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May. 6th, 2012 01:21 pmThere's something that feels so damn dirty about this that McCoy checks the lock on his bedroom door four times, his skin feeling itchy and too hot, his breathing a little too shallow, and his brain a little too cooked to think of this as anything but an idiotic idea. Still; he's spent so long being so damn chaste and good that he doesn't think one moment of weakness is going to bring his world crashing down around his ears.
Jim's voice buzzes in his ear, the memory of those tapes still loud as anything. That voice, that voice that got him through so much in the years they've been friends, wrapped up in a low voice that reeks of sex, discussing all the plentiful ways he's bent, twisted, and fucked a good number of their colleagues, and fuck if it doesn't get his blood boiling in a dangerous mix of jealousy, irritation, and some low-down dirty shade of desire he doesn't really understand.
Three years ago, he would've known better than to touch this mess with a twenty-foot pole, but it's three years since then and Jim's managed a hell of a lot of growing up. It's practically one of the reasons why McCoy feels like he can do this, fumbling with the button of his jeans in a haphazard attempt to get them off faster, to get them gone. He only manages to shove them to his knees, sprawled on the bed as he takes his cock in hand and lets out a sharp hiss when the first wave of relief comes.
He's an idiot, he thinks breathlessly, back arching on the bed as he shifts to his side, bare feet pushing the sheets out, toes curling and grabbing hold of them as he wrinkles them finely, not giving a damn. It's been a long time since he's done this -- since he's let himself do this -- and his thoughts are wrapped up in that damn tape.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Jim with one of 'em. With Gaila or with a pretty little communications officer. He imagines the foreplay, the discarded clothes, the sweat, the skin on skin, the sounds (he's barely aware that he's making sounds of his own, swept up in his own little fantasy reel). The only consolation is that the one time a moan treads perilously close to a name, he cuts it off before he even gets past the J, taking better care not to let anything slip.
He's in the house. It's big, but it's not that big.
McCoy doesn't have the patience for this to go on with no end in sight. His hand moving quick, he brings himself to a satisfying and quick end, laying spent on the sheets and panting as he stares up at the ceiling, a looming sensation of dread about to smack him right in the chest because he's at home and worse:
He doesn't know where Jim is.
"Fuck," he mumbles, swiping a hand on the sheets since they're already a mess. He sits up, takes the care to make himself somewhat presentable (runs a hand through his hair, touches the back of a cool hand against a hot cheek) and buttons up his jeans before he heads to the door, shoulder leaning against it for a long moment. He's just going to head out and see. He's just going to see what kind of damage control he's got to do: that's all.
Jim's voice buzzes in his ear, the memory of those tapes still loud as anything. That voice, that voice that got him through so much in the years they've been friends, wrapped up in a low voice that reeks of sex, discussing all the plentiful ways he's bent, twisted, and fucked a good number of their colleagues, and fuck if it doesn't get his blood boiling in a dangerous mix of jealousy, irritation, and some low-down dirty shade of desire he doesn't really understand.
Three years ago, he would've known better than to touch this mess with a twenty-foot pole, but it's three years since then and Jim's managed a hell of a lot of growing up. It's practically one of the reasons why McCoy feels like he can do this, fumbling with the button of his jeans in a haphazard attempt to get them off faster, to get them gone. He only manages to shove them to his knees, sprawled on the bed as he takes his cock in hand and lets out a sharp hiss when the first wave of relief comes.
He's an idiot, he thinks breathlessly, back arching on the bed as he shifts to his side, bare feet pushing the sheets out, toes curling and grabbing hold of them as he wrinkles them finely, not giving a damn. It's been a long time since he's done this -- since he's let himself do this -- and his thoughts are wrapped up in that damn tape.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Jim with one of 'em. With Gaila or with a pretty little communications officer. He imagines the foreplay, the discarded clothes, the sweat, the skin on skin, the sounds (he's barely aware that he's making sounds of his own, swept up in his own little fantasy reel). The only consolation is that the one time a moan treads perilously close to a name, he cuts it off before he even gets past the J, taking better care not to let anything slip.
He's in the house. It's big, but it's not that big.
McCoy doesn't have the patience for this to go on with no end in sight. His hand moving quick, he brings himself to a satisfying and quick end, laying spent on the sheets and panting as he stares up at the ceiling, a looming sensation of dread about to smack him right in the chest because he's at home and worse:
He doesn't know where Jim is.
"Fuck," he mumbles, swiping a hand on the sheets since they're already a mess. He sits up, takes the care to make himself somewhat presentable (runs a hand through his hair, touches the back of a cool hand against a hot cheek) and buttons up his jeans before he heads to the door, shoulder leaning against it for a long moment. He's just going to head out and see. He's just going to see what kind of damage control he's got to do: that's all.
