Swords and Earthquakes - Rictor/Shatterstar - NC-17
Title: Swords and Earthquakes
Rating: NC-17
Fandom; Pairing: X-Factor; Rictor/Shatterstar, and EVERYONE+Rictor (Not kidding. Everyone.)
Word Count: 2,073
Disclaimer: Full disclaimer in my profile. I don't own the story or characters. They belong to Marvel Comics.
Summary: Mexico-era. Shatterstar works out. Rictor shows off. Violence and destruction should not be turn-ons, but this is them. Also, there's a sunrise. It's very romantic.
Rictor wakes up in the truck’s cab. They are still hundred and hundreds of miles from Guadalajara. This is their first night within the borders and he just spent it sleeping in the truck. He hopes Shatterstar pulled over and has gotten some sleep too, at least. Pickup trucks may be toys in comparison to 22nd century Mojoland technology, but ‘Star still needs to be getting rest.
It’s still dark out, though he can see in the grey of night, so it’s nearing dawn. He rubs his face, yawns, scratches, all the very important waking up things to do, and then crawls out of the cab and into the cold, dark dawn.
Shatterstar is just outside, a blur of pale skin and tight white clothing. His hair is just a shadow in the dim light.
“He’s working out,” Ric realizes. “At, dios mio, four o’clock in the morning.”
Rictor rubs his eyes again, waiting for them to focus more in the limited light.
The work out is a blur of motion, really. If there weren’t swords, he might mistake it for a particularly athletic form of dance. Even with swords, it’s as if they are very extensions of his arms and when he kicks out, both arms thrust in the opposite direction of one powerful, fully extended leg, Rictor doesn’t imagine enemies being defeated, he imagines music. Pounding club music, which makes him think of his failed attempts to take Shatterstar clubbing, the awkward attempt at talking.
Does ‘Star even remember that? Did he see it for what it was, well, other than pathetic?
He stops thinking about that, stops thinking at all, as Shatterstar joins the hilts of his swords, fists tight together, and makes himself into a whirl of sharp, metal death. It moves seamlessly into a kickflip, a roll, a split, and swords thrust out and up. Shatterstar pulls up and out of the split effortlessly, his back leg sliding under his hips and then up. He practices blocks, even so much as tossing one sword at another and deflecting it back into his hand.
It’s a spectacular show in monochrome: silver blades that catch hints of light, white pants, bare chest and feet and hands all pale in the early dawn.
“Spar with me?” Shatterstar asks, brightly.
Rictor’s throat is scratchy and his knees are stiff from sleeping seated. Also, he’s half hard from morning wood and the, ay, private show.
“Sure, ‘Star,” he says, against all better judgment.
He comes over and, hey, if Shatterstar won’t drop the swords then he has no problem using his powers, to even the playing field.
He presses his palms together, already feeling more awake when he feels the shiver of power in his bones. He’s in boots and boxer shorts and a shirt, which is not as maneuverable as Shatterstar’s tight white leggings and bare feet. He is already down on Shatterstar in speed and agility. Also, swords.
The ground shakes, cracks, shifts, bulges, breaks under Shatterstar’s feet. It doesn’t throw him off for a step, but it slows him down enough for Rictor to play keep away while he tries to think of how he can bare-handedly disarm a man who never lets go of his swords. The ground thrusts up suddenly, making an incline, a wall, not planned but it’s how the ground cracks when he shakes it. A sword point comes through the soil towards Rictor’s collar and then ‘Star if vaulting over the edge.
Ric’s step back is clumsy, nearly a fall. One of Shatterstar’s swords reaches out, tucking under the loose fall of his shirt as it billows out from the fall he almost took. ‘Star’s wrist makes a twist and suddenly the two blades slice through Ric’s shirt in a way that makes him have to swallow down the metallic taste of fear.
“I liked this shirt,” he complains. He grabs the small ribbon of fabric that made up the space between the two blades of Shatterstar’s sword. Then he takes off running.
“You have other shirts!” Shatterstar calls to him, jumping the hurdles of broken rock and never losing his footing among the shakes. Rictor’s boots are pounding against the hard, dry ground and he loves the feel of ripples moving out from his footsteps leaving cracks and craters behind in his wake.
“But I liked this one!” Rictor calls back over his shoulder. He feels the sudden sharp wind of a falling blade and then half his sleeve is hanging off his arm. It makes him laughing, even though laughing and running are insanely hard to do.
“You can have one of mine,” Shatterstar tells him, as if that can really replace this shirt. It’s not that important, but it’s the principle of the thing wherein Shatterstar is suddenly slicing up his clothes in unprecedented ways. He spins and drops, hand going against the ground and shaking the small area around them so hard that his teeth rattle in his skull. All Shatterstar can do in that is try to keep his balance, so he can’t do much about Rictor’s arm around his legs, shoulder slamming into his knees.
“I liked this one,” he growls out, crawling up Shatterstar’s body on sharp elbows.
Rictor digs his thumbs into the tendons of ‘Star’s wrists, hoping it will get him to release the swords. Instead, ‘Star smirks up at him and faster than Ric can think, those swords are turned in ‘Star’s hands until the four blades are pressed between their bodies, sharp edges against Ric’s skin from hip to pec.
“Well, that was fun,” Rictor says, laughing breathlessly.
“It was more challenging that my usual morning work out,” Shatterstar replies.
Rictor rolls off of him without so much as a single papercut sized nick from Shatterstar’s swords. He lies against the ground, no longer holding heat from yesterday’s sun, and tries to catch his breath. It is almost a real, pink dawn out. He guesses that it’s nearing five, given how badly his lungs are burning and his calves are cramping.
“Julio,” Shatterstar whispers.
“What, ‘Star?” he asks, still panting.
“I am truly sorry about your shirt. I did not realize it was so important to you.”
Rictor turns his head, grinding dirt into his sweaty scalp. He hopes Shatterstar can interpret this look in the low light, because it is telling him that he’s kind of nutty.
“It’s just a shirt,” Ric tells him. “It’s ruined now, but that would have happened eventually.”
‘Star leans up, shifting, bracing one hand on the ground by Ric’s arm.
“Then you will not mind if I do this?” he asks. Rictor feels the slide of the blunt edge of Shatter star’s sword across his belly. His body is running high on adrenaline and mornings and Shatterstar, so he arches into the cool touch of metal before he even thinks.
“N-no,” he says. “Not at all.” Then the ribbons that used to be his shirt are falling awy from his chest. Only one sleeve intact, and the back. Everything else is rags.
‘Star stares down at him very, very intently in the growing dawn.
“And if I do this?” The sword slowly turns in Shatterstar’s hand. Finally, Ric gets a chance to see and appreciate the motion. The cold, blunt metal is warming against his skin, but it still makes him squirm. Madre de Dios, this is seven or eight kinds of wrong. Those swords were more precious than gold to Shatterstar. This was not exactly a respectful use for a true warrior’s weapons.
Still, he was rocking his hips up, letting the sharp tip of the blade slip under the elastic of his boxers and under. The elastic broke, easily cut by a very sharp blade, but the touch of smooth metal, of one of Shatterstar’s swords against the inside of his thigh made his cock twitch.
“Madres de dios en cielo,” Julio hisses out. “Za’s vid, ‘Star, we can’t do this here.”
“Why not?” Shatterstar asked. Sliding the flat of his sword against Rictor’s bare skin.
“Because I’ll cause a nine point oh,” Ric groaned out.
Shatterstar laughed slightly. Rictor laughed back, until they were both dissolved into snickering about the really, really terrible pun. Though seriously, there was going to be major geological upheaval if ‘Star got him off with his whole body lying against the ground.
“It’s all good,” ‘Star said.
It was a little too hard not to laugh at him, but it made him frown. The confused look didn’t fit this moment, so Rictor reached up, thread his fingers into Shatterstar’s hair.
“Yeah, it’s all good,” he told him, reassuringly. “Just hurry, the sun’s coming up.”
Shatterstar used his swords as leverage to get to his feet. As Rictor stood, his clothes slipped away in ruins. He was cold, shaking, and so turned on. Things had gotten kind of out of hand and the sun was still coming up. Anyone could drive by and even if that was pretty unlikely, he still kept thinking about it as he stumbled back to the car. He was holding the remains of his clothes around him: t-shirt loincloth and leather combat boots, like some kind of grunge rock barbarian. Of course, he couldn’t look any stranger than ‘Star did, with his red hair getting bleached out by the sun, red-blond fuzz coming in on his face, in just white leggings and with a sword in each hand. He looked amazing through, a little color in his cheeks and across his shoulders, the low morning sun created exaggerated shadows along the lines of his muscles.
He opens the truck’s cab with one hand and climbs in over the driver’s seat, or tries to.
“Is it safe enough here, Julio?” Shatterstar asks. Directly into his ear. A shudder goes up Rictor’s spine. There’s not a lot of clothing between them, not enough to clothe a single person, and Shatterstar’s care chest is over his back. His shoulders are slightly broader and he’s got that slick, post-work out feel to his skin.
He says a lot of sacrilegious things, which doesn’t answer the question.
Not like this, he thinks, and tries to turn over under Shatterstar, which he gets just enough room to do-if he’ll let go of the destroyed shirt that serves as his last piece of clothing. Which is, yeah, okay. Naked under ‘Star and terribly turned on and able to feel Shatterstar, hard as anything, not quite pressing against his thigh, it’s good and not at all scary.
Shatterstar’s hair is hanging over him and all he can see is ‘Star’s perfect face. There’s the stark black of his starburst mark and the way it makes one blue-grey eye look lighter than the other. He reaches up, arms cramped by the limited room ‘Star is giving him in a limited space, and touches the lowest points of the star, the sunkissed pink in his cheeks, runs fingertips along the rough edge of Shatterstar’s jaw where he’s getting scruffy in a way that still doesn’t ruin the fact that he’s, well, pretty. Really pretty.
‘Star kisses him, hesitantly at first, and then so enthusiastically that it pushes his head back into the seat cushions. There’s the clatter of the swords being set aside and not as carefully as usual. Then Shatterstar’s hands are on both side of Ric’s face, fingers pushing up and combing through his hair.
He has been more turned on that frightened up until now, but he was still freaked out. Not because of Shatterstar or anything, just this general nervous fear in the pit of his stomach. Still, ‘Star’s so careful and so eager and he just tossed aside his swords so he could really get into this kiss. Julio stretches out on foot, still in his boot and tries to get his legs kind of open. There’s not a lot of room here in the truck and, to be honest, this isn’t really how he imagined finally going all the way.
“Julio,” ‘Star moans out. He whispers a lot of things in Cadre against Rictor’s lips. Calls him strong and honored and a lot of things that make Ric’s skin prickle with embarrassment.
“You too,” he says back. “Me gustas tú. T-te quiero.”
Rating: NC-17
Fandom; Pairing: X-Factor; Rictor/Shatterstar, and EVERYONE+Rictor (Not kidding. Everyone.)
Word Count: 2,073
Disclaimer: Full disclaimer in my profile. I don't own the story or characters. They belong to Marvel Comics.
Summary: Mexico-era. Shatterstar works out. Rictor shows off. Violence and destruction should not be turn-ons, but this is them. Also, there's a sunrise. It's very romantic.
Rictor wakes up in the truck’s cab. They are still hundred and hundreds of miles from Guadalajara. This is their first night within the borders and he just spent it sleeping in the truck. He hopes Shatterstar pulled over and has gotten some sleep too, at least. Pickup trucks may be toys in comparison to 22nd century Mojoland technology, but ‘Star still needs to be getting rest.
It’s still dark out, though he can see in the grey of night, so it’s nearing dawn. He rubs his face, yawns, scratches, all the very important waking up things to do, and then crawls out of the cab and into the cold, dark dawn.
Shatterstar is just outside, a blur of pale skin and tight white clothing. His hair is just a shadow in the dim light.
“He’s working out,” Ric realizes. “At, dios mio, four o’clock in the morning.”
Rictor rubs his eyes again, waiting for them to focus more in the limited light.
The work out is a blur of motion, really. If there weren’t swords, he might mistake it for a particularly athletic form of dance. Even with swords, it’s as if they are very extensions of his arms and when he kicks out, both arms thrust in the opposite direction of one powerful, fully extended leg, Rictor doesn’t imagine enemies being defeated, he imagines music. Pounding club music, which makes him think of his failed attempts to take Shatterstar clubbing, the awkward attempt at talking.
Does ‘Star even remember that? Did he see it for what it was, well, other than pathetic?
He stops thinking about that, stops thinking at all, as Shatterstar joins the hilts of his swords, fists tight together, and makes himself into a whirl of sharp, metal death. It moves seamlessly into a kickflip, a roll, a split, and swords thrust out and up. Shatterstar pulls up and out of the split effortlessly, his back leg sliding under his hips and then up. He practices blocks, even so much as tossing one sword at another and deflecting it back into his hand.
It’s a spectacular show in monochrome: silver blades that catch hints of light, white pants, bare chest and feet and hands all pale in the early dawn.
“Spar with me?” Shatterstar asks, brightly.
Rictor’s throat is scratchy and his knees are stiff from sleeping seated. Also, he’s half hard from morning wood and the, ay, private show.
“Sure, ‘Star,” he says, against all better judgment.
He comes over and, hey, if Shatterstar won’t drop the swords then he has no problem using his powers, to even the playing field.
He presses his palms together, already feeling more awake when he feels the shiver of power in his bones. He’s in boots and boxer shorts and a shirt, which is not as maneuverable as Shatterstar’s tight white leggings and bare feet. He is already down on Shatterstar in speed and agility. Also, swords.
The ground shakes, cracks, shifts, bulges, breaks under Shatterstar’s feet. It doesn’t throw him off for a step, but it slows him down enough for Rictor to play keep away while he tries to think of how he can bare-handedly disarm a man who never lets go of his swords. The ground thrusts up suddenly, making an incline, a wall, not planned but it’s how the ground cracks when he shakes it. A sword point comes through the soil towards Rictor’s collar and then ‘Star if vaulting over the edge.
Ric’s step back is clumsy, nearly a fall. One of Shatterstar’s swords reaches out, tucking under the loose fall of his shirt as it billows out from the fall he almost took. ‘Star’s wrist makes a twist and suddenly the two blades slice through Ric’s shirt in a way that makes him have to swallow down the metallic taste of fear.
“I liked this shirt,” he complains. He grabs the small ribbon of fabric that made up the space between the two blades of Shatterstar’s sword. Then he takes off running.
“You have other shirts!” Shatterstar calls to him, jumping the hurdles of broken rock and never losing his footing among the shakes. Rictor’s boots are pounding against the hard, dry ground and he loves the feel of ripples moving out from his footsteps leaving cracks and craters behind in his wake.
“But I liked this one!” Rictor calls back over his shoulder. He feels the sudden sharp wind of a falling blade and then half his sleeve is hanging off his arm. It makes him laughing, even though laughing and running are insanely hard to do.
“You can have one of mine,” Shatterstar tells him, as if that can really replace this shirt. It’s not that important, but it’s the principle of the thing wherein Shatterstar is suddenly slicing up his clothes in unprecedented ways. He spins and drops, hand going against the ground and shaking the small area around them so hard that his teeth rattle in his skull. All Shatterstar can do in that is try to keep his balance, so he can’t do much about Rictor’s arm around his legs, shoulder slamming into his knees.
“I liked this one,” he growls out, crawling up Shatterstar’s body on sharp elbows.
Rictor digs his thumbs into the tendons of ‘Star’s wrists, hoping it will get him to release the swords. Instead, ‘Star smirks up at him and faster than Ric can think, those swords are turned in ‘Star’s hands until the four blades are pressed between their bodies, sharp edges against Ric’s skin from hip to pec.
“Well, that was fun,” Rictor says, laughing breathlessly.
“It was more challenging that my usual morning work out,” Shatterstar replies.
Rictor rolls off of him without so much as a single papercut sized nick from Shatterstar’s swords. He lies against the ground, no longer holding heat from yesterday’s sun, and tries to catch his breath. It is almost a real, pink dawn out. He guesses that it’s nearing five, given how badly his lungs are burning and his calves are cramping.
“Julio,” Shatterstar whispers.
“What, ‘Star?” he asks, still panting.
“I am truly sorry about your shirt. I did not realize it was so important to you.”
Rictor turns his head, grinding dirt into his sweaty scalp. He hopes Shatterstar can interpret this look in the low light, because it is telling him that he’s kind of nutty.
“It’s just a shirt,” Ric tells him. “It’s ruined now, but that would have happened eventually.”
‘Star leans up, shifting, bracing one hand on the ground by Ric’s arm.
“Then you will not mind if I do this?” he asks. Rictor feels the slide of the blunt edge of Shatter star’s sword across his belly. His body is running high on adrenaline and mornings and Shatterstar, so he arches into the cool touch of metal before he even thinks.
“N-no,” he says. “Not at all.” Then the ribbons that used to be his shirt are falling awy from his chest. Only one sleeve intact, and the back. Everything else is rags.
‘Star stares down at him very, very intently in the growing dawn.
“And if I do this?” The sword slowly turns in Shatterstar’s hand. Finally, Ric gets a chance to see and appreciate the motion. The cold, blunt metal is warming against his skin, but it still makes him squirm. Madre de Dios, this is seven or eight kinds of wrong. Those swords were more precious than gold to Shatterstar. This was not exactly a respectful use for a true warrior’s weapons.
Still, he was rocking his hips up, letting the sharp tip of the blade slip under the elastic of his boxers and under. The elastic broke, easily cut by a very sharp blade, but the touch of smooth metal, of one of Shatterstar’s swords against the inside of his thigh made his cock twitch.
“Madres de dios en cielo,” Julio hisses out. “Za’s vid, ‘Star, we can’t do this here.”
“Why not?” Shatterstar asked. Sliding the flat of his sword against Rictor’s bare skin.
“Because I’ll cause a nine point oh,” Ric groaned out.
Shatterstar laughed slightly. Rictor laughed back, until they were both dissolved into snickering about the really, really terrible pun. Though seriously, there was going to be major geological upheaval if ‘Star got him off with his whole body lying against the ground.
“It’s all good,” ‘Star said.
It was a little too hard not to laugh at him, but it made him frown. The confused look didn’t fit this moment, so Rictor reached up, thread his fingers into Shatterstar’s hair.
“Yeah, it’s all good,” he told him, reassuringly. “Just hurry, the sun’s coming up.”
Shatterstar used his swords as leverage to get to his feet. As Rictor stood, his clothes slipped away in ruins. He was cold, shaking, and so turned on. Things had gotten kind of out of hand and the sun was still coming up. Anyone could drive by and even if that was pretty unlikely, he still kept thinking about it as he stumbled back to the car. He was holding the remains of his clothes around him: t-shirt loincloth and leather combat boots, like some kind of grunge rock barbarian. Of course, he couldn’t look any stranger than ‘Star did, with his red hair getting bleached out by the sun, red-blond fuzz coming in on his face, in just white leggings and with a sword in each hand. He looked amazing through, a little color in his cheeks and across his shoulders, the low morning sun created exaggerated shadows along the lines of his muscles.
He opens the truck’s cab with one hand and climbs in over the driver’s seat, or tries to.
“Is it safe enough here, Julio?” Shatterstar asks. Directly into his ear. A shudder goes up Rictor’s spine. There’s not a lot of clothing between them, not enough to clothe a single person, and Shatterstar’s care chest is over his back. His shoulders are slightly broader and he’s got that slick, post-work out feel to his skin.
He says a lot of sacrilegious things, which doesn’t answer the question.
Not like this, he thinks, and tries to turn over under Shatterstar, which he gets just enough room to do-if he’ll let go of the destroyed shirt that serves as his last piece of clothing. Which is, yeah, okay. Naked under ‘Star and terribly turned on and able to feel Shatterstar, hard as anything, not quite pressing against his thigh, it’s good and not at all scary.
Shatterstar’s hair is hanging over him and all he can see is ‘Star’s perfect face. There’s the stark black of his starburst mark and the way it makes one blue-grey eye look lighter than the other. He reaches up, arms cramped by the limited room ‘Star is giving him in a limited space, and touches the lowest points of the star, the sunkissed pink in his cheeks, runs fingertips along the rough edge of Shatterstar’s jaw where he’s getting scruffy in a way that still doesn’t ruin the fact that he’s, well, pretty. Really pretty.
‘Star kisses him, hesitantly at first, and then so enthusiastically that it pushes his head back into the seat cushions. There’s the clatter of the swords being set aside and not as carefully as usual. Then Shatterstar’s hands are on both side of Ric’s face, fingers pushing up and combing through his hair.
He has been more turned on that frightened up until now, but he was still freaked out. Not because of Shatterstar or anything, just this general nervous fear in the pit of his stomach. Still, ‘Star’s so careful and so eager and he just tossed aside his swords so he could really get into this kiss. Julio stretches out on foot, still in his boot and tries to get his legs kind of open. There’s not a lot of room here in the truck and, to be honest, this isn’t really how he imagined finally going all the way.
“Julio,” ‘Star moans out. He whispers a lot of things in Cadre against Rictor’s lips. Calls him strong and honored and a lot of things that make Ric’s skin prickle with embarrassment.
“You too,” he says back. “Me gustas tú. T-te quiero.”