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They're Marvel's. No money. Don't sue. I thought the Kinda Mooks deserved a PWP. ("Plot, What Plot?") But I can't really write pure smut -- I tried -- and it went, well, mooky instead. Go fig. This takes place right after "He Kinda Sorta Maybe Loves Him," which is the story in which the Mooks first hook up. Rated PG-17 for non-explicit (but hey, you know what's going on ;) sex. For Poi, cuz. Archiving: Just ask and I'll send the HTML. Comments to skaya@mindspring.com or to the list you're reading this on.Enjoy! A Mooky Kinda PWPBy Kaylee Roxanne. That was a likely name. Roxanne. He could picture some tall, leggy blonde, buxom and witty. She had a killer sense of humor, a smile worth a thousand pictures, and a runner's body. No! A swimmer's body -- more all-over conditioning. Dimples, maybe? Were dimples too quaint? Would the Cajun go for quaint? Or more likely still... Shandra. A touch of the exotic in her name. Slim and dusky. Doe-eyes... had to have doe-eyes. Glossy black hair to her tailbone and the grace of a professional dancer. An exotic dancer. Yeah. Definitely Shandra. Or maybe... "Bobby?" He jerked his head up, whirled in his chair, and neatly overbalanced the thing so that it and he ended up on the floor in a tumble of wooden and fleshly legs. Whatever he blurted as he fell was apparently profane enough to raise Jean's eyebrows nearly into her russet hairline, but she didn't make any specific comment to let him know what he said. Which was, he figured, probably for the best: he was blushing profusely at any comment directed at him today, from a mini-lecture by Scott for sleeping late to Ororo's idle observations about his 'hearty appetite' when he had breakfast at noon. "Um," he said, not ready to untangle himself and stand. "Morning." "It hasn't been morning for five hours." "I woke up at eleven. That makes it, like, ten AM, if I were on Scotty-time." "Scott gets up at six. It would be eleven." "But still." Now he disentangled himself and stood, refusing to rub his sore hip that was probably already sporting a newborn bruise. "What's up?" "Nothing." Now she looked simply amused, which wasn't really any better for his blushing tendency than any of the other possible expressions in her repertoire. "You looked like you were zoning out, and if I'm not mistaken--" that voice that said she knew perfectly well that she wasn't mistaken-- "you've got a session in the Danger Room in about an hour." Bobby righted the chair and didn't let himself think about what he was zoning out on. Not around one of the world's most powerful telepaths. "Right. I remember. I was just, uh, meditating. Preparation, y'know." "Is that what you call it these days...?" she asked vaguely, then gave a strange smile at the automatic spread of pink over his skin. "Ta ta, Bobby. Have a good day." Awkwardly, he half-waved at her, then flushed redder and said "bye" instead. Waved? He was going to wave goodbye when she was just walking out of the room? Oh yeah, that looked casual. What was wrong with him? You know exactly what's wrong with you, Bobbster. Tall, lean, auburn-haired, smoky-eyed... ... undeniably male... Jenine. He was probably with some woman named Jenine, and that's why he was nowhere to be found on the grounds. Janice? Jenny, maybe. He could see Remy finding a Jenny and inviting her into some friendly exercise. Bobby tried to feel jealous, but what he felt instead was... hollow. He'd made his way to his own room early this morning, body still tingling and mind still spinning in about a thousand different directions at once, every one of them leading back around to a furious reddening of his skin and a certain other physical reaction that led to more blushing when he admitted to himself its source and... And... Felicia. Slightly sultry there. Or Diana. Black hair? Red? Purple, maybe? "Hmph," he said aloud. It pretty much summed up what he was able to vocalize of his feelings. Grunts could be amazingly eloquent, as Logan had taught him. Escaping the kitchen table before anyone else could happen to him, he wandered more or less aimlessly through the hallways on the first floor, wondering absently how many of these rooms he'd never stepped foot in. When he'd first come here all those years ago he'd been terrified about breaking rules and calling attention down on his head. Bobby Drake -- undersized, easily intimidated, shivering little mutant -- had already seen more than enough attention in his short life. Play along, that had been the game. Follow. Go with the flow. Don't challenge the status quo. And then he'd found his niche. The shy one, the nervous one, the scared one... was funny. After that discovery, there'd been no turning back. The role had defined itself, then him, and he'd lost track somewhere of just where the clown ended and Bobby Drake began. Personal desires took second place to calling a laugh from his friends. Self-image was based on the opinions of his companions. Probably not the most psychologically healthy way to go, but it'd worked for years. Self-discovery was a bitch. Take one step, and soon all the other illusions started stripping themselves away, leaving the Self naked and confused and really, really unsure of just where he stood in the Scheme Of Things. Samantha. Simone. Serendipity. Selina. He'd started into Ts when he rounded a corner and bumped right into the current focus of his thoughts. It was that just-the-right-kinda bump -- hard enough to jolt both to a halt, not rough enough to bring curses. More of a quick, involuntary brush of body against body, realization sparking a heartbeat into the brief contact, and just the thing to flood his mind with sudden images, sensations, unacknowledged hopes... What he said, however, was something similar to, "Ack!" Nowhere near as eloquent as a grunt. Remy -- not-clingy sweatshirt tied-back hair and ohmigod those jeans are snug -- gripped his arm quickly, supportively, and raised a swift finger to his lips, glancing past Bobby down the hall. Bobby worked to catch up, to figure out what was going on, but he really still hadn't gotten his mind past Remy and snug jeans yet, no matter how hard he tried. This is ridiculous. I'm twenty-six. I went through puberty more than a decade ago. I am way too old to be this obsessed with... with... Sex. With Remy. Last night. Sex. With Remy, his mind added helpfully, just for clarification. Oh god. Remy tugged his arm, chin jutting back down the hall just a little ways in indication. Bobby followed willingly, silently, suddenly certain there was no oxygen left in his body and unable to replenish the supply because his lungs just didn't seem to want to work. Remy's hand was on his arm. His mind catalogued automatically the curve of the fingers, the distribution of pressure, the warmth he felt even through his T-shirt. Right hand. Trimmed, not manicured fingernails. Solid, callused, elegant. Don't lookit the jeans don't lookit the jeans don't lookit the jeans... Remy opened a door to... a closet? What? And pulled Bobby inside with another glance up and down the hallway. Closed the door with a soft 'click,' affording Bobby only the briefest glimpse of what looked to be an old, semi-musty linen closet before the light was shut off. And was that... mothballs? Ew. His nose wrinkled automatically. The hand on his arm slipped away, and that meant there was no contact between them, and he was in a closet with Remy (and no, he wouldn't think about the irony) and it was dark and he hadn't seen him all day and the last time he had seen him had been when they were sharing a very lingering, very toe-curling, very promising kiss this morning just inside Remy's bedroom door... "H-hi," he said. Remy didn't speak for a moment. Bobby's heartbeat was far too loud, and he decided that Remy was listening to it, amused by how easily flustered the younger man was. Was there a smirk on those full, elegant, sensual (stop that) lips? Did the Cajun want to laugh? Was he grinning maliciously? Was he-- "Hi," Remy murmured back, softly. "I was lookin' f' you." "I was... you... were?" Still no touch. How close was he? Close enough for Bobby to catch the scent of Drakkar Noir aftershave over the stinging odor of the mothballs. "Oui." A pause. Bobby held his breath. "Y' got a minute?" In the dark, Bobby blinked. "Um. Yes?" This sounded bad. This sounded terrible. This sounded like the beginning of the let's-just-be-friends speech. Which was what he'd expected, naturally, but he hadn't expected it now. He was rather hoping they'd have a few more nights before Remy realized he wasn't his cuppa tea... and if he'd hoped for anything else, well... Tamara. Tess. Tammy. Tiffany. The voice stayed low and quiet, somehow softer and more directed than a whisper. "About last night..." Here it came... "I jus' wan' make sure... Look, Bobby, y' friendship means somet'in' t' me. I don' wan' t'row dat away f' some gropin' in the dark." Some... groping in the dark. That's all it was. Groping in the dark. His throat felt a little too tight suddenly. Swallowing hurt. "Oh." The let's-just-be-friends speech hadn't really been so... blunt, before. But maybe that was just because it'd never come from a man before. Awkward silence. Amanda. Ashley. Anna. April. "Maybe I didn' make m'self real clear..." Remy began suddenly. "Oh," Bobby said carefully around the lump over his windpipe, "I, I think I got it." "Non, I don' t'ink y' did... what I was tryin' t' say--" "Yeah," he cut in hurriedly. "That's fine. No prob. I read you loud and clear." A brief pause. Bobby caught his lower lip between his teeth and held it to keep himself from saying anything. The hint of aftershave grew stronger, body heat closer, and he closed his eyes tightly to fight off these imaginings. He could shift to ice... look with eyes designed to see heat... but Remy hated cold. He couldn't... "Bobby--" and he was close too close just a flinched-inch away-- "I jus' don' want y' t'inkin'..." "No, I don't expect--" Wrong word. "--or anything, 'cause, I mean, I know it was just... whatever, and you don't have to explain..." Just... how could he ask him to keep the confidence? 'I know you're wishing we'd never... done that... but can you please do me a favor and forget that I'm not exactly quite totally at all straight? Thanks.' Probably could use some rewording... "Hey." A touch, and his eyes flew open on darkness, and he so carefully didn't move so as not to disturb that light pressure burning against his jawline. A thumb brushing -- caressing? -- from chin to the tight muscle that was busily clenching his teeth together. A touch. "Jus' answer me this... We still friends?" His eyes closed again. Nerves along his jawline were jumping. "Yeah. If, if you wanna be." "Then open y' eyes." Lids flew open. "How did you know... can you see...?" There was a grin in that rich, muted voice. A smug one. "D'I f'get t' mention that...?" Should've remembered those not-quite-normal eyes. Should've thought. Should've been focusing on something other than (snug jeans) personal nervousness. "Yeah." And he aimed a little glare at the voice. "You forgot to mention that." The thumb traced back and forth, and Bobby couldn't help remembering the same manner of touch during the night, when he'd just managed to come out and say it, to admit what he wanted, and how bad it scared him, and Remy'd traced his cheek with that same hand and... and what had followed... "C'n I say this wit'out y' buttin' in t' tell me y' already know what I'm gon' say?" "... sure..." Carmen. Cassandra. Catherine. Caitlin. "Bien. What I was gon' say was..." And then he evidently forgot what he was going to say, because he didn't say anything at all and he kissed Bobby instead. When he drew back Bobby had to force himself to breathe again, in and out, fill the lungs, don't gasp like a fish... "Oh," he said, blushing to the roots of his hair, he was sure, with a lot of blood being diverted considerably lower. "That's what... you were gonna say..." His eyes had adjusted enough by now to show him an indistinct form, roughly Cajun-shaped, and the faintest gleam that might've belonged to eyes. "More or less. There were gon' be more words involved, but I t'ought dat might work a li'l faster." Bobby blinked a few times as he processed this. "So... groping in the dark is still in...?" "Y' wan' it t' be?" Could a nose blush? He thought he was red enough that his might be trying. "... yeah..." Lips at his ear suddenly, warm breath tickling, scruffy cheek rasping almost audibly against his skin. "I'm up f' that." And just like that, with no particular warning or anything, that would've been appreciated because self-control was really a pretty difficult concept at the moment and this wasn't helping... the lean body was pressed against Bobby's, giving full proof that the words weren't just figurative. Bobby gasped -- not any sexy sorta gasp, he thought, but a rather dorky kinda surprised gasp, which didn't really make him feel particularly sexy but Remy didn't seem to care -- and found Remy's arm with a hand, followed it up to a shoulder, then patted clumsily at the face swimming somewhere above it. "Watch the eye, eh?" "Oh shit, I'm sorry, I just wanted to--" Another brush of lips over his, shushing him firmly. "Quietly, cher..." But even Bobby, listening with ears attuned to detecting admonition, couldn't hear anything past the smile in the words. "Sorry," he whispered. His hand wandered, then finally settled on slipping hesitantly into thick hair. "You don't think anyone heard...?" "Doubt it." Nomadic, roving hands. Shortened breath. "Don' t'ink 'bout it... better t'ings t' be focusin' on..." Like it was possible to focus at all here... "Lemme just... I wanna..." He stammered to silence as he felt the other man move in the dark. "Um... Remy...?" Zipper going down, tortuously slow. "Eh?" "What're you... down there... are you, um, gonna... haahhh...!" "Shh!" "Sorrysorrysorry...!" Was he gonna stop please don't let him stop Bobby could keep his mouth shut he could he could... Muttered: "'Least I know y're enjoyin' y'self." And then that hot-wet-oh-god was back, right there where altogether too much of Bobby's attention had gone today, and Bobby actually staggered rearward a step until his back met the wall and he reached for Remy but Remy was already back and, and again, right there, not even teasing, just right there... Think of numbers think of numbers this was too fast count to twenty, count to five, count to... to... "Oh god," he choked out, clamping a forearm over his mouth to muffle it, shuddering so hard he nearly slid down the wall. "Oh god oh god..." Last night, so yum, but that was memory and this was still fresh enough for his blood to be boiling in his ears. Body singing silently, breath ragged, diffusing pulses of euphoria racing carefree along nerves. A hand was wrapped in Remy's hair still, clenched there, and he loosened his trembling fingers until they rested flat on the still-moving head, adding to his awareness of the motion as Remy finished... finished... Finally the heat of a soft exhalation over damp, sated flesh. A kiss that made him twitch in more ways than one and the quiet 'pop' of a few joints as Remy found his feet. He stayed close. Dropped his chin and nuzzled Bobby's sweaty neck. "Y' all right?" Shaking, sweating, short of breath, pulse racing... "T-terrific..." "Didn' freak y' out or anyt'ing...?" "Not in a... bad way..." "Mmm." And then Remy seemed to decide that his neck was fascinating, his throat equally so, because he devoted considerable attention to slowly, languorously kissing both, one inch at a time. Bobby closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and breathed. "This is absolutely," he began, remembering to whisper, "the first time anything like this has ever happened to me." "Oh?" Working around to the other side of his neck now... how could a kiss there be felt all the way down...? "First time y' been in a closet?" "No, I meant--" "First time y' worn dis T-shirt?" "You know what I--" "Well I know it ain' the first time y' been kissed by a Cajun..." And Bobby laughed, muffling it against a ready shoulder offered so close, and somehow it tickled him in his chest to hear Remy rumbling a chuckle in return. Pressed so closely against the man, it didn't take long for his mind to return to other matters. Remy said nothing, but his body spoke rather articulately even in silence. New at this, still wondering about vague concerns such as protocol, Bobby ran an uncertain hand down the sweatshirt-clad torso, fingers tracing lines beneath fabric, pressing exploringly at flat muscles he didn't think he'd forgotten since seven AM, but he also thought he might like to rediscover them as often as possible. Oftener, even. He shifted his face, brought lips into play, and tentatively kissed the hollow of Remy's neck as his not-quite-certain hand fumbled at the closure of those (oo yeah snug) jeans. Remy did nothing to encourage him to do one thing or the other, still working that talented mouth on Bobby's neck, catching and doing amazing things with an earlobe. So it was up to him to figure things out. Trust his instincts. Take a chance. Geez, you'd think I'd have a better idea how to do this after last night... His hand slipped in and met eager, rigid heat. Remy groaned into his ear -- in approval, Bobby thought -- and some of the nervousness fled. What was he so worried about? Remy was a guy. He knew what guys liked! He'd been one his whole life! "Cher, dat's... oooh, sweet..." Bobby arched his neck back a little until he could secure lips in a kiss, then grinned impishly at his shadowy lover. Mine! My lover! "Shh," he mimicked, laughing inside. "Quietly, now..." Remy chuckled breathlessly, started to say something about "teasing," and Bobby dropped to his knees to erase that word from the Cajun's vocabulary then and there. No stagger from him, but above his head Bobby heard the sudden slap of a hand finding the wall and holding onto it for support. Indrawn breath and what sounded like a soft, stunned curse in French. He would've probably cursed in surprise himself if his mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied. Am I really...? In a closet? How long have we been in here, anyway...? He jerked back suddenly and blurted, "Ohmigod, the Danger Room!" "It... y-you... whuh... B-Bobby...?" Remy LeBeau, stammering? "Oh geez, I'm sorry, that just popped into my head and I didn't think but if I'm late Scott'll come looking or Jean'll look telepathically and that could get... is your watch Indiglo?" "Q-quoi...?" "What time is it?" Fumbling, then a faint green glow illuminating elegantly planed features, dilated red-black eyes, lips parted around irregular breath... "Half pas'... five." The little light flickered off. Bobby sighed in relief. "Phew! God, that scared me..." And with that settled he went right back to where he'd left off, noticing that this time the man actually did stagger at the first enveloping touch. I think that's a good thing. A hand tangled in his hair, echoing Bobby's half-conscious grip from only minutes ago. This close the musky scent almost overpowered the mothballs. Remy was leaning heavily against the arm braced on the wall, breathing spasmodically. Bobby pulled back again, very slightly, keeping a hand busy in place of mouth. "Is there anything... special you like...? I mean..." "Jus'... don'... stop..." "Okay." So he didn't, and he stepped up the tempo, and Remy huffed and said his name, and "cher," which he had to admit he'd developed a liking for rather quickly. Then there was a sudden sharp silence as the Cajun caught his breath, held it, and then a ragged exhalation and oo-boy-that-was-a-new-experience and Bobby swallowed instinctively and Remy's knees quaked and Bobby'd never really thought that mothballs smelled erotic but after this he wasn't quite sure they'd ever smell bad again... Remy caught his breath, gripped an arm, and tugged Bobby up. "C'mere..." Bobby stood and found himself enfolded in arms, pulled against a chest. A hug. A hug after the fact. Like maybe groping in the dark wasn't all this was, or all it could be. Like maybe... "Merci," Remy said after a moment. "Again." "You're, uh, welcome." A pause. "And, y'know, thanks. Too." Not that he wouldn't be pretty content to stay here all day, but there was still that Danger Room issue... "What time is it?" Arms shifted behind his back and he saw again that dim green illumination splashing faintly over the walls and shelves of fabric. "Y're s'posed t' be there at six?" "Yeah." A sigh that almost sounded... regretful? Really? "You'd better get goin', then. If y' gon' grab a shower." "Right. A shower." And if there was a god, he wouldn't run into Logan before he had one. He buried his face against a lean shoulder first though, inhaling the scent of sweat and mothballs and arousal and Drakkar Noir and beneath that, just Remy. And he'd been worried about Brenda. Barbara? Maybe Bernadette...? Remy noticed his slight tensing and pulled back, the glint of eyes hinting at a gaze directed at his face. "Somet'in' wrong?" "No..." Was there? "But, um, the name Deborah doesn't ring a bell, does it?" "Deborah? Non. Should it?" "Denise?" "Non..." "How 'bout Francesca?" "Bobby, what're you talkin' about? Who's 'at?" A small, happy sigh. "Absolutely no one." "... Oh-kay..." Bobby patted in the general direction of Remy's head again. Had his hand caught and guided safely to a scruffy cheek. He grinned, gathered up courage, and initiated a kiss all of his own, as promising as he could make it. Remy wasted not a moment in paying it back in kind. The Danger Room waited. He pulled away unwillingly and waved a hand until he found the doorknob. "I gotta get going..." "Yeah." "I really... um... y'know... it was fun." Fun? Did he say that? "I mean, better than fun. Great good fun. And if you wanna... again... I'd really like..." "Bobby." "Huh?" "Zip y' pants up, cher." "... Right." "Anytime."
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