28 March 2001
Alpha Flight

Midnight snacking leads to uncomfortable questions.

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

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?
 
 

Lion Glass
by Janete

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 was 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.

janete
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