Fic: Rollerball (J2, nc-17, 2/6)
Aug. 21st, 2007 07:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyjanellyWritten for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
reel_spn.
Title:Rollerball
Author:Ladyjanelly
Movie Adapted: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0246894/
Genre: CW RPS
Characters/Pairings:Jared/Jensen
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 8,500 done, about 1,500 left to write..What the hell posessed me to do something with a deadline?
Warnings: some hooker-fic, Notes/Credits: Thanks to Jellicle for looking over this for me and giving me hand-holding and feed-back.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; fair use only. Not created for profit.
Jared watches the game on a TV in the locker room. The crowd above him is a dull roll, like far-off thunder, more something he feels than hears. The vibration rumbles in his chest and words stream across the bottom of the television--the stats for Jensen “The Hawk” Ackles. The man’s record is pretty damn impressive, one of the highest scoring players on the circuit this year. He’s got a low number of personal fouls, spends next to no time in the penalty box. Texan, they say, but Jared’s heard a few sound bytes from interviews and he’s not sure about that.
The fans hate to love him, Jared knows from hanging out in bars. He’s got the looks and charisma of a face and the sneer and attitude of a heel. He doesn’t do autographs or charity events or smile for the camera, and he’s still the guy every man wants to be or be with, the one that women throw their panties at as he walks into the arena.
Jared watches the screen as Ackles catches the ball that’s passed to him, weaving his way between the opposing players, around the stretch and up through the rabbit hole. The opponent’s ‘cycle-man roars past as Ackles comes back into play, a second too soon to stop his last lap around the course.
The audience can see the hit coming before the players can, as a blue-clad, bull-shouldered Shark plows the last Sunbird defense. There’s nothing between him and Ackles’ right side. Jared winces as their paths collide. The monster on skates T-bones the lighter player and The Hawk is smashed off of his feet, down onto the lower level like he has no bones. For a heart-stopping second, Jared thinks maybe it’s over before it started, this job. Then Ackles turns over and pushes himself back up on his blades.
A buzzer sounds and Jared glances at the score. Sharks win by one. Ain't that a nice note to start this off.
Players start trickling into the locker room a few minutes later, some rolling, some walking. Jared stays out of their way, watching the door for his assignment. He expects Ackles to come straggling in, sore and tired. Instead, he roars in like a forest fire, hawk-shaped helmet under his arm, green eyes blazing. He’s gotta be six foot tall, but surrounded by the more massive players he looks almost slight. Damp hair clings to the edges of a face that’s full-on classical in its beauty. His lip curls in a sneer and hate makes him ugly.
“Costas!” he yells and one of the larger guys turns. “Where the fuck were you out there? Huh? You were supposed to be guarding my side!”
Ackles doesn’t even wait for an answer; his body coils and twists and he throws his helmet at the guy like he’s trying to score a point on his head. He misses by inches and the mirror behind Costas shatters with the impact.
“I was down,” the big man says, his hands up and defensive. He seems more sad at Ackles’ outburst than angry or afraid. “They took me down, Jensen, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” Ackles snaps. He steps into the bigger man’s face and Jared tries to remember if keeping Jensen's team-mates from killing him was part of the deal. “It’s your god-damn job to be there when I need you!”
He turns and stalks away to his private locker area. Jared hesitates for a second, then ducks through the crowd and picks up the discarded helmet. He gets a few funny looks, but the players probably figure he couldn’t have gotten this far without clearance, so he’s safe enough.
The private dressing room is more of a niche with a massage table in the middle. For the briefest moment, Jared catches Ackles unguarded, his features not twisted by anger or whatever that had been. He looks scared, maybe, and his fingers shake as he works at the buckles of his sleek costume.
The plan clicks in Jared’s head, how to play this, how to handle this guy.
He raps on the open archway. His momma didn’t raise no stupid boys, and Jared can figure out how it would go if he snuck up on him.
Ackles' head snaps around at the sound, one hand coming up like he expects a fight.
“You dropped something,” Jared says with a lazy smile and a slow Texas drawl. He holds up the helmet, then sets it on the nearest locker.
Ackles’ lip curls. “The fuck are you?” His gaze flicks past Jared, like he’s trying to calculate if the rest of the team would help him or the intruder if they threw down.
“I’m Jared. Your new personal assistant.”
The slow up and down that Ackles gives him is nothing but calculating. “The company sent you?”
Jared smiles again, refusing to be intimidated by the cold appraisal. One show of weakness and it’s all over; it’ll be one long fight after that, trying to reclaim Ackles’ respect.
“Yessir,” Jared answers, the right amount of sarcasm in his tone. “Said to make sure you get whatever you need.” He takes a step away from the archway and nods towards the fasteners on Ackles’ leathers. “Give you a hand with that?”
The guy doesn’t relax much at all, but he does nod. Jared’s slow and easy on the approach. He unbuckles the straps and unlaces the eyelets. With care for the bruises that the fall must have left, he eases the jacket off of Ackles’ shoulders.
Jensen spreads his hands on the vinyl of the massage table. He doesn’t speak as Jared strips him, first of the ornamental outer gear and then the protective pads at his elbows, wrists and knees, the segmented guard that runs down his spine, the hard plates on his shins.
A tattooed hawk spreads its wings across Ackles’ back, all rust and gold, every feather outlined and shadowed, like it could fly off over his right shoulder. Jared resists the urge to trace it with his fingers, to feel it breathe.
The man’s head hangs low, strands of hair falling in lank strings in front of his eyes. Jared thinks maybe he’s asleep, standing up, when Ackles says, “They told you there’d be fucking, right?”
Jared sure as hell isn’t gonna pussy out at this point. “That’s what they said.”
Ackles turns around, stares into Jared’s eyes like he could laser through him with the cold burn of that gaze. “Lose the pants.”
Jared boggles at him for a heart-beat. He’s made a life of knowing what people want, when they’re interested in getting it. Ackles? Doesn’t look like he’s interested in some make-believe love scene or a quick hard fuck. He doesn’t even look turned on, beyond the fact that his dick’s hard.
This is about power then, and Jared knows he doesn’t have any. He shucks out of his jeans and toes his sneakers off. Ackles turns him around so he’s facing the table and kicks his feet apart, bringing Jared down to the right height.
Jared leans on the table and tries to relax. There’s a rip-crinkle sound behind him, and he half-turns and sees Ackles unrolling a condom onto his dick, thank God for that. A slick finger slides along Jared’s ass and he puts his forehead on the table, resigned to wait until it’s over.
Ackles slides in, no so much slow as steady. Jared can’t quite relax enough, and then his body tenses around the invading ache and burn. Ackles stops when his pubes press Jared’s ass and waits for a second. Jared breathes out, and Ackles seems to take that as the okay to move. He takes two firm strokes then stills. His fingers close in Jared’s hair, pull his head back. Jared twists enough to see the man out of the corner of his eye.
Ackles’ face is cold, his expression so guarded it’s like looking at a wall of ice. “I’ll fuck you,” he says, “But I won’t fuck you over.” He emphasizes his point with a hard snap of his hips.
“I know who pays your paycheck and I know you aren’t working for me.”
Jared fights the urge to whip his elbow back into Ackles’ pretty face.
“One day, they’ll tell you to do something that’s not in my interest, something that’ll get me hurt or killed.” He leans in until his voice is a hiss in Jared’s ear. “Screw me over, and I’ll see you broken, boy.” He pounds into Jared again, then stills. His fingers release Jared’s hair then stroke slow down his back in a ‘See? I can be nice if you let me,’ gesture.
“You’re a tool to them, Jared. And when the job’s done, they’ve got no reason to pay you off or keep you around to make trouble.”
Ackles eases out and steps back. Jared stays where he is, half-naked and bent over a table, while the other man wraps up in a towel.
“You decide whose side you’re on.” Ackles sounds almost sad as he says it, “Get back to me on that.”
Then he just walks off, probably to shower. Jared pulls himself together. He doesn’t look at Jensen's team-mates, though he’s sure some of them have watched the whole thing through the open archway. So much for respect.
He tries not to think about what Ackles said, about Brotski fucking him over, but he knows it’s true. The way Jared figures it, he’s got two options--trust Ackles or find a way to still be useful when this is all over.
He pulls his jeans back on with a wince. Right now, both options look equally shitty.
reel_spn.Title:Rollerball
Author:Ladyjanelly
Movie Adapted: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0246894/
Genre: CW RPS
Characters/Pairings:Jared/Jensen
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 8,500 done, about 1,500 left to write..What the hell posessed me to do something with a deadline?
Warnings: some hooker-fic, Notes/Credits: Thanks to Jellicle for looking over this for me and giving me hand-holding and feed-back.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; fair use only. Not created for profit.
Jared watches the game on a TV in the locker room. The crowd above him is a dull roll, like far-off thunder, more something he feels than hears. The vibration rumbles in his chest and words stream across the bottom of the television--the stats for Jensen “The Hawk” Ackles. The man’s record is pretty damn impressive, one of the highest scoring players on the circuit this year. He’s got a low number of personal fouls, spends next to no time in the penalty box. Texan, they say, but Jared’s heard a few sound bytes from interviews and he’s not sure about that.
The fans hate to love him, Jared knows from hanging out in bars. He’s got the looks and charisma of a face and the sneer and attitude of a heel. He doesn’t do autographs or charity events or smile for the camera, and he’s still the guy every man wants to be or be with, the one that women throw their panties at as he walks into the arena.
Jared watches the screen as Ackles catches the ball that’s passed to him, weaving his way between the opposing players, around the stretch and up through the rabbit hole. The opponent’s ‘cycle-man roars past as Ackles comes back into play, a second too soon to stop his last lap around the course.
The audience can see the hit coming before the players can, as a blue-clad, bull-shouldered Shark plows the last Sunbird defense. There’s nothing between him and Ackles’ right side. Jared winces as their paths collide. The monster on skates T-bones the lighter player and The Hawk is smashed off of his feet, down onto the lower level like he has no bones. For a heart-stopping second, Jared thinks maybe it’s over before it started, this job. Then Ackles turns over and pushes himself back up on his blades.
A buzzer sounds and Jared glances at the score. Sharks win by one. Ain't that a nice note to start this off.
Players start trickling into the locker room a few minutes later, some rolling, some walking. Jared stays out of their way, watching the door for his assignment. He expects Ackles to come straggling in, sore and tired. Instead, he roars in like a forest fire, hawk-shaped helmet under his arm, green eyes blazing. He’s gotta be six foot tall, but surrounded by the more massive players he looks almost slight. Damp hair clings to the edges of a face that’s full-on classical in its beauty. His lip curls in a sneer and hate makes him ugly.
“Costas!” he yells and one of the larger guys turns. “Where the fuck were you out there? Huh? You were supposed to be guarding my side!”
Ackles doesn’t even wait for an answer; his body coils and twists and he throws his helmet at the guy like he’s trying to score a point on his head. He misses by inches and the mirror behind Costas shatters with the impact.
“I was down,” the big man says, his hands up and defensive. He seems more sad at Ackles’ outburst than angry or afraid. “They took me down, Jensen, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” Ackles snaps. He steps into the bigger man’s face and Jared tries to remember if keeping Jensen's team-mates from killing him was part of the deal. “It’s your god-damn job to be there when I need you!”
He turns and stalks away to his private locker area. Jared hesitates for a second, then ducks through the crowd and picks up the discarded helmet. He gets a few funny looks, but the players probably figure he couldn’t have gotten this far without clearance, so he’s safe enough.
The private dressing room is more of a niche with a massage table in the middle. For the briefest moment, Jared catches Ackles unguarded, his features not twisted by anger or whatever that had been. He looks scared, maybe, and his fingers shake as he works at the buckles of his sleek costume.
The plan clicks in Jared’s head, how to play this, how to handle this guy.
He raps on the open archway. His momma didn’t raise no stupid boys, and Jared can figure out how it would go if he snuck up on him.
Ackles' head snaps around at the sound, one hand coming up like he expects a fight.
“You dropped something,” Jared says with a lazy smile and a slow Texas drawl. He holds up the helmet, then sets it on the nearest locker.
Ackles’ lip curls. “The fuck are you?” His gaze flicks past Jared, like he’s trying to calculate if the rest of the team would help him or the intruder if they threw down.
“I’m Jared. Your new personal assistant.”
The slow up and down that Ackles gives him is nothing but calculating. “The company sent you?”
Jared smiles again, refusing to be intimidated by the cold appraisal. One show of weakness and it’s all over; it’ll be one long fight after that, trying to reclaim Ackles’ respect.
“Yessir,” Jared answers, the right amount of sarcasm in his tone. “Said to make sure you get whatever you need.” He takes a step away from the archway and nods towards the fasteners on Ackles’ leathers. “Give you a hand with that?”
The guy doesn’t relax much at all, but he does nod. Jared’s slow and easy on the approach. He unbuckles the straps and unlaces the eyelets. With care for the bruises that the fall must have left, he eases the jacket off of Ackles’ shoulders.
Jensen spreads his hands on the vinyl of the massage table. He doesn’t speak as Jared strips him, first of the ornamental outer gear and then the protective pads at his elbows, wrists and knees, the segmented guard that runs down his spine, the hard plates on his shins.
A tattooed hawk spreads its wings across Ackles’ back, all rust and gold, every feather outlined and shadowed, like it could fly off over his right shoulder. Jared resists the urge to trace it with his fingers, to feel it breathe.
The man’s head hangs low, strands of hair falling in lank strings in front of his eyes. Jared thinks maybe he’s asleep, standing up, when Ackles says, “They told you there’d be fucking, right?”
Jared sure as hell isn’t gonna pussy out at this point. “That’s what they said.”
Ackles turns around, stares into Jared’s eyes like he could laser through him with the cold burn of that gaze. “Lose the pants.”
Jared boggles at him for a heart-beat. He’s made a life of knowing what people want, when they’re interested in getting it. Ackles? Doesn’t look like he’s interested in some make-believe love scene or a quick hard fuck. He doesn’t even look turned on, beyond the fact that his dick’s hard.
This is about power then, and Jared knows he doesn’t have any. He shucks out of his jeans and toes his sneakers off. Ackles turns him around so he’s facing the table and kicks his feet apart, bringing Jared down to the right height.
Jared leans on the table and tries to relax. There’s a rip-crinkle sound behind him, and he half-turns and sees Ackles unrolling a condom onto his dick, thank God for that. A slick finger slides along Jared’s ass and he puts his forehead on the table, resigned to wait until it’s over.
Ackles slides in, no so much slow as steady. Jared can’t quite relax enough, and then his body tenses around the invading ache and burn. Ackles stops when his pubes press Jared’s ass and waits for a second. Jared breathes out, and Ackles seems to take that as the okay to move. He takes two firm strokes then stills. His fingers close in Jared’s hair, pull his head back. Jared twists enough to see the man out of the corner of his eye.
Ackles’ face is cold, his expression so guarded it’s like looking at a wall of ice. “I’ll fuck you,” he says, “But I won’t fuck you over.” He emphasizes his point with a hard snap of his hips.
“I know who pays your paycheck and I know you aren’t working for me.”
Jared fights the urge to whip his elbow back into Ackles’ pretty face.
“One day, they’ll tell you to do something that’s not in my interest, something that’ll get me hurt or killed.” He leans in until his voice is a hiss in Jared’s ear. “Screw me over, and I’ll see you broken, boy.” He pounds into Jared again, then stills. His fingers release Jared’s hair then stroke slow down his back in a ‘See? I can be nice if you let me,’ gesture.
“You’re a tool to them, Jared. And when the job’s done, they’ve got no reason to pay you off or keep you around to make trouble.”
Ackles eases out and steps back. Jared stays where he is, half-naked and bent over a table, while the other man wraps up in a towel.
“You decide whose side you’re on.” Ackles sounds almost sad as he says it, “Get back to me on that.”
Then he just walks off, probably to shower. Jared pulls himself together. He doesn’t look at Jensen's team-mates, though he’s sure some of them have watched the whole thing through the open archway. So much for respect.
He tries not to think about what Ackles said, about Brotski fucking him over, but he knows it’s true. The way Jared figures it, he’s got two options--trust Ackles or find a way to still be useful when this is all over.
He pulls his jeans back on with a wince. Right now, both options look equally shitty.
