Disclaimers: If they were ours, we'd tape our eyes open.

Spoilers: None, really.

Pairing: Jean-Paul/Walter (or, Northstar/Sasquatch, if you prefer)

Summary: A broken bone.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Authors' Note: Ah, Jane, she is a wicked seductress, taunting poor
Te with Canadian mutants.

Jane smiles demurely.  Says nothing.

Feedback: Yes, please. janestclair15@hotmail.com and
leytelj@gmail.com

*

Walter bickers with Jean-Paul constantly, but in a fairly
good-natured way.  Enough that people make jokes that it's
love.

It is.  Incautious in words and cautious in actions.  Watchful.
For the day when Jean-Paul breaks one of those long, runner's
bones and just goes to curl up, because, you know, he can't
*ask* for anything, even medical help.  And even coaxing his
clothes off when Walter finds him is a long, quiet task.  Ages
with both big palms just laid against Jean-Paul's shoulder,
radiating warmth, to get him to relax enough to strip down.

Oh, God... and maybe Walter is a little frightened by this, this
closeness he's only gotten before in glimpses, half-teasing
moments of Jean-Paul in the state that's as close as he comes to
rest. But there's real pain in his friend's eyes now, and he
*has* to help, has to make it better, needs to make Jean-Paul
accept it, over and beyond his own everyday needs as a healer.

And the feel of him is so lush...

Even the bruises only feed it.  Hot, rich purple on that too-fair
skin.  Somehow it doesn't matter that he *knows* what kind of
damage those spreading dark splashes represent.  Because
Jean-Paul's just.  Warm.

Stretched out now in front of Walter with his shirt off, on his
belly. Every fragile vertebra showing.  There's this fine tremble
in that body every time Walter's hands movie, every time they
press too hard.  And he knows that Jean-Paul's not going to
surrender any of his clothes yet.  He's aching from something
else that Walter hasn't got a name for yet.  So.  Begging this
trust out of him, touch by touch.  Starting at his shoulders and
working down, lingering a long time to just warm him.  Aware
of the little arch of the body that indicates pain.  He keeps
wanting to slide a hand under that narrow pelvis to support it
so Jean-Paul won't have to.

Keeps thinking about the moment in combat when the fourteen-
foot-high *thing* they were dispatched to stop grabbed Jean-Paul
and threw him bodily into the superstructure of an office tower.
The moment during which Jean-Paul just hung there, white-faced,
before he came flying back out with blood in his eyes.  About
the moment, in the press conference that someone who shall be
condemned forever to the depths of civil service organised
after, when some asshole from the Calgary Herald popped up and
asked whether Northstar was, well, *strong enough* to be in
combat, especially since his effectiveness seemed to be limited
to opponents of his own mass.  With this long, ugly look at
Jean-Paul's whipcord body still in its black spandex, and the
too-thin lines of his face.

Walter thinks maybe if he'd been the one to answer, there
might have been blood.  He thought for a second that Heather
might go in for carnage herself.  And the asshole lost his press
pass at the door, but then he was just gone and it was time to
deal with Jean-Paul, who was a ball of tight fury.  Walked out
with long, floor-skimming strides and disappeared.

It took Walter an hour to find him, and by then Jean-Paul had
showered and gone to bed.  Not asleep, but only because he
was so obviously hurting.  Slow and quiet.  Frightening, if
Walter's honest, to see the massed energy of that inhuman
metabolism turned inward, trying to repair whatever damage
Jean-Paul had decided not to own up to.

Hands at Jean-Paul's waistband now.  Purple bruises spreading
under his fingers like irises.  Sharp smell of Jean-Paul's body like
walking into a conservatory in midwinter, less sweet than
startlingly brilliant.  Water lingers in his hair like something
dark.  Metal-tinge of body-shock.

But more relaxed, at least, so it's not hard to slide his hands
under that belly and unbutton the pants, keeping one palm there
to support Jean-Paul while he peels them back.  More purple, and
darker, disappearing into grey boxers.  Which is nowhere Walter
ought to be, except that he's a doctor, and he needs to, because
he's getting more and more of a sense of how much this has to
*hurt*.  So just gently, again.  Careful of the elastic over the bruises.
And Jean-Paul lets him.  Raises his body on crossed forearms and
kicks the loose clothes carefully away when Walter cues him with a
hand on his leg.

After which it's a matter of palpitation and examination.  From
behind, he doesn't get much of a sense of what's wrong, only pain
and hot, aching skin.  He feels almost, not quite, dirty when he
walks around in front of the table and crouches to put himself at
Jean-Paul's eye-level.

"Hey."

"Mmmm."  Sounds like *yes*.  Sounds like *ow*.

"Think you could turn over if I helped you?"

Bruised eyes focus on him, and Walter can't believe how awful he
feels for asking.  Demanding this exposure, even in the name of
healing.  So he just stays there, crouched and stiffening slowly,
with his hands hooked on the table to either side of the man's face,
and waits. Radiating *please* and *come on* and *please trust me I
need you to trust me*.  Until he gets a small nod.  Then straightens
and puts some of his best discretion to work to keep the turning
process from being torture.

Even so, it's a white-faced Jean-Paul clinging to him by the time
they're finished, and Walter's knowledge of joual cursing has
increased exponentially.  Stands there and holds on back for a
second.  Straightens when Jean-Paul lets go and turns his head away.
Right.  Because they're not.  And he's supposed to be healing.
Which he can do now with just a couple of careful touches.  Brush
over the belly for comfort-trust-reassurance.  Gentle (carefully,
very carefully) probe of the pelvis that tells him it's not only
cracked, but out of line, and until he can put it back in line, all the
accelerated healing in the world isn't actually going to do Jean-Paul
any good.

Bends over the man again, coaxing him to turn back into a
conversational posture.  Trying to ignore the sheer, pale
*nakedness* of him.

"It's broken."

"Yeah.  I knew that."

"I'm going to have to --"

"Do it."  Flash of malamute blue at him.  Fierce and determinedly
not-scared.

He does.  Fast and careful as he can.  It's not a manipulation that
a man of Walter's build should be able to do so easily, and it's one
of the few times he's been grateful to be benching the equivalent of
a couple of small cars.  And in spite of his best intentions, there's
no mistaking the swallowed scream that works its way loose from
between Jean-Paul's teeth.

Walter holds the bone in place for ten or fifteen minutes, long
enough to let the jacked-up healing system take over and secure it.
Rubs Jean-Paul's belly with one hand, then the other, whispering
soft apologies and whatever comfort he thinks the man might
accept.  Pretends he doesn't see the helpless, angry tears salt-
scarring the sides of Jean-Paul's face, if only because he can't reach
far enough to wipe them.  Fury in Jean-Paul at them.  Trembling
rage that runs down into Walter's hands.

"Shhh.  I know it hurt.  It's OK."

Until he looks down and starts to understand the grace of the
hipbones in his cupped palms.  Like something you dream about.
And he knows that Jean-Paul's already forgiven him for the pain,
but this might be harder.  Because he's not prepared to let go just
yet.

He starts massaging, carefully, around the edges of the bruises,
just loosening the massed blood there, working gently towards the
heart.  Pauses to check the ribs and stays there even after he's
sure they're fine.  Stroking now from shoulder to hip while
Jean-Paul gradually relaxes and lets his anger go.  Whispers praise
to him that he's willing to bet Jean-Paul's never lavished on a
fully-clothed man before.  Which should be a tribute to his
healing skills.  Is, maybe.  But the soft, French-tinged words are
more welcoming than he has any right to expect, and Walter's
enjoying them more than decency allows.

Working gradually back down, smoothing the rest of the bruises
away.  The worst pain's dissipated, as far as he can tell, and
Jean-Paul's body is moving gently with the path of Walter's hands.
The last time he glanced over at those blue eyes, they were closed,
but that was several minutes ago, and he's afraid to look again.
Works down, ending at the spot that was broken, and pauses
there, warming again.  Both his huge hands framing the dark,
rough hair and the flesh between that's not exactly not-hard.  And
even if it doesn't mean.  It's flattering.  What he wanted.

Careful and obviously insane while he bends over his own hands.
Lays a single, open-mouthed kiss on the thin skin that covers the
healing break.  Sucks for just long enough to leave a faint mark.
Flare of sex-smell just beside him, marking the line he crossed.

He should stand up, and leave, and go jerk off in the shower and
spend a day or so really putting his head in order.  Because he's a
*healer*, and he's not supposed to *do* things like this, even with
his best friend, even if they're both enjoying it.  Even if he's hard
against the table's metal edge.

What he does is turn his head so that his cheek's against
Jean-Paul's pubic hair and he can gaze up the slim lines of that
body.  Meets Jean-Paul's eyes as steadily as he can.  Amazed
somehow that they're not angry.  Marked instead by huge pupils,
almost wiping out the blue.  One long-fingered hand reaches
down to touch his face.

And he has to say something, apologize, beg, demand, but all
that comes out is, "Can I?"

And somehow Jean-Paul's eyes go even wider for a moment, the
pulse in his throat near *thrumming* now. His first attempt to
talk drowned in an incoherent moan before he whispers, "ah,
oui..." more than a little desperately and Walter can feel his cock
drooling pre-come, feel sweat break out on his temples and the back
of his neck and he clenches his hands *hard* on table's edge to
try to gain back the shreds of his control.

Lowers his head to Jean-Paul's abdomen and... tastes. Pain sweat
and new, other sweat salty on his tongue, running it over and
over the bruised skin, leaning up to flick at one nipple once,
twice, and Jean-Paul's hand ghosts through his hair.

Flash of long, pale throat as he leans back and surrenders to it.
All the signal Walter needs before he begins to mouth the
nipple in earnest, tonguing and nipping and sucking once,
hard, earning a soft, helpless sound that makes *him* moan,
mostly untouched, thrusting gently and helplessly against the
cool table. Making it hotter. Making himself need.

Can't in any way justify just crawling up on the table and rubbing
himself off on all that pale, wonderful skin, so sidles around so
he can brace himself with one hand on either side of Jean-Paul's
head, leans in for a kiss that he hates himself for demanding but
Jean-Paul is right there, eyes as open as his own, watching and
watching as Walter slips his tongue between Jean-Paul's lips, as
he licks a tickling stripe up the roof of the other man's mouth, as
he sinks in to devour in earnest. Eyes finally closing but he knows
Jean-Paul is still watching and it makes him flush.

Makes him rougher than he wants to be, but Jean-Paul gives
everything, surrenders everything and Walter barely stops to
breathe, moving his hand gently down his torso before gripping
the hard length of him in his hand.

Stroking faster than he really wants to, unable to control his
hand, greedy for the feel of that silk-hot skin, for the fire as
Jean-Paul groans and returns Walter's attack, kissing harder,
leaning up to bite and suck on Walter's lower lip...

Strange, because the only cock he's ever held before is his own,
and this is somehow entirely different.  The shape of it, the texture.
The angle as it slides across his palm.  This incredible power like
nothing else.  And if he reaches just a little farther he can brush
against Jean-Paul's scrotum on the down-stroke, just tease it and
feel him writhe at the not-quite-there touch.  Swallowing every
whimper.  Kissing long and deep and wet.  Messy and wonderful,
erotic just in the friction of their mouths against each other.

Lifts his hand away from Jean-Paul's cock and sucks the long,
desperate whimper into his lungs.  Brings his hand up to the place
where their mouths are joined and adds his salty fingers to the mix.
Just a whiff of it in his own mouth, most of it in Jean-Paul's, but
he picks it up fast.  Doesn't withdraw the fingers when it gets
obvious that Jean-Paul's prepared to suck them.  Each of the five,
carefully and separately, with Walter's lips still resting against his.

He keeps thinking that if he could just get up there.  He wouldn't
even have to be naked.  Just on his side, one of Jean-Paul's thighs
between his and their bodies pressed together for friction, and he
could kiss this man for the rest of the night, wrap him up in his
oxford-cloth grip and cling to him.  Maybe at some point in this,
just a touch.  A brush of fingers pushed down his waistband
against his skin.  Even soft, though at the moment he doesn't
really believe he'll ever be soft again.

"Waal-terrr."  Barely more than a whisper, but laced with *please*
and *you bastard don't you tease me*.

It's not really *up* if he's only got one knee on the table, he thinks.
It gives him more leverage, and more reach.  Finally able to wrap
both his arms around those thin shoulders.  To impose a little of
his weight on that body.  Not a danger to the still-fading bruises,
but manifestly present, and chest to chest.  Kissing down deep
again, hand out of the way beside Jean-Paul's ear.  Almost
comfortable, definitely this side of desperate, until Jean-Paul
thrusts *hard* against his hip.

And it's all so incredible, Walter's reaction helplessly cliche to
being wanted by this man. Hot and shy, pressing just that much
closer to the bruised but healing skin, and Jean-Paul's arms
slipping beneath his own, long, strong fingers skating over the
muscles of his back, slipping and kneading, tactile encouragement
and plea but he can't leave that mouth alone. Hot and wet and
slightly bitter, perhaps, with the pain he's still feeling but
Jean-Paul isn't at all hesitant.

Giving himself fully to being touched, near-worshipped by Walter
and Walter has to kiss, stroke and suck and yes, yes, *fuck* that
beautiful mouth with his tongue, air cool and needed against his
slick fingers until Jean-Paul bucks again and

"*Please*, touch me again --"

And before Walter's mind can begin to wrap itself around the
sound of Jean-Paul's pleas his hands are moving again, down the
naked expanse of flesh to rough curls and heat, so much *heat*
and Walter needs to needs to

Needs to break away from the bruising kisses, shift awkwardly
down Jean-Paul's body and take his cock between his lips.
Different, shocking feel of it, but everything is right, so *right*,
that the only real shock is that he hasn't done this thing, offered
this thing for his friend to take.  For himself to take and sucking
now.

One hand wrapped on the root and bobbing his head, helplessly
fucking his mouth on Jean-Paul's cock, twisting and suckling,
stabbing his tongue at the drooling slit while the other man buries
his hands in Walter's hair and tugs and releases in rhythm to
Walter's movements. And his other hand, oh, please, yes.

One more transgression among many, one more unavoidable sin to
cradle Jean-Paul's tightening sac, squeeze gently and caress before
moving further back, before teasing around Jean-Paul's, tight, hot
hole and slipping just one finger in, and in to the second knuckle
and Jean-Paul's whispered screams perfect accompaniment to this
wonderful fuck.

*Inside* Jean-Paul, and Jean-Paul inside him and the endless,
wordless chant in his hand to please him, pleasure him, give him
this and give *himself* this and Walter is lost. The pressure on his
tongue, the stretch of his lips, his finger's hot, tight new home
and that tiny bundle of nerves that has Jean-Paul writhing, has
Walter humping shamelessly against one long leg and he's
praying for it now, begging for it and --

"*Walter* --"

Jean-Paul comes near silently, unbreathing, biting his lip and
thrusting, thrusting and he tastes... He tastes wonderfully bitter,
and salt, but Walter can't quite swallow it all without coughing.

The shock of it jerks him back, and he only stays standing by
clinging to Jean-Paul's arm and the edge of the table.  Coughing
convulsively and shaking.  He must look so incredibly *stupid*,
eyes streaming and his mouth marked by this white.  Not just his
mouth, either.  Chin, cheek.  Lips.  The bigness of his eyes behind
his glasses.

Jean-Paul's as obviously limp as old rags, wrung out with pain
and orgasm, but he struggles into something like a sitting
position and gets his knees up enough to balance.  Pulls Walter
up by pulling his arm in towards him and drawing the clinging
body after it, and takes him by the shoulders.  Leans in and
kisses him, very carefully.  Then licks him clean.  Just the tip
of that very red tongue skating over his face.  Not even wet, but
very.  Slick.  And while it's coming down from his cheekbone,
Walter extends his own tongue and strokes it in passing.  Almost
laughs at the startled, open-mouthed grin he gets in return.

Finds himself held by his beautiful, naked friend.  Kissed on face
and ear and forehead while he tries not to be obvious about
humping the table.  He's just about desperate, and this gentle
teasing isn't anything like what he wants.

"Hey, I love you, but I swear to God if we don't finish this --"

Breathy laugh against his face.  "Okay, Okay.  'Stie, you're so
*picky*."

And somehow, though it doesn't seem as though either of them
moved, there's a hand between them now, unzipping his pants
and carefully pushing them down on his hips.  Pulling him out.
Walter shudders a bit at the shock of air on him.  More at the
first real touch on his length.  Pale, hot fingers on him, nothing
like his own and nothing like a woman's either.  Undeniably
*male*, somehow.  Careful on him, just mapping out his
favourite touches right now.  The little spot just down and left of
the head that makes his whole body tighten.  The soft feel of the
inside of Jean-Paul's thigh against the tip when the man wiggles
insistently closer.

Jean-Paul keeps brushing these delicate little kisses over his face,
never letting Walter catch his mouth.  Teasing with his lips and
his body.  The strokes on Walter's erection are gentle, but there's
this whole body *pushing* at him, closer and closer.  One long leg
looped behind his, now, holding him in.  Arch of the
barely-bruised hips that lets Walter's erection slide down, towards
that wonderful, tight little place he was a minute ago.

Jean-Paul should know better than to try to drag the animal out
of him.  It's liable to get him into trouble.  Get him hauled
suddenly into Walter's body and kissed like starving, his thighs
forced apart and up, around Walter's waist so that he's
undeniably open.  And he must've known that, because his reaction
is only a smile, the radiant one that other people don't get out
him, and the deep, long kiss that Walter was wanting.

Leaves him tangled and only essentially naked.  Jean-Paul's body
like something carefully marked by an extravagant artist, white
and purple and hard and soft and warm.  Hot.  And he smells so.
Good.  Smells so good.

Tiny triggers, all of it, pulling at the beast inside, so carefully
leashed.  It can stay there for now, he needs bare skin for this,
needs to feel everything, ridges of sensitive flesh pressed against
his cock, open invitation to plunder and Jean-Paul radiating
happiness like a scent.

Easy and clear, open for just this once, like Walter has never
actually seen before. Gift accepted, longed for even, and the offer
of Jean-Paul's body in return and he's leaning in, push-pushing at
an obscene impossibility. He *can't* do this, not like this, not risk
more pain for his friend.

Scrambling away awkwardly, almost clumsily, ignoring the hazed
look of regretful confusion in Jean-Paul's eyes because accepting
that would damn him. But they *are* in the med-lab, and some
procedures require. Lubricant.

Beaten up tube of K-Y, half full, more than enough yes and
returning to find Jean-Paul ready for him, strangely well-formed
feet planted on either side of the bed, knees up and open. More,
so much more he wants, god, to *taste* there, and he thinks he
knows what it would feel like, thinks it could make Jean-Paul
blush, even, and that is a vision he saves. Something for later,
when he can tease, when he can do more than just rut like an
animal.

Slick finger, one inside too fast for Walter's senses but Jean-Paul
only arches up and takes it. Arches up on one hand and uses the
other to brush faint touches on his own torso before reaching up
again for Walter's hair, finger dig faintly into his scalp and he's
mussed now, knows there's no mistaking this for anything
remotely professional and only wants to get wilder.

Fucking him now, again with this finger, so slick and he needs
*more* than that so he slips another finger in. Twists them and
plays, the occasional short, rough thrust that makes Jean-Paul
gasp in joual, grab harder at Walter's hair and he's hard, so hard
and *aching*. Cock purpling, and he can feel the shift trying to
*start* there, give him a sheath that would pull back and expose
this, animal, animal and he bites his lower lip hard enough to
draw blood.

Breathes. Stops the change with an internal angry growl and
slicks himself carefully, knowing that once he's inside he won't
last long, knowing that Jean-Paul deserves everything he can
give.

Still in his human body, but it doesn't keep him from animal-
crawling up, onto the table, over Jean-Paul's body.  Forcing him
to scoot back til he's laid full-length with his legs still apart and
Walter between them, staring down at him through determinedly
human eyes.

Lets himself down on top of Jean-Paul's body slowly, careful of
the new healing in the hips under his.  Just as he touches him
gets a flash of that earlier scream and of his own agency in it.
Damns himself for it and lowers his head and kisses the mouth
under his.  The wetness of it takes just enough attention off the
ache in his belly and cock that he can fit their bodies together.
They breathe together for a minute, getting a sense of Walter's
mass, of the contained power in Jean-Paul's torso.  Then Walter
hooks those legs up around his hips and *pushes*, and can't help
loving the *crisssssse* that pours into his mouth.

Fingers at the back of his neck.  He's the one on top, but he's
being held as securely as if he were tied to the table.  Trying to
hold the animal down with the awareness of not just any body,
but *Jean-Paul's* body specifically, impaled on him.  So he can
go gently at first, 'cause whatever else might've been going on,
he knows it's been a while for both of them, and pain isn't what
he wants.  Just pure, careful.  *There.*  Finds the small, hard
lump of pleasure and the right angle to keep hitting it, and
Jean-Paul moves *up*, against him, suddenly not subject to
gravity.  Clings, thrusts back..  Kisses him and rubs one angular
cheek against Walter's rounder one.

One right shift and they're back down against the table with all
of Walter's weight forward to hold them there and Jean-Paul
glittering up at him.  Debauched and perfectly aware and Walter
can't think when he ever saw his friend so happy.  Wouldn't have
thought than any man could look so radiant in the heart of a sex
act.

Warm metal strokes against his sac the next time he thrusts, and
Jean-Paul pulls one leg up even higher, so that it brushes the
small of his back.  Other one against Walter's ass, encouraging
him gently to thrust, work them both.

And oh god, this is more dangerous than anything he should be
doing.  There's *blood* and *sex* and a half-dozen other base
instincts clamouring at his brain stem.  His body's almost
screaming, and some higher, human-rational part of his brain is
whispering *you bastard you stupid bastard you _love_ him and
what's that going to get you?*

And maybe it's that, and maybe it's just the knife-sharp *rush* of
fucking Jean-Paul but he can't be silent and stops trying,
moaning and gasping, embarrassing himself and Jean-Paul lays a
hand on his throat and is looking at him with something like awe.

Like hunger distilled to its finest elements, bucking up against
him, fucking himself down on Walter's cock, not hard but still
so obviously *loving* this, oh, loving what he's doing.

What Walter's doing to him.

Catches one leg behind the thigh and hikes it higher, making
Jean-Paul yell, make him chant yes and yes and *yes* and Walter
thrusts a little harder now, faster, on the thin razor edge of
control, trying not to blink just so he can watch Jean-Paul's face,
watch him arch and shake his head, watch the sweat bead at his
temples.

Angle too good now for him to do anything but stare at the
sweat and want.  Licking his own lips now, biting back hoarse
cries he knows would wake the whole house and burying
himself again and again. Rocking the bed and using his free
hand to twist and grab at the small nipples. Thrusts ragged now,
thighs trembling with the tension, body screaming for *more* and
Walter lets go, lets the sound out and just loses himself to the
fuck.

Last glimpse of Jean-Paul's wide eyes before he throws his head
back and comes, choking on a soundless scream, thrusting into
his own hot slickness deep inside Jean-Paul.

Gives, and crumples onto Jean-Paul's body.  Just so fucking
*grateful* when Jean-Paul accepts him.  His legs slide carefully
down and tangle with Walter's, and one lean arm comes around
the back of his neck and *holds* him.  Croons to him in a mix of
English and French that Walter can't really follow but doesn't
need to.  All variants on *it's alright* and *thank you* and *hush*.
Petting him, he realizes.  Which would be so unreasonable,
considering who's where, except that he's shaking and exhausted,
raw and when, exactly, did he get to be the one who needs
comfort?

Nuzzle touch of his face to Jean-Paul's hair and he manages a
smile.

"You OK?"

"M'dieu, Walter."  Breathy laugh and a kiss on his eyelid.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

He has to get his weight off Jean-Paul.  Not just for the sake of
breathing, but because he knows he's heavy enough to do some
damage, and Jean-Paul's suffered enough for one night.  Actually
*off* is too far, but it's easy to kind of slide off and curl in against
that body from the side.  Jean-Paul moves a bit more slowly.
Rolls himself carefully onto his side, keeping their legs tangled,
and strokes Walter's foot with his.  Strange that he forgets
sometimes how *tall* Jean-Paul is, just because he doesn't have
the implausible super-hero physique down.

But there's a lot of flat muscle there, clearly visible because there's
inches between them now, at least at this end.  Enough that
Walter can prop his head on his hand, and watch Jean-Paul lie
with his own head on his arm, sleepy-calm and smiling.

There are new bruises.  He touches each one, carefully, a little
baffled by Jean-Paul's slightly smug grin.  Purple like irises on that
skin, and hot.  His palm on each place with a tenderness he's just
starting to recognize in himself.

Jean-Paul says, "Thank-you."  Very softly.  Lays his hand on top of
Walter's on the rib-bruise that hand's currently touching.

Thanked for *that*. As if -- as though -- it's too much and it makes
Walter angry through the haze of his own lazy pleasure and he
has no idea how to respond, what to say. Can only stare into
Jean-Paul's puzzled eyes, dreading the fear which somehow never
comes.

As if this anger, too, was all expected. All part of him and the
sudden blinding need to know what was in the man's head. See
it and comprehend it and roll in it like something sweetly
corrupt.

In the end, "don't thank me. Please."

Pale fingers tangling in his sweat damp hair, Jean-Paul's response
only a long, slow kiss that drains everything out of Walter save
for the now maddeningly formless need.

Wraps his arms around Jean-Paul and holds him tight.

Waits for a reckoning.
 

End

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