Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ My Happy Ending ❯ All The Stuff That You Do ( Chapter 20 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimers Apply Here: Manga-Chick does NOT own any part of Static Shock...no matter what she thinks.


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A/N: LEMON!
And...er...violence. >.<


Chapter Twenty:
All The (Stuff) That You Do


The newspaper fell with an alarming slap in front of him, and Virgil gave a startled gasp, looking up from Jean as Richie grinned down at him. The small café wasn’t that busy, allowing Virgil all the time in the world to spend with his daughter. He grinned back at Richie, then down at the newspaper, the headline asking the world where Static and Gear were.

“What has he been doing all this time?” Richie asked curiously, sitting opposite him, pushing Jean’s diaper bag and car seat away from him.

“Static gots duties that are more important than saving people,” Virgil said with some satisfactory, adjusting Jean in his arms, coaxing the rubber nipple into her mouth. “What’s Gear’s excuse?”

“Gear is too busy being pimp.”

Both of them laughed.

“No, man, seriously–I’ve been with my kids and their moms all this time,” Virgil said, shaking his dreads. Which, Richie noticed with a tilt of his head, had been cut. “I haven’t really given much thought to...stuff like that. It’s kinda selfish of me, but...I dunno...I’d just rather be with them than... saving lives.”

Richie leaned back in the booth, fingers forming a steeple, tapping lightly as he gave his best friend a considering look. “That’s weird, man. It’s like...it’s like, we do what we do, but...the responsibilities aren’t there, anymore.”

“Yeah...” Virgil shrugged his shoulder as Jean sucked loudly at her bottle. “I dunno...I’ve only been out three times since these two came along...and I’ve always cut them short to come back to them. Shenice and Oscar will be moving in with me–but Frieda’s going to be staying with her parents. I know it’s all...awkward, but...I love my kids. I’ll do what I can for them. Even if it means...going straight. You know?”

“...Stop being a Bang Baby?”

“...In a way. No, I’d rather keep my powers, but...no more Static. You know?”

“Ah...” Richie trailed off, giving the baby girl a skeptical stare. “Yeah...yeah, I think in all issues arising, you should definitely keep your powers. Who knows? Someone will find out your identity soon enough. And they would...threaten your family. Um...along that issue...”

He paused when the waitress came over, and he gave a brief order. Waiting for her to leave, he then looked back at Virgil, who was carefully wiping away excess spit and baby formula from under Jean’s lip. He grimaced with disgust as Virgil then popped that same finger into his mouth to lick off the mixture.

“The...metahuman...the werewolf? Trujillo?”

“Yeah...heard he killed a few more members. But’s it’s been quiet the past couple of weeks, huh?”

“Yeah...he can change back.”

“Wha–? Really? Holy shit. So why ain’t he cured?”

Richie shrugged, fiddling with the napkin laid out in front of him. Virgil studied him for a few moments, then gave a shocked expression. Without really thinking, he hurled Jean’s bottle at him, Richie giving a startled curse when the object hit his forehead.

“You HO! I don’t think I wanna know why you know he can change back!” Virgil exclaimed, Jean squirming.

“...man, it wasn’t even like that,” Richie muttered, rubbing his forehead. He retrieved the fallen bottle, handing it back over the table. “He attacked me.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that...not with your record,” Virgil muttered, resuming feeding Jean. “With what you’re doing, man, no one’s going to be surprised if someone gets all forceful with you. They’re going to be saying that you asked for it.”

Richie stared at him in silence, then looked down at his silverware. Virgil realized what he said, and looked up to apologize, when Richie spoke quickly, “Did you know Joe committed suicide?”

Seeing the stiffness in his expression, Virgil felt bad for what he said, but he shrugged at the change of subject. “Is that how he died? I heard all the staff talking about it at the gym. By the way, is the membership fee cheaper over where you are...?”

“I dunno. Francis is paying for it.”

“...What do you pay for?”

“Stuff. Heh.”

“...Anyway, people were also talking about how he had member files all saved up on his home PC. He was also embezzling, and had been for a few years. People wanted to talk to you, because you were the one closest to him. And there were ties that you two had....but that’s just gossip. The FBI was investigating him before he succeeded in blowin’ his head off.”

Richie cleared his throat nervously, fiddling with his coffee cup. “Who knew he was that type of person?”

Virgil studied him for a few moments, then pulled the bottle from Jean once more, settling a burp rag over his shoulder and then maneuvered her into position, patting her back firmly. Nothing was said between the two of them, and when Jean finally emitted a loud belch, Virgil resettled her into his arms, picking up the bottle once more.

Richie exhaled heavily, then looked up once the waitress brought over his drink. Once settled with that, he looked over at Virgil once more. “Daniel Trujillo is working with the Sedano brothers... for the Pitts. He’s more closely related to Rudy. Thinks of him as a sort of savior. You know how those ties are.”

“...Kinda figured it’d be a rival gang. Most of the Playas are wiped out, from what I hear.”

“Yeah...”

“Adam was kinda worried that his brother would be targeted.”

“He would be. He is, most likely. But on an unrelated issue. Remember when I talked to you about Theresa?”

“Yeah...”

“Her man is the youngest Sedano.”

Virgil chuckled. “Uh-uh...no way. That’s too obvious.”

“It is. But...from what I caught, Ivan and Francis have something coming to them. Because of that incident. And with how closely Daniel works with Rudy, I am still waiting for the day when the house will be overrun with gang members. Hopefully I’m not there. You know? I don’t wanna be involved.”

“Heh. Francis is out?”

“Yeah...Joe can’t press the charges, y’know? So...I’m happy about that. I mean, not about his death or anything, but that...that Francis is back home. There was a lot of things that I missed about him, and to...I dunno. It’s complicated.”

“Yeah...”

“Why are you here, anyway?” Richie then asked, glancing around himself. “Where’s Frieda?”

“Sharon is convinced that Frieda’s going through a case of Post-baby Depression,” Virgil muttered, shrugging. “I think it’s just the hormones, man. Making her cry one minute, then act all crazy like. But Sharon don’t want no Andrea Yates or that Brooke chick thing going on with Jean, so they’re at that clinic over there. Getting her checked out.”

“Ah...”

“You up for pizza this Friday? Adam, me, and a couple of other boys are heading out. Catch a movie, pizza, stuff like that. Maybe hit the club for a little while. But not too long, cuz I have babysitting duty with Oscar that night.”

Richie laughed. “V, you sound like an old man! Already!”

“I know, but...man...I am content,” Virgil said, beaming proudly down at Jean. Richie gave the baby a dubious look, then shook his head as he continued fiddling with his napkin. “I mean, just having a baby and settling down...? It’s like...well, it’s probably kinda like you when you got married. You just know you’re settled and ready to settle.”

Richie didn’t feel like being called names for his activities, and didn’t mention how he was feeling in his marriage. He merely shrugged.

Virgil looked back over at him once more, then frowned. “I thought you had work, today?”

“Eh. I called in...kinda...I’ve been feeling weird since...since that night Joe died, man. It’s just...”

Virgil gave him a skeptical look. “You had...feelings for him?”

“Oh...oh, no...Virgil, the guy did it right in front of me!”

Virgil’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open, giving his best friend a shocked look. Jean gave a protest once she realized the nipple was pulled out of reach, and he quickly shifted to reapply it. “You never told me that! You were with him?”

“He–I know I shouldn’t be feeling weird about it, but...he approached me in the parking lot at the grocery store. An’–he just...said some stuff and shot himself. It was...definitely not one of my favorite times.” Richie shrugged listlessly. “Plus I intercepted the monthly bills this month, so I’m paying on those so I can destroy them.”

Virgil looked away from his best friend, focusing in on Jean for a few moments. Then he snorted. “Your spending habits, man...just...”

Richie shrugged again. He watched the waitress come back over, and minutes were spent in silence as he looked down at his order. Virgil picked off his plate, and gave his attention to Jean as she began fussing over the last of her bottle.

Watching his best friend with his daughter made Richie uncomfortable. Virgil had changed since his kids’ arrival, and he felt awkward and out of place. Virgil was lost in his own world, his responsibilities set out in front of him. There wasn’t that same level of casual atmosphere between them as there always had been. Virgil was busy thinking about bottles and diapers and which woman he was going to be with that night, and Richie was still messing around with his husband’s mind and other men.

He felt bothersome at that moment, a fry posted just outside his mouth. Suddenly, Virgil was a stranger to him. They were separated by two helpless children, and while he didn’t have a desire to have his own, he suddenly felt that this bridge would continue to widen the more he flitted uselessly in his world. Without the same subjects to talk about, things felt enormously out of place.

He stuffed the fry into his mouth and glared at Jean, feeling utterly horrible and guilty as he did so, but unable to stop himself.

He then looked down at the food in front of him. “Anyway...watch out for your family, V. They’ve been watching you. I mean...Daniel has. Because he followed you, and he knows about your kids...”

Virgil looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Who has?”

“Daniel Trujillo. He knows our identities. He followed you, and he’s followed me. Keep an eye out on your kids.”

Virgil looked almost as if he were ready to lunge across the table to wrap his hands around his neck, and Richie gave him a cautious look, lowering his BLT. “What?”

“He told you this?”

“...Among other things. But...I dunno. Just...be on the look out. Be careful. You know? It was probably just an idle threat, man.”

Virgil angrily kicked the seat opposite him, Richie wincing as he felt the connection inches from his leg. He pulled his legs up to avoid another kick. “That’s fucked up! I don’t want no one fuckin’ targetin’ my family! That’s fucking bullshit! Anyone targeting my family is gonna get their ass fried, man! I mean it! I don’t want no one touchin’ my kids!”

“I’m just sayin’, V! Don’t get mad at me! If you want to stop him from doing anything, take care of him yourself.”

“I will...give me the information. Who’s this Rudy guy? Where they at?”

“I email it to you. I don’t have it all on me right now. Look...just...I’m sorry. I just wanted to warn you, not piss you off–”

“How would you feel if–if Francis was targeted?”

Richie shrugged, taking a bite out of his sandwich. “He’s always targeted, V. Nothin’ new...”

“I mean...damn. You’ll never know, Rich,” Virgil muttered, adjusting Jean, burping her once more. Richie rolled his eyes, and Virgil caught the action, an annoyed expression flitting over his face. “C’mon, man! You have to see it from my point of view! Just–these kids, they’re so helpless. They can’t defend themselves! They can’t–! You won’t know, man. You just won’t. There’s no use trying to explain it to you.”

Richie lowered his sandwich, giving him a considering look.

Virgil was packing up all of Jean’s things, looking extremely tense as he did so. As soon as he had Jean belted into her seat, he swung the diaper bag over his shoulder, and picked up the contraption. Swinging her off the table, he muttered, “See you later.”

Richie gave a listless wave, glaring at his food as Virgil left the café. He glared at the seat Virgil and Jean had taken, and shook his head.

“‘M never having stupid kids,” he muttered, losing his appetite. He threw down some money to pay for his things, grabbed the newspaper, and left the café in a huff.

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Francis ate quietly, his eyes never leaving Ivan as the black man ate his own lunch. Diego, a coworker of theirs, was talking animatedly in Spanish, and while Francis had no idea what was being said, Ivan was following along pretty good. But he spoke English in response.

He was trying to see what Richie saw in Ivan–he couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t see Ivan from someone else’s point of view–he just knew what he knew. To him, Ivan was short, dark, and skinny. That was the extent of his examination.

Richie never seemed to express interest in men of color–he’d always been attracted to whites and the occasional Hispanic. Francis had never seen him perform double takes on black men or other men of color. And in his history of fooling around with other boys before their marriage, Richie had chosen men that were taller than him, with darker hair and manlier features.

Francis suddenly shivered with disgust, and nearly choked on his food. Both men looked over at him with puzzlement as he sheepishly spit out what he’d managed to clear out from his throat. He wrapped up the regurgitated food within a napkin and set it aside, frowning as he contemplated his fingers.

Seeing those two on the back deck this morning had been something of a wake-up call. He’d had his suspicions. He’d had his comments–and he just knew that they’d done something behind his back. They still snapped and snarled at each other, but there was a level of intimacy between them that was much out of place.

He’d seen the way Ivan had stared at Richie; had seen the way Richie addressed him. His actions, his mannerisms; the way he behaved around the black man were the same ways he’d used to pull him in. Teasing, flirting only with body language...Francis felt sick at that. He covered his mouth. How often had the pair been together? For how long? Was there something satisfying in their actions that kept Richie pleased? What wasn’t he doing?

The more he dwelled onto those thoughts, the more sick he felt. He felt sick and depressed when he learned of Richie’s affair with Joe, but this was something different. This was closer. This was an incident where his husband fooled around with his best friend/brother. This was entirely different. It made him feel wholly inadequate and useless, and he hated those feelings.

Richie had made him feel as if he had purpose–Francis always felt he had a duty in taking care of him, of loving him. He always felt useful spending money on him, on being there for him; of taking care of him in ways that he’d seen straight couples do for each other.

They had history; and for Richie to turn to Ivan for something made Francis feel as if every effort he’d made had been for naught.

He looked up at Ivan again, the man speaking calmly in English over whatever had Diego so worked up. What could Richie see in him? The fact that he made money? Did Ivan buy him things? Did he touch and kiss him with all the tenderness and love that Francis did? Did he hold his hand and caress his knuckles in the way Richie liked? Did he wake him up with sex and kisses in all that time Francis was in jail? Did they take over every room in the house, to mark it all with their bodily expressions?

He didn’t want to think that way–but male hormones and sex were impossible things to ignore and suppress.

He stared over at Ivan until he realized Ivan was looking back at him with a frown. Not bothering to suppress his expression or his feelings, Francis turned and looked out the window and wondered how he was going to fix this.

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That next morning, Shiv tossed something small at Richie, making the still sleepy blond react hastily to catch it. Shiv had come over to use their washer and dryer before he went to work, and Richie had ventured out into the kitchen for a Coke, Ivan rummaging through the cupboards for something to eat.

With some interest, Ivan turned and watched as Richie examined the item, Shiv snickering.

“My last chick left that. Thought of you when I found it,” he said casually, as if he were doing some great favor.

Richie made a face at the tube of red lip gloss. He lifted a fist, but suddenly paused, scrunching his brow as Shiv turned to rummage through the fridge. Silently, Ivan watched as Richie opened the tube, dab the shiny slickness onto the pad of one finger, and wipe it over his bottom lip. With a mixture of disgust and intense fascination, Ivan watched as the shiny application spread over that fullness, the way he rubbed his lips together.

For some reason, this was intensely arousing, and Ivan couldn’t look away. Shiv straightened away from the fridge, and Richie dropped the tube carelessly on the counter, looking evil as he faced the Asian.

He lunged at Shiv, Shiv reacting quickly, hands flying up defensively, Richie pushing past them to kiss him soundly. He captured Shiv’s head between both hands and rubbed lipgloss over the startled Asian’s mouth. Shiv emitted panicked screams and protests, trying to keep his mouth shut, pushing at him roughly.

Both of them immediately separated, giving pained and terrorized howls as lips were scraped with panicked fingers. Shiv stumbled off toward the back, Richie lunging for the sink.

Ivan blinked.

Richie was still bent over the sink as Francis came in with a bewildered expression, dressed for work. His hair was still wet, unstyled as he gave the kitchen scene a confused look.

“Why the fuck is Shiv pulling a Crying Game in my shower?” he asked with a highly confused tone, looking for answers. He stared at Richie, noticing that he was half drowning himself with the running sink water. “What the fuck...?”

Francis looked over at Ivan, who shrugged, hand snaking out to snag the tube of lip gloss. Francis shook his head, grabbing his keys from the counter. He reached out to pinch the tender curve of Richie’s ass, making him jolt upright from the sink with a garbled noise.

“I’m out. See ya,” Francis then said, shooting Ivan an unreadable expression as Richie wiped his face.

Rubbing his ass painfully, Richie watched him leave, Ivan moving toward him, deftly uncapping the tube of lip gloss. As the door shut behind Francis, Richie looked over at him with confusion, stilling when Ivan captured his chin with one hand, the other lifting the tube. Over the faint noise of Francis starting his vehicle, Ivan applied the gloss over Richie’s lips, taking it carefully as he spread the tint over them. Staring quietly at Ivan’s concentrating expression, Richie stood still with a mixture of tension and bewilderment, awaiting insults, degradation.

“Rub ‘em,” Ivan then commanded, the order huskily given. Richie performed the command, rubbing his lips inward. Ivan stared at him for a few moments, Richie looking at him with an inquisitive stare, unsure of what would happen.

Ivan focused on those red tinted lips, over the shiny slickness that made Richie’s lips suddenly delectable. If he focused only on those lips, he wouldn’t see the more manly features of Richie’s face, the masculine boy that both tempted him and encouraged his hate. Richie stared at him silently, keeping still as he watched Ivan’s eyes burn with his intensity.

Then Ivan stepped back, Richie then hearing the sounds of Shiv cursing, emerging from the back bedroom. But he didn’t take his eyes away from Ivan, who pocketed the tube of lip gloss, turning away as Shiv came out.

“You do that again, and I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” he shrieked furiously, punching the air as Richie wiped his mouth. Shiv grabbed the keys to his car and stomped out from the house, slamming the door hard behind him.

Richie snickered, turning to watch him angrily cross the lawn, cursing and punching the air repeatedly the entire time.

“Should’ve done that a long time ago,” he muttered to himself, narrowing his eyes with thought as the Neon started, and pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires.

He then stilled when he felt his pants forcefully pulled down, his breath catching as he was forced to bend over the sink. He started to struggle, but sucked in a quick breath once he felt the head of Ivan’s cock pushing against his entrance. He wanted to push him away, to stop the entire thing, but he felt that if he did, he’d only defeat his own chances of besting him. If Ivan suddenly wanted him, then he was still in control. So he relaxed, gripping the sink tight as he pushed his ass at him.

Ivan plowed into him, wringing a startled and pained shout from Richie as he struggled to accept that length. He felt all thick ten inches invade and fill his body, pain splitting up his spine. Ivan held tightly onto his hips, grunting with the full sheathing of his cock into Richie, adjusting himself to better push and pull. Richie pushed against him, bucking slightly, gripping the sink with both hands as he bent to allow Ivan better access.

Pulling out slightly, Ivan hissed at the heated feel, the way his foreskin shifted as Richie’s body struggled to hold onto him. Unlubed, the action felt more painful than pleasurable, but his thoughts were more of dominating and possessing than comfort. He slammed back in, causing Richie to jolt over the sink, giving a loud cry as took the harsh movement. Ivan felt the blond pull forward, bucking against him, moving to gain control.

Ivan stopped that movement with a loud smack of his palm against his bare cheek, watching the rippling effect from that action. Richie gave a clenched groan, his body heaving against the sink as Ivan began pounding into him, barely taking his time with drawing his length out–just slamming into him with all the force and power he had in this position.

Richie’s breath turned heavy, head tilting back, releasing occasional moans as he struggled not to use his body to ask for more, fearful of more painful slaps. He felt Ivan shift, realized that something was being pushed into his hand. Ivan stopped moving long enough to order him to put it on. Richie looked at it, realizing that it was the lip gloss. But he didn’t balk–he shifted to do so, the application messy as Ivan began moving again. He dropped the tube and cap into the sink, moaning as hot flashes of pleasure shot up his body, his growing erection confined by the painful immobility of the sink counter. He felt Ivan slip out of him, murmuring orders for him to get onto the counter. Richie did so, facing him, stretching one leg out onto the stove, sitting at the very edge of the counter edge, leaning back onto the sink with both hands as Ivan entered him once more.

It began again, Ivan growling as he invaded Richie’s body, enjoying the heated feel, the way Richie abided to his control. Those gloss slicked lips were slack, open with his pleasure sounds, his hips shifting to meet his thrusts. Ivan removed his glasses, setting them aside, then shifted to pull Richie to him, mashing his lips against his, enjoying the taste of passion fruit and Richie’s own unique flavor. He smeared the slickness over Richie’s mouth, his chin, smearing it so that it made his lower face slick and lightly tinted. With one free hand, Ivan shifted Richie’s free leg over his shoulder, and enjoyed the tightened feeling of his ass, the raise of pitch in his pleasure cries.

Leaning against the sink with one hand, he used the other to rest over Richie’s balls, to wait for the tightening, the signaling of his cum. He pulled his lips from his, to start taking his time in his thrusting. Richie protested this with a small whine, shaking his head, Ivan fixing this by lightly smacking his balls. Ivan enjoyed the shocked cry, moving slower, to enjoy each and every stroke he made into his body.

Above all the heavy breathing, the fretful ways Richie shifted against him to have him hit better places, Ivan focused on what he was doing. He wanted to race out of control, to slam into him repeatedly until he gained release, but he could not. He wanted to enjoy and relish every second, feeling the contrasting coldness of the kitchen against his slick dick to the heated tightness of Richie’s ass whenever he pushed in.

His hand moved from his balls, smoothing up his hardened and quivering stomach, to snake up his shirt and find his nipples. He tweaked them, rolling the nub under his fingertip, then lightly biting them over his shirt. Richie sucked in a deep breath, his hands curling around his waist, pulling him closer, giving a hot little groan that made Ivan’s blood heat with an explosive burst.

Ivan pressed his head forward, murmuring quietly, biting Richie’s lips to keep him quiet. For that effort, Richie bent his head, to start sucking and biting on Ivan’s neck, gripping his head firmly within both hands to get that advantage. Strong jolts of pleasure shot down Ivan’s body, his fingers tightening over his hips, kneading roughly as he felt Richie’s tongue scrape over his skin.

Eventually, he came to a point where he couldn’t hold back–he shifted Richie’s hips firmly, thrusting harder until the blond’s body was practically knocking against the window, Richie holding onto the counter to keep himself from slipping away.

Ivan came first–he wasn’t proud of that, ramming himself deep and heatedly into his body, even as he filled his ass with his cum. He grunted strongly at that, but he wasn’t going to come alone. He curled his fingers around Richie’s erection and pumped him hard and quick with his thrusts. Richie suddenly straightened, to wrap his arms around his shoulders, face burying into his neck, his cum spilling into Ivan’s hand.

Both of them panted heavily in their positions, struggling to regain control of themselves. Ivan listened to the rapid pounding of Richie’s heart against his head, feeling his breath sweep over his heated flesh, and marveled quietly at the feel of his slick dick slowly deflating in his hand.

In the silence that followed, Richie pulled away from him, giving him a sort of expression reserved for the smug, but also troubled by what had occurred.
Instead, he shifted, managing to squeeze Ivan’s own deflating length as it continued to linger within his leaking hole. His hands shifted to hold onto his face, forcing Ivan to look up at him.

“You’ll never get enough of me, Ivan,” Richie about purred, smug expression crossing his features. “You think you may have started this on your own, but–”

“You’re nothing but a whore. Everyone has to take their place on a whore,” Ivan muttered, shifting away from him, to watch as his dick flopped from Richie’s body and swung heavily against his body. It was slick with mucus, tinges of blood, and his own sticky semen. He wanted to throw up.

“Funny, how you’re the only one making a big deal out of it,” Richie muttered, gripping his face once more. He kissed Ivan gently, his tongue probing into his mouth, sweeping lazily over his teeth. Ivan jerked his head from his grasp, reaching for the wash rag nearby to clean off the mess on his dick.

He gave Richie a disgusted look, tossing the dirtied rag onto him as he shifted to pull his pants back up. “You offered. I took, bitch. That’s how it works.”

“I offered nothing. You took what you perceived was an offer. You take things out of context, Ivan,” Richie muttered, grimacing as he shifted off the counter. He cleaned himself as well, wincing at the very sore and widened feeling he now had. The sex may have been good, but it wasn’t half of the last time. He tossed the rag toward the garage door, locating his pants on the floor, moving into them. He looked up at Ivan as he pulled his pants and underwear on. He intended to drive home more of his point in his irresistible charms when someone caught his eye beyond the kitchen entrance.

Nothing shocked him more than seeing Francis standing there, looking almost blank as he stared at them both. It felt as if all breath had left him, punched from him.

Ivan didn’t see this. He reached out to grab Richie’s half done pants, pulling him close. He brushed a kiss over his lips, the blond going entirely rigid at the contact.

When he pulled back, he saw the way Richie was staring past him, the deathly pale color overtaking his previously flushed features. He quickly pulled away from the blond, turning to see Francis standing there, looking just as stunned as Ivan felt himself.

The kitchen was entirely silent, and Ivan felt a very heavy load of unease dump into his body as Francis stared at them both. He couldn’t think of ever hearing his arrival, or missing him entirely through the kitchen window. Just that...he was there...

For a few moments, Francis retained that lost expression–then his features slowly shifted into that of customary heat, his eyes darkening with immense rage. His trembling was visible as his fingers curled into thick fists, and even Ivan felt that shiver of fear shift through him.

“What. The. Fuck?!” Francis exclaimed tightly, his voice noticeably thick and scratchy.

Richie moved away from Ivan, never taking his eyes off of him as Francis fumed at the mouth of the kitchen.

Ivan felt his lips tighten, and he couldn’t even think of anything to say. He just felt Francis’ fury wash through him, warming everything once more in customary fashion. This time, he didn’t bother with trying to hide anything as Francis’ feelings of betrayal and heartbreak also touched that fury.

“You fuckin’ him? Rich?! Ivan?” Francis snarled, pointing out the obvious. “You fuckin’ him?!”

Ivan felt himself shrug, struggling to retain his own sense of identity. But he hid his shaking hands as he crossed his arms stubbornly. Francis stared at him in silence, then asked, in a cracking voice, “How long?”

Both Richie and Ivan stared back at him in silence, Francis growing agitated and moving closer to them. Richie moved back, trapped by the counter, Ivan raising an eyebrow at Francis’ closeness. Francis stared at both, then focused on Richie. Richie felt himself swallow tightly, looking into that furious expression.

Francis then looked at Ivan, pointing at him accusingly. “I’ll talk to you, later. Get the fuck out.”

Ivan stared at him for a few moments, then looked back at Richie. Richie looked at him with an expression of fright, obviously in shock over the entire thing.

Shrugging, Ivan walked around the seething redhead and left the house.

Francis watched the door close behind Ivan, and then faced Richie once more, his face reddening with rising fury.

“Ivan?!” he barked in disbelief.

Richie swallowed again, focusing on the vein that bulged on his right temple.

“Rich?! You fucking him?”

Richie couldn’t think of anything to say, all thoughts failing him at that moment. He could only stand there, facing him, recognizing the rising fury that seemed to consume his husband at that moment.

When Francis moved, to kick savagely at the fridge, his entire body tightened and he jumped. At that moment, he could have thrown himself over the counter and ran with all the same actions he had when Daniel had attacked him that time. But he just couldn’t move.

“For how long?!” Francis screamed at him. “You fucking him, that’s fucking disgusting! I saw the–I saw it. I knew–I knew something----I knew something was going on, I–I came back. I came in back, an’ I was hopin’–! I was hoping that I wasn’t right–but I came in through the back, and...and you’re fucking–Ivan’s fuckin you–! Richie!”

Richie registered that he was shaking violently. That his fingers were curled inward, and every part of him was tight with fear. He felt his insides trembling as Francis’ voice broke and cracked over his revelation over what he’d seen. Guilt like he’d never felt trickled through it all, tracing the outer edges of his fear.

Francis’ fingers clawed through his hair with tight agitation. He held both hands atop of his head, arms flexing with his fury as he struggled to calm himself. He paced with all the power of a caged animal before Richie, who still couldn’t find the will to move from the counter. It seemed Francis was trapping him there–making sure that he couldn’t escape.

“My best friend...you...you and him...he’s like a brother to me...you know how fucked up that is?!” Francis asked, the last of his sentence breaking into a scream.

Richie stared at him, his teeth clenched together. Felt the sickeningly warmth of Ivan’s sperm dripping from him and staining his boxers. Felt his face flood with shame at that moment, his stomach tightening with agonizing pain.

“You....you could’ve...been with any fucker out there...and you choose him. When we–while I thought things–I thought things were fixed–! An’...an’ they ain’t...cuz you’re screwing...you’re having Ivan screw you...you...does he put out for you like that, huh? Does he...does he go bottom for you, Rich? Since...since I don’t...?”

Richie felt that guilt again, at the agonized despair in Francis tone, the way his voice cracked again. The way his dark, narrow eyes brightened with tears. He couldn’t stop shaking, unable to take his eyes away from his husband.

The thought that he was going to be hit made him want to curl into one of the cupboards, to somehow escape him that way.

It was going to hurt, and he knew he was going to be hurt in that way. It made his throat tighten, and for his breathing to grow ragged.

“When...when we fixed things, an’...an’ took those classes...Richie, you’d still be fucking with him... Behind my back. When you both...when you both think I ain’t lookin’...how could you? How could you with him? How could you do this when...when we’re just...we’re...one. We’re one person....we...” Francis was rambling this way, still in obvious shock over the entire thing.

Richie didn’t understand why–he knew last night that something was happening.

But maybe it was different when one seen the whole thing right in front of them.

He shifted, to reach out to hold onto the counter because he thought his legs were going to give out from under him. And Francis shifted quickly, blocking his escape with his hulking frame.

His eyes were nearly wild with frenzy. Richie stared into those depths and felt himself shake violently.

The kitchen was silent–incredibly thick with tension. With all the wild emotions that were running through each one. And when Richie gulped in tightly, he smelled the sex he’d just had with Ivan. Knew that Francis could smell it, too. It felt suffocating, and he felt deprived of oxygen. The scent of sex was too strong, and he felt wholly nauseated by it.

It was hard to speak. But when he did, it felt as if he hadn’t spoken in ages.

“He...it’s not...it’s not that way,” he uttered, trying to explain.

Francis stared at him in silence, his eyes boring into his. Then, quietly, he asked, “What’s not, Richie?”

“...He...he doesn’t...he doesn’t care–I don’t care–it...it was just...just mind....just games. I...we still hate each other. It’s...it’s something that...”

“Oh. I get it. Kinda...kinda like, both of you have something to prove?”

Richie hated how soft and understanding Francis seemed as he spoke, as if he knew it all. He just knew that was entirely opposite. That he was not feeling any of that at all. He swallowed tightly, his mouth and throat dry with his agitation. Sweat had beaded upon his forehead, and he visibly shook as Francis began advancing on him. He pressed himself against the counter, trying to stay out of reach, but it was all in vain.

The moment Francis touched him, a sound of distress left Richie, and he struggled to stay upright, his eyes shifting everywhere but on him. He all but curled up on himself as Francis’ fingers shifted through his hair, brushing idly at the beads of sweat on his forehead. He was breathing raggedly as Francis curled his fingers over his chin, to force him to look up at him.

Francis looked down at him in concern, but his eyes spoke of other things as he looked at Richie.

“Just mind games, man? I mean...you tease him, he teases you...both of you screw? Like that?” he asked, his fingers rubbing briefly over Richie’s chin. He then grew concentrating as he rubbed at the lingering traces of lip gloss that still clung to his skin. “Man...we never got this kinky...him using you...like a girl. Kinda...kinda interesting. I mean...you never said anything. Just...”

He felt Richie’s Adam’s Apple bob tightly, and could hear the clipped way he struggled to breathe. Francis looked at him with silent consideration, staring into those fear hazed eyes. How, merely minutes before, they were filled with lust and passion.

He slapped him without really feeling it–just knew that he had because Richie was cringing, his head swept to one side. And because he didn’t feel it, Francis hit him again, letting some of his fury out with that second hit.

This time, Richie hit the bar counter, catching onto the edge with both hands. With a roar of outrage, Francis grabbed his shirt, jerking him off the counter, angrily handling him as he kept seeing the way Richie had moaned and gasped his way with Ivan. Willingly, and very much enjoying every action. He flung him against the fridge, heaving fiercely, red tinging his sight.

Richie caught himself before hitting the fridge, just knowing that he had to get out of there before things turned even worse. The moment his shoulder connected with the fridge, he was pushing away and running, hearing Francis come after him. He gave a startled shout once he felt Francis grab his shirt, hauling him backward. He hit the overstuffed chair, striking out quickly to keep himself from falling completely, connecting with Francis’ thick arm. It felt as if he’d struck a wall, instead, Francis angrily shifting his fist aside to start reigning hits of his own. He was caught against the back of the chair, opposite forces keeping him there, even as he tried sinking dead weight to the floor.

“Fuck you–! Lied to me–! Didn’t even–bother–to deny it–!” Francis was growling all the while, easily striking whatever vulnerable spots he could. Not holding back because this man was his husband and was more delicate than him. He just wanted to inflict pain upon him. He couldn’t really think beyond that measure.

Richie threw up his arms, the defense meager, feeling thick knuckles sweep past his arms and connect with his jaw, with his body, with his sides. He could only curl into a ball against the chair, shouting with fear and pain as Francis continued hitting him.

“–Francis–! Stop–! STOP–! Francis–!”

Richie’s arms flung outward when he was hauled from the overstuffed chair, feeling very much like a rag doll, unable to stop the other punches that rained down onto him. He covered his face and head, struggling to curl into a ball as he screamed with fright.

“STOP! Hel–! Stop! Francis!! Someone–! Help–! Ow–OW!”

The moment he felt a pause in his hits, he struck out quickly, his own fist catching Francis upside the jaw. That only managed to knock him back a bit, but enough to give Richie room to shoot to his feet. The moment he saw Francis reaching for him, seemingly unaffected by the blow, Richie ducked under his arms and punched his gut, aiming more for his groin.

"Motherfucker, you think that'll hurt me? You can't hit worth shit! Can't---! You can't hit worth shit! Fucker! Cum dumpster! Fucking sluthole! Fucking slut, fucking dirty slut!"

Francis seemed impenetrable in that aspect, screaming obscenities as his fingers curled into both Richie’s hair and shirt, swinging him easily into the back wall. And as one fist curled around his neck, Richie choking with the force used, Francis slammed a fist into his groin.

“Can’t think without this!” he shrieked, his voice frightening with the violence he inflicted as he punched Richie again in the same area. The blond choked with pain and fear, his body immediately reacting to the impacts. Nausea hit him violently, as well as blinding pain that nearly made him black out. “Thinking with this! Always–wanting–attention–!”

The moment he started to feel Richie passing out, the way his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his weight settled into his hand, Francis let him go. The blond immediately crumpled onto the floor, curling his arms around his hips, curling into a ball. He retched and coughed, choking on it all as Francis fought for breath.

His fists were shaking violently, and he paced with agitation. He forced his fingers to spread, to run them through his hair, gripping the strands violently. Above all the sounds of Richie’s puking, the way he sobbed quietly between retches, Francis wondered just how long he’d been made a fool of. Wondered how he could have missed it all. Wondered if this time in the kitchen had only been one of many.

He felt sick inside, sick and betrayed. He knew he had made mistakes before, all of them because he felt he wasn’t very bright–and he’d forgiven Richie for Joe.

He’d thought–he’d believed that Richie wasn’t with anybody else.

But he’d known something was with Ivan. Something...but never to this extent–he felt horribly used and violated at the thought of his husband being with the black man when they put on a show for everyone with their sniping and snarling.

He turned, almost losing his balance, kicking Richie in the back. He couldn’t stop feeling all this pain, this horrible violence–even as Richie curled into a tighter ball, screaming his name with fear crazy shrieks, Francis couldn’t see all that. He just felt horribly and utterly used. And betrayed. He aimed for his kidneys, for his ribs, anyplace that he knew would hurt. And he used all his strength, all his fury---nothing held him back.

He bent, forcing Richie up to his feet, slapping him repeatedly, grunting with each impact, wanting to kill him for all that he’d done. All his mistakes, his lies, his incompetence in everything that pulled at every nerve. All of it. For being smarter, for being younger, for being male, for being all that he thought he’d needed and wanted and failing at all that.

He didn’t see the Ficus being pulled from the floor, the heavy pot slamming against his head, knocking him back and stunning him. Francis staggered backward, seeing white light for a moment, but then he regained his steps, seeing that Richie was moving toward the front door. Darting forward, Francis grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him back–putting all his force into it, swinging him with enough force to send him flying.

There was an obscene and sickening crack once Richie connected with the entertainment center. Francis watched with a sort of stunned silence as his husband crumpled to the floor with no action to keep himself from hitting the coffee table with another loud crack of sound.

Francis panted lightly, listening to the horrible silence of the living room. His fury subsided, then. As if magically flipped off with a switch. He started to see things, again. His breath was harsh and heavy, his chest very tight and almost painful with constriction. His arms shook with weakening force, his fury draining every bit of strength and power that he had.

He sank to the floor, heavy sobs escaping him, then.

He had wanted to think that things would be fixed. That they would resume being who they were before things started to fall apart. But with this revelation...it didn’t seem like things would ever be the same way, again.