Fic: A Thoughtful Sort of Day (Mal/Simon, NC-17, D/s, toys, dirty talk)

Title: A Thoughtful Sort of Day
Author: Edwardina
Pairing: Mal/Simon
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP, light D/s, toys, dirty talk
Summary: Mal gets Simon a present.
Notes: This is for kryptonstar18, who basically gave me carte blanche! I hope you like it! I've never written Mal/Simon before, and I'm a little surprised that's what I ended up writing. My eyeballs only bled a little bit.

Much thanks to nutkin for the look-over!



Mal wasn't one for gifts and the like -- especially when they cost good money that could've gone to fuel cells, food, or one of the parts on Kaylee's ever-growing list. Most times he didn't even look around at anything much in shops, let alone look around at things in seedy adult shops that turned up at ports on worlds closer to the rim... but sometimes he did. Sometimes, Mal thought of things for someone else.

He liked it from the moment he saw it. The eye was drawn right to it as it sat on the glass shelf amongst plenty of other models in all sizes and colors. Compared to some of them things, it was simple: black, broad, proud-looking. Maybe that's why he liked it. It reminded him of Simon instantly.

So he bought it.

Sometimes, a man just couldn't help himself.




Mal wasn't one for gift-wrapping and the like, so he didn't waste any time in pulling the doc into a corner in the infirmary and pulling his gift out of his coat's inside pocket. He didn't even say anything - just let it do the talking for him.

And the look on Simon's face when he laid eyes on it wasn't one Mal was likely to forget anytime soon. Only rarely did the good doctor actually fall completely speechless.

After what seemed like forever, his eyes lifted incredulously to Mal's.

"Know what it is?" asked Mal softly. The plug was pleasantly heavy in his hand. Not too, but just enough. It shined like it'd been lacquered, reflecting a blue sheen in the infirmary's secondary lights.

Simon's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, and his eyes fell back to Mal's hand. Finally, he haltingly said, "I'm... fairly sure I do, but..." Again, he looked up at Mal, face questioning. Mal stared down at him for a long moment, trying to accurately read him; Simon seemed confused, but not about what it was -- about what it was for.

"I got it for you," Mal told him, in a tone that left no room for uncertainty. "Saw it on the shelf and thought of you. Thought how it'd look against your skin - thought of it sittin' inside you durin' dinner. You just sittin' there next to Jayne and the preacher, and nobody the wiser." He heard Simon take a quick, startled breath, and stepped in closer to him, lowering his voice. "You're gonna wear it for me, doc. Dong ma?"

Against his knuckles, Mal could feel the soft brush of Simon's chest as it rose and fell, stilted and quick. His eyes had gone wide, glassy with everything Mal had said, and though he was still staring up at Mal, it was almost a vacant look.

Wordlessly, Mal pulled one of Simon's slack hands up between them, then secured the plug into it, pressing the doc's fingers around its tapered base nice and tight.

"Next time I see you, you'd better have that in," he said, then turned on his heel and walked out of the infirmary without so much as a look back, heading to his bunk so he could collect himself. His chest was aching from the pummeling his heart was giving it, and he was more than half-hard in his trousers from everything he'd said. The intensity of Simon's silence, and the way he'd been breathing -- tama de. That'd be enough to get him going even without the idea of Simon wearing a butt plug around the ship, patchin' up hurts and talkin' to the crew -- to Kaylee -- without them ever suspecting about Mal was making Simon do.

An involuntary shudder jerked Mal's shoulders as he pushed the door to his bunk open with one foot. He vaguely hoped he wasn't going to have to do anything more captainy that day than give directions to their next destination, 'cause he just didn't think his brain was gonna want to ruminate on anything else for a good long while.




For the rest of the afternoon, Mal stayed away from Simon's usual haunts, reading the postings for Beylix on the Cortex in his bunk for a good hour and checking in with Zoe and her supply-haul from that morning. They calculated their current budget on the bridge, argued for a bit about the folk on Beylix, and finally ended up seeing who could go the longest without laughing while trading reminiscences about a portly officer from Beylix they'd served with in the war. (Mal lost.)

It was all such a good distraction that Mal had almost forgotten about his gift for Simon -- but it all came rushing back as he left the bridge and caught Simon on the way into the kitchen.

They both stopped short for a long moment, Simon actually swaying a bit on his feet before steadying himself with one hand on the curve of the metal door jamb, Mal just stopping and staring like a jackass.

Simon had changed clothes since Mal had cornered him in the infirmary, from his nice, crisp black shirt and slacks to an ill-fitting, baggy sweater that Mal belatedly realized was actually Wash's. It hung heavy on the doc's slightly smaller frame, falling nearly to his fingertips and certainly well past his hips. His trousers were looser, too -- one of the newer pairs that the doc had gotten at a recent stop, a grey get-up with multiple pockets, like so many belonging to Jayne. They were common in stores out toward the rim. Lots of storage, cheap, durable. They looked a tad odd on Simon, but Mal knew why he was wearing them, and that big sweater, too. He was hidin' something.

"Sir," came Zoe's amused voice from behind him, "are you chargin' admission to the kitchen, now?"

Mal swung around automatically, registered Zoe's raised brow, and got out of the doorway absently, eyes returning inevitably to the doc as he straightened and seemed to collect himself, moving into the kitchen with his gait more or less as it usually was.

"Nice sweater, doctor," Zoe said, making her way toward her favorite mug.

There was a heavy pause, then Simon managed, "Oh... yes. I borrowed it this morning. I... it's a bit cold in the infirmary sometimes." A distinct flush was creeping up his neck and into his face, and Mal's mouth twitched over a smile. After a moment, Simon caught him looking and had to glance away quickly again.

"It your turn to cook tonight?" Zoe questioned.

"No," said Simon lightly, and suddenly busied himself by setting up the teapot for Zoe. "I think it's the captain's."

"Really, now?" she smirked. "What's on the menu, then, sir? Mush? Or maybe some mush?"

"I predict heavily-spiced mush," Simon lamented.

"Hey, spicy mush is... kinda... good..." said Mal, though he couldn't think of much else to say; he was too busy watching Zoe and Simon's elbows brush as they put together a pot of tea and trying not to get too short of breath, knowing Simon was wearing it -- right then, right there.

"'Parently you also enjoy indigestion and heartburn," said Zoe. "Kinda makes me miss livin' on nothin' but can after can of beans."

"If you're gonna insult my famous Spicy Mush so callously, you can just fix your own mush," Mal said, trying not to eye Simon too heavily and failing. "'Cause I ain't runnin' a four-star restaurant, here."

"Duly noted, sir," Zoe said, filling up her mug. "I'll tell Wash he's on dinner duty."

She smiled indulgently at Mal and Simon as she turned and headed out toward the crew bunks, sipping at her tea. The moment she was out of sight, Mal throttled into motion, rounding the counter and pushing Simon up against it roughly, knee cutting between his legs, thigh pressing into his groin.

"You wearin' it?" he demanded.

Simon nodded quickly, seeming dumbfounded as to why he was suddenly blockaded up against the counter.

"You answer me with words," Mal told him, relishing the way Simon's face looked up-close -- the heated flush of his skin, the crystalline blue of his eyes as they stared obediently up at him.

"Yes... I'm wearing it," he uttered softly. Mal raised his brow, pressing in a little harder at the hip, just until Simon's eyelashes fluttered a little and he added, "Captain."

"So if I spun you 'round right now," Mal asked in a low mutter, "an' bent you right over this counter, I could reach down an' feel it through these yuben de pants of yours?"

Simon's mouth opened to respond, but he was interrupted by the echo of Wash's voice announcing, "Okay, fine! I'll do it for you, baby, but if your mush tastes like dirt, don't blame me. I happen to like Mal's Patented Spicy Mush."

Mal stepped back just in time to see Wash tromping down the staircase into the galley. Mal quickly grabbed a mug and went for the teapot, though he wasn't in the mood for anything except what he'd started with Simon -- who slipped away from the counter to make a pretense at washing his hands at the sink.

"Did you hear me complimenting your cooking, Mal?" Wash asked, grinning. "'Cause I didn't really mean it. I prefer the skin on the roof of my mouth to sort of... remain attached to the roof of my mouth."

"Well, y'all can spice your own gorram mush from this day forth," Mal said hurriedly. Behind him, he heard Simon turn the tap off quietly.

"Aw, thanks, Cap'n. You're a noble sort," Wash said, and as soon as he had his head in a cabinet, Mal turned and brushed a hand down Simon's ass, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze under the bulk of the sweater and feeling his fingers brush over a very solid shape just under the seam of Simon's pants. His cock flushed full in a split second, leaving him light-headed, and Simon shot him an intense, helpless look, teeth sunk into his lower lip, that had him going weak in the knees. He stumbled away somehow, distractedly drinking in a mouthful of too-hot tea.

After watching Simon carefully, discreetly seat himself at the table and pull a strange face as he settled his full weight back on the plug, Mal belatedly realized that dinner was going to be torture.




"Ain't got no patience for niceties," growled Mal, as soon as Simon let go of the ladder leading down into his bunk; he grabbed the doc by fistfuls of Wash's burly cable-knit sweater and shoved him further into the room. Simon was already moaning. "We're gonna see how you like my little present. Now get outta this thing."

He let go, and Simon twisted out of the sweater sinuously, mussing up the neatness of his hair. Underneath the sweater was a worn-out button-down shirt that seemed tight-looking after the bulk of the sweater. Mal's eye followed the lines of the doc's broad shoulders and slim torso hungrily, then lingered over the obvious bulge of his cock. As Simon dropped the sweater aside, Mal's arm snaked around his middle and Simon looked up at him nakedly.

"How's it fit?" Mal rumbled, feeling protective and domineering all at once. His gut was a nervous, excited wreck to finally hear what Simon had to say about it.

Simon was struggling for breath. "I don't -- full."

"Uncomfortable?" asked Mal, sliding both hands down to grasp at the doc's tight little ass through his trousers. He could easily feel the base of the plug, and pressed at it experimentally, chest and cock both leaping as Simon gasped in response.

"Only in that..." he panted, "I've been hard since I put it in this morning."

"Makes you hard?" Mal asked, and Simon nodded, looking a bit shamefaced. "No more hidin'," Mal added, ragged for breath himself. "I wanna see if it looks as good as in my imagination. Want you to strip, then get on your knees on my bed an' let me see ya."

"Mal, I--" gasped Simon, oddly, and Mal responded with a hard smack to his ass, then a gentle push toward the bed.

They stripped together; Mal lowered his suspenders and unbuttoned his shirt one-handed as Simon peeled himself out of his own shirt and kicked his pants into an ungraceful heap, meeting Mal's eyes only when he pushed his underpants over his prick and lowered them down his legs deliberately. Mal's hands dropped, shirt hanging open and forgotten as Simon turned, graceful as ever but clearly burning with self-consciousness, to knee up onto Mal's bed. The black sheen of the plug was stark and downright vulgar against the delicate rose flush of Simon's skin, and Mal swore under his breath as Simon bent submissively onto his elbows, displaying himself fully and utterly for Mal and Mal alone.

It was even better than he'd imagined.

He let himself look at it for a long minute, watching Simon peek out at him from under his arm and swallow compulsively, clearly nervous but still achingly hard, by the looks of it. Mal swallowed, too, before stepping in to lay a hand on the hot, clenched muscle of Simon's thigh.

"Do you like it?" Simon asked in a rush, before inhaling a deep, loud breath. Mal watched all his muscles flex anxiously.

"Oh, yeah, doc," Mal answered, giving the base a little push and watching Simon's mouth fall open around a sharp, throaty noise. "You got no idea how you look, right now... all bent over, showin' me just what you been wearin' underneath your clothes all day..."

"I imagine I look like quite the slut," Simon said unexpectedly, leaving Mal in a wild tailspin for a moment.

"Yeah, that's right," he gasped, "a dirty fuckin' slut, all ready for me to slide into."

At this, Simon swore and pushed up onto one hand, twisting a little to look back at Mal with a blazing heat in his eyes. "Do it," he hissed breathlessly. "Do me."

Mal didn't think. He tore. He tore at his pants, popping open the buttons and cursing under his breath, and tore at Simon's hip, yanking him back hard, till his knees were precarious on the very edge of the bed. He could hardly even muster up a gentleness as he twisted the plug out of Simon's ass, leaving him grimacing and gaping open and shining with the lube that had been liberally applied to get the thing in the first place. Just the sight of the black shining length of the plug as it slid out of Simon tested his control; he couldn't stop for more lube, or to make sure Simon was ready. He'd barely gotten his cock out of his pants before he was sliding into Simon -- right into the hilt, in one long, wet, easy slide, leaving them both moaning out loud, Simon's teeth bared at him.

It was somehow different than it usually was, besides the fact that Simon actually seemed to be holding himself open, one elegant hand clawed against an ass-cheek. It was quick, and dirty 'cause Simon was so open and wet for him already, and dizzifying, the roaring of Mal's blood in his ears only punctuated by his own shouts of, "Yeah, take that, Simon!" His hips smashed into Simon's ass, and the muscles in Simon's back rippled as he ground himself back at Mal, his dark hair hanging in his eyes. After a minute of the frantic rutting, Simon pushed himself from his hand onto his knees and reached back to cling at Mal's neck, locking them into a grind. His spine was a delicious curve, his grip desperate.

"Feels - so - rutting - good," Simon ground out savagely, and that was Mal's undoing; his hands went vice-like on Simon's hips, smashing the two of them together as he came, uttering hoarsely.

The sweat was rolling ticklishly down Mal's back by the time color seeped back into his vision and he regained enough sense to wrap a possessive hand around Simon's prick.

"I'm gonna put the plug back in you," he promised thickly, pumping the stiff, veiny length of Simon's cock in a torturously slow manner. "Gonna keep you nice an' ready for me, anytime I want you..."

"Mal -- yes," gasped Simon, his head falling back into the cradle of Mal's neck and shoulder as he tensed and came with a hot splurt over his fingers, his body sending shudders through Mal's.

As they breathed together, recovering, their bodies heaving in a sweaty tangle of feverish skin and hollow pants, Mal couldn't help having himself a smile.

"So I take it you like your gift?" he asked.

"Verrry thoughtful of you," returned Simon, his words slurred with langor. It was one of his more endearing post-coital traits, besides all that cuddling.

"I'm havin' a thoughtful sort of day," Mal agreed, and kissed the tender curve of Simon's neck.

The doc tilted his head submissively, allowing Mal further access to his throat, and sighed in exhausted contentment. "Just makes me wonder what I'm going to get for my birthday."

Mal chuckled. "Oh, I can tell you that right now."

"Oh? Hm?"

"Yeah. Your very own ugly sweater."

"My," Simon commented dryly, "you are having a thoughtful day."

"Well," Mal said, grinning and easing his arms around the doctor, "sometimes a man just can't help himself."