(Untitled)

[tightpantscapn]

[Continued from here]

"They're damned near e'erywhere," he breathes, hatin' t' stop tastin' her lips but needin' t' say it all the same

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[crazyspacegirl]

River heard the button from her dress hit the floor. It struck her as funny and she smiled against his mouth before moving lower.

"Captain. Mal." His name breathed against his throat was more meaningful than any endearment she could think of. He tasted shiny. Made up for having too many buttons on his shirt and wearing excessive clothing.

Surely she was burning under his touch. Wasn't anything to be done for it but to make him burn, too.

[tightpantscapn]

Ain't much t' be said at the present, so Mal don't say nothin'. In earnest, he don't think he can manage anythin', anythin' she'd want t' hear.

Special Hell, Captain. Special.

The words're poundin' in his brainpan like a wild tattoo'r somethin', n' he grits his teeth, buryin' his face in her hair, breathin' in her scent. It's like the Black n' flyin', only not so much like but is.

His fingers splay out low on her belly, n' they move up slow n' fierce o'er the soft skin. So slow n' fierce, like he's touchin' Serenity for the first time.

n' he is.

[crazyspacegirl]

Mal's ragged breath in her ear spoke to her in fragments of all the languages that ever had been and ever would be and said everything she might have wanted to hear.

His hands on her skin were saying the same things, but this was a language she hadn't learned yet. It was a dance, and the only way to really learn a dance was to follow the lead of someone who already knew the steps.

"Show me," she whispered, her hands echoing the movements and trembling, though she wasn't afraid.

[tightpantscapn]

Mal's chest hitches with ragged breaths n' he can feel the heat o' her body through her dress, thin thing that it is. It's intoxicatin', n' he knows this's wrong; least, some folk would say it is. His fingers're itchin' t' touch more o' her, but he don't conjure he should do that now, just yet. Curlin' his other hand int' a fist, he smooths it o'er her hair. The more he does it, the more his blood burns bright with want.

Wantin' ain't always proper.

"I can't," he says at length, n' his blood boils like a ragin' sea o' shame.