(no subject)
TITLE: "Wild Pitch"
AUTHOR: Cathryn (catslash@yahoo.com)
RATING: R for language and teh m/m
PAIRING: Alex Rodriguez/Kevin Brown
SUMMARY: In which Kevin Brown has a temper and Alex Rodriguez is oblivious.
NOTES: Takes place after the Yankees/Rangers game on Friday, April 22. Kevin Brown was the starting pitcher. He sucked a whole lot.
NOTES THE SECOND: Thanks to piney61 for attempting to help me with a title. =D
DISCLAIMER: Total fiction. Didn't happen. Not intended to imply anything about anyone mentioned. If you think otherwise, you need to go out and get some air.
.
Everyone knows by now to steer clear of Kevin after a bad game. He doesn't get depressed or disappointed when he pitches badly. He gets angry, and he's learned his lesson about taking it out on walls and such, but he won't hesitate to let some of loose on just about anyone who catches his eye at the wrong moment.
So today, the stifled, quiet atmosphere that's become all too common this April is punctuated by guys moving a little faster, keeping their heads down, giving Kevin plenty of space.
He lingers for a while, because soon the locker room will be empty, and then he can at least scream at things. Maybe kick a few lockers around. Yeah. He can't throw a baseball to save his fucking soul lately, but he can at least strike fear into the hearts of some goddamn lockers. He snorts. That would be funny if he weren't such a fucking pathetic asshole excuse for a ballplayer.
Mostly the locker room does empty out. And just when he thinks he's finally alone, and he's ready to give those lockers what for, Alex fucking Rodriguez wanders in out of the shower room. In a fucking towel.
"Hey," he says, like he has absolutely no idea that he is alone with someone who would suddenly like nothing more than to yank away that towel and tear his dick off.
Which he probably doesn't. Because he's a fucking moron.
Kevin sits on a bench and grips the edge hard, all the better to keep his hands to himself. He just has to wait. Rodriguez has no reason to stick around.
Except that apparently he does. Because he futzes around with his lock, takes his time going through his locker, dresses at his leisure - right fucking in front of Kevin, not that you don't get used to seeing everyone naked, but there are a thousand other fucking places he could do that - and then he brings out a bottle of Gatorade.
And lies down on a fucking bench and stares at the ceiling while he fucking drinks it.
Kevin glares as fiercely has he possibly can, which, judging from some of the reactions he's gotten in the past, is pretty damn fierce. If he tries extra hard, maybe he can drill a hole in Rodriguez's temple to release some of the pressure that is obviously keeping his brain from operating.
Eventually, Rodriguez looks over. "What?"
What? What? Fucking WHAT? "Don't you have anywhere else to be?" He spits the words out so hard that, if they were tangible - and if he could fucking aim - they'd hit Rodriguez right in the head like little tiny fastballs.
"Not really." He sits. "You look like you could use the company anyway."
. . . absolute fucking moron. Clearly Kevin was wrong about drilling a hole, because clearly there is no brain in there to be under pressure in the first place. "Are you fucking kidding?"
Rodriguez shakes his head and gives Kevin the kind of earnest look you'd expect from a retarded twelve year old. "Everyone always takes off on you when you have a bad start, and I know you get pissed and all and it freaks people out, but I thought maybe if someone hung around to like commiserate it would help."
"I'll commiserate right upside your fucking head if you don't get out now." Surely not even A-Rod the Wonder Genius can get that wrong.
"Go ahead, yell at me if that'll help. I don't mind." He takes a placid swig from the bottle. "I understand, you know," he keeps going. "My game's not so great right now, either."
He understands. Uh huh.
Before he's even aware that he's gotten up, he's already covered the distance between them and smacked the fucking bottle out of A-Rod's hand. And now Rodriguez is finally starting to look alarmed, and now Kevin is starting to feel better.
"It'll help if you stick around while I beat your ass."
And it's as if Rodriguez is out to prove conclusively that he is the dumbest human being on the planet. "Sure, if you think you can aim to land a punch when you can't even get a fastball over the plate."
Kevin grabs him by the front of his shirt and yanks him to his feet, and he definitely likes that he's just a smidge taller than A-Rod. Not that it would really matter, because if Jason Varitek can kick A-Rod's ass than Kevin definitely can, but it's a whole psychological advantage thing. He cocks his fist, ready to go, but then gets a load of the look on Rodriguez's face.
He doesn't look scared in the least. He looks, he looks . . . well, not scared. And somehow, he doesn't look like a moron anymore, either. He looks like he's been thinking clearly all along, and like now he likes what he's thinking.
"I can think of a couple things that would be a lot more fun than kicking my ass." He reaches up and pushes Kevin's fist down to his side, then trails his fingertips up Kevin's arm. And the whole time, he doesn't make a single effort to get free. In fact, his other hand is gripping Kevin's wrist, like he's trying to keep it in place. "Well. Maybe you could kick my ass a little."
Kevin's beginning to suspect that maybe it's him who's the moron. "You set me up."
"Mhm." His hand is on the back of Kevin's neck now, fingers rubbing at the vertebrae.
Kevin jerks him a little closer, shakes him a little. He doesn't miss the way that makes Alex's pupils dilate. "Maybe I should kick your ass anyway. Sick fuck."
"Maybe you should." And Kevin is kind of thinking about giving in to the seduction, taking A-Rod back to his place and tying him to the bed or something and making him beg plenty, because he's played that game a couple times with some groupies and he likes it, but then he sees something else in A-Rod's face. Just below the surface. Something gloaty and smirky and that he doesn't like one fucking bit. If there's one thing Kevin hates worse than pitching a bad game, it's being fucking manipulated.
"You should be so fucking lucky." He shoves Rodriguez back down onto the bench. Rodriguez overbalances and almost falls off, and that's almost as funny as the look of shock and confusion on his face. Kevin laughs at him.
"Thanks." He gives Rodriguez a hearty clap on the shoulder. "You were right. I do feel better."
Rodriguez is glaring now, face flushed with embarrassment. Kevin isn't making it up, he does feel tons better, so he winks at Rodriguez and saunters out of the locker room.
Not that he might not take Alex up on his offer sometime. Sometime when it's not one of Alex's little head games and Kevin has the upper hand for real. An ambush in the steam room might be fun. He grins to himself as he starts to plot.
Oh, yeah, and this is dedicated to americanleaguer, in apology for stealing borrowing her sub!Alex. Looks like he'll be returned unharmed. Much to his disappointment.
AUTHOR: Cathryn (catslash@yahoo.com)
RATING: R for language and teh m/m
PAIRING: Alex Rodriguez/Kevin Brown
SUMMARY: In which Kevin Brown has a temper and Alex Rodriguez is oblivious.
NOTES: Takes place after the Yankees/Rangers game on Friday, April 22. Kevin Brown was the starting pitcher. He sucked a whole lot.
NOTES THE SECOND: Thanks to piney61 for attempting to help me with a title. =D
DISCLAIMER: Total fiction. Didn't happen. Not intended to imply anything about anyone mentioned. If you think otherwise, you need to go out and get some air.
.
Everyone knows by now to steer clear of Kevin after a bad game. He doesn't get depressed or disappointed when he pitches badly. He gets angry, and he's learned his lesson about taking it out on walls and such, but he won't hesitate to let some of loose on just about anyone who catches his eye at the wrong moment.
So today, the stifled, quiet atmosphere that's become all too common this April is punctuated by guys moving a little faster, keeping their heads down, giving Kevin plenty of space.
He lingers for a while, because soon the locker room will be empty, and then he can at least scream at things. Maybe kick a few lockers around. Yeah. He can't throw a baseball to save his fucking soul lately, but he can at least strike fear into the hearts of some goddamn lockers. He snorts. That would be funny if he weren't such a fucking pathetic asshole excuse for a ballplayer.
Mostly the locker room does empty out. And just when he thinks he's finally alone, and he's ready to give those lockers what for, Alex fucking Rodriguez wanders in out of the shower room. In a fucking towel.
"Hey," he says, like he has absolutely no idea that he is alone with someone who would suddenly like nothing more than to yank away that towel and tear his dick off.
Which he probably doesn't. Because he's a fucking moron.
Kevin sits on a bench and grips the edge hard, all the better to keep his hands to himself. He just has to wait. Rodriguez has no reason to stick around.
Except that apparently he does. Because he futzes around with his lock, takes his time going through his locker, dresses at his leisure - right fucking in front of Kevin, not that you don't get used to seeing everyone naked, but there are a thousand other fucking places he could do that - and then he brings out a bottle of Gatorade.
And lies down on a fucking bench and stares at the ceiling while he fucking drinks it.
Kevin glares as fiercely has he possibly can, which, judging from some of the reactions he's gotten in the past, is pretty damn fierce. If he tries extra hard, maybe he can drill a hole in Rodriguez's temple to release some of the pressure that is obviously keeping his brain from operating.
Eventually, Rodriguez looks over. "What?"
What? What? Fucking WHAT? "Don't you have anywhere else to be?" He spits the words out so hard that, if they were tangible - and if he could fucking aim - they'd hit Rodriguez right in the head like little tiny fastballs.
"Not really." He sits. "You look like you could use the company anyway."
. . . absolute fucking moron. Clearly Kevin was wrong about drilling a hole, because clearly there is no brain in there to be under pressure in the first place. "Are you fucking kidding?"
Rodriguez shakes his head and gives Kevin the kind of earnest look you'd expect from a retarded twelve year old. "Everyone always takes off on you when you have a bad start, and I know you get pissed and all and it freaks people out, but I thought maybe if someone hung around to like commiserate it would help."
"I'll commiserate right upside your fucking head if you don't get out now." Surely not even A-Rod the Wonder Genius can get that wrong.
"Go ahead, yell at me if that'll help. I don't mind." He takes a placid swig from the bottle. "I understand, you know," he keeps going. "My game's not so great right now, either."
He understands. Uh huh.
Before he's even aware that he's gotten up, he's already covered the distance between them and smacked the fucking bottle out of A-Rod's hand. And now Rodriguez is finally starting to look alarmed, and now Kevin is starting to feel better.
"It'll help if you stick around while I beat your ass."
And it's as if Rodriguez is out to prove conclusively that he is the dumbest human being on the planet. "Sure, if you think you can aim to land a punch when you can't even get a fastball over the plate."
Kevin grabs him by the front of his shirt and yanks him to his feet, and he definitely likes that he's just a smidge taller than A-Rod. Not that it would really matter, because if Jason Varitek can kick A-Rod's ass than Kevin definitely can, but it's a whole psychological advantage thing. He cocks his fist, ready to go, but then gets a load of the look on Rodriguez's face.
He doesn't look scared in the least. He looks, he looks . . . well, not scared. And somehow, he doesn't look like a moron anymore, either. He looks like he's been thinking clearly all along, and like now he likes what he's thinking.
"I can think of a couple things that would be a lot more fun than kicking my ass." He reaches up and pushes Kevin's fist down to his side, then trails his fingertips up Kevin's arm. And the whole time, he doesn't make a single effort to get free. In fact, his other hand is gripping Kevin's wrist, like he's trying to keep it in place. "Well. Maybe you could kick my ass a little."
Kevin's beginning to suspect that maybe it's him who's the moron. "You set me up."
"Mhm." His hand is on the back of Kevin's neck now, fingers rubbing at the vertebrae.
Kevin jerks him a little closer, shakes him a little. He doesn't miss the way that makes Alex's pupils dilate. "Maybe I should kick your ass anyway. Sick fuck."
"Maybe you should." And Kevin is kind of thinking about giving in to the seduction, taking A-Rod back to his place and tying him to the bed or something and making him beg plenty, because he's played that game a couple times with some groupies and he likes it, but then he sees something else in A-Rod's face. Just below the surface. Something gloaty and smirky and that he doesn't like one fucking bit. If there's one thing Kevin hates worse than pitching a bad game, it's being fucking manipulated.
"You should be so fucking lucky." He shoves Rodriguez back down onto the bench. Rodriguez overbalances and almost falls off, and that's almost as funny as the look of shock and confusion on his face. Kevin laughs at him.
"Thanks." He gives Rodriguez a hearty clap on the shoulder. "You were right. I do feel better."
Rodriguez is glaring now, face flushed with embarrassment. Kevin isn't making it up, he does feel tons better, so he winks at Rodriguez and saunters out of the locker room.
Not that he might not take Alex up on his offer sometime. Sometime when it's not one of Alex's little head games and Kevin has the upper hand for real. An ambush in the steam room might be fun. He grins to himself as he starts to plot.
Oh, yeah, and this is dedicated to americanleaguer, in apology for stealing borrowing her sub!Alex. Looks like he'll be returned unharmed. Much to his disappointment.