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the gorgeous and the grotesque

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It was 10am and the coffee shop was uncomfortably crowded. Usually Richter was able to score an empty table and get some work done before class. Now it looked like sleeping thirty minutes past his alarm was going to throw his whole morning off. Currently the line was stretching out the door with students all clamoring for their lattés. Richter craned his neck, trying to see over the sea of people. He spotted an empty chair in the very corner of the café and made a beeline for it, dribbling coffee on himself in the process. It wasn’t until he sat down that he noticed the well-muscled red head sitting across from him.
***
He’s a little surprised when he realizes he’s not alone any more. The language tapes were helping but he had to keep his earphones in all the time. It has dulled his other senses. His seatmate smiles in a disarming fashion, his dark hair is wavy and unkempt. He’s spilt coffee on himself, brown fingers rubbing at the stain absently. Gaveedra looks at the other boy for several moments before he remembers to say hello.
***
The red head removes his earbuds, and nods at him. Says hello. He has some sort of accent that Richter can’t place. He looks down and spies a gym bag (not surprising with muscles like those) with a Calculus 1 book sticking out of it.

‘Um, you know, I’m in that class too’, he points his chin towards the book by the other boy’s feet. ‘I’ve never seen you before. Did you transfer?’

The red head nods again. Not much of a conversationalist.
***
He would like to converse with this boy but he cannot find the words. The language is too new. He holds out his hands in supplication.

‘I- my English is not…clear.’

‘Oh, man. I’ve been there. It’s OK. You’ll get it.’, the dark haired boy smiles at him again. It is a very nice smile.

His seatmate takes sip of his coffee and another drop lands on his shirt.

‘¡Mierda! I just washed this!’
***
The other boy is laughing- or Richter imagines he is. It’s less of a laugh and more of a deep rumbling sound.

‘Are you laughing at my expense, amigo?’

‘I am, hm, I am sorry.’, the red head forces a straight face.

‘I’m just teasin’ you. I’m Richter, by the way. Well, Julio, really. Richter’s my last name.’

‘Gaveedra’

+ high-res version

joasakura:

blithefool:

Old school ricstar doodle from a couple nights ago.

“Let me look.” Rictor said, hands hovering just above the surface of Shatterstar’s skin. “You took a pretty nasty round to the face.”

“I am.. I am fine, Rictor.” Shatterstar rumbled, eyes closing at the ghost of a touch. He was shaking, and at first, Rictor thought it was his own powers vibrating back at him.

He tilted his head up to look at the gouge on the other man’s face, muscle and flesh knitting right before his eyes, leaving pale skin and the darker stain of the star covering his eye in it’s wake. It was horrific and fascinating all at once, and mesmerised by the sight, Ric was only vaguely aware of ‘Star’s own hesitant hands coming to rest at his waist.

“Does it hurt?” Rictor murmured, thumb gently touching the place where the wound had been moments before. It was so strange, this new intimacy they were shambling towards. Too strange to name the brief touches when no one was looking, fumbling gropes in the dark, sweaty and silent except for the gasps bit off in each other’s mouths.

“Pain is irrelevant.” ‘Star’s fingers twitched at his waist. “I was raised to…”

Rictor’s fingers trailed through ‘Star’s hair. So soft for someone with so many hard edges. “It does, doesn’t it. Every time you take a hit for me. Every time you get up when you get stabbed, when you get shot. when..”

“It hurts.” ‘Star breathed the words, nervous hands settling for a moment, tracing the packs at Rictor’s belt. “Every time.”

Rictor’s thumb paused and he lifted on his toes. The kiss burned. Chapped lips on stubbled, hot skin. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.” Ric gazed up at him through slitted eyes.

“I believe you, Julio.” ‘Star murmured back, but he didn’t dare look back.

Have I told you lately that I love you? ❤

joasakura:

It would be funny under any other circumstances. The creatures were fat, deranged cherubs with bear-trap mouths and flobby boneless chicken wings, and they were a wrong hop – a distraction of Rictor’s -from home. Two degrees left of normal and this New York was grotesque and fungal, everything dim and foul.

‘Star practically shone in the grubby dark, the white armour he’d kept from mojoworld like a beacon as his swords flashed silver and clean. His hair had gotten so long, and it looked like the banner of their youth, when they had been made of fire and mad dreams.

Ric brought up his powers and the creatures scattered like the spores they were as he twisted the bones of the earth beneath them, burying them in a tidal wave of dirt and stone. ‘Star had danced away from it, backstepping over the largest sheets of stone as if he knew exactly where they’d be. Trusted Rictor to give him footing in the tide.

He shone white and silver and knife-bright in this fetid place, but then Ric faltered as he saw the red. Not the banner of fiery hair, but dark and slick against the white of the leather. “STAR!”

The warriors rolled from the waves of stone and got unsteadily to his feet. “Julio.” He said, missing the scabbards on the first try.

“Is that blood?” Ric asked dumbly, hands coming away wet as he patted Shatterstar down. “Where are you hit.”

“I think it is mostly..” Shatterstar paused, feeling his abdomen. “Oh, wait no. That’s mine.” He added with a little laugh as he sank to the ground at Rictor’s feet.

Rictor caught him, sank with him to the spongy earth. “I know you’re tired, baby. I know you’re hurt, but we can’t stay here. Are you strong enough to ‘port us again? Somewhere safe where you can heal.”

Shatterstar gently placed a blood-wet hand on Rictor’s cheek. “I just need a couple of minutes to catch my breath.”

Rictor looked over ‘Star’s shoulder to the newly-massing spores behind him. “Sure, baby. Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

:’)