Delicate
Mal always thought that Simon would taste, well, medical. Not antiseptic or anything like that, but maybe the sharp mint of toothpaste, or vaguely like the chemical clean of the infirmary. As his lips moved over and against Simon's, his tongue slipping quietly into Simon's mouth, he tasted coffee from another long night of writing in his journals about River, and he tasted want.
Mal always thought that Simon would be delicate. The soft clothes and perpetually smooth cheeks did little to refute that assumption and that made it very easy sometimes to forget that Simon wanted. Never did he have the look in his eye, demanding, begging, pleading for someone, anyone, to touch him, and so it was unexpected when Simon's hands gripped his shoulders tightly and pulled him closer.
Mal always thought that Simon would make love like a woman. With a soft, yielding body, and deep, breathy moans. He wasn't expecting strong, firm muscle under his exploring hands, and he certainly wasn't expecting the growlthrustmoan when he pulled his mouth from Simon's to drag his teeth down his smooth, white neck.
Mal always thought a lot of things. Mal was wrong quite a few times that day.