Obligatory Title and Discouragement Against Hand-Jobs Whilst Driving

Summary: Droll hook-line and encouragement to re-read the title if you really need to know what this story is about. Jim/Bones, inspired by pictures at the Jim and Bones comm at livejournal.

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and everything affiliated with it belongs to Gene Roddenberry, JJ Abrams, and all those other cool cats who own it. All I own is the plot…sort of.

Rating: R

Jim is late.

Bones sighs and checks his watch again, leaning against the ancient red Corvette Jim has insisted on buying for as yet undisclosed reasons. He puts his thumb in the belt loop of his pants and squints up at the building across the street, glaring like that'll make Jim appear faster.

Oddly enough, it seems to work—Jim walks out of the double doors a second later. Bones can't help but let his eyes wander over the tight leather pants that hug Jim's legs like a second skin, up to the black beater that does absolutely nothing to hide his lean figure and absolutely everything to accentuate the slight bulge of his biceps and the intense blue of his eyes.

"Bones!" Jim's face lights up, that fabulous smile of his stretching across his face as he jogs to Bones' side with hardly a glance around to see if any cars are coming.

Bones smiles back at him, though his smile is smaller and somewhat sardonic. "Jim. You done here?"

"Yep." Jim leans up and kisses him hard, like they haven't seen each other in weeks instead of the mere hour it took for Jim to meet with Admiral Pike. His hands wander up just under Bones' shirt, then to his back, where they slip deftly into the back pockets of his jeans to cup his buttocks. "Christ, I love your ass in these jeans."

"Mm." Bones grunts and kisses him again, chastely. "Let's skedaddle before we scar some poor soccer mom takin' her kid to practice."

"I don't think she'd mind." Jim snickers, though he pulls away anyhow. "And, dude, no one says 'skedaddle,' anymore."

"I do." Bones says, smacking Jim on the rear as he pushes himself off of the car, chuckling when Jim squeaks a little. He ignores Jim's whining as he circles the car and climbs into the passenger seat—Jim won't let him drive except on special occasions, which basically means he drives whenever Jim's in the mood to blow him while they drive home or has done some fool thing to earn himself a trip to the hospital (which basically means he drives it at least once a week). He buckles up and leans his seat back a little, crossing his arms behind his head and watching as Jim makes turning on a car and shifting gears look like the sexiest thing in the world without even trying. "You hungry?"

"…Insert witty come on line about your cock and my natural inclination to eat dessert first." Jim snickers.

"Sarcastic retort comparing age to shoe size." Bones says.

"Keen observation about the relationship between shoe size and size of package."

"Put upon sigh and offer of hand job to tide you over until after lunch because I am goddamn hungry, Jim, and, no, that isn't an allusion to your 'meat' or 'cream'."

"Acceptance of offer and victory whoop because, hell yes, hand job and lunch."

Bones rolls his eyes and pulls one hand out from behind his head to punch Jim in the side. "Keep talkin' and I retract the offer."

"No take-backs, Bones." Jim says. "And that hurt, you dick."

"Mhm." He rubs the spot he hit gently, trailing his fingers down Jim's side before he squeezes his thigh. He smirks when Jim sucks in a breath and shifts in his seat, the car swerving ever so slightly before righting itself again. He pulls his hand away and smirks even wider when Jim groans. "Maybe I oughta stop before you get too distracted to drive."

"Oh, God, I ha—" Jim gasps again and jerks when Bones' hand drifts up to the bulge in those all-too-tight pants, "—love you, love you, love you."

He hums agreeably and applies pressure.

"Fuck, fuck, you're gonna make me ruin these pants."

"Good. Then you can't wear them out in public—to talk to Admiral Goddamn Pike, of all people—you fuckin' tease. You know how hard it was to wait all nice and pretty outside knowin' you were in there without any goddamned underwear on?" Bones practically growls, but his other hand is grabbing a tissue while the hand on Jim's crotch undoes the zipper.

"Underwear won't—shit, fuck—fit under these pants." He whines out the last word, eyelids fluttering as Bones finally wraps a hand around him. "Hot damn, Bones, I—"

"You keep your godforsaken eyes on the road." Bones says with a vicious snap of his wrist, and when Jim forces his eyes wide open he starts jerking the other man off in earnest, alternating between a firm and loose grip, a slow and fast movement of his hand, a slide of his thumb across the head of Jim's dick and a tickle of his fingers against his scrotum. He leans over, lips next to Jim's ear, and says, "Come for me right now and I will let you have dessert first."

And Jim comes with a high-pitched keen, hips rolling up off the seat as Bones uses one hand to pump him dry and the other to keep the steering wheel steady. Jim brings the car to a stop alongside the shoulder of the road and puts it in park, then yanks his seatbelt off and launches himself across the armrest and seals their lips together. Bones is trying to clean him off, trying to pull away with protests about lunch and hunger, and finally succeeds even though Jim has crawled into his lap.

"You stay here," Bones kisses him even while he opens the door and extricates himself from Jim's arms, "and I'll drive."

Jim nods and snags one more kiss before Bones pulls away and shuts the door, jogging around the car to the driver's side while Jim flops down in the passenger's seat, wriggling around until he can re-button and zip his pants without doing anything that'll lead to massive discomfort.

"Now behave until we get home." Bones says.

Another nod, and Jim lets his eyes drift close his face scrunching a little when they turn just enough for the sun to hit his face.

And, in Jim's defense, he lasts an entire five minutes before his hand wanders—completely of its own accord—to the bulge in Bones' jeans.

Bones did say he could have dessert first.

The End

A/N: Leather, denim, and cars. How could I NOT write a fic for that? 8D