Bring out your ficlets!
Ack, have a bunch of these lying around - little bits I wrote for various people and challenges. Three Carnivale, two Firefly, one wrestling.
"Ira, you're out of your mind," Justin said, firmly digging his heels into the carpet. "I refuse to be a part of this, and that's all there is to it."
Iris had to roll her eyes. For a man with a good foot of height on her, he was surprisingly inept at genuinely disagreeing with her, as evidenced by the petulent whine in his voice. She ignored him, keeping her grip on his hand as she coaxed him through the doorway and into the sacristy, shoving the door closed behind them and wedging her hip between him and the door.
"Stop it, Justin. It won't kill you to be adventurous for once."
"Adven- this is not adventure! This is virtually suicide! Do you have any idea what would happen should anyone find us? Bishop McNaughton? Norman?"
She pushed his vestments off his shoulders, dropping the cloth onto the floor of the sacristy - it wouldn't get too dirty, she always kept the room spotless - and hooked her fingers into the collar of his shirt. Unbuttoning one button at a time, she answered him.
"I." There went the collar.
"Don't." The swell of his upper chest revealed.
"Particularly." Hands at the level of his breastbone.
"Care." Smooth, pale stomach framed by the black linen.
"Right." Placed a kiss at the indentation of his navel.
"Now." Yanked the shirt out from his dress pants, tugging on the tails to bring him flush against her.
His voice came out in that rumble of a purr that never failed to turn her insides to liquid. "Good."
She could see it in his eyes: she'd blown right past his ineffectual barriers, and God help her, he was going to repay her in spades. Iris stifled a shriek as he picked her up and firmly planted her against the door. He placed one hand over her mouth, and unzipped his pants with the other. He shoved her panties aside as he brought his mouth to her ear.
"But we're going to have to be quiet about it."
~*~*~*~*~
He trudged up the stairs with heavy footsteps, the thick cotton of his shirt doing nothing to assuage the itch spreading between his shoulder blades and trailing down his spine. Hiroshi hadn't displayed any sympathy for him, though he was quite obviously a first-time customer.
Perverse to think that there was any virginity left in him to lose.
It had hurt, as he'd known it would. He'd tried (odin, dva, tri, chetyre, p'at, shest', sem') to count the taps of the mallet against his back, but after a while, they all bled together. Hiroshi's weight atop the backs of his thighs was neither heavy nor seductive enough to distract, and while the pain had been delicious at first, it did not compare to the sting of the crop against his flesh.
Irina had been his distraction then, as she had always been his temptation. He had lowered his thoughts beneath the pain (instead of rising above it, as he'd done for countless years and innumerable lashes of penance) and thought of her. The sparkle of blue eyes in laughter. The droop of red curl across her brow as she slept. That tantalizing (and yes, Tantalus was condemned to hell as well) glimpse of white satin and smooth inner thigh he'd glimpsed before he'd left.
He had no doubt his parting had displeased her. There was no mistaking THAT look in his sister's eye - the "get the hell over here, Alexei, or so help me, you will regret it" look.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he rounded the bannister and intended to go straight to his bedroom. Except he still regretting leaving Iris earlier that night. Still wanted her approval of what he was becoming. Yes, she'd stood beneath the branches of an oak and vowed to see through the building of their shining city on a hill. Yes, she'd always known what was inside him, but did she realize that soon, it would be written on his very skin?
Ira, ya vsegda nuzhdals'a v Vas.
Hand outstretched, he turned the doorknob.
And stopped.
Because it was locked. The door - her door - was locked. Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight, and she'd blocked the only path he'd ever known how to navigate. He sank against the door, resting his head on the solid wood, knowing there was nothing he could do if she'd decided to turn her back on him. Irina Belyakov possessed an even stronger will than her brother, and he knew that this was the stopping point.
She had set herself against him. So be it. But oh, his Ira should have known better.
Forswear thy foolish ways.
~*~*~*~*~
Libby used to dream of her wedding day.
Nights when Mama put the red pig out, her and Dora Mae would bed down in one of the empty truck beds. Huddle together under the lantern and blankets and plan for that faraway day when they'd have two pennies to rub together. When they'd make enough money from working the cooch to go out to Hollywood and get real acting jobs. Dora Mae would be the next Marlene Dietrich, with Libby as the next Jean Harlow - not that Libby liked Jean Harlow as much as Greta Garbo, but Dora Mae said Greta would never be as popular as Jean, because blondes were better. Everyone knew that.
Dora Mae wanted a Southern-style wedding, like the ones they saw in the fashion plates. Petticoats and parasols for the ladies, tailcoats and canes for the gentlemen. Libby would be in peach chiffon as maid of honor - because Libby would never marry before her older sister, of course - with a matching bonnet with tea roses around the brim. Dora Mae would have at least seven brideswomen, and her husband the same number of groomsmen. Momma would wear lilac silk, and Daddy a real top hat.
It wouldn't be no on-the-fly affair, not for Dora Mae. Everything would be planned out perfectly.
Sometimes Libby wanted the same kind of wedding as Dora Mae. Thought maybe they'd marry brothers, so's they could have the same wedding day. And other times, she wanted something different - a small church wedding with Momma, Daddy, and Dora Mae there to bear witness. Dora Mae would wear silk - something of Lila or Ruthie's - and Libby would wear real pearls around her neck, like Garbo did in Love.
Then came Babylon.
Babylon, and Jonesy carrying Dora Mae's carved-up body back to the Carnivale. It was the first time she'd worn real silk, Lila and Ruthie tucking it neatly around her so the dusty wind wouldn't blow her skirt up. Libby cried when they buried her, cried when Stangler stood before the cart, and cried again when Daddy promised her a new start and once again couldn't leave Momma.
Except that last one hurt her more than anything, because Sofie was there to see it. Sofie wasn't like Dora Mae or Libby. Sofie had class - had beautiful clothes she made herself, took care of her mama, and read cards for the rubes instead of stripping for them. Dark-eyed Sofie, who was Libby's only real friend anymore, now that Dora Mae was gone.
Sometimes, after passing the bottle back and forth with Sofie, Libby would go back to her cot and wish she weren't such a chicken. That she could be like Momma, who knew how attractive she was and didn't give a lick of caring who was watching. If Libby weren't so scared of what Sofie might think, she'd pull the rum bottle right out of Sofie's hand, throw down a slug, and kiss her right on the mouth. Didn't matter who was watching.
Sofie would smile that hesitant smile of hers, and then lick a spilled drop of alcohol off Libby's collarbone. Draw aside the rough white cotton shift and press wet kisses to Libby's neck and shoulders before licking a wicked trail down to her breasts. Libby knows her tits aren't the hottest - not like Momma's or Dora Mae's - but her customers like 'em well enough. Sofie'd grin widely at her before taking one of Libby's nipples in her mouth, sucking and biting at the tender flesh and not letting up no matter how much Libby begged. She'd have three fingers up Libby's skirt and playing with her clit before Libby had the time to scream, and as soon as she got the chance, Libby'd pay her back by showing her that men ain't the only ones who like Libby's mouth on them.
Libby dreams of black-eyed girls and the slow burn of illegal hooch now.
~*~*~*~*~
As a child, Simon slept very well. He never had nightmares. Nothing really kept him up at night. River was forever getting in trouble for playing on her swingset at 3 am because "the breeze was perfectly angled to push me even higher", or practicing battements tendues and grande plies on the kitchen floor in her pointe shoes at 5 am because she felt more limber then. Not Simon - he'd be asleep in his bed when it was curfew and up for school the next day.
In medical school, Simon was never the type of student who pulled all-nighters studying for exams. In his opinion, you either knew what you were doing, or you did not. Simon studied a chapter of anatomy every night before he went to sleep at a reasonable hour, and awoke early to go jogging around the quad for some exercise. He drove his roommate insane, but Simon had become Doctor Simon Tam, and the last he heard of his roommate, Noel Vincent was a used-ship salesman out on Beylix.
These past few weeks on Serenity, he'd become used to waking up for River's nightmares, soothing her with promises to never leave and dyasthaproponil when nothing else would work. But he never woke up himself in the middle of rest cycle like the rest of the crew. Never did pull-ups in the cargo bay like Jayne, or finished up work like Kaylee. Never sat in the cockpit to watch a planetside sunrise like Wash and Zoe, stayed up reading like Shepherd Book, or paced the decks like Mal.
So it was very odd for Simon to find River out cold in bed and himself completely unable to sleep late one night. He'd tried everything - exercise, reading, listening to the Cortex, meditation - and was starting to go just a little mad with boredom and frustration. Tzao gao, what was it going to take?
He figured maybe Mal had been onto something, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before exiting the guest quarters. The decks were chilly, and he rubbed the goosebumps on his arms absently as he walked the catwalks in the cargo bay - carefully, of course, lest he slip on a slippery beam and fall. He found himself, for no particular reason, outside of Inara's shuttle. Simon hesitated, then knocked softly on the door. If she were asleep, she wouldn't hear it.
"Ching jin," she called softly.
The door pushed open easily - Kaylee had recently fixed the squeak on them - and Inara stood to greet him, wrapped in a beautiful green silk robe he recognized as made by one of the designers on Osiris.
"Simon, what a surprise. What can I do for you?"
He hesitated before entering, closing the door behind him and sitting awkwardly on one of her overstuffed pillows. "I can't sleep. I was out wandering the cargo bay, not sure why, and I just- I wanted to talk to you."
She smiled, that serene smile that marked her immediately as a Companion. He'd known a few on Osiris, even employed one as an escort to a dinner while he was in medical school, but Inara was in a class of her own. She had been one of the first on Serenity to trust him, ordering Mal to cut and run when Dobson shot Kaylee. He'd watched her as she held vigil over Kaylee, and appreciated her taking the time to speak to him, instead of about him, like the rest of the crew.
"Of course. I often find that insomnia is best combatted by unburdening what's been on one's mind. Is there something you're worried about, Simon?"
"Besides the usual, you mean?" At her quizzical look, he shook his head. "My sister's brain got scrambled like an egg by the government, we're fugitives with a price on our heads that rivals my father's gross income for one year, and we're stuck on this flying rust bucket with a bunch of Browncoats, a Shepherd, and Jayne."
Inara rose to her feet and went to her tea table, calmly setting about brewing cups of tea for each of them. She carefully strained the hot water through the tea leaves, and placed lumps of sugar on a plate. She passed a china cup to him as she sat down beside him, perfectly at ease though she was sitting on a cold metal floor.
"I don't think there's anything I could say to you that would make any of that go away. They are simply aspects of your life now. Aspects that, however deeply you may wish, you cannot change. What, then, is the solution to an unsolveable problem, Doctor Tam?"
Simon stared at her in confusion. "All problems have a solution. Maybe not an immediately identifiable one, but a solution is there."
"And how does one go about finding it?"
"If I knew that, Inara," he said in irritation, "I wouldn't be keeping you awake at 4 in the morning."
She didn't answer, merely continuing to sip her tea slowly. He drank quickly at first, but slowed down to simply sip with her in silence. He drained the cup, and she reached over to gently take it from him, setting it on the table. Her black hair curled over her shoulders and whipped about her face as she turned back to him.
"Perhaps, then, all one needs is time to sleep on it. The tea was chamomile and fennel, which should take care of your insomnia. And as for that unsolveable problem of yours - let it go for another day." Thanking her with a formal bow as she escorted him to the door of the shuttle, he stopped as she addressed him. "Oh, and Simon? Despite what Mal would have you believe, you and your sister are welcome here any time."
Welcome? On Serenity?
Simon thinks he could get used to that.
~*~*~*~*~
Truth be told, Sargeant Malcolm Reynolds might've just been the first man in the 'verse to actually swallow his own tongue.
Couldn't blame himself, really - wasn't every day you came across a fresh body of water tucked into the trees behind your lines. After weeks of the blood and dirt of the trenches, he'd stripped down without thinking and dove right into the river. Since he'd come up for air and had neither choked on poison nor been shot by purplebellies, he assumed he was alone.
"Assuming" always had made an ass out of him.
Because not three feet away, back turned to him (and really, that was the only reason he wasn't dead), was his second-in-command: Corporal Zoe Alleyne.
He thanked God and every angel he could think of that the water was waist-deep as he felt himself harden painfully, biting his bottom lip at the gasp that threatened to escape. Water spilled a trail from Zoe's hair (oh, Lord, she'd pulled it up, displaying the smooth expanse of neck that he'd spent a good deal of time getting distracted by in the trenches) down that perfect back to meet the river right at the small of her back.
His hands curled into fists at his side as he willed himself in vain to calm. Thought he might have managed it if he could slip into the shadows of the trees at the water's edge, until she spoke up, back still turned.
"Gonna just stand there, sir?"
Never let it be said that Mal Reynolds ever declined the invitation of a lady.
He padded silently through the water, sliding his arms around her from behind. Her skin was warmed from the sun, and she shivered delicately as his water-slick hand came to rest just below one breast. She turned her head up to him and drew breath - about to make another teasing request - but it came out a moan into his mouth. His hand slid up to cup her breast, thumb sweeping and circling over one pebbled nipple. She swallowed his groans as her ass pressed against him, breaking the kiss to throw back her head in abandon.
He was on fire, blessedly cool water the only thing saving him. His mouth growled nonsense into her skin, kissing and licking and biting as he methodically trial-and-errored his way into knowing what she liked. Zoe hadn't left him be to figure it out, either - placing her hand over his and showing him by touch the precise way to drive her insane. Once he'd taken over the rhythm, index finger sliding and circling her sex, she'd turned around and hoisted herself up to lock impossibly long legs around his waist.
He froze as she slid her mouth up his neck and panted hotly in his ear. "Mal, please."
"Please, what?", he answered.
"Take me."
Well, you didn't have to tell him twice - just slid hands around to cradle her thighs and ass, and slid inside her. And oh, he was going to die. She was tight around him - it had been months since anyone had time to sleep at night, let alone rut - and her nails dug sharply into his shoulders. He couldn't move, but that didn't matter to Zoe, who began to mercilessly writhe against him, coaxing him into the rhythm they needed. And when he finally came - hoarse yell stifled against the mass of her hair - all he could hear and feel was her low voice in his ear and her heart beating against his. She smoothed back his hair out of his eyes, and kissed him softly.
Then she left, and he didn't need to ask why, because there was still a war to be fought. Warriors for him to command and her to fight beside. And it wasn't as if they were going to make it out of here alive.
Serenity Valley would claim them both, one way or another.
~*~*~*~*~
*Takes place circa November 2004, after Sabu's back injury, but before Rob blew out his knee.
"Asshole!"
Sabu looked up from the television. Rob had just blown in like a hurricane, in full-blown tantrum mode, throwing his bags to the floor and unsnapping his jacket viciously before tossing it into a heap on the carpet.
"I hope you're not referring to me."
Rob finally looked over at him. "What? No, of course not. Fucking Vince won't give me off to be at the benefit."
Of course he's not giving you off, you idiot, Sabu wanted to say. Rob should have known that his possessive-as-hell boss wasn't going to bend the "no outside bookings" rule just for him. Sure, the benefit wasn't affiliated with any one promotion, but D'Amore and Levy were booking it, and they were TNA guys. Vince allow his precious "Superstars" to work for Jarrett's people? Never gonna happen.
He settled for pulling Rob down onto the couch beside him - his best friend had been pacing, which kinda wore on his neck after a while, not to mention tweaked Sabu's already-painful leg if he shifted wrong.
"I told you he'd say no. Least you guys were taping in Detroit tonight - I'd hate to inflict you on some unsuspecting motorist when you're in a snit."
Rob shifted to sit cross-legged, glaring at him in surprise. "You don't think I have a right to be in a 'snit', as you call it?"
"No, I don't," he answered.
"Why not?"
Shit. Rob was in one of those moods, where he'd take out every little slight on whoever was within range. Yippee - it looked to be Sabu's turn.
Oh, hell with being cautious. What was Rob gonna do - break Sabu's neck a third time?
"Because you have a nice, cushy job, Robbie. If you get hurt, you have a benefits package that pays for it. Must be nice to sell your soul to Vince."
Fuckin' Jeff. Sabu liked the guy, he really did, but there were some things that you just had to admit Vince was doing right. Jeff wouldn't give his talent full hospital pay because he thought paying them their regular salary during their injury was enough. If you were main-eventing, sure. But most of the boys made their money off cuts of the gate; couldn't get that if you weren't there. And his regular salary just wasn't enough to cover both the surgery and the operation.
"Look, I'm sorry," Rob yelled, throwing out his arms. "I'm sorry for selling out for guaranteed medical coverage. I'm sorry for selling out for per-show rising incentives."
"I never blamed you, idiot!"
"Sure sounds like it."
Sabu rolled his eyes. "Did I tell you not to, back in '01? Not that you gave me a chance. You broke your knee, forfeited the TV title, and as soon as you got better, you signed on Vince's dotted line."
"Oh, excuse me for wanting a boss who's never declared bankruptcy and a locker room who doesn't try to kill me."
Sabu leveled a flat stare at him. "Tazz hasn't tried to kill you? What kind of joy juice has he been hitting?"
"Michael Cole."
He tried. He really tried not to laugh, but couldn't help it. The image was too perfect - that ill-tempered troll chasing the squeaky little announcer all over an arena, bellowing babytalk at him. At least Joey had the balls to clock anyone who took his slight frame and suits for weakness and tried something. Sabu turned his head to the side, trying to hide the growing smile and laugh, but it came out anyway. And then he couldn't stop - low snickers turning into that signature "heh, heh" Rob constantly teased him about.
And speaking of Rob, he'd started laughing as well (and where the hell that loud bray came from, Sabu had never figured out), sliding down the couch to lay his head on Sabu's non-injured leg. He was still shaking with laughter when Sabu's fingers started to absentmindedly trail through his loose ponytail. Rob had always had such fucking girly hair; soft and wavy like a woman's. He used conditioner and mousse, and everyone in the locker room knew it. Only reason no one had given him grief for it was that Rob could kick anyone under eight feet tall right in the mouth.
"I'm still coming to the show, you know," Rob said, only the slightest bit of whine in his voice, and Sabu had to smile.
"Yeah, I know."
"Ira, you're out of your mind," Justin said, firmly digging his heels into the carpet. "I refuse to be a part of this, and that's all there is to it."
Iris had to roll her eyes. For a man with a good foot of height on her, he was surprisingly inept at genuinely disagreeing with her, as evidenced by the petulent whine in his voice. She ignored him, keeping her grip on his hand as she coaxed him through the doorway and into the sacristy, shoving the door closed behind them and wedging her hip between him and the door.
"Stop it, Justin. It won't kill you to be adventurous for once."
"Adven- this is not adventure! This is virtually suicide! Do you have any idea what would happen should anyone find us? Bishop McNaughton? Norman?"
She pushed his vestments off his shoulders, dropping the cloth onto the floor of the sacristy - it wouldn't get too dirty, she always kept the room spotless - and hooked her fingers into the collar of his shirt. Unbuttoning one button at a time, she answered him.
"I." There went the collar.
"Don't." The swell of his upper chest revealed.
"Particularly." Hands at the level of his breastbone.
"Care." Smooth, pale stomach framed by the black linen.
"Right." Placed a kiss at the indentation of his navel.
"Now." Yanked the shirt out from his dress pants, tugging on the tails to bring him flush against her.
His voice came out in that rumble of a purr that never failed to turn her insides to liquid. "Good."
She could see it in his eyes: she'd blown right past his ineffectual barriers, and God help her, he was going to repay her in spades. Iris stifled a shriek as he picked her up and firmly planted her against the door. He placed one hand over her mouth, and unzipped his pants with the other. He shoved her panties aside as he brought his mouth to her ear.
"But we're going to have to be quiet about it."
~*~*~*~*~
He trudged up the stairs with heavy footsteps, the thick cotton of his shirt doing nothing to assuage the itch spreading between his shoulder blades and trailing down his spine. Hiroshi hadn't displayed any sympathy for him, though he was quite obviously a first-time customer.
Perverse to think that there was any virginity left in him to lose.
It had hurt, as he'd known it would. He'd tried (odin, dva, tri, chetyre, p'at, shest', sem') to count the taps of the mallet against his back, but after a while, they all bled together. Hiroshi's weight atop the backs of his thighs was neither heavy nor seductive enough to distract, and while the pain had been delicious at first, it did not compare to the sting of the crop against his flesh.
Irina had been his distraction then, as she had always been his temptation. He had lowered his thoughts beneath the pain (instead of rising above it, as he'd done for countless years and innumerable lashes of penance) and thought of her. The sparkle of blue eyes in laughter. The droop of red curl across her brow as she slept. That tantalizing (and yes, Tantalus was condemned to hell as well) glimpse of white satin and smooth inner thigh he'd glimpsed before he'd left.
He had no doubt his parting had displeased her. There was no mistaking THAT look in his sister's eye - the "get the hell over here, Alexei, or so help me, you will regret it" look.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he rounded the bannister and intended to go straight to his bedroom. Except he still regretting leaving Iris earlier that night. Still wanted her approval of what he was becoming. Yes, she'd stood beneath the branches of an oak and vowed to see through the building of their shining city on a hill. Yes, she'd always known what was inside him, but did she realize that soon, it would be written on his very skin?
Ira, ya vsegda nuzhdals'a v Vas.
Hand outstretched, he turned the doorknob.
And stopped.
Because it was locked. The door - her door - was locked. Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight, and she'd blocked the only path he'd ever known how to navigate. He sank against the door, resting his head on the solid wood, knowing there was nothing he could do if she'd decided to turn her back on him. Irina Belyakov possessed an even stronger will than her brother, and he knew that this was the stopping point.
She had set herself against him. So be it. But oh, his Ira should have known better.
Forswear thy foolish ways.
~*~*~*~*~
Libby used to dream of her wedding day.
Nights when Mama put the red pig out, her and Dora Mae would bed down in one of the empty truck beds. Huddle together under the lantern and blankets and plan for that faraway day when they'd have two pennies to rub together. When they'd make enough money from working the cooch to go out to Hollywood and get real acting jobs. Dora Mae would be the next Marlene Dietrich, with Libby as the next Jean Harlow - not that Libby liked Jean Harlow as much as Greta Garbo, but Dora Mae said Greta would never be as popular as Jean, because blondes were better. Everyone knew that.
Dora Mae wanted a Southern-style wedding, like the ones they saw in the fashion plates. Petticoats and parasols for the ladies, tailcoats and canes for the gentlemen. Libby would be in peach chiffon as maid of honor - because Libby would never marry before her older sister, of course - with a matching bonnet with tea roses around the brim. Dora Mae would have at least seven brideswomen, and her husband the same number of groomsmen. Momma would wear lilac silk, and Daddy a real top hat.
It wouldn't be no on-the-fly affair, not for Dora Mae. Everything would be planned out perfectly.
Sometimes Libby wanted the same kind of wedding as Dora Mae. Thought maybe they'd marry brothers, so's they could have the same wedding day. And other times, she wanted something different - a small church wedding with Momma, Daddy, and Dora Mae there to bear witness. Dora Mae would wear silk - something of Lila or Ruthie's - and Libby would wear real pearls around her neck, like Garbo did in Love.
Then came Babylon.
Babylon, and Jonesy carrying Dora Mae's carved-up body back to the Carnivale. It was the first time she'd worn real silk, Lila and Ruthie tucking it neatly around her so the dusty wind wouldn't blow her skirt up. Libby cried when they buried her, cried when Stangler stood before the cart, and cried again when Daddy promised her a new start and once again couldn't leave Momma.
Except that last one hurt her more than anything, because Sofie was there to see it. Sofie wasn't like Dora Mae or Libby. Sofie had class - had beautiful clothes she made herself, took care of her mama, and read cards for the rubes instead of stripping for them. Dark-eyed Sofie, who was Libby's only real friend anymore, now that Dora Mae was gone.
Sometimes, after passing the bottle back and forth with Sofie, Libby would go back to her cot and wish she weren't such a chicken. That she could be like Momma, who knew how attractive she was and didn't give a lick of caring who was watching. If Libby weren't so scared of what Sofie might think, she'd pull the rum bottle right out of Sofie's hand, throw down a slug, and kiss her right on the mouth. Didn't matter who was watching.
Sofie would smile that hesitant smile of hers, and then lick a spilled drop of alcohol off Libby's collarbone. Draw aside the rough white cotton shift and press wet kisses to Libby's neck and shoulders before licking a wicked trail down to her breasts. Libby knows her tits aren't the hottest - not like Momma's or Dora Mae's - but her customers like 'em well enough. Sofie'd grin widely at her before taking one of Libby's nipples in her mouth, sucking and biting at the tender flesh and not letting up no matter how much Libby begged. She'd have three fingers up Libby's skirt and playing with her clit before Libby had the time to scream, and as soon as she got the chance, Libby'd pay her back by showing her that men ain't the only ones who like Libby's mouth on them.
Libby dreams of black-eyed girls and the slow burn of illegal hooch now.
~*~*~*~*~
As a child, Simon slept very well. He never had nightmares. Nothing really kept him up at night. River was forever getting in trouble for playing on her swingset at 3 am because "the breeze was perfectly angled to push me even higher", or practicing battements tendues and grande plies on the kitchen floor in her pointe shoes at 5 am because she felt more limber then. Not Simon - he'd be asleep in his bed when it was curfew and up for school the next day.
In medical school, Simon was never the type of student who pulled all-nighters studying for exams. In his opinion, you either knew what you were doing, or you did not. Simon studied a chapter of anatomy every night before he went to sleep at a reasonable hour, and awoke early to go jogging around the quad for some exercise. He drove his roommate insane, but Simon had become Doctor Simon Tam, and the last he heard of his roommate, Noel Vincent was a used-ship salesman out on Beylix.
These past few weeks on Serenity, he'd become used to waking up for River's nightmares, soothing her with promises to never leave and dyasthaproponil when nothing else would work. But he never woke up himself in the middle of rest cycle like the rest of the crew. Never did pull-ups in the cargo bay like Jayne, or finished up work like Kaylee. Never sat in the cockpit to watch a planetside sunrise like Wash and Zoe, stayed up reading like Shepherd Book, or paced the decks like Mal.
So it was very odd for Simon to find River out cold in bed and himself completely unable to sleep late one night. He'd tried everything - exercise, reading, listening to the Cortex, meditation - and was starting to go just a little mad with boredom and frustration. Tzao gao, what was it going to take?
He figured maybe Mal had been onto something, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before exiting the guest quarters. The decks were chilly, and he rubbed the goosebumps on his arms absently as he walked the catwalks in the cargo bay - carefully, of course, lest he slip on a slippery beam and fall. He found himself, for no particular reason, outside of Inara's shuttle. Simon hesitated, then knocked softly on the door. If she were asleep, she wouldn't hear it.
"Ching jin," she called softly.
The door pushed open easily - Kaylee had recently fixed the squeak on them - and Inara stood to greet him, wrapped in a beautiful green silk robe he recognized as made by one of the designers on Osiris.
"Simon, what a surprise. What can I do for you?"
He hesitated before entering, closing the door behind him and sitting awkwardly on one of her overstuffed pillows. "I can't sleep. I was out wandering the cargo bay, not sure why, and I just- I wanted to talk to you."
She smiled, that serene smile that marked her immediately as a Companion. He'd known a few on Osiris, even employed one as an escort to a dinner while he was in medical school, but Inara was in a class of her own. She had been one of the first on Serenity to trust him, ordering Mal to cut and run when Dobson shot Kaylee. He'd watched her as she held vigil over Kaylee, and appreciated her taking the time to speak to him, instead of about him, like the rest of the crew.
"Of course. I often find that insomnia is best combatted by unburdening what's been on one's mind. Is there something you're worried about, Simon?"
"Besides the usual, you mean?" At her quizzical look, he shook his head. "My sister's brain got scrambled like an egg by the government, we're fugitives with a price on our heads that rivals my father's gross income for one year, and we're stuck on this flying rust bucket with a bunch of Browncoats, a Shepherd, and Jayne."
Inara rose to her feet and went to her tea table, calmly setting about brewing cups of tea for each of them. She carefully strained the hot water through the tea leaves, and placed lumps of sugar on a plate. She passed a china cup to him as she sat down beside him, perfectly at ease though she was sitting on a cold metal floor.
"I don't think there's anything I could say to you that would make any of that go away. They are simply aspects of your life now. Aspects that, however deeply you may wish, you cannot change. What, then, is the solution to an unsolveable problem, Doctor Tam?"
Simon stared at her in confusion. "All problems have a solution. Maybe not an immediately identifiable one, but a solution is there."
"And how does one go about finding it?"
"If I knew that, Inara," he said in irritation, "I wouldn't be keeping you awake at 4 in the morning."
She didn't answer, merely continuing to sip her tea slowly. He drank quickly at first, but slowed down to simply sip with her in silence. He drained the cup, and she reached over to gently take it from him, setting it on the table. Her black hair curled over her shoulders and whipped about her face as she turned back to him.
"Perhaps, then, all one needs is time to sleep on it. The tea was chamomile and fennel, which should take care of your insomnia. And as for that unsolveable problem of yours - let it go for another day." Thanking her with a formal bow as she escorted him to the door of the shuttle, he stopped as she addressed him. "Oh, and Simon? Despite what Mal would have you believe, you and your sister are welcome here any time."
Welcome? On Serenity?
Simon thinks he could get used to that.
~*~*~*~*~
Truth be told, Sargeant Malcolm Reynolds might've just been the first man in the 'verse to actually swallow his own tongue.
Couldn't blame himself, really - wasn't every day you came across a fresh body of water tucked into the trees behind your lines. After weeks of the blood and dirt of the trenches, he'd stripped down without thinking and dove right into the river. Since he'd come up for air and had neither choked on poison nor been shot by purplebellies, he assumed he was alone.
"Assuming" always had made an ass out of him.
Because not three feet away, back turned to him (and really, that was the only reason he wasn't dead), was his second-in-command: Corporal Zoe Alleyne.
He thanked God and every angel he could think of that the water was waist-deep as he felt himself harden painfully, biting his bottom lip at the gasp that threatened to escape. Water spilled a trail from Zoe's hair (oh, Lord, she'd pulled it up, displaying the smooth expanse of neck that he'd spent a good deal of time getting distracted by in the trenches) down that perfect back to meet the river right at the small of her back.
His hands curled into fists at his side as he willed himself in vain to calm. Thought he might have managed it if he could slip into the shadows of the trees at the water's edge, until she spoke up, back still turned.
"Gonna just stand there, sir?"
Never let it be said that Mal Reynolds ever declined the invitation of a lady.
He padded silently through the water, sliding his arms around her from behind. Her skin was warmed from the sun, and she shivered delicately as his water-slick hand came to rest just below one breast. She turned her head up to him and drew breath - about to make another teasing request - but it came out a moan into his mouth. His hand slid up to cup her breast, thumb sweeping and circling over one pebbled nipple. She swallowed his groans as her ass pressed against him, breaking the kiss to throw back her head in abandon.
He was on fire, blessedly cool water the only thing saving him. His mouth growled nonsense into her skin, kissing and licking and biting as he methodically trial-and-errored his way into knowing what she liked. Zoe hadn't left him be to figure it out, either - placing her hand over his and showing him by touch the precise way to drive her insane. Once he'd taken over the rhythm, index finger sliding and circling her sex, she'd turned around and hoisted herself up to lock impossibly long legs around his waist.
He froze as she slid her mouth up his neck and panted hotly in his ear. "Mal, please."
"Please, what?", he answered.
"Take me."
Well, you didn't have to tell him twice - just slid hands around to cradle her thighs and ass, and slid inside her. And oh, he was going to die. She was tight around him - it had been months since anyone had time to sleep at night, let alone rut - and her nails dug sharply into his shoulders. He couldn't move, but that didn't matter to Zoe, who began to mercilessly writhe against him, coaxing him into the rhythm they needed. And when he finally came - hoarse yell stifled against the mass of her hair - all he could hear and feel was her low voice in his ear and her heart beating against his. She smoothed back his hair out of his eyes, and kissed him softly.
Then she left, and he didn't need to ask why, because there was still a war to be fought. Warriors for him to command and her to fight beside. And it wasn't as if they were going to make it out of here alive.
Serenity Valley would claim them both, one way or another.
~*~*~*~*~
*Takes place circa November 2004, after Sabu's back injury, but before Rob blew out his knee.
"Asshole!"
Sabu looked up from the television. Rob had just blown in like a hurricane, in full-blown tantrum mode, throwing his bags to the floor and unsnapping his jacket viciously before tossing it into a heap on the carpet.
"I hope you're not referring to me."
Rob finally looked over at him. "What? No, of course not. Fucking Vince won't give me off to be at the benefit."
Of course he's not giving you off, you idiot, Sabu wanted to say. Rob should have known that his possessive-as-hell boss wasn't going to bend the "no outside bookings" rule just for him. Sure, the benefit wasn't affiliated with any one promotion, but D'Amore and Levy were booking it, and they were TNA guys. Vince allow his precious "Superstars" to work for Jarrett's people? Never gonna happen.
He settled for pulling Rob down onto the couch beside him - his best friend had been pacing, which kinda wore on his neck after a while, not to mention tweaked Sabu's already-painful leg if he shifted wrong.
"I told you he'd say no. Least you guys were taping in Detroit tonight - I'd hate to inflict you on some unsuspecting motorist when you're in a snit."
Rob shifted to sit cross-legged, glaring at him in surprise. "You don't think I have a right to be in a 'snit', as you call it?"
"No, I don't," he answered.
"Why not?"
Shit. Rob was in one of those moods, where he'd take out every little slight on whoever was within range. Yippee - it looked to be Sabu's turn.
Oh, hell with being cautious. What was Rob gonna do - break Sabu's neck a third time?
"Because you have a nice, cushy job, Robbie. If you get hurt, you have a benefits package that pays for it. Must be nice to sell your soul to Vince."
Fuckin' Jeff. Sabu liked the guy, he really did, but there were some things that you just had to admit Vince was doing right. Jeff wouldn't give his talent full hospital pay because he thought paying them their regular salary during their injury was enough. If you were main-eventing, sure. But most of the boys made their money off cuts of the gate; couldn't get that if you weren't there. And his regular salary just wasn't enough to cover both the surgery and the operation.
"Look, I'm sorry," Rob yelled, throwing out his arms. "I'm sorry for selling out for guaranteed medical coverage. I'm sorry for selling out for per-show rising incentives."
"I never blamed you, idiot!"
"Sure sounds like it."
Sabu rolled his eyes. "Did I tell you not to, back in '01? Not that you gave me a chance. You broke your knee, forfeited the TV title, and as soon as you got better, you signed on Vince's dotted line."
"Oh, excuse me for wanting a boss who's never declared bankruptcy and a locker room who doesn't try to kill me."
Sabu leveled a flat stare at him. "Tazz hasn't tried to kill you? What kind of joy juice has he been hitting?"
"Michael Cole."
He tried. He really tried not to laugh, but couldn't help it. The image was too perfect - that ill-tempered troll chasing the squeaky little announcer all over an arena, bellowing babytalk at him. At least Joey had the balls to clock anyone who took his slight frame and suits for weakness and tried something. Sabu turned his head to the side, trying to hide the growing smile and laugh, but it came out anyway. And then he couldn't stop - low snickers turning into that signature "heh, heh" Rob constantly teased him about.
And speaking of Rob, he'd started laughing as well (and where the hell that loud bray came from, Sabu had never figured out), sliding down the couch to lay his head on Sabu's non-injured leg. He was still shaking with laughter when Sabu's fingers started to absentmindedly trail through his loose ponytail. Rob had always had such fucking girly hair; soft and wavy like a woman's. He used conditioner and mousse, and everyone in the locker room knew it. Only reason no one had given him grief for it was that Rob could kick anyone under eight feet tall right in the mouth.
"I'm still coming to the show, you know," Rob said, only the slightest bit of whine in his voice, and Sabu had to smile.
"Yeah, I know."