have begun to fade, but there are still circles under her eyes too often for comfort, he finds her camped out in the common area, huddled beneath one of the tatty old blankets he'd bought second-hand when he first outfitted the ship.
He sits down in the chair next to her, sinking into the soft cushions, and opens his arms. "C'mere."
She hesitates for a second, then unfolds herself from where she's sitting and curls up in his lap. She's wearing nothing but a faded yellow t-shirt so worn from washing he can almost see through it; it's as soft against his fingers as the bare skin beneath it, which he tries hard not to notice. He almost succeeds. He wraps his arms around her and breathes her in -- soap and sweat and engine grease -- and she squirms a little, getting comfortable.
"Ain't nobody gonna hurt you," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple, but they both know it's a lie -- she's already been hurt too often while in his care. He tries not to tell those kinds of lies anymore -- they just end up adding insult to inevitable injury -- but she's pressed so close he can feel her trembling in his bones, and this is Kaylee, and there ain't no one who should raise their voice or hand to her, let alone threaten her the way Early did. It makes him sick to think on it, that it happened on his boat. That it happened at all.
"Cap'n," she says, twisting to look at him, and he can feel her breath on his lips, her hands tightening on his shoulders. "Mal," she says, and that startles him, because he can't remember the last time she called him by name, "please."
He ain't sure, at first, what she's asking for, but she makes it all too clear when she kisses him, mouth open and desperate against his, body shifting so he's cradled between her thighs, her knees digging into the cushion by his hips.
He runs his hands up her arms -- she feels fragile as a bird, like she'll break under his touch -- and curls his fingers around her shoulders, pulling her back, ready with all the reasons why this is a bad idea. His words die on his lips at the dark, lonesome look in her eyes, the need he sees there, deeper than lust.
Her hands shake a mite as she unbuttons his pants and curls her fingers round him, lower lip half-caught between her teeth in concentration, like he's some kind of new engine she's learning to love. The sigh she makes when he's deep inside of her, the way she holds his gaze, warm and trustful, makes his chest ache. She's a little frantic, a little wild, like she wants to climb inside his skin, and he holds her close, letting her set the pace. He slips his hands up beneath her t-shirt, rubbing her back, cupping her breasts, murmuring, "It's all right, Kaylee, I got you, I'm right here," against her neck, her cheek, her lips.
He kisses her tenderly, swallowing the soft choked cries she makes when she comes, and follows her over the edge, bright hot pleasure pulsing through him. She slumps against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and he keeps her cradled against his chest, shifting only long enough to grab for the blanket and tuck it around them.
He's not sure what time it is when he wakes up, but it's still early enough they can both sneak back to their bunks with no one the wiser. He shakes her awake gently, brushes his thumb over her cheek as she opens her eyes.
"You okay?"
"Shiny, Cap'n," she answers, and her smile blooms like a daisy in spring sunlight, for the moment free from shadows.
*
iv. Let your heart look
on white sea spray
and be lonely.
He'd wondered if she'd come for him, expected it almost, wanted it, if he was being honest -- wanted the burn of her hatred, maybe the sharp jolt of her fist to his jaw, or the silent slide of her knife 'twixt his ribs, or a bullet in the brainpan if she was feeling particularly vengeful.
Either way, it would have been easier than this.
He never saw this coming, and that might be what bothers him most.
She sinks down onto him, hot and slick and tight, and his body responds to her, has always responded to her, years of silent communication via head tilts and knowing glances training him to her orders as much as the war trained her to his.
She fucks him hard and silent, her hands tight on his shoulders, nails raking down his chest, clenching her muscles around him until his eyes roll back in his head and the 'verse explodes in white light, white heat, best he's ever had, edged with every ounce of pain he's ever caused her, paid back with interest. He deserves the pain, at least, wishes he could take on all her pain, give her peace in return.
But he can't even tell if she comes -- her body tightens around him and she lets loose a low growl, but the tension never leaves her shoulders and the desolation never leaves her eyes. He used to be able to read her as easily as the angle of the sun, the curve of the earth. Used to know what she was going to say before she'd finished thinking it, where she was going to land before she'd taken a step. Now, it's all static on the line -- he's more directionless than he's ever been before, and what little comfort he can offer will never be near enough.
He never knows when she'll grab him in the corridor and pull him against her, one long leg hooked around his hip while agile fingers undo his belt and fly, or follow him down into his bunk and shove him to the floor to fuck in some grotesque parody of romance, knowing he'll never raise a hand to stop her.
She doesn't speak, but then, she doesn't have to, because every roll and thrust of their hips burns the accusations into his skin, his soul. He led her into hell again, and this time, he don't know how to lead her back out, so he'll live with the consequences as long as she lets him.
*
v. You and a ring of stars
may mention my name
and then forget me.
River slips into the empty spaces, fills them up somehow, and it's easier to be on the bridge when she's there next to him, long dark hair shining around her pale face. She glows when she flies, like she's a star herself, and he has to stop himself from reaching out and touching her, knowing he'll get burned. Whenever she catches him, she glances over with a smug smile and he curses, but sometimes he can't help himself.
It's even worse when he starts dreaming of her, of lying between smooth pale thighs and tangling his hands in silky black hair, pressing kisses to soft skin and full lips.
He wakes with a jolt to see her at the foot of the ladder.
"Want to burn up with you," she says, walking towards the bed.
"River, you're a beautiful girl," he says, pulling the covers up like a schoolmarm faced with an unexpected nighttime caller, "but don't go thinking on what you might find in my head. It's just dreams, the likes of which any man'd have about a pretty girl."
"You don't dream of Kaylee, or Zoe."
"Gorrammit, girl, you oughtn't go poking about in a man's dreams."
"They're my dreams too," she answers, "and my thoughts, my feelings." She sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out one white hand to cup his cheek, leans forward to press full pink lips to his, feather-light. He can feel the heat of her body through the flimsy dress she wears, see the outline of her breasts and legs. He curls his hand into a fist at his side, resisting the urge to trace the lines of her body.
He settles for brushing her hair back; she's got sparkly beads braided through it, glimmering like stars in the darkness.
She wraps her fingers around his wrist, and smiles at the way his pulse jumps at the touch.
"You can't lie to me," she says, gently tugging the covers down with her other hand, laying her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. "I know you want me. Can feel you singing in my blood."
"Wanting ain't having." He doesn't know why he's trying to argue logic with her -- it's a fight he can't win. But then, he seems to specialize in those.
"You don't know how to have what you want," she answers. "Offering it to you on a silver platter, and you just say no, like a nuòfu, too afraid to take a chance--"
"Don't want to hurt you."
"Chûnrén. You're hurting me now."
He knows it's probably just a crush, but she ain't got many choices; he's the best of a bad lot, and at least he'll try to be good to her for however long she wants him. He ignores how much that sounds like rationalizing away something he knows is wrong, and brushes his thumb over her cheek.
"You may have a point."
She nods and smiles, and it's like the sun's come up. "Told you." She leans in and kisses him again, and this time, he kisses her back. The first touch of her tongue against his sets a shock of heat rushing through him.
"This is gonna get out of hand real quick, little albatross," he murmurs when he breaks the kiss, and she giggles against his mouth.
"I hope so."
He shakes his head. "You tell me if I step out of line, dong ma?"
"Want you to." She lies back and pulls him on top of her, cradling him between her thighs. "Want you to want me, no lines left between us, just a single vector."
And Mal finds he can't say no to that.
end
***
Offering and Rebuff
I could love you
as dry roots love rain.
I could hold you
as branches in the wind
brandish petals.
Forgive me for speaking
so soon.
::
Let your heart look
on white sea spray
and be lonely.
Love is a fool star.
You and a ring of stars
may mention my name
and then forget me.
Love is a fool star.
::
Carl Sandburg
***
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