leftwithmybones | (no subject)

(no subject)

He's not sure when the hell it happened, but somewhere along the way, McCoy got so involved in his projects and Auggie and the Council and the goddamn tribbles that he stopped caring about other things. The first thing to go was the time with Jim, which he hates. The second thing is some of his shifts, which he hates.

And the third thing? The third thing is his hair. He's let it grow and grow and whereas it used to curl around his ears and that didn't matter so much, now that it's managed to grow to his shoulders and makes him look like a goddamn hippie, he cares. He has to tie it up in a ponytail just to keep it out of his face and he feels like he's sixteen and rebelling again. He doesn't have time to cope with it, so he knots it up haphazardly as he gets ready for the day while scraping his palm over his cheek's stubble, groaning when he realizes he's one long leap away from a goddamn trip to the desert for Burning Man.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Jim passes through the main room for the bathroom, stifling a sex-deprived whimper at the sight of Bones sitting there, all studious and intense and ponytailed. It should be ridiculous on a man of his years, but Bones has proven physically incapable of looking ridiculous - even wild eyed and furious he smolders, and on his way back to his room to start the day, Jim gives up all at once, throwing his hands into the air and shouting, "Bones! Your hair is just!"

He picks up a dish towel and throws it at him. "Jesus!"

"Why are you lobbing dish towels at me like that's some kind of accepted warfare?" he demands, grabbing the thing off his face and throwing it back at Jim, as if that's a proportionate response as opposed to just acting like a mature adult. "I know! Okay! I know it's ridiculous," he growls. "I'll get it done tomorrow."

"It is ridiculous!" Jim replies, even if it's still not, and peels the cloth from his face to toss vehemently at the sink. "Everytime I try to finish the last few plates for the Zeiss, I see it. It's all I can think about, Bones! You've got to cut it. For the sake of all that's holy and productive, you have to cut it!"

He's not sure what the hell his hair has to do with Jim being distracted from the project he's had on his mind for the last few months, but he runs a hand through the strands self-consciously, knotting the ponytail just that much tighter. "It's not like there's a barber shop on the corner, Jim," he points out, rolling his eyes. "And the last thing I need is to do it myself."

"You've cut around all my major organs, but you're afraid to cut your hair," Jim says, disbelief pulling at his mouth. "Let me do it." Truth be told, it will be the most contact he's had with Bones' body in days, and just the thought of even touching his hair is enough to make Jim's boxers a little tighter. "Let me do it right now."

"Yeah, I'm afraid to cut my own hair. I don't know how your elbows work, but mine don't exactly give me the freedom I need to make cuts without making myself look like I gave myself a bowl haircut," he mutters, staring at Jim and searching his gaze for teasing, but he can't find any.

What he does find by looking at him is the slight tent in Jim's boxers, which is all he needs to get going, himself. "How long until that damn projector of yours is finished?" he asks, an edge of desperation in his words.

"Not long. It'd be done by now if I could think straight," Jim accuses, and if that hair is temptation, the look Bones is giving him now is downright invitation, stamped and sealed.

"Stop doing whatever you're doing," he says. "Take a break. Right now."

He doesn't need a second more of convincing. Considering he's been going through his own research for a project that's namely for Jim, he's pretty sure he's allowed to pause. He stands enough to shed the labcoat, clad in a pair of ragged denim cutoffs and a dark-green tight t-shirt beneath because he's not exactly in the lab; he's not expected to be a professional.

This time, he's not even sure he wants to wait for Jim. He crosses the room in a few long strides, pushing at Jim's torso with a splayed palm until they meet a hard surface, cupping his cheek and kissing him like he's goddamn desperate for it -- and truthfully, he is -- and with his hips rocking up against Jim's in fervent need for friction, his hair might be getting longer today.

"Fuck yes," Jim groans into Bones' mouth, thighs spread to accept one of Bones' between them, rocking hard enough to make Jim gasp. He grips Bones' hips, then grabs at his hair, tugging the tie until it flies away, letting Bones' dark hair spill loose against his cheeks.

"Bones," he says, carding his hands through it before making a fist and tugging. "I finally get it. If short hair weren't regulation...never get anything done."

He growls -- half out of arousal, but mostly from frustration when the hair gets in his way. It's in his eyes and strands of it are getting between his lips and Jim's, making him back off long enough to try and flick the dark hairs away. "I hate it," he admits. "Only reason it got this bad is because I'm too busy to do anything about it," he says, grabbing Jim's shoulder for leverage as he pins Jim to the wall with his hips.

Jim laughs, the scowl he knows so well framed by longer hair than he's ever seen on Bones, and he pushes it out of the way, kissing his mouth and then the tip of his nose.

"I'll cut it," he says, "I'll do it today and release us both from its filthy siren call. But," Jim adds, whining in the back of his throat for the sudden thrust of Bones' hips. "Sex first."

"Desperate or something?" he murmurs against Jim's neck, pressing lazy and frantic kisses against Jim's skin, pretty desperate himself -- not that he's ready to advertise that part to the world. "You're topping," he instructs. "Last thing I need is to have this goddamn wig whipping in my eyes while I ride you."

Jim groans aloud, putting his mouth to the sun-warmed freckles on Bones' throat, nodding against the skin there. "But first," he says, pulling back with a quick swipe of tongue over his own lips. "Bones, I swear I'll fuck you until you scream, but first will you suck me, just a little?"

He runs his fingers back through Bones' hair, tugging slightly. The thought of Bones on his knees, all this hair for Jim to hang onto...it's enough to curl his bare toes against the floor. "Please."

Jim's said the magic word and everything and, well, that's not exactly a request that he's eager to ignore. He shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips, and he starts to sink down to the floor. "Why don't we ever do this in bed?" he wonders, sliding his palm up and down Jim's thigh, mostly teasing and nothing else at this point.

"Better view," says Jim, hips hitching beneath the slide of Bones' hand. "Gotta make use of these knees while they're young, Bones, and..." Jim loses his train of thought watching his fingers sink into Bones' dark hair, pulling it away from his face so Jim can see his mouth. "Can't make my knees give out if I'm lying down."

He shakes his head, but he's tipped his head forward just enough so that Jim can't see the stupid grin on his face. The last thing he needs is for Jim to figure out how much he actually likes doing this. He'd be done for, otherwise. He hooks his fingers in Jim's boxers once he composes himself and tugs them lower, letting them drape around Jim's shins as he inches between his legs. "What age do I get to do this on a bed?"

"Not sure," says Jim, a glint in his eye when he cards his fingers again through Bones' hair. "Maybe when you're more gray than dark, this salt and pepper that's just starting spreading out all over, fuck." It's amazing, the degree to which Jim can get himself off just thinking about Bones. "You're gonna be so hot like that, Bones."

"I'm gonna be so old like that," he mutters to himself, but doesn't give himself a chance to mouth back to Jim. Instead, he wraps his mouth around Jim's dick, finding it completely strange and weird and possibly cause for some concern that he's missed this as much as he has. It's like a really specific type of Stockholm Syndrome that he doesn't mind at all.

"Oh fuck yes I missed this," Jim exhales, "Been ages." Whole days, in fact, far too long for two ridiculously attractive men not to be going at each other with hands, mouths, and other, even better parts.

Cradling Bones' face, Jim traces fingers along his stretched cheeks, pushing dark, tumbled hair from his forehead so he can watch.

Sometimes, McCoy wonders if, left to his own devices, Jim would actually die if he didn't have sex for a stretch of time. He doesn't actually think that's the case, but it's a study he wouldn't mind doing if he didn't think he'd sprain something in the process. He falters when Jim touches his cheeks, leaning forward and sucking Jim deep and hard (he's had a lot of practice with this, lately).

He eases back, licking his lips while working his jaw to work out the ache. "Never get used to this," he admits, one last stretch of his lips before he gets back to work.

"Told you," Jim says, losing his next words to a gasp as Bones sucks him down again, all wet heat and deeper than he used to when they began this a year ago. "Daily exercise, Bones. Pays off. Can I?" He threads his fingers again through Bones' hair, giving it a gentle tug. "Just a little?"

He's not entirely sure what Jim wants to do, but if it involves pulling at his hair, then McCoy's not entirely sure he wants to dissuade it. "Not too hard," is all he says, because there's a middling level between pain and pleasure that he actually enjoys a hell of a lot. He looks up at Jim through strands of that long hair. "Admit it, I look like a goddamn hippie," he drawls before punctuating his words with a slow suck of Jim's dick.

"You look like a wet fucking dream," Jim groans in reply, eyes closed against a rush of toe curling pleasure as Bones goes down on him again, but he wrenches them open, determined to remember every second of this.

Carefully, he curls his fingers around a fistful of Bones' hair, easing him forward, then tugging him back again. "You wear it like this in Georgia?"

He doesn't say a thing, focused on sucking Jim off and not letting out quiet yelps from the pain. Too busy to really tell Jim about the summer when he was seventeen and he wore it clipped at the nape of his neck, he fights against Jim's hand and the resistance and curls his tongue around the head of Jim's dick, now that Jim's holding him too far out to go too deep.

Jim pulls him gently down onto his cock, savoring the slow drag, because he knows it'll be his last if he doesn't want to end this prematurely. "Gonna take that as a yes," he pants, "for the sake of my future wet dreams," then pulls Bones off him again, dropping to his own knees to kiss his bruised mouth.