Months of HotGear

By: CrystallicSky

Disclaimer: I don't own Static Shock or any of its characters, nor do I make any money by writing this.

Warnings: Language, sexual implications, etc.



Richie snuck into his lover's apartment as quietly as he could, hoping not to wake his beloved pyro.

It was a pointless action, as Francis was a deep sleeper, and nothing short of the Apocalypse could wake him before he chose to do so on his own.

Still, sneak the blond did, shucking off the majority of his clothing and the bag that held both his Gear costume and Back-Pack before slipping carefully beneath the covers of the bed.

He promptly wanted to moan quite loudly upon doing so, the bed and blankets warmed so considerably by their current occupant that it was as if he'd gone from a freezer to a comfortable oven.

Though he kept silent, his redheaded lover was almost immediately awake (or half-so, anyways) and rolled over to haul him in close to the deliciously hard, warm chest. "Shit, babe," Francis slurred, not once opening his eyes though a frown marred his features, "you're a popsicle…"

"'S'cold outside," Richie answered, cuddling up to the bigger man and reveling in the excess of heat that suddenly poured off of the older meta. "A hero's job never ends, rain, sleet, snow or hail…that old shtick."

"Yeah, whatever," the redhead carelessly dismissed, tucking the blankets more firmly around his blond lover, "but seriously, babe: you're a genius. It's the middle of January, cold as nobody's business, and you can't put some kinda heater in your hero-tights, or at least insulate 'em or something?"

"What do I need a heater for," the genius posed, "when I've got you to keep me warm?"

As his brawny lover grunted at that and dismissed the lovey-dovey inquiry in favor of snuggling the teen closer, Richie tactfully didn't mention that the thought of heating his costume had never even occurred to him and that to do so was a brilliantly useful idea.


It was Valentine's Day and nothing had happened.

Not that he'd been expecting anything to happen, of course! After all, why on Earth would his boyfriend take time out of his day to just…maybe stop by, at least commemorate the day somehow with a…a date, or a gift, or hell, he'd even take a simple kiss!

Just…something so that he knew that this…them wasn't just some pointless sex arrangement.

But so far, there was no such luck, and the disappointment of being ignored (a feeling that'd become all too common throughout his childhood) was beginning to set in as no sign of his lover surfaced.


The redhead looked up abruptly, concealing his hope as a grinning, blond super-genius trotted up to him, glomp-tacking him in a hug-kiss combo.

"Mmph, Foley," he spoke upon pulling his mouth away, a confused expression on his face, "what the fuck're you doing?"

"Its Valentine's Day," Richie announced matter-of-factly, "and we're gonna do something romantic! I shall hear no protests from you, Mr. Tough-Guy, dinner and a movie is happening: now."

Francis let himself be dragged off by his smaller-framed lover, caring nothing of how ridiculous it must have looked to have someone as physically intimidating as he was to be pulled away somewhere by a geeky little blond not even half his muscular size.

He was simply enjoying the fact that Richie apparently wanted him and not just the sex, the feeling of being ignored dissipating into utter nothingness.

Hey, even violent, ex-convict pyromaniacs with a psychotic streak needed some love!


"Oh, what, V, just 'cause I'm white, I can't celebrate my heritage?!"

"What?!" Virgil balked at the question. "No, man, I didn't say-"

"Yeah, you did!" Richie insisted, "I heard you! Okay, you know what? Fuck you, too. I'm not allowed to celebrate my own heritage just 'cause I'm not black? Only brothers can have roots? Go put on a dashiki!"

The other teen wore an expression of shock and borderline hurt (he'd already dealt with racism from the blond's father and now to deal with it from Richie because he'd inadvertently said something reverse-racist?), but he suddenly felt a large, heavy hand clap on his shoulder and he spun around as a low, rough voice began speaking.

"Don't worry about him, Hawkins," Francis Stone advised the teen, taking advantage of the fact that while this was the Dakota Union High St. Patrick's Day dance, he still looked young enough to not appear too odd amongst the crowd of younger people and the chaperons weren't even suspicious due to the fact that he'd temporarily spray-dyed his hair jet black and wore green, something that gave no visual indication that he was in fact, still the redheaded troublemaker he'd always been. "I spiked Foley's punch; he's a total light-weight."

"You did what?!" the black youth hissed, not quite wanting to cause a scene.

"He's more fun when he's a little bombed," the pyro announced casually, walking closer to his mildly drunk lover and curling an arm around his shoulders. "A lot more relaxed, y'know?"

"No, Francis, I don't know!" Virgil growled, keeping his voice low enough that others around them at the dance couldn't hear above the loud, pulsing music. "He almost started a fight with me 'cause you apparently got him drunk!"

"Maybe," the man conceded, hauling his blond in closer and playing idly with the teen's earring, "but the kid's got a point. He might not've started arguing with you if he were totally sober, but that's pretty racist to say St. Patty's Day ain't a real holiday and just an excuse for people to get drunk. Irish is a heritage, too, Hawkins."

"Sr'sly," Richie slurred vindictively, cuddling up against the big brute of a man he called his lover with an ease that still stunned Virgil despite how many times he'd seen it since his best friend had come out to him.

"I guess…I guess you're right, Rich," the black teen apologized sheepishly, "I'm sorry I…insulted your heritage."

"Thank you," the blond grinned, all anger forgotten with the simple apology.

"Now that that's taken care of," the redhead disguised as a jet-black haired brunette smirked, "kiss me, Foley, I'm one-eighth Irish!"

"Good enough," Richie declared, smooching his lover full on the lips, oblivious to his best friend glancing away in embarrassment before wandering off to go assure himself by making out with his own girl, Daisy, that he, unlike his pure-blooded Irish friend, was entirely straight.


"Fuck," growled Hotstreak, soaked to the bone already and utterly furious at the sudden appearance of the April shower. "Fuck exponentially!"

His lover, on the other hand, giggled in amusement, teasing, "Who knew you even knew the word, 'exponentially'?"

"Not now , Foley," Francis warned, his dark green pupils disappearing into the whites of his eyes as his anger began to tap into his superhuman powers. "I'm in no mood for your funny-man shit."

Richie nonetheless grinned broader, prodding, "What're you gonna do, babe? You're drenched. You gonna steam me to death? 'Oh no, he'll get the wrinkles out of my clothes'!"

The redhead fumed and steam actually did begin to rise from his body with the force of his anger, though to no end of drying him what with the consistency of the liquid pouring from the sky.

The blond smirked and let up on his teasing. "Chill, Frankie," he spoke in his calmest tone, hoping to transfer some of it to his lover as he rubbed the man's powerful back (currently clung to by a wet, maroon t-shirt) with one hand just the way he liked him to, "April's almost over, and then it'll be May flowers instead of these showers."

"What the fuck do I care about some pansy-ass flowers?" Hotstreak grumbled, still angered and annoyed, but clearly more subdued.

"You can burn them," the genius reminded, watching a wicked grin immediately spread over his boyfriend's handsome features.

"Sounds fun," he smirked in a very dark way that made Richie want to swoon on the spot. Francis noticed and offered, "How about we get out of this rain and into your bed, babe?"

"That sounds like fun, too…" the teen purred sensually, eagerly following his lover as the man walked off.



"What?" Richie demanded, raising an eyebrow at the baffled stare his boyfriend was giving him.

"What's with the towel, Foley?" Francis came right out and asked. He was surprised when the blond scowled, looking offended.

"Any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with," the blond genius informed. "Now come along, strag, I've a Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal to outwit with my towel."

The redhead only groaned and trudged after his lover grudgingly, knowing well enough that this was just one of those things he really shouldn't ask about.


"Its National HIV Testing day," the blond super-genius said on a yawn, slowly waking up from the light streaming in through his window. He wasn't worried as to whether his boyfriend was awake: the man always seemed to be up before him. "Y'think we should go get ourselves tested, being sexually-active gay men?"

"Nah," Francis answered. "You weren't born with it, were you?"

"No," Richie replied, his eyes falling shut as he sleepily nuzzled his cheek to the warm wall of soft, firm flesh that was the pyro's chest.

"Then we're good," the man assured. "I wasn't either."

"What if you caught it, though?" the youth protested, nonetheless half-asleep despite the serious subject matter that was being discussed.

After all, only HIV was livable: there was no living with full-blown AIDS.

"I mean, I was a virgin when we hooked up," he continued, "but you might've got it from somebody-"

"I was, too."

This had blue eyes open and a super-genius entirely sober of sleep. "Say what?" he intelligently inquired.

"When we hooked up," Francis clarified. "Believe it or not, I was a virgin, too."

"You're fucking kidding!" Richie exclaimed. "No way: how could you have been that good-"


"…oh. I see."

"No," the readhead teased, "you hear, babe. Get your senses straight."

The blond snorted and smacked the man on the arm (little good he bet it did, but it was the principle of the thing), frowning, "Oh, shut up…" He settled back down amongst the blankets and Hotstreak and was quiet for a moment. "You know," he began after a pause, "it's kinda romantic, now that I think about it…"

"What is?" Francis wondered, a hand coming up to play with flaxen locks in a bored manner.

"That we were each other's first time," Richie explained. "Its…cool," he finished lamely.

The redhead he laid against was silent for a brief period in which the genius felt terribly awkward, but eventually, he found himself smiling as Francis agreed, "Yeah…it is pretty cool…"


"I do love you in that apron, Frankie…" Richie purred, an enticed warmth in his tone as he stared at his lover standing before the barbecue.

The redhead idly glanced down at said apron, recalling the lettering printed upon it and invited his lover over with the challenge of, "If you love it so much, how about obeying it?"

The blond grinned playfully and approached his boyfriend, obeying the All-Powerful Apron and kissing the cook.

Sean Foley cleared his throat loudly and the two separated.

"Am I gonna get that burger any time soon, Stone?" the big man, seated at the backyard picnic table, demanded.

Not recoiling at his temper as he was used to happening around him, Francis simply took a plate with hamburger buns on it and promptly placed a fully-cooked burger between them before handing it to his lover's father with the forced polite offering of, "Here, Mr. Foley."

"Oh, Sean," Maggie Foley grinned brightly from across the table at her husband, "you'll like it; Francis is an excellent cook!"

The pyro offered a proud, winning smile to his lover's mother, sincerely speaking, "Thanks, Mrs. Foley. It's pretty much the one fag thing I do right."

Beside him, Richie coughed in false subtlety, "One of two…"

Francis chuckled, ignoring the very pointed stare Sean was giving him at his son's joke. "Anyways," he said, "thanks for having me, Mr. and Mrs. Foley. I didn't exactly have other plans for the fourth."

"That's a shame," Maggie smiled at the equivalent of her son-in-law. "You've got this certain charm: I can really see why Richie likes you so much."

With barely any thought, an anaconda-like arm looped around the genius' waist and the redhead smiled a relatively honest smile. "Well, happy Fourth of July; fuck the commies!"

"Somehow, I don't think that's what the holiday's about, Frankie," Richie smirked.

"Who cares?" his boyfriend shot back with a matching grin. "It's all the same American-supremacy crap, ain't it?"

An amused laugh sounded in the backyard, and two redheads and a blond were stunned to realize that the sound had come from none other than Sean Foley, the Grinch of the party if there ever was one.

"You know, Stone," the man said, extending his hand, "you're not half-bad."

Happiness practically flooded Richie as his lover took his father's hand and shook it firmly in a milestone gesture, replying without a hint of malice, "Thank you, sir."


"God damn you, Frankie, do not touch me."

"What?" Francis blinked, turning to his lover. "Why?"

"It's the middle of August!" the blond bitched. "And you, Mr. Pyro, are exuding heat! So unnecessary and uncomfortable!"

"I can't help it," the man squawked. "My powers make my body temperature higher than average! You said it yourself!"

"Yeah," Richie grumbled, "well, a natural internal temperature of 102 degrees sucks when its this hot outside, babe."

"Aw, c'mon," the redhead protested, "its not that bad!"

"Oh, no?" the genius challenged. "I thought you might say something like that, so I brought," he rustled around in his pocket for a moment, "this!"

Dark green eyes stared for a moment. "A marshmallow? Have you finally lost your mind, Foley?"

"No, I'm proving a point," Richie informed, "like this." Unceremoniously, he grabbed one of his lover's powerful arms and dropped the marshmallow on it.

"…" Francis stared hard at the blond for a moment. "You have lost your-"

"Look," the teen instructed.

The redhead did and his eyes widened to see that the marshmallow was very quickly browning against the flesh of his forearm and getting meltier and meltier by the second.

"What the fu-"

"It is so hot outside right now that the external temperature, combined with your regular, not at all emphasized body-temperature, is enough to melt a marshmallow," Richie explained, "and that is why I do not wish to be cuddled right now. However, you will have free-range tonight at the Marshmallow Roasting Day campout and then later in my air-conditioned bedroom where it will actually be cold enough for warmth to be pleasurable."

Francis huffed in annoyance and plucked the marshmallow off of his arm, promptly eating it only to realize that there was still much of the sticky remnants of the sugary treat stuck upon him.

…which naturally gave the metahuman a very wicked idea indeed.

"If you don't wanna cuddle," he grinned, grabbing the back of his lover's skull in one, huge hand and raising his arm to the genius' mouth, "then you're gonna lick that off, Foley…"

Bespectacled, blue eyes blinked at him in surprise for a moment, but soon enough, his head ducked and his lips obediently closed around the white and sticky bit of flesh.


Richie yawned so loud it could be considered obnoxious as he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes of sleep and blindly groping at the bedside table in search of his glasses.

Soon finding them, he placed them where they belonged, on the bridge of his nose, and drew himself from the warm, rumpled sheets to get ready for the day.

At a quarter to 8:00, he was finished and walked back into the bedroom, where his boyfriend still snored beneath the blankets.

He smiled at the sweet image and approached the dozing man, bending over to mattress to give him a gentle kiss…

…a gentle kiss that became a hard and passionate one as Francis awoke and began kissing back.

Richie made a noise of contentment as his mouth was so tenderly plundered by his lover's tongue, but when the older metahuman made to pull him back down to the bed, he forced himself away.

The redhead grunted in annoyance, the sound serving as his only inquiry on why the teen would not fuck him right then.

"I can't," the blond apologized, "I've gotta go."

"Go?" the pyro demanded. "Go where?"

"School," Richie informed.

"School? Its summer!" Francis protested.

"Not anymore," the genius sighed. "Today's my first day as a senior, and I'd rather not get off on the wrong foot by skipping to fuck all day."

"Really?" the man spoke incredulously. "Am I so bad that fuckin' Calculus is more interesting than me?"

"Calculus doesn't even make the scale," Richie promised, bending to press a farewell kiss to his boyfriend's lips, "but if I start skipping, there's no way my parent's will keep letting me come over. Besides," he offered, "I just gotta get through another school year and with my brain, I figure college won't take all that long since I won't have to pretend to be a 'gifted but nothing over the top' student anymore. I'll be scot-free from responsibility (except as Gear), and I can get some super high-paying job I can do at home so we'll be on easy-street. Sound good?"

"I guess so," Francis grumbled, nonetheless unhappy at the prospect of being separated from his fuckably geeklicious lover. "But as soon as you get home, I expect your ass naked and in this bed, Foley."

The blond turned to leave, altering his gait to what was surely an especially torturous showcase of his backside as he teased, "That's doable, babe; you'll be ready for me?"

The pyro actually growled in forcing himself to remain still, but just as Riche went to close the bedroom door, he promised, "Always ready…"


Francis Stone felt very out of place here.

Never mind the fact that he didn't really know anyone. Never mind the fact that nobody seemed to want anything to do with him (but really, he hadn't expected anything different). Never mind the fact that the person who had dragged him here was nowhere to be found.

He was just simply not a party person.

Thankfully, just as the disdaining stares and cold shoulders were beginning to wear too heavily on the pyro's temper, a familiar pair of arms slid around his shoulders and a hot mouth closed around his neck, biting there with a firmness unusual for the person doing the biting.

"Foley," he sighed, "what the hell are you doing?"

"Nomming you," the blond answered casually, returning to his public biting and sucking of the redhead's neck.

Francis cocked and eyebrow, wondering, "Uhh…why are you 'nomming me'?"

"I'm a vampire," Richie protested vehemently, moving to stand before his boyfriend and showing off his costume: a pitch black Victoran era suit complete with blood-red accents in the undershirt and the lining of his vamp-cape. His makeup, Francis reflected, dark lines around his eyes and a slight stain of red to his lips, made him look somehow even more alluring than he already was. "I'm supposed to nom mortals, and you, Frankie, are looking particularly delicious tonight…"

The redhead had opted for a costume that spoke to his nature and had dressed as a gangster for this costume party. This is not to be confused with a 'gangsta' or a modern gang member; no, Francis wore a form-fitting pinstripe suit that nicely illustrated his powerful body in a combination of both refinement and raw physical power. The fedora he wore over his flame-colored hair and the false tommy gun he held at his side only further emphasized the recollection of the real gangsters like Al Capone.

The only reason the man wasn't being swarmed by the females at the party was because they all knew he was a triple threat of dangerous, gay, and taken.

Richie, however, had no such boundaries to Francis and pressed himself hard against his lover, kissing him fiercely in front of every last party guest and not giving even half a fuck as to who saw.

Of course, it wasn't as if you could hear Hotstreak protesting for lack of privacy, either.

Awhile later at the party, Frieda Goren, the host of the costume get-together, sauntered through her living room dressed as Carmen Sandiego, finding her best gal-pal and tapping her on the shoulder.

Daisy Watkins, decked out in full Cleopatra costume, turned to face the young woman as she was asked, "Hey, Daisy, do you know where Richie is? I can't seem to find him anywhere."

"Then you haven't checked the guest room," the other girl informed her. "Dracula and Capone left to get their groove on in there about an hour ago."

"Oh," Frieda frowned. "Well. Um…I think I'll just leave them to it, then."

"Good idea," Daisy grinned. "I do not wanna see what Hotstreak would do to you if you cut in on his loving time, girl. Now, come on, there's a William Shakespeare over there that'll have you saying 'wherefore art thou, condoms'?"

Frieda laughed and followed her girlfriend to this so-called Shakespeare, chuckling, "You're terrible, Daisy!"



Francis only needed to look up briefly from his lover's bed as the youth entered the bedroom and slammed the door. "Lemme guess," he boredly began, "relatives driving you batshit?"

"YES," Richie snarled, joining his boyfriend on the bed. "Only five minutes in, and Gramma Gertrude starts in on me about being a Godless heathen boy for liking men, and Uncle Derrick's bitching at me about joining the Navy and how it'll help me 'man up…' GODDAMMIT, I just wanna run downstairs in my Gear costume and tell them to shut the fuck up: I save the city from fucked up psychopaths (no offense) on a daily goddamn basis! Do I need to be 'fixed,' now?!"

"And that's why I didn't go downstairs for this," the elder metahuman declared. "Thanksgiving dinners are always hell; especially when you've got the kind of relatives that think they always know what's best for ya'."

"Tell me about it," the blond sulked, flopping back to the bed.

Francis sympathetically glanced down at the super-genius whose head currently occupied his stomach. "If it makes you feel any better, you guys are doing better than any of my family's Thanksgiving get-togethers," he tried. "I haven't heard a single gunshot down there the whole time!"

"Gee," Richie muttered, "why does that not reassure me?"

"Look," the redhead admitted, "I'm not good at the whole reassuring thing, but how about this: we fuck right here on top of their coats and don't tell 'em shit about it?"

The super-genius cocked an eyebrow, already liking the thought of bitchy Gramma Gertrude pulling on her winter wrap to leave and finding the sleeve inexplicably wet. "Hell yes," he grinned, "let's totally do it."


Hotstreak was almost too afraid to ask just what his boyfriend was doing, sitting on the sofa with a violin and a melting bowl of ice cream upon the coffee table before it as he anxiously looked back and forth between the two.

Still, he couldn't just let it go, either.

"Foley," he eventually sighed, "what the fuck are you doing?"

Richie gave a desperate whine and hurriedly explained, "It's Ice Cream and Violins day, today, and I can't decide which one to focus on! The ice cream's melting, Frankie, help me!"

"Uh…" the redhead intelligently replied. "You can't do both?"

Blue eyes snapped wide in a second and the blond was up off the couch and tackling his lover in a hug. "Oh, my God, thank you," the teen squealed excitedly, planting a kiss on the man's cheek, "you're a life-saver, baby!" And with that, he released Francis and snatched up both the violin and the ice cream and ran up to his bedroom.

The redhead was left to stare after him, wondering how on Earth that could be one of the brightest super-brains on the planet.

A/N: *is too lazy to re-look up all the holiday dates used in this, so you're on your own if you want to know the dates*

Hope you liked this anyway! =D