But You Don't Even Like Me
Title: But You Don't Even Like Me
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mal/Simon
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: (This is the part I let Em do.)
Summary: Directly after 'Safe', Mal doesn't so much as say as do.
"But you don't even like me."
Which Mal finds a completely stupid notion but he can't come out and just say that. Because he's always blunt about facts, never about feelings; unless he's pissed.
Mal doesn't say he does, but doesn't say he doesn't either.
And, well, almost getting burned at the stake? He can't say he's had that particular threat in his life before, but he can imagine it might shake him up a fair amount.
He'd been running once. In the kitchen. Like a full-fledged fool. Tripped over a wooden spoon covered in flour, he remembers the flour best because after that he doesn't remember much other than it being hot and hurtin'. Which will happen when you trip and crash your side directly into a searing stone oven. He remembers, most, not liking to be burnt, thanks. He'll take a bullet any day. Any day at all.
The doctor's got a leg up on him in this area.
Simon wandering around looking a little spooked, River wandering around looking just dandy. Which is possibly the most unsettling of all.
Shot. Stabbed. Frustrated. Then betrayed. Wears on a man.
"Daddy will come and take us home," finally clicking in Simon's head. As if she knew something Simon hadn't.
Almost being set on fire set the bar high on his mental list of terrifying things, but having someone he's harbored impure thoughts about compared to a father figure...that rates up there as well.
And did those people seriously think he would stay on and doctor them after they killed his sister? Seriously?
He blurts this out in front of Mal without quite realizing it and definitely not expecting an answer.
Who thinks the Tams both seem a little too well-adjusted for almost getting incinerated. But maybe they just know how to face adversity like troopers. Which he definitely wouldn't have thought.
But what could he really say? With the shepard lying at death's door? What would he have done in that situation? ...Well, if he were the captain of a ship and not a doctor fully capable of patching the man up himself...
Finding Simon passed out on his sister's floor and feeling like a complete jerk.
Dragging him back into his own bunk without saying anything.
Another captainy duty--he tends to make those up as he goes along, sometimes.
Besides, he's good at it. ...Can't decide which he's better at, though: the dragging around of semi-conscious bodies or the not saying anything.
Especially after Simon tentatively reminding him that he doesn't even like him. Right. Since that's what started it all, really.
Unfastening vest buttons and watching with a furrowed brow when Simon goes tipping into the mattress without even making one single snippy remark.
Standing there with his hands on his hips, soaking in his own guilt for a minute. His best skill. Second to none.
Puttering around the room because he can't make himself get into bed with him and he isn't going to just stand there forever, but his mind isn't budging.
Mal dozes off in his desk chair after dumping Simon into his bed, just because he's not about to crawl in after him at a time like this.
Kind of irked at himself for not just putting the doc in his own bed--just sort of seemed like a good idea at the time, bringing him down here. Better to keep an eye on him and make sure he actually gets rest. That's as good an explanation as any. Holdover from the war, making sure aftereffects of trauma are minimal.
Besides, how much rest does he get in his own bunk? Mal's is relatively comfortable-- more so than the rest, being the captain isn't completely without its perks-- though there are days he does wonder-- relatively more quiet. Relatively. Seeing as how no one's about to die, or nothing is about to blow up and... well... there it is, then.
Waking up with a crick in his neck after a short time, but Simon still passed out facedown in the middle of his bed with one arm slung around the pillow.
Sighing, shucking off his shirt, and getting a spare blanket from the dresser because sleeping on the floor's better than sleeping in a chair. Eyes lingering over the strip of bare skin between Simon's neckline and hairline. Rich and lily-white...
He's used to admiring from a distance; done so all his life. Why change that now any?
Aside from maybe the steel of the floor being awful unforgiving and him not being as youthful as he once were and all...?
One of Simon's white-shirted shoulders moves a little, which gives him pause--shirt. No vest on, seeing as he let Mal take it off. Or start too, anyway, before the doc gave him one of those borderline-snooty looks and finished getting rid of it himself. He'd let Mal take care of the shoes, though. And undressing is definitely auspicious and it is his damn bed and his damn ship in the first place.
Simon's probably used to having River climbing into bed with him half the time anyway.
Course. He is a mite more... sizable. Well, to hell with it; not going to stand here and debate about it all night. And, another thing, if he's actually in the bed with the doc, he'll know if he tries to get up and thus demand the resting part. Like he tries to do to everyone else every time one of the crew gets a scrape. ...Or a knife. ...Or a bullet.
Getting under the covers isn't easy, seeing as Simon's on top of them, and he winds up giving the doc a little shove and a "move over, now" to make him roll more to one side, but eventually he manages to work himself into place--pressed a little too close for comfort, or maybe just close enough, and that's the problem, isn't it?
Best to sleep with his back pressed along the doc's. Y'know, just in case it's a problem he can't quite keep in hand. No, not in hand either. Not in anything, just-- sleep. He can do that. Good at that. After all, once one has been through something like war, one learns to sleep when they can. And lightly.
Though he wouldn't turn down a chance to physically prevent the doc from getting up and wandering off, should the opportunity arise. Just grab a hold and bear-hug him till he sleeps. Right. He's thinking like Jayne now.
Ah, hell. Just roll over and actually enjoy a warm body in his bed. Not like he gets that luxury all that often. Not like it's going to matter if he does wake up to an embarrassing situation. Simon's a doctor. Supposed to be good at awkward things like that. (And not the cause of them.)
Scoot in a tad closer, enough that he's not in immediate danger of falling over the edge. Not like he's never bedded down under strange circumstances before, and at least Simon has the advantages of being warm and clean and attractive. And just to see, just to sort of test how asleep he is, lean in and skim his lips, dry and closed, over that pale stripe of skin he'd noticed earlier.
---
Not his fault, really. Sandwiched there, facing the wall; body heat that's not his own seeping into his back. Breathing even and slow because that's what one does when they're asleep. And what does one think? Under this kind of pressure, isolated and stressed and nearly... killed, in a very serious way, and here he is, taking in that smell that is the captain-- warm leather, the smell of horse's hide somehow-- that sun-warmed hay scent-- filling him up, dizzying him up. ...Not his fault, really.
And Simon's body debates whether to freeze up utterly or shoot through the roof.
The captain wouldn't have brought him down here if he didn't have some kind of interest in his well-being, which is a thought that's actually more soothing than it is unsettling.
Inopportune erections-- perfectly normal. Considering the situation. Easy to dimiss; medically and all.
Only...not when it's an authority figured pressed up against his back who's the one sporting it.
And it plays through his head again, his own timid, hesitant words: Yeah, but... you don't even like me. Proving him wrong? On some level. He's not sure he appreciates this; though, obviously, part of him does. All the wrong parts.
Brush it all off as part of a post-trauma reaction, since so many things can be filed under that umbrella term. He barely even remembers how he came to be in the captain's bunk, for God's sake; doesn't remember much of anything except putting River to bed and not wanting to leave until he was sure she would still be there when he opened his eyes again.
Being put to bed himself isn't the indignity he should probably have taken it as, really. He could drift off again easily if his body would let him.
Adjust himself. Subtly. Why him? Why this man? The sense of honor behind him? And what has he seen-- this man? All the... horridness of humanity, and yet... and yet. ...He did come back.
Simon twisting a little on his side, closer to the wall, distancing himself from the heat of the captain's body as subtly and as much as he can in a bed this size. It's no good. If he stops thinking of Mal, he finds himself remembering River dancing at some incongruous festival, nothing but flames and his sister's smile shining in front of his eyes before the blaze of Serenity washed over it all--anything in the universe is preferable to reliving those few minutes. When there's a barely-there brush of contact at the nape of his neck, however, it becomes a moot point.
Especially when there's a heavy, heaved sigh. Shirtless. He knows that somehow, without turning over to look.
So much for that thought about never getting another erection in his life.
So. He's a sensible person. And the captain is a pyschotic yet somehow trust-worthy individual. Nice situation this.
He opts to try and discreetly get out of the bed and gets Mal bodily slinging him back down, one bare arm a warm weight over his side. "Sleep." Like it's one of those things that sheer force of Mal's own will can bring about.
"I have," in a voice that doesn't quite sound like his own. Hoarse and rushed.
"My ass."
A shuddery exhale, face trying to pull into a scowl but fading out halfway through-- no sense showing your feelings on your features if there's no one there to see it. So turn his head, squinting in the dimness; breath shallow. That scent, that smell and all he can think is freedom and honesty and gorrammit, he needs to let go of him. "It matters?" To you because?
"Need to know my medic's able to do his job without falling over, yep." Cinching his arm a little more firmly, just in case.
And it's not a bad sensation at all, having someone else in bed, even if they're fussing about it. "She's down for the count and you should be, too." As far as Mal knows, River's room isn't likely to break off from the rest of the ship and float into nothingness.
Yes. Well. "And you... bed down all your crew to keep sure they're resting well?" Half hush-whispered, because it seems darker in here than it did than a minute ago and his heartrate has increased dramatically. Tick-tock-slam; he's made sure that River is safely asleep, too? What does that say?
"Obviously, since it's workin' so well now." Lifting his head and shoot a pointed look right into Simon's too-awake eyes. "'s better here than passed out on your sister's floor, which, I might add, is where I found you; are we through now?"
He looks. No: he looks. And swallows. Hard, around a cinched, too-parched portion of his throat and turns his head away, consciously relaxing his body. Keenly aware of Mal's arm over his side. Staring into the side of the wall; heart going pound-pound and Simon's head swimming around itself when his hand-- traitorous bastard-- actually lifts itself up and has the audacity to settle over the warmth of the captain's own, sensitive bottom of his forearm resting over the top of Mal's own. Feel the structure of muscle, the prickle of scarce hairs, he fairly thinks that he can feel the blood moving through those veins. Again, his own hand bold enough to limply place over the other's.
What now? Seems only natural that he twist, that he turn-- stretch his own pale throat in order to surrender his mouth to the other's; the one breathing so steadily and deep and on him. Seems only natural, but he doesn't move. Doesn't say a word: and, as it is, when you go against what is natural, things seem... awkward.
If Simon doesn't stop being all fidgety... maybe he should just punch him again...though he's sure that won't be half as pleasant as the alternative. "Not that difficult, really," Mal mutters, going for flippant, the words sounding sharper than they do in his mind--backing off a few paces now that he's moved too far in. Moon-wide eyes darting, too nervously, in Simon's face, tension and wrinkled shirt fabric plainly evident where Mal's still got that arm draped over him; if he could, he'd give the man a relaxation transplant, but the best he can do now is rub his palm a little at the small of his back and wait.
Dumb enough to get himself snatched in broad daylight, yeah. After he'd sent the two fugitives off to take a walk, knowing full well that Simon's attention would be only on River and River might cause any manner of trouble and the both of them could have easily stayed on Serenity instead.
Even so. Functioning in the real world is something that comes easily to Dr. Tam. Clearly. "You stopped thinking yet?"
Here he is, with his arm settled over Mal's own, Mal sensing that tension and trying to make light of it; as he does with everything. Even imminent death. Exhale hard: "Not yet." Shaky.
Squeeze his eyes shut, press it all out: but that leaves the present so brightly light up. Darkness, scent of this... man everywhere, the warmth of him, his breath ghosting across the back of his ear, side of his neck: caocaocao. "Ta ma de." Twist onto his back now, no escaping it, staring at him this way: half in shadow, half in light. "...Now then?"
Easily seen in his head; twisting and opening up and groaning under the pressure, a strong, wide hand traveling down his body in urgency, feeling him through his clothes and downdowndown-- and here he is, flat on his back instead and barely breathing: waiting.
Simon's twisting around again and Mal just goes with him, since he's not getting shoved onto the floor for his troubles. Noticing the doctor's more attractive than the average person is one thing, but actually taking any kind of action while he's still on the crew and still shell-shocked from the burning-at-the-stake thing...that's a little different. And Mal has to ask himself if the doc would even be letting this happen under any other circumstances. For his part, he's used to getting sniped at and shot at, but that sort of thing generally isn't part of Core-bred doctors' education, far as he knows. He just can't quite get a handle on how much of a toll that's taken on Simon so far.
Blankets bunched at his waist, heat of Simon's skin seeping through that neat white shirt against his own bare chest, and Mal with his face intent and his thumb carefully sketching a line along the doctor's jaw. "That'd be up to you." Soft-voiced, but less rough now. Considerably.
Barest brush there, leaving a tingle that travels up behind to the smallish hairs at the back of his neck, and Simon's eyes are closed and he's just realized it. So he blinks them open immediately; has to see. And damn him, if not every other time barking orders, here he backs down, takes his turn to wait and making Simon feel all manner of frustrated for a brief second. Dip his head. There's a warm crook there between the clavicle and shoulder. Dark. Damp. Breathe there, with his hand opening and tightening on where Mal's arm is still over him.
Draw his head back, dizzy with that... smell... dirty-dark of leather, bright-clean of something like hay-- it's good. That warmth of him? That's good too. All those thoughts that flickered through his brain, dancing across the surface of his mind as delicately as waterbugs over the pond surface: skin and sweat and press of Mal's strength. Things he disregarded, ignored. Now, however, he's obviously not about to get punched... again. Because it hurts when Mal does that...
"Yeah..." Murmur-muttered, now with his eyes half-lidded and it's the smallest movement, to tip his head up, graze his mouth there, sighing despite himself, "Don't even like me?" Kissing him anyhow.
All the answer he needs, Simon's face burrowing in the crook of his neck, and Mal suddenly can't make his mouth close or his eyes open, just breathe in deeply--hands spread wide over both Simon's back and the mattress. "Did I say that?" He would have remembered saying that.
Cupping a palm up against that pale face and putting his mouth to better use before either of them can get another word out. Heat and wetness and, cao, this is Simon, of all people, stretched out in his bed looking a little worse for the wear and seemingly content to let Mal kiss him, work the white folds of his shirt out of his pants and slip a hand up against bare skin.
His breath comes in a huff, spine arching in as one of those work-worn hands slide up against his own too-sensitive skin, mouth open, tongue running up against the other's and tension just... melts... one, two, three. And he's right. Never said it. Never said it at all. "Just... 'ssumed..." Doesn't matter right now anyway, not with both his hands seeking for some kind of solidity and finding the captain to clutch on to. To hold. To ground himself with.
If this is the wrong move to be making, he's not getting any indication of it at all. Dark hair between his fingers, tongue slowly pressing into that mouth like he owns it. He's half-waiting for Simon to shake him off just to be contrary or Core-ish or something--it's clear enough the doc's not used to being dependent on anyone to the extent he relies on Mal and he knows he wouldn't get used to that easily, having his safety in someone else's hand. ...and Simon just wrenches him down harder and solves that riddle right off the bat.
There's a shudder than runs from the nape of his spine to the bottom of his feet, inching him in closer to the other's warmth. Parting his lips further, drinking in that hot-wet taste and the feel of Mal's tongue pressing sloweasy-like into his mouth. Top lip catching gently against the other's bottom lip when he breaks that kiss, breathing in deep. Hands splayed and moving over bare-warm shoulders. His eyes are closed. His face is filled with warmth. "Captain..." Quiet and breathless.
"Doctor." Mal's lips quirking up as he pulls back enough to survey Simon's face, searching for any hint of imminent shouting or sputtering and finding little there other than wariness.
He pauses, blinking his eyes open, then closing them again as a smile pulls over him, a smile turning into a chuckle. A breathy laugh as he presses his cheek (warmwarmwarm) up against Mal's own. Fingers search-stretching up into that dark brown hair, elbows settling just above Mal's shoulders because it gives him leverage in order to draw up, his own shoulders hunching in the process, his mouth open on the other's ear and the salty tinge of skin on his tastebuds as he's sucking that lobe to shut himself up. Doesn't work out quite the way he meant, because just the feel of the other against him has him humming long and low around that ear.
"How's about nobody does any talking unless it's to pull the plug on..." Oh. Simon huffing out a small laugh and closing that hot mouth over his gorram ear, damn near making him go nonverbal altogether. "Okay, then." Weakly. He can work with this--one hand still trapped between Simon and the mattress, but he makes it two; get's both arms wrapped around that slimmer body and moves.
Groan. Muffled and rising in volume before his lungs demand more air, eyes closed and sucking warmly and Mal putting those arms around him. Same arms he's furtively watched the muscle playing beneath the skin of, same arms he's wanted to grip, to feel the strength flex through. And a hand drops from Mal's hair to a shoulder, clamping there, then running down-- splayed and stuttering-- over the bicep, surging up instinctively when Mal moves against him.
Both hands down then, grasping, pushing back because Simon is gasping hotly against the same damp ear he just released, nose bumping against Mal's jawline as he pulls back, murmuring urgently, "Waitwaitwait," trying to get those arms to unwind. Give himself enough room to kiss that mouth and undo his buttons at the same time. Be able to shrug out of that dress shirt.
Too pretty for his own good. Always thought so, since that first snobby look he got from behind those ugly (creepy) pink eyeglasses. Somehow, somewhere between then and now, the tables ended up turning.
Both hands wide on Simon's back, steadily palming over as much of the soft skin as he can--sleek and smooth and not a single scar he can feel under the ridges of his fingertips. He's already shucked off his own shirt, and now it seems Simon's keen to catch up. Mal's not about to rain on that particualr parade--get a good hold of the front of it and helpfully work it up the doctor's front, taking the fussy-soft cotton of an undershirt with it.
See if he can get the doctor making some noises that aren't indignant sputters; he likes that idea.
His arms back around the other, his head tilting and his mouth widening, moving good and firm and demanding, testing his teeth in the other's bottom lip. His breathing a little more taxed, lips grazing down to Mal's jaw, pressing up against the length of that firm-tone-warm body. Good. So, so damn good. Everything he forced himself not to think about and more; doesn't know what it is that attracted him to the captain, but it's there in full force now, knotting low in his stomach, flooding it with warmth. Lips parted there up near the other's temple, "...D-don't think... I've ever been so happy to hear that beligerent tone of yours..." The ship had come first, but it wasn't until he heard Mal's voice; reaching out through the dark, ringing loud and clear across the gathered, blood-lustful crowd had relief hit him so hard he'd thought for a moment he was going to be sick.
Mal snorts softly. Traces backs of his fingers over the hardness of ribs and softness of stomach, licks a soft swath up the side of the doctor's neck, pausing long enough to mutter,"Y'know, I think that might've been a compliment. Best be more careful." And then picking up right where he left off, ducking to get their mouths together, and press-shifting against all that responsive heat under him, around him, touching him.
If this is how Simon copes with crisis, he can deal with that. Can't recall ever catching Simon in anything less than his own version of full-body armor; he'd have remembered anything otherwise.
His utter relief at being able to pick between an irritating space brigand and a troop of homicidal hill people. Anyone smart would pick irritating over dead any day of the week; but the captain is the sort that might pick 'dead' just on the principle of the matter. Like getting a sword in the side. Honorable one minute and disreputable the next. At times, Simon's not sure which he likes best about the other... Well, right now, with both of his shirts being gone, 'disreputable' is fairly ahead.
Not as rough maybe as he was expecting, which is surprising, as he wouldn't be too averse to rough right now. The thought causing him to flush, more so than being half-naked at the moment, even.
Probably does a bit of a double-take, he knows, but it's not his fault for underestimating what he'd find under that shirt. Skin like heated satin under his hands, yeah, but more strength underneath than he'd anticipated. "Huh." Some other time, he'll be sure to find out whether it's all due to pre-seleted genetics or some kind of secret exercise regimen. For now, though...for now, he'll just lick and nip straight down the center of it all, keeping both those pretty wrists-- trip-thrum of a pulse there, and soft, so gorram soft-- caught in his hands.
Eyes closing, tongue passing over the faint trail of hair below the doctor's navel--slow and deliberate and Mal's well aware his own breathing's gotten a sight more rough than normal.
The other doing things in his own time, as usual, and at any other time, Simon might not really mind. Right now, however, with his hands twisting in Mal's grip and the rest of him twisting under Mal himself, a little impatient noise gets all caught up in his throat, coming out broken and thready. He hadn't pictured it this way, though, mind, he never really tried to picture it. Seeing as how he was fairly dead-sure if Mal was picturing sex at all it was with Inara.
With his eyes closed and his fingers flexing and Mal's... tongue; well, it's just... low, that's all. Low and on him and he'd really like to... Pick up his head, squinting in the dimness, mumbling, as he feels a little too dizzy to have his head up quite so high, "Am I not allowed to touch, too?" He just... needs to make sure. Y'know. How to play. Need to know the rules first. Simon, all about rules when there's not a damn thing to indicate they were much needed out here...
There it is. This hot little sound working out of Simon's open mouth as Mal's own is working hotly over his abdomen and it sends a jolt of lust corkscrewing down the center of him. Catch the back of that dark head in one hand so he can move higher up the bed and lap up any other interesting noises as they occur. Aware--very aware--that the motion has them pressed almost flush with one another, which certain parts of his body find most appreciative. "Feel free, anytime." Shove gently forward with his hips, enough to increase the friction on his cock and have him hissing against the doc's ear, spine pitching outward into a curve.
Tongue slickly over the reddened swoop of it, working up onto his side slightly and taking Simon with him, freeing up his one hand enough to travel the length of that bare back and keep going lower. "Anywhere, too, for that matter."
"Ah," quietly, quietly; closing his eyes tight, that soft hissing sound the other makes causing an all-over shiver. With his touch stuttering over a shoulder, then across the blade of it and he's focused, utterly, on the sensation of skin under his hands. That is, that is... until Mal pushes up against him like that and then he can't focus on anything at all. It's not fair, in the least; shaken up and turned all inside out and now this. The bed is too small, the light is too dim, and Simon squirms up on his side when Mal does, especially when it gives him enough room to arch appreciatively into the rough hand streaking down his back.
Fumble with a hand to the pillow and push up enough to straddle over Mal's waist; good enough. Supplying a little more room, and it's easier, this way, that when he bears down with his hips, all the other has to do is push up-- easier. Simple. Mal's a fan of simple, of that, he's fairly sure.
Cao, it's not what he expected, but it works. Simon's wriggling up over him and Mal's suddenly awash in the feel of hot breath on his bare skin, thinner thighs parted over his own. His mouth open on the notch of a collarbone, both his hands settling on still-clothed hips, and that right there is a situation he can improve upon easily. Swish of the belt being drawn through its loops, brisk zip of the fly being unfastened, and Mal doesn't waste any time hesitating before skating a hand down Simon's body, lightly dragging nails there just to see if it'll make him shudder, and curling it around the heat of his cock, eyelids shuttering. "Yeah?" Low and gritted, keeping his gaze on the doctor's darkened eyes all the while.
Well, that didn't last long, certainly-- no time wasted whatsoever. Belt parted, trousers undone, dull nails skimming across skin that drawns in on instinct and suddenly Simon's tipping his face against Mal's shoulder and gasp-groaning, shuddering hard with his hands bunching in the already wrinkled blankets. Giving a jerky, unsteady nod; mouth open and eyes closed breathing deep, over and over. Pressing his face against the damp warmth of skin until he can pull back, wriggle on the other's waist, fumbling at Mal's pants before giving up on that altogether and just trying to shuck down his own, which calls for rolling off the other which he just climbed on, dammit all.
Responsive, and then some; it's gorram hot the way just a little touching has Simon fighting his way out of his clothes--fuck, Mal's more than okay with that. Reddened mouth gasping, dark cloth getting stripped away from pale skin, and his own hand cupping right back between those now-exposed thighs all over again--stroking there, deliberately avoiding the obvious this time, just learning the feel of him. Yank the doc back on top of him, then, yank open his belt and try to squirm the cloth down far enough to free his cock, but that's as far as it goes before he's gripping the smooth curve of Simon's ass, one knee pressing a thin hip as he locks an arm around the doc's middle and pushes up against him.
Naked, the last of his clothes pulled off and then him, bodily, pulled right back on top of the other. And just Mal's hands, wide and rough on him, pushing and pulling him that way, leaves him moaning-- stomach clenching and heat, want flooding through him hard and fast enough to leave his head swimming, little catching gasps as his fingers curl against the bareness of Mal's chest. Teeth gritting together, a sharp inhale burning his throat and he's arching up against the other, frantically squeezing at the other's biceps and his strangled moan muffled when he crushes his mouth over the captain's. Writhe fitfully, impatiently, that burn having clawed up under his skin quickly and mercilessly, leaving him breathless and shaking.
It's pathetic, really, his reaction, but he can't help it-- it's been far, far too long since he... and then it has to be Mal of all people... and... "Nngh," eyes closed tight, his face pressed along Mal's, feeling the heat in his own face compared to Mal's. His own hands scrambling under them, trying to rake the captain's trousers downward further with the tips of his fingers.
Would've been such a waste, leaving all this behind to get set on fire. Simon's having a decent go at spontaneous combustion as it is, the way that lithe body's squirming and clenching overtop him, making Mal's brain spin into a frenzy and his teeth close lightly on Simon's lower lip. Grip lower down, hand splayed over the back of one tense thigh, twist his fingers between their bodies, and suck eagerly when the tip of a hotwet tongue probes his mouth. A pulse of fire down his spine, pulse of Simon bare and hot in his hand, and if he doesn't get his gorram pants off somehow there's gonna be hell to pay. Definitely not what he had in mind when he offered the doc passage, not that it never occurred to him.
Twisted little sound getting all twisted up even more so; suction-- warm, wet, firm around his tongue, which causes his nails to dig in, crying out damp and muffled. Hips jerking insistently, his fingers scrabbling for the bedsheets again, then lower, breaking off that kiss in order to pant raggedly against the other's collarbone. Before applying his mouth there. Then lower. Wriggling down on his knees-- if nothing else, it's a surefire way to make sure the pants come with him.
Just as a matter of proximity, that movement has Mal's face flooding with heat and his hands shoving at cloth--get them down, off, away, and try not to get carried away by thoughts of Simon taking him in one pale, adept hand before ducking down and putting that mouth on him.
Which is pretty much all Simon can focus on once he's got those pants down past Mal's knees, bunched and ringed around his ankles, but he's fairly sure the captain can take care of the rest on his own. Especially as he's busy ducking his head to purse his mouth to the sharp angle of a hipbone, eyes closed, hair dangle-brushing against the other's skin, teeth grazing and his breath coming heavy.
Scrape of perfectly straight teeth over the point of his hip, and he bucks--can't hold back, not when he can feel Simon's breath on his cock, and God, that just isn't fair. Lace his fingers through ink-black hair that's tickling at his flesh and making him squirm even more, kick-struggling his pants the rest of the way down. Thighs unconsciously stretching wider apart, his palm stroking none to gently down the arch of Simon's nape, and he can't do anything but look.
Mal's fingers through his hair, Simon's mouth parted over the ink of a tattoo (that's something he'll ask on later), sucking warmly, feeling feverishly up the inside of one thigh, then the other before curling his fingers around the base of the other's erection. Mal's legs parting, for him; and he's kneeling between them and parting his lips over the wet head of the other after drawing down foreskin, tongue wetly lapping over that damp slit. Relax his jaw some, taking Mal into his mouth and sucking; lightly at first, eyes closed and sweat beaded across his nose, cheeks flushed and drawn in.
Fuckfuckfuck. He's making the stupidest sound imaginable, kind of a choked-off gargle, and he's going to wake up any second now to a bed depressingly devoid of any naked young doctors. But he doesn't, and Simon sucks somehow politely at the tip of his cock, and he'd insist on returning the favor if he could talk, and the thought of taking Simon into his own mouth while the doctor's still working him over with his..."Mmmph." Only slightly less embarrassing, but he reckons it gets the point across.
And Lord knows he's let his mind wander on occasion, but actually having Simon's mouth on him blows every imagining on the subject entirely out of the water.
Bitter-salty taste on his tongue, Mal giving a harsh, strangled sound that runs warm fingertips up the ladder of Simon's spine, causing him to shift, tilt his head, take more of that silky-hot hardness into his mouth, feeling the slick insides of his cheek enveloping. Wriggle his knees out from under himself some, slipping a warm palm up and under a thigh, getting his shoulder up under it, brow smooth and head dipping low, pulling back and repeating that motion; an easy, long rhythm which seems to be just fine for right now as his free hand is splaying over Mal's stomach, thumb rubbing.
How did they end up here again? Does he care? Went from idly appreciating having a medic with a skill for both his trade and infiltrating his fantasies to saving him and his sister from being burned at the gorram stake to having the doc's mouth on him and right now Mal couldn't care less about whys and wherefores. The inside of his knee notched over a smoothwarm shoulder, both his hands clenching tight in the bedclothes, and Simon slowly and languidly sucking him off like he could do it forever. "Doc..."
Mal's voice like that, rough and dark and causing goosebumps to run up his arm... His own eyes fluttering partway open, making eye contact and keeping it as he swallows the other down again, and again before slowly pulling back, lips red and wet. Easing that knee off his shoulder, hand flat and open to the bed as he pulls himself over Mal's body and eases himself down, hissing at the contact of bare skin on skin, fingers knotting in the captain's hair and his mouth closing over Mal's own without waiting for invitation.
Simon goes from swallowing him to devouring him in no time flat and Mal can't be sure how exactly he came to be writhing and rutting up against he doctor like he's all of fifteen, cock wet and rubbing against that smoothsleek stomach and a moan caught in his throat. Makes no difference, not while he's licking the taste if himself out of Simon's mouth--not normally something he finds appealing, but it might just be the taste of Simon that does it--and catching a hard handful of soft, firm flesh in either hand to move him up more. "Up on your knees," rasped out right against Simon's red, open mouth, and Mal pulls. Shimmy down towards the foot of the bed enough that the position's optimal for what he has in mind, then trace the point of his tongue over the tip, lickling lightly around the head of him at first.
Mal clutching at him, giving this sort of near growl against his mouth that has Simon swallowing convulsively and scrambling to do as he's told. Which pays off wonderfully, seeing as how that's Mal's tongue on him, causing him to whimper-whine and go grasping for the wall, head ducked and an unsteady knuckle getting pressed between his teeth.
Drawing Simon in closer with both hands on his hips and applying a little force with them and his mouth, giving a low hum of approval when the doctor lets out a small, desperate sound and push forward into his mouth. He brings one hand around to cinch loosely at the base of the doctor's cock, mouthing both it and his own fingers and not caring if he's lacking in finesse, pet-smoothing the other down lower, from the jut of a hip to the curve of his ass.
Face ten shades of a dark red, teeth baring down into his knuckle before he wrenches it free, desperate fingers curling into the other's hair instead. Mouth open and hot, sharp gasps, shuddering and trying not to shove into the slickwethot sensation of Mal's mouth on him, his tongue and his fingers and pet-pet-petting him, making him squirm restlessly, whining the captain's name and fingernails digging in dully at the back of Mal's neck.
It's not an optimal angle for taking things slowly, but Simon doesn't seem to care. Squeeze more firmly around the width of the doctor's erection, feeling the hot burst of precome over his tongue, and, at the same time, skim his other hand over to trace the tips of his fingers down the cleft, light as can be. Could just reach over Simon to take hold of himself, bring about his own release in a matter of seconds, but he can have that anytime and this--this, whatever it may be--is something he's not so sure he'll have the pleasure of again.
He's stuttering a curse, hips rolling forward fluidly, fingernails scraping vainly into the bedframe-- feeling the wethot envelope of Mal's mouth swallowing around him, that hand tightening, Simon trying not to wrench at the soft locks of hair he has in his other grip. Pet those soft locks back from Mal's brow instead, mindless and rhythmic, upper body twisting, spine curving over as he whimpers through his teeth. And... and Mal's fingers skimming just there, causing him to jerk and gasp, mouth falling open and hips pressing down, something like 'please' getting out of him, all strained and tight.
Fighting not to lose rhythm or choke, no mean feat given the way that body jolts over him, jarring his jaw and making his eyes water. Mal's hands patting and clutching over anything he can reach, smooth skin and mussed hair and the shift-surge of muscles--somehow doesn't seem right that someone as proper and sheltered as Simon should be as fit as he is, but it's hardly a point to criticize. Not gonna do a thing to discourage the way Simon Tam is falling apart at every perfectly tailored seam, whimperingshakingpleading with him. Ease an extended finger back between the doc's legs, feel out the sensitive little strip of skin just behind his balls, and press.
Ohgod and if weren't bad enough-- if one having their mouth on your cock can even be considered bad-- but bad by way of 'can't take much more of this' manner of bad; with Mal pressing right there and sucking him all the while, it's enough. It's too much. It's not really nearly enough; pleasepleaseplease. He tries to tell him, he really does, only it comes out less like words than a urgent jumble of sounds, shuddering violently, both hands having given up clutching anything but the bed as he can wrench that all he likes without worry. Which is definitely a good thing seeing as how he's sobbing and coming and still, somehow, managing to get Mal's name out of his mouth all at once.
Wo de ma, it's so intense it leaves him shaking. Simon's cries flooding his head, Simon's release flooding his mouth, Mal scarcely able to hold on for the ride, let alone hold onto him. Face contorting, throat working, back of one hand swiped quickly across his mouth, and then he's squirming up to pull that lax, hot, meili body back down to his level, good a proper. Pushing back damp hair, muttering nonsense like "Good," and "Got you," and "Had a feeling you'd be." Laying him out and clutching him right back in, a bundle of shuddering limbs and sweaty skin and Simon's mouth stuttering open for breath and his name and kisses that Mal can't stop giving him, anywhere and everywhere. He's so hard it fucking near hurts, fluid spilling steadily over the length of him, and when he gets to touch himself he doesn't bother restraining a low groan. One of his legs slinging over a hip, the slide of his throbbing cock up between come-smeared thighs, his ragged shards of breath too-loud inside his head.
There's not much he can put together from here to there; all he knows is that one second Mal's under him and the next he's being drawn against him, muttered to. Soothed. And it feels good, spectacularly so, even as he's still heaving for breath and trying to remember how to talk in order to apologize. Hard to do with Mal stealing his breath over and over again, the salty taste of himself there on the other's tongue, causing him to groan softly, pulling back only when Mal pushes a leg over his waist and-- fuck. Eyes partially open, taking in the expression akin to agony pulled over the captain's features, panting hard and harsh-- even more so when Simon can fumble his hand around the base of him, nudging his hand away and replacing that grip with his own. Tightening, adjusting, stroking with a smooth tug-twisting of his wrist, wetting his lips and just watching him.
Mal with his jaw slack and his spine arching and Simon touching him but it's not enough--wrap his own larger fingers around the hand on him, forcing it to grip tighter. He's swearing spasmodically in two different languages under his breath and then it's impossible to get any words out at all--eyes opening and focusing long enough to land on Simon with his own gaze locked intently on him. Can't even keep enough control of himself to kiss with any kind of accuracy; his mouth smearing up a clean-shaven cheek to lock with Simon's own, but it's impossible for him to do anything other than groan helplessly against the heat of his lips.
Sputtering flashes behind his eyelids: Simon with his head buried between his legs, mouth leisurely working away at him till he's a squirming, hoarse mess; Simon with his knees tucked under him and his back undulating as Mal works his fingers inside him; Simon pressed up against him on his side and pushing into him. Then Mal's head's jerking back and he's making sounds he can't identify and ohgodohfuck, he can't hold back anything else.
Mal's hand over his own, the pair of them jerking the other off, that palm hot and rough and tight over his own and Simon's mouth is lax, utterly captivated by the sight of their one and only captain losing himself in the heat of Simon's hand. And God, that look-- that look he gets, all smoldering blue-gone-black and burning, it leaves him nearly as breathless as Mal's kiss does: hungry and urgent and messy. Absolutely perfect. Mal giving these choked, cut-off whines as he's thrusting more and more erratically into their combined fists and Simon's got his free hand combing through the other's hair and he's kissing him frantically along hot skin and shushing him, holding him closer, trying to smooth it all out as easily as the other had done for him. Only maybe he's not quite so adept at it, but Mal doesn't seem to mind.
He's overheated, he's dirty, he can hardly keep his eyes open, and he's being kissed--again. Softquick presses of lips here and there, and it's a little off-putting that the first thing that reminds him of is how Simon treats his sister, but he can't think clearly enough to care. Nothing normal about the situation anyway, what with him being essentially wrapped around the hitherto-stodgy doctor he just, in all likelihood, came on.
Their brows are together and their breathing is still heavily taxed, but Simon really can't give a damn as to how messy and sticky they are right now. A perfect mess of limbs and satisfaction and nakedness. Smoothing a thumbpad over one of Mal's eyebrows, then the other, when he finally pulls back enough to look at him again. Grazing their mouths together and slowly, in no hurry, releasing the other from his grip.
Simon keeps touching him. It's nice, and he can bet it's been at least as long for Simon as it has for him since he's been able to do any of that sort of touching, but it's also hot, and Mal's secretly grateful when the doc disengages somewhat. Turning onto his back, one arm dangling off the bed, the other slung above his head, eyes fluttering open long enough to glance over and glare as well as he can. "Y'really thought I'd leave you'n River on Jiangyin. Rutting idiot."
Simon's eyebrow raises, but so does one corner of his mouth; "Mm... well, excuse me, but there had been a very convincing moment when you left the planet." Squirming close enough to feel the heat of Mal next to him, but not actually enough to be touching him, studying him with that touch of a smile that doesn't seem to wanna go away.
"...Thank you, by the way." Which only seems appropriate.
"Hey, now. The Shepherd got himself shot and you got yourself kidnapped, so wasn't like I had time to beat the bushes looking for my medic." He settles his arm lower, the warmth of Simon's side lined all along it, and instead of making him curse the size of his bed he finds he doesn't actually mind it. "Noted. I'll keep that in mind next time I feel a need to use a belligerant tone."
Snorting quietly and rubbing his face with a clean hand. Well, relatively clean hand. "Mm. Yes. Well. That doesn't need to be all the time." Eyes down, reaching out to idly run his fingertip over the ridges of Mal's knuckles, noting a small, almost teardrop shaped scar above the third of the middle finger, disappearing around the width of it. "Just so you know."
He doesn't even open his eyes, but he snorts dismissively, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "About that. Sexing me does not give you license to dispense pointers on self-improvement." Groping blindly around for wherever his shirt landed so he can at least attempt to clean up; that's improvement enough for now.
"I meant, you don't have to use it all the time with me-- to hell with everyone else." Pushing himself up on an elbow and leaning over the captain completely, having to strain to catch the edges of the material on his fingertips before getting to haul it up over the other's middle.
"Also...also noted." Reach up, catch Simon's jaw in his curved hand, and stretch enough to let his mouth brush there. The shirt serves well enough for what he's after and he's half-dozing on top of the covers anyway.
Simon's mouth twitching in a smile, "Mm. ...Think I can finally sleep now."
"Mmhm. That was the plan."
To the letter. Yep.
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mal/Simon
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: (This is the part I let Em do.)
Summary: Directly after 'Safe', Mal doesn't so much as say as do.
"But you don't even like me."
Which Mal finds a completely stupid notion but he can't come out and just say that. Because he's always blunt about facts, never about feelings; unless he's pissed.
Mal doesn't say he does, but doesn't say he doesn't either.
And, well, almost getting burned at the stake? He can't say he's had that particular threat in his life before, but he can imagine it might shake him up a fair amount.
He'd been running once. In the kitchen. Like a full-fledged fool. Tripped over a wooden spoon covered in flour, he remembers the flour best because after that he doesn't remember much other than it being hot and hurtin'. Which will happen when you trip and crash your side directly into a searing stone oven. He remembers, most, not liking to be burnt, thanks. He'll take a bullet any day. Any day at all.
The doctor's got a leg up on him in this area.
Simon wandering around looking a little spooked, River wandering around looking just dandy. Which is possibly the most unsettling of all.
Shot. Stabbed. Frustrated. Then betrayed. Wears on a man.
"Daddy will come and take us home," finally clicking in Simon's head. As if she knew something Simon hadn't.
Almost being set on fire set the bar high on his mental list of terrifying things, but having someone he's harbored impure thoughts about compared to a father figure...that rates up there as well.
And did those people seriously think he would stay on and doctor them after they killed his sister? Seriously?
He blurts this out in front of Mal without quite realizing it and definitely not expecting an answer.
Who thinks the Tams both seem a little too well-adjusted for almost getting incinerated. But maybe they just know how to face adversity like troopers. Which he definitely wouldn't have thought.
But what could he really say? With the shepard lying at death's door? What would he have done in that situation? ...Well, if he were the captain of a ship and not a doctor fully capable of patching the man up himself...
Finding Simon passed out on his sister's floor and feeling like a complete jerk.
Dragging him back into his own bunk without saying anything.
Another captainy duty--he tends to make those up as he goes along, sometimes.
Besides, he's good at it. ...Can't decide which he's better at, though: the dragging around of semi-conscious bodies or the not saying anything.
Especially after Simon tentatively reminding him that he doesn't even like him. Right. Since that's what started it all, really.
Unfastening vest buttons and watching with a furrowed brow when Simon goes tipping into the mattress without even making one single snippy remark.
Standing there with his hands on his hips, soaking in his own guilt for a minute. His best skill. Second to none.
Puttering around the room because he can't make himself get into bed with him and he isn't going to just stand there forever, but his mind isn't budging.
Mal dozes off in his desk chair after dumping Simon into his bed, just because he's not about to crawl in after him at a time like this.
Kind of irked at himself for not just putting the doc in his own bed--just sort of seemed like a good idea at the time, bringing him down here. Better to keep an eye on him and make sure he actually gets rest. That's as good an explanation as any. Holdover from the war, making sure aftereffects of trauma are minimal.
Besides, how much rest does he get in his own bunk? Mal's is relatively comfortable-- more so than the rest, being the captain isn't completely without its perks-- though there are days he does wonder-- relatively more quiet. Relatively. Seeing as how no one's about to die, or nothing is about to blow up and... well... there it is, then.
Waking up with a crick in his neck after a short time, but Simon still passed out facedown in the middle of his bed with one arm slung around the pillow.
Sighing, shucking off his shirt, and getting a spare blanket from the dresser because sleeping on the floor's better than sleeping in a chair. Eyes lingering over the strip of bare skin between Simon's neckline and hairline. Rich and lily-white...
He's used to admiring from a distance; done so all his life. Why change that now any?
Aside from maybe the steel of the floor being awful unforgiving and him not being as youthful as he once were and all...?
One of Simon's white-shirted shoulders moves a little, which gives him pause--shirt. No vest on, seeing as he let Mal take it off. Or start too, anyway, before the doc gave him one of those borderline-snooty looks and finished getting rid of it himself. He'd let Mal take care of the shoes, though. And undressing is definitely auspicious and it is his damn bed and his damn ship in the first place.
Simon's probably used to having River climbing into bed with him half the time anyway.
Course. He is a mite more... sizable. Well, to hell with it; not going to stand here and debate about it all night. And, another thing, if he's actually in the bed with the doc, he'll know if he tries to get up and thus demand the resting part. Like he tries to do to everyone else every time one of the crew gets a scrape. ...Or a knife. ...Or a bullet.
Getting under the covers isn't easy, seeing as Simon's on top of them, and he winds up giving the doc a little shove and a "move over, now" to make him roll more to one side, but eventually he manages to work himself into place--pressed a little too close for comfort, or maybe just close enough, and that's the problem, isn't it?
Best to sleep with his back pressed along the doc's. Y'know, just in case it's a problem he can't quite keep in hand. No, not in hand either. Not in anything, just-- sleep. He can do that. Good at that. After all, once one has been through something like war, one learns to sleep when they can. And lightly.
Though he wouldn't turn down a chance to physically prevent the doc from getting up and wandering off, should the opportunity arise. Just grab a hold and bear-hug him till he sleeps. Right. He's thinking like Jayne now.
Ah, hell. Just roll over and actually enjoy a warm body in his bed. Not like he gets that luxury all that often. Not like it's going to matter if he does wake up to an embarrassing situation. Simon's a doctor. Supposed to be good at awkward things like that. (And not the cause of them.)
Scoot in a tad closer, enough that he's not in immediate danger of falling over the edge. Not like he's never bedded down under strange circumstances before, and at least Simon has the advantages of being warm and clean and attractive. And just to see, just to sort of test how asleep he is, lean in and skim his lips, dry and closed, over that pale stripe of skin he'd noticed earlier.
---
Not his fault, really. Sandwiched there, facing the wall; body heat that's not his own seeping into his back. Breathing even and slow because that's what one does when they're asleep. And what does one think? Under this kind of pressure, isolated and stressed and nearly... killed, in a very serious way, and here he is, taking in that smell that is the captain-- warm leather, the smell of horse's hide somehow-- that sun-warmed hay scent-- filling him up, dizzying him up. ...Not his fault, really.
And Simon's body debates whether to freeze up utterly or shoot through the roof.
The captain wouldn't have brought him down here if he didn't have some kind of interest in his well-being, which is a thought that's actually more soothing than it is unsettling.
Inopportune erections-- perfectly normal. Considering the situation. Easy to dimiss; medically and all.
Only...not when it's an authority figured pressed up against his back who's the one sporting it.
And it plays through his head again, his own timid, hesitant words: Yeah, but... you don't even like me. Proving him wrong? On some level. He's not sure he appreciates this; though, obviously, part of him does. All the wrong parts.
Brush it all off as part of a post-trauma reaction, since so many things can be filed under that umbrella term. He barely even remembers how he came to be in the captain's bunk, for God's sake; doesn't remember much of anything except putting River to bed and not wanting to leave until he was sure she would still be there when he opened his eyes again.
Being put to bed himself isn't the indignity he should probably have taken it as, really. He could drift off again easily if his body would let him.
Adjust himself. Subtly. Why him? Why this man? The sense of honor behind him? And what has he seen-- this man? All the... horridness of humanity, and yet... and yet. ...He did come back.
Simon twisting a little on his side, closer to the wall, distancing himself from the heat of the captain's body as subtly and as much as he can in a bed this size. It's no good. If he stops thinking of Mal, he finds himself remembering River dancing at some incongruous festival, nothing but flames and his sister's smile shining in front of his eyes before the blaze of Serenity washed over it all--anything in the universe is preferable to reliving those few minutes. When there's a barely-there brush of contact at the nape of his neck, however, it becomes a moot point.
Especially when there's a heavy, heaved sigh. Shirtless. He knows that somehow, without turning over to look.
So much for that thought about never getting another erection in his life.
So. He's a sensible person. And the captain is a pyschotic yet somehow trust-worthy individual. Nice situation this.
He opts to try and discreetly get out of the bed and gets Mal bodily slinging him back down, one bare arm a warm weight over his side. "Sleep." Like it's one of those things that sheer force of Mal's own will can bring about.
"I have," in a voice that doesn't quite sound like his own. Hoarse and rushed.
"My ass."
A shuddery exhale, face trying to pull into a scowl but fading out halfway through-- no sense showing your feelings on your features if there's no one there to see it. So turn his head, squinting in the dimness; breath shallow. That scent, that smell and all he can think is freedom and honesty and gorrammit, he needs to let go of him. "It matters?" To you because?
"Need to know my medic's able to do his job without falling over, yep." Cinching his arm a little more firmly, just in case.
And it's not a bad sensation at all, having someone else in bed, even if they're fussing about it. "She's down for the count and you should be, too." As far as Mal knows, River's room isn't likely to break off from the rest of the ship and float into nothingness.
Yes. Well. "And you... bed down all your crew to keep sure they're resting well?" Half hush-whispered, because it seems darker in here than it did than a minute ago and his heartrate has increased dramatically. Tick-tock-slam; he's made sure that River is safely asleep, too? What does that say?
"Obviously, since it's workin' so well now." Lifting his head and shoot a pointed look right into Simon's too-awake eyes. "'s better here than passed out on your sister's floor, which, I might add, is where I found you; are we through now?"
He looks. No: he looks. And swallows. Hard, around a cinched, too-parched portion of his throat and turns his head away, consciously relaxing his body. Keenly aware of Mal's arm over his side. Staring into the side of the wall; heart going pound-pound and Simon's head swimming around itself when his hand-- traitorous bastard-- actually lifts itself up and has the audacity to settle over the warmth of the captain's own, sensitive bottom of his forearm resting over the top of Mal's own. Feel the structure of muscle, the prickle of scarce hairs, he fairly thinks that he can feel the blood moving through those veins. Again, his own hand bold enough to limply place over the other's.
What now? Seems only natural that he twist, that he turn-- stretch his own pale throat in order to surrender his mouth to the other's; the one breathing so steadily and deep and on him. Seems only natural, but he doesn't move. Doesn't say a word: and, as it is, when you go against what is natural, things seem... awkward.
If Simon doesn't stop being all fidgety... maybe he should just punch him again...though he's sure that won't be half as pleasant as the alternative. "Not that difficult, really," Mal mutters, going for flippant, the words sounding sharper than they do in his mind--backing off a few paces now that he's moved too far in. Moon-wide eyes darting, too nervously, in Simon's face, tension and wrinkled shirt fabric plainly evident where Mal's still got that arm draped over him; if he could, he'd give the man a relaxation transplant, but the best he can do now is rub his palm a little at the small of his back and wait.
Dumb enough to get himself snatched in broad daylight, yeah. After he'd sent the two fugitives off to take a walk, knowing full well that Simon's attention would be only on River and River might cause any manner of trouble and the both of them could have easily stayed on Serenity instead.
Even so. Functioning in the real world is something that comes easily to Dr. Tam. Clearly. "You stopped thinking yet?"
Here he is, with his arm settled over Mal's own, Mal sensing that tension and trying to make light of it; as he does with everything. Even imminent death. Exhale hard: "Not yet." Shaky.
Squeeze his eyes shut, press it all out: but that leaves the present so brightly light up. Darkness, scent of this... man everywhere, the warmth of him, his breath ghosting across the back of his ear, side of his neck: caocaocao. "Ta ma de." Twist onto his back now, no escaping it, staring at him this way: half in shadow, half in light. "...Now then?"
Easily seen in his head; twisting and opening up and groaning under the pressure, a strong, wide hand traveling down his body in urgency, feeling him through his clothes and downdowndown-- and here he is, flat on his back instead and barely breathing: waiting.
Simon's twisting around again and Mal just goes with him, since he's not getting shoved onto the floor for his troubles. Noticing the doctor's more attractive than the average person is one thing, but actually taking any kind of action while he's still on the crew and still shell-shocked from the burning-at-the-stake thing...that's a little different. And Mal has to ask himself if the doc would even be letting this happen under any other circumstances. For his part, he's used to getting sniped at and shot at, but that sort of thing generally isn't part of Core-bred doctors' education, far as he knows. He just can't quite get a handle on how much of a toll that's taken on Simon so far.
Blankets bunched at his waist, heat of Simon's skin seeping through that neat white shirt against his own bare chest, and Mal with his face intent and his thumb carefully sketching a line along the doctor's jaw. "That'd be up to you." Soft-voiced, but less rough now. Considerably.
Barest brush there, leaving a tingle that travels up behind to the smallish hairs at the back of his neck, and Simon's eyes are closed and he's just realized it. So he blinks them open immediately; has to see. And damn him, if not every other time barking orders, here he backs down, takes his turn to wait and making Simon feel all manner of frustrated for a brief second. Dip his head. There's a warm crook there between the clavicle and shoulder. Dark. Damp. Breathe there, with his hand opening and tightening on where Mal's arm is still over him.
Draw his head back, dizzy with that... smell... dirty-dark of leather, bright-clean of something like hay-- it's good. That warmth of him? That's good too. All those thoughts that flickered through his brain, dancing across the surface of his mind as delicately as waterbugs over the pond surface: skin and sweat and press of Mal's strength. Things he disregarded, ignored. Now, however, he's obviously not about to get punched... again. Because it hurts when Mal does that...
"Yeah..." Murmur-muttered, now with his eyes half-lidded and it's the smallest movement, to tip his head up, graze his mouth there, sighing despite himself, "Don't even like me?" Kissing him anyhow.
All the answer he needs, Simon's face burrowing in the crook of his neck, and Mal suddenly can't make his mouth close or his eyes open, just breathe in deeply--hands spread wide over both Simon's back and the mattress. "Did I say that?" He would have remembered saying that.
Cupping a palm up against that pale face and putting his mouth to better use before either of them can get another word out. Heat and wetness and, cao, this is Simon, of all people, stretched out in his bed looking a little worse for the wear and seemingly content to let Mal kiss him, work the white folds of his shirt out of his pants and slip a hand up against bare skin.
His breath comes in a huff, spine arching in as one of those work-worn hands slide up against his own too-sensitive skin, mouth open, tongue running up against the other's and tension just... melts... one, two, three. And he's right. Never said it. Never said it at all. "Just... 'ssumed..." Doesn't matter right now anyway, not with both his hands seeking for some kind of solidity and finding the captain to clutch on to. To hold. To ground himself with.
If this is the wrong move to be making, he's not getting any indication of it at all. Dark hair between his fingers, tongue slowly pressing into that mouth like he owns it. He's half-waiting for Simon to shake him off just to be contrary or Core-ish or something--it's clear enough the doc's not used to being dependent on anyone to the extent he relies on Mal and he knows he wouldn't get used to that easily, having his safety in someone else's hand. ...and Simon just wrenches him down harder and solves that riddle right off the bat.
There's a shudder than runs from the nape of his spine to the bottom of his feet, inching him in closer to the other's warmth. Parting his lips further, drinking in that hot-wet taste and the feel of Mal's tongue pressing sloweasy-like into his mouth. Top lip catching gently against the other's bottom lip when he breaks that kiss, breathing in deep. Hands splayed and moving over bare-warm shoulders. His eyes are closed. His face is filled with warmth. "Captain..." Quiet and breathless.
"Doctor." Mal's lips quirking up as he pulls back enough to survey Simon's face, searching for any hint of imminent shouting or sputtering and finding little there other than wariness.
He pauses, blinking his eyes open, then closing them again as a smile pulls over him, a smile turning into a chuckle. A breathy laugh as he presses his cheek (warmwarmwarm) up against Mal's own. Fingers search-stretching up into that dark brown hair, elbows settling just above Mal's shoulders because it gives him leverage in order to draw up, his own shoulders hunching in the process, his mouth open on the other's ear and the salty tinge of skin on his tastebuds as he's sucking that lobe to shut himself up. Doesn't work out quite the way he meant, because just the feel of the other against him has him humming long and low around that ear.
"How's about nobody does any talking unless it's to pull the plug on..." Oh. Simon huffing out a small laugh and closing that hot mouth over his gorram ear, damn near making him go nonverbal altogether. "Okay, then." Weakly. He can work with this--one hand still trapped between Simon and the mattress, but he makes it two; get's both arms wrapped around that slimmer body and moves.
Groan. Muffled and rising in volume before his lungs demand more air, eyes closed and sucking warmly and Mal putting those arms around him. Same arms he's furtively watched the muscle playing beneath the skin of, same arms he's wanted to grip, to feel the strength flex through. And a hand drops from Mal's hair to a shoulder, clamping there, then running down-- splayed and stuttering-- over the bicep, surging up instinctively when Mal moves against him.
Both hands down then, grasping, pushing back because Simon is gasping hotly against the same damp ear he just released, nose bumping against Mal's jawline as he pulls back, murmuring urgently, "Waitwaitwait," trying to get those arms to unwind. Give himself enough room to kiss that mouth and undo his buttons at the same time. Be able to shrug out of that dress shirt.
Too pretty for his own good. Always thought so, since that first snobby look he got from behind those ugly (creepy) pink eyeglasses. Somehow, somewhere between then and now, the tables ended up turning.
Both hands wide on Simon's back, steadily palming over as much of the soft skin as he can--sleek and smooth and not a single scar he can feel under the ridges of his fingertips. He's already shucked off his own shirt, and now it seems Simon's keen to catch up. Mal's not about to rain on that particualr parade--get a good hold of the front of it and helpfully work it up the doctor's front, taking the fussy-soft cotton of an undershirt with it.
See if he can get the doctor making some noises that aren't indignant sputters; he likes that idea.
His arms back around the other, his head tilting and his mouth widening, moving good and firm and demanding, testing his teeth in the other's bottom lip. His breathing a little more taxed, lips grazing down to Mal's jaw, pressing up against the length of that firm-tone-warm body. Good. So, so damn good. Everything he forced himself not to think about and more; doesn't know what it is that attracted him to the captain, but it's there in full force now, knotting low in his stomach, flooding it with warmth. Lips parted there up near the other's temple, "...D-don't think... I've ever been so happy to hear that beligerent tone of yours..." The ship had come first, but it wasn't until he heard Mal's voice; reaching out through the dark, ringing loud and clear across the gathered, blood-lustful crowd had relief hit him so hard he'd thought for a moment he was going to be sick.
Mal snorts softly. Traces backs of his fingers over the hardness of ribs and softness of stomach, licks a soft swath up the side of the doctor's neck, pausing long enough to mutter,"Y'know, I think that might've been a compliment. Best be more careful." And then picking up right where he left off, ducking to get their mouths together, and press-shifting against all that responsive heat under him, around him, touching him.
If this is how Simon copes with crisis, he can deal with that. Can't recall ever catching Simon in anything less than his own version of full-body armor; he'd have remembered anything otherwise.
His utter relief at being able to pick between an irritating space brigand and a troop of homicidal hill people. Anyone smart would pick irritating over dead any day of the week; but the captain is the sort that might pick 'dead' just on the principle of the matter. Like getting a sword in the side. Honorable one minute and disreputable the next. At times, Simon's not sure which he likes best about the other... Well, right now, with both of his shirts being gone, 'disreputable' is fairly ahead.
Not as rough maybe as he was expecting, which is surprising, as he wouldn't be too averse to rough right now. The thought causing him to flush, more so than being half-naked at the moment, even.
Probably does a bit of a double-take, he knows, but it's not his fault for underestimating what he'd find under that shirt. Skin like heated satin under his hands, yeah, but more strength underneath than he'd anticipated. "Huh." Some other time, he'll be sure to find out whether it's all due to pre-seleted genetics or some kind of secret exercise regimen. For now, though...for now, he'll just lick and nip straight down the center of it all, keeping both those pretty wrists-- trip-thrum of a pulse there, and soft, so gorram soft-- caught in his hands.
Eyes closing, tongue passing over the faint trail of hair below the doctor's navel--slow and deliberate and Mal's well aware his own breathing's gotten a sight more rough than normal.
The other doing things in his own time, as usual, and at any other time, Simon might not really mind. Right now, however, with his hands twisting in Mal's grip and the rest of him twisting under Mal himself, a little impatient noise gets all caught up in his throat, coming out broken and thready. He hadn't pictured it this way, though, mind, he never really tried to picture it. Seeing as how he was fairly dead-sure if Mal was picturing sex at all it was with Inara.
With his eyes closed and his fingers flexing and Mal's... tongue; well, it's just... low, that's all. Low and on him and he'd really like to... Pick up his head, squinting in the dimness, mumbling, as he feels a little too dizzy to have his head up quite so high, "Am I not allowed to touch, too?" He just... needs to make sure. Y'know. How to play. Need to know the rules first. Simon, all about rules when there's not a damn thing to indicate they were much needed out here...
There it is. This hot little sound working out of Simon's open mouth as Mal's own is working hotly over his abdomen and it sends a jolt of lust corkscrewing down the center of him. Catch the back of that dark head in one hand so he can move higher up the bed and lap up any other interesting noises as they occur. Aware--very aware--that the motion has them pressed almost flush with one another, which certain parts of his body find most appreciative. "Feel free, anytime." Shove gently forward with his hips, enough to increase the friction on his cock and have him hissing against the doc's ear, spine pitching outward into a curve.
Tongue slickly over the reddened swoop of it, working up onto his side slightly and taking Simon with him, freeing up his one hand enough to travel the length of that bare back and keep going lower. "Anywhere, too, for that matter."
"Ah," quietly, quietly; closing his eyes tight, that soft hissing sound the other makes causing an all-over shiver. With his touch stuttering over a shoulder, then across the blade of it and he's focused, utterly, on the sensation of skin under his hands. That is, that is... until Mal pushes up against him like that and then he can't focus on anything at all. It's not fair, in the least; shaken up and turned all inside out and now this. The bed is too small, the light is too dim, and Simon squirms up on his side when Mal does, especially when it gives him enough room to arch appreciatively into the rough hand streaking down his back.
Fumble with a hand to the pillow and push up enough to straddle over Mal's waist; good enough. Supplying a little more room, and it's easier, this way, that when he bears down with his hips, all the other has to do is push up-- easier. Simple. Mal's a fan of simple, of that, he's fairly sure.
Cao, it's not what he expected, but it works. Simon's wriggling up over him and Mal's suddenly awash in the feel of hot breath on his bare skin, thinner thighs parted over his own. His mouth open on the notch of a collarbone, both his hands settling on still-clothed hips, and that right there is a situation he can improve upon easily. Swish of the belt being drawn through its loops, brisk zip of the fly being unfastened, and Mal doesn't waste any time hesitating before skating a hand down Simon's body, lightly dragging nails there just to see if it'll make him shudder, and curling it around the heat of his cock, eyelids shuttering. "Yeah?" Low and gritted, keeping his gaze on the doctor's darkened eyes all the while.
Well, that didn't last long, certainly-- no time wasted whatsoever. Belt parted, trousers undone, dull nails skimming across skin that drawns in on instinct and suddenly Simon's tipping his face against Mal's shoulder and gasp-groaning, shuddering hard with his hands bunching in the already wrinkled blankets. Giving a jerky, unsteady nod; mouth open and eyes closed breathing deep, over and over. Pressing his face against the damp warmth of skin until he can pull back, wriggle on the other's waist, fumbling at Mal's pants before giving up on that altogether and just trying to shuck down his own, which calls for rolling off the other which he just climbed on, dammit all.
Responsive, and then some; it's gorram hot the way just a little touching has Simon fighting his way out of his clothes--fuck, Mal's more than okay with that. Reddened mouth gasping, dark cloth getting stripped away from pale skin, and his own hand cupping right back between those now-exposed thighs all over again--stroking there, deliberately avoiding the obvious this time, just learning the feel of him. Yank the doc back on top of him, then, yank open his belt and try to squirm the cloth down far enough to free his cock, but that's as far as it goes before he's gripping the smooth curve of Simon's ass, one knee pressing a thin hip as he locks an arm around the doc's middle and pushes up against him.
Naked, the last of his clothes pulled off and then him, bodily, pulled right back on top of the other. And just Mal's hands, wide and rough on him, pushing and pulling him that way, leaves him moaning-- stomach clenching and heat, want flooding through him hard and fast enough to leave his head swimming, little catching gasps as his fingers curl against the bareness of Mal's chest. Teeth gritting together, a sharp inhale burning his throat and he's arching up against the other, frantically squeezing at the other's biceps and his strangled moan muffled when he crushes his mouth over the captain's. Writhe fitfully, impatiently, that burn having clawed up under his skin quickly and mercilessly, leaving him breathless and shaking.
It's pathetic, really, his reaction, but he can't help it-- it's been far, far too long since he... and then it has to be Mal of all people... and... "Nngh," eyes closed tight, his face pressed along Mal's, feeling the heat in his own face compared to Mal's. His own hands scrambling under them, trying to rake the captain's trousers downward further with the tips of his fingers.
Would've been such a waste, leaving all this behind to get set on fire. Simon's having a decent go at spontaneous combustion as it is, the way that lithe body's squirming and clenching overtop him, making Mal's brain spin into a frenzy and his teeth close lightly on Simon's lower lip. Grip lower down, hand splayed over the back of one tense thigh, twist his fingers between their bodies, and suck eagerly when the tip of a hotwet tongue probes his mouth. A pulse of fire down his spine, pulse of Simon bare and hot in his hand, and if he doesn't get his gorram pants off somehow there's gonna be hell to pay. Definitely not what he had in mind when he offered the doc passage, not that it never occurred to him.
Twisted little sound getting all twisted up even more so; suction-- warm, wet, firm around his tongue, which causes his nails to dig in, crying out damp and muffled. Hips jerking insistently, his fingers scrabbling for the bedsheets again, then lower, breaking off that kiss in order to pant raggedly against the other's collarbone. Before applying his mouth there. Then lower. Wriggling down on his knees-- if nothing else, it's a surefire way to make sure the pants come with him.
Just as a matter of proximity, that movement has Mal's face flooding with heat and his hands shoving at cloth--get them down, off, away, and try not to get carried away by thoughts of Simon taking him in one pale, adept hand before ducking down and putting that mouth on him.
Which is pretty much all Simon can focus on once he's got those pants down past Mal's knees, bunched and ringed around his ankles, but he's fairly sure the captain can take care of the rest on his own. Especially as he's busy ducking his head to purse his mouth to the sharp angle of a hipbone, eyes closed, hair dangle-brushing against the other's skin, teeth grazing and his breath coming heavy.
Scrape of perfectly straight teeth over the point of his hip, and he bucks--can't hold back, not when he can feel Simon's breath on his cock, and God, that just isn't fair. Lace his fingers through ink-black hair that's tickling at his flesh and making him squirm even more, kick-struggling his pants the rest of the way down. Thighs unconsciously stretching wider apart, his palm stroking none to gently down the arch of Simon's nape, and he can't do anything but look.
Mal's fingers through his hair, Simon's mouth parted over the ink of a tattoo (that's something he'll ask on later), sucking warmly, feeling feverishly up the inside of one thigh, then the other before curling his fingers around the base of the other's erection. Mal's legs parting, for him; and he's kneeling between them and parting his lips over the wet head of the other after drawing down foreskin, tongue wetly lapping over that damp slit. Relax his jaw some, taking Mal into his mouth and sucking; lightly at first, eyes closed and sweat beaded across his nose, cheeks flushed and drawn in.
Fuckfuckfuck. He's making the stupidest sound imaginable, kind of a choked-off gargle, and he's going to wake up any second now to a bed depressingly devoid of any naked young doctors. But he doesn't, and Simon sucks somehow politely at the tip of his cock, and he'd insist on returning the favor if he could talk, and the thought of taking Simon into his own mouth while the doctor's still working him over with his..."Mmmph." Only slightly less embarrassing, but he reckons it gets the point across.
And Lord knows he's let his mind wander on occasion, but actually having Simon's mouth on him blows every imagining on the subject entirely out of the water.
Bitter-salty taste on his tongue, Mal giving a harsh, strangled sound that runs warm fingertips up the ladder of Simon's spine, causing him to shift, tilt his head, take more of that silky-hot hardness into his mouth, feeling the slick insides of his cheek enveloping. Wriggle his knees out from under himself some, slipping a warm palm up and under a thigh, getting his shoulder up under it, brow smooth and head dipping low, pulling back and repeating that motion; an easy, long rhythm which seems to be just fine for right now as his free hand is splaying over Mal's stomach, thumb rubbing.
How did they end up here again? Does he care? Went from idly appreciating having a medic with a skill for both his trade and infiltrating his fantasies to saving him and his sister from being burned at the gorram stake to having the doc's mouth on him and right now Mal couldn't care less about whys and wherefores. The inside of his knee notched over a smoothwarm shoulder, both his hands clenching tight in the bedclothes, and Simon slowly and languidly sucking him off like he could do it forever. "Doc..."
Mal's voice like that, rough and dark and causing goosebumps to run up his arm... His own eyes fluttering partway open, making eye contact and keeping it as he swallows the other down again, and again before slowly pulling back, lips red and wet. Easing that knee off his shoulder, hand flat and open to the bed as he pulls himself over Mal's body and eases himself down, hissing at the contact of bare skin on skin, fingers knotting in the captain's hair and his mouth closing over Mal's own without waiting for invitation.
Simon goes from swallowing him to devouring him in no time flat and Mal can't be sure how exactly he came to be writhing and rutting up against he doctor like he's all of fifteen, cock wet and rubbing against that smoothsleek stomach and a moan caught in his throat. Makes no difference, not while he's licking the taste if himself out of Simon's mouth--not normally something he finds appealing, but it might just be the taste of Simon that does it--and catching a hard handful of soft, firm flesh in either hand to move him up more. "Up on your knees," rasped out right against Simon's red, open mouth, and Mal pulls. Shimmy down towards the foot of the bed enough that the position's optimal for what he has in mind, then trace the point of his tongue over the tip, lickling lightly around the head of him at first.
Mal clutching at him, giving this sort of near growl against his mouth that has Simon swallowing convulsively and scrambling to do as he's told. Which pays off wonderfully, seeing as how that's Mal's tongue on him, causing him to whimper-whine and go grasping for the wall, head ducked and an unsteady knuckle getting pressed between his teeth.
Drawing Simon in closer with both hands on his hips and applying a little force with them and his mouth, giving a low hum of approval when the doctor lets out a small, desperate sound and push forward into his mouth. He brings one hand around to cinch loosely at the base of the doctor's cock, mouthing both it and his own fingers and not caring if he's lacking in finesse, pet-smoothing the other down lower, from the jut of a hip to the curve of his ass.
Face ten shades of a dark red, teeth baring down into his knuckle before he wrenches it free, desperate fingers curling into the other's hair instead. Mouth open and hot, sharp gasps, shuddering and trying not to shove into the slickwethot sensation of Mal's mouth on him, his tongue and his fingers and pet-pet-petting him, making him squirm restlessly, whining the captain's name and fingernails digging in dully at the back of Mal's neck.
It's not an optimal angle for taking things slowly, but Simon doesn't seem to care. Squeeze more firmly around the width of the doctor's erection, feeling the hot burst of precome over his tongue, and, at the same time, skim his other hand over to trace the tips of his fingers down the cleft, light as can be. Could just reach over Simon to take hold of himself, bring about his own release in a matter of seconds, but he can have that anytime and this--this, whatever it may be--is something he's not so sure he'll have the pleasure of again.
He's stuttering a curse, hips rolling forward fluidly, fingernails scraping vainly into the bedframe-- feeling the wethot envelope of Mal's mouth swallowing around him, that hand tightening, Simon trying not to wrench at the soft locks of hair he has in his other grip. Pet those soft locks back from Mal's brow instead, mindless and rhythmic, upper body twisting, spine curving over as he whimpers through his teeth. And... and Mal's fingers skimming just there, causing him to jerk and gasp, mouth falling open and hips pressing down, something like 'please' getting out of him, all strained and tight.
Fighting not to lose rhythm or choke, no mean feat given the way that body jolts over him, jarring his jaw and making his eyes water. Mal's hands patting and clutching over anything he can reach, smooth skin and mussed hair and the shift-surge of muscles--somehow doesn't seem right that someone as proper and sheltered as Simon should be as fit as he is, but it's hardly a point to criticize. Not gonna do a thing to discourage the way Simon Tam is falling apart at every perfectly tailored seam, whimperingshakingpleading with him. Ease an extended finger back between the doc's legs, feel out the sensitive little strip of skin just behind his balls, and press.
Ohgod and if weren't bad enough-- if one having their mouth on your cock can even be considered bad-- but bad by way of 'can't take much more of this' manner of bad; with Mal pressing right there and sucking him all the while, it's enough. It's too much. It's not really nearly enough; pleasepleaseplease. He tries to tell him, he really does, only it comes out less like words than a urgent jumble of sounds, shuddering violently, both hands having given up clutching anything but the bed as he can wrench that all he likes without worry. Which is definitely a good thing seeing as how he's sobbing and coming and still, somehow, managing to get Mal's name out of his mouth all at once.
Wo de ma, it's so intense it leaves him shaking. Simon's cries flooding his head, Simon's release flooding his mouth, Mal scarcely able to hold on for the ride, let alone hold onto him. Face contorting, throat working, back of one hand swiped quickly across his mouth, and then he's squirming up to pull that lax, hot, meili body back down to his level, good a proper. Pushing back damp hair, muttering nonsense like "Good," and "Got you," and "Had a feeling you'd be." Laying him out and clutching him right back in, a bundle of shuddering limbs and sweaty skin and Simon's mouth stuttering open for breath and his name and kisses that Mal can't stop giving him, anywhere and everywhere. He's so hard it fucking near hurts, fluid spilling steadily over the length of him, and when he gets to touch himself he doesn't bother restraining a low groan. One of his legs slinging over a hip, the slide of his throbbing cock up between come-smeared thighs, his ragged shards of breath too-loud inside his head.
There's not much he can put together from here to there; all he knows is that one second Mal's under him and the next he's being drawn against him, muttered to. Soothed. And it feels good, spectacularly so, even as he's still heaving for breath and trying to remember how to talk in order to apologize. Hard to do with Mal stealing his breath over and over again, the salty taste of himself there on the other's tongue, causing him to groan softly, pulling back only when Mal pushes a leg over his waist and-- fuck. Eyes partially open, taking in the expression akin to agony pulled over the captain's features, panting hard and harsh-- even more so when Simon can fumble his hand around the base of him, nudging his hand away and replacing that grip with his own. Tightening, adjusting, stroking with a smooth tug-twisting of his wrist, wetting his lips and just watching him.
Mal with his jaw slack and his spine arching and Simon touching him but it's not enough--wrap his own larger fingers around the hand on him, forcing it to grip tighter. He's swearing spasmodically in two different languages under his breath and then it's impossible to get any words out at all--eyes opening and focusing long enough to land on Simon with his own gaze locked intently on him. Can't even keep enough control of himself to kiss with any kind of accuracy; his mouth smearing up a clean-shaven cheek to lock with Simon's own, but it's impossible for him to do anything other than groan helplessly against the heat of his lips.
Sputtering flashes behind his eyelids: Simon with his head buried between his legs, mouth leisurely working away at him till he's a squirming, hoarse mess; Simon with his knees tucked under him and his back undulating as Mal works his fingers inside him; Simon pressed up against him on his side and pushing into him. Then Mal's head's jerking back and he's making sounds he can't identify and ohgodohfuck, he can't hold back anything else.
Mal's hand over his own, the pair of them jerking the other off, that palm hot and rough and tight over his own and Simon's mouth is lax, utterly captivated by the sight of their one and only captain losing himself in the heat of Simon's hand. And God, that look-- that look he gets, all smoldering blue-gone-black and burning, it leaves him nearly as breathless as Mal's kiss does: hungry and urgent and messy. Absolutely perfect. Mal giving these choked, cut-off whines as he's thrusting more and more erratically into their combined fists and Simon's got his free hand combing through the other's hair and he's kissing him frantically along hot skin and shushing him, holding him closer, trying to smooth it all out as easily as the other had done for him. Only maybe he's not quite so adept at it, but Mal doesn't seem to mind.
He's overheated, he's dirty, he can hardly keep his eyes open, and he's being kissed--again. Softquick presses of lips here and there, and it's a little off-putting that the first thing that reminds him of is how Simon treats his sister, but he can't think clearly enough to care. Nothing normal about the situation anyway, what with him being essentially wrapped around the hitherto-stodgy doctor he just, in all likelihood, came on.
Their brows are together and their breathing is still heavily taxed, but Simon really can't give a damn as to how messy and sticky they are right now. A perfect mess of limbs and satisfaction and nakedness. Smoothing a thumbpad over one of Mal's eyebrows, then the other, when he finally pulls back enough to look at him again. Grazing their mouths together and slowly, in no hurry, releasing the other from his grip.
Simon keeps touching him. It's nice, and he can bet it's been at least as long for Simon as it has for him since he's been able to do any of that sort of touching, but it's also hot, and Mal's secretly grateful when the doc disengages somewhat. Turning onto his back, one arm dangling off the bed, the other slung above his head, eyes fluttering open long enough to glance over and glare as well as he can. "Y'really thought I'd leave you'n River on Jiangyin. Rutting idiot."
Simon's eyebrow raises, but so does one corner of his mouth; "Mm... well, excuse me, but there had been a very convincing moment when you left the planet." Squirming close enough to feel the heat of Mal next to him, but not actually enough to be touching him, studying him with that touch of a smile that doesn't seem to wanna go away.
"...Thank you, by the way." Which only seems appropriate.
"Hey, now. The Shepherd got himself shot and you got yourself kidnapped, so wasn't like I had time to beat the bushes looking for my medic." He settles his arm lower, the warmth of Simon's side lined all along it, and instead of making him curse the size of his bed he finds he doesn't actually mind it. "Noted. I'll keep that in mind next time I feel a need to use a belligerant tone."
Snorting quietly and rubbing his face with a clean hand. Well, relatively clean hand. "Mm. Yes. Well. That doesn't need to be all the time." Eyes down, reaching out to idly run his fingertip over the ridges of Mal's knuckles, noting a small, almost teardrop shaped scar above the third of the middle finger, disappearing around the width of it. "Just so you know."
He doesn't even open his eyes, but he snorts dismissively, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "About that. Sexing me does not give you license to dispense pointers on self-improvement." Groping blindly around for wherever his shirt landed so he can at least attempt to clean up; that's improvement enough for now.
"I meant, you don't have to use it all the time with me-- to hell with everyone else." Pushing himself up on an elbow and leaning over the captain completely, having to strain to catch the edges of the material on his fingertips before getting to haul it up over the other's middle.
"Also...also noted." Reach up, catch Simon's jaw in his curved hand, and stretch enough to let his mouth brush there. The shirt serves well enough for what he's after and he's half-dozing on top of the covers anyway.
Simon's mouth twitching in a smile, "Mm. ...Think I can finally sleep now."
"Mmhm. That was the plan."
To the letter. Yep.