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Aug. 11th, 2006 01:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shanaqui posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
firefly_fanfic
Title: Tomorrows
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
twilightsrain/edenbound (ficjournal)
Summary: Small obsessions Mal indulges in.
Rating: NC17
Characters: Mal, Simon
Pairing: One time Mal/Simon
Warning: Masturbation, angst
Spoilers/Timeline: None in particular
Disclaimer: Joss is boss
Author's Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
smut_69.
Another day. Another day of Simon Tam and his stuck up ways and Mal still can't get his mind off him. He thought he was over that stage. The stage when doctory talk and fancy words were a turn on and his pants got uncomfortably tight too many times a day to be counted. Unfortunately, Simon Tam isn't a stage he can get over very quickly -- and sleeping with him that once has only made it worse. Now that he knows intimately how Simon sounds and feels and tastes spread out beneath him, he can't forget it.
Which brings him to sittin' in his room staring at the door and thinking longing lonely thoughts. It's kinda daft to obsess so over one man, but Mal falls quick and hard if he falls in love at all. And he's coming to some rather uncomfortable conclusions about that very notion when applied to Simon.
He ain't the type to take time over it. Kicks his boots off, his gunbelt, his pants, takes his suspenders off and drops them on the floor. His shirt, more or less neatly folded, tossed out of the way, and then he can lie back, right where he had Simon. It's easy to imagine Simon right there, that naked hunger in his eyes like that one time when he was slightly drunk and rather easy to tempt. Easy to imagine his kisses, like they'd been, shy at first, and Mal brushes his fingers over his lips lightly to remind himself how it felt.
Gorramn good, which'd felt rather odd, considerin' that he likes his kisses like he likes his liquor; hard and fierce.
It's easy to wrap his hand around his cock -- quickly, like Simon had, light at first and then squeezing, making him buck up eagerly for more. And then quick practised easy strokes, making him pant, making him sweat. He'd stopped Simon, then, and pushed him down, spread him out. Found the jar he'd kept hidden, had to grope for it like right now because Simon's fingers had been moving restlessly, teasingly, over his skin, over his cock. Distractingly.
He'd been more clumsy then, though, spreading the slick stuff over his fingers quickly and pushing one finger hard into the doctor, and it'd near taken his breath away to watch him writhe and hear his soft curse.
Now Mal is more careful -- mainly because he has a feeling that Simon didn't mind because he was used to that kind of treatment, and he isn't. He's more gentle, but still quick, pushing his finger into himself and moaning at the feel, teeth nipping and worrying at his own lip like Simon did.
Simon. Can't get that gorramn rich kid off his mind.
Doesn't really want to.
Another finger inside himself, a little uncomfortable at first and then just good (sort of like Simon; annoying at first and then alright and then, well, this) and Mal rocks his hips a little and swallows back a little cry, tightening his hand around himself and pumping quickly, allowing himself to thrust up and push his fingers deeper, taunting himself with the pleasure and with the remembrance of how Simon looked.
Faster, now, and faster, the way it went with Simon no matter how he tried, and Mal puts his hand over his mouth (as he put his hand over Simon's) to smother his cry, and then he lies still and ignores the sticky splatter across his stomach and pulls his fingers out of himself, trying to similarly ignore the little ache inside him. Restlessly, he moves his fingers over his cock again, and then turns over, burying his face in his pillow, to try and capture some form of oblivion (some rest from the memory of Simon's lovely eyes).
Tomorrow, he will not look Simon in the eye. Tomorrow, he will remind himself why exactly he woke up that morning after bedding Simon and told him, one arm still wrapped around him, that it'd never happen again, and watched him close up and away. The day after tomorrow, perhaps, he will get over his pride and say something to Simon. An apology, maybe.
But only perhaps, because he never does learn from his mistakes. And he never does apologise.
Author:
twilightsrain/edenbound (ficjournal)Summary: Small obsessions Mal indulges in.
Rating: NC17
Characters: Mal, Simon
Pairing: One time Mal/Simon
Warning: Masturbation, angst
Spoilers/Timeline: None in particular
Disclaimer: Joss is boss
Author's Note: Written for
smut_69.Another day. Another day of Simon Tam and his stuck up ways and Mal still can't get his mind off him. He thought he was over that stage. The stage when doctory talk and fancy words were a turn on and his pants got uncomfortably tight too many times a day to be counted. Unfortunately, Simon Tam isn't a stage he can get over very quickly -- and sleeping with him that once has only made it worse. Now that he knows intimately how Simon sounds and feels and tastes spread out beneath him, he can't forget it.
Which brings him to sittin' in his room staring at the door and thinking longing lonely thoughts. It's kinda daft to obsess so over one man, but Mal falls quick and hard if he falls in love at all. And he's coming to some rather uncomfortable conclusions about that very notion when applied to Simon.
He ain't the type to take time over it. Kicks his boots off, his gunbelt, his pants, takes his suspenders off and drops them on the floor. His shirt, more or less neatly folded, tossed out of the way, and then he can lie back, right where he had Simon. It's easy to imagine Simon right there, that naked hunger in his eyes like that one time when he was slightly drunk and rather easy to tempt. Easy to imagine his kisses, like they'd been, shy at first, and Mal brushes his fingers over his lips lightly to remind himself how it felt.
Gorramn good, which'd felt rather odd, considerin' that he likes his kisses like he likes his liquor; hard and fierce.
It's easy to wrap his hand around his cock -- quickly, like Simon had, light at first and then squeezing, making him buck up eagerly for more. And then quick practised easy strokes, making him pant, making him sweat. He'd stopped Simon, then, and pushed him down, spread him out. Found the jar he'd kept hidden, had to grope for it like right now because Simon's fingers had been moving restlessly, teasingly, over his skin, over his cock. Distractingly.
He'd been more clumsy then, though, spreading the slick stuff over his fingers quickly and pushing one finger hard into the doctor, and it'd near taken his breath away to watch him writhe and hear his soft curse.
Now Mal is more careful -- mainly because he has a feeling that Simon didn't mind because he was used to that kind of treatment, and he isn't. He's more gentle, but still quick, pushing his finger into himself and moaning at the feel, teeth nipping and worrying at his own lip like Simon did.
Simon. Can't get that gorramn rich kid off his mind.
Doesn't really want to.
Another finger inside himself, a little uncomfortable at first and then just good (sort of like Simon; annoying at first and then alright and then, well, this) and Mal rocks his hips a little and swallows back a little cry, tightening his hand around himself and pumping quickly, allowing himself to thrust up and push his fingers deeper, taunting himself with the pleasure and with the remembrance of how Simon looked.
Faster, now, and faster, the way it went with Simon no matter how he tried, and Mal puts his hand over his mouth (as he put his hand over Simon's) to smother his cry, and then he lies still and ignores the sticky splatter across his stomach and pulls his fingers out of himself, trying to similarly ignore the little ache inside him. Restlessly, he moves his fingers over his cock again, and then turns over, burying his face in his pillow, to try and capture some form of oblivion (some rest from the memory of Simon's lovely eyes).
Tomorrow, he will not look Simon in the eye. Tomorrow, he will remind himself why exactly he woke up that morning after bedding Simon and told him, one arm still wrapped around him, that it'd never happen again, and watched him close up and away. The day after tomorrow, perhaps, he will get over his pride and say something to Simon. An apology, maybe.
But only perhaps, because he never does learn from his mistakes. And he never does apologise.