Disclaimer: It ain't mine. Wish it were, but it ain't.
Story: After the fight to spread the signal, the crew of Serenity assumes that the Alliance is done with them for a time. However, all falls apart when Inara is kidnapped and they must race to find out who took her and get her back before her clock runs out.
Timeline: Post-Serenity (BDM)
Spoilers: Any of the Series and Serenity (BDM)
A/N: Well, to tell the absolute truth, I'm planning for this to be a story with chapters, but this first little random thing is something I wrote and felt it applied, somewhat. It's more of a "stand alone" deal. Besides, it's one of my favorite little viggies that I've written (although I am slightly biased). I guess it kinda goes with the story line. Neways, right underneath that is the Prolouge to the story, but most of this is more indepth, Inara POV than anything else. The actual story with concentrate on Mal/Inara, both together and seperately. Enjoy!
A Prostitute's Love
She stares up, at the ceiling, velvet and ruffled, her sin eking into her every pore. The black tendrils that deny no hand are gracefully wrapping themselves around her slender throat.
He'll be there, when she returns. Waiting. He'll be there, reliving her sin, ever watchful.
And she'll feel…
His eyes burning into her spine.
And she'll wish…
That his hand would be the last to touch her.
And she wonders…
What is to be done with a prostitute's love?
:leaving atmo, Boros in view from the window of Shuttle 1:
Inara sits, the cold of space writhing its way into her bones, and she delicately grasps the tops of her arms, the perfectly manicured nails biting into the skin of her. She listened as the hiss of compressed air rushed past her, stirring her hair loosely. She knows that the entrance is sealed. She can leave now.
But she stays. The blue trace that outlines the planet of Boros vanishes silently. Not a muscle contracts to lift her from her slavery. A sudden, sharp twinge of pain causes her to flinch one delicate, chipped nail from her arm. She pulls back and stares vaguely at this disembodied foe. Blood. It runs down her arm, thick streams of tears she can never cry. For companions lost, for aching hearts, but most of all, for words she would never think to say.
So she stays. Aching. Frozen. Terrified.
Aching because he's left her empty.
Frozen because she longs to see him.
Terrified because she knows what she must do.
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