Fic: Mal and River get naughty (Firefly, River/Mal, R)
Ah, Porn Battle, how I love thee. Though there weren't nearly enough Firefly entries this year, sadly. But here are the two I wrote; gotta give my OTP some love at any opportunity!
Title: The Scars I Showed You
Rating: R
Words: 630
Summary: Sometimes he thinks she's like smoke, way she slips in and out of his bed and don't leave a trace of it behind in the morning.
Notes: Prompt words used were surprise, reading, understand, peace; set sometime after Serenity.
The Scars I Showed You
Sometimes he thinks she's like smoke, way she slips in and out of his bed and don't leave a trace of it behind in the morning but her scent in the blankets and on his fingers.
Ain't nothing ephemeral about the way she is in the darkness though, the way she presses him down into the mattress and rocks her hips against his, the gasps that rise up when he buries his fingers inside her, the breathy little sounds she makes when she comes, the slick heat of her body around his. That's all pretty gorram solid in Mal's mind, even if he can hardly remember how it started and doesn't have the least interest in predicting how it'll end.
Maybe a better man would've sent her away first night she crawled into his bunk, trembling like a leaf, pressing herself up against him in the bed like he was the only sure and certain thing in her world. A better man definitely would've stopped her when she kissed him, not light and sweet like the innocent little thing he knew she had to be, but hard and urgent, moaning into his mouth when his fumbling hands brushed up against her breasts. Wasn't till then that his thick head realized it wasn't fear that had her shivering against him, but desire, a theory confirmed when she took hold of his hands and showed him exactly where she wanted them.
Still surprises him somehow, the way she always comes back for more, and yet it don't at the same time; he's no stranger to wanting things he ain't supposed to have, nor to knowing what it's like to be so far gone there doesn't seem much point in wanting anything at all, when there's nothing more than a raggedy bit of hope standing between you and oblivion.
Maybe that's why they fit together so well, why the little hollows alongside her hipbones are perfectly filled by his thumbs, why his fingers curled up inside her and his tongue between her legs makes her cry out, why her rhythm always keeps perfect pace with his. They always understood each other's heads full well, two broken people somehow giving one another enough faith to get by on, something worth believing in and struggling for out here in the cold black. And if they've got their heads aligned, why not their bodies too?
He actually goes and thinks it one night, a stray bit of thought flying out as she lowers herself onto him, feeling better than anything in the 'verse has a right to, thinks, 'this is how we're meant to be, darlin',' and he'd never be fool enough to say it out loud, but times like this it's easy to forget she don't need her ears to hear.
“It's a good theory,” she says, rolling her hips quick and sharp, making him groan. “But confirmation will require more testing.”
Still, she smiles, and bends down to kiss him, her hair falling like a shadow all around them. Must not have been that bad of a thought after all, cause next morning she's still there when he wakes up, which is a thing that's never happened before.
Not like smoke at all, he decides, looking at her there all solid and real and twisted up in his sheets. More like her namesake, like water, rising up all around him and washing over him bit by bit, like a tide coming in to pull him out to sea.
When her eyes open, she smiles, looking at him like he's the only star in her sky, and when she reaches for him, he lets himself be taken in, thinking that here, it's no bad thing to drown.
***
Title: Almost Anything to You
Rating: R
Words: 762
Summary: River knows just how to get what she wants out of her Captain.
Notes: Prompt words used were pilot, control, games; set sometime after Serenity.
Almost Anything to You
Sometimes she disobeys Captain's orders, goading him on purpose, like when she flies blind through a meteor storm (she can see in the dark), a dance of metal and rock and adrenaline in the bloodstream.
“You got an explanation for that?” he demands once they're clear, white-knuckle grip on the back of her seat finally released, the bridge strung taut with tension.
All her movements are languid, unhurried, like a cat (like a dancer, full of grace) when she turns her chair and stretches, and his eyes are bright with fury, but she doesn't miss the way they trace the lines of her body.
“I knew I could do it,” she says, shrugging. “And you couldn't. Fear clouds the mind, slows reflexes. It's inefficient.”
“Jian gui, woman, are you callin' me a coward?” His eyes are narrowed; anger, yes, she judges, and something else behind it, the beast made up of adrenaline and the relief of living, so she pushes just a bit harder.
“A lack of balls, as Jayne would phrase it,” she says, rising from her chair, and of course he doesn't back down an inch, not him (like iron, like steel), so she finds it easy to reach down, to make the assessment for herself, aided considerably by the tightness of his pants. “Although the evidence is contradictory.”
His hand goes around her wrist so fast she'd have had a hard time avoiding it even if she'd desired (playing right into the snare), and he swears fluently, capturing her other hand for good measure and even managing to teach her a new bit of Mandarin in the process. “River-” he starts.
“Captain,” she challenges in return, moving even closer, pressing one thigh between his legs, feeling a certain delicious hardness come up against her hip.
He takes a sharp breath, his hands on her wrists so tight she wonders if they'll bruise (still couldn't hold her, not without permission), and she watches the thoughts behind his eyes darken, touching off a tight coil of want in her belly.
“You really wanna push me, darlin'?” he asks, deceptively soft, moving forward slowly, pushing her back until her shoulders hit the wall. The cold of the metal makes her shiver, or maybe it's the way his hand leaves her wrist, vanishing under the flowered world of her skirt until she can feel him nudge aside her underwear and slide the tips of his fingers along the wetness there. “This what you wanted? Thought maybe if you got me worked up enough, I'd be willin' to forget all that's right and proper?” He's got a finger poised right at her entrance now, his thumb brushing over her clit, and every muscle in her body's tensed, every breath an effort not to lose herself before it's begun.
He flicks his thumb, and watches her gasp; she knows the look in his eyes (arrogance, well-earned), but he doesn't let her see it for long, leaning in to whisper in her ear instead. “River, darlin', all you had to do was ask.” His fingers push inside her then, just like she wanted, and she arches away from the wall, into his hand; does her best to remain silent, even as he brings her closer and closer to her peak.
He knows her too well though (always has, reads the reader), withdraws his fingers at the inopportune moment and pulls back enough to meet her fevered eyes. “Well, ain't you gonna ask?”
She kisses him, hard and fierce, biting at his lip briefly as punishment. “The Captain is meant to give the orders,” she points out.
The expression on his face is faintly amused now (blending with the dark, making Mal), and he reaches under her skirt again, tugging her underwear down to fall around her ankles.
“That I am,” he says, threading his hand through her hair, pulling her head back just enough to give him access to kiss her throat. “So ask.”
She waits until he's slid the straps of her dress down her shoulders, until he's got one hand back between her legs and one playing with her nipple, before she finally gives in, finally hisses out what he wants to hear. “Fuck me, Mal.”
Her last coherent thought, as she wraps her legs around him, feels him enter into her like coming home, is spent wondering how else she might defy him, and start their game again.
Title: The Scars I Showed You
Rating: R
Words: 630
Summary: Sometimes he thinks she's like smoke, way she slips in and out of his bed and don't leave a trace of it behind in the morning.
Notes: Prompt words used were surprise, reading, understand, peace; set sometime after Serenity.
The Scars I Showed You
Sometimes he thinks she's like smoke, way she slips in and out of his bed and don't leave a trace of it behind in the morning but her scent in the blankets and on his fingers.
Ain't nothing ephemeral about the way she is in the darkness though, the way she presses him down into the mattress and rocks her hips against his, the gasps that rise up when he buries his fingers inside her, the breathy little sounds she makes when she comes, the slick heat of her body around his. That's all pretty gorram solid in Mal's mind, even if he can hardly remember how it started and doesn't have the least interest in predicting how it'll end.
Maybe a better man would've sent her away first night she crawled into his bunk, trembling like a leaf, pressing herself up against him in the bed like he was the only sure and certain thing in her world. A better man definitely would've stopped her when she kissed him, not light and sweet like the innocent little thing he knew she had to be, but hard and urgent, moaning into his mouth when his fumbling hands brushed up against her breasts. Wasn't till then that his thick head realized it wasn't fear that had her shivering against him, but desire, a theory confirmed when she took hold of his hands and showed him exactly where she wanted them.
Still surprises him somehow, the way she always comes back for more, and yet it don't at the same time; he's no stranger to wanting things he ain't supposed to have, nor to knowing what it's like to be so far gone there doesn't seem much point in wanting anything at all, when there's nothing more than a raggedy bit of hope standing between you and oblivion.
Maybe that's why they fit together so well, why the little hollows alongside her hipbones are perfectly filled by his thumbs, why his fingers curled up inside her and his tongue between her legs makes her cry out, why her rhythm always keeps perfect pace with his. They always understood each other's heads full well, two broken people somehow giving one another enough faith to get by on, something worth believing in and struggling for out here in the cold black. And if they've got their heads aligned, why not their bodies too?
He actually goes and thinks it one night, a stray bit of thought flying out as she lowers herself onto him, feeling better than anything in the 'verse has a right to, thinks, 'this is how we're meant to be, darlin',' and he'd never be fool enough to say it out loud, but times like this it's easy to forget she don't need her ears to hear.
“It's a good theory,” she says, rolling her hips quick and sharp, making him groan. “But confirmation will require more testing.”
Still, she smiles, and bends down to kiss him, her hair falling like a shadow all around them. Must not have been that bad of a thought after all, cause next morning she's still there when he wakes up, which is a thing that's never happened before.
Not like smoke at all, he decides, looking at her there all solid and real and twisted up in his sheets. More like her namesake, like water, rising up all around him and washing over him bit by bit, like a tide coming in to pull him out to sea.
When her eyes open, she smiles, looking at him like he's the only star in her sky, and when she reaches for him, he lets himself be taken in, thinking that here, it's no bad thing to drown.
***
Title: Almost Anything to You
Rating: R
Words: 762
Summary: River knows just how to get what she wants out of her Captain.
Notes: Prompt words used were pilot, control, games; set sometime after Serenity.
Almost Anything to You
Sometimes she disobeys Captain's orders, goading him on purpose, like when she flies blind through a meteor storm (she can see in the dark), a dance of metal and rock and adrenaline in the bloodstream.
“You got an explanation for that?” he demands once they're clear, white-knuckle grip on the back of her seat finally released, the bridge strung taut with tension.
All her movements are languid, unhurried, like a cat (like a dancer, full of grace) when she turns her chair and stretches, and his eyes are bright with fury, but she doesn't miss the way they trace the lines of her body.
“I knew I could do it,” she says, shrugging. “And you couldn't. Fear clouds the mind, slows reflexes. It's inefficient.”
“Jian gui, woman, are you callin' me a coward?” His eyes are narrowed; anger, yes, she judges, and something else behind it, the beast made up of adrenaline and the relief of living, so she pushes just a bit harder.
“A lack of balls, as Jayne would phrase it,” she says, rising from her chair, and of course he doesn't back down an inch, not him (like iron, like steel), so she finds it easy to reach down, to make the assessment for herself, aided considerably by the tightness of his pants. “Although the evidence is contradictory.”
His hand goes around her wrist so fast she'd have had a hard time avoiding it even if she'd desired (playing right into the snare), and he swears fluently, capturing her other hand for good measure and even managing to teach her a new bit of Mandarin in the process. “River-” he starts.
“Captain,” she challenges in return, moving even closer, pressing one thigh between his legs, feeling a certain delicious hardness come up against her hip.
He takes a sharp breath, his hands on her wrists so tight she wonders if they'll bruise (still couldn't hold her, not without permission), and she watches the thoughts behind his eyes darken, touching off a tight coil of want in her belly.
“You really wanna push me, darlin'?” he asks, deceptively soft, moving forward slowly, pushing her back until her shoulders hit the wall. The cold of the metal makes her shiver, or maybe it's the way his hand leaves her wrist, vanishing under the flowered world of her skirt until she can feel him nudge aside her underwear and slide the tips of his fingers along the wetness there. “This what you wanted? Thought maybe if you got me worked up enough, I'd be willin' to forget all that's right and proper?” He's got a finger poised right at her entrance now, his thumb brushing over her clit, and every muscle in her body's tensed, every breath an effort not to lose herself before it's begun.
He flicks his thumb, and watches her gasp; she knows the look in his eyes (arrogance, well-earned), but he doesn't let her see it for long, leaning in to whisper in her ear instead. “River, darlin', all you had to do was ask.” His fingers push inside her then, just like she wanted, and she arches away from the wall, into his hand; does her best to remain silent, even as he brings her closer and closer to her peak.
He knows her too well though (always has, reads the reader), withdraws his fingers at the inopportune moment and pulls back enough to meet her fevered eyes. “Well, ain't you gonna ask?”
She kisses him, hard and fierce, biting at his lip briefly as punishment. “The Captain is meant to give the orders,” she points out.
The expression on his face is faintly amused now (blending with the dark, making Mal), and he reaches under her skirt again, tugging her underwear down to fall around her ankles.
“That I am,” he says, threading his hand through her hair, pulling her head back just enough to give him access to kiss her throat. “So ask.”
She waits until he's slid the straps of her dress down her shoulders, until he's got one hand back between her legs and one playing with her nipple, before she finally gives in, finally hisses out what he wants to hear. “Fuck me, Mal.”
Her last coherent thought, as she wraps her legs around him, feels him enter into her like coming home, is spent wondering how else she might defy him, and start their game again.