Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ My Happy Ending ❯ Was It Something I Did? Pt. II ( Chapter 10 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
It starts now...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 11.08.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 7.5K | Visits: 568 | Status: Completed
It starts now...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 11.08.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 7.5K | Visits: 568 | Status: Completed
Disclaimers Apply Here: Manga-Chick does NOT own any part of Static Shock...no matter what she thinks.
I’m_Alive: Well, I’m glad you ended up liking him! ^_^
Shampoo Marea: Oh, yes, he is. I like him that way. (Winks)
Chapter Ten:
Was It Something I Did? Pt. II
Anxiously shifting in his seat, eighteen year old Anthony Edwards looked around himself. He recognized a few people here and there, but he wasn’t concerned with that. He was mainly concerned that he’d be recognized and ratted out before he could accomplish anything.
He had a ‘favor’ to carry out–Rudy Sedano had been suddenly curious as to know what Ivan Evans was up to, and Anthony had been chosen to infiltrate the enemies’ stronghold...not that Ivan was an active member of the Playas, but Rudy was careful that way. He just wanted to make sure that Ivan was staying that way.
Sweat beaded his brow, and nervousness made his hands clench as he sat on the couch, staring quietly at everything. The house was nicely kept, if not a little frilly with all those damn houseplants lingering here and there, healthy and green. Everything was in place, clean, and neat; stacked with all the entertainment males enjoyed tinkering with.
He recognized Ivan immediately from an older picture Rudy had shown him. He’d been younger, of course, back then; posing with his brother and another friend of theirs, flashing their gang signs at the person taking the picture. While he was a far cry from the Bang Baby he’d been as Ebon, Ivan was still intimidating. Those features of his left Anthony feeling more than nervous.
He looked over at the older man, seeing him talk rather calmly to the ever excitable Shiv–everyone knew Shiv. The guy was cool with everyone; it didn’t matter who was enemies with who, Shiv took only one side, and that was the side of those he considered his closest friends. Anthony took in the former Bang Baby’s appearance–the worn DC logo ring tee, the baggy jeans that allowed an occasional flash of bunched boxers whenever he threw his arms about, the multiple earrings, the eyebrow bar, the apparent weight gain from his days as a kinetic-welding Bang Baby.
Ivan, meanwhile, was calm and cool in dark blue baggy jeans that sagged fashionably, expensive leather K-Swisses on his feet, an oversized tee hanging agreeably somewhere around his mid-thighs. His left wrist was adorned with a Rolex, he wore a white chain, and his earlobes were decorated with the same color hoops. He was thinner than he was back in the day, his cheekbones high and his cheeks slightly sunken–he looked a more thicker version of Snoop Dogg, if that was possible. Except that his hooded eyes were just as menacing and intimidating as they had been back then. They were depths of threats and hidden anger, the strain of a hard life lived apparent on his features. Anthony didn’t want to piss him off–ever.
He’d seen Francis Stone–the large redhead was just as intimidating as his black friend. With his broad shoulders and brawny bulk that made him look as heavy and muscular as a wrestler from television, Francis looked just as powerful as he had when he had powers. He sported only a gold section at his widow’s peak, and had grown side whiskers that looked to distract the thickness of his neck. His brash and often expletive laced words were delivered with the same enthusiasm he had when he was destroying city property. He was dressed better, of course–with a fitting off-white shirt over light blue jeans, he looked a far cry different from the red-shirted menace he’d been. He may have been shorter than those he was entertaining, but he looked capable enough of handling his business.
Anthony didn’t want to piss him off, either.
As he sat and watched the lazy action from those around them, everyone settled in their routine in either entertaining themselves with video games and outside activities, he watched and memorized.
Ivan spoke only to those he was close with, and carried an attitude of snottiness when others tried approaching him. He was cold and describably indifferent to things around him, responding only when he himself was entertained by something that Anthony could only describe as mean and cruel.
He didn’t respond to any of the Playas that spoke to him; and when he did, he was curt and indifferent. This told Anthony that he wasn’t looking to take part in their activities. Rudy would be comforted by that.
His relationship with Stone confused him–they both rubbed at each other with snaps and conversations that were easy-going and of importance, but there was a feeling of brotherly understanding between them both that allowed Ivan to slap insults on the redhead, and for the redhead to insult him with mocking gestures and words.
They seemed to follow each other around; a lot, Anthony realized, after seeing one enter the kitchen, the other not that far behind. It couldn’t be anything homosexual–one would say something, the other would respond, and it was just a feeling that Anthony received when observing them.
He didn’t get it–he thought they had been enemies before the cure.
But he noticed how attached the redhead was to a certain blond that Shiv kept hassling. That was definitely something different from what Ivan and Francis had with each other. Anthony hid his disgust behind the collar of his shirt that he lifted over his nose. The blond was, for the lack of a better word, misplaced. He didn’t belong with the crowd that walked around with alcohol; he didn’t fit in with his strange sort of naivete; he absolutely didn’t fit in with the large redhead and the scowling black man. He wore a pair of long khaki shorts, with a striped button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up muscular arms, and an argyle sweater vest that screamed “nerd!”. He was the one others kept referring to as a fairy–but that was muttered with the utmost caution, those uttering it fearful to be overhead.
He’d heard that the blond was the redhead’s ‘roommate’; someone suggested otherwise, keeping quiet about it just in case. He’d heard, himself, that Francis Stone was a possible fag, but others kept disputing that with stories of seeing him all over various women. He didn’t know who the blond was, so he wasn’t of importance.
But from the way the redhead behaved, looked, and talked to the blond whenever they ran into each other suggested that perhaps more observance was needed.
He’d noticed how...possessive the redhead seemed whenever the blond tried to leave his sight. How the blond looked personally annoyed when he spoke harshly to the muscular hulk. How anybody could talk that way to the former Bang Baby and not get beat down spoke volumes.
Anthony observed quietly, and performed what he needed to to fit in. But he was still nervous in getting caught. Once he had seen all that he needed to, he quietly informed his friends of curfew and left amid mocking laughter and jokes. He laughed along with them, but left with the information he needed to deliver to Rudy.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
Another weekend with more than a few underage partiers, the grill running, a game of horseshoes going, and Richie was annoyed. He wanted to leave; he had other thing he wanted to do. But Francis was extra paranoid over that incident with Tyson and didn’t want him to leave his sight. The moment Richie left to occupy himself with other things to avoid interacting with the other revelers, the redhead was herding him back to where he could see him easier. It was clearly harassment. It was ridiculous, and he was growing ever more frustrated and embarrassed as it continued to happen.
Grumbling to himself as he played with his cellphone, Richie sat on one of the lounge chairs while Francis grilled a few franks, laughing with some of the scruffy males that he’d known before the Big Bang. Seeing that Virgil had called, Richie returned his call and bemoaned his prisoner status while Virgil complained of having ‘empathy pains’ while he spent the day with Shenice. Eager to see and talk to her, as it had been awhile, Richie agreed to meet them later at a pizza joint.
That made, he shut his cellphone and watched Francis talk. Seeing that he was distracted, he quickly left his chair. He rolled his eyes and headed back into the house, his hand trailing along the glass sliding door. He looked over at the two kids that were taking up couch space, looking eerily similar to that of Tyson and Cube. He felt a little sad at that moment–knowing he wouldn’t see Tyson again. In a sort of confusing and awkward way, he wondered what could have happened if they weren’t attacked.
Shrugging to himself, he headed toward the back to fiddle with the computer and maybe check out the Internet for more on the background of Daniel Trujillo. He looked up in time to see Ivan coming out from the guest bathroom, picking at his newly fixed cornrows. Richie smirked at him, still feeling the impression of his crotch in his hand, feeling overly confident and sneaky as Ivan returned the look with one of his own. He intended to walk right past him, to turn his head and snub him when Ivan grabbed his arm, pulled him off course and into the bathroom. Richie was thrown-off by the move, hearing the door slam behind him.
But he couldn’t deny his excitement and curiosity as he turned to face Ivan, who locked the door behind him. Ivan couldn’t do anything to him–if Francis found out, the redhead would definitely throw a fit. Besides, any minute now, Francis would be looking for him. He was safe. Untouchable.
“What’s this?” he asked quietly, gesturing at the situation. Hands sliding into his back pockets, he leaned against the wall, watching Ivan closely. “Secret club conference?”
Ivan studied him for several moments, then licked his lips with a small laugh. At that, Richie felt very uncomfortable and unsure. There was just something chilling about Ivan making light of the situation. He found himself looking for a recorder, or a camera, something of the sort, and looked back at Ivan with a somewhat startled expression.
Ivan moved closer to him, invading his space, Richie pressing himself against the wall as he gave the black man an uncertain look. He didn’t want to let him know he was scared of him, or anything pertaining to that notion, so he kept his hands in his pockets.
Ivan was so close to him, that Richie could look down at him and see the tiny baby hairs that escaped the harsh braids of his ‘rows. He couldn’t recall ever being this close to him, and felt every hair on his arms and the back of his neck rise. He licked his lips nervously, too thrown to really try and manipulate his way out of this one. Frankly...he was also curious as to what Ivan planned on doing.
The silence was heavy, and Richie heard himself swallow as Ivan’s dark eyes focused up on his. Despite Richie having two inches over him, Ivan simply made himself much more bigger than he himself could ever try.
Ivan’s lips curled at the corners as he relished Richie’s current expression. It was sort of nostalgic, really; seeing that same expression on a fourteen year old Richie back when he was Ebon. It almost made him grimace–it had been nearly ten years since that moment...ten years.
For a few more moments, Ivan didn’t say anything. Just enjoyed the trepidation on Richie’s face; the way that confidence slowly died the longer the silence stretched, and the more Ivan stared at him.
He lifted his hairless brow, relishing in that expression as the faint sounds of the outside filtered in softly through the crack at the bottom of the open door. He could pinpoint Francis’ loud laughter, and a twitch in Richie’s expression told him that he could, as well.
And then Ivan was reaching out, his hand clasping firmly over Richie’s crotch, the same way the blond had grabbed him the other night.
Richie gasped in surprise, eyes widening and his face revealing his outrage as Ivan smirked. His fingers twisted and clenched, making the blond cry out suddenly. Ignoring the hands that shot out against his shoulders, pushing at him with stiffened reaction, Ivan tightened his hold and relished the pained cry Richie emitted.
He put a finger against his lips, whispering “Ssh” as he kept his hold. He was disgusted and yet quite satisfied at the reaction he was getting from the blond. While he wanted to yank his hand back and wash it, he savored Richie’s reaction to the entire thing. The pained expression on the blond’s face was immensely fulfilling. Ivan waited a few moments for Richie to calm himself, to realize that he wasn’t applying any more force.
“Now, let’s get some things clear,” he murmured, ignoring the fingers that clenched into his shoulders. “Let me make somethin’ extremely clear to you–first off, like I said before, I really don’t like you. You are like a spoiled, self-centered child that cries at the first sign of lost attention. You started shit with me cuz you’re dissatisfied with your pathetic little life. You picked the wrong man to start shit with. Is this, in anyway, unclear? Do I gotta repeat myself?”
Richie shook his head before answering, his facial features screwed up with pain. His hands left Ivan’s shoulders, to curl over his hand and wrist, his fingers working anxiously at the grip that held his privates painfully. “N-no!”
“Then why you startin’ shit with me? You forget who the hell I am? You bored with things? Trying to live dangerously?”
“NO!”
“Then why?” Ivan asked, his voice lowered to that of a peaceable level. His fingers shifted, taking more of that covered crotch, pinching more of what his digits could reach. A panicked sound escaped the blond’s lips, and Ivan raised his hairless brow again. He felt that slow tingle in his own lower belly, responding to that single sound.
“I–I don’t know!”
“You must. Because you know what you’re doing. You know who you’re messing with. An’ you do it because something about it excites you. You realize that I ain’t like you, right? I don’t like men the way that you do.”
Another sound escaped Richie’s lips, his head lowering, body bending in an effort to somehow cope with the pain that he was experiencing. Ivan shifted, stepping closer, so that when he spoke, his breath hit the top of his head.
“You thrustin’ yourself at me, man! What’s with that? You ain’t interested in me like that, you only playing yourself. It’s disgusting. An’ the moment I start breaking down, you start pullin’ back. There are words for bitches like you. I’m sure I don’t have to repeat them for you to know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Ivan licked his lips as he shifted his grip, to stroke firmly along the seam of his shorts, effectively drawing another gasp from his younger opponent. He continued this action, dropping his head to try and see the expression on the blond’s face, the image blocked by a short fall of golden blond hair. His stroking turned back into a firm hold, force applied to make the stiffened body jerk in almost violent reaction.
“Take this off,” he ordered, pulling on the material briefly before resuming his hold.
At that, Richie stilled, and he lifted his head, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. His head moved, shaking, his eyes shifting from Ivan’s lips to his eyes with a sort of rushed nervousness that made him alluring.
“N-no!”
“C’mon.. .who’s going to know? You might as well as put out.” Ivan once again relished his expression, the shock and the remorse as Richie shook his head again, lifting up and pulling his face out of reach. But when Ivan shifted, his other hand snaking up to his belt buckle, those hazel eyes widened once more, and he shifted to try and move out of his grasp. Ivan ignored the hasty pushes at his hand, tightening his grip on the soft thickness that he held with his other, hearing the choked gasp Richie emitted as he quit struggling.
It took a few moments, but Ivan pulled his shorts open, loose enough to delve with his other hand past the waistband of his boxers, to switch hands in handling that soft mass. He watched closely as Richie’s face paled significantly, horror registering in his eyes, his mouth falling open with shock as the warm heat of Ivan’s palm and fingers found his soft cock.
Cut, smooth, warm, Ivan continued to watch his face as he started to stroke evenly, feeling a lack of response as shock continued to make Richie gape at him. The moment he started feeling a filling hardness in that member, the way the blond suddenly turned red with mortification and repulsion, his lips pulled into a sly grin. Someone slammed the front door loudly, and another panicked gasp left those lips, hazel turning a darker brown as Ivan continued to coax that slowly hardening member to full length.
“Oh, God, stop–!” Richie eked out, squeezing his eyes shut, his hands moving down, fingers flitting with much fuss over Ivan’s moving hand. Ivan ignored that, continuously stroking, watching that face filter with mortification and arousal. Especially arousal. How it made even his neck pink, how it made his lips slightly slack, how those eyebrows shifted into that of helpless flinching. “STOP!”
“Ssh...don’t want people hearing what you’re doing,” Ivan whispered, a malicious grin on his face as he tightened his strokes, moving more faster than he had before. He could feel the heat from that hardened cock, the veins pulsing as he continued stroking. Every so often, his fingers would brush against wiry pubic hair, and he could feel the stiffened trembling of Richie’s body as the blond unconsciously bent, trying to pull himself away from that rough handling.
When Ivan finally recognized that his wrist wasn’t being gripped, that Richie’s fingers were digging into his shoulders, his pleas turning to gasps of pleasure, he knew he’d won. Somewhere between shock and disbelief, the blond had turned into putty into his hands, succumbing to him. It was satisfaction that he felt sweeping through him, careful to keep Francis from feeling it.
Fingers tightened in his shoulders, and he felt glasses dig into his arm as the blond’s body stiffened, hips shifting into the action. Ivan stared at the wall as he felt liquid warmth spill into his hand, a muffled sound pressed against his t-shirt. For a few moments, he enjoyed the pleasant trembling of the younger male’s body, the way fingers clenched his shirt, the smell of the blond’s mixture of perfume and male scent.
He removed his hand; Richie’s cum was thick in his palm, between his fingers, and while he was disgusted at what he’d caused, he was also very pleased in his apparent ‘win’ in this battle. He pulled away, turning his back to the blond. As he washed his hands in the sink, Richie sank to the floor, knees pulled up to touch his forehead as he hid his face in mortification and revulsion. Ivan wiped his hands clean with a nearby hand towel, and looked over at him. He enjoyed the apparent defeat, lips pulling once more into a smile.
He unlocked the door and left the bathroom, immensely pleased with himself.
It took awhile, nearly two hours, but Ivan felt a smirk filter over his face as he watched the blond emerge from the house. Francis certainly didn’t complain when Richie’s full attention was given to him for the rest of that afternoon.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
Ivan wanted to make sure his point was repeatedly driven home; after that incident in the bathroom, he began planning other ways to make sure the blond understood whom he chose to mess with. While Francis worked nearby, Ivan took his time in making elaborate orders to florists, to jewelry shops, to clothing stores. It cost a pretty penny, but he fully enjoyed coming to the house in time to hear Francis rant and rave over the gifts that Richie had received during the day. And when the blond came home from work, Ivan allowed himself to smirk and grin over his pathetic excuses and confused reactions to the presents that Francis flung at him.
A week passed before Ivan stopped having these gifts delivered. Francis was angry all the time, and it crept through Ivan’s own blood, boiling his temper, causing his moods to swing in a more chaotic manner than before. Anxiety, frustration, betrayal and anger were the most common moods he experienced, but it was a small price to pay to seeing that expression of defeat on the blond’s face.
One night, a little startled to see that the house was quiet for once, Ivan walked in, eyes searching the area. He could hear someone tinkering in the back bedroom, but the vertical blinds over the sliding door were wide open.
The lights were off save for those in the back, and there was a thick air of tension in the one story house. Chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek, he took a few steps toward the back, straining his ears to hear whatever it was going on out there. Once he heard Francis’ dark muttering, the sounds of drawers opening and closing, Ivan turned and made his way to the sliding door.
He was out onto the porch with the familiar screech of the door signaling his presence. He looked over to see Richie sitting on one of the deck chairs, his back to him. He had to smirk at the sounds of obvious sniffling, the wiping of eyes.
Reveling in his power, Ivan stared up at the night sky and listened to the occasional hiccup that emerged from that slumped frame nearby.
Finally, it grew too much for him to celebrate quietly.
“Nice night out,” he commented lightly.
Richie turned in his chair, glaring at him with red, swollen eyes. He removed his glasses to wipe more furiously at them, a wadded tissue balled in one hand. “Are you happy, Ivan? Are you fucking happy with what you did?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Ivan admitted, nodding grimly. “It brings me much satisfaction to see things broken and battered. What’s going on, tonight?”
“You did all that, didn’t you? Filled his head with fucking lies, you sent all that stuff so that he’d find it! I fucking hate you!”
“Aw,” Ivan murmured, looking at him with mocking pity. “Poor baby...did the husband find something else that gave away your infidelity?”
“Fuck you!”
“Naw. I ain’t into that.” Ivan shook his head, shaking out a cigarette and lighting it. Over the hiccup that escaped Richie’s furiousness, he commented around the cancer-stick, “Maybe next time, when ya wanna start some shit, you better choose an opponent that is more of your level. You went over your pretty little head with me, boy. Now, you paying for it. I couldn’t be happier, actually.”
Richie stared at him with disgust and hatred, his face screwed up as he clutched the arms of the chair. He then turned his back to him, huffing as he looked away.
Ivan chuckled once more, removing the cigarette to exhale into the night air. It was cooler than usual–fall was less than a month away.
“It was interesting, though,” he then admitted quietly. “Having you give in to me. Like a bitch with a dick. Kinda...kinda new to me.”
His lips curled into a malicious smirk once more, his eyes shifting over to see shoulders turn rigid. He would have loved to see the expression on that cutesy face, to see what those eyes were burning with. But he would have to make do with what he saw now.
“Now I know why Stone was all over you the first time. You must have taken a lot of those drama classes in school, huh? To pull off that act?”
“Man, fuck you, Ivan! Shut the fuck up!”
Ivan gave a sharp bark of laughter, dashing ashes over the railing. “That’s it, bitch. Show me more of that drama.”
Richie hunched his shoulders, fingers digging into the chair as his jaw clenched. He stared hatefully into the darkness, wishing with all his being that Ivan had somehow perished in the second Big Bang. That, somehow, someone would take his spiteful life through some extra painful way. The only time he seemed to enjoy himself was when he was crushing others. Things hadn’t changed that much since those days he’d lived as Ebon.
He blew his nose, wiping angrily as more tears burned at his eyelids. Tonight’s fight had been somewhat exhausting, and he’d finally given in to tears as Francis continued to accuse him of all his wrong doings. Breaking had given the redhead more fuel to use, until he himself had grown tired of yelling and mocking, taking the keys so that Richie couldn’t leave. He’d disappeared into the back bedroom and Richie had spent himself crying on the back deck until Ivan’s arrival.
Ivan chuckled lowly once more, sending slivers of warm hatred traveling down Richie’s spine. He looked up and over his shoulder, to glare fiercely at him as he finished off his cig.
He never wanted revenge as much as he did, now. He wanted to turn the tables over the asshole, to see him trip up and stumble, to lose that smug confidence he had. He wanted him to fall like he had. His eyes shifted off and away from Ivan, plans already coming to mind as Ivan walked to lean over the railing.
Heavy thumps from the house told Richie that Francis was coming out to the back deck. He felt his shoulders hunch reflexively, licking his lips nervously as the sliding door was forced open with a loud screech of protest.
Francis tossed the heavy duffle bag in his direction, his face dark and screwed with lingering fury.
“Get outta here,” he ordered, ignoring Ivan as the black man watched the scene with interest. Richie saw that the bag was stuffed with his clothing, as much as the redhead could fit into the available space. “Don’t come back. We’re through. This is over. I’m so sick and tired of your fuckin’ shit. Having all these fuckers on the side, having them send you shit. This is fuckin’ bullshit!”
Richie rose shakily from the chair, eyeing the bag with uncertainty, then looking at him. He was determined not to break in front of Ivan, to avoid seeing that smirk that he knew was there.
“Francis...please...let’s not–!”
“I said, GET OUTTA HERE! I don’t want you here, no more!” Francis bellowed, his voice carrying over the neighborhood and having several dogs bark in panicked excitement. “Get the fuck outta here, you fuckin’ sluthole! Take that shit with you. Don’t come back!”
“B–But–! This is all a mistake! It’s not–! HE–!”
Francis looked at Ivan once the accusing finger was pointed in his direction. He looked back at Richie, who lowered his arm when he realized that if he confessed that it had been Ivan sending those things, he would have to explain why. And he really didn’t want to do that. He lowered his arm and gave Francis a helpless look.
Francis pointed one beefy arm toward the back gate. His jaw clenched, Richie shot Ivan a hateful look, incensed by the careless smile and wave the black man tossed him. He picked up the heavy duffle bag and walked off the porch with both males watching him leave.
After the back gate slammed back into place, Francis gave a low, heavy exhale, his dark eyebrows furrowed together with remaining fury. He looked at Ivan, who was studying the night sky with interest. Without anything more to say, Francis stomped back into the house and angrily kicked over the hapless coffee table on his way to the kitchen.
On the back deck, Ivan laughed joyously.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
It was nearly a week later when Ivan found himself confronted once more by Theresa. Her recognizable hair was half hidden underneath a hair scarf that she had wrapped around her head, her frame hidden by a large t-shirt over capri pants. Makeup-less and slightly pale, her hooded eyes glared at him from over the counter of the check-out counter.
Ivan couldn’t be more glad for the interruption, actually. Francis’ mood swings, combined by his own thoughts of the blond’s demise had been making him a little distracted. Twirling a pair of scissors around an index finger, he looked at her with an expression of boredom, ignoring the ten-year-old that was trying to pay for a single candy bar.
“You’ve got a customer,” she said lowly, gesturing at the boy.
“Fuck ‘im,” he muttered, the boy’s eyes widening. He ran off crying for his mother while Theresa gave him an expression of disgust, shaking her head.
She snatched the pair of scissors from his fingers and set it aside. “You’re a rude ass motherfucker, Ivan. If you’re workin’ in a store like this one, try to be a little friendly?”
“Don’t you have some spic to take care of?”
“Are you still bitter over that?” she shot back, effectively making him scowl and push up from the counter. “Look...as much as I fully enjoy tossing shit at you and enjoying what shit you have to say back, I need to talk to you. Chachi ain’t working today, is he?”
He thought of the short-tempered Filipino that frequented the back, and shook his head. He didn’t recall seeing him, come to think of it.
“I didn’t think so. He was gunned down last week–did you even know that?”
Ivan shrugged. He hadn’t heard anything of the sort. Theresa tilted her head, giving him an exasperated look, but switching that to something of concern. “Something wrong with you, Ivan? You look a little tired.”
This time, he pushed away from the counter. “My shift’s over.”
“No it ain’t,” Theresa disputed, hand on her hip. “You’re just making excuses to fuckin’ slip away again. Don’t be a coward, Ivan, and just talk to me. I need to relay something, and I need your full attention to do it. I’m not about to put up with your escapist attitude right at this here moment.”
“Ch,” Ivan muttered, leaving the counter anyway. Without hesitation, Theresa followed.
She wandered into the back with him after making sure no one was watching. She waited for him to fiddle carelessly with several things, obviously taking his time, then watched him punch out on his timecard. She waited for him to finish putting some things away, then followed him out back. The parking lot was dimly lit, and his Nissian Maxima awaited him nearby.
Without saying anything, she waited for him to unlock the doors, and they climbed into the car. She inhaled the scent of the car, noting the new smell, the faint after traces of marijuana and cologne. Suddenly feeling nervous and a little self-conscious, she ran her hand over the dashboard and played with the heavy case of CD’s while he checked his cell for messages.
“Rudy’s been asking around about who beat up his brother,” she started finally, her voice low, the quiet much too thick to speak normally. “He’s been sending guys over to Francis’ house to check you guys out. He doesn’t know it, yet, but he’s just checking up on ya because you’re an old member of the Playas. I don’t know why...just something to do, I guess.”
Ivan thought of the new faces that had been appearing lately. The women that were invited after being denied. Francis was going all out in an effort to keep from thinking about his husband. His usual whining and ranting had stopped, and Ivan found it a little curious that Francis hadn’t yet attempted to call or look for Richie, like he usually did. He had to wonder if it truly was over.
“I ain’t about that,” he muttered in reply. “Doesn’t interest me.”
“There are people willing to talk. Some know who did it, and if they’re given enough, they’ll give it up,” Theresa warned, looking at him.
“Like you?”
“I could. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.”
“‘Ch...”
“Don’t ‘ch’ me, Ivan. I mean it. Rudy and his brothers mean some business. They’ve been getting all secretive and shit with what they’re doing, but I dunno, man. With all the guys in the Playas suddenly getting killed and all that? What’s that about? I don’t know what they’re doing, or if they’re involved, but too many of them are getting put away or getting killed. Maybe it’s something that’ll eventually pull you in, eh?”
“Maybe it’s none of your business.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Maybe you should just close off those ears of yours an’ stop bein’ so sneaky and shit...”
“Maybe you should just stop the fuckin’ attitude and be grateful that I do this for you.”
“Maybe I don’t want it.”
“And maybe you’re just a fucking bratty child yourself, Ivan. Stop talking to me that way and grow up,” she said in disgust, nose wrinkling. “You are acting like a fucking brat. I’m busting my ass listening to all this shit, and risking all sorts of things to talk to you!”
“Then stop. I don’t appreciate it. I don’t fuckin’ care about things. Ain’t nobody touchin’ me.”
Theresa gave a momentary slump of her shoulders, then she reached out, striking him over the head. He cursed violently, dropping his phone, and raising his fist to hit her back. Despite the threat, she turned to him, snapping, “If this continues to grow, Ivan, it’s not going to be just you involved! Francis will be involved–that stupid husband of his will be involved! Adam will be involved! You need to get out there and fix things before they touch your family!”
He snorted, lowering his fist as he resettled in his seat. “Don’t have to worry about that stuff, cuz nothin’s gonna happen.”
“Yeah, says you.” Theresa opened the door of her car and prepared to get out. “Don’t say shit to me when somethin’ happens to one of you. I ain’t gonna feel sorry for you.”
“Wait,” he heard himself say as she stepped out. She was more surprised than anything to hear that, leaning to look down at him as he frowned at himself. Without looking at her, he asked, “What’s he saying? Rudy?”
“Just that he’s getting business settled.” She shrugged. “That he’s gonna do something about the Playas. Make sure that they don’t fuck with him again.”
“...Haven’t ran with those shits since the Big Bang, man...I ain’t involved.”
“But those kids running to your house are. They just too scared to ask for help. There’s something big going on out there, Ivan, and it’s coming to you. Whether you like it or not. Do something about it. Fix it.”
He grunted in answer, turning on the engine. Theresa lingered for a few moments, looking ready to speak again–but she didn’t. She shut the door and walked away from the car, to walk through the lot back toward the front, where her cousins waited for her.
Ivan watched her leave, and hated himself for feeling the way that he did.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
He had to wonder if he was acting childishly. Or idiotically. Whichever. While strong pride kept him from fully admitting what an ass he was, that he was entirely in the wrong and that he had to be the one to pick up the pieces and put them back together again to make things right, there was a definite part of him that was reluctant to take that step. Years of being stubborn and reluctant to admitting that he’d been the one to cause things kept him from fully embracing that unwelcome change.
Francis stared out at the shadows that danced over the wall before him, listening to the soft breathing beside him.
This one smelled of thick lavender and the more important parts of her smelled of pleasing butterscotch. There was a sick feeling building deep in his gut the longer he sat there, staring at nothing. The clock told him it was past three a.m., and he felt just as awake as he had when he woke up this morning.
The king sized bed felt overcrowded, and he couldn’t even remember her name. He hadn’t even been able to get her off–halfway through, he’d gotten soft and no amount of manipulating had helped it. She had been ‘understanding’–but her lips had smirked and her eyes had danced with amusement before she went to sleep.
Just remembering that made him angry. Without moving too much, he used his right foot to kick her off the mattress. Her shout of outrage made him happy, her breasts bouncing slightly as she picked herself off the floor, snatched her clothes, and flung what she could at him.
That amused him rather than annoyed him, and he watched her stomp out from the bedroom. Amidst the cheers of those that were still in the living room, he heard her screech in mortification and the sound of another door slamming.
Sighing, he raked his hands through his hair and stared at the condom he’d removed earlier when things fell apart.
In all rights, he shouldn’t be throwing a fit. He shouldn’t have been making such a big deal out of things. He was the one sleeping with women, hiding this detail with his own accusations and anger. It was sort of amazing that Richie hadn’t yet heard these facts. The blond was convinced that he was, indeed, sleeping around–just with boys rather than girls. If he knew that he was sleeping with women...well...who knew?
He was trying his best to follow through with his threats. He truly wondered if he should get those divorce papers up and ready–or start following up on suggestions for marriage counseling. He still felt that neediness for Richie–he still needed him. It was why he had trouble sleeping, why his temples throbbed painfully as he struggled to keep from thinking about him. He did all that he could to distract himself from taking back his words and picking up his cell to try and track him down. Clubs, women, booze, and the occasional run-in with guys that felt the need to try and beat him down had pretty much taken up most of his time, but Richie wasn’t that far off from his thoughts.
He felt very bad for letting his anger take control that night; maybe he should consider taking anger management again. He should let this incident slide–let it go. Consider it an eye for an eye. Maybe he should stop going out...stop picking up on women. Stop being so insecure. Stop thinking too much into things–perhaps they weren’t what he thought they were.
He rubbed his eyes. He had been with Richie for far too long, and had started acting as if he were nothing more than property, mistreated and improperly taken care of. He had lost track of the things that were wonderful and great, and had started overlooking the things that mattered because he was convinced he’d always have it.
He had to change himself in order to fix things–he had proposed to him, had married him, because he had convinced himself that he’d find no one else that would accept and love him the way that Richie did.
He had promised his entire life to him; to devote himself to him and no one else.
And what had he himself done?
He sighed quietly, getting up, picking up the stretched condom to toss away. If he wanted things to go back to the way they were in the beginning, he himself had to fix some things. It would be a frustrating road, but it was something he was willing to do–he had to fix his marriage, set things right.
He could do it...right?
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
Meanwhile, across town, Richie gave a gratified moan in his release, clinging tightly to Joe’s shoulders, his face burying into that thick neck as Joe continued to plow into him with hefty, appreciative thrusts. There was nothing more gratifying than being with someone that really appreciated him, that thought him more than vulgar names and property. Feeling the larger man shift over him, his hungry lips searching his out and his tongue taking dominate control over his, Richie sighed happily, not at all guilty or remorseful over being with a man that wasn’t his husband.
And, for the first time, found it exciting to being with someone different and new. The taste was strong, definite, and he was eager for more.
I’m_Alive: Well, I’m glad you ended up liking him! ^_^
Shampoo Marea: Oh, yes, he is. I like him that way. (Winks)
Chapter Ten:
Was It Something I Did? Pt. II
Anxiously shifting in his seat, eighteen year old Anthony Edwards looked around himself. He recognized a few people here and there, but he wasn’t concerned with that. He was mainly concerned that he’d be recognized and ratted out before he could accomplish anything.
He had a ‘favor’ to carry out–Rudy Sedano had been suddenly curious as to know what Ivan Evans was up to, and Anthony had been chosen to infiltrate the enemies’ stronghold...not that Ivan was an active member of the Playas, but Rudy was careful that way. He just wanted to make sure that Ivan was staying that way.
Sweat beaded his brow, and nervousness made his hands clench as he sat on the couch, staring quietly at everything. The house was nicely kept, if not a little frilly with all those damn houseplants lingering here and there, healthy and green. Everything was in place, clean, and neat; stacked with all the entertainment males enjoyed tinkering with.
He recognized Ivan immediately from an older picture Rudy had shown him. He’d been younger, of course, back then; posing with his brother and another friend of theirs, flashing their gang signs at the person taking the picture. While he was a far cry from the Bang Baby he’d been as Ebon, Ivan was still intimidating. Those features of his left Anthony feeling more than nervous.
He looked over at the older man, seeing him talk rather calmly to the ever excitable Shiv–everyone knew Shiv. The guy was cool with everyone; it didn’t matter who was enemies with who, Shiv took only one side, and that was the side of those he considered his closest friends. Anthony took in the former Bang Baby’s appearance–the worn DC logo ring tee, the baggy jeans that allowed an occasional flash of bunched boxers whenever he threw his arms about, the multiple earrings, the eyebrow bar, the apparent weight gain from his days as a kinetic-welding Bang Baby.
Ivan, meanwhile, was calm and cool in dark blue baggy jeans that sagged fashionably, expensive leather K-Swisses on his feet, an oversized tee hanging agreeably somewhere around his mid-thighs. His left wrist was adorned with a Rolex, he wore a white chain, and his earlobes were decorated with the same color hoops. He was thinner than he was back in the day, his cheekbones high and his cheeks slightly sunken–he looked a more thicker version of Snoop Dogg, if that was possible. Except that his hooded eyes were just as menacing and intimidating as they had been back then. They were depths of threats and hidden anger, the strain of a hard life lived apparent on his features. Anthony didn’t want to piss him off–ever.
He’d seen Francis Stone–the large redhead was just as intimidating as his black friend. With his broad shoulders and brawny bulk that made him look as heavy and muscular as a wrestler from television, Francis looked just as powerful as he had when he had powers. He sported only a gold section at his widow’s peak, and had grown side whiskers that looked to distract the thickness of his neck. His brash and often expletive laced words were delivered with the same enthusiasm he had when he was destroying city property. He was dressed better, of course–with a fitting off-white shirt over light blue jeans, he looked a far cry different from the red-shirted menace he’d been. He may have been shorter than those he was entertaining, but he looked capable enough of handling his business.
Anthony didn’t want to piss him off, either.
As he sat and watched the lazy action from those around them, everyone settled in their routine in either entertaining themselves with video games and outside activities, he watched and memorized.
Ivan spoke only to those he was close with, and carried an attitude of snottiness when others tried approaching him. He was cold and describably indifferent to things around him, responding only when he himself was entertained by something that Anthony could only describe as mean and cruel.
He didn’t respond to any of the Playas that spoke to him; and when he did, he was curt and indifferent. This told Anthony that he wasn’t looking to take part in their activities. Rudy would be comforted by that.
His relationship with Stone confused him–they both rubbed at each other with snaps and conversations that were easy-going and of importance, but there was a feeling of brotherly understanding between them both that allowed Ivan to slap insults on the redhead, and for the redhead to insult him with mocking gestures and words.
They seemed to follow each other around; a lot, Anthony realized, after seeing one enter the kitchen, the other not that far behind. It couldn’t be anything homosexual–one would say something, the other would respond, and it was just a feeling that Anthony received when observing them.
He didn’t get it–he thought they had been enemies before the cure.
But he noticed how attached the redhead was to a certain blond that Shiv kept hassling. That was definitely something different from what Ivan and Francis had with each other. Anthony hid his disgust behind the collar of his shirt that he lifted over his nose. The blond was, for the lack of a better word, misplaced. He didn’t belong with the crowd that walked around with alcohol; he didn’t fit in with his strange sort of naivete; he absolutely didn’t fit in with the large redhead and the scowling black man. He wore a pair of long khaki shorts, with a striped button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up muscular arms, and an argyle sweater vest that screamed “nerd!”. He was the one others kept referring to as a fairy–but that was muttered with the utmost caution, those uttering it fearful to be overhead.
He’d heard that the blond was the redhead’s ‘roommate’; someone suggested otherwise, keeping quiet about it just in case. He’d heard, himself, that Francis Stone was a possible fag, but others kept disputing that with stories of seeing him all over various women. He didn’t know who the blond was, so he wasn’t of importance.
But from the way the redhead behaved, looked, and talked to the blond whenever they ran into each other suggested that perhaps more observance was needed.
He’d noticed how...possessive the redhead seemed whenever the blond tried to leave his sight. How the blond looked personally annoyed when he spoke harshly to the muscular hulk. How anybody could talk that way to the former Bang Baby and not get beat down spoke volumes.
Anthony observed quietly, and performed what he needed to to fit in. But he was still nervous in getting caught. Once he had seen all that he needed to, he quietly informed his friends of curfew and left amid mocking laughter and jokes. He laughed along with them, but left with the information he needed to deliver to Rudy.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
Another weekend with more than a few underage partiers, the grill running, a game of horseshoes going, and Richie was annoyed. He wanted to leave; he had other thing he wanted to do. But Francis was extra paranoid over that incident with Tyson and didn’t want him to leave his sight. The moment Richie left to occupy himself with other things to avoid interacting with the other revelers, the redhead was herding him back to where he could see him easier. It was clearly harassment. It was ridiculous, and he was growing ever more frustrated and embarrassed as it continued to happen.
Grumbling to himself as he played with his cellphone, Richie sat on one of the lounge chairs while Francis grilled a few franks, laughing with some of the scruffy males that he’d known before the Big Bang. Seeing that Virgil had called, Richie returned his call and bemoaned his prisoner status while Virgil complained of having ‘empathy pains’ while he spent the day with Shenice. Eager to see and talk to her, as it had been awhile, Richie agreed to meet them later at a pizza joint.
That made, he shut his cellphone and watched Francis talk. Seeing that he was distracted, he quickly left his chair. He rolled his eyes and headed back into the house, his hand trailing along the glass sliding door. He looked over at the two kids that were taking up couch space, looking eerily similar to that of Tyson and Cube. He felt a little sad at that moment–knowing he wouldn’t see Tyson again. In a sort of confusing and awkward way, he wondered what could have happened if they weren’t attacked.
Shrugging to himself, he headed toward the back to fiddle with the computer and maybe check out the Internet for more on the background of Daniel Trujillo. He looked up in time to see Ivan coming out from the guest bathroom, picking at his newly fixed cornrows. Richie smirked at him, still feeling the impression of his crotch in his hand, feeling overly confident and sneaky as Ivan returned the look with one of his own. He intended to walk right past him, to turn his head and snub him when Ivan grabbed his arm, pulled him off course and into the bathroom. Richie was thrown-off by the move, hearing the door slam behind him.
But he couldn’t deny his excitement and curiosity as he turned to face Ivan, who locked the door behind him. Ivan couldn’t do anything to him–if Francis found out, the redhead would definitely throw a fit. Besides, any minute now, Francis would be looking for him. He was safe. Untouchable.
“What’s this?” he asked quietly, gesturing at the situation. Hands sliding into his back pockets, he leaned against the wall, watching Ivan closely. “Secret club conference?”
Ivan studied him for several moments, then licked his lips with a small laugh. At that, Richie felt very uncomfortable and unsure. There was just something chilling about Ivan making light of the situation. He found himself looking for a recorder, or a camera, something of the sort, and looked back at Ivan with a somewhat startled expression.
Ivan moved closer to him, invading his space, Richie pressing himself against the wall as he gave the black man an uncertain look. He didn’t want to let him know he was scared of him, or anything pertaining to that notion, so he kept his hands in his pockets.
Ivan was so close to him, that Richie could look down at him and see the tiny baby hairs that escaped the harsh braids of his ‘rows. He couldn’t recall ever being this close to him, and felt every hair on his arms and the back of his neck rise. He licked his lips nervously, too thrown to really try and manipulate his way out of this one. Frankly...he was also curious as to what Ivan planned on doing.
The silence was heavy, and Richie heard himself swallow as Ivan’s dark eyes focused up on his. Despite Richie having two inches over him, Ivan simply made himself much more bigger than he himself could ever try.
Ivan’s lips curled at the corners as he relished Richie’s current expression. It was sort of nostalgic, really; seeing that same expression on a fourteen year old Richie back when he was Ebon. It almost made him grimace–it had been nearly ten years since that moment...ten years.
For a few more moments, Ivan didn’t say anything. Just enjoyed the trepidation on Richie’s face; the way that confidence slowly died the longer the silence stretched, and the more Ivan stared at him.
He lifted his hairless brow, relishing in that expression as the faint sounds of the outside filtered in softly through the crack at the bottom of the open door. He could pinpoint Francis’ loud laughter, and a twitch in Richie’s expression told him that he could, as well.
And then Ivan was reaching out, his hand clasping firmly over Richie’s crotch, the same way the blond had grabbed him the other night.
Richie gasped in surprise, eyes widening and his face revealing his outrage as Ivan smirked. His fingers twisted and clenched, making the blond cry out suddenly. Ignoring the hands that shot out against his shoulders, pushing at him with stiffened reaction, Ivan tightened his hold and relished the pained cry Richie emitted.
He put a finger against his lips, whispering “Ssh” as he kept his hold. He was disgusted and yet quite satisfied at the reaction he was getting from the blond. While he wanted to yank his hand back and wash it, he savored Richie’s reaction to the entire thing. The pained expression on the blond’s face was immensely fulfilling. Ivan waited a few moments for Richie to calm himself, to realize that he wasn’t applying any more force.
“Now, let’s get some things clear,” he murmured, ignoring the fingers that clenched into his shoulders. “Let me make somethin’ extremely clear to you–first off, like I said before, I really don’t like you. You are like a spoiled, self-centered child that cries at the first sign of lost attention. You started shit with me cuz you’re dissatisfied with your pathetic little life. You picked the wrong man to start shit with. Is this, in anyway, unclear? Do I gotta repeat myself?”
Richie shook his head before answering, his facial features screwed up with pain. His hands left Ivan’s shoulders, to curl over his hand and wrist, his fingers working anxiously at the grip that held his privates painfully. “N-no!”
“Then why you startin’ shit with me? You forget who the hell I am? You bored with things? Trying to live dangerously?”
“NO!”
“Then why?” Ivan asked, his voice lowered to that of a peaceable level. His fingers shifted, taking more of that covered crotch, pinching more of what his digits could reach. A panicked sound escaped the blond’s lips, and Ivan raised his hairless brow again. He felt that slow tingle in his own lower belly, responding to that single sound.
“I–I don’t know!”
“You must. Because you know what you’re doing. You know who you’re messing with. An’ you do it because something about it excites you. You realize that I ain’t like you, right? I don’t like men the way that you do.”
Another sound escaped Richie’s lips, his head lowering, body bending in an effort to somehow cope with the pain that he was experiencing. Ivan shifted, stepping closer, so that when he spoke, his breath hit the top of his head.
“You thrustin’ yourself at me, man! What’s with that? You ain’t interested in me like that, you only playing yourself. It’s disgusting. An’ the moment I start breaking down, you start pullin’ back. There are words for bitches like you. I’m sure I don’t have to repeat them for you to know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Ivan licked his lips as he shifted his grip, to stroke firmly along the seam of his shorts, effectively drawing another gasp from his younger opponent. He continued this action, dropping his head to try and see the expression on the blond’s face, the image blocked by a short fall of golden blond hair. His stroking turned back into a firm hold, force applied to make the stiffened body jerk in almost violent reaction.
“Take this off,” he ordered, pulling on the material briefly before resuming his hold.
At that, Richie stilled, and he lifted his head, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. His head moved, shaking, his eyes shifting from Ivan’s lips to his eyes with a sort of rushed nervousness that made him alluring.
“N-no!”
“C’mon.. .who’s going to know? You might as well as put out.” Ivan once again relished his expression, the shock and the remorse as Richie shook his head again, lifting up and pulling his face out of reach. But when Ivan shifted, his other hand snaking up to his belt buckle, those hazel eyes widened once more, and he shifted to try and move out of his grasp. Ivan ignored the hasty pushes at his hand, tightening his grip on the soft thickness that he held with his other, hearing the choked gasp Richie emitted as he quit struggling.
It took a few moments, but Ivan pulled his shorts open, loose enough to delve with his other hand past the waistband of his boxers, to switch hands in handling that soft mass. He watched closely as Richie’s face paled significantly, horror registering in his eyes, his mouth falling open with shock as the warm heat of Ivan’s palm and fingers found his soft cock.
Cut, smooth, warm, Ivan continued to watch his face as he started to stroke evenly, feeling a lack of response as shock continued to make Richie gape at him. The moment he started feeling a filling hardness in that member, the way the blond suddenly turned red with mortification and repulsion, his lips pulled into a sly grin. Someone slammed the front door loudly, and another panicked gasp left those lips, hazel turning a darker brown as Ivan continued to coax that slowly hardening member to full length.
“Oh, God, stop–!” Richie eked out, squeezing his eyes shut, his hands moving down, fingers flitting with much fuss over Ivan’s moving hand. Ivan ignored that, continuously stroking, watching that face filter with mortification and arousal. Especially arousal. How it made even his neck pink, how it made his lips slightly slack, how those eyebrows shifted into that of helpless flinching. “STOP!”
“Ssh...don’t want people hearing what you’re doing,” Ivan whispered, a malicious grin on his face as he tightened his strokes, moving more faster than he had before. He could feel the heat from that hardened cock, the veins pulsing as he continued stroking. Every so often, his fingers would brush against wiry pubic hair, and he could feel the stiffened trembling of Richie’s body as the blond unconsciously bent, trying to pull himself away from that rough handling.
When Ivan finally recognized that his wrist wasn’t being gripped, that Richie’s fingers were digging into his shoulders, his pleas turning to gasps of pleasure, he knew he’d won. Somewhere between shock and disbelief, the blond had turned into putty into his hands, succumbing to him. It was satisfaction that he felt sweeping through him, careful to keep Francis from feeling it.
Fingers tightened in his shoulders, and he felt glasses dig into his arm as the blond’s body stiffened, hips shifting into the action. Ivan stared at the wall as he felt liquid warmth spill into his hand, a muffled sound pressed against his t-shirt. For a few moments, he enjoyed the pleasant trembling of the younger male’s body, the way fingers clenched his shirt, the smell of the blond’s mixture of perfume and male scent.
He removed his hand; Richie’s cum was thick in his palm, between his fingers, and while he was disgusted at what he’d caused, he was also very pleased in his apparent ‘win’ in this battle. He pulled away, turning his back to the blond. As he washed his hands in the sink, Richie sank to the floor, knees pulled up to touch his forehead as he hid his face in mortification and revulsion. Ivan wiped his hands clean with a nearby hand towel, and looked over at him. He enjoyed the apparent defeat, lips pulling once more into a smile.
He unlocked the door and left the bathroom, immensely pleased with himself.
It took awhile, nearly two hours, but Ivan felt a smirk filter over his face as he watched the blond emerge from the house. Francis certainly didn’t complain when Richie’s full attention was given to him for the rest of that afternoon.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
Ivan wanted to make sure his point was repeatedly driven home; after that incident in the bathroom, he began planning other ways to make sure the blond understood whom he chose to mess with. While Francis worked nearby, Ivan took his time in making elaborate orders to florists, to jewelry shops, to clothing stores. It cost a pretty penny, but he fully enjoyed coming to the house in time to hear Francis rant and rave over the gifts that Richie had received during the day. And when the blond came home from work, Ivan allowed himself to smirk and grin over his pathetic excuses and confused reactions to the presents that Francis flung at him.
A week passed before Ivan stopped having these gifts delivered. Francis was angry all the time, and it crept through Ivan’s own blood, boiling his temper, causing his moods to swing in a more chaotic manner than before. Anxiety, frustration, betrayal and anger were the most common moods he experienced, but it was a small price to pay to seeing that expression of defeat on the blond’s face.
One night, a little startled to see that the house was quiet for once, Ivan walked in, eyes searching the area. He could hear someone tinkering in the back bedroom, but the vertical blinds over the sliding door were wide open.
The lights were off save for those in the back, and there was a thick air of tension in the one story house. Chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek, he took a few steps toward the back, straining his ears to hear whatever it was going on out there. Once he heard Francis’ dark muttering, the sounds of drawers opening and closing, Ivan turned and made his way to the sliding door.
He was out onto the porch with the familiar screech of the door signaling his presence. He looked over to see Richie sitting on one of the deck chairs, his back to him. He had to smirk at the sounds of obvious sniffling, the wiping of eyes.
Reveling in his power, Ivan stared up at the night sky and listened to the occasional hiccup that emerged from that slumped frame nearby.
Finally, it grew too much for him to celebrate quietly.
“Nice night out,” he commented lightly.
Richie turned in his chair, glaring at him with red, swollen eyes. He removed his glasses to wipe more furiously at them, a wadded tissue balled in one hand. “Are you happy, Ivan? Are you fucking happy with what you did?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Ivan admitted, nodding grimly. “It brings me much satisfaction to see things broken and battered. What’s going on, tonight?”
“You did all that, didn’t you? Filled his head with fucking lies, you sent all that stuff so that he’d find it! I fucking hate you!”
“Aw,” Ivan murmured, looking at him with mocking pity. “Poor baby...did the husband find something else that gave away your infidelity?”
“Fuck you!”
“Naw. I ain’t into that.” Ivan shook his head, shaking out a cigarette and lighting it. Over the hiccup that escaped Richie’s furiousness, he commented around the cancer-stick, “Maybe next time, when ya wanna start some shit, you better choose an opponent that is more of your level. You went over your pretty little head with me, boy. Now, you paying for it. I couldn’t be happier, actually.”
Richie stared at him with disgust and hatred, his face screwed up as he clutched the arms of the chair. He then turned his back to him, huffing as he looked away.
Ivan chuckled once more, removing the cigarette to exhale into the night air. It was cooler than usual–fall was less than a month away.
“It was interesting, though,” he then admitted quietly. “Having you give in to me. Like a bitch with a dick. Kinda...kinda new to me.”
His lips curled into a malicious smirk once more, his eyes shifting over to see shoulders turn rigid. He would have loved to see the expression on that cutesy face, to see what those eyes were burning with. But he would have to make do with what he saw now.
“Now I know why Stone was all over you the first time. You must have taken a lot of those drama classes in school, huh? To pull off that act?”
“Man, fuck you, Ivan! Shut the fuck up!”
Ivan gave a sharp bark of laughter, dashing ashes over the railing. “That’s it, bitch. Show me more of that drama.”
Richie hunched his shoulders, fingers digging into the chair as his jaw clenched. He stared hatefully into the darkness, wishing with all his being that Ivan had somehow perished in the second Big Bang. That, somehow, someone would take his spiteful life through some extra painful way. The only time he seemed to enjoy himself was when he was crushing others. Things hadn’t changed that much since those days he’d lived as Ebon.
He blew his nose, wiping angrily as more tears burned at his eyelids. Tonight’s fight had been somewhat exhausting, and he’d finally given in to tears as Francis continued to accuse him of all his wrong doings. Breaking had given the redhead more fuel to use, until he himself had grown tired of yelling and mocking, taking the keys so that Richie couldn’t leave. He’d disappeared into the back bedroom and Richie had spent himself crying on the back deck until Ivan’s arrival.
Ivan chuckled lowly once more, sending slivers of warm hatred traveling down Richie’s spine. He looked up and over his shoulder, to glare fiercely at him as he finished off his cig.
He never wanted revenge as much as he did, now. He wanted to turn the tables over the asshole, to see him trip up and stumble, to lose that smug confidence he had. He wanted him to fall like he had. His eyes shifted off and away from Ivan, plans already coming to mind as Ivan walked to lean over the railing.
Heavy thumps from the house told Richie that Francis was coming out to the back deck. He felt his shoulders hunch reflexively, licking his lips nervously as the sliding door was forced open with a loud screech of protest.
Francis tossed the heavy duffle bag in his direction, his face dark and screwed with lingering fury.
“Get outta here,” he ordered, ignoring Ivan as the black man watched the scene with interest. Richie saw that the bag was stuffed with his clothing, as much as the redhead could fit into the available space. “Don’t come back. We’re through. This is over. I’m so sick and tired of your fuckin’ shit. Having all these fuckers on the side, having them send you shit. This is fuckin’ bullshit!”
Richie rose shakily from the chair, eyeing the bag with uncertainty, then looking at him. He was determined not to break in front of Ivan, to avoid seeing that smirk that he knew was there.
“Francis...please...let’s not–!”
“I said, GET OUTTA HERE! I don’t want you here, no more!” Francis bellowed, his voice carrying over the neighborhood and having several dogs bark in panicked excitement. “Get the fuck outta here, you fuckin’ sluthole! Take that shit with you. Don’t come back!”
“B–But–! This is all a mistake! It’s not–! HE–!”
Francis looked at Ivan once the accusing finger was pointed in his direction. He looked back at Richie, who lowered his arm when he realized that if he confessed that it had been Ivan sending those things, he would have to explain why. And he really didn’t want to do that. He lowered his arm and gave Francis a helpless look.
Francis pointed one beefy arm toward the back gate. His jaw clenched, Richie shot Ivan a hateful look, incensed by the careless smile and wave the black man tossed him. He picked up the heavy duffle bag and walked off the porch with both males watching him leave.
After the back gate slammed back into place, Francis gave a low, heavy exhale, his dark eyebrows furrowed together with remaining fury. He looked at Ivan, who was studying the night sky with interest. Without anything more to say, Francis stomped back into the house and angrily kicked over the hapless coffee table on his way to the kitchen.
On the back deck, Ivan laughed joyously.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
It was nearly a week later when Ivan found himself confronted once more by Theresa. Her recognizable hair was half hidden underneath a hair scarf that she had wrapped around her head, her frame hidden by a large t-shirt over capri pants. Makeup-less and slightly pale, her hooded eyes glared at him from over the counter of the check-out counter.
Ivan couldn’t be more glad for the interruption, actually. Francis’ mood swings, combined by his own thoughts of the blond’s demise had been making him a little distracted. Twirling a pair of scissors around an index finger, he looked at her with an expression of boredom, ignoring the ten-year-old that was trying to pay for a single candy bar.
“You’ve got a customer,” she said lowly, gesturing at the boy.
“Fuck ‘im,” he muttered, the boy’s eyes widening. He ran off crying for his mother while Theresa gave him an expression of disgust, shaking her head.
She snatched the pair of scissors from his fingers and set it aside. “You’re a rude ass motherfucker, Ivan. If you’re workin’ in a store like this one, try to be a little friendly?”
“Don’t you have some spic to take care of?”
“Are you still bitter over that?” she shot back, effectively making him scowl and push up from the counter. “Look...as much as I fully enjoy tossing shit at you and enjoying what shit you have to say back, I need to talk to you. Chachi ain’t working today, is he?”
He thought of the short-tempered Filipino that frequented the back, and shook his head. He didn’t recall seeing him, come to think of it.
“I didn’t think so. He was gunned down last week–did you even know that?”
Ivan shrugged. He hadn’t heard anything of the sort. Theresa tilted her head, giving him an exasperated look, but switching that to something of concern. “Something wrong with you, Ivan? You look a little tired.”
This time, he pushed away from the counter. “My shift’s over.”
“No it ain’t,” Theresa disputed, hand on her hip. “You’re just making excuses to fuckin’ slip away again. Don’t be a coward, Ivan, and just talk to me. I need to relay something, and I need your full attention to do it. I’m not about to put up with your escapist attitude right at this here moment.”
“Ch,” Ivan muttered, leaving the counter anyway. Without hesitation, Theresa followed.
She wandered into the back with him after making sure no one was watching. She waited for him to fiddle carelessly with several things, obviously taking his time, then watched him punch out on his timecard. She waited for him to finish putting some things away, then followed him out back. The parking lot was dimly lit, and his Nissian Maxima awaited him nearby.
Without saying anything, she waited for him to unlock the doors, and they climbed into the car. She inhaled the scent of the car, noting the new smell, the faint after traces of marijuana and cologne. Suddenly feeling nervous and a little self-conscious, she ran her hand over the dashboard and played with the heavy case of CD’s while he checked his cell for messages.
“Rudy’s been asking around about who beat up his brother,” she started finally, her voice low, the quiet much too thick to speak normally. “He’s been sending guys over to Francis’ house to check you guys out. He doesn’t know it, yet, but he’s just checking up on ya because you’re an old member of the Playas. I don’t know why...just something to do, I guess.”
Ivan thought of the new faces that had been appearing lately. The women that were invited after being denied. Francis was going all out in an effort to keep from thinking about his husband. His usual whining and ranting had stopped, and Ivan found it a little curious that Francis hadn’t yet attempted to call or look for Richie, like he usually did. He had to wonder if it truly was over.
“I ain’t about that,” he muttered in reply. “Doesn’t interest me.”
“There are people willing to talk. Some know who did it, and if they’re given enough, they’ll give it up,” Theresa warned, looking at him.
“Like you?”
“I could. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.”
“‘Ch...”
“Don’t ‘ch’ me, Ivan. I mean it. Rudy and his brothers mean some business. They’ve been getting all secretive and shit with what they’re doing, but I dunno, man. With all the guys in the Playas suddenly getting killed and all that? What’s that about? I don’t know what they’re doing, or if they’re involved, but too many of them are getting put away or getting killed. Maybe it’s something that’ll eventually pull you in, eh?”
“Maybe it’s none of your business.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Maybe you should just close off those ears of yours an’ stop bein’ so sneaky and shit...”
“Maybe you should just stop the fuckin’ attitude and be grateful that I do this for you.”
“Maybe I don’t want it.”
“And maybe you’re just a fucking bratty child yourself, Ivan. Stop talking to me that way and grow up,” she said in disgust, nose wrinkling. “You are acting like a fucking brat. I’m busting my ass listening to all this shit, and risking all sorts of things to talk to you!”
“Then stop. I don’t appreciate it. I don’t fuckin’ care about things. Ain’t nobody touchin’ me.”
Theresa gave a momentary slump of her shoulders, then she reached out, striking him over the head. He cursed violently, dropping his phone, and raising his fist to hit her back. Despite the threat, she turned to him, snapping, “If this continues to grow, Ivan, it’s not going to be just you involved! Francis will be involved–that stupid husband of his will be involved! Adam will be involved! You need to get out there and fix things before they touch your family!”
He snorted, lowering his fist as he resettled in his seat. “Don’t have to worry about that stuff, cuz nothin’s gonna happen.”
“Yeah, says you.” Theresa opened the door of her car and prepared to get out. “Don’t say shit to me when somethin’ happens to one of you. I ain’t gonna feel sorry for you.”
“Wait,” he heard himself say as she stepped out. She was more surprised than anything to hear that, leaning to look down at him as he frowned at himself. Without looking at her, he asked, “What’s he saying? Rudy?”
“Just that he’s getting business settled.” She shrugged. “That he’s gonna do something about the Playas. Make sure that they don’t fuck with him again.”
“...Haven’t ran with those shits since the Big Bang, man...I ain’t involved.”
“But those kids running to your house are. They just too scared to ask for help. There’s something big going on out there, Ivan, and it’s coming to you. Whether you like it or not. Do something about it. Fix it.”
He grunted in answer, turning on the engine. Theresa lingered for a few moments, looking ready to speak again–but she didn’t. She shut the door and walked away from the car, to walk through the lot back toward the front, where her cousins waited for her.
Ivan watched her leave, and hated himself for feeling the way that he did.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
He had to wonder if he was acting childishly. Or idiotically. Whichever. While strong pride kept him from fully admitting what an ass he was, that he was entirely in the wrong and that he had to be the one to pick up the pieces and put them back together again to make things right, there was a definite part of him that was reluctant to take that step. Years of being stubborn and reluctant to admitting that he’d been the one to cause things kept him from fully embracing that unwelcome change.
Francis stared out at the shadows that danced over the wall before him, listening to the soft breathing beside him.
This one smelled of thick lavender and the more important parts of her smelled of pleasing butterscotch. There was a sick feeling building deep in his gut the longer he sat there, staring at nothing. The clock told him it was past three a.m., and he felt just as awake as he had when he woke up this morning.
The king sized bed felt overcrowded, and he couldn’t even remember her name. He hadn’t even been able to get her off–halfway through, he’d gotten soft and no amount of manipulating had helped it. She had been ‘understanding’–but her lips had smirked and her eyes had danced with amusement before she went to sleep.
Just remembering that made him angry. Without moving too much, he used his right foot to kick her off the mattress. Her shout of outrage made him happy, her breasts bouncing slightly as she picked herself off the floor, snatched her clothes, and flung what she could at him.
That amused him rather than annoyed him, and he watched her stomp out from the bedroom. Amidst the cheers of those that were still in the living room, he heard her screech in mortification and the sound of another door slamming.
Sighing, he raked his hands through his hair and stared at the condom he’d removed earlier when things fell apart.
In all rights, he shouldn’t be throwing a fit. He shouldn’t have been making such a big deal out of things. He was the one sleeping with women, hiding this detail with his own accusations and anger. It was sort of amazing that Richie hadn’t yet heard these facts. The blond was convinced that he was, indeed, sleeping around–just with boys rather than girls. If he knew that he was sleeping with women...well...who knew?
He was trying his best to follow through with his threats. He truly wondered if he should get those divorce papers up and ready–or start following up on suggestions for marriage counseling. He still felt that neediness for Richie–he still needed him. It was why he had trouble sleeping, why his temples throbbed painfully as he struggled to keep from thinking about him. He did all that he could to distract himself from taking back his words and picking up his cell to try and track him down. Clubs, women, booze, and the occasional run-in with guys that felt the need to try and beat him down had pretty much taken up most of his time, but Richie wasn’t that far off from his thoughts.
He felt very bad for letting his anger take control that night; maybe he should consider taking anger management again. He should let this incident slide–let it go. Consider it an eye for an eye. Maybe he should stop going out...stop picking up on women. Stop being so insecure. Stop thinking too much into things–perhaps they weren’t what he thought they were.
He rubbed his eyes. He had been with Richie for far too long, and had started acting as if he were nothing more than property, mistreated and improperly taken care of. He had lost track of the things that were wonderful and great, and had started overlooking the things that mattered because he was convinced he’d always have it.
He had to change himself in order to fix things–he had proposed to him, had married him, because he had convinced himself that he’d find no one else that would accept and love him the way that Richie did.
He had promised his entire life to him; to devote himself to him and no one else.
And what had he himself done?
He sighed quietly, getting up, picking up the stretched condom to toss away. If he wanted things to go back to the way they were in the beginning, he himself had to fix some things. It would be a frustrating road, but it was something he was willing to do–he had to fix his marriage, set things right.
He could do it...right?
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
Meanwhile, across town, Richie gave a gratified moan in his release, clinging tightly to Joe’s shoulders, his face burying into that thick neck as Joe continued to plow into him with hefty, appreciative thrusts. There was nothing more gratifying than being with someone that really appreciated him, that thought him more than vulgar names and property. Feeling the larger man shift over him, his hungry lips searching his out and his tongue taking dominate control over his, Richie sighed happily, not at all guilty or remorseful over being with a man that wasn’t his husband.
And, for the first time, found it exciting to being with someone different and new. The taste was strong, definite, and he was eager for more.