"Get off me, you heavy motherfucker," Bones grunts, and Jim jabs an elbow in his side one more time for good measure. Right before indulging himself by grinding his dick against the sweet spot behind Bones's knee for a split-second. Then he pops up on his hands and knees, and grins when Bones doesn't seem inclined to move even given the space.
"You love it," Jim tells him, like Bones hadn't all but come in his pants the first time Jim straddled Bones with all his weight in Bones's lap. "That's what you get for thinking you can outrun me, old man."
Bones's shirt is ruched up underneath him, exposing the waistband of his briefs and a smooth expanse of lower back. Jim is about to lower himself right back down again, especially if Bones says something involving the word whippersnapper, but settles for one more brief brush against Bones's leg when the natives start getting restless.
"Stop groping the man, Kirk, and let's play," Aikens calls out.
"Later," Jim mutters against Bones's shoulderblade, and Bones says, just as low, "Promises, promises." Both of them have to adjust their shorts when they stand up.
They line up facing each other for the next play, and Jim flexes his bicep and pulls it up to his mouth for a loud, smacking kiss. It works even better than he'd hoped, because Bones laughs out loud and misses the play count, so he's out of position just enough for Jim to dart in front of him and intercept the pass this time.
He only makes it two steps before Bones's arm wraps low around Jim's hips from behind. Jim is lifted completely up in the air before getting dropped unceremoniously on the ground and blanketed by Bones's warm body. Bones is actually giggling in his ear and Jim's busy trying to figure out whether it's the physical activity in general or specifically the football that's gotten Bones in such an uncharacteristically relaxed state when he glances up to see Uhura rolling her eyes at them from the sidelines.
"You do realize that nobody else is playing tackle, right?"
"Their loss," Bones says, from somewhere around the nape of Jim's neck. Then he swats at Jim's ass before pushing himself to his feet, and clasps Jim's forearm to help him to his when Jim grunts and rolls over.
Uhura sniffs, but Jim still catches the brief once-over she gives his bare torso. He resists the urge to glance down at himself to check, but he feels the waistband of his shorts has been tugged dangerously low on his hipbones from the contact. He physically cannot help it; he has to work even harder to resist the urge to pose for Uhura's benefit when he realizes it.
"You wanna play, Cadet Uhura?" he asks, instead, glancing at her from underneath his eyelashes until his face is covered by his shirt that Bones has tugged out of his waistband and tossed over his head.
"Put your damn shirt back on, Jim, you're getting a sunburn," Bones says, and Jim would like to think it's because he's getting all possessive and territorial, except that Bones gives Uhura a rare and genuinely pleasant smile and Uhura smiles back at him (rarer still!) and even waves a little before heading off in the same direction she was already going.
The game's moved on without them, so Jim sighs and sits back down on the grass, leaning back on his hands with his legs stretched out in front of him. He leaves his shirt off and drapes it over his shoulder, just to bug Bones, who snorts and stretches out on his side next to Jim.
"It's not the end of the universe if you don't sleep with all the cadets at the Academy, Jim," he says, mildly for Bones, probably because he knows better than Jim himself that it's not like that. But it's the classic set-up, and Jim knows his line.
"Of course not, just all the attractive ones," he yawns, and turns his face up to the unseasonal sun. "You got rounds tonight?" he asks then, and when Bones says no, "wanna come over later?"
"I do," Bones says, and something in his voice makes Jim open one eye to glance over at him.
And Bones is giving him that look, and Jim shivers, and lays all the way back in the grass, and wishes desperately they were already in his room. "You wanna come over now?"
Bones rolls closer and rests his chin on Jim's shoulder. "You kinda stink," he murmurs, and Jim can feel his breath and his stubble and all of it gives Jim goosebumps and, yeah, they're not making it back to his room. Screw the rules about public displays of affection that are either the Academy's or Bones's own, Jim doesn't know or care; he rarely follows either.
He doesn't know how Bones does it, how he keeps Jim on his toes and coming back for more seemingly without even trying, how -- cliched as it sounds -- Bones throws Jim off his game, never responds to Jim's actual attempts to seduce him but gets turned on by the weirdest things.
"Such a sweet-talker," Jim manages, and he's all set to get up so they can find a room or a corner or a freaking tree to hide behind to take care of this, but Bones stills him just by resting his thumb on the line of muscle over Jim's hip. "What-"
"Oh, hey," says Bones, voice all feigned concern, "you might get grass stains," and he slips Jim's shirt off his shoulder and lets it pool in Jim's lap. Then his whole hand is underneath it: back on Jim's belly, the tip of his finger just slipping under shorts and briefs together.
"Mmm?" Bones doesn't look up, he nuzzles Jim instead, his nose brushing under Jim's arm, and Jim's done. He hasn't had any shame when it came to Bones since their first week as cadets, anyway.
Bones slides his hand lower, and the backs of his knuckles brush against the length of Jim's cock. Jim clenches his fists in the grass. "I know you're going to yell at me that you always know what you're doing," he manages, "but you do know what you're doing, right?"
Apparently Bones does, because all he has to do is say "Jim," and finally wrap his fingers around Jim with one corkscrew stroke, and Jim is biting his bottom lip and coming in three ragged spurts.
"Wow, so, uh," Jim gets out, after rolling his eyes to try and get them to focus. Bones disentangles his hand and, naturally, uses Jim's shirt to wipe it off. "If I didn't need a shower before, right?"
"I know you, you overgrown frat boy," Bones snorts. "You would've sat around all day covered in dry sweat and then I'd have to treat you for jock itch."
"Would that involve the careful application of lubricating substances to my- "