Disclaimer: If they were ours, the artwork would have been
better.

Spoilers: Uh, let's just say that the comics are old.

Pairing: Northstar/Sasquatch

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Midnight snacking leads to some uncomfortable
questions.

Authors' notes: So Te wanted to know about Walter, and that
rather interesting gender-bending incident came up.  And we
couldn't just leave it there, you know?

Feedback: Because we love attention.  teland793@sbcglobal.net and
janestclair15@hotmail.com

*

Once upon a time in a woman's body.  He remembers, oddly,
being heterosexual then, too.  Huge jolt when he changed back,
and this question at the back of his mind about how much did
that Thing for men... linger?

One has to wonder.  Maybe he looked at his body a little longer
in the mirror the next time he was naked and male.  Maybe found
himself turning to look at one of his male friends the next time
they went out drinking.  Maybe forgot, once or twice, which he
was, and found himself touching, softly, intimately, the way guys
*don't*, the arm or thigh beside him.

He forgets how big he is.  Comes up behind Jean-Paul in the
kitchen while they're midnight raiding and lays a hand on his hip,
reaches around with the other one to point, finds that he's
surrounded the other man.  Who's not exactly angry about it,
not obviously, but he stiffens, trying to ignore it until Walter
remembers himself and pulls back.

A jolt there, the feeling of incorrect social interaction, still a
little
too vague to quite understand.

Walter stammers an apology, flushing, but Jean-Paul shrugs it off,
and Walter can't see what's in his eyes. Determinedly begins
foraging for something sweet and not quite filling, and comes up
with a well-hidden package of ginger snaps.

Walter can't quite remember whether or not he actually *likes*
ginger snaps, but their treatment as hidden treasure makes them
an intriguing prize.

Memory of Jean-Paul's warmth -- *heat* -- tickling at the edge of
his senses, and Walter knows that he needs to be *thinking* about
this but doesn't quite... want to.

Wants to sniff the man instead, get close enough so that his
senses would be filled only with Jean-Paul. *That*, right now,
seems most worth considering.  Settles for simply breathing deep
from his new distance as Jean-Paul frowns his way through the
cabinets. Ginger, some hint of slightly burnt grease from dinner
earlier. The scents of *kitchen*, richly defined as only a kitchen in
an over-packed house like this one can produce.

And Jean-Paul.

Warm smell, deep smell. Masculine and fey -- though perhaps
only tricksome because of distance. Something of citrus and
sweat and astringent. This morning's cologne, this afternoon's
practice mission. Jean-Paul hasn't showered yet.

The tips of his ears twitch a little, and Walter jerks himself out
of reverie. Does not want to be caught *sensing* him as he is, and
sets himself to figuring out exactly how he feels about ginger
snaps.

Not the same as cinnamon, but it has that same in-another-place-
not-here edge to it.  Something dug out of the ground and
sweetened only latterly.  Then baked into these tiny cookies, which
make it somehow the more alien.

Clink of glass above him and a quick silence that he only gradually
realizes indicates that Jean-Paul's feet are no longer touching the
floor.  Perched comfortably on thin air, in defiance of all Newtonian
laws, looking very carefully into the high cupboards where the extra
dishes and strange assortment of camping supplies live.  Small
scrape of a lid and a sigh that sounds exactly like something he
doesn't want to think about.

He turns and Jean-Paul's still up there, surreptitiously licking his
fingers, the little jar of whatever he found clutched to his chest.

"That'd better not be chocolate."

"Pourquoi?"

"Because we both remember what happened the last time you
had chocolate.  Sugar and caffeine together are lethal with you."

"Fuck you."  Chocolate-edged lips just barely curling.

So he jumps, catches the arm holding the jar and jerks the
container loose.  Lands with it cradled in his hand a more than a
little now on his skin.  Up above, Jean-Paul gives him what might
be a raspberry and goes back to digging in the cupboard.

When he descends a minute or two later, it's with a bottle and
an expression that says he might not share.  Pulls the cork
carefully and lays it aside. Sniffs.  Offers the mouth to Walter.

"Dandelion, I think.  Puck must have brought it back from
Saskatoon."

The smell is... tantalizing.  Strong and natural, promising a kick
he'd miss until it got him in the end.  And he's already
rationalizing -- no practice missions tomorrow, no particular
terrorist threats in the past few weeks, healing factors, no one
around to see...

What?

A glance and Jean-Paul is watching him with a smile. He may as
well have been talking aloud the entire time. Walter tries a scowl
in return, a blatant copy of his father's, and just about as
believable.

Laughter from Jean-Paul, and a judicious glance at the bottle. "I
think we are going to get... very drunk." Rolling joual spin on the
last two words, and when Walter blinks there are two utterly
tasteless Hanna-Barbera jelly glasses on the counter, undoubtedly
Kyle's.

"I see that we're going to do this with our usual style and
impeccable taste."

"Oui."

Walter snorts and carries the overfull glasses to the kitchen table,
pulls out a chair for Jean-Paul with ostentatious flair before
seating himself.

It's something he's had before, but not recently.  Bright and sweet
and unfinished the way homemade wines are, echoes of flower
seeds and alcohol and dust mixing at the back of his throat.
Finishing raw.  He wants to open the windows, sit on the floor in
the dark, dip his fingers in it and lick the pale off of them.  He
remembers nights in Regina, in his football days, sitting on the
tailgate of someone's truck and drinking from a bottle and it was
like this.  Liquid taste of warm, dry air and something distinctly
*male* that might have only been companionship, but he doesn't
recall.

Watches Jean-Paul drink, sharply, then wince and sniff.  And
drink more carefully.

"Don't look like that.  I've seen you drink lighter fluid.  And this is
*good*."

"Are you sure we're drinking the same thing?"  But he swallows it
anyway, and slides down a bit in the chair.  Not enough to vanish,
yet, but enough that his t-shirt rucks up around his ribs.  The
exposed navel like a temptation to drink.  Arching out towards him
when Jean-Paul tilts his head back and downs the rest.

"You could, you know, *enjoy* it."

"I did."  Shakes his glass at Walter, who fills it, sloshing just a
little
at the end onto Jean-Paul's fingers.

"Sorry."

Except an instant after he says it, the liquid's brushed back across
his own lips, so fast he can't focus on the hand doing it.  Only on
the wet that remains, and the aftertaste of skin and cupboard dust
soaking in it.

"You like it so much," Jean-Paul smirks at him, and goes back to
drinking.

A moment of pure shock, well out of whatever game they've
somehow begun playing. Walter tries a shaky smirk and licks his
lips deliberately. Tries and fails to come up with some insouciant
way to check his goatee for dampness, and in the end just tugs it
straight again, hint of moisture slickening it into shape for
perhaps the first time ever, but Jean-Paul is paying attention solely
to the glass.

Or rather to the chipped and vapid look of Yogi Bear. Long,
puzzled look, as though Jean-Paul's trying to comprehend some
form of alien calculus. Walter wonders if it's the bizarre collar and
tie that's doing it. Something about the lack of *shirt* for the collar
has always made his mind hurt. The green tie, at least, was simply
ugly.

His own glass is Deputy Dawg, a character that had always left him
both smug and a little annoyed.

Kyle is well overdue for a cultural makeover, but it's not as if any
of *them* are qualified.

Finishes his wine and goes for more, enjoying the slight tingle on
his tongue, and that vague feeling of transgression, wondering
whether it would be Puck or Heather hunting them down the
next morning.

"Walter?"

"Hmm?"

"What was it like to be a woman?"

He chokes a little, which makes no sense since there was only air
in his mouth, but the question's just.  Not one he expected of
Jean-Paul.  "Oh fine, ask me *that*."

But when he looks, Jean-Paul's expression is only serious and a
little -- what is that?  Not hopeful, but something like it.

So he asks, "Why?" and gets a profoundly articulate shrug in
return.  Those eyes not meeting his.  And he realizes -- slowly,
because drunk as he is, everything's slowly -- that it wasn't an
easy question to ask, and maybe deserves an answer.

"Disorienting, at first.  Because I kept thinking I was bigger than
I was, and because my body bent differently, and having breasts
and hips kept throwing me off-balance.  And even after I got
used to them, I still had this different flesh than before.  Breasts
that my arms touched whenever I moved them, and.  I remember
standing in front of a mirror, the first day, starting at myself
naked, and all I could think that that my dick was *gone*.  Which
was so completely *wrong*, except that it was normal."

Doesn't mention the time he spent curled in a corner, fetal and
whimpering and then wanting to scream because his voice was
wrong, his body was *wrong*, that he should be huge and
dangerous and not this soft, too-vivid *thing*.

"And eventually I got used to that, too.  Like, if I was going to live
in that body for the rest of my life, I ought to like it.  Get to know
it.  I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"You know why.  C'mon.  *Spill.*"

Walter rolls the next sip around in his mouth for a while.  "So I...
explored a bit.  Hands, mirror, warm bathtub.  Just.  Really
different from jerking off.  Less auto-response kind of thing.
Later I learned that masturbation was something I could do fast
and hard if I needed to, even in a woman's body, but I think I was
used to treating a woman's body as this incredibly fragile thing
that I had to be careful of during sex."

Pause.  "My turn to ask you something?"

"Alright."

"Had you ever kissed a woman?"

And Jean-Paul has to notice the past tense.  First
acknowledgement between them of that horrible, awkward
moment when Walter, female Walter, had kissed his (her? his?
he can't separate at this distance) friend.  Who'd been more
than a little cold since the beginning of the whole mess, but fuck
him, he'd been *gorgeous*, and Walter'd wanted to know.  Just
know what it was like.

Not prepared for the utterly reflexive horrified disgust that
greeted that kiss.  Or the horrible sadness that followed in the
instant before Jean-Paul had twisted away and bolted.

"No.  I hadn't."

And there's a comfort in that he hadn't realized he needed until
just this moment. A way to refit the memory into something...
something bright and dangerous and beautiful that he does not
want to touch. Even thinking about being a woman skirts around
the edges of it.

The bits of suddenly less interesting Aurora in the bones of
Jean-Paul's face, the slick hot *need* for hard flesh and long, lean
lines that had kept him up at night, dotted his face and neck with
sweat in the darkness.

Jean-Paul.

Awful to have the desire for that elemental *thing* the twins share
shift back to poor, mad Jeanne-Marie, for soft, high breasts and
the curve of waist to hip that had always left him with a dry throat.
Always since puberty, of course.

Except, there was that electric touch on his lips, the strange,
deep seriousness on Jean-Paul's face that is weirdly, frighteningly,
not at all directed inward, like more needs to be said.

"I... everything was *wrong*, you know? I'd had enough
biochemistry to understand just how big a role hormones and
neurochemicals played in determining personality, but to be
suddenly *faced* with it..."

A frown from Jean-Paul. "And wanting men? That was wrong, too?"

Has to think about that one, it's so tangled. "Well, yes and no.
My body had definite feelings on the matter." Looks away from
Jean-Paul's eyes. "It was... *profound*. Natural in a way I'd never
even considered. As a man, I'd never thought about why I wanted
women, and after I changed, I knew why. It was... pervasive. All-
consuming. Making all the questions and doubts in my mind
almost moot."

"Ah, the perfect heterosexual. Have another drink."

"Well, I --" But his glass is already filling, and Walter reaches out
a hand to steady it. The fuzz behind his eyes is just a little
uncomfortable now, the sense of something very necessary
unspoken. Something about his love for his friend, something
about offering the brief shock of attraction -- yes, that's what it
was -- when Jean-Paul touched his mouth as apology, mitigating
factor.

Something as awful as that to make things even worse, while
clearing his conscience.

Selfish, and a lie buried somewhere within. Aurora hadn't been
*completely* uninteresting after all. Some half-buried desire to
test the heft and shape of his breasts against her own. To wonder
how her sex would smell to his new nose, whether the slickness
would be strange. Some blank, dim need to offer Jean-Paul...
what?

A mercy fuck? Would that be how Walter filed it away within
his brain?  They'd never really spoken about Walter having sex
with Jeanne-Marie. He's thinking about Jean-Paul on a purely
intellectual level, an old escape from the dangers of social
interaction.

The beast within would simply... handle it.

He hisses in irritation.  Gets up and walks to the doorway and
palms the lights off, returns to Jean-Paul but sits on the floor in
front of him instead of resuming his chair.  Jean-Paul stares at
him blearily through the dark.

"What're you doing?"

"Sitting on the floor.  Come down to me and I'll tell you
secrets."

"I think you're drunk."  But he comes down.  Pushes back a little
to rest his back against the cupboard and sips from the
blank-eyed character of his glass. "What were you going to tell
me?"

"Why it was you."  Just as unobtainable as Mac, but somehow
he'd thought.  Maybe.

"You mean other than random cruelty?"

"Ouch.  I didn't think it was that bad a kiss."

"You weren't getting kissed by a girl."

Walter smirks.  "No.  I wasn't."

"So why was it me?"

"I--"  Surprised at himself, that he promised an answer when he
doesn't really have one, that he can move so quickly when he's
this drunk.  Up onto his knees and over to the slender, slouched
body.  Who looks up at him, huge-eyed in the dark, for just a
split second before Walter bends and pushes his mouth down
onto that pale one.

The kiss, however is disallowed. Jean-Paul stiffens, pushes him
back, and Walter can't help but give a moment's resistance before
he listens. In the gloom, Jean-Paul's eyes are as cold as they would
be to a stranger.

"Trying again?"

Walter scrubs a hand over his face, settles back on his heels.
"More like...trying to tell you why."

"Words are acceptable."

"I didn't... I don't. Know what to say."

"You're trying to apologize."

"Yes. No. Jean-Paul --"

But he's up and already striding toward the door. Insult or
friendship that he didn't simply use his speed to disappear.
Streetlights through the small window silvering the edges of his
form and Walter scrambles to his feet, catches Jean-Paul by the
shoulder and spins him around, closing his eyes against the
outrage and simply opening his mouth.

"I want you."

And in again for a better kiss, or a harder one and he can feel
Jean-Paul's teeth behind his lips and it makes him hungry, wild,
and he doesn't want to think about this, doesn't want to pull this
out. His body, his own, mostly original male body is reacting in a
way that makes Walter feel stupid and lost.

Pulls back just enough to trace Jean-Paul's lips with his tongue,
bite at his chin and *then* release the man. Open his eyes.

Anger and a lot of other things Walter doesn't feel he has the
right to see.  Not here, not yet, but he won't turn away. Not
from this.

"And did it ever occur to you that I didn't want you, Walter?"

Crash inside, shame and anger and denial and everything else he
can't tease out. He feels flush, dumb with alcohol and his own
hormones. "I... no."

Long moments to listen to the rasp of his own breath, to fight
back the images brought on by the hard, simple glint in
Jean-Paul's eyes. Curl his hands into fists and wait, until Jean-Paul
shakes once, hard, all over and smiles with more than a little
cruelty.

"You stupid *fuck*."

Pushes in fast against him, and this is the kiss he wanted. A little
brutal, wet and messy and loud with the sounds of their breathing,
the knock of teeth and hot, slick tongue on flesh. Jean-Paul's
cupping him through his jeans, squeezing and stroking rhythmically,
angrily, and all Walter can do is moan.

Nothing like he would have had in a woman's body.  Different
kind of primitiveness in the hand brutal on his erection, the flat
chest against his.  Muscle and bone and two thin layers of shirts
between their lungs and hearts.

He's still not sure he's being offered this, really, but he can't
bring himself to let go.  Like desperation can take the edge off
Jean-Paul's anger, if he just holds on and *rolls* with this.  Animal
in him clamouring at the back of his mind to be turned loose.
Howling that he could throw Jean-Paul down and ravage him on the
linoleum.  Lick him, kiss him, blow him, lift those long runner's
legs in the air and *fuck* him.  Crawl inside his skin that way.
And it's all he can do to not change, just to keep grinding his
human senses against Jean-Paul's flesh to keep himself grounded.

Twist and hard back, and he's held to the wall with one casually
locked arm against his throat while Jean-Paul fumbles at the front
of his jeans with the other.  Slides that pale hand in through the
unbuttoned fly, pulls Walter's erection out and holds it.  Not
moving, but tightly enough that he's making a point.

"You remember that you have this?"  Breath against his face.
Fingers stroke the underside of his cock, dive back inside the
denim cave looking for his balls.

"'M not likely to forget, believe me, ohhhhh..."

Pale thumb across his crown and it's just *good*.  Something
he could move against.

More human desire in him that he'd like to give this back.  Reaches
out and fails to connect with anything like a body.  Pauses to
collect himself and tries again, and this time catches a fingertip in
Jean-Paul's waistband.  Not close enough to get the pants open, but
Jean-Paul's slender enough that there's clearance for three fingers
to slide down inside and touch him.  Arch of that body when
Walter's fingers brush something warm and stiff and vaguely wet,
earning another flare of anger.

Jean-Paul catches his wrist and *shoves*, forcing Walter's hand
down inside his pants, so that his hand closes naturally around
the erection there.  Suddenly very close together, Jean-Paul's icy
malamute blues staring back at him.

"You feel that?"  Thrust into Walter's palm.

"Yeah."  Slick in the creases of his life- and love-lines, and he
tries to squeeze a little, give Jean-Paul something to thrust
against.

"So.  Neither of us is a woman, then."  Strange, too-explicit
object lesson that he's still having trouble following, and it
can't be just because of that hard touch where his length and
body meet.

"Sounds right."

"So where does that leave you, Walter, the perfect
heterosexual?"

His own laugh surprises him, and he gives Jean-Paul's cock
a slow, uncomfortable stroke, scraping his wrist on denim.
"Imperfect."

"Ah... and stupid."

Slips out to open Jean-Paul's jeans, tug down snug boxer briefs
and promises himself he'll tease sometime, breathe against the
cotton and take small, gentle, bites and "I am an idiot."

Stroking each other in rhythm now, stumbling closer and closer
until Walter can take both their cocks in his fist and do it right,
do it a little slower. Sweat and pre-come taking away just
enough friction to make it wonderful. Jean-Paul's hands on his
shoulders now, restless and moving, kneading in a way that just
ratchets the tension higher, ghosting over his cheeks, working
the stubble back and forth and Walter nuzzles into the other
man's palm.

Turn and licks the salt there, up over a slim finger still
sweet-bright from the wine.

And sucks.

And somehow the last resistance just melts. Jean-Paul's skin is
hot, Jean-Paul's finger moving in his mouth, pressing his tongue
down and slipping in and out. Testing him again but God, Walter
doesn't mind. Eyes half-closed and he can see Jean-Paul through
his lashes, lips parted and pink tongue peeking just between
them. Heat in his fist, familiar and not.

Cock brushing and sliding against the other and Walter lets
himself fall back against the wall, Jean-Paul following unerringly,
thrusting up and up into his fist and sliding a second finger into
his mouth and there's something about too soon and something
about right *now* and it wasn't as though he hadn't had this
fantasy, too, absently following Jean-Paul into the showers for
half a second as a woman before running back out, flushed and
dreaming of... this.

On his knees now, hands tracing the muscle of Jean-Paul's thighs,
tugging jeans and boxers down further before taking hold of the
other man's cock again and guiding it toward his lips.

Rubbing the head over his mouth and licking away the fluid,
half-blocking out the sounds Jean-Paul is making because it's too
*much*. Right hand finding his own cock and jacking as leisurely
as he can as he takes Jean-Paul in as far he can, some part of his
mind whisper-pleading *yes, this too*.

Shaky instant when it strikes the back of his throat, when he
can't remember how to breathe, but then it slides over his
tongue and he half-swallows and finds a place where he's
comfortable.  Sucking on this flesh, careful of his teeth, loving
the sounds he's drawing out of the man standing over him.
Like feeling him come apart.  Gorgeous, desperate, trying to be
quiet and not quite succeeding, and this is *wonderful*.

Crawls forward a bit, ignoring the awkwardness of jeans loose
around his hips, close enough to be able to *touch* with his whole,
mostly still-clothed body.  Nothing he's ever had was quite as good
as the scrape of Jean-Paul's jean leg against his own naked cock.

"Ahhhh.  M'dieu Walter."  Fingers at his temple tangle in his hair,
pushing him forward for a second, then pulling him back.  Angry
moment where he doesn't want to let go and Jean-Paul has to
force his head back.  Only vaguely grateful when the man bends
over and kisses him.

Darker, even, than it was a minute ago, because he's never learned
to kiss with his eyes open.  The romantic at his heart wanting to
imagine as much as it sees.  And yet satisfied by this, the soft
desperation of the mouth on his.  Wanting him to.  Something.
Lean back so Jean-Paul can slide down and straddle him,
awkwardly, still kissing downward and now cradling his whole
skull.

He lets himself go and reaches up, strokes the angular lines of
that face and the inhuman taper of the ears vanishing into
currently slightly shaggy dark hair.  Little whimper when he
reaches the tips and rubs them softly.  Wonders if he's found
a new erogenous zone, and whether that would work on him,
and whether it matters when his whole body feels so good.
Jean-Paul's soaking-wet length brushes his chest every time the
man kneels up to find a better angle, hard enough that Walter
can feel the dampness working through to his skin.

Wants his shirt off, suddenly.  Fumbles with it, not managing
until Jean-Paul releases his head and lifts it off.  Just the quickest
break in their kiss while the cotton pulls over his head, and then
he's cold/hot/slick-wet with the feel of Jean-Paul against him.
Who must like his chest hair, because the next searching reach of
the kiss is punctuated by a short thrust against him.

Even this kiss is so totally different, his head pushed back and
the mouth against his sharp with late-night beard stubble and
thinner and harder and still just vividly *right*.  What he wanted.
Careful while he slides back, pulling Jean-Paul down after him.
That body against him provides some friction for his own cock,
and it's this bright-flash of wanting, but under it's the
understanding that he's pinned, that he'd have to fight tooth and
nail if he wanted to get loose.  Comfortable only because he
chose this.

Shifts his legs wider to fit Jean-Paul against him, brings his knees
up to hold the man there.  Holding him and kissing him, cock
against his cock bright and wet and *good*.

Stroking those ears almost casually when he's startled by
Jean-Paul's pointed thrust against him that strikes not his cock
but his back seam, and he looks at the man and understands.  And
his eyes must be huge in this darkness.

Angry, awful second to wonder if this is just to prove another
point, but it doesn't last. The streetlights are shining on
Jean-Paul's face above him and the need there is palpable. As
ruthlessly tactile as everything else, as his rock-hard cock against
Jean-Paul's hot, flat stomach and Jesus, can he do this?

Jean-Paul thrusts again and his sudden frustration at the muted
contact is all the answers he needs for now, even against the
rush of images -- would he be fucked right here? Just like this?

Oh, yes...

Walter brushes his thumbs one last time against the other man's
ears before bringing them down to grapple with his jeans. His
fingers feel huge and stiff, clumsy and worst than useless, but he
gets his pants down a little more and Jean-Paul lifts enough to
help.

Scooting back and pulling them off, socks, too, and leaving him
bare, absolutely naked.

"You... you, too."

And Jean-Paul nods quickly and strips down to the essential
geometry of his body, all lean muscle and the barest curves over
his collarbone, in the bowl of his pelvis, in the lines of his hard
cock. Walter reaches up to the cluttered stove to nick the extra
virgin olive oil Heather demanded for some threatened meal that
was never cooked, looks back to find Jean-Paul kneeling.
Palms-up.

Artistry there, but it's all natural, as if this had to happen just as
it did, half-angry and terrified and desperately horny. Walter
pours too much, hand shaking, bucking when a small river of the
stuff slides off Jean-Paul's wrist and onto his stomach.

Wet fingers on Walter's cock, tracing and teasing over his balls,
pressing that spot just behind them and sliding down to his hole.
More aware of himself there than he's ever been in his life, even
when Aurora did just this, sliding one spit-wet finger inside him
and fucking him with it half-absently, half-roughly.

Jean-Paul is gentle and steady, twisting his finger around and
around, getting him wet inside, making him clench and gasp at
the wrongness of it, wrong way down a one way street -- that
strange back-hair raising *danger* of it when he'd been driving
now all over his body, prickles of heat and rush of cold and he
has to close his eyes, shut them against the reactions of his body
when Jean-Paul adds another finger.

"Ah, beautiful, Walter, *feel* it."

Walter breathes deep and consciously relaxes, cock flagging a
little before he *does* feel it, small, slow burn sliding past the
wrongness, fingers deeper now, better position and Walter finds
himself arching for it, the fullness, remembers carefully shifting
herself when she'd masturbated, when she'd fucked herself and
had to be cautious of the short half-moons of her nails.

Hissing when she'd missed, but this is different. Tighter and
hotter and he opens his eyes to find Jean-Paul studying his face,
a little hesitant until he asks for

"More..."

And then there's only that heat again, that aching need for *him*,
all of him that stirs his cock again just as Jean-Paul finds his
prostate and Walter bites back a yell.

Thrusts back and gets it again and Jean-Paul is finger-fucking him
now and Walter's hips catch the rhythm. A moment when it's
perfect, when he *knows* he can come from that alone and then
suddenly it's not nearly enough.

"Jesus, JP, *please*."  Smacking his head on the floor, fumbling
behind him for his shirt to put under, keep himself from cracking
his skull.  Looks over at Jean-Paul curved inward, carefully
slicking himself with the free hand like some erotic sculpture in
Carrara marble.

Moment of emptiness that he cries against.  Twists his eyes around
and spots the man, turned to the side.  Jean-Paul wipes his hands
on a dishtowel and bends in, over Walter, and kisses him with only
their lips touching.  All of the air between them making him *want*.
His whole body straining up to that pale form.

Down his body there's this aching *openness* that feels so
strangely familiar.  He remembers aching like this at night in a
strange body, wanting this man.  Knowing somehow the possibility
of it, the way their bodies were supposed to fit together.  Less
sure now, so that he has to let Jean-Paul arrange him.  Knees up,
wide as he can in a male body that hasn't been young for a couple
of years now, pelvis tilted up by the movement.  Soft, wetted hole
where Jean-Paul brushes him before lowering his body onto
Walter's.

Insistent pressure, then, and he remembers how big that flesh was
in his hand.  Not huge, but nothing like the fingers' touch; this is
pushing him *open*, wide and round and *ohhh*, just the
shallowest breach that almost and doesn't quite hurt.

Jean-Paul's hand slips under his knee and pulls him farther up.
Twists his whole body to the purpose of making him fuckable.
Male and hard and still submitting to this.  Burn in him expanding
and the other man keeps pushing deeper, not fast but inescapable,
hurting and *good* so unnaturally that he gasps at it.  Reaches up
his mouth for Jean-Paul's.

Kiss, almost a contortion, into which he whispers, "Do it if you're
going to."

Soft tenor growl and Walter slips his hands down to Jean-Paul's
hips and *yanks*. God fuck Christ *inside*, balls slapping against
his ass, another part of the flesh noise they're making, more
shameless than Walter's ever felt, hotter and higher on it.

Guides Jean-Paul back until just the head is breaching him and
pulls again.  No effort against his strength, just the incredible
torture of being fucked, filled, *taken* and finally Jean-Paul
brushes Walter's hands away and speeds up.

Human-fast and slamming into him, eyes wide, deep pools
lost somewhere between astonishment and animal lust. Walter
tries to spread wider, catch the rhythm again and gets it, the
slam less important than the friction now, than the simple
mechanics of being fucked by his closest friend, ears catching
the breathily male grunts with each thrust, biting back the
moans so he can hear it all.

Hands back to Jean-Paul's ass. Not guiding so much as riding
along, feeling it. Soft, downy hair back there, silky-crackle against
his palms. Gets one finger in the cleft and lets their motion rock it
there. Jean-Paul shaking his head and fucking harder, *driving* into
him, driving the breath out of him with low cries he can't hold back
any more.

Knees slipping, thighs straining and bucking up and up and taking
it as deep as he can, Jean-Paul's hips slapping against his ass,
Jean-Paul's hands braced and straining on either side of his head.

Writhes out to lick the sweat from one hard wrist, bite down on
tendon and skin and sucks to the rhythm. Jean-Paul crying out,
motion ragged with need and tension until he comes groaning.
Shuddering and fucking his way through it, skin brushing and
brushing against the head of Walter's cock and still not enough
but so *good*.

Drops his knees as Jean-Paul pulls out, feels the man's come
inside him and whimpers. Fucked, he's been *fucked* and he's
still so *hard*. Jean-Paul whispering and muttering, holding
himself up for another moment by sheer force of will before
half-falling off to the side, burying his face in Walter's armpit and
licking a long stripe before moving back.

Takes Walter in hand, squeezes, and they both watch another
surge of pre-come drool down his shaft before Jean-Paul's on him,
faster than a blink, licking him clean, slick and efficient before
swallowing him whole, lips kissing his own fist and fucking
himself hard on Walter's cock and Walter has just enough time to
yell out some formless vowel sound before he comes in Jean-Paul's
mouth, jerking.

The stillness in the house when he finally swallows his voice is
overwhelming, and he's aware that he probably woke someone.
Everyone.  Hard to care when Jean-Paul is still there, head on
Walter's belly, stroking Walter's softening cock with his tongue.
Somehow not too much in spite of overstimulated nerves
screaming all over his body.  Cool when Jean-Paul finally lets the
flesh lie and drops his face fully into Walter's abdomen.

Jean-Paul's kiss to his navel makes him shiver.  Cool and dark
here, enough that he has to keep reminding himself not to doze.
Three-thirty by the microwave clock, which means Heather's
going to stagger in here in a slim three hours, and if she falls
over him in the process, he's going to have to get verbal long
before he wants to be tomorrow morning.  *This* morning.

It's enough of a threat to make him struggle a little, push towards
upright.

"Mmm?"

"C'mon."  Holds a hand out and watches the shadow of Jean-Paul
roll to his knees and take it.  Pulls him up.  Hugs him, briefly
but fierce and tight as he can.

He lets go when Jean-Paul does, and starts feeling for the pieces
of their mess in the dark.  Olive oil bottle, dish towel that he uses
to wipe the floor with, their cups from beside the table.  Finds
the bottle carefully corked and stood upright against the
cupboard and sets it absently on the counter.

Rustle beside him that he turns towards, and Jean-Paul's there,
wearing his jeans but not, apparently, anything else.  Takes the
bottle and jumps, hovers with his feet chest-high to Walter while
he sticks the remains of the wine back in the high cupboard.
Then turns, still hanging, to make Walter look up at him.  Pale
and dark, his jeans half-buttoned and the thin flesh of his lower
belly showing in the gap.  Graceful runner's feet hovering within
reach.

Easy to grab Jean-Paul by one of them and pull him down into
the hug Walter should have given him to begin with.  Tight,
fierce, rocking back and forth and *laughing* happily, quietly
into his ear.  He leans back a little and kisses Jean-Paul firm on
the mouth and laughs again.  Naked and wide-eyed in the dark,
so suddenly *happy*.

He says, "Outside?"

"*Chrisse*, I'm filthy enough, Walter." Smiling when he says it,
inviting the tease.

"Are you kidding? I smelled something *awful* out there we
can roll around in."

"Ah... so I'll know next time not to shower for a week the next
time I want you."

"Mmmm... *musk*."

Brief, open laugh and Walter lets himself be dragged upstairs and
into Jean-Paul's almost-too-narrow bed that lends itself
wonderfully to holding the man.

Eye to eye, one slim foot brushing up and down his leg. Walter
kissing the smile on Jean-Paul's face.

Resolving to prove himself hopelessly wrong every chance he
gets.
 

End

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