A new year, and "Twelve Days" **complete**
So, four days into the new year. How is so far, for you guys?
For me, it's to early to tell. Possible good news on the fiscal front, but no sure word till sometime this week. Also hoping my tax return may be enough to get me out west. But I hope that every year.
Work sucks more than usual because of the holiday blitz. I'm sick to death of whiny, childish consumers and their "problems".
Not being able to buy food for your family? Problem. Not being able to watch your ridiculously huge projection tv because you can't get a lamp sooner? So not worth sympathy I'm past derisive laughter into the land of contempt so pure, I'm literally nauseated.
But meh, hopefully it'll slow down once the consumerati's demands have been appeased. By the end of January, maybe. In the meantime, I found out my fealess company is about to start downsizing. Considering my performance (does a tone of politely bored contempt to every customer count as part of my performance? If not, then I should be fine) lately . . . I'm in a state of concern. I'm okay at what I do, and steadily so, but I can't manufacture that just-so tone of giving a shit that seems so important in the customer service arena. Not even the obviously fake one. I just sound pissed off and disdainful. And like someone's holding a gun to my head to make me be polite.
Ah, well.
My serenity_santa fic is done. I just posted the last installment (mit epilogue :D) and it feels like the end of an era. I'm kinda sad . . . though I've gotten some great consolation: the serenity_santa GIFTS!!!! I received, and they were awesome! I strongly recommend ana_grrl if you like Firefly fic--though anything she writes is fandamntastic.
The time of giftiness may be over, but I'm free to focus on the other prompts I've gotten. I'm working on the Mal,Jayne piece and it's trying to turn into crack. Like--pie-in-the-sky, are-you-on-crack? crack!fic.
(But it feels wicked funny. It makes me laugh, anyway. But so do random fart noises and the word "Uranus".
::shrugs::
::sighs::
Written as part of the serenity_santa ficathon, for little_dumpling's prompt: A Jayne/Mal or Jayne/Simon secret santa themed fic in which Jayne leaves Secret Santa gifts for the other. The other can find out or not, your choice, if they do I would like cuddling to be involved. Does not need to be over PG-13 rating.
The cuddling bit initially gave me pause . . . but all in all? I'm glad that was part of the prompting. Between the fic I gifted and was gifted with, I think I've just got a new OTP.
Twelve Days
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Simon/Jayne, (past Simon/Kaylee alluded to)
Rating: R
Word Count: 1700
Disclaimer: All belongs to His Jossness, lord of Whedon.
Notes: Set post-Serenity by one year.
Summary: Twelve drabbles and one ficlet written for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas. One drabble was added to serenity_santa daily from Dec 25 through January 5. All the gifts are all clickable.
On the First Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"Tian a!"
Because really, what else can one say when one staggers into one's bunk after a raucous shipboard Christmas party, intent only upon seeking one's lonely--of late--bed and finds a plump bird pecking eagerly at half-rotten fruit left on his duvet?
A snow partridge and a Nashi pear, respectively.
"What hundan left you here, and what'm I 'posed to do with you?"
The partridge tilts its head. Gives him a considering look.
Relieves itself on his pillow.
"Of course," Simon hiccups, wondering where the hell he'll find a cage for it this side of planet-fall.
On the Second Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
Good King Wenceslas churrs softly in her makeshift cage. A moment later there's a knock.
"Enter," Simon calls distractedly, crossing 'new dermal mender' off his supply wishlist with a sigh. He looks up.
No one's there, but in the med-bay doorway is a bundle of leather, paper, and steel. Closer investigation reveals a pair of small-caliber pistols in a leather shoulder-holster, weighing down a hand-written note.
"Um. . . ." Simon looks down the hallway.
Empty in both directions.
He steps back into the infirmary, holding the pistols and reading to himself: "Use and Care of Yer Turteldove .22s. . . ."
On the Third Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
". . . so it'd behoove you to come to me instead of letting your wounds close without proper attention."
"That's advice I'll surely take to heart, Doctor," Mal promises, and buttons his shirt, mind already on other things. "If we're done. . . ?"
"We're done--oh, Captain? I . . . um, would you like these?"
"These" turns out to be three of the sorriest, undercooked pigeons Mal's ever clapped eyes on.
But he takes the tray. Figures Jayne'll eat them, if no one else will.
"Much oblige, Doctor . . . though it might be best if, in the future, you left the cookin' to them as actually can."
On the Fourth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"Any more gifts from your Secret Santa?"
"No." Simon sighs his relief. "Still, I'm glad this bunch'll be debarking on Beaumonde. Life on Serenity's crazy enough without having a feng le stalker."
River pauses in the entryway, her expression mischievous. "Ain't a passenger, it's crew."
"Isn't, mei-mei," Simon corrects gently, and she rolls her eyes. "Wait--crew?"
River nods. "Four calling birds," she affirms, kissing Simon's cheek. Then wanders off to her bunk, leaving him alone.
Suddenly there's a crackle on the ship PA system, followed by . . . music:
On a dark desert highway/ Cool wind in my hair. . . .
On the Fifth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"So that makes these--" Simon waggles four be-ringed fingers and a thumb "-- Earth-that-was music by a band called The Eagles, three over-cooked game hens, two Turtledove revolvers, a partridge and a pear--and no idea who's behind them!"
Kaylee slides out from under the engine smudge-faced, grinning winsomely. "Sounds like someone's taken a real shine to you, Doctor Tam."
"Maybe," he says doubtfully, offering her his hand. "It wasn't . . . you, was it?"
Once standing, she takes his arm, like River does--like a sister or a friend. "Not me, but I maybe know who it could be."
On the Sixth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
It's 03:17 on the seventh day when Jayne Cobb stalks up Serenity's loading ramp, having failed to find a sixth night gift.
"You're earlier than I expected," a soft voice says.
(It's befuddling how Jayne ever found that voice riling.)
The Doc's sitting on some boxes weren't there when Jayne left six hours ago. Looks like Mal and Zoe did some extra crime. Shiny.
"You waitin' up for me?"
Simon smiles all clever-like. "I had to know whether you were going to get me six actual geese. It's the kind of curiosity that keeps a man up at night."
On the Seventh Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"You're . . . not actually awful," Simon admits wonderingly.
"Gee, that's real touchin', comin' from someone who's blackout-drunk."
"Am not." Simon pouts, muddled and snooty. "Anyway . . . I'm glad you aren't Mal, like Kaylee said."
"Shen me?!"
Lights flash and the crowd cheers politely. Jayne gets an armful of warm, willing doctor.
"Happy New Year, man-ape," Simon breathes, kissing-close. . . .
. . . then passes right out.
"Piao sha gua," Jayne grumbles. But he's so glad to leave the Gilt Swan--gorramn wannabe-Alliance bar--he doesn't even mind having to carry his . . . date . . . back to Serenity before joining the others at the Maidenhead.
On the Eighth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
Waking up to acetaminophen and a cup of lukewarm synthmilk is . . . nice.
What's not so nice?
Making his careful, hungover way to the med-bay, only to find . . . chaos.
In the epicenter of the devastation is, of course, Jayne Cobb.
"Is this my gift? A coronary episode?" Simon demands, very near to tears. Jayne actually looks nonplussed, and mutters something about eight days and maids. And cleaning. . . .
Ye su.
"Kuai qu hen yuan de di fang--and no more gifts!" Simon narrows bloodshot eyes in a bleary glare.
Jayne slinks out leaving him in the wreck of his med-bay.
On the Ninth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"You're--" the Doc throws his hands up "--a pig-ape-gone-wrong-thing, and you are not taking me to some yu ben de strip-club!"
"The Bare Naked Lady ain't stupid.” Jayne glares, and dares: “Plus, you liked them other gifts well enough.”
Just then the gorramn pigeon squawks in its fancy cage.
Simon sighs, clever fingers drumming on his desk. He wears the rings on a plain gold chain, hidden. More sensible than Jayne woulda once gave him credit for. “Okay. But only for a few minutes.”
Jayne smirks.
Them nine lapdances'll be the most cunning gift yet.
On the Tenth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
Simon doesn't get worried at the sight of Alliance soldiers anymore.
This group entering the Mian Tuzi, however--ten obviously green recruits on leave--is different. Mostly because of the way Jayne's caught Simon's eye, to mouth ten lords a-leapin', while covertly nodding at them.
"No!" Simon hisses, earning Mal and Zoe's immediate attention. "I mean it, you psychotic ape! No. More. Gifts!"
"Doctor, Jayne--either of you wanna explain what in guay's goin' on?" the Captain demands, suspicious and unhappy. But Jayne--grinning like a loon--draws Vera anyway, and aims her at the purple-bellies' feet.
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"Huh," Jayne says, stepping into the common area.
There's a squat paraffin candle burning in a fancy centerpiece that must be Inara's, two place settings, and bawu music playing low.
"You missed supper. Again. So I saved you some almost-food. Are you hungry?" Simon asks, eyes shining, face all . . . soft-like and glowing in the candle-flicker. This is the first time Jayne's seen or spoken to him since Mal tore them both a new one.
"I . . . reckon I could eat," he allows, dignified. Simon smiles and gestures at the spot across from his own.
"Please, sit," he murmurs.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"Sure you don't wanna have a listen?" Jayne offers the music chip eagerly. "Best gorramn drummer ever was. Sure, there ain't twelve of him, but--"
"NO!" Simon closes Jayne's hand around the chip. "I'm serious, Jayne. No more gifts."
"Alright." How odd to see such a large man fidget. "I oughtta--"
"I should--" Simon reluctantly lets go of Jayne's hand. "Sorry, you were saying. . . ?"
Apparently Jayne was saying, I oughtta kiss you till your gorramn knees're wobbly and your lips're all swollen, because. . . .
Yeah.
"W-would you mind repeating that?" Simon asks breathlessly.
Jayne grins. Doesn't seem to mind at all.
Epilogue: Thirteen Minutes Later, his true love gave to him. . . .
The Doc's fussy-neat bunk looks different when Jayne isn't rifling it for valuables or sneaking in to leave gifts.
Nope, it's a entirely different bunk when a body's invited in . . . 'bout a thousand time more intimidating.
"So . . . this is me," Simon gestures at the room. Notices a scarf that likely belongs to Little Miss Psycho Britches, draped over his chair. He quickly stuffs it in a drawer. "Qing jin, sorry for the mess."
Mess? Jayne ducks into the bunk, shutting the door behind him. "You'd like to have one of them coronal episodes if ya saw my bunk right now."
"Ah. Ah-ha-ha," Simon says--actually says, not laughs--all nervous and restless. He sits on his bed, then stands up again fast, red about the face.
Jayne smirks and leans against the door, very aware of the manly, muscular figure he cuts. "So . . . you liked them gifts?"
"Some of them, yes," a grimace that turns into that pretty smile. This time, when Simon sits on his bed he don't jump back up. "You really were quite . . . imaginative."
"Don't go actin' all confounded. I got facets, ya know." Jayne crosses his arms over his chest and Simon's smile widens, gets downright mischievous.
"Jayne Cobb, the multi-faceted man-ape?"
"Gorramnit, now, I ain't no ape!"
"Hmm." Simon tilts his head thoughtful-like. His eyes are dark in the low light. "No. I don't suppose you are."
Something in that gaze releases tension from Jayne's shoulders--draws him to Simon's bed. He sits down, close enough that their knees bump. Puts his hand on the Doc's thigh, neither high nor low. Doesn't have to wait for a reaction; Simon leans close, meeting him halfway for a kiss that's slower than the other ones were.
Should be ruttin' a hole in this bed, not carryin' on this sissfied fei hua. . . . I'm goin' soft, Jayne thinks. Then Simon groans, and winds his arms around Jayne's neck.
The sissified fei hua doesn't end till they're prone, Simon writhing atop him.
"For the record,” his cool blue eyes seem as amused by Jayne, as they are wanting of him, and one hand is restless on Jayne's chest. "Normally I'm not this easy. However--"
"Easy?" Jayne snorts. "Doc, how could anyone ever think you was easy? Do you know how gorramn hard you are?"
"Jayne, we both have a fair idea of how hard I am." The Doc grinds down hard, and real . . . dirty. Grins when Jayne swears. "As I was saying: you're a clever, on occasion sensitive non-ape-man. One with hidden facets I consider myself honored to be the one to discover, and over many, many nights together. But to-night . . . I just wanna rut till we pass out. Sound good?"
"I--well, yeah, but . . . cuddlin' after, right?" It just sorta slips out, but hell if Jayne'll take back. And anyway, the Doc don't seem unwilling.
"Yes, bao bei," he says, kissing Jayne as nice and sweet as he's ever been kissed. "Cuddling after."
~ The End ~
For me, it's to early to tell. Possible good news on the fiscal front, but no sure word till sometime this week. Also hoping my tax return may be enough to get me out west. But I hope that every year.
Work sucks more than usual because of the holiday blitz. I'm sick to death of whiny, childish consumers and their "problems".
Not being able to buy food for your family? Problem. Not being able to watch your ridiculously huge projection tv because you can't get a lamp sooner? So not worth sympathy I'm past derisive laughter into the land of contempt so pure, I'm literally nauseated.
But meh, hopefully it'll slow down once the consumerati's demands have been appeased. By the end of January, maybe. In the meantime, I found out my fealess company is about to start downsizing. Considering my performance (does a tone of politely bored contempt to every customer count as part of my performance? If not, then I should be fine) lately . . . I'm in a state of concern. I'm okay at what I do, and steadily so, but I can't manufacture that just-so tone of giving a shit that seems so important in the customer service arena. Not even the obviously fake one. I just sound pissed off and disdainful. And like someone's holding a gun to my head to make me be polite.
Ah, well.
My serenity_santa fic is done. I just posted the last installment (mit epilogue :D) and it feels like the end of an era. I'm kinda sad . . . though I've gotten some great consolation: the serenity_santa GIFTS!!!! I received, and they were awesome! I strongly recommend ana_grrl if you like Firefly fic--though anything she writes is fandamntastic.
The time of giftiness may be over, but I'm free to focus on the other prompts I've gotten. I'm working on the Mal,Jayne piece and it's trying to turn into crack. Like--pie-in-the-sky, are-you-on-crack? crack!fic.
(But it feels wicked funny. It makes me laugh, anyway. But so do random fart noises and the word "Uranus".
::shrugs::
::sighs::
Written as part of the serenity_santa ficathon, for little_dumpling's prompt: A Jayne/Mal or Jayne/Simon secret santa themed fic in which Jayne leaves Secret Santa gifts for the other. The other can find out or not, your choice, if they do I would like cuddling to be involved. Does not need to be over PG-13 rating.
The cuddling bit initially gave me pause . . . but all in all? I'm glad that was part of the prompting. Between the fic I gifted and was gifted with, I think I've just got a new OTP.
Twelve Days
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Simon/Jayne, (past Simon/Kaylee alluded to)
Rating: R
Word Count: 1700
Disclaimer: All belongs to His Jossness, lord of Whedon.
Notes: Set post-Serenity by one year.
Summary: Twelve drabbles and one ficlet written for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas. One drabble was added to serenity_santa daily from Dec 25 through January 5. All the gifts are all clickable.
On the First Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"Tian a!"
Because really, what else can one say when one staggers into one's bunk after a raucous shipboard Christmas party, intent only upon seeking one's lonely--of late--bed and finds a plump bird pecking eagerly at half-rotten fruit left on his duvet?
A snow partridge and a Nashi pear, respectively.
"What hundan left you here, and what'm I 'posed to do with you?"
The partridge tilts its head. Gives him a considering look.
Relieves itself on his pillow.
"Of course," Simon hiccups, wondering where the hell he'll find a cage for it this side of planet-fall.
On the Second Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
Good King Wenceslas churrs softly in her makeshift cage. A moment later there's a knock.
"Enter," Simon calls distractedly, crossing 'new dermal mender' off his supply wishlist with a sigh. He looks up.
No one's there, but in the med-bay doorway is a bundle of leather, paper, and steel. Closer investigation reveals a pair of small-caliber pistols in a leather shoulder-holster, weighing down a hand-written note.
"Um. . . ." Simon looks down the hallway.
Empty in both directions.
He steps back into the infirmary, holding the pistols and reading to himself: "Use and Care of Yer Turteldove .22s. . . ."
On the Third Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
". . . so it'd behoove you to come to me instead of letting your wounds close without proper attention."
"That's advice I'll surely take to heart, Doctor," Mal promises, and buttons his shirt, mind already on other things. "If we're done. . . ?"
"We're done--oh, Captain? I . . . um, would you like these?"
"These" turns out to be three of the sorriest, undercooked pigeons Mal's ever clapped eyes on.
But he takes the tray. Figures Jayne'll eat them, if no one else will.
"Much oblige, Doctor . . . though it might be best if, in the future, you left the cookin' to them as actually can."
On the Fourth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"Any more gifts from your Secret Santa?"
"No." Simon sighs his relief. "Still, I'm glad this bunch'll be debarking on Beaumonde. Life on Serenity's crazy enough without having a feng le stalker."
River pauses in the entryway, her expression mischievous. "Ain't a passenger, it's crew."
"Isn't, mei-mei," Simon corrects gently, and she rolls her eyes. "Wait--crew?"
River nods. "Four calling birds," she affirms, kissing Simon's cheek. Then wanders off to her bunk, leaving him alone.
Suddenly there's a crackle on the ship PA system, followed by . . . music:
On a dark desert highway/ Cool wind in my hair. . . .
On the Fifth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"So that makes these--" Simon waggles four be-ringed fingers and a thumb "-- Earth-that-was music by a band called The Eagles, three over-cooked game hens, two Turtledove revolvers, a partridge and a pear--and no idea who's behind them!"
Kaylee slides out from under the engine smudge-faced, grinning winsomely. "Sounds like someone's taken a real shine to you, Doctor Tam."
"Maybe," he says doubtfully, offering her his hand. "It wasn't . . . you, was it?"
Once standing, she takes his arm, like River does--like a sister or a friend. "Not me, but I maybe know who it could be."
On the Sixth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
It's 03:17 on the seventh day when Jayne Cobb stalks up Serenity's loading ramp, having failed to find a sixth night gift.
"You're earlier than I expected," a soft voice says.
(It's befuddling how Jayne ever found that voice riling.)
The Doc's sitting on some boxes weren't there when Jayne left six hours ago. Looks like Mal and Zoe did some extra crime. Shiny.
"You waitin' up for me?"
Simon smiles all clever-like. "I had to know whether you were going to get me six actual geese. It's the kind of curiosity that keeps a man up at night."
On the Seventh Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"You're . . . not actually awful," Simon admits wonderingly.
"Gee, that's real touchin', comin' from someone who's blackout-drunk."
"Am not." Simon pouts, muddled and snooty. "Anyway . . . I'm glad you aren't Mal, like Kaylee said."
"Shen me?!"
Lights flash and the crowd cheers politely. Jayne gets an armful of warm, willing doctor.
"Happy New Year, man-ape," Simon breathes, kissing-close. . . .
. . . then passes right out.
"Piao sha gua," Jayne grumbles. But he's so glad to leave the Gilt Swan--gorramn wannabe-Alliance bar--he doesn't even mind having to carry his . . . date . . . back to Serenity before joining the others at the Maidenhead.
On the Eighth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
Waking up to acetaminophen and a cup of lukewarm synthmilk is . . . nice.
What's not so nice?
Making his careful, hungover way to the med-bay, only to find . . . chaos.
In the epicenter of the devastation is, of course, Jayne Cobb.
"Is this my gift? A coronary episode?" Simon demands, very near to tears. Jayne actually looks nonplussed, and mutters something about eight days and maids. And cleaning. . . .
Ye su.
"Kuai qu hen yuan de di fang--and no more gifts!" Simon narrows bloodshot eyes in a bleary glare.
Jayne slinks out leaving him in the wreck of his med-bay.
On the Ninth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"You're--" the Doc throws his hands up "--a pig-ape-gone-wrong-thing, and you are not taking me to some yu ben de strip-club!"
"The Bare Naked Lady ain't stupid.” Jayne glares, and dares: “Plus, you liked them other gifts well enough.”
Just then the gorramn pigeon squawks in its fancy cage.
Simon sighs, clever fingers drumming on his desk. He wears the rings on a plain gold chain, hidden. More sensible than Jayne woulda once gave him credit for. “Okay. But only for a few minutes.”
Jayne smirks.
Them nine lapdances'll be the most cunning gift yet.
On the Tenth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
Simon doesn't get worried at the sight of Alliance soldiers anymore.
This group entering the Mian Tuzi, however--ten obviously green recruits on leave--is different. Mostly because of the way Jayne's caught Simon's eye, to mouth ten lords a-leapin', while covertly nodding at them.
"No!" Simon hisses, earning Mal and Zoe's immediate attention. "I mean it, you psychotic ape! No. More. Gifts!"
"Doctor, Jayne--either of you wanna explain what in guay's goin' on?" the Captain demands, suspicious and unhappy. But Jayne--grinning like a loon--draws Vera anyway, and aims her at the purple-bellies' feet.
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"Huh," Jayne says, stepping into the common area.
There's a squat paraffin candle burning in a fancy centerpiece that must be Inara's, two place settings, and bawu music playing low.
"You missed supper. Again. So I saved you some almost-food. Are you hungry?" Simon asks, eyes shining, face all . . . soft-like and glowing in the candle-flicker. This is the first time Jayne's seen or spoken to him since Mal tore them both a new one.
"I . . . reckon I could eat," he allows, dignified. Simon smiles and gestures at the spot across from his own.
"Please, sit," he murmurs.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, his true love gave to him. . . .
"Sure you don't wanna have a listen?" Jayne offers the music chip eagerly. "Best gorramn drummer ever was. Sure, there ain't twelve of him, but--"
"NO!" Simon closes Jayne's hand around the chip. "I'm serious, Jayne. No more gifts."
"Alright." How odd to see such a large man fidget. "I oughtta--"
"I should--" Simon reluctantly lets go of Jayne's hand. "Sorry, you were saying. . . ?"
Apparently Jayne was saying, I oughtta kiss you till your gorramn knees're wobbly and your lips're all swollen, because. . . .
Yeah.
"W-would you mind repeating that?" Simon asks breathlessly.
Jayne grins. Doesn't seem to mind at all.
Epilogue: Thirteen Minutes Later, his true love gave to him. . . .
The Doc's fussy-neat bunk looks different when Jayne isn't rifling it for valuables or sneaking in to leave gifts.
Nope, it's a entirely different bunk when a body's invited in . . . 'bout a thousand time more intimidating.
"So . . . this is me," Simon gestures at the room. Notices a scarf that likely belongs to Little Miss Psycho Britches, draped over his chair. He quickly stuffs it in a drawer. "Qing jin, sorry for the mess."
Mess? Jayne ducks into the bunk, shutting the door behind him. "You'd like to have one of them coronal episodes if ya saw my bunk right now."
"Ah. Ah-ha-ha," Simon says--actually says, not laughs--all nervous and restless. He sits on his bed, then stands up again fast, red about the face.
Jayne smirks and leans against the door, very aware of the manly, muscular figure he cuts. "So . . . you liked them gifts?"
"Some of them, yes," a grimace that turns into that pretty smile. This time, when Simon sits on his bed he don't jump back up. "You really were quite . . . imaginative."
"Don't go actin' all confounded. I got facets, ya know." Jayne crosses his arms over his chest and Simon's smile widens, gets downright mischievous.
"Jayne Cobb, the multi-faceted man-ape?"
"Gorramnit, now, I ain't no ape!"
"Hmm." Simon tilts his head thoughtful-like. His eyes are dark in the low light. "No. I don't suppose you are."
Something in that gaze releases tension from Jayne's shoulders--draws him to Simon's bed. He sits down, close enough that their knees bump. Puts his hand on the Doc's thigh, neither high nor low. Doesn't have to wait for a reaction; Simon leans close, meeting him halfway for a kiss that's slower than the other ones were.
Should be ruttin' a hole in this bed, not carryin' on this sissfied fei hua. . . . I'm goin' soft, Jayne thinks. Then Simon groans, and winds his arms around Jayne's neck.
The sissified fei hua doesn't end till they're prone, Simon writhing atop him.
"For the record,” his cool blue eyes seem as amused by Jayne, as they are wanting of him, and one hand is restless on Jayne's chest. "Normally I'm not this easy. However--"
"Easy?" Jayne snorts. "Doc, how could anyone ever think you was easy? Do you know how gorramn hard you are?"
"Jayne, we both have a fair idea of how hard I am." The Doc grinds down hard, and real . . . dirty. Grins when Jayne swears. "As I was saying: you're a clever, on occasion sensitive non-ape-man. One with hidden facets I consider myself honored to be the one to discover, and over many, many nights together. But to-night . . . I just wanna rut till we pass out. Sound good?"
"I--well, yeah, but . . . cuddlin' after, right?" It just sorta slips out, but hell if Jayne'll take back. And anyway, the Doc don't seem unwilling.
"Yes, bao bei," he says, kissing Jayne as nice and sweet as he's ever been kissed. "Cuddling after."
~ The End ~