Firefly - Swept Off His Feet
Title: Swept Off His Feet
Rating: R
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: Mal's on his back on the floor and River's on top. He tries to resist, but it's futile.
Author's note: When real life feels overwhelmingly difficult, what's a girl to do for distraction? Possibly write indulgence fic, and since it's me, that means UST and a female character who, well, sweeps her man off his feet. Set more than a year after the movie. Many thanks to my wonderful beta geekmama.
Swept Off His Feet
by Hereswith
She doesn’t struggle to avoid his grasp, this capture, he’s wrapped around her and he’s warm, she allows it a long moment before she finally moves, wrenching free. But when he crashes to the floor, he isn’t alone, she follows, ending up where she planned. On top of him.
She says, “I won.”
“That you did. Again,” Mal replies, grimacing. “Don’t seem fair, seeing as you’ve a special aptitude for it.”
She props her arms on his chest and her chin on her arms, a claiming of space, her grin wide-open. “I can kill a man with one hand.”
“It’s a mite creepifying,” he says, barely blinking at her comment, “but leastways you ain’t defenceless if’n things go south.” His lips lift at the corners. “You gonna get off me or what?”
“Not sure.” She grows serious of a sudden. Fiddles with a suspender strap. “I’m comfortable here.”
His heart gives a great, big leap, pounding into her palm, and his amusement fades. “We’ve been over this, darlin’.”
“You have been over it,” she corrects, and pushes herself up straight, straddling him. Since he’s shed his gunbelt, there’s no impediment, the smooth fabric of his pants brushes against her thighs, she settles in position and it’s everything, all it takes. His body’s response is immediate, betraying an eagerness he consciously won’t admit, and she swallows, dry-mouthed and breathy. “I can feel you.”
He attempts to rise, embarrassment tingeing his features, and she bends forward to hold him in place. She’s lighter, smaller, but she’s River, he falls back flat, and she remains resting on her hands and knees above him. The neckline of her dress slips down, and he’s aware of it, so preoccupied with not-looking that he doesn’t even glance, but she waits for it, waits, and then, with jolting abruptness, he does. She watches him watching her, staring at the glimpse of slight curves revealed, his expression taut, and the shiver is strong, it arches her spine.
“Our last job, on Santo,” she says, causing a break in the silence. “She wanted you, the woman who hired us, walked her circles around you. You could have spent the night with her. But you didn’t. Why?”
His gaze snaps to hers. “Might be I didn’t fancy her, plain as that,” he mutters, nettle-stung. “Are you keeping as close tabs on Jayne as you do on me?”
She gives him a glare, a ‘don’t be stupid’. “His sex life doesn’t interest me.”
“And mine shouldn’t,” he replies. “Guĭ, this is-”
“Yes,” she states, like the cut-off sentence isn’t a part, but the whole. “It is.”
She knows his reasons from the inside out, the excuses urged in defence, but this, the rhythm and logic of it, them, her fault lines and his raggedy edges, it’s something he’s helpless to deny, no matter that he tries. Shifting her weight, she rubs against him, her breasts and her hips, the female bits, the friction of their clothes both nuisance and heightened sensation. He’s hard for her, between her legs, his thoughts a white-bright turmoil, and when a certain thrust and roll wrings a low, shuddery sound from him, heat floods her through, but it isn’t enough.
“I need to hear it,” she prompts. “Was it because of me?”
“How am I s’posed to answer that?” His voice is rough, the gravel of old roads, worn with the sun. “I’m damned either way.”
“Never,” she assures him. “I will save you. Take you and make you mine.” And it’s lilting, hushed, but fiercer for it, potent, like a binding, a promise. “Trust me.”
His left hand comes up, the impulse might have been to stop her, but it changes at first contact, his knuckles graze over her cheek, skin on skin and she closes her eyes, his fingers curl into her hair. “I’ve got you mannin’ the controls of this boat,” he manages. “Trusting you ain’t a problem.”
“Then let me. I’d be gentle.” She nuzzles her face into his shirt, red-brown cotton, rounded buttons and folded seams, the shape, ridges of his ribcage beneath. Kisses him through the material, leaving deliberate, damp marks as hints of the possible. “Wouldn’t hurt you for the ‘verse.”
His breath hitches, runs aground on emotion. “More worried I’d hurt you.” She stills, arrested, then raises her head, and, realising the implications, he hurries to explain, “That ain’t to say I’m considering it.”
“Liar,” she replies, a smile forming. “I don’t believe you.”
Scowling, he renews his efforts to dislodge her. This time she doesn’t resist it, but slides to the floor next to him, and he awkwardly sits. He’s flushed, panting with the strain of her assault, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his neck.
“Cold water,” she says, in a practical tone, though her smile turns slow. “That will make it better.”
“Will it now?” He eyes her darkly, his lashes half-lowered. “Little witch.”
“I can read your mind, but I haven’t meddled with it,” she points out, a pull in the pit of her stomach, almost gravitational. “I don’t put the images of me there, or the dreams. You do that on your own.” He groans, pressing his palm to his forehead, like he would prevent it by physical means, when other methods fail, and she pats his shoulder, confiding, “It’s the same for me.”
She caresses his sleeve-clad arm, it’s the natural progression, down past the crook of his elbow and he says, “River,” but the protest is surface thin, a planet’s crust, the core of it is molten.
“Tell me no.” Ghosting her fingertips back and forth along his wrist, just below the cuff. “Tell me no and mean it.”
It shouldn’t be difficult, not if he’s decided, she offers him a loophole and escape, but he hesitates, his attention as caught by her touch as hers by the touching, even though it’s slight, the merest teasing, or maybe because of it. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, concentrated on him, and traces around the heel of his thumb, over the intricate network of creases and up his fingers, one by one, a sinuous path of dips and rises.
“Unless,” she says, “you can’t.”
He snatches his hand away from hers, but it’s too late for it to count, to outweigh the rest, and he doesn’t speak the magical word. Instead, he grinds out, “You won’t give an inch, will you?”
She shrugs. “I’m very determined.”
“That’s the least of it. More like I’m getting steamrolled,” he replies. “Wŏ de mā. You’re the oddest girl, River Tam.”
“Young woman,” she reminds him. “Besides, you like me, Malcolm Reynolds. Oddness and all. You’ve said so.”
“Well, yeah.” He shakes his head, sighs and repeats, “Steamrolled, all right.”
“You brood far too much,” she continues. His reticence is what she expected, she didn’t imagine the issue would be resolved on the spot, on this floor, though that, to have him naked like she had him clothed, is a bone-deep yearning. “Would be easier if you just accepted it.”
“And you’re convinced I will?”
“Sooner or later.” She swoops in, assassin-swift and dancer-lithe, bringing her mouth to where his lower jaw meets his skull, the temporomandibular joint, and she borrows a sentiment of Jayne’s for her purpose, but the twist of it is hers. “I’ll be in my bunk.” A pause and a beat. “Thinking of you.”
She plants a single kiss near his ear, soft as anything, then stands, and he doesn’t mistake her, he comprehends, his reaction a surge that carries her high as she goes. It won’t happen between them today, probably not tomorrow, but she’s made her message clear, painted a sweeping, bold-stroked calligraphy upon him, so he’ll remember.
So he won’t be able to forget.
Rating: R
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: Mal's on his back on the floor and River's on top. He tries to resist, but it's futile.
Author's note: When real life feels overwhelmingly difficult, what's a girl to do for distraction? Possibly write indulgence fic, and since it's me, that means UST and a female character who, well, sweeps her man off his feet. Set more than a year after the movie. Many thanks to my wonderful beta geekmama.
Swept Off His Feet
by Hereswith
She doesn’t struggle to avoid his grasp, this capture, he’s wrapped around her and he’s warm, she allows it a long moment before she finally moves, wrenching free. But when he crashes to the floor, he isn’t alone, she follows, ending up where she planned. On top of him.
She says, “I won.”
“That you did. Again,” Mal replies, grimacing. “Don’t seem fair, seeing as you’ve a special aptitude for it.”
She props her arms on his chest and her chin on her arms, a claiming of space, her grin wide-open. “I can kill a man with one hand.”
“It’s a mite creepifying,” he says, barely blinking at her comment, “but leastways you ain’t defenceless if’n things go south.” His lips lift at the corners. “You gonna get off me or what?”
“Not sure.” She grows serious of a sudden. Fiddles with a suspender strap. “I’m comfortable here.”
His heart gives a great, big leap, pounding into her palm, and his amusement fades. “We’ve been over this, darlin’.”
“You have been over it,” she corrects, and pushes herself up straight, straddling him. Since he’s shed his gunbelt, there’s no impediment, the smooth fabric of his pants brushes against her thighs, she settles in position and it’s everything, all it takes. His body’s response is immediate, betraying an eagerness he consciously won’t admit, and she swallows, dry-mouthed and breathy. “I can feel you.”
He attempts to rise, embarrassment tingeing his features, and she bends forward to hold him in place. She’s lighter, smaller, but she’s River, he falls back flat, and she remains resting on her hands and knees above him. The neckline of her dress slips down, and he’s aware of it, so preoccupied with not-looking that he doesn’t even glance, but she waits for it, waits, and then, with jolting abruptness, he does. She watches him watching her, staring at the glimpse of slight curves revealed, his expression taut, and the shiver is strong, it arches her spine.
“Our last job, on Santo,” she says, causing a break in the silence. “She wanted you, the woman who hired us, walked her circles around you. You could have spent the night with her. But you didn’t. Why?”
His gaze snaps to hers. “Might be I didn’t fancy her, plain as that,” he mutters, nettle-stung. “Are you keeping as close tabs on Jayne as you do on me?”
She gives him a glare, a ‘don’t be stupid’. “His sex life doesn’t interest me.”
“And mine shouldn’t,” he replies. “Guĭ, this is-”
“Yes,” she states, like the cut-off sentence isn’t a part, but the whole. “It is.”
She knows his reasons from the inside out, the excuses urged in defence, but this, the rhythm and logic of it, them, her fault lines and his raggedy edges, it’s something he’s helpless to deny, no matter that he tries. Shifting her weight, she rubs against him, her breasts and her hips, the female bits, the friction of their clothes both nuisance and heightened sensation. He’s hard for her, between her legs, his thoughts a white-bright turmoil, and when a certain thrust and roll wrings a low, shuddery sound from him, heat floods her through, but it isn’t enough.
“I need to hear it,” she prompts. “Was it because of me?”
“How am I s’posed to answer that?” His voice is rough, the gravel of old roads, worn with the sun. “I’m damned either way.”
“Never,” she assures him. “I will save you. Take you and make you mine.” And it’s lilting, hushed, but fiercer for it, potent, like a binding, a promise. “Trust me.”
His left hand comes up, the impulse might have been to stop her, but it changes at first contact, his knuckles graze over her cheek, skin on skin and she closes her eyes, his fingers curl into her hair. “I’ve got you mannin’ the controls of this boat,” he manages. “Trusting you ain’t a problem.”
“Then let me. I’d be gentle.” She nuzzles her face into his shirt, red-brown cotton, rounded buttons and folded seams, the shape, ridges of his ribcage beneath. Kisses him through the material, leaving deliberate, damp marks as hints of the possible. “Wouldn’t hurt you for the ‘verse.”
His breath hitches, runs aground on emotion. “More worried I’d hurt you.” She stills, arrested, then raises her head, and, realising the implications, he hurries to explain, “That ain’t to say I’m considering it.”
“Liar,” she replies, a smile forming. “I don’t believe you.”
Scowling, he renews his efforts to dislodge her. This time she doesn’t resist it, but slides to the floor next to him, and he awkwardly sits. He’s flushed, panting with the strain of her assault, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his neck.
“Cold water,” she says, in a practical tone, though her smile turns slow. “That will make it better.”
“Will it now?” He eyes her darkly, his lashes half-lowered. “Little witch.”
“I can read your mind, but I haven’t meddled with it,” she points out, a pull in the pit of her stomach, almost gravitational. “I don’t put the images of me there, or the dreams. You do that on your own.” He groans, pressing his palm to his forehead, like he would prevent it by physical means, when other methods fail, and she pats his shoulder, confiding, “It’s the same for me.”
She caresses his sleeve-clad arm, it’s the natural progression, down past the crook of his elbow and he says, “River,” but the protest is surface thin, a planet’s crust, the core of it is molten.
“Tell me no.” Ghosting her fingertips back and forth along his wrist, just below the cuff. “Tell me no and mean it.”
It shouldn’t be difficult, not if he’s decided, she offers him a loophole and escape, but he hesitates, his attention as caught by her touch as hers by the touching, even though it’s slight, the merest teasing, or maybe because of it. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, concentrated on him, and traces around the heel of his thumb, over the intricate network of creases and up his fingers, one by one, a sinuous path of dips and rises.
“Unless,” she says, “you can’t.”
He snatches his hand away from hers, but it’s too late for it to count, to outweigh the rest, and he doesn’t speak the magical word. Instead, he grinds out, “You won’t give an inch, will you?”
She shrugs. “I’m very determined.”
“That’s the least of it. More like I’m getting steamrolled,” he replies. “Wŏ de mā. You’re the oddest girl, River Tam.”
“Young woman,” she reminds him. “Besides, you like me, Malcolm Reynolds. Oddness and all. You’ve said so.”
“Well, yeah.” He shakes his head, sighs and repeats, “Steamrolled, all right.”
“You brood far too much,” she continues. His reticence is what she expected, she didn’t imagine the issue would be resolved on the spot, on this floor, though that, to have him naked like she had him clothed, is a bone-deep yearning. “Would be easier if you just accepted it.”
“And you’re convinced I will?”
“Sooner or later.” She swoops in, assassin-swift and dancer-lithe, bringing her mouth to where his lower jaw meets his skull, the temporomandibular joint, and she borrows a sentiment of Jayne’s for her purpose, but the twist of it is hers. “I’ll be in my bunk.” A pause and a beat. “Thinking of you.”
She plants a single kiss near his ear, soft as anything, then stands, and he doesn’t mistake her, he comprehends, his reaction a surge that carries her high as she goes. It won’t happen between them today, probably not tomorrow, but she’s made her message clear, painted a sweeping, bold-stroked calligraphy upon him, so he’ll remember.
So he won’t be able to forget.