woman in a girl's body
Title: woman in a girl’s body
Pairing: Mal/River
Words: 363
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters or source material; I’m not making any money from this.
Notes: Contains consensual underage sex and spoilers for the BDM. Used the comment_fic prompt, “textures.”
Summary: River feels everything.
River’s tissue-thin dress getting lifted higher, revealing flimsy little shorts, which she promptly shimmies out of. Silk down her legs, cool against her sun-warmed skin; she kicks them off and they land in a hole. Doesn’t matter now-- she can have Inara buy her another pair. Material over the tops of her thighs, draping, barely covering her.
Rasp-scrape of bark against her back, grating at her bare shoulders with every thrust. Scratching redness on lily-white skin, and she hardly notices because Mal’s hands are all over her. Cupping the swell of her ass, shifting her weight to one work-calloused palm so that he can run the other up an inner thigh.
His mouth is hot and wet on hers, making her lips tingle, making her entire body tingle. She shivers, and curls into him; thin limbs wrapping around him, warm and tight as a blanket. She’s warm everywhere, really (he presses his lips to her forehead and can almost feel her blood rushing underneath her skin).
Mal’s still afraid of breaking her: hurting that too-young, too-slim body with his hard-edged own. She knows, guides him into doing what she likes, because she’s not too ‘anything’ anymore, and she can withstand whatever the ‘verse throws at her. River tightens her grip on his neck, pushing him down to her chest-- little albatross is too strong for her own good.
She rests her head on his shoulder, and her dark tangle of hair spills down his back. Cool air filling her lungs as she gasps in breaths, recovering. He slumps forward against her-- drained even as she’s ready for more. Mal’s weight is heavy, solid, strangely comforting.
--
Later, she sits in the co-pilot’s chair as Mal flies, leaning back, and rests her feet against the console. Curling her toes, pointing her feet, avoiding any controls and switches. That tree-torn dress-- a little worse for the wear-- sliding upupup bare legs. Soft fabric pooling messily over the tops of her thighs; she doesn’t smooth it down, just sits there unashamedly.
Mal glances over at her, and squirms in his seat, staring.
She isn’t wearing any underwear.