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Title: 37 - The Fundamentals of the Game
Author: Haleth
Fandom/Pairing: post-Black Hawk Down, Grimes/McKnight
Rating: R
Warning: Kink. sub/Dom. Football puns.
Disclaimer: McKnight and Grimes have nothing to do with any real life men, and precious little to do with any men in books or movies. I mostly made them up, especially the kinky parts, so any resemblance to any such men should be used only as a visual aid. The football stuff, however, is accurate. Also, apologies to Abbot and Costello for my fleeting usurpation of their “Who’s on First” skit.
Feedback: Keeps the Grimes and McKnight muses playing.
Beta: Many thanks to my best friend Frog, who not only patiently taught me all about American football, but also beta-ed the fic for me.
The Fundamentals of the Game
In the living room.
It was completely inconceivable and impossible and ridiculous. Grimes was a healthy American male. He’d been in the army for six fucking years. He was Danny McKnight’s lover, for fucksake.
How the hell could he not understand the game of football?
“How did you get through high school?”
“I didn’t hang out with the jocks, sir.”
“But all those years in the army…”
“I faked it, sir.”
Faked it? You can’t fake football.
“But… what about when we watch the game on TV?”
“Will all due respect, sir, you watch the game on TV. I’m usually other wise occupied.” Grimes shifted his eyes down to look in the general vicinity of McKnight’s crotch.
Yeah. Well. That did happen a lot when they “watched” football.
Grimes slid off his couch and crawled across the floor to kneel between McKnight’s legs. “You want to watch football now, sir?”
“Grimes, this isn’t even football season.”
Grimes smiled. “We could fake it, sir.”
McKnight looked at the blank TV screen. Tempted. But… no. He couldn’t pretend to watch an entire football game.
Not when he had to teach Grimes the fundamentals of the game.
Later, at the kitchen table.
Grimes studied the diagram that lay on the kitchen table. McKnight had just finished labeling the ‘X’s and ‘O’s. Grimes had that puzzled look on his face, the one he got when confronted with something he knew he should recognize but couldn’t quite place. Like that time he’d opened the wooden crate in the dining room and found the samovar. Took him a few minutes to figure it all out, but twenty minutes later he’d served McKnight a cup of coffee that had McKnight inches from coming in his pants.
But Grimes wasn’t solving the football puzzle as easily.
“Okay,” Grimes said. “This is offense and this is defense, and there’s twenty-two men on the field.”
“Right.”
Grimes looked up innocently. “We’re twenty men short, sir. We’ll have to improvise some sort of one-on-one variation.”
Damn. The big-gray-eyes-innocent act always got to McKnight. But he would not be turned away from his task. “We’re not playing; we’re discussing.”
Grimes had the temerity to bat his eyes. “You don’t want to play with me, sir?”
McKnight took a drink of his coffee. Tried not to think dirty thoughts. Failed, but pressed on nonetheless.
“So the quarterback—”
“That’s the QB,” Grimes said, pointing to the diagram.
“—decides what play to call.”
“And that’s when he puts his hands on that guy’s ass.”
“Not on his ass.”
“I’ve seen it on TV, sir. He’s got his hand practically up the other guy’s bum.”
“Because he’s getting the ball.”
Grimes’ eyebrows rose.
McKnight did not take the bait. “He’s either going to throw or pass.”
Grimes nodded with great certainty. “Right. He makes a pass at the running back.”
“To the running back.”
“I said that, sir.”
“No. You said ‘at’.”
“At what?” Grimes asked.
“The running back. ‘The quarterback makes a pass at the running back.’”
“That’s what I said.”
McKnight cleared his throat.
Grimes looked back down at the diagram. “So the quarterback throws to the running back. The running back goes to the right, towards the…”
McKnight rolled his eyes.
Grimes glanced up through his hair. “Tight end,” he said primly.
McKnight waited.
Nothing happened.
Phew.
“Can I be the tight end?” Grimes asked with a smirk.
“You already are.”
Grimes beamed. “Let’s review,” he announced. “There can only be one man in motion behind the line of scrimmage.”
“Yes,” McKnight responded. Nervously.
“Offense has thirty seconds to get the ball moving after the ref… uh… blows the play in.”
McKnight nodded tersely. He could see it coming. Or so he thought.
“And once the quarterback passes the line of scrimmage he can’t go back.”
McKnight relaxed his shoulders a bit. Maybe the naughty puns had been a passing phase.
“And when a bunch of defensive tackles jump the quarterback behind the line of scrimmage, before he throws the ball, it’s a blitz.”
“Actually,” McKnight said, “the rushing part is called the blitz. When they tackle it’s a quarterback sack.”
“Sac?”
McKnight nodded.
“So…there’s a ‘sac’ and a ‘snatch’.”
Or not a passing phase. “Yes,” McKnight had to concede. “But they’re two entirely different things.”
“I’ll say!”
Still in the kitchen, after dinner.
“Okay,” Grimes said. “So, you go down four times.”
“No.” McKnight was being very patient. “There are four downs.”
“I’d rather go down, sir.” Grimes started to slide off his chair.
McKnight put his hand on Grimes’ shoulder to keep him from slithering down to the tile. “No going down,” he ordered.
“This game sucks.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Grimes pouted. “I know.”
Later still, in the living room.
Grimes yawned and stretched and put his head on McKnight’s shoulder. “Yes, sir,” he said. “When the player with the ball is tackled, the clock keeps running. And if the quarterback wants to stop the clock, he spikes the ball.”
“Good. Do you remember the rule about hitting when a player is out of bounds?”
“Personal foul.”
“Right.”
“Sounds like fun, sir.”
“Grimes!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“It’s okay. Let’s go over the play action pass.”
“Mmm. Let’s.”
McKnight steadfastly ignored the fingers walking up his arm. “The quarterback fakes a hand off to the running back.”
“The linebackers freeze; they don’t know how to respond.”
“The quarterback throws to a wide receiver.”
“The smart middle linebacker anticipates this move,” Grimes purred into McKnight’s ear. “Every damn time.”
What the hell had his sister been telling Grimes? McKnight had always hated that shit in school. Sometimes kids said he was psychic. Fucking load of bull. He wasn’t psychic; he was smart. There’s a difference.
“Or,” McKnight suggested, wanting to get off the topic of his past football glories, “he could throw to the tight end.”
Grimes licked delicately at the scar on McKnight’s neck. “Ooh, sir. Pick me,” he whispered.
They were not going to get into the ‘tight end’ issue again. “That’s the standard play,” McKnight pressed on. “Now, when the quarterback stands away from the center—”
“How far away?”
“Far.”
“No-hands-on-the-ass far?”
McKnight could ignore the suggestiveness. Really, he could. “It’s called a shotgun formation.”
“Shotguns I know.”
“Do you?”
“I was in the army, sir.”
McKnight stared at Grimes. He had been in the army, but you wouldn’t know it now. He looked so different. Was he even the same person now? He acted so different.
“Sir?”
But he still called McKnight ‘sir’.
“You okay, sir?”
McKnight told his cock to calm down.
“Shotgun formation?”
“Shotgun. Quarterback almost always throws to a wide receiver,” McKnight said automatically.
Grimes nodded sagely.
“You’re not really interested in football, are you?”
Grimes lifted his legs onto the couch and stretched out. “I like listening to your voice. Especially like this, with my ear against your chest. Tell me about scoring.”
“Three points for a field goal. Six for a touchdown. One for the point after.”
“Point after what?”
“The touchdown.”
Grimes touched lower.
McKnight pushed Grimes’ hand to his knee. “And then there’s a two-point conversion.”
“And what do you convert to?” Grimes asked against McKnight’s chest.
“You don’t convert. The points convert.”
“Never mind. Tell me about when you’re allowed to tackle.”
McKnight stroked Grimes’ arm. “When the player is in possession of the ball.”
Grimes’ fingers crept slowly up McKnight’s thigh. “And once you possess the ball?”
“You’re fair game.”
Later, in the bedroom.
McKnight yawned and stretched his arms and relaxed into that warm sated feeling you only get after receiving an outstanding blowjob, and then returning the favor.
Grimes was propped up on one elbow, tracing lines on McKnight’s bare chest.
“Let me tell you about the pick play,” Grimes said.
McKnight blinked. “What?”
“Pick.” Grimes kissed his left nipple. “Play.” And the right. “Your nipples are the goal posts.”
McKnight shoved another pillow under his head and looked down.
Grimes put his index finger in McKnight’s navel. “Here’s the quarterback.” He wiggled his finger.
It tickled.
McKnight made a face. “Hey!”
“Shhh. It’s my turn,” Grimes kissed his mouth lightly. “Pay attention.”
McKnight paid attention.
“The quarterback has the ball and here’s the wide receiver.” Grimes trailed his finger across McKnight’s stomach. “He races up the field—”
“Who?” McKnight asked.
Grimes wriggled his index finger on the side of McKnight’s waist. “The wide receiver. This is the wide receiver.” He swept his hand back to McKnight’s navel. “The quarterback is here.” Grimes did a thing with his finger that made it almost feel like a tongue. Remarkable. “The wide receiver is moving here by now,” he moved the finger up a bit and tickled. “He races down the field… or is that up? Never could keep it straight…” Grimes got up and knelt next to McKnight so he could use both hands.
“I don’t think you could keep anything straight,” McKnight deadpanned.
Grimes grinned. “Sir, that was a joke!”
But it wasn’t.
Grimes studied McKnight’s torso. “Hang on,” he said. “One wide receiver is running like this,” his finger moved diagonally. “And the other wide receiver…” He started the other hand from the opposite side. The two lines would intercept around McKnight’s sternum. “Just imagine they keep running.”
Okay. McKnight could do that.
Grimes moved his hands up to the bottom of McKnight’s ribs. “These are the defensive backs. They’re covering the wide receivers. This only works during one-on-one coverage.” That was something McKnight could agree on.
Grimes spread his hands and somehow had all four players converging on McKnight’s sternum at once. It was a combination of being teased and tickled. McKnight wasn’t paying all that much attention to the visuals anymore.
“The play remains legal,” Grimes continued, “as long as he,” and Grimes twitched a finger, any finger, McKnight didn’t care, “doesn’t block the defensive back covering this wide receiver.” A hand appeared suddenly on McKnight’s belly. “And after they cross, the quarterback,” light tug on the hair just above McKnight’s navel, “throws to this wide receiver, who’s no longer being covered, because both of these defensive backs end up covering the other one.” Grimes flattened his palm on McKnight’s chest. “So the guy with the ball runs up the center of your chest between,” Grimes moved both hands fast so his fingers could lightly pinch, “the goal posts.”
McKnight’s nipples had never been so sensitive in his life.
He grabbed Grimes’ hands, flattened them both on his pecs, and forced his mind to focus.
“I didn’t teach you that.”
“I know, sir. But you pick up a few things here and there.”
Oh. Really?
Later still, still in the bedroom.
Grimes moaned into the pillow McKnight had thoughtfully placed under his head, right before shoving all the other pillows under his hips to raise his ass up as high as possible.
“So, you don’t know anything about football, huh?” McKnight pushed in deep.
“Ah ah ah! No, sir! Completely in the dark.” Grimes flailed a bit.
And he was in the dark, with the blanket shoved up around his head like that. A little sensory deprivation always added to the experience. McKnight pulled back and kneaded with both hands, stopping with his cock just barely inside. Motherfucker. Grimes looked good upside down like that. Finest tight end he’d ever seen.
Tight end.
“You played tight end, didn’t you?”
“Me, sir?” Grimes’ reply was muffled, but understandable.
“Is there someone else in the room?” McKnight asked.
“I wouldn’t be able to tell, sir.”
True. But no reason to be sassy. McKnight plunged back in.
“Ahhh! Yes, sir. Tight end. For two years, in junior high.”
“Why not in high school?”
Grimes writhed beneath McKnight. “Everyone else got bigger than me,” he groaned.
McKnight leaned over to cover Grimes’ back. “But you like it when you’re the smaller man.”
“Yes, sir!”
Ah, football greatest game ever invented.
End
Continued in 38 Spectacle
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