icarus | FIC: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17, yes, you get some in this part.

You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.

Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: Should've gotten a dog.
A/N: Thank you to

perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me. I know. This piece is too short and only serves to whet the appetite. I'm kicking this out the door before it's quite ready, just because I've been feeling crummy since Sunday. And, yes,

monanotlisa, this is for you. You know why. ;)

Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hired ex-skating champion and 'artiste' Rodney McKay to be his coach. After John's injures himself at the America Cup (and after), Rodney decides he'd better keep a closer eye on him. Like all of Rodney's students, John is tasked to pick out his own program music. This is harder than it seems.

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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus

The bags of groceries cut into Rodney's hand as he struggled to get his wallet out of his back pocket to pay the cab. It was nine pm, not his latest night at the rink, but certainly later than most. The cold had seeped into his bones, so deep that he could still feel it radiating from his skin as he adjusted to normal temperatures. As a skater, the cold was brisk and refreshing, especially by the end of a work out. But as coach he spent more time standing on the ice than skating over it.

All the lights in the house were off.

With a sigh, Rodney briefly wished John would greet him at the door like a pet. Or at least open it when he knocked. He set the groceries down, making a face as he stretched with his fist in his back. Through the window he saw that the house wasn't completely dark. The television flickered like a strobe light.

"No, no, don't get up, don't strain yourself," Rodney said as he stumbled through, shouldering the door open.

But John was draped on the couch, out cold, head slumped into a pillow, an arm across his stomach and the remote balanced on his chest. Based on his well-past-five-o'clock-shadow, it didn't look like he'd shaved. A few CDs were scattered on the coffee table, and the house, if possible, seemed messier than Rodney remembered, though he couldn't place how.

The television show was on mute. MTV. Oh, sure, "rap central" would help a lot with his music search. Rodney rolled his eyes, remorselessly flicking on the kitchen lights. The glare fell across the couch.

John didn't budge.

"No need to stir to help me with the groceries, I've got it," Rodney said, a little louder than before. "Although a simple 'hello, welcome home' wouldn't go amiss."

John sniffed, rolled over... and snuggled deeper into the couch. The remote thumped to the floor.

"Should've gotten a dog," Rodney muttered. He left the cans on the counter and put away the perishables.

Moments later, he retrieved a steaming plateful of spaghetti from the microwave. The noodles were still a little cold but good enough.

He heard a gulping sound from the living room as John downed some water, then the light clatter of the pill bottle being opened. Rodney stood in the kitchen doorway. John's hair had flattened to one side and stood almost straight on end over the part. It was quite a bizarre effect, reminding Rodney of Indian feathers. 'How,' his mind quipped, though he didn't think John was in the mood to get the joke.

John sat up, blinking at the kitchen light.

Holding up his plate to indicate dinner, Rodney said through a forkful, "Want some?"

John squinted at Rodney and shook his head. "S'alright," he said, then sighed back into the couch, the pill bottle still clutched in his hand.

Rodney stared at him a long moment, inwardly debating whether it was worth the effort to wake John and try to relocate him to the bedroom. Over the last week he'd learned the meaning of the phrase "immovable object."

Muttering, Rodney shook his shoulder. "Wakey, wakey, hands off snakey."

Normally that got a adolescent snort from John, but the sleepy pout remained -- his eyelids didn't even flicker.

"C'mon, junior...." Rodney's hand rocked him a little more firmly. John's eyes tightened and he pulled away, rolling into the couch with a childish sniff, arms curling in on himself. Rodney chuckled and he said in John's ear, sing-song, "It will get awfully cold out here...."

John's eyes slit open, not quite focusing. He groaned with a little hopeful note, "Hrmm... blanket?"

"No, no, no, not on your life, I'm not getting the quilt. But there's a nice soft down comforter in the bedroom. Just a few steps away...."

This percolated through John's sleepy mind, his eyes flicked to the side, puffy and resentful as he considered it.

He stretched up onto one elbow with a baleful, if vague, glare. He shook off the hand still resting on his arm and shambled to his feet, head bobbing like a new-born chick, seeking his crutches. He made an unintelligible noise that Rodney somehow understood as he answered, "Just use me. I'll bring them in later."

John nodded, accepting, and put far more weight than he normally would on Rodney as he wrapped an arm clumsily over his shoulder. Rodney grunted and staggered back a step, righting them both. "You're going to have to wake up a little more than that or we're going to do a face plant – make that you, rather, because I'm not going down with you."

"Bring the pills...?" John queried, sounding a tad more alert.

"They're in your hand, moron."

Rodney pulled John's arm tight around his shoulder, leading him to the bedroom.

"Oh."

~*~*~

John had insisted on the window being open an inch. A trace of wind shifted the sheers, breathing them outward, then pulling them dark and tight, outlining the window frame.

Rodney stroked over soft flesh, fondled between the warm folds of John's balls, coarse hair tickling his hand, John's cock draped over his wrist. With two fingers, Rodney explored the line from his balls to the base of his ass and back again. He scraped nails lightly down the inside of John's thighs, raising goose bumps, but got no other response. Usually that maneuver was like hitting John's "on" switch. A firm pull on John's cock found him pliable and still soft. And he could tell going down on him would be useless.

"This isn't working." Rodney huffed, releasing him. He sat back on his heels, the Sunday paper rustling under his hip. He swiped it off the bed onto the floor.

John looked down at him with half-lidded eyes, listless.

"What's the point of having you move in here if you can't perform your wifely duties?"

"What do you mean, can't? I'm just... a little spacey, is all."

"It's probably those drugs and, my god, I so hate modern medicine right now," Rodney said. "Whatever happened to good old fashioned 'take two aspirin and call me in the morning'?"

Stretching the leg with the cast straight, John rolled onto his stomach. He leaned on his elbows and suggested, "Why don't you do me?"

He angled his good knee up on the bed.

Rodney blinked and tried not to feel a little heartbroken as he swallowed his disappointment. He palmed John's hip, cupping his ass to get him in the mood. In massaging circles he teased down his crack, pulling away at the last second.

John grumbled, "Don't fiddle around. Just slam it in."

"You don't do that with me."

John said over his shoulder, "Most people don't like it the way I do."

Rodney grabbed the lube from the dresser anyway, warming a generous dab between his fingers. As John's glance over his shoulder turned into a glare, he delicately circled his thumb over the silky smooth pucker.

"Rodney..." John complained, pushing up so his thumb dipped in.

"I refuse to do damage," Rodney said, removing his hand to get more oil.

"If I weren't in a cast, I'd hurt you," he growled.

So Rodney grabbed his hips, squeezing. He lined himself up, then pressed forward. It was obvious John didn't do this often -- as in ever. Rodney reached down to readjust as he slid off, and tried again. Finally, he had his head snubbed in, biting his lip as he rocked in small pushes, trying to work John gently open.

John's hand clamped down on his hip, heavy and surprisingly strong.

"Harder," he said through gritted teeth, then exhaled and let go. He gasped as Rodney forced it.

John's head dipped between his arms and he panted, mouth open and unable to speak. His fist clenched on the pillow. Rodney bore down, all his weight squeezed forward and John's hand clenched again, making star shapes on the pillowcase. John was squashed flat under him, his free leg sprawled out at an awkward angle, and he actually bit the sheets when Rodney began to put more energy into it.

Rodney rocked his whole body forward and John's hand released the pillow, at which point, Rodney forgot to pay attention even out of the corner of his eye as it got really good, the heat building fast.

His forehead pressed against John's slick shoulder, he spiraled a long moment, lost in freefall.

He came back down, noticing first that John's back was rising and falling in harsh, rasping breaths. John licked his lips, and from the side Rodney could see his eyelashes looked wet, forehead beaded with sweat. John released a white-knuckled grip on the abused pillow and let out a long, heavy breath. A subtle shimmy of John's hips reminded Rodney that he had all his weight on him, and was, in fact, still inside.

He slowly pulled out, wincing as his sensitive cock touched the blankets. He realized that he'd stupidly forgotten the condom, distracted as he was with John's demands. He took far too many chances with John.

John shifted to a more comfortable position, laying limp on one side. He swept the damp hair off his face with the inside of his arm.

"You didn't come," Rodney realized, bewildered. His eyes swept John's body. "You aren't even hard."

"Doesn't mean I didn't like it." John stretched, long and languid, with a naughty smirk. He murmured, his eyes glittering at Rodney, the smirk turning into a smug smile. "Only the bad boys get fucked." And he did look like a bad little boy who'd gotten away with a stolen cookie.

"You are twisted," Rodney said even as John wrapped an arm around his shoulders and rolled Rodney closer with a grunt. "No, I'm not kidding. You have issues and clearly need psychiatric help."

Sticky with sweat, John pillowed his head in the crook of Rodney's arm and shoulder, nuzzling. Which was something he didn't usually do either. John had sharp elbows and used them when he wanted more room.

John mumbled happily into Rodney's chest, "I'll sleep 'em off." Then sighed. "Wake me when it's lunch time, will you?"

"Lunch was half an hour ago."

But John's eyelids fluttered once or twice more, and fell shut. Rodney was far from comfortable and suddenly aware that, yes, in fact, it was lunch, and he was hungry. He looked down at the warm weight of John's cheek on his chest and decided he could wait fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.

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Current Mood: calm

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

roaringmice.livejournal.com

My coaches tell me that, after hours spent coaching in skates on the ice, they can't feel their legs. It's entirely different when you're coaching versus when you are skating, even if you, as the coach, skate with your students. Lessons are like, a burst of activity, then stand and talk, activity, talk, etc. I like how you used this idea. It's not a major point, but it really adds to the realism of the story.

I wonder when Rodney will realise that there's something up with John and those pills. I'm a bit concerned.

From:

Students? I like to think of them as "test subjects".....

FIC: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17, yes, you get some in this part.

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