Learning Curve (Rictor/Shatterstar, R) Part 2
Title: Learning Curve
Author: persepolis130
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing(s): Rictor/Shatterstar (main), Shatterstar/various
Word Count: novella (WIP)
Rating: R
Summary: Shatterstar's revelations about emotions, birthday presents, gaydar, prophylactics, and why an "open relationship" is a whole lot more complicated than it sounds.
Author's Notes: I attempted Theresa's accent, but it ended up sounding like gibberish, so I'm going accent-less on this one (sorry). Thanks much to surfer_yuun for the Spanish help!
Previous Parts: PART ONE
* * TWO * *
Rictor is upset with me again, and he slept on the couch last night. When he asked what I thought of the size of his verga, I replied that it seemed slightly smaller than average. This answer was unacceptable. I ask Theresa why.
"Are we really having this conversation?" she asks.
"We do seem to be," I confirm.
She sighs and pours herself a glass of orange juice. The reflection of the morning sunlight off its surface dazzles my eyes. I am uncomfortably fatigued. Without Rictor beside me last night, I tossed about the bed like the ebb and flow of Za's eternal battlefield. "No man wants to hear that, Star. It's insulting," she tells me. "Would you want someone telling you that about yours?"
"No one would say that about mine. It is quite large," I tell her.
She mumbles under her breath about "one more thing I really didn't need to know" and takes a drink.
"Why would my answer be insulting?" I ask. "He requested information, and I provided it. He deserved no less than the truth. Why would he ask a question to which he did not wish to hear an honest response?"
"Well, he was obviously looking for reassurance that you find his…" she struggles for the word, "manhood acceptable. When you answered him like that, it was a real blow to his ego."
"But that is not the question he asked. He specifically indicated size," I tell her. "Of course I find his every physical aspect more than acceptable on a number of levels. As a matter of fact, I am particularly fond of his--"
"Star, have you ever heard of TMI?" she asks. When I ask if this is a news broadcast station, she sighs. "Look, here's what you do: you tell him you're sorry you upset him and that you didn't understand how hurtful you were being. Then you compliment him until he begs you to stop. Alright?"
I frown. "And then he will resume sexual relations with me?"
"For my sanity's sake, I hope so," she tells me.
I contemplate this and then nod. It seems simple enough. However, she failed to mention that I should not tell him we talked.
"Theresa? You told Theresa about this? About my-- how could you do that to me, Star? That's private!" Rictor hisses. We are in the hallway outside the gym, but none of the others are near. I wonder why he is being so quiet.
"You were upset, and I had no one else to ask," I insist. " I said nothing unflattering."
"What are you talking about? You told her that it-- that my--" he motions toward his crotch "--you told her it was small!"
"Slightly smaller than average," I correct. "And she said that this is considered insulting. Why?"
He looks about to kill something. Then he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. He now looks less murderous but still eager to maim. "You really don't get it, do you? You didn't get any of the jokes Jimmy and Berto told in the showers. The ones that made Sam blush?"
"Apparently not?" I propose.
He sighs. "Look, when a man has una verga pequeña, people think it means he can't satisfy his lover. They look down on him like he's less of a man."
"But this is an untrue assumption," I tell him. "Size, in all things, is entirely relative. In battle, a mere shard of glass is ten times more deadly in the hands of a true warrior than is a sword in the hands of a coward."
"Yeah, but all things equal, who would you rather have on your team-- the guy with the sword, or the guy with a chunk of glass?" he asks. The corners of his lips pull downward, and a furrow appears between his brows. I interpret this as a sign of great displeasure. It upsets me.
"You would not know how to properly employ a sword in battle," I begin.
"That's reassuring, thanks," he interrupts.
"However, your verga brings me great pleasure in a way which weaponry cannot," I assure him.
"I-- uh, thanks," he says, color flooding his cheeks. His eyes seem unable to meet mine, and he rubs at the back of his neck. "But I'm sure it would bring you, you know, more pleasure if there was more of it to… pleasure you with."
I shake my head. "I find this doubtful."
His expression indicates that he disbelieves me.
I endeavor to explain. "If it were as large as mine, I would have difficulty fitting it into my mouth," I tell him. "This would be a terrible shame, as I find the act quite stimulating."
He blinks at me for several moments, turning an inexplicable shade of crimson. Then he snorts. "You know, amigo, talking about sex with you is a real trip."
"A trip to where?" I ask.
He laughs, and relief fills me: he is not angry. "To some crazy land where I don't have a clue what's going on," he says. He steps close and brings a hand to the zipper on my shirt. "But it's a nice place, I guess."
"How nice of a place?" I ask as his fingers slide the metal down my chest.
"Mmm," he answers, and a palm curves around my backside. "Very nice."
I smile and wrap my arms around his waist. "Does it look like our bedroom?"
"As a matter of fact," he murmurs, lips brushing against mine, "I think it does."
Up in our room, we remove each other's clothing, and I prove to him the truth in my words. He writhes against the sheets, back arching and fingers tugging at the sheered locks of my hair. Lips parted, he moans my name as though it has been weeks, and not just one night. The taste of him is always sweet against my tongue.
It is not until afterwards, when I am drifting off on the pillow beside him, that I remember Theresa's advice. I was supposed to flatter him until he made me stop.
"Julio," I whisper. "I find every aspect of your being to be physically, mentally, and emotionally enlightening. It is in all ways aesthetically and tactilely sufficient."
"I have no idea what that means," he tells me. "Go to sleep, corazon."
I smile and do as he says.
* * * * *
I have nearly finished my workout, and Rictor has nearly finished his work. We will go out tonight for burgers and a movie. Tron is playing on the big screen for Retro Flix Friday. The others call this "a date."
Rictor perches on my back examining police reports as I do push-ups. The extra weight helps tone the muscle, and I like the way his bare feet rest against my backside. 376, 377, 378, 379…
"I, um," Rictor says. "I feel good. I mean, about us. I feel like we're in a good place together."
"I agree," I tell him, as anywhere I can exercise with him atop me seems to be a good place. I sometimes like him beneath me as well. 387, 388, 389…
"You know I've never really… had someone before. Not long-term, anyway," he continues, fingers rustling the papers. "Sometimes I feel like I'm messing up, and… I know I need to work on being less sensitive. I get really down on myself whenever things get weird. I recognize that."
405, 406, 407, 408, 409…
"I just want you to be happy," he tells me. "That's what it's all about."
"I am," I assure him.
"Okay. Okay, good. Because, I mean… if you're not, you should tell me. If I do things that make you mad or… anything. Or if you maybe…" he swallows, "start to like someone else more. Just let me know. Okay?"
"That would never happen," I tell him. 432, 433, 434… "You are my best friend."
"Okay," he says, and runs his fingernails through my hair. I shiver and nearly fall on my face. Rictor can do the most amazing things with his hands. And various other portions of his anatomy. "You almost ready for a shower?"
I have lost count, but this seems a trifling matter. Much more important is hauling Rictor over my shoulder, out of the gym, and into the bathroom. His skin is slippery-smooth beneath the spray of the showerhead, and his mouth burns mine.
I cannot wait to see Tron with him.
* * * * *
Rictor hates doing laundry. He especially hates doing laundry when Layla is washing her lingerie. The delicate cycle takes twice as long, and she sits atop the washing machine and utters prophetic irrationalities to anyone who attempts to take note of the machine's clunking progress. I stand before her with a basket of Rictor's and my clothing in my arms.
"One day, you're going to be glad I've never had my nails done before," she tells me.
"Perhaps," I tell her, and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the dial behind her.
"Also," she adds, shifting to cover it with her body, "that tattoo's going to come in handy really soon."
"Doubtful," I reply, as my brand is a sign of slavery-- a hateful thing. I cannot believe that I ever connected with someone so incomprehensible. I consider the ramifications of physically removing her person from the washing machine.
"Oh, don't bother," she says. "The washer's about to break, and you'll have to go to a laundromat. The one on the corner's cheap. They're really busy right now, though, so you should probably wait a while. They're open 24 hours."
Then, as though an actor taking a cue, the washing machine begins to gurgle. Layla kicks her boots against it, leaving black scuffmarks along the side of the white metal. A screeching noise fills the room, followed by a rush of water, which gushes out from beneath the machine.
"Wow, sounds like it just ate my bra," Layla says with a shrug. "I really loved that one, too. It had a little pink bow between the cups. Super cute. Wonder where I should go for a new one. Have you ever been to Toronto?"
I leave the room before the water reaches my boots and take our laundry to the gym with me. I will go to the laundromat after dinner.
When I finish working out, Rictor is playing poker with Guido, Jamie, and Jamie. Monet and Longshot are out, Layla is washing machine shopping online, and Theresa is making something in the kitchen that smells like burning fuel oil.
"Is that dinner?" I ask.
"Don't worry, we ordered pizza," Jamie tells me.
"Did you order one with northern style pig slices?" I ask.
"It's called Canadian bacon, Star," says Rictor. "And of course I ordered you one."
I smile, as this is my favorite. It makes me happy that Rictor knows me so well and indulges me in exotic, imported meats.
"Damn it all," bemoans Guido, throwing his cards down on the table. He eyes one of the Jamies. "You sure you two aren't using telepathy or something? 'Cause that's cheating no matter how you slice it."
"Definitely not cheating," Jamie says.
"Yeah," Jamie agrees, jerking a thumb toward the other. "I don't even like that guy."
"The feeling's mutual. Hey, want me to deal you in, Shatterstar?" Jamie asks. "Better yet, you can take my dupe's place."
"Fuck you, I'm winning!" Jamie tells him.
"Yeah, and I'm getting my ass handed to me," says Guido. "Reabsorb him, Jamie!"
"You ever played poker, Star?" Rictor asks as the two Jamies argue about redistribution of their small plastic chips. "I can teach you-- it's pretty simple."
"I believe I would rather watch," I tell him. I don't know why Jamie has been handling Guido's ass, but I would prefer that mine not meet the same fate.
By the time I make it to the laundromat, it is nearly 2 AM. I am the only person there. Layla was thoughtful to have sent me: a television plays in each corner, and if I position myself correctly, I can do sit-ups and watch three programs at one time.
After twenty minutes, I have moved on to lunges, and a young man enters carrying an armful of sheets. He has a metal bar pierced through the top of one ear, a ring through his nose, and numerous designs inked onto his arms and neck.
He loads his laundry into the machine nearest the door and swears when it refuses to accept his change. He hits it several times, sighs, and turns to me. His eyes are dark, lips full, and his waist is slender and appealing.
"Nice tattoo," he tells me. "Wanna fuck?"
The next morning, Rictor drinks too-strong coffee and flatly refuses to pierce his tongue. He says that such piercings carry certain sexual connotations, though he is unable to explain why these would be undesirable. They seem apt.
"And besides," he says, "it'd be a week before I could talk right, and those things are horrible for chipping your teeth. You know I like dental work about as much as I liked Cable's surprise 5 AM training sessions."
I consider the sheer number of expletives employed during our training sessions and come to a suitable conclusion: "You will come with me tonight."
He makes a face at the taste of his coffee, which I suspect has the consistency of sludge. "I already told you I'm not getting my tongue-- or anything else-- pierced for you. What did you get up to last night, anyway? Some sort of S&M club or something? You said you were doing laundry."
"Is an S&M club more like a golf club or a dance club?" I ask. I have not heard this term before.
"Um, sort of like both at the same time," he tells me. "But I am really not awake enough right now to explain it. And I'm not getting my tongue pierced."
"I understand. That is why I will pierce mine," I inform him.
He sighs and regards his styrofoam cup as though terribly disappointed in it. I resolve to purchase him a proper coffee maker tonight as well. I have little doubt that he will be pleased by both acquisitions.
NEXT PART
Author: persepolis130
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing(s): Rictor/Shatterstar (main), Shatterstar/various
Word Count: novella (WIP)
Rating: R
Summary: Shatterstar's revelations about emotions, birthday presents, gaydar, prophylactics, and why an "open relationship" is a whole lot more complicated than it sounds.
Author's Notes: I attempted Theresa's accent, but it ended up sounding like gibberish, so I'm going accent-less on this one (sorry). Thanks much to surfer_yuun for the Spanish help!
Previous Parts: PART ONE
* * TWO * *
Rictor is upset with me again, and he slept on the couch last night. When he asked what I thought of the size of his verga, I replied that it seemed slightly smaller than average. This answer was unacceptable. I ask Theresa why.
"Are we really having this conversation?" she asks.
"We do seem to be," I confirm.
She sighs and pours herself a glass of orange juice. The reflection of the morning sunlight off its surface dazzles my eyes. I am uncomfortably fatigued. Without Rictor beside me last night, I tossed about the bed like the ebb and flow of Za's eternal battlefield. "No man wants to hear that, Star. It's insulting," she tells me. "Would you want someone telling you that about yours?"
"No one would say that about mine. It is quite large," I tell her.
She mumbles under her breath about "one more thing I really didn't need to know" and takes a drink.
"Why would my answer be insulting?" I ask. "He requested information, and I provided it. He deserved no less than the truth. Why would he ask a question to which he did not wish to hear an honest response?"
"Well, he was obviously looking for reassurance that you find his…" she struggles for the word, "manhood acceptable. When you answered him like that, it was a real blow to his ego."
"But that is not the question he asked. He specifically indicated size," I tell her. "Of course I find his every physical aspect more than acceptable on a number of levels. As a matter of fact, I am particularly fond of his--"
"Star, have you ever heard of TMI?" she asks. When I ask if this is a news broadcast station, she sighs. "Look, here's what you do: you tell him you're sorry you upset him and that you didn't understand how hurtful you were being. Then you compliment him until he begs you to stop. Alright?"
I frown. "And then he will resume sexual relations with me?"
"For my sanity's sake, I hope so," she tells me.
I contemplate this and then nod. It seems simple enough. However, she failed to mention that I should not tell him we talked.
"Theresa? You told Theresa about this? About my-- how could you do that to me, Star? That's private!" Rictor hisses. We are in the hallway outside the gym, but none of the others are near. I wonder why he is being so quiet.
"You were upset, and I had no one else to ask," I insist. " I said nothing unflattering."
"What are you talking about? You told her that it-- that my--" he motions toward his crotch "--you told her it was small!"
"Slightly smaller than average," I correct. "And she said that this is considered insulting. Why?"
He looks about to kill something. Then he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. He now looks less murderous but still eager to maim. "You really don't get it, do you? You didn't get any of the jokes Jimmy and Berto told in the showers. The ones that made Sam blush?"
"Apparently not?" I propose.
He sighs. "Look, when a man has una verga pequeña, people think it means he can't satisfy his lover. They look down on him like he's less of a man."
"But this is an untrue assumption," I tell him. "Size, in all things, is entirely relative. In battle, a mere shard of glass is ten times more deadly in the hands of a true warrior than is a sword in the hands of a coward."
"Yeah, but all things equal, who would you rather have on your team-- the guy with the sword, or the guy with a chunk of glass?" he asks. The corners of his lips pull downward, and a furrow appears between his brows. I interpret this as a sign of great displeasure. It upsets me.
"You would not know how to properly employ a sword in battle," I begin.
"That's reassuring, thanks," he interrupts.
"However, your verga brings me great pleasure in a way which weaponry cannot," I assure him.
"I-- uh, thanks," he says, color flooding his cheeks. His eyes seem unable to meet mine, and he rubs at the back of his neck. "But I'm sure it would bring you, you know, more pleasure if there was more of it to… pleasure you with."
I shake my head. "I find this doubtful."
His expression indicates that he disbelieves me.
I endeavor to explain. "If it were as large as mine, I would have difficulty fitting it into my mouth," I tell him. "This would be a terrible shame, as I find the act quite stimulating."
He blinks at me for several moments, turning an inexplicable shade of crimson. Then he snorts. "You know, amigo, talking about sex with you is a real trip."
"A trip to where?" I ask.
He laughs, and relief fills me: he is not angry. "To some crazy land where I don't have a clue what's going on," he says. He steps close and brings a hand to the zipper on my shirt. "But it's a nice place, I guess."
"How nice of a place?" I ask as his fingers slide the metal down my chest.
"Mmm," he answers, and a palm curves around my backside. "Very nice."
I smile and wrap my arms around his waist. "Does it look like our bedroom?"
"As a matter of fact," he murmurs, lips brushing against mine, "I think it does."
Up in our room, we remove each other's clothing, and I prove to him the truth in my words. He writhes against the sheets, back arching and fingers tugging at the sheered locks of my hair. Lips parted, he moans my name as though it has been weeks, and not just one night. The taste of him is always sweet against my tongue.
It is not until afterwards, when I am drifting off on the pillow beside him, that I remember Theresa's advice. I was supposed to flatter him until he made me stop.
"Julio," I whisper. "I find every aspect of your being to be physically, mentally, and emotionally enlightening. It is in all ways aesthetically and tactilely sufficient."
"I have no idea what that means," he tells me. "Go to sleep, corazon."
I smile and do as he says.
* * * * *
I have nearly finished my workout, and Rictor has nearly finished his work. We will go out tonight for burgers and a movie. Tron is playing on the big screen for Retro Flix Friday. The others call this "a date."
Rictor perches on my back examining police reports as I do push-ups. The extra weight helps tone the muscle, and I like the way his bare feet rest against my backside. 376, 377, 378, 379…
"I, um," Rictor says. "I feel good. I mean, about us. I feel like we're in a good place together."
"I agree," I tell him, as anywhere I can exercise with him atop me seems to be a good place. I sometimes like him beneath me as well. 387, 388, 389…
"You know I've never really… had someone before. Not long-term, anyway," he continues, fingers rustling the papers. "Sometimes I feel like I'm messing up, and… I know I need to work on being less sensitive. I get really down on myself whenever things get weird. I recognize that."
405, 406, 407, 408, 409…
"I just want you to be happy," he tells me. "That's what it's all about."
"I am," I assure him.
"Okay. Okay, good. Because, I mean… if you're not, you should tell me. If I do things that make you mad or… anything. Or if you maybe…" he swallows, "start to like someone else more. Just let me know. Okay?"
"That would never happen," I tell him. 432, 433, 434… "You are my best friend."
"Okay," he says, and runs his fingernails through my hair. I shiver and nearly fall on my face. Rictor can do the most amazing things with his hands. And various other portions of his anatomy. "You almost ready for a shower?"
I have lost count, but this seems a trifling matter. Much more important is hauling Rictor over my shoulder, out of the gym, and into the bathroom. His skin is slippery-smooth beneath the spray of the showerhead, and his mouth burns mine.
I cannot wait to see Tron with him.
* * * * *
Rictor hates doing laundry. He especially hates doing laundry when Layla is washing her lingerie. The delicate cycle takes twice as long, and she sits atop the washing machine and utters prophetic irrationalities to anyone who attempts to take note of the machine's clunking progress. I stand before her with a basket of Rictor's and my clothing in my arms.
"One day, you're going to be glad I've never had my nails done before," she tells me.
"Perhaps," I tell her, and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the dial behind her.
"Also," she adds, shifting to cover it with her body, "that tattoo's going to come in handy really soon."
"Doubtful," I reply, as my brand is a sign of slavery-- a hateful thing. I cannot believe that I ever connected with someone so incomprehensible. I consider the ramifications of physically removing her person from the washing machine.
"Oh, don't bother," she says. "The washer's about to break, and you'll have to go to a laundromat. The one on the corner's cheap. They're really busy right now, though, so you should probably wait a while. They're open 24 hours."
Then, as though an actor taking a cue, the washing machine begins to gurgle. Layla kicks her boots against it, leaving black scuffmarks along the side of the white metal. A screeching noise fills the room, followed by a rush of water, which gushes out from beneath the machine.
"Wow, sounds like it just ate my bra," Layla says with a shrug. "I really loved that one, too. It had a little pink bow between the cups. Super cute. Wonder where I should go for a new one. Have you ever been to Toronto?"
I leave the room before the water reaches my boots and take our laundry to the gym with me. I will go to the laundromat after dinner.
When I finish working out, Rictor is playing poker with Guido, Jamie, and Jamie. Monet and Longshot are out, Layla is washing machine shopping online, and Theresa is making something in the kitchen that smells like burning fuel oil.
"Is that dinner?" I ask.
"Don't worry, we ordered pizza," Jamie tells me.
"Did you order one with northern style pig slices?" I ask.
"It's called Canadian bacon, Star," says Rictor. "And of course I ordered you one."
I smile, as this is my favorite. It makes me happy that Rictor knows me so well and indulges me in exotic, imported meats.
"Damn it all," bemoans Guido, throwing his cards down on the table. He eyes one of the Jamies. "You sure you two aren't using telepathy or something? 'Cause that's cheating no matter how you slice it."
"Definitely not cheating," Jamie says.
"Yeah," Jamie agrees, jerking a thumb toward the other. "I don't even like that guy."
"The feeling's mutual. Hey, want me to deal you in, Shatterstar?" Jamie asks. "Better yet, you can take my dupe's place."
"Fuck you, I'm winning!" Jamie tells him.
"Yeah, and I'm getting my ass handed to me," says Guido. "Reabsorb him, Jamie!"
"You ever played poker, Star?" Rictor asks as the two Jamies argue about redistribution of their small plastic chips. "I can teach you-- it's pretty simple."
"I believe I would rather watch," I tell him. I don't know why Jamie has been handling Guido's ass, but I would prefer that mine not meet the same fate.
By the time I make it to the laundromat, it is nearly 2 AM. I am the only person there. Layla was thoughtful to have sent me: a television plays in each corner, and if I position myself correctly, I can do sit-ups and watch three programs at one time.
After twenty minutes, I have moved on to lunges, and a young man enters carrying an armful of sheets. He has a metal bar pierced through the top of one ear, a ring through his nose, and numerous designs inked onto his arms and neck.
He loads his laundry into the machine nearest the door and swears when it refuses to accept his change. He hits it several times, sighs, and turns to me. His eyes are dark, lips full, and his waist is slender and appealing.
"Nice tattoo," he tells me. "Wanna fuck?"
The next morning, Rictor drinks too-strong coffee and flatly refuses to pierce his tongue. He says that such piercings carry certain sexual connotations, though he is unable to explain why these would be undesirable. They seem apt.
"And besides," he says, "it'd be a week before I could talk right, and those things are horrible for chipping your teeth. You know I like dental work about as much as I liked Cable's surprise 5 AM training sessions."
I consider the sheer number of expletives employed during our training sessions and come to a suitable conclusion: "You will come with me tonight."
He makes a face at the taste of his coffee, which I suspect has the consistency of sludge. "I already told you I'm not getting my tongue-- or anything else-- pierced for you. What did you get up to last night, anyway? Some sort of S&M club or something? You said you were doing laundry."
"Is an S&M club more like a golf club or a dance club?" I ask. I have not heard this term before.
"Um, sort of like both at the same time," he tells me. "But I am really not awake enough right now to explain it. And I'm not getting my tongue pierced."
"I understand. That is why I will pierce mine," I inform him.
He sighs and regards his styrofoam cup as though terribly disappointed in it. I resolve to purchase him a proper coffee maker tonight as well. I have little doubt that he will be pleased by both acquisitions.
NEXT PART