DISCLAIMER: Marvel's? Yah. But don't change the subject.
NOTES: This is also all about Lise. And her smoking fetish.
DATE: August, 2000.
Now and Sven
There's this kid, right. And he comes home from school everyday with that focused glaze in his eyes that comes from suppressing the same let-down day after day. And his mom asks him, how was school? And he tells his mom, nobody likes me. And there's nothing his mom can do about it, right, so she just assures him that he's really very likable and that all the other kids are just jealous-- and he believes her, because when you're a lonely little unlikable kid you believe everything your mom tells you. So the boy grows up, and--
No, wait. This story is about sex.
Remy laughs, and Pete dips his head in a half-grin, because that was his intent.
"You're demented, cher."
"Yeh. But don't change the subject."
The evening light flits brokenly through the blinds, scattering across the pale rise and fall of Pete's chest as he drags slowly off his cigarette. Remy sits at an angle to admire, leaning back on his elbows at the opposite end of the bed. His feet are propped up on the pillow beside Pete's head, and whenever Pete turns his head, Remy feels the warm tangle of breath and smoke against his ankle.
"Sorry." He takes the cigarette that Pete hands him, and gestures for him to continue.
"Right, then. So there's this bloke workin' for Black Air, right, while I'm there. Big guy, all wrapped up in armour and whatever, with the guns an' all. No kind of brilliant, but a good piece of meat. Built. Tight arse."
Remy exhales the smoke chuckling and watches Pete's face as he hands him back the cigarette. His eyes close briefly as he brings it to his mouth. Flare of orange spark at the end, like Pete's breathing life into it and not the other way around. Remy brushes his foot lightly against Pete's shoulder, and his eyes open blue and sated.
"His name's Sven."
Pete hands it back to Remy, their hands catching and releasing with exaggerated slowness.
"But he's a quirky motherfucker. Always mumbling in this nonsense language we always assumed was Finnish or what the fuck ever-- but then we brought this German bloke on board an' he said it wasn't any kind of Finnish he'd ever heard, or anything else. So he's just this mumbler, right, and yeh get those sometimes."
He sits up to retrieve the cigarette from Remy, who leans up and catches his neck, tugs him in-- sweeps his tongue across Pete's bottom lip, brings the cigarette up to Pete's mouth, feels Pete tighten against his thumb and index finger as he inhales. "Yeah, I guess y'do."
Their mouths meet briefly, smoke swirling in and out of each other and again until they pull away and Pete readjusts himself on the pillow so that the light through the blinds doesn't hit him in the eyes. His cheek rests kind of on Remy's foot, which is nice.
"Turns out, this guy isn't mumbling. He's speaking some kind of code, to this recorder he's got lodged up his bum. He's a bloody spy. So, we find out, and the company takes care of it-- which means the messy end of Sven. So t'speak."
They sit in silence for a moment after that until Pete nudges Remy with his knee and Remy hands him the cigarette.
"I t'ought you said dis was a story about sex."
Pete takes a long hit of the cigarette, pushing the smoke upward to the ceiling, bringing his hand up to lightly touch Remy's calf. Then he hands the fag back to Remy with a curious expression.
"I didn't mention I was fuckin' the guy?"
Remy chokes on his drag, laughing. "No, cher. Y'didn't mention that."
"Well, then. I was. That's how we found the tape recorder."
Remy laughs harder, handing the cigarette back to Pete in defeat.
"We'd been going at it pretty regularly, Sven an' I. Even schedule-- work a day, shag awhile. 'Til one day I caught 'im by suprise, slipped a hand to 'im . . an' he was up for it, right, but he said he had to take a shit first. I knew that was bull because he was comin' fresh from the WC. I said no, he couldn't-- and you know those big Finnish types, all they want is to be led around by the cocks and meat-hooks-- so he was stuck, an' he had to either tell me about the recorder or let me plow it into his colon. So."
He watches, smiling slightly, as Remy shakes his head, snickering. He hands the cigarette to him, then, watching as Remy puts his mouth on the slender stretch of filter where Pete had held his mouth moments before. Remy takes a few hits before chuckling some more.
"So, why y'tellin' me dis story, Pete?"
"Well, LeBeau. Yeh been doin' alot of yer own mumbling. And I'm beginnin' to get suspicious." He sits swiftly and throws a leg over Remy's thighs, straddling him. "Think maybe I ought to investigate."
Remy smiles and lays back, puts a hand on Pete's pale chest, stopping him as he tries to lean forward for a kiss. "Dat's not mumbling, it's French." Pete dismisses the miniscule difference with a shake of his head. "If anyone's a mumbler here, it's you, cher. Mebbe I should be de one doin' de investigatin'."
Pete tilts his head, considering-- and then withdraws, laying back on the pillow. Undoes the top button of his slacks with his left hand, lets his legs fall wide. "I think yer right."
Remy takes a long drag, breath leaving, warm filling. He moistens the very tip of the filter with his tongue and places it in Pete's receptive mouth-- he nods and moves to finish undoing Pete's slacks, then turns to his own. He withdraws from Pete's pant pocket the lube that is always there, no matter what he's doing or what he's been doing-- and throws both pairs of pants onto the nightstand. Looks down at the man.
"As le sang chaud, jules. De la gueule. Venez voir mes estampes japonaises."
The hand that isn't curling currently around the soft slide of Pete's cock is instead moving to wrap around the softer slide of nicotine, pulling it wetly from his mouth, touching it to Remy's.
"Mumbler."
Remy's mouth opens, pulls in filter, finger-- Pete's eyes shut.
"Y'get those sometimes."
There is smoke in him, and Pete's hand withdrawing, putting the cigarette back into his own mouth, pulling in a drag with his whole body. The hand takes the lube from Remy and squeezes out a generous amount-- smears it across Remy, following the buck of his hips, staying with him. Pete releases the smoke through his nose. His hand moves to Remy's hip, dragging him across his stomach, and Remy leans into him. His mouth quirks slightly when Pete lifts a leg, bends it to his chest.
"If y'got any sound recorder t'confess, cher, best do it now."
Pete's face is still, calm-- but he answers in a short nod, and the dying light through the window catches in his eyes, and there is fever.
"Il y a fièvre."
"Mph."
Remy's hand curves then, under the man, brings him up to meet the surge of his hips-- and there is a subdued rumble of pale muscle, and smoke billowing up around them in a long, slow stream. Remy-- moves, and Pete moves.
As the light from outside falls away, the two men drive together, and pull away, and grind smoke between them. Remy locks his hand onto Pete's shoulder, leans into him, breathing his narcotic air-- drives his hips up and up. He waits poundingly for the cigarette to fall from Pete's softly panting mouth and burn one or both of them.
It doesn't, but there is still the burn. There is still Pete's hands coming up to cup Remy's face, clenched jaw, there is still the insistent press of Pete's heel on Remy's back, there are still small sounds of need, there is still. Fièvre. And when Remy jerks back, running rigid, even Pete cries out.
Gently, later-- it is night shuffling through the blinds. They are two men in a tangle of bedclothes, sharing a cigarette. The sounds are the treble of shakily released exhale amidst aftershocks, and not much else. Because this story is about sex.
Alestar considers calling it "Now and Sven." Remy shakes his head ruefully and flicks the fag. Pete snickers quietly against Remy's softly working throat, and lets his eyes fall shut.
-end-
Il y a Alestar.