Firefly, 375 words
Mal had a great big ol' knife. Real forged steel, one furrow running the length of it, hand-bound leather hilt. One time they'd been stuck waiting for Wash to bring the girl around, ended up sittin' near an hour on a couple hay bales at the edge of some gorram flea-brained nitwit's farm, him trying to talk to 'em the whole time about some local election. “I could give a rat's ass about your next sheriff, you bun tyen-shung duh ee-dway-ro,” Jayne finally said. The farmer left in a huff, and good riddance.
Sometimes when Jayne told someone off, Mal would lecture him like he was his gorram dad or something, but this time he just smirked and kept on doing his best to balance the knife on one outstretched finger. The sunlight gleamed off the blade just as bright as could be, but Jayne couldn't look away.
He wanted that knife, and within a few days the wanting turned into a gnawing in his gut and under his ribs. He thought about what kind of damage he could do with that knife, and he thought about what kind of tricks he could do with that knife, and he thought about shaving with that knife, and slicing apples with that knife, and making nice pointy threats with that knife.
Jayne started dreaming about that knife.
About once a week, he'd set a path for the bunks, meanin' to shimmy down to Mal's room and swipe that knife. Jayne didn't really plan ahead to how he'd explain why the knife was in his possession – like all bridges in his life, he'd just bull right over it without figuring how to cross it, and deal with the consequences on the other side. But once he made it in front of Mal's door, he'd suddenly find some reason to keep walkin', or turn back the other way. Maybe he'd forgot his plate in the galley; maybe he thought he heard Kaylee in the engine room needin' some help; maybe he decided that knife wasn't all that special after all.
It wasn't because Jayne had come to respect Mal at all, and knew he'd feel bad if he stole from him. It wasn't that, not at all.
Babylon 5, John/Delenn, 485 words
They were in his quarters tonight, which suited John quite well. He'd grown much better at sleeping on the slanted Minbari bed, but it was far from his first choice for other, more recreational, activities. For one thing, a flat bed was much better for his post-coital examination of Delenn's body. Right now she was flat on her back, her breathing slowly returning to normal, a dreamy little half-smile on her face, and her eyes closed. John propped himself up on an elbow and took in the view.
“What are you looking at?” she asked in a languid voice, and he could hear the smile in it even though he didn't look up. Instead, John drew a finger down her belly, resting it just above her navel.
“I'm just surveying all my possessions.” John waited, not quite counting in his head, drawing a circle on her stomach. Around five or so, she hummed a little. “Your possessions?
“Mmhmm.” He grinned up at her. John sometimes thought about all the things he loved about her, and found that he often divided them up into sections. There were the things he loved about the way she worked, and the way they worked together. The things he loved about her body. The things he loved about the way she loved him. The odd little things that might annoy him if anyone else did it, but that he loved about her. (The tendency she had to sometimes conveniently “forget” to tell him things landed in this category, though he foresaw a time in the future they might actually have a fight over it.) And there were the things he loved about their time in bed together.
One of those things was her total lack of shyness. Delenn didn't feel the need to drag a sheet over her body as soon as they were done. She didn't try to hide anything from him. And right now, she didn't even blink as he dragged his eyes up and down her body again. John traced his finger across her lips.
“See, these are mine,” he told her. She just smiled. John drew his finger down to her breasts. “And these are mine.” Down to her navel again. “And this.” Just a little lower, tracing a crescent over what he knew to be very sensitive skin; she shivered, just a little bit. “And this is definitely mine.” He glanced back up at her, liking the faint blush that had returned to her cheeks. Down the finger went again, and she drew in a sharp breath.
“And this is very, very much mine.”
“Is that so?” she asked, a bit breathless. “I read once that in Earth's history, before a patch of land could belong to anyone, it had to be claimed.”
John smiled and took a moment, deciding where to begin.