TITLE: Shirt


A/N: Well I liked writing the first one so I thought another one was in order. This is the second in the Discovery-verse, following on from Bare.

Jayne tried very hard over the next few days not to think about her. Ok, he thought whilst adjusting his pants surreptitiously, maybe hard was a bad choice of words. But he was definitely trying. Since their encounter in the shower it was very har-…difficult, very difficult to not picture what she was wearing under those floating dresses.

The sight of all that perfect porcelain skin was haunting him and his mind kept supplementing images of her whenever he looked her way. If she bent to pick something up, she was naked. If she stole a bread roll off his plate, she was naked. If she danced…well that was just hell.

But Jayne Cobb was nothing if not determined, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He thought about every perverted, slightly twisted, vastly inappropriate fantasy he had ever had about the other women on the ship. And he'd had long enough knowing them to come up with some doozies.

Which made it all the more irritating when those twisted images of his female crew mates would inevitably be replaced with her. One second he was thinking about Kaylee bent over the engine, only to find he was gripping darker hair, slimmer hips, smaller breasts. When he tried to think on Inara it was River splayed out over jewel coloured silk sheets, pale skin being defiled against all that finery.

When he thought about Zoe…ok, if he was completely honest, he didn't think about Zoe. Largely because whilst he knew a little pain with his pleasure was definitely his cup of tea, he was the tiniest bit terrified of the first mate. The first week he'd come on board he'd opened his mouth to spew out whatever sleazy pick up line he had ready when she'd simply moved one hand to the Mare's Leg at her hip and raised an eyebrow. It had been enough to shut him up then, and it certainly was now.

He'd even tried downloading porn on the cortex; it wasn't hard, just took some time since they were so far out in space at the moment, and meant ensuring the bridge was unoccupied. But a few choice words from Wash about leaving things where someone's wife could stumble across them and think an innocent pilot was downloading such images had ended that particular avenue.

His own mind was being a gorram traitor, refusing to give him another outlet for these annoying feelings of desire. It was going to be weeks before they would get anywhere with a decent cat house, and he needed to turn his mind elsewhere.

His guns had never been in better condition, his knives had never been sharper, and he was in the best shape of his life. His chores were all done before Mal even had to ask, and the rest of the crew had been surprised when he'd even tried to be friendlier. As long as he kept busy he wouldn't think those inappropriate thoughts about the youngest member of the crew.

He thought he'd been doing well, thought everything was going according to plan. All he needed to do was keep himself distracted until they hit dirt and he could get himself good and sexed. It was fool proof, really.

Except he'd never factored in the shirt.

It had happened at dinner one evening. The crew had been gathered around the table when she entered, floating gracefully towards her seat. Instead of the dresses and oversized sweaters she had stolen something out of her brother's wardrobe. He'd seen her do this before, had never even been bothered by it. But that was then.

Now he knew about the trim, lithe body that she hid under her clothes the shirt became an instrument of torture. He had no idea why. It was just a dark blue business shirt that hung halfway down her thighs. She'd rolled the sleeves up her thin arms until they rested at her elbows, the bottom of her shorts occasionally peeking out underneath the blue hem of the shirt whenever she took a step.

Somehow the sight of her in that baggy man's shirt was more arousing that the tightest, skimpiest dress he'd ever seen on any whore, any leather he'd seen on Zoe, any finery he'd seen on Inara. It was buttoned just past the top of her breasts and when she sat next to him he had to force his eyes straight ahead to avoid staring down the gap her movements created.

When she reached across him for the plate of protein fritters the material had briefly skimmed his arm and he'd dug his short nails into his palm hard enough to draw blood. Simon had looked at him strangely when his face grimaced. "Jayne, are you alright?" Jayne could only nod, desperately trying to control his breathing long enough to look normal.

At 32 he was far too old to be discovering weird new fetishes, but discover one he had. The sight of that slim body and pale skin encased in a man's shirt was enough that he had to wait a while before standing to leave the dinner table.

After dinner he'd wandered into the cargo bay to go through a few more reps when he'd seen who was dancing across the floor. The shirt had been tied at the front and when she raised her arms it would slip up slightly, revealing a sliver of her flat stomach. He groaned under his breath, immediately turning and heading straight to his bunk.

As he sat on the edge of his narrow bed he looked to the pile of dirty clothes he had in the corner. He reached forward, pulling the closest t-shirt from the pile, moving the thin material between his fingers, plucking at one stray blue thread.

And he wondered what it would look like one her.

Yup, definitely becoming a problem.