Entry tags:

character: rocket, character: sinedd, fandom: galactik football, netherworld, pairing: rocket/sinedd, type: dark, type: slash

Netherworld 8
Title: Netherworld
Fandom: Galactik Football
Characters: Rocket, Sinedd, Tia, D'Jok, Warren
Rating: R
Summary: Every game has a winner and a loser. Rocket wins. Sinedd loses. Violence, dub con, sexualized violence, and general dark stuff. Rocket x Sinedd, Rocket x Tia.

Netherworld: Go The Spoils

One moment, Sinedd was seated on the bed, waiting impatiently for Rocket to let go of his ankle and fetch him some ice. The next moment, too fast for him to react, he had a pair of full, firm lips pressed to his, and his entire field of vision was consumed by a close-up of Rocket’s earth-dark skin.

His ankle was still throbbing with flashes of pain, each pulse like his bones being smashed by a heated pot. Rocket kissing him – because what else could it be? – temporarily drove out thoughts of pain from his head, sheer shock overruling his body.

“Don’t--” Sinedd tried to say, twisting his head to yank his mouth free. To open his mouth to speak was a mistake; it allowed Rocket a chance to slip his tongue between Sinedd’s lips, touch it to Sinedd’s own tongue and lightly caress the ridges of his teeth. The intrusion made Sinedd snarl, even though the sound came out choked, and instinctively, he bit down as hard as he could, teeth breaking into the surprisingly delicate appendage until the taste of Rocket’s blood filled his mouth.

Rocket wasn’t deterred. Of course Sinedd would resist. It was part of the game. No match was played without an opponent. It would’ve made no sense if during the final between the Shadows and the Snow Kids, the Snow Kids had simply stepped aside and allowed the Shadows to score as many goals as they wanted.

Breaking past the resistance – defeating your opponents – was the whole point of the game. Especially in the Sphere. Especially now.

He licked the inside of Sinedd’s mouth, and felt the hot swelling that told him that Sinedd had bitten the inside of his cheek to stop himself from screaming when his ankle snapped. He left blood on Sinedd’s mouth, painting red the narrow, pale lips, and tilted his head down, trying to force his blood down Sinedd’s throat.

Score: 0,1, Rocket.

For a moment, Sinedd’s hands came up and rested on Rocket’s shoulders. Rocket steadied himself to resist being pushed away, ready to push Sinedd down onto the bed if necessary, but instead of shoving, Sinedd punched. He made a closed fist of his hand and hit Rocket in the side of the neck as hard as he could.

He’d grown up in an orphanage. He knew how to fight. And he knew very well how painful being hit in the throat was.

Rocket’s breath choked in his throat, and he fell back, scrambling away from Sinedd with his hands up to his own throat. For a moment, his stomach surged upwards, and he felt the urge to throw up as a knot halfway up his throat.

Score: 1,1

He’d let go of Sindd’s ankle, forfeiting his advantage in favour of not being messily sick all over the bed. His goal had been cancelled out by the one that Sinedd had scored; it served Rocket right for underestimating him.

Rocket wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

Looking up, recovering quickly from the initial nausea, Rocket saw that Sinedd had crawled further back on the bed, and had a hand under the pillow, as if going to throw it at him. Wary, stunned eyes were narrowed and blazing with disbelief and the intense black gaze fixed on Rocket was the sort that would’ve made him drop dead instantly if looks could kill.

Rocket didn’t get to make the first move this time. Sinedd went on the offensive instantly, “What the hell, Rocket?! You think when I’ve got a broken ankle – an untreated broken ankle – and just lost to you in the Sphere is the best time to hit on me?” A dark scowl and Sinedd finished off with the aggravated question, “Since when are you even into guys?”

It was the most that Rocket had ever heard Sinedd speak about anything that wasn’t connected to football.

(But this was still a game).

Rocket knew that Sinedd’s speech wasn’t really what he was saying. What Sinedd was saying was ‘you will not win’. Like in the Sphere, players didn’t mock each other because conversation was important. Sinedd was trying to break Rocket’s concentration. Talking to Rocket was a way of delaying Rocket’s next move.

Sinedd was just trying to play for time, Rocket was sure, and though it was a good move, it was a defensive move. Nobody ever won playing on the defensive.

Rocket touched his fingers to his mouth and they came away wet. The redness of his blood on Sinedd’s face made Sinedd’s mouth look like an open gash and Rocket stared at it for a long moment, fascinated by how the splash of colour looked against Sinedd’s pale skin. His blood. That was his blood marking Sinedd (marking Sinedd as his).

“Are you even going to answer me?” Sinedd demanded, the silence from Rocket infuriating him almost as much as it unnerved him. He didn’t like the way that Rocket was looking at him. It was too thoughtful, too dispassionate, too – calculating. Yes. That was what made Sinedd so suspicious; Rocket wasn’t meant to look like him.

“No.” Rocket finally said, and reached out with a deliberate slowness, arm angled upwards to show Sinedd that he wasn’t going to try to grab the other boy again. His red-slicked fingertips drew a line across Sinedd’s forehead (the mark of Cain) and Rocket smiled, satisfaction a dangerous glimmer in his leonine eyes.

Initially having stayed still to see what Rocket would do, the wet smear on his forehead snapped Sinedd out of his fascinated stillness. He grabbed Rocket’s wrist, the contrast between the ends of the half-fingered gloves and the bare ends of his fingers so clear against Rocket’s skin, and squeezed. Just as Rocket had. “Go to your own bed. I’ll take care of my own foot.”

Out of spite, as payback for the stolen kiss, he squeezed down again, only to see Rocket’s eyelids drop halfway, mouth falling open a little from pleasure. Oh. That felt good. Almost as good as hurting Sinedd had. But why? It wasn’t good when the opposite side scored. But this wasn’t an actual goal, was it? This felt more like the collisions during the match, the hard smacks of bodies colliding and leaving bruise-memories for weeks afterwards. The clash, not the scores. The beautiful violence. As Sinedd squeezed down harder, Rocket pictured the bruises that’d form under his gloves, and smiled, teeth very white in his dark face.

“What--” As if burnt, Sinedd snatched his hand back, thoroughly confused. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I haven’t finished winning yet.” A simple explanation, and all the more terrifying in its simplicity. This was all just a game to Rocket. He was bent on winning. He wasn’t thinking about which gender he preferred; this wasn’t, like Sinedd thought, some sort of teenage crush.

This was more important. This was about victory.

He licked over his lips, tasting his own blood, wondering what Sinedd’s was like, and shifted a little, “But do you know what I’ve learnt?”

“Winning what? The match is over. You won.” Sinedd asked, exasperated, and not liking the faraway look in Rocket’s eyes one bit. It was as if Rocket was looking right at him, but not seeing him at all. “And I don’t care what you learnt. Leave me alone and go jack off in the shower.”

Rocket’s teeth flashed in mimicry of a smile and suddenly, he had Sinedd’s broken ankle between both of his hands again. He twisted it hard, and Sinedd’s world exploded into blinding pain, so abrupt that he screamed without meaning to, vision going black for a moment as red stars appeared in bright explosions behind his eyelids.

Everything was pain. Everything, everything. He wasn’t aware of the sound of Rocket’s laughter, nor of how he’d curled up keening, the high drawn-out sound slipping through his teeth like ribbons issuing from his heart. One knee was against his chest, and Sinedd was half-sobbing from pain, rising into a higher consciousness as it simply got to be too much to endure and he felt darkness come to claim him—

Then Rocket let go.

Mercy had nothing to do with why he released Sinedd; he simply didn’t want Sinedd falling unconscious and spoiling his fun.

It really was no fun playing by himself.

“You--” Sinedd coughed the word out pitifully, unable to believe that Rocket had just done that.

“When you scream,” Rocket confided in Sinedd, leaning forwards, yellow eyes gleaming, “Nobody ever comes.”

“…” Sinedd glanced at the door instinctively. The hotel walls weren’t that thick, were they? Surely someone would come. And as difficult as it might be to explain Rocket’s presence here, or how he’d injured his ankle, it was still better than having his ankle ruined for life and his career discarded like Rocket’s was.

Was this why Rocket was doing it? He was trying to ruin Sinedd’s career as revenge for his own having been ruined? But Sinedd hadn’t had anything to do with that!

…Unless this was about the All-Stars match, and Sinedd getting to play in it when Rocket hadn’t. But then Rocket should be going after D’Jok instead of—

The touch of something cold to his ankle made him wince, even as he realized that Rocket was simply applying ice to it as he’d promised. Chunks of ice in a towel, wrapped around the throbbing limb, took some of the pain off.

“You have nightmares every night. And you scream.” Rocket said as if continuing a conversation with no pauses, or as if Sinedd had actually asked him to explain. “But nobody ever comes to check on you.”

The slowly-ebbing pain meant that Sinedd could recognize the cruelty in Rocket’s smile for what it was.

“So nobody will come now.” Rocket concluded as he tucked the ends of the towel under the makeshift bandage he’d created. Then he looked up at Sinedd and the edges of his smile widened, “No matter how much you scream.”

Score: 1,2, Rocket.

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