Inviolate in Violet

Fic: Steam (Firefly, Mal/Simon) Rating FRAO, [Part 1 of 2]

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 04:08:41 GMT

Title: Steam
Pairing: Mal/Simon
Rating: FRAO
A/N: Written for lvs2read for the February 2008 Slash-a-thon at fireflyslash.
(Requirements are located at the end of the fic.)
Disclaimer: All characters contained herein are the property of people other than me. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and they are used here without permission or intent to profit.

On Hephaistos, it snows for nearly nine months out of every ten, though it rarely dips below -15 centigrade on the southern continent. It’s late afternoon outside, the sun’s rays a brilliant dazzle against the endless drifts of snow.

Mal and Simon are alone in shuttle two. Mal is in the pilot seat, setting the final re-adjustments for the autopilot, while Simon is still sleeping in the bed behind him since by ship’s time it’s still very early in the morning.

The bed is a relatively new addition.

It’s hard to find privacy on a ship that is only sixty-eight paces long, and it had been with a mixture of eagerness and frustration that they had first stumbled in here, pulling at each other’s clothes in a flurry of desperation, Simon showing Mal just what else he could accomplish with his pretty mouth and doctor’s hands.

Mal’s bunk was a little too close to the rest of the crew’s, and Simon’s…well, Simon’s bunk was equidistant between the Shepherd’s and his sister’s.

It’s handy for other reasons too, since Mal is still Mal, and Simon is still Simon, and the both of them understand that arguments are not only inevitable but also integral to this thing they have between them, this thing that they’re becoming. Sometimes, they sleep in Mal’s bunk; less often in Simon’s. Sometimes they curl up together in the shuttle, and other nights they sleep apart, drifting through their own schedules in the endless black.

It’s not a secret from the others by any means, though they try to stick to their scripts unless they’re alone. They are doctor and captain until they are behind closed doors, and then they are simply Mal and Simon, all mouths and hands and aching, desperate flesh. This is not to say that they don’t have a private smile between them during dinner, or that Simon’s eyes never linger on the seat of Mal’s pants he leaves a room. This is not to say that they’ve never had sex hot and fast and messy in the tiny airlock below the avionics bay; in both of the ship’s two showers or, on one memorable occasion, on top of the ship’s gravity rotor housing while Serenity was set down for repairs.

Simon was unusually quiet last night when he and Mal left the others and returned to the ship, and Mal knows that he was thinking longingly of the private rooms with their bathtubs and endless hot water. Mal knows that he was trying desperately not to give voice to any of that and thereby provoke the looming argument they’ve both been carefully sidestepping for the past few weeks in the black.

Mal can’t help it; there’s a part of him that likes keeping Simon off balance; likes the satisfaction of their verbal sparring and the way it permeates the way they touch each other. Fortunately, Simon seems to enjoy it too, and they’re both learning to recognize the lines that are better left uncrossed. After a final glance at the instrument panel, he stands and stretches, his miánkù low around his hips.

He spreads the cloth on the floor, and opens the heated compartment of the food storage box he’d purchased earlier this morning.

The rich aroma of chāshāo fills the cabin, and Simon stirs, turns over in the bed to look down at Mal with sleepy eyes and that irresistible morning smile of his. “G’morning.”

“Mornin’, liànrén.”

Simon pushes back the sheets and climbs out of bed, stopping only to trail his fingers over Mal’s shoulders as he went into the head to wash up. Mal has only a moment to admire the perfect delta of Simon’s back before the door closes behind him.

A moment later, he is back, having washed his face and brushed his teeth, but without having tried to straighten his hair

Mal smiles at him, and offers one of the fluffy, still warm bāo.

Simon brings it to his nose, inhales deeply, and smiles. “I don’t think I’ve had one of these since…” His brow wrinkles slightly as he thinks.

“Since we dropped the shepherd off at Haven, I reckon.”

Simon lowers himself gracefully to a kneeling position that makes Mal’s joints ache slightly in sympathy.

Simon pulls off a piece of the sticky dough and puts it in his mouth, and the expression on his face is so blissful that Mal is tantalizingly aware of the rush of heat to his groin.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish, and Mal manages to focus on his own bāo until Simon has finished his second, and is laving his fingers clean of the sticky residue.

That’s when Mal can’t take it any more, and he takes Simon’s wrist carefully, and pulls the captive hand to his mouth, swirls his tongue over the delicate whorls of Simon’s fingertips.

He looks up at the soft moan this elicits; Simon’s lips are slightly parted, his eyes focused on Mal’s face and a familiar flush is spreading over his cheekbones. Mal pulls back then, teeth gently scraping against the sensitive skin as he releases Simons fingers, and smiles again, suddenly all business as he snags two plums from the other side of the box, passing one to Simon as he bites into the other.

Simon stares dazedly at the fruit in his palm for a moment, then up at Mal, who is calmly eating his own plum with a decidedly wicked expression. Simon unsteadily puts down his own, and when a tiny trickle of juice escapes the left corner of Mal’s mouth, Simon is there, laving gently with the tip of his tongue. Almost before Mal knows what has happened, he’s on his back with Simon above him, slender fingers threaded through his hair, mouth dipping to taste and suckle at Mal’s, tongue gentle and teasing against the other man’s lower lip.

Then he pulls back, takes a deep and shaky breath, his buttocks resting lightly against the burgeoning swell of Mal’s cock. Simon rocks his hips experimentally against Mal and hears his lover’s answering moan. He grins then, boyish and beautiful with a wicked glint in his eye, and takes his own discarded plum and bites into it, savoring the sweet tartness of the fresh fruit, then holds it over Mal’s chest and squeezes gently.

Mal’s breath hisses out of him at the chill then moans as Simon laps it up with broad strokes of his tongue, stopping to gently lave a tautly budded nipple. When Simon pulls back he deftly unbuttons his own shirt with one hand, and shrugs it off his shoulders.

He tips his head back, and crushes the remains of the fruit in his hand, so that a small torrent of juice runs across his lips, and drips down his torso in thin rivulets. Mal bucks him off then, and it is his turn to seek out all remnants of the sticky sweetness from Simon’s skin, dipping his tongue into the tiny, ticklish hollow of Simon’s navel, stroking the smooth pale chest with his hands and his lips.

When Mal begins to reach for the waistband of Simon’s miánkù, Simon beats him to it by the simple expedient of sliding his own hand into Mal’s pants first and curling his fingers around the thick curve of Mal’s cock.

Mal all but whimpers into Simon’s mouth as Simon begins to jack him slowly, sticky fingers catching deliciously at Mal’s foreskin. When Mal begins to buck and tremble against Simon’s unbearably slow tempo, the younger man uses his other hand to unfasten Mal’s pants, and pulls them down and off his body, leaving Mal entirely exposed to his appreciative gaze.

Without looking, Simon reaches out and snags another plum. He sits back on his heels, and curls the plum into his palm, scoring it with his nails before squeezing it over the bobbing, swollen head of Mal’s cock. Mal arches his back as the chilled juices cascade over his cock, and then Simon is there, with the blazing warmth of his mouth, licking at the rivulets running down Mal’s shaft, against the shuddering smoothness of his abdomen and the taut skin of Mal’s balls.

Finally, he takes pity on Mal’s inchoate murmurs, and gives into the hands gently cupping the back of his head, and takes Mal into the searing heat of his mouth, tongue curling over the head even as his sticky hands caress the smooth skin of the shaft.

Simon licks his fingers and rubs the tips against the entrance of Mal’s body, not penetrating, but making Mal buck and twist against him in a flurry of desperate need. Simon smiles, and bobs his head down over the head even as his fingers trace maddening circles against the taut entrance to his lovers body.

But it’s only when Simon leans down and takes Mal’s cock to the root that Mal can’t take it anymore, and he cries out as he comes in long spasms down Simon’s throat.

They curl up together then, on the floor of the shuttle. Both of them are panting, though Simon’s breathing is softer than the ragged desperation of Mal’s.

Mal’s is still slightly breathless when he says, “Today was supposed to be about you, bǎo bèi.”

And Simon looks down at him with a smile from where he is leaning on his elbow. He leans down, and kisses Mal sweetly.

“And what makes you think this wasn’t, liànrén?” Simon props his head on his hand, and smiles wickedly.

“Besides which; I still don’t know where we’re going. I’m sure, that if you really want to, you’ll make it up to me when we get there.”

~

For lvs2read

Who requested: Mal/Simon
Requirements: Established relationship, romance, food
Avoid: non-con, mpreg, character death, feminized or virgin!Simon, wimpy Mal, watersports & daddy kink
Maximum rating you'd like: NC-17, but I'll be happy with anything.

Well, I hope this was worth reading, and that it filled the requirements.
(If you liked it, please let me know, since I'm fairly new to this whole thing, and it will get the second part out to you a little faster. If not, well, let me know why, since I'd really like to do better next time.)

Also: This was beta'd by my fiancée, who loves the Firefly, but not so much the mansex. ...If there's anyone out there willing to help me out with beta next time, I'd be really, really grateful.

Fic: Shades of Earth (BtVS/Firefly, Giles/Mal) Rating FRT-13

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 04:05:55 GMT

My very first entry for Round 21 at maleslashminis , and it's late. With my sincerest apologies to any-and-all for the delay.)

This was written as a drabble chain, so I think it reads a little smoother if you pause between scenes.)

Title: Shades of Earth
Pairing: Giles/Mal
Rating: FRT-13
A/N: Written for noelia_g for Round 21 (Mal) at maleslashminis
(Requirements are located at the end of the fic.)
Disclaimer: All characters contained herein are the property of people other than me. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and they are used here without permission or intent to profit.

Shades of Earth

(Title borrowed from the song “Across the Universe” as written by Lennon/McCartney, especially as performed by Rufus Wainright on his album “Poses”.

Day 1

He’s never liked taking on passengers. It’s more than just the inconvenience; more than just the risk, of which there is plenty. When he is honest with himself, he knows that it is because it challenges his carefully constructed illusion of freedom more than hauling cargo ever will.

He compensates, or tries, by telling himself that it’s merely cargo of a different kind. It rarely helps, especially now, with the sting of Inara’s absence still so raw and bitter in his mouth. Especially since it is her absence, and the concurrent absence of her lease, which now forces his hand.

Day 2

The next time they dock at Persephone, Mal’s latest assessment of his meticulous accounts tells him what he already knows. They need platinum, or they’re not even lifting off this rock.

He doesn’t want any part of actually bringing strangers on board; he never has; so he leaves it to Zoe. She’ll manage; and without scaring away the fare, which he knows he’d have trouble managing at this juncture. He takes Jayne into town with him, since that’s a fundamental factor in not scaring off the money.

Mercifully, Jayne is silent, since by now he can read Mal pretty well.

Day 3

It’s long past ship’s midnight when they return. Mal is tired, dispirited, and a little drunk; Jayne is just drunk.

When morning comes; there are the inevitable introductions. Their latest passenger is a soft-spoken man who goes by the name of Rupert Giles, and he will be renting shuttle one. Mal looks sharply at Zoe when she informs him of this, and her face is flawlessly expressionless.

He turns to greet the tall, expensively dressed gentleman with the matching Londinium accent. His eyes, Mal notes as they shake hands, are a pale and startling shade of green behind his spectacles.

Day 4

The hold is loaded with nearly a score of crates, carefully stowed against the starboard struts. It’s a relief that their passenger comes with cargo, since Badger had been either unable or unwilling to send any work their way.

Mal gives one crate an experimental nudge, and it moves only grudgingly, heavy for its size. The crates are obviously expensive, with digital readouts for temperature and humidity. He notes, with a certain cynical relief, that they all read too warm for cryo.

Mal looks up to see their passenger watching him from the catwalk, and forces himself to wave cheerfully.

Day 5

Mal is accustomed to being the first one up; used to having Serenity to himself in what passes for morning. So it is with mild displeasure when he enters the galley and finds it already occupied. Giles is there, a book in one hand, and a mug of tea in the other.

He looks up at Mal over the frames of his glasses, and smiles a gentle, preoccupied smile; offers Mal the teapot with a vague gesture of wrist and fingertips. Mal pauses, genuine amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth, and puts his coffee on to drip instead.

Day 6

It’s only their third day back in the black, and already Giles has relaxed enough to lose the suit. He’s wearing a soft, cream-colored sweater, and he looks like a different man; younger, gentler.

He’s down in the passenger lounge, telling stories to the girls. Little Kaylee is sitting at his side, wide-eyed, and River’s perched on the lowest step of the infirmary stairs with her chin against the rails. Even Simon is leaning quietly against the doorway, his obsessive maintenance schedule momentarily forgotten. The fingertips of the doctor’s left hand worry gently at the barely-healed scar on his thigh.

Day 8

Mal tries not to think on it, but he’s allowed himself to become so accustomed to looking upwards when the airlock to shuttle one opens that he still catches himself hanging about in the portside hold.

Whenever Giles emerges and catches his gaze, he smiles quizzically, lifts one eyebrow in a questioning arch. Mal smiles back, and more of it is genuine than he expects.

Then one day Giles smiles without that gentle hint of inquiry, and Mal suspects that someone (probably Wash) has regaled him with tales of the previous tenant.

He tries not to think about that, either.

Day 10

There are moments where Giles surprises Mal with his unexpected awkwardness; with his irony, with the gentleness that hints always at the barest edge of bitterness. He has a habit of taking off his glasses when Jayne speaks, and he is gentle with River in a way that no one else can match, not even Simon, who’s too busy missing the girl she used to be.

And sometimes, Mal suspects that it's only a mask; a facade; that his wools and silks and sweaters encase a man as ruthless as Jayne, as elusive as Book, and as lost as himself.

Day 12

His hold is apparently filled with books, which at last explains the complicated crates. Mal has never seen so many books in one place; paper of any quality at all is a relative rarity away from the Core; books another story entirely, given the amount of labor in their production, their weight and fragility at disadvantage to the cheap, portable ubiquity of electronics.

Giles smiles, gently. “I’m afraid I’ve never felt entirely comfortable with computers, Captain Reynolds. These, on the other hand,” he says, fingers gentle against one slim volume, “are a comfort to an old man, like good friends.”

Day 15

Giles is singing softly into the night, his voice a golden counterpoint to his guitar.

Zoe’s leaning against her husband’s chest, and Wash’s arms surround her like something precious. On the other couch, Simon and River are curled together like children, while Mal holds Kaylee in the crook of his arm. The shepherd is there with his bible closed in his lap and a gentle expression on his face.

Jayne is off to one side on the stairs; he has Vera disassembled into her constituent parts, but he is re-assembling her so quietly that everyone can see through the pretence.

Day 17

Giles is sitting in the observation lounge again, head tipped back, staring at the stars. Mal has never seen another body do that, save for River.

His feet are together, his knees slightly apart. His tea is cradled in one long-fingered hand, which rests against his upper thigh. Mal is certain that when he sips from it again, Giles will make that slight expression of surprised distaste at the temperature, eyebrows drawing together, lips pursing thoughtfully, and sip a little more slowly.

And then he will turn back to the stars, and remain that way until he finishes his tea.

Day 19

Mal is looking for the Shepherd; he has questions about their scheduled rendezvous on Salisbury. When he can’t find him anywhere, he heads to Giles’ shuttle. He stands outside the door for a moment; when no one answers, he hesitates only a second before punching the override.

Entering, he is arrested by the sight of the two men mirroring each other in full lotus. Their eyes are closed, their breathing steady, and their upturned palms are strangely vulnerable.

Mal feels ashamed, in a way he never used to, and he backs out of the shuttle as quietly as he can.

Day 21

Giles and River are seated in the observation lounge one evening, and the inevitable cup is cradled in his lap. When Mal steps into the galley, Giles is speaking softly to River.

“On Earth-that-was, there was a star that sailors used to navigate the seas.”

River frowns. “Polaris. It was inaccurate; a faulty analog translation that was only right two days of every year.”

Giles glance at River was sharper than before, and also somehow softer. “That’s still a step up for most,” he offers gently, and is rewarded by River’s delighted laughter.

Mal smiles, and quietly readies another kettle.

Day 22

“Don’t you ever get tired of tea?” Mal asks him, half-teasing.

Giles’ expression is unusually distant as he removes his spectacles. There is a certain ineffable stiffness to the set of his mouth, at odd contrast to both the shuttered weariness of his eyes and the gentleness of his voice.

“There are few pleasures yet I hope never to tire of, Captain Reynolds. Tea is one of them.”

Mal feels oddly discomfited, though he tries gruffly to hide it. He’s aware that something significant has eluded him; that the undercurrent of sorrow in the other man’s voice is the key.

Day 24

Giles long fingers are slow and meditative on the strings of his guitar, his voice smooth and controlled.

“…Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,

They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe…”

The crew always gathers when he plays, Mal is amused to note that even Jayne has finally discarded his show of disinterest.

“…Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes
They call me on and on across the universe…”

“That’s a very old song,” says River, suddenly.

Giles merely smiles, and slides smoothly into the refrain.

Day 25

Setting down at Whitefall is almost never a good idea, though Mal would be forced to admit that it was his.

Zoe is down with a steadily seeping chest wound, and while Simon’s expression is coolly professional, Mal can see the shadow in his eyes, hear the tension in his voice.

Giles rolls up his sleeves; his calm manner clearly that of a man who has all too obviously done this more than once. His calm stabilizes Simon, and together they slow the bleeding, stop it.

Simon is radiant with gratitude, but Giles simply clasps him briefly on the shoulder.

Day 27

Zoe’s on her feet again; Wash is her pale shadow, never straying far from her side.

There is food, real food, on the table tonight, and the crew is relaxed and sociable. Afterwards, they drift slowly out of the galley, enjoying the sensation of surfeit.

Mal and Giles remain at the table, sharing the silence and a pot of tea.

Finally, Giles stands. "I had better to bed; it’s far too late for an old man.”

Mal says, "Not so old, surely," surprising himself.

Giles pauses, nascent smile hovering somewhere between his mouth and his eyes. "You’d be surprised, captain."

Day 28

“It occurs to me, Mr. Giles, that you’ve not said much lately about your schedule,” says Mal, slowly.

Giles’ gaze flickers upwards to meet his, and suddenly there is nothing of that gentle vagueness in the other man's expression; his whole face seems alert and sharply focused.

Then he smiles, a slow smile. “Please, Captain Reynolds; call me Rupert. …Or just Giles.” He pauses carefully, thoughtfully. “Sometimes a man has interest in more than destinations, and the company here is the best I’ve found in… …a very long time.”

Mal smiles, a real smile.

“Well then, Giles. Call me Mal.”

Day 32

When he climbs out of his bunk, the glow from the galley feels warm and inviting.

Giles is there, his morning tea in front of him, slow and rumpled with sleep and dreams. There is also a fresh pot of coffee, untouched and waiting.

He pours himself a cup, and the two of them smile at each other, relaxing into a silence as rich and warm as his drink.

The silence lasts right up until the moment when a bleary-eyed Jayne comes stumbling in and commandeers the last of the coffee.

Mal is surprised to realize he doesn’t even mind.

Day 41

Today is Kaylee’s birthday, and they’ve all been celebrating with far too much of her inter-engine fermentation. Mal is upstairs with Giles, who is clearly unused to such strong drink.

Mal rests his hand comfortingly on Giles’ shoulder, splayed fingers surprised by the muscle there. Giles rests his face in his hands, and he is speaking quietly, almost to himself.

“I couldn’t save any of them. …I stopped her, stopped it from opening, but I came too late. I should… I should never have left them alone… …They were only children…”

Mal thinks blurrily of Shadow, and thinks he understands.

Day 42

Two pots of tea later, Mal helps Giles to his feet. The older man sways a little, and Mal moves to catch him, and somehow their hands are on each other’s shoulders and there is silence all around them.

Mal’s lips part slightly, and then Giles’ eyes are on his mouth, and there is a breathless moment before they are suddenly kissing; have been kissing forever in a moment that tastes of tea, and loss, and time. Giles is holding on for dear life, and while Mal’s grip is slightly gentler, there is no question of him ever letting go.

~

For Noelia / noelia_g

Who requested:
Male character they want paired with Mal: Giles
Things they want in the fic: legends of the-Earth-that-Was, tea, River
Things they *don't* want in the fic: fluff, heavy kink
Preferred maximum rating: any