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icarusYou can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: Was Rodney making a comeback? Oh, well, he had never ruled it out completely but it has been a long time.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dossier and rabidfan, who've earned their keep a dozen times over this week. A special thank you to the goddesses of randomness. Now you have your puppy.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Crumpling the paper number slip with an irritated sigh, Rodney slumped into one of the molded plastic seats at the MTO. Number 75, now assisting number 62. He squeezed into the row of Ministry of Transportation inmates, sandwiched between an overweight woman with a mustache and a small, grubby child who kicked his chair in rhythmic boredom.
It had come as an unpleasant surprise. Rodney had attempted to write a check at the market the other day and found his driver's license had expired—two months ago. He hurriedly corrected the oversight, even if it meant a wasted afternoon. John could be surprisingly hidebound and persnickety when it came to that car.
Rodney opened his sack lunch, setting it on his lap. Next to the woman, a soft brown puppy on a leash peered up at him. It swept the floor once with a hopeful wag and sniffed avidly at Rodney's pant leg.
Rodney looked down at it disdainfully. "I'm really more of a cat person," he explained to it.
The puppy kept snuffling, unfazed. So Rodney gave it a handful of his corn chips which no doubt the animal would regurgitate over someone's Persian rug later tonight, but there was something to be said for temporary happiness, even for dogs.
Still chewing, he finished his lunch and balled up the sack, glancing again at his number. Not that he'd forgotten it. Eleven more people before they called him. There was time enough to visit the men's room. He brushed off his pants and stood with the infinite dignity of someone bound for the bathroom in a public facility.
On his return—and why the men's room was hidden down a stairway an entire floor below the ladies room he'll never know—he passed under a ribbon dangling from a florescent light panel.
He paused, and puzzled at it. Had someone hung up a set of balloons for a birthday party? (Outside a bathroom-? Why?) Or some teenagers fooling around? Perhaps someone put it there just to befuddle and annoy people like himself? It taunted him, swinging lightly in a draught about a half meter above his head.
Rodney glanced around.
No one in the hall. There'd been no one in the bathroom. He'd hear anyone coming down the stair.
John had mentioned visualizing his jumps, imagining being at the crest already.
He tried a vertical jump, missing by a mile. The ribbon swayed.
Rodney frowned, pondering. He'd always needed more vertical height in his jumps. But jumping from a standing position was more difficult, of course. He strode down the hall and then made a run at it. And missed again. He landed heavily.
Several more tries had him missing by increasing increments which he blamed on growing tiredness, being out of practice, and the hardness of the floor respectively.
The hall had grown humid, his face damp. He was highly aware of how preposterous he must look, a grown man sweating in a button down shirt and trousers, leaping for a piece of string. But the problem was as vexing as a piñata and he'd hated those things in childhood. Who could hit with any accuracy when they were blindfolded, and his sister should have stayed out of range anyway. Good thing she had a hard head.
He tried one last time, not bothering to run—this was it, he was not attempting it again—and he missed worse than ever, the ribbon fluttering out of reach.
An updraft must have caught it, he determined. He scowled, frustrated.
He backed down the hall. Put everything out of his mind. Drew a bead on the ribbon. Took a breath and settled himself in the steady calm before a performance, ready, like a coiled-spring. He launched, forgetting the hall, the run. He felt nothing but the clear air of a perfect jump, the jerk of the ribbon in his hand on the way back down.
He whooped and shook his fist. "Take that!" Right before the light cover swung open, exposing rows of florescent tubes.
Huh. So the thing had a purpose after all. Rodney stared up at it, nonplussed, the ribbon now swinging easily within reach. He left it for maintenance to close.
Smiling, sweaty and triumphant, Rodney returned to the main MTO lobby. He looked about himself manfully, mentally telling everyone that yes, indeed, he was a two-time World Champion. Sign an autograph for them? Sure, no trouble at all. Was he making a comeback? Oh, well, he had never ruled it out completely but it has been a long time. He did have coaching obligations to consider these days. Why yes, he was raising the next generation of champions ... who's the next Rodney McKay, do you ask? Well. There's only one Rodney McKay. His imaginary entourage of reporters all chuckled. Beaming and satisfied, Rodney swung around to take in the lobby with a bright eye, which had somehow lost its lusterless, sleepy air.
The clerks were now assisting number 82.
~*~*~
Their breaths came in warm, rhythmic pants, John coiled over Rodney's back, his mouth loose and open. Rodney could feel the movement of his Adam's apple against his neck. John's sloppy almost-kisses tickled his hair, sweat slick across his shoulders and thighs where they touched, John sliding. Sweat pooled in the small of Rodney's back.
John rocked to one side, sitting up. Then gripped Rodney's hips, slipping and digging in. His rhythm shifted gears to a series of jolting hard stabs—Rodney cringed—before returning to the slow undulating pace, which John apparently could maintain for hours.
This was not necessarily a good thing.
Rodney leveraged his elbows into the pillow, bracing himself. "You plan on coming sometime this week? This month? This year?"
John reached for the end table. "I'll get us some more oil."
"We're far beyond that. I'm expecting hemorrhoids for the rest of my life." Rodney pulled free and rolled onto his side with a huff.
"Sorry," John gasped. He followed, stretching his legs like a cat kneading the sheet, before pulling it up to his hips. He ran his arm over his eyes. "Guess I'm a little—"
"Rude? Inconsiderate? Showing off one's sexual prowess with no thought whatsoever to the wear and tear on one's partner?" Rodney prompted.
John chuckled. "Maybe a little distracted...."
"—because while I'm perfectly happy to be impressed," Rodney ignored him, barreling on, "and I am, really, you obviously haven't been on the bottom often enough to realize that it can become a little uncomfortable after the first exciting hour and twenty minutes."
"It hasn't been that—" Rodney held up his watch, tapping the face. "—okay, yeah, I guess so. We need another game plan. I don't think this is happening today." John pulled the condom off and flicked it into the trash. He rolled onto his back, arms over his head.
"Well, all is not lost in the McKay-Sheppard household." Rodney's eyes skimmed down John's body.
John's face sparked with interest as he noticed the direction of Rodney's gaze, and he turned to his side, reaching for Rodney.
"No, no, let me, I've come already...." Rodney jerked the sheet off John and licked his lips as he slid down.
"I haven't had a shower yet. I wouldn't if I were you," John said, not looking like he planned on taking that shower, ever.
"What? You used a condom." Rodney fondled John's cock, which was definitely showing an opinion on the proceedings.
"Yes, but...."
He leaned down to give an experimental lick at his head. Sheppard had learned to appreciate the many talents of one Rodney McKay.
Rodney spluttered and spit.
"Nonoxel Nine," John informed him. "Not exactly a great taste sensation."
"Why didn't you warn me?! That has to be toxic!"
"Well," John drawled. "You seemed so sure of yourself." But the grin that spread across John's face was pure mischief.
Rodney shot him a murderous glare.
"I'll tell you what," John said, as relaxed as if he weren't bargaining for his life at the moment. "I can make it up to you." He finally stirred with the speed of a tree sloth and lifted the covers to peek under them. "One of us didn't need a condom earlier—Oh. Look. Someone's getting with the program."
[Previous][Next]
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: Was Rodney making a comeback? Oh, well, he had never ruled it out completely but it has been a long time.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,
dossier and rabidfan, who've earned their keep a dozen times over this week. A special thank you to the goddesses of randomness. Now you have your puppy. Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hires ex-skating champion and "artiste" Rodney McKay to be his coach. Their teasing friendship warms into something more. Following a serious injury, John moves in with Rodney -- temporarily -- to begin skating full time. Rodney's use of John's car is part of the deal.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Crumpling the paper number slip with an irritated sigh, Rodney slumped into one of the molded plastic seats at the MTO. Number 75, now assisting number 62. He squeezed into the row of Ministry of Transportation inmates, sandwiched between an overweight woman with a mustache and a small, grubby child who kicked his chair in rhythmic boredom.
It had come as an unpleasant surprise. Rodney had attempted to write a check at the market the other day and found his driver's license had expired—two months ago. He hurriedly corrected the oversight, even if it meant a wasted afternoon. John could be surprisingly hidebound and persnickety when it came to that car.
Rodney opened his sack lunch, setting it on his lap. Next to the woman, a soft brown puppy on a leash peered up at him. It swept the floor once with a hopeful wag and sniffed avidly at Rodney's pant leg.
Rodney looked down at it disdainfully. "I'm really more of a cat person," he explained to it.
The puppy kept snuffling, unfazed. So Rodney gave it a handful of his corn chips which no doubt the animal would regurgitate over someone's Persian rug later tonight, but there was something to be said for temporary happiness, even for dogs.
Still chewing, he finished his lunch and balled up the sack, glancing again at his number. Not that he'd forgotten it. Eleven more people before they called him. There was time enough to visit the men's room. He brushed off his pants and stood with the infinite dignity of someone bound for the bathroom in a public facility.
On his return—and why the men's room was hidden down a stairway an entire floor below the ladies room he'll never know—he passed under a ribbon dangling from a florescent light panel.
He paused, and puzzled at it. Had someone hung up a set of balloons for a birthday party? (Outside a bathroom-? Why?) Or some teenagers fooling around? Perhaps someone put it there just to befuddle and annoy people like himself? It taunted him, swinging lightly in a draught about a half meter above his head.
Rodney glanced around.
No one in the hall. There'd been no one in the bathroom. He'd hear anyone coming down the stair.
John had mentioned visualizing his jumps, imagining being at the crest already.
He tried a vertical jump, missing by a mile. The ribbon swayed.
Rodney frowned, pondering. He'd always needed more vertical height in his jumps. But jumping from a standing position was more difficult, of course. He strode down the hall and then made a run at it. And missed again. He landed heavily.
Several more tries had him missing by increasing increments which he blamed on growing tiredness, being out of practice, and the hardness of the floor respectively.
The hall had grown humid, his face damp. He was highly aware of how preposterous he must look, a grown man sweating in a button down shirt and trousers, leaping for a piece of string. But the problem was as vexing as a piñata and he'd hated those things in childhood. Who could hit with any accuracy when they were blindfolded, and his sister should have stayed out of range anyway. Good thing she had a hard head.
He tried one last time, not bothering to run—this was it, he was not attempting it again—and he missed worse than ever, the ribbon fluttering out of reach.
An updraft must have caught it, he determined. He scowled, frustrated.
He backed down the hall. Put everything out of his mind. Drew a bead on the ribbon. Took a breath and settled himself in the steady calm before a performance, ready, like a coiled-spring. He launched, forgetting the hall, the run. He felt nothing but the clear air of a perfect jump, the jerk of the ribbon in his hand on the way back down.
He whooped and shook his fist. "Take that!" Right before the light cover swung open, exposing rows of florescent tubes.
Huh. So the thing had a purpose after all. Rodney stared up at it, nonplussed, the ribbon now swinging easily within reach. He left it for maintenance to close.
Smiling, sweaty and triumphant, Rodney returned to the main MTO lobby. He looked about himself manfully, mentally telling everyone that yes, indeed, he was a two-time World Champion. Sign an autograph for them? Sure, no trouble at all. Was he making a comeback? Oh, well, he had never ruled it out completely but it has been a long time. He did have coaching obligations to consider these days. Why yes, he was raising the next generation of champions ... who's the next Rodney McKay, do you ask? Well. There's only one Rodney McKay. His imaginary entourage of reporters all chuckled. Beaming and satisfied, Rodney swung around to take in the lobby with a bright eye, which had somehow lost its lusterless, sleepy air.
The clerks were now assisting number 82.
Their breaths came in warm, rhythmic pants, John coiled over Rodney's back, his mouth loose and open. Rodney could feel the movement of his Adam's apple against his neck. John's sloppy almost-kisses tickled his hair, sweat slick across his shoulders and thighs where they touched, John sliding. Sweat pooled in the small of Rodney's back.
John rocked to one side, sitting up. Then gripped Rodney's hips, slipping and digging in. His rhythm shifted gears to a series of jolting hard stabs—Rodney cringed—before returning to the slow undulating pace, which John apparently could maintain for hours.
This was not necessarily a good thing.
Rodney leveraged his elbows into the pillow, bracing himself. "You plan on coming sometime this week? This month? This year?"
John reached for the end table. "I'll get us some more oil."
"We're far beyond that. I'm expecting hemorrhoids for the rest of my life." Rodney pulled free and rolled onto his side with a huff.
"Sorry," John gasped. He followed, stretching his legs like a cat kneading the sheet, before pulling it up to his hips. He ran his arm over his eyes. "Guess I'm a little—"
"Rude? Inconsiderate? Showing off one's sexual prowess with no thought whatsoever to the wear and tear on one's partner?" Rodney prompted.
John chuckled. "Maybe a little distracted...."
"—because while I'm perfectly happy to be impressed," Rodney ignored him, barreling on, "and I am, really, you obviously haven't been on the bottom often enough to realize that it can become a little uncomfortable after the first exciting hour and twenty minutes."
"It hasn't been that—" Rodney held up his watch, tapping the face. "—okay, yeah, I guess so. We need another game plan. I don't think this is happening today." John pulled the condom off and flicked it into the trash. He rolled onto his back, arms over his head.
"Well, all is not lost in the McKay-Sheppard household." Rodney's eyes skimmed down John's body.
John's face sparked with interest as he noticed the direction of Rodney's gaze, and he turned to his side, reaching for Rodney.
"No, no, let me, I've come already...." Rodney jerked the sheet off John and licked his lips as he slid down.
"I haven't had a shower yet. I wouldn't if I were you," John said, not looking like he planned on taking that shower, ever.
"What? You used a condom." Rodney fondled John's cock, which was definitely showing an opinion on the proceedings.
"Yes, but...."
He leaned down to give an experimental lick at his head. Sheppard had learned to appreciate the many talents of one Rodney McKay.
Rodney spluttered and spit.
"Nonoxel Nine," John informed him. "Not exactly a great taste sensation."
"Why didn't you warn me?! That has to be toxic!"
"Well," John drawled. "You seemed so sure of yourself." But the grin that spread across John's face was pure mischief.
Rodney shot him a murderous glare.
"I'll tell you what," John said, as relaxed as if he weren't bargaining for his life at the moment. "I can make it up to you." He finally stirred with the speed of a tree sloth and lifted the covers to peek under them. "One of us didn't need a condom earlier—Oh. Look. Someone's getting with the program."
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Date: 2008-07-22 11:33 am (UTC)