Fic: Pawn
Author: fluffyllama
Title: Pawn
Rating: Adult (not explicit, but see warnings)
Pairing/s: Derek/Jackson
Character/s: Derek, Jackson
Summary: Jackson survives his first night in the Hills Penitentiary by handing over the cell phone he'd had smuggled in, and the second by giving up his shoes.
Warnings: Prison AU, implied non-con (not between main pairing) and an exchange of sex for protection
Word Count: 995
Prompt: resolute
Author's Notes: Also inspired by the following additional prompts: 'black and white' (Gen Prompt Bingo), 'detention' (Teen Wolf Bingo) and 'character in distress' (Trope Bingo).
Jackson survives his first night in the Hills Penitentiary by handing over the cell phone he'd had smuggled in, and the second by giving up his shoes. On the third night his cellmate Big H (HARMON B1487X, twelve years, aggravated assault) rubs a rough thumb over Jackson's lower lip, trails it down his neck until Jackson offers him a deal. He spills his guts about the arrangement his father made with one of the guards to send in cash and a few luxuries, words tumbling faster with every inch that hand moves. If Big H can be patient, wait just a couple of days, it'll be well worth his while.
By the seventh night, Jackson realises that nothing is coming.
The centre of the rec yard for D wing is marked out in black and white squares like a chessboard. Some arts project from way back pulled due to lack of funding, now it serves to divide territory, a no-mans land few cross when there are separate doors for the blocks either side of it.
Derek Hale's little clique rules the shadier end of the yard, occupying more than their fair share of the area's tables and benches and engaging in occasional displays of muscle and dominance that rile up the general population. It's funny how much like it's just being back in High School - or it would be if it wasn't for the frequent bloodshed.
Jackson would prefer not to end today with his blood all over the concrete, but if he does, at least it will be on his own terms. Right now he's nothing but a pawn, weeks at best from being passed on to one of Big H's pals as a favor. He's seen the other teenagers and pretty boys in here, the way they're marked up and kept soft, not even permitted real exercise, and Jackson might have lost his freedom and apparently his family, but he's not letting this place take any more away from him.
The yard falls silent as Jackson puts one foot onto a black square.
The bench scraping behind him is probably Big H. In front of him, one of Hale's lieutenants crosses his arms.
White square.
"Step back, kid," Hale's man warns him. His voice is as gritty as the yard under Jackson's toes, but nowhere near as warm.
Black square.
A flurry of whispers behind him, the rustle of bills changing hands.
White square.
Jackson can see Derek Hale. He still has his back to Jackson and the rest of the yard, exposed in that careless and arrogant way that tells Jackson he's doing the right thing. This is where the power lies in D block: among this self-contained group of men.
Black square.
At the table, another guy with far too many muscles inclines his head towards Hale, obviously listening. Hale isn't even looking Jackson's way.
White square.
"I want to join you," Jackson calls out. He gets a flash of white teeth as Hale turns his head towards the man next to him, then once more he can only see tufts of dark hair and a face full of stubble. He straightens his shoulders, tries to stand to attention. "I want to be one of you."
The jeers and catcalls aren't unexpected, but the way Hale stands up is. He shrugs his shoulders as if loosening them, and strolls over to the edge of the chessboard. There's a small smile playing around his lips, like Jackson is just a moment's diversion from more serious business.
"You stink of fear," Hale says, and it almost looks like he's sniffing the air, the way his nose turns up. "That's not really what I'm looking for in a recruit."
"Then I'll buy protection," Jackson says. He keeps his voice steady, even though he knows what he's offering in payment. Hale knows it too, the way his eyes flick over Jackson's body. "I can't-- I need to switch cells today, and you're on your own."
"You're not my type," is all Hale says, and he's turning away, leaving Jackson in the dirt. He should grovel, he should beg, he knows that. Big H is going to throw him to the wolves now he's made this play, and Jackson is dead meat if he doesn't have somewhere to go.
In the end, some responses are too deeply ingrained.
"I'm everybody's type!" he shouts at Hale's back.
When Hale turns around, Jackson's knees buckle underneath him. He's not sure if it's in relief, or sheer panic.
"Bottom bunk's yours," Hale tells him, like Jackson's some kind of dumbass. "Keep out of my way and we won't have a problem."
He pulls his shirt off over his head, and Jackson doesn't mean to watch him, but he does. Watches the stretch of muscles, the way he jumps effortlessly to grasp the lowest of the pipes that run the length of the room. Watches him do pull up after pull up after pull up without any apparent difficulty at all.
It's ridiculous.
Hale doesn't glance Jackson's way even once. When the door clicks to locked and buzzer warns them they have ten minutes to lights out, he drops down from the pipes and splashes water over his face. Jackson watches him shake the drops off as he walks towards him, and tenses, but Hale is still not looking at him when he grasps the rail of the top bunk and prepares to pull himself up.
"Don't you--" Jackson says, and Hale pauses, body stretched taut above Jackson.
"What?"
"-want me to--?"
"No."
But Hale's voice is hoarse, and Jackson can see the hard line of his dick inside the tight black jeans he's wearing. Up until last week, reaching out to rest his hand on Hale's crotch would have been the most difficult thing he'd ever done.
A lot can change in a week.
"I pay my debts," he says, resolute, and pulls the zipper down.
Title: Pawn
Rating: Adult (not explicit, but see warnings)
Pairing/s: Derek/Jackson
Character/s: Derek, Jackson
Summary: Jackson survives his first night in the Hills Penitentiary by handing over the cell phone he'd had smuggled in, and the second by giving up his shoes.
Warnings: Prison AU, implied non-con (not between main pairing) and an exchange of sex for protection
Word Count: 995
Prompt: resolute
Author's Notes: Also inspired by the following additional prompts: 'black and white' (Gen Prompt Bingo), 'detention' (Teen Wolf Bingo) and 'character in distress' (Trope Bingo).
Jackson survives his first night in the Hills Penitentiary by handing over the cell phone he'd had smuggled in, and the second by giving up his shoes. On the third night his cellmate Big H (HARMON B1487X, twelve years, aggravated assault) rubs a rough thumb over Jackson's lower lip, trails it down his neck until Jackson offers him a deal. He spills his guts about the arrangement his father made with one of the guards to send in cash and a few luxuries, words tumbling faster with every inch that hand moves. If Big H can be patient, wait just a couple of days, it'll be well worth his while.
By the seventh night, Jackson realises that nothing is coming.
The centre of the rec yard for D wing is marked out in black and white squares like a chessboard. Some arts project from way back pulled due to lack of funding, now it serves to divide territory, a no-mans land few cross when there are separate doors for the blocks either side of it.
Derek Hale's little clique rules the shadier end of the yard, occupying more than their fair share of the area's tables and benches and engaging in occasional displays of muscle and dominance that rile up the general population. It's funny how much like it's just being back in High School - or it would be if it wasn't for the frequent bloodshed.
Jackson would prefer not to end today with his blood all over the concrete, but if he does, at least it will be on his own terms. Right now he's nothing but a pawn, weeks at best from being passed on to one of Big H's pals as a favor. He's seen the other teenagers and pretty boys in here, the way they're marked up and kept soft, not even permitted real exercise, and Jackson might have lost his freedom and apparently his family, but he's not letting this place take any more away from him.
The yard falls silent as Jackson puts one foot onto a black square.
The bench scraping behind him is probably Big H. In front of him, one of Hale's lieutenants crosses his arms.
White square.
"Step back, kid," Hale's man warns him. His voice is as gritty as the yard under Jackson's toes, but nowhere near as warm.
Black square.
A flurry of whispers behind him, the rustle of bills changing hands.
White square.
Jackson can see Derek Hale. He still has his back to Jackson and the rest of the yard, exposed in that careless and arrogant way that tells Jackson he's doing the right thing. This is where the power lies in D block: among this self-contained group of men.
Black square.
At the table, another guy with far too many muscles inclines his head towards Hale, obviously listening. Hale isn't even looking Jackson's way.
White square.
"I want to join you," Jackson calls out. He gets a flash of white teeth as Hale turns his head towards the man next to him, then once more he can only see tufts of dark hair and a face full of stubble. He straightens his shoulders, tries to stand to attention. "I want to be one of you."
The jeers and catcalls aren't unexpected, but the way Hale stands up is. He shrugs his shoulders as if loosening them, and strolls over to the edge of the chessboard. There's a small smile playing around his lips, like Jackson is just a moment's diversion from more serious business.
"You stink of fear," Hale says, and it almost looks like he's sniffing the air, the way his nose turns up. "That's not really what I'm looking for in a recruit."
"Then I'll buy protection," Jackson says. He keeps his voice steady, even though he knows what he's offering in payment. Hale knows it too, the way his eyes flick over Jackson's body. "I can't-- I need to switch cells today, and you're on your own."
"You're not my type," is all Hale says, and he's turning away, leaving Jackson in the dirt. He should grovel, he should beg, he knows that. Big H is going to throw him to the wolves now he's made this play, and Jackson is dead meat if he doesn't have somewhere to go.
In the end, some responses are too deeply ingrained.
"I'm everybody's type!" he shouts at Hale's back.
When Hale turns around, Jackson's knees buckle underneath him. He's not sure if it's in relief, or sheer panic.
"Bottom bunk's yours," Hale tells him, like Jackson's some kind of dumbass. "Keep out of my way and we won't have a problem."
He pulls his shirt off over his head, and Jackson doesn't mean to watch him, but he does. Watches the stretch of muscles, the way he jumps effortlessly to grasp the lowest of the pipes that run the length of the room. Watches him do pull up after pull up after pull up without any apparent difficulty at all.
It's ridiculous.
Hale doesn't glance Jackson's way even once. When the door clicks to locked and buzzer warns them they have ten minutes to lights out, he drops down from the pipes and splashes water over his face. Jackson watches him shake the drops off as he walks towards him, and tenses, but Hale is still not looking at him when he grasps the rail of the top bunk and prepares to pull himself up.
"Don't you--" Jackson says, and Hale pauses, body stretched taut above Jackson.
"What?"
"-want me to--?"
"No."
But Hale's voice is hoarse, and Jackson can see the hard line of his dick inside the tight black jeans he's wearing. Up until last week, reaching out to rest his hand on Hale's crotch would have been the most difficult thing he'd ever done.
A lot can change in a week.
"I pay my debts," he says, resolute, and pulls the zipper down.