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Jealous of Your Cigarette

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The thing is, Jim knows Bones is trying to be quiet. 

He never fucks anyone in their room, he never turns on lights when he gets back in, and he doesn’t stomp or drop things or clatter around in the kitchenette making post-fuck munchies at ass o’clock in the morning. 

The only things Jim ever does hear when Bones slips back into their dorm every single Friday and Saturday night (and sometimes Sundays, and the occasional Wednesday, and...) is the practically-silentwhoosh of the door, padding footsteps, and the soft splash of water in the bathroom. Following that, Jim assumes Bones collapses into bed to sleep off his conquest, whatever, Jim doesn’t know, because he never hears him leave the bathroom, he’s always back to sleep by that point. 

But despite the respectful attempts at consideration, Bones’s ins and outs wake Jim up all the same, jerking him out of sleep, the churn of displaced anger twisting his guts. 

One night, the fourth in a row of Bones ghosting in reeking of sex, Jim snaps. 

“Lights, 100%,” he says loudly, as soon as he hears the door. He catches Bones in the sudden brightness like a small spooked animal, standing frozen and barefoot and half-dressed in the middle of the room. His chest is still flushed, damp and slick with sweat, and his jeans are sliding down his hips, open at the fly. Jim can tell, even from here, that he’s not wearing underwear.

“Jesus,” says Jim. He knows he sounds like a dick. He will care about that fact in a matter of minutes. Right now, though, he doesn’t. “Again? Did you walk across campus like that?”

Bones, bless him, seems stricken with shock, a blush creeping over his nose and cheeks, his kiss-bitten lips parted. His hair is a mess, sticky and clumped across his forehead, and Jim imagines fingers weaving through it, pulling and tugging. What sounds does he make? Is he loud? He’s awfully quiet right now, but he’s loud in everything else he does. Either he’s a mouthy son-of-a-bitch in bed, too, or he’s the opposite, restrained and quiet, keeping all his sounds selfishly inside. The thought makes Jim even angrier.

“I’m sorry,” says Bones. It’s sincere, too, wavering a little in tone, his gaze dropping in something like shame. “I didn’t—I had no idea I was waking you up. Dammit, Jim, you should’ve said, I would’ve stopped—”

“Shut up,” says Jim. There’s a bite-mark on Bones’s chest. Right over his nipple. Jim kicks his way out of bed.

Bones’s face shutters, his fingers tightening on the jacket he’s got clutched in his fist. Now there’s anger burning under the surface, and Jim’s beginning to care. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’m sorry. Look, I’m just gonna take a shower, I’ll be as quiet as I can.”

“Fine. It’s okay. I just need to—I have a test tomorrow,” says Jim. It’s a lie. Whatever is happening here, between them, inside Jim’s head and heart, he just needs to go outside for a while, and hopefully when he comes back, Bones will be asleep and still and quiet in bed and the roaring noise in Jim’s ears will go away.

He ends up at the door, pulling on his own jacket, shoving his feet in his boots. He turns just as he goes through the door, long enough to see Bones’s shoulders bowed, limping as he disappears into the bathroom.

It’s enough to ignite the lust Jim’s been trying to keep banked. Suddenly, all he can think of is what it would be like to push into Bones, his hole slick with someone else’s come, loose and open, hot and raw and maybe a little painful, Bones folded up under him, making noise, Jim wants him to make noise—

Jim gets into the corridor and falls against their door, sliding down until he’s sitting, breathing heavily. 

Inside the dorm, he hears the shower turn on.