Fic: Rollerball (J2, NC-17, 1/6)
Written for 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: 7,000 done, about 3,000 left to write..What the hell posessed me to do something with a deadline?
Warnings: some het (only chapter 1), some hooker-fic, less-than-healthy relationships, violence
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’s hands are steady on the wheel as he guides the silver shark of a car through the night traffic of Warsaw. The neighborhood is rich, old villas, older money. He spots an open space on the curb and eases the car in.
Glancing into the rear-view, he can see Ysbeth checking her lipstick. Jared checks the knife in his back pocket. Two years of this, and he still has flashes of disorientation, like part of his brain can’t quite process what’s happened in his life, what he’s become. He feels like Gilligan. A three week tour of his ancestral homeland turned into two years adrift in a foreign country after the crash of ’17 made his traveler’s checks and credit cards worthless.
“You are ready?” Ysbeth asks. His Polish is better than her English, but she likes the practice. They flash each other a smile in the mirror and he gets out to open her door for her. Her hand is tiny in his as he helps her to balance in her four-inch heels. He scans the street, looking for potential problems.
Deliver the girl.
Provide a safe work environment.
Everybody pays.
Make sure the client has a good time.
Two years ago, he’d have been ashamed of ever thinking about escorting escorts for a living. Eighteen months ago, he’d have done anything short of hurting an innocent for a meal and a warm corner to sleep in. This--this is cake by comparison. Most days he doesn’t fell like he’s doing the wrong thing. Some days, he almost feels like a hero.
It’s a living, but it’ll take him a long time to save up enough to get home. He works hard, though, to make sure he’s still the kind of man his momma wants for a son when he gets there.
Ysbeth stands on the doorstep, looking statuesque as Jared rings the bell. A butler answers, gives them less than a cursory glance before gesturing them in.
The place is huge, all dark wood and ornate carving. A man in a red satin smoking jacket stands at the head of a sweeping staircase, a snifter of brandy in one hand, cigar in the other. He’s squat and balding and significantly shorter than Ysbeth.
Jared resists laughing. It amazes him how many of these jokers think they’re Hugh fucking Hefner. Seriously.
The guy leaves his drink and cigar on the banister and sweeps down the steps, all flair and drama. He pulls Ysbeth down to his lips, savoring her like a fine wine. Jared stares into the middle ground and waits. At this rate, he might get back to the bar in time to catch the Sunbirds vs. Demons match.
The client asks Ysbeth who ‘this giant’ is, and Jared pretends to not understand the language. Keeping all the secrets he can has helped him stay out of trouble before.
“American,” Ysbeth explains, and the man’s grin widens.
“American. You will stay?”
“Only if you want me to,” Jared grins, going for sexy with a touch of dangerous. It works for his bottom line, more times than not. “I’ll watch for free,” he continues when the guy starts to nod. “Twenty for me to fuck her. Forty if you want to fuck her with me. Eighty if you want to fuck me or have me fuck you.”
Jared used to have sex for free, for the pure joy of it. It’s been two years on that one too.
“You fuck her,” Hefner says with a grin. “More, we will see.”
They get up to the guy’s bedroom. It’s decorated in a ridiculously modern style, even if it wasn’t in contrast to the ancient elegance of the rest of the house. Every surface is either black lacquer, satin or leather, frosted gold or slick mirrors. It looks like a place to fuck, not sleep, and maybe it is.
The client gestures with a remote as he sprawls his chubby self into a chair by the bed, and languid, throbbing acid jazz rolls from hidden speakers.
Ysbeth drops her coat and sways in front of the guy’s chair. Jared knows his part, stepping in behind her, matching her movement with his own. He knows how huge his hands seem on her full hips, her slip waist. He bows his head, because this guy hadn’t seemed real gay to him, and when a straight guy pays a man to fuck a woman, it’s usually because he wants to imagine himself there, young and strong and desired.
In between caressing Ysbeth, Jared slips out of his jacket and then his shirt, shoes and socks, and then his pants. This is all about her and the client and Jared’s content being a prop for the show. He slides his hands up her thighs, pushing the edge of her short black skirt up to show her garters.
The guy shifts in his seat with a squeak of leather. Jared nuzzles in under Ysbeth’s hair, breathing in the girly smells of her, trying to find the sexy in all this, because he’s gonna need to be hard soon. He brings up images of broad shoulders and the sharp rasp of stubble against insides of his thighs and that helps.
He cups one of her breasts and she makes the requisite breathy moan. He tugs her skirt higher and lets the client see the goods, the naughty girl with no panties, the way her pubes are shaved to a narrow little landing strip. He spreads her soft folds and fingers her, helping her get wet for him.
Jared dares a glance at the client. He’s not touching himself yet, but he’s tenting the robe and it probably won’t be long until he’s ready for his turn.
“You will fuck her now,” the guy says, thick accent and thicker voice.
Ysbeth leads and Jared follows. She takes the three steps up to the chair and raises one dainty, stiletto-clad foot up to the arm-rest, close enough for the client to see everything, to smell her perfume, to smell her.
Jared plucks the condom out of her bra-strap and slides it on. He bends his knees to get the right angle and pushes in, one slow stroke.
Ysbeth makes a whimpering moan, like he’s hurting her, but he’s heard her do that for guys smaller than his pinky finger, so he knows it doesn’t mean a thing.
The client reaches out, pinching her clit, making her squeal and writhe, and Jared fucks up into her, rocking her up on her toes.
“I fuck her now,” Hefner declares, standing up. Jared pulls out. “You hold, I fuck,” says the guy so he hooks one arm under Ysbeth’s knee and steadies her back while the guy pumps his cock into her three times and comes. When the client collapses back into the chair, Jared settles Ysbeth on top of him and takes the chance to roll the condom back off of his own half-hard dick.
“He is everything I said, yes?” Ysbeth’s words are almost too soft to catch.
Jared frowns. That isn’t in the script.
“American,” says ‘Hefner,’ like it’s a name now. “You are flexible, eh? You fuck her, I fuck you, all the same, yes? As long as you get paid?”
“Jared,” Jared corrects, a bad feeling building in his gut. “Yeah, I’m flexible.”
“Jared,” says the guy with a big ol’ Eastern-European grin, like they’ve been friends forever now. “I am Ivan. Ivan Brotski. I own the girls. I own the cars. I own many things.” His eyes trail up Jared’s body and he feels naked in a way that has nothing to do with clothes. “I own you.”
Jared has known that the part of this organization he saw was only the tip, but it’s unsettling to meet the big boss like this.
Ivan’s hand strokes idly over Ysbeth’s back, up under her wisp of a dress and Jared wonders if it would be a bad time for him to put some clothes on.
“I need for you to do a job,” Ivan says, “More money, a chance to travel, see the world.”
“I’m listening,” says Jared, but he’s really trying to figure how he can get out of this if it’s too good to be true.
“You follow Rollerball?” Ivan asks. Jared nods, wondering where this is going.
“The Sunbirds? I own them too. There is one player, he is being--difficult. He needs incentive. A new source of joy. Somebody that we control.”
“Which one?” Jared asks, running the roster through in his head.
“Ackles,” says Ivan.
“The Hawk?” Jesus. Ackles isn’t ‘a player,’ Ackles is their freakin’ star.
“The Hawk,” agrees the owner, and something shivers deep in Jared’s guts. “You will be assistant to him. You will polish helmet and put on his gear. You will go with him to club and make sure he does not drown in his vodka. You will fuck when he says, and be good at it when my team wins.”
The man’s tone drops and Jared has stopped finding anything about this humorous.
“You will work for me. You will tell me if he will leave Sunbirds, if he has secret lover, if he is become no use to me.”
It’s been a long time since Jared had more than a second to mull over a life-decision. More money and travel means being years closer to getting back to Texas. That ain’t so bad for babysitting some prima donna ball-player.
“When do I start?”
Ivan laughs. “Go home, Jared. Tomorrow a driver will take you to arena.”
Jared grabs his clothes off of the floor and pulls on the pants. “Right,” he says, “I’ll be ready. And um, thanks.”
Title:Rollerball
Author:Ladyjanelly
Movie Adapted: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0246894/
Genre: CW RPS
Characters/Pairings:Jared/Jensen
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 7,000 done, about 3,000 left to write..What the hell posessed me to do something with a deadline?
Warnings: some het (only chapter 1), some hooker-fic, less-than-healthy relationships, violence
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’s hands are steady on the wheel as he guides the silver shark of a car through the night traffic of Warsaw. The neighborhood is rich, old villas, older money. He spots an open space on the curb and eases the car in.
Glancing into the rear-view, he can see Ysbeth checking her lipstick. Jared checks the knife in his back pocket. Two years of this, and he still has flashes of disorientation, like part of his brain can’t quite process what’s happened in his life, what he’s become. He feels like Gilligan. A three week tour of his ancestral homeland turned into two years adrift in a foreign country after the crash of ’17 made his traveler’s checks and credit cards worthless.
“You are ready?” Ysbeth asks. His Polish is better than her English, but she likes the practice. They flash each other a smile in the mirror and he gets out to open her door for her. Her hand is tiny in his as he helps her to balance in her four-inch heels. He scans the street, looking for potential problems.
Deliver the girl.
Provide a safe work environment.
Everybody pays.
Make sure the client has a good time.
Two years ago, he’d have been ashamed of ever thinking about escorting escorts for a living. Eighteen months ago, he’d have done anything short of hurting an innocent for a meal and a warm corner to sleep in. This--this is cake by comparison. Most days he doesn’t fell like he’s doing the wrong thing. Some days, he almost feels like a hero.
It’s a living, but it’ll take him a long time to save up enough to get home. He works hard, though, to make sure he’s still the kind of man his momma wants for a son when he gets there.
Ysbeth stands on the doorstep, looking statuesque as Jared rings the bell. A butler answers, gives them less than a cursory glance before gesturing them in.
The place is huge, all dark wood and ornate carving. A man in a red satin smoking jacket stands at the head of a sweeping staircase, a snifter of brandy in one hand, cigar in the other. He’s squat and balding and significantly shorter than Ysbeth.
Jared resists laughing. It amazes him how many of these jokers think they’re Hugh fucking Hefner. Seriously.
The guy leaves his drink and cigar on the banister and sweeps down the steps, all flair and drama. He pulls Ysbeth down to his lips, savoring her like a fine wine. Jared stares into the middle ground and waits. At this rate, he might get back to the bar in time to catch the Sunbirds vs. Demons match.
The client asks Ysbeth who ‘this giant’ is, and Jared pretends to not understand the language. Keeping all the secrets he can has helped him stay out of trouble before.
“American,” Ysbeth explains, and the man’s grin widens.
“American. You will stay?”
“Only if you want me to,” Jared grins, going for sexy with a touch of dangerous. It works for his bottom line, more times than not. “I’ll watch for free,” he continues when the guy starts to nod. “Twenty for me to fuck her. Forty if you want to fuck her with me. Eighty if you want to fuck me or have me fuck you.”
Jared used to have sex for free, for the pure joy of it. It’s been two years on that one too.
“You fuck her,” Hefner says with a grin. “More, we will see.”
They get up to the guy’s bedroom. It’s decorated in a ridiculously modern style, even if it wasn’t in contrast to the ancient elegance of the rest of the house. Every surface is either black lacquer, satin or leather, frosted gold or slick mirrors. It looks like a place to fuck, not sleep, and maybe it is.
The client gestures with a remote as he sprawls his chubby self into a chair by the bed, and languid, throbbing acid jazz rolls from hidden speakers.
Ysbeth drops her coat and sways in front of the guy’s chair. Jared knows his part, stepping in behind her, matching her movement with his own. He knows how huge his hands seem on her full hips, her slip waist. He bows his head, because this guy hadn’t seemed real gay to him, and when a straight guy pays a man to fuck a woman, it’s usually because he wants to imagine himself there, young and strong and desired.
In between caressing Ysbeth, Jared slips out of his jacket and then his shirt, shoes and socks, and then his pants. This is all about her and the client and Jared’s content being a prop for the show. He slides his hands up her thighs, pushing the edge of her short black skirt up to show her garters.
The guy shifts in his seat with a squeak of leather. Jared nuzzles in under Ysbeth’s hair, breathing in the girly smells of her, trying to find the sexy in all this, because he’s gonna need to be hard soon. He brings up images of broad shoulders and the sharp rasp of stubble against insides of his thighs and that helps.
He cups one of her breasts and she makes the requisite breathy moan. He tugs her skirt higher and lets the client see the goods, the naughty girl with no panties, the way her pubes are shaved to a narrow little landing strip. He spreads her soft folds and fingers her, helping her get wet for him.
Jared dares a glance at the client. He’s not touching himself yet, but he’s tenting the robe and it probably won’t be long until he’s ready for his turn.
“You will fuck her now,” the guy says, thick accent and thicker voice.
Ysbeth leads and Jared follows. She takes the three steps up to the chair and raises one dainty, stiletto-clad foot up to the arm-rest, close enough for the client to see everything, to smell her perfume, to smell her.
Jared plucks the condom out of her bra-strap and slides it on. He bends his knees to get the right angle and pushes in, one slow stroke.
Ysbeth makes a whimpering moan, like he’s hurting her, but he’s heard her do that for guys smaller than his pinky finger, so he knows it doesn’t mean a thing.
The client reaches out, pinching her clit, making her squeal and writhe, and Jared fucks up into her, rocking her up on her toes.
“I fuck her now,” Hefner declares, standing up. Jared pulls out. “You hold, I fuck,” says the guy so he hooks one arm under Ysbeth’s knee and steadies her back while the guy pumps his cock into her three times and comes. When the client collapses back into the chair, Jared settles Ysbeth on top of him and takes the chance to roll the condom back off of his own half-hard dick.
“He is everything I said, yes?” Ysbeth’s words are almost too soft to catch.
Jared frowns. That isn’t in the script.
“American,” says ‘Hefner,’ like it’s a name now. “You are flexible, eh? You fuck her, I fuck you, all the same, yes? As long as you get paid?”
“Jared,” Jared corrects, a bad feeling building in his gut. “Yeah, I’m flexible.”
“Jared,” says the guy with a big ol’ Eastern-European grin, like they’ve been friends forever now. “I am Ivan. Ivan Brotski. I own the girls. I own the cars. I own many things.” His eyes trail up Jared’s body and he feels naked in a way that has nothing to do with clothes. “I own you.”
Jared has known that the part of this organization he saw was only the tip, but it’s unsettling to meet the big boss like this.
Ivan’s hand strokes idly over Ysbeth’s back, up under her wisp of a dress and Jared wonders if it would be a bad time for him to put some clothes on.
“I need for you to do a job,” Ivan says, “More money, a chance to travel, see the world.”
“I’m listening,” says Jared, but he’s really trying to figure how he can get out of this if it’s too good to be true.
“You follow Rollerball?” Ivan asks. Jared nods, wondering where this is going.
“The Sunbirds? I own them too. There is one player, he is being--difficult. He needs incentive. A new source of joy. Somebody that we control.”
“Which one?” Jared asks, running the roster through in his head.
“Ackles,” says Ivan.
“The Hawk?” Jesus. Ackles isn’t ‘a player,’ Ackles is their freakin’ star.
“The Hawk,” agrees the owner, and something shivers deep in Jared’s guts. “You will be assistant to him. You will polish helmet and put on his gear. You will go with him to club and make sure he does not drown in his vodka. You will fuck when he says, and be good at it when my team wins.”
The man’s tone drops and Jared has stopped finding anything about this humorous.
“You will work for me. You will tell me if he will leave Sunbirds, if he has secret lover, if he is become no use to me.”
It’s been a long time since Jared had more than a second to mull over a life-decision. More money and travel means being years closer to getting back to Texas. That ain’t so bad for babysitting some prima donna ball-player.
“When do I start?”
Ivan laughs. “Go home, Jared. Tomorrow a driver will take you to arena.”
Jared grabs his clothes off of the floor and pulls on the pants. “Right,” he says, “I’ll be ready. And um, thanks.”