Slick

"'It's only a Class Two, Peter! You and Winston can handle it, Peter!' " Venkman's voice was high and nasally, his imitation of Janine's words from that morning when she handed them the worksheet. "Class Two my slime covered ass! She's got it out for me Winston; I swear she planned this!" Peter's voice dropped to a growl while he adjusted the heavy, waterproof tarp Winston insisted he wear back to the firehouse.

"C'mon Pete, I don't think Janine knew the gooper was really nothing but a, well, nothing but goop when she asked us to fill in for Ray and Egon today." Winston grabbed Peter's arm, careful to touch only the tarp, and directed it away from the dashboard. "Hands off the stereo, man."

"C'mon, at least let me get a decent station in my time of need here." Peter indicated his thoroughly slimed self.

"This is a decent station. Rules is rules, Pete; driver picks. Besides," Winston added, "one of us has a charity event car show this weekend, and I don't plan on spending the rest of the day picking dried slime off of the tuner knobs."

"I think a little slime would add to it, give the kids a thrill, y'know?" Peter said, starting to wave one hand but returning it to his lap at Winston's glare. "Of course there wouldn't be any slime to worry about if I wasn't such a nice guy. I swear it was a plant. I'll bet anything she's been studying Ray's books and summoned it herself." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And I'll bet Ray's in on it with her. How was I supposed to know Dopey Dog got wrapped up in the laundry? It's not like I didn't put the ears back on."

Winston tuned his partner out, keeping a fraction of his attention on Peter's rambling complaints just in case he mentioned something serious, but the bulk of his attention split between driving in Manhattan traffic and the bust they'd just left.

It hadn't been an emergency call; Ray easily identifying the creature over the phone as a boogity, a minor nuisance normally known for creating messes. This one had taken up residence in a convalescent home, a situation that moved it up on the priority list since the minor disasters the creature had created resulted in minor injuries to the elderly residents that could just as easily have been major. So the management had arranged an outing for the entire home and left the field clear for the two 'busters to operate in.

The boogity had been easy to find, in fact it had homed in on them within minutes. Or more specifically on Peter, whom it seemed to develop a spontaneous affection for. The entity, a round, bluish-green blob the size of a softball, had immediately zipped down the back of Peter's jumpsuit and made itself at home, its busy burrowing visible from the outside as it bounced around inside. Peter's outraged yelping and the large, rapidly spreading patches of damp on his suit made it clear just what kind of messes the boogity created.

Winston had tried valiantly to keep his composure, but the sight of the very GQ Peter Venkman jumping around like a man with a squirrel in his pants had been too much. It took longer for Winston to stop laughing at Peter's antics than it did to catch the gooper by unzipping Peter's jumpsuit and sucking it directly into one of the traps.

The memory of Peter Venkman, plastered head-to-toe in slime, not an inch uncoated in the stuff, squishing across the parking lot to Ecto was one Winston would treasure. Next time one of these came up he'd remember his camera.

They pulled into the firehouse and Winston stopped Peter from grabbing the door handle. "Don’t touch anything; I'll come around and help you out of here Pete, then I'll tank the gooper while you grab a shower." He slid out the driver's side and jogged around the front of the car.

"Thanks, Winston," Peter said. He reached for the hand Winston held out, and waited until Winston braced himself with the other on the passenger side door. Peter's expression was pathetically grateful, so pathetically grateful that Winston snorted a laugh and shook his head before he grabbed Peter's still-clammy hand and pulled the heavily tarped Ghostbuster out of the car.

Peter wrinkled his nose while he took two sock-footed-but-still-squishy steps away from Ecto and began peeling the tarp off of himself,  "Ugh. I think this suit has had it."

Winston had to agree; while normally slime came out with the right combination of the three D's — detergent, determination and destabilizer — Peter's suit was way beyond what they were usually able to get clean. Winston swung Ecto's door shut with his clean hand and rubbed the hand he'd grabbed Peter's with against his jeans; boogity slime was apparently the type that left a residue, the kind that usually required more scrubbing than it was worth. He wasn't envying Peter's job in the shower, no matter how much he might envy the soap.

Winston helped Peter pull the plastic sheet the rest of the way off and laid it out on the concrete floor, careful to keep the slimed side up. "Here, stand on the tarp and strip down. You can bundle it up and leave it for the next batch of hazmat stuff to go in containment." He gave the plastic a last tug and glanced up at his co-worker.

The boogity had slimed Peter within an inch of his life. Winston knew that, but somehow in the ridiculousness of it all it had escaped him that slime clung. While they'd used slime to hold non-critical components together a couple of times in the field, and they all joked about all the different uses for an ecto-adhesive, Peter's jumpsuit was presenting a good illusion of being painted on.

It hugged the bulge of his calf and the dip in the outside of his thigh, wrapped around the point of his hip and caressed the hollow just in front of it. Heavy strings of slime rolled down from Peter's trim waist across his lower abs and brought home with full force that Peter was a briefs kind of guy. Gritting his teeth, Winston wrenched his eyes away from Peter's crotch and up to his face, retreating to Ecto's tailgate to retrieve the box with Peter's ruined boots and the trap that held the boogity.

Using only one hand made it tough to work open the security latch Ray had installed on the antique tailgate, but Winston was highly motivated to retreat to the safety of the basement far, far away from the might-as-well-be-nude Peter Venkman. He finally managed to pop the lock and swing the door open with a muttered apology to the old girl for being so rough. Winston pulled the box out with his damp hand and wrapped the trap cords firmly around the other -- twice; one of his biggest fears was dropping one of them and accidentally releasing its contents at an awkward moment. Winston slammed the door shut with his hip and walked back around to drop the box on the tarp then headed for the stairs down to containment.

"Damnitall," Peter's frustrated growl carried across the garage. "Hey, Zed, gimme a hand here, would ya?"

Winston shook his head and backtracked, firmly determined to keep his eyes well above shoulder height. Definitely. Yessirree, well above those muscled arms so nicely delineated by wet, heavy, clinging polyester. "What's the problem, Pete?"

Peter looked up from where he was struggling to pull the zipper down, frustration and amusement battling it out on his face. "I can't get a grip on the pull-thingy."

Winston sighed and rolled his eyes. I hope somebody is enjoying this, 'cause I'm sure not, he thought, setting the trap carefully to one side. "Tab," he said absently, gripping the tab in one hand and a handful of slimy cloth with the other. He grimaced at the feel, then yanked down hard to break the sticky grip the slime had on the zipper teeth.

"Whoa!" Peter yelped. He stumbled forward with the force of the pull and instinctively threw his hands out to stop his fall, slime flying in all directions.

"Pete!" Winston dropped to the tarp to avoid the glistening streamers and groaned when he felt the puddled ooze from the trip home soak through the back of his shirt. His cry of, "Ecto--!" was cut short when Peter landed on top of him and cut off his air.

The two of them lay there, stunned by the quick fall. With a groan of his own Peter finally rolled off of Winston and studied him for a minute, half a grin and one sparkling green eye visible through the matted hair.

"So was it good for you, too?" he rasped. Peter's grin widened when Winston replied with a half-hearted universal gesture.

"I'm starting to believe you about Janine and Ray." Winston sat up with a start. "Ecto! Oh, baby!" He moaned and dropped his head to his knee, shaking it. Long strands of slime were rolling down the passenger side, leaving bright blue and green tracks. Well at least it put Z-Man back to sleep!

"Sorry about that, Zed. I'll help you clean it up later." Peter patted his back in commiseration.

"Venkman," Winston growled, quickly twisting away from the psychologist's freshly recoated hands. Unfortunately for his still simmering libido he twisted towards Peter, and got an eyeful of slime-wet t-shirt clinging tightly across his chest under the partially unzipped 'suit. Winston forced his eyes away and tried to distract himself from the sight of one tiny nub, taut and high under the material. I will never, ever rag on Pete about his weight program again, Lord, just get me out of this!

"Sorry," Peter smirked at him and scrambled carefully to his feet, slowly peeling the soaked suit down his arms. It came away with a crackling sound, like tape peeled away from the roll.

Winston snatched up the trap from the floor and fled.

Emptying the trap and clearing the grid took two minutes; Winston waited an extra ten to be sure. He checked over the now-empty trap for signs of leakage or wear at the connections and along the cables, then checked over the dozen that were hung over the downstairs workbench awaiting minor repairs. Anything that needed major repairs was salvaged, the remains junked and destabilized then stored in its own special containment.

Lust at first sight it certainly hadn't been; in fact, Winston wasn't entirely sure he'd even liked the man enough to stay with the job. But it had been interesting, and then along had come Gozer. Two minutes to certain death, and Peter Venkman had chosen then to show Winston that he wasn't the shallow, egocentric womanizer he'd first appeared to be. Two years and a dozen near-death experiences later Winston was used to it, able to see past the façade almost as easily as Ray and Egon were.

And Venkman had begun starring in Winston's fantasies shortly after the Gozer episode. Those first few dreams had woken him up in a panic, his sheets and pajamas soaked with more than sweat. He'd done a lot of laundry in those days. Nowadays he loved the man like a brother in public, and lusted after him in private. Winston was a long ways from considering whether his feelings would ever deepen, and until today had been even farther from considering Peter might be inclined the same way.

The itchy feel of drying slime on his back from Peter's "sympathetic" pats pulled him from his thoughts, so after double checking the containment grid — which was purring right along — he headed back upstairs. Winston started up the steps, tugging at the bottom of his own shirt, when he noticed his foot come down on the step next to — a sock.

What the--?

Careful visual examination revealed that the object on the step, spreading a small pool of blue-green slime, was indeed Peter's sock. With a grimace Winston pulled his shirt off and held it in one hand, then carefully picked up the sock and dropped it on his shirt before wiping up the step. Good thing it wasn't one of his favorites.

The sound of running water reached him and he looked up, spotting the sock's mate dangling over the edge of the landing. Winston trudged up the steps to the rec room and stooped for the second. The water sound was coming from the open door to the guest bathroom tucked behind the kitchen.

"Pete?" Winston called, sticking his head around the corner of the bathroom to verify it was his partner. He mentally slapped himself when he realized what he was seeing was Peter, still in briefs and tee, bent over the tub and testing the water. The briefs were soaked and clinging, showing the definition of Peter's gluteus and the little hollow where the muscles crossed. Not to mention the way the wet material dipped into the darker cleft between. The skin under the transparent cotton looked somehow darker than it should, until Winston realized he had the answer to what Peter wore while sunbathing on the roof —nothing.

"Oh, hey Winston." Peter straightened and turned to the door, frowning when Winston backed away and into the lounge. "Sorry about the socks; I couldn't get 'em off; thought maybe getting wet and soapy would help, but they came off on the stairs."

"No--," Winston cleared his throat. "No problem. I had to get my shirt off anyways, so I used it." Wet. Soapy. He knew he was standing there blinking stupidly while he held out the slimy bundle to demonstrate but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"Great. Here!" Peter peeled his shirt off over his head with the same sticking hiss, and tossed it at Winston. "Toss this in the pile too, will ya?"|

"Hey!" Winston yelled, half-catching, half-fending-off the disgusting mass with his own bundle.

"Nice catch," Peter drawled from the doorway, one hand on the door, the other scratching at a patch of slime on his chest, the harsh rasp of nails against his scattered chest hair punctuating his words. "I like a man with good hands," he smirked, and closed the bathroom door.

Shaking his head Winston wrapped the slimy tee in his own and trudged back down the stairs. He wrapped the soaked clothes in the tarp and dropped it in the holding box in the garage, making sure the alarm was set; not that he thought boogity slime was going to metamorphosize into something worse, but better safe than sorry. Before heading back upstairs he grabbed a rag and took a shot at getting the slime off of Ecto's doors. The color came off but there was a faint residue he was sure was going to collect every dust mote in the Tri-State area; he'd have to re-wax the doors.  Maybe he'd test Pete's theory about kids and slime instead. Ecto was, after all, a working classic.

Suddenly tired, Winston threw the rag back in the maintenance locker and shut it, then turned off the downstairs overheads and headed up to the couch. The beat-up cushions sagged under his weight and he wiggled around until he found a comfortable hollow. Peter was still in the shower, so Winston snagged the remote and channel surfed until he found a sports cast, letting the mindless banter relax him until he could get to the hot water.

The 'cast ended and he was halfway through "Cocoanuts" when he finally heard the water shut off from the bathroom. Forget the Stooges, nobody did comedy like the Marx Brothers! Winston heard a few thumps and groans from the bathroom and frowned. Had the boogity hurt Peter worse than it looked? Granted the man had suffered from the ultimate sliming, but the creature hadn't looked that solid.

The door to the bathroom was finally flung open and Peter emerged in a billowing steam cloud, a towel around his shoulders and over his head, and a pair of faded blue sweats barely hanging on his hips. He moved into the rec room while scrubbing at his hair, a few last wisps of steam clinging to him; in the better light Winston could see a mottled line of bruises rising along Peter's ribs, and he did seem to be moving a little stiffly.

"Damnit, Pete, why didn't you say something?" Winston moved off the couch and reached to steer his friend to his place. "Sit down, lemme take a look at you." Winston was very conscious of the way those sweats were slipping, but he kept his attention on the potential injuries; time enough later to think about the way they hung below the younger man's navel, revealing just the hint of a furred trail leading to somewhere much more interesting.

"It's not that bad, Winst—ow!" Peter glared when Winston prodded one of the more painful spots. "Well, it wasn't until just now."

"Sorry, Pete," Winston threw him an apologetic look. "Just making sure there's no unpleasant surprises." He ran a gentle hand across Peter's back, trying to concentrate on the feel of muscle and bone, instead of the softness of the skin under his fingers. The muscle under one shoulderblade was tight and knotted; bearing down a little he felt Peter flinch under him. "Just a knot, but let me get something for it or you'll be a pretzel in the morning."

For a second Winston thought Peter was going to protest; instead his frown turned into a sly grin and the look he gave Winston was — oddly speculative. "Sure Winston. Let it not be said that Peter Venkman turned down a proper pampering." The brunet tossed the towel to the floor and stretched out on the couch, face pillowed on his arms and turned to one side.

Winston retreated upstairs for the liniment and stopped dead in the bathroom, memory hitting him with a thump. The look was Peter's 'Truth or Dare' look, the one he used when he was about to find something out from you, come hell, high water, or incessant pleas not to. Which meant that Peter had noticed him looking, and had probably drawn the correct conclusions. This was definitely a conversation he didn't want to have tonight, he was too tired.

Winston looked at the muscle therapy in his hand and set the bottle back, reaching for the bottle of almond oil he kept for 'special' dates. Not all of them were serious, but they all — male and female -- seriously appreciated Winston's massage talents before he was through. If he wasn't able to put Venkman to sleep before the interrogation got too deep he'd give up his title.

Good with my hands, huh? Winston grinned before he started back down to Peter on the couch. The man has noooo clue!

Peter was still on the couch, eyes half closed and body relaxed. Winston gave himself a moment to admire the view before he put it aside. No use getting his hopes, or anything else, up after all; Peter might just as well be looking for a way to let him down easy.

With a deep breath Winston knelt next to the couch and poured some of the oil on his hands, letting it warm as it dripped through his fingers and down onto Peter's back. Peter jumped and hissed at the cool touch, arching one eyebrow at Winston before settling back down. Winston took a steadying breath and started at the top of Peter's neck, gently searching out each of the cervical vertebrae and the muscles attached to them, tracing down the muscles and tendons across the top of Peter's shoulders. He concentrated on loosening the tightness he felt under his hands and not how the oil let him glide across the skin, the faintest scent of almond and apple rising from the body under his.

Winston shifted, drawing his hands further down and disturbing an oil droplet that rolled free from the tiny pool at the base of Peter's spine and down his side, heading for the couch. Unthinking, Winston leaned and caught it on his tongue, feeling Peter suddenly gasp and shiver at the unexpected touch. The oil lingered on his lips and tongue, carrying the sweet almond taste as well as something saltier, earthier, something that burned on his tongue and made him want to —

"Ahh-CHOOO!" Winston's sneeze convulsed him and he rolled to the floor, one knee hitting painfully against the coffee table. "Oww! Oww, oww, ow!" Water dripped down his forehead and across his nose, tickling it towards another sneeze. He looked up, squinting with still-sleepy eyes into the sparkling green ones of the Devil Incarnate. With a groan he rolled over and leaned his chest back across the couch cushions, hoping that kneeling on the floor was disguising his erection, rubbing tight against his jeans.

"Awake?" Peter gave him an evil grin and shook his head again, water flying everywhere from the long, brown strands.

"Damn it, Pete!" Winston ducked the worst of the spray, swiping at the few drops that hit anyways.

"Just wanted to let you know the shower was free if you wanted it."

"Thanks so much for that," Winston added a bit sourly. It was awkward, one of his best dreams in a while being broken up by the object of said dream, who happened to be clad in even less than Winston's subconscious had dressed him in. He stretched, concentrating on the feel of his muscles pulling against each other instead of Peter Venkman standing next to him, lightly tanned skin flushed pink and still moist, a few trickles making their ways down the hollows and across the plains of his toned body to be absorbed in the scrap of toweling wrapped around his hips. Suddenly Winston's back twinged, and he gasped at the sudden catch of pain.

"The Brooklyn job?" Peter was there, guiding Winston back down to the couch before running a hand over the sight of the shoulder strain he'd gotten the previous week. "Lay still, I'll get something for it."

Caught in a strange, reversed déjà vu, Winston could do nothing but comply, stretching out on the couch again but taking a moment to toe off his shoes. Peter was back the instant Winston finished arranging himself, erection neatly out of sight, and the sense of oddness got deeper when a familiar scent came to him.

Almond oil, warmed to body heat and drizzled down his spine, caught nearly at the base by a pair of warm hands and spread upward to his neck. Fingers moved gently over his ribs, while thumbs and heels stroked firmly up the long muscles to either side of his backbone. He'd always liked Peter's hands, one of the first things that had attracted him to the man; neither long and graceful like Egon's, easily equal to the most delicate adjustments, nor square and capable like Ray's, able to coax the most recalcitrant machine to one more miracle. Rather they were a mixture, like the man himself; wide, square palms with the marks of hard labor and the long, strong fingers of an artist, the left ring-finger slightly crooked from a bad break in college.

Those same hands ran up the back of his neck, then slowly across the tops of his shoulders, spreading oil in a motion that was more caress than therapy. Pressure and heat landed across his thighs and he realized Peter was straddling him, working for more leverage, holding Winston's hips tight between his knees. Winston bit the pillow under his face to keep from moaning at the picture his imagination painted.

"Sore spot?" Peter murmured softly, and the scent of apricot and apple came with his words, traces of the cheap shampoo and expensive conditioner combination Peter habitually used.

Not as quiet as I'd hoped, Winston thought. "Yeah," he answered aloud, "didn't know how bad it was until just now."

"Sorry," Peter's voice breathed softly across Winston's ear. He shifted his weight slightly, reaching forward over Winston's head for something, one hand on his back for balance. Terrycloth rubbed lightly along his sides, and between—

Holy shit! He's--! Winston froze. Peter Venkman was straddling his back, nude except for a towel that seemed to grow smaller all the time. All the blood drained from his head and moved south, sped along by his rapidly thumping heart. Smooth, hot skin ghosted over his back with the slightest tickle of hair softer than expected; he stifled a whimper to go with the groan.

Peter sat back again, his weight settling down pushing Winston's rapidly-becoming-uncomfortable erection into the couch. A moment later more oil snaked across his back, tickling along his ribs before dripping to the couch. He heard Peter's breath catch, but before Winston could speak, his words stuck in his throat when something warm and wet traced over the tracks left by the oil.

Broad strokes across his shoulders, little teasing laps down his spine; Winston shivered under the hot strokes and cooling breaths that followed. Suddenly Peter's hands spread out across the small of Winston's back and ran up it, separating at the top and running down each arm, stretching Peter out until his bare chest was pressed against Winston's back.

"Turn over," Peter breathed the words behind Winston's ear.

"Pete," Winston started, flexing his arms to draw away, half certain this was just another tease on Venkman's part. If he stayed on his stomach he might be able to salvage some of his dignity, but if he turned over the game would be up.

Sharp teeth bit down gently on his earlobe before it was pulled into a warm mouth and suckled lightly. "Turn over, Winston," Peter insisted, lifting his weight from Winston's back. Cool air filled the space between them and he shivered.

Caught, Winston obeyed, squirming carefully onto his back in the small space between Peter's thighs. When he settled back down, so did Peter, carefully positioning himself across Winston's groin. Peter lowered his hands to Winston's stomach and ran them lightly up and over his chest, pausing to rub the hollows of his palms across Winston's nipples. Winston gasped at the sweet sensation, his hands seeking and finally settling lightly on Peter's hips, holding him steady when the other man arched forward and dropped his head between his outstretched arms, draping his damp hair coolly across Winston's skin.

Slowly, Peter inched down, drawing his hair gently across Winston's chest and stomach, his fingers trailing after leaving firm, warm streaks in their wake. The motion left Winston biting his lip and gripping Peter's shoulders. Somewhere inside a little voice was telling him that he should have known Peter would be a tease here as much as anywhere else. Peter looked up at him from where he crouched now between Winston's knees. Keeping his eyes locked with Winston's he lowered his head that last inch and mouthed at Winston's penis, outlined snugly in his jeans.

Heat. Wet. Pressure. Pleasure. They all ran through Winston like little shocks until finally his head fell back and he moaned. Apparently that was Peter's signal and he sat up a little, easing the pressure. Winston heard Peter chuckle briefly, followed by a sharp pop and the rasp of his zipper being drawn down. He nearly collapsed in relief at his freedom from the too tight jeans, conscious of the damp marks on his briefs from Peter's mouth and his own eagerness.

Strong hands pulled at his waistbands and Winston lifted his hips to help. A moment later his clothes were thrown to the floor and the ever-shrinking towel fluttered down to join it. "Pete, are you--? Oh, Lord," Winston moaned, his train of thought derailed when Peter's wicked mouth plunged down his erection and immediately proved how wicked it could be. Winston's penis was caught in hot, wet suction and he fought to keep himself from bucking further down Peter's wonderful throat.  Peter pulled his mouth up the length, rippling his tongue against the vein before swirling around the crown and ending with light flicks across the top that sent little charges all the way down to Winston's toes.

"Like that, hmm?" He felt Peter laugh against his stomach before softly biting the skin around the navel. Winston's hands came up to tangle in Peter's hair, trying to coax Peter back to Winston's twitching erection. "I'll take that as a yes," Peter added before sucking the crown into his mouth again, letting Winston feel the ridges of the roof of his mouth.

Winston felt Peter move slightly, and then shockingly take in his entire length, face buried in the coarse hairs of his groin. He was in heaven, he was in hell, the amazing feeling of having his whole cock buried in warmth warring against his need to move but not move for fear of hurting his partner. Then Peter swallowed around him and he knew he was going to go over the edge. "Pete…I'm gonna…god," he started to warn the other man, when Peter pulled back and gripped him tightly, painfully. Slowly Winston scrabbled back from the edge, panting with the effort. Who knew if he'd ever have another chance like this? Best to enjoy as much as he could.

"No, Winston, you're not going to come yet," Peter said from his spot between Winston's knees.  He gave the swollen organ in his hand one last squeeze that sent a shudder through Winston's body. Peter let go and began to slowly crawl up the older man's body, stopping every few inches for a taste of the dark skin under him. "You're not," suck, lick, "going to come," nip, pinch, nuzzle, "until you fuck me."

Winston felt his jaw drop and eyes go wide and slightly crossed while Z-man jumped eagerly. Peter's face was inches from his own, green eyes dark and smoky, lips slightly red and swollen. "Oh, yes, Winston; I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me hard, and fast, and slow, and nasty. I want you to push me into the sofa and fuck me to next week, fuck me 'til I can taste your dick in the back of my throat. You want me on my back? Say the word and I'll spread my legs for you, anywhere you want, hold 'em apart so all you have to do is slam into me. Want me on top? My back to you so you can watch me slide up and down? I can do that too. Get the point Winston? Fuck me. Now."

Winston slapped his hand across Peter's mouth when he saw the man inhaling to continue his suggestive tirade; much more and Peter might just talk him to orgasm. Instead he got that so-talented tongue painting little circles in the hollow of his hand, green eyes slowly closing as if he needed to concentrate on the taste. Every one of Peter's words had hit home and demanded Winston give Peter, and himself, exactly what they both wanted.

Winston pushed his hips up into Peter's, erections finally meeting in a slide of silky skin and sweat, oil, spit and semen. "All right," he growled. "Turn around. On your knees and grab the arm."

Oddly graceful, Peter complied, glancing back over his shoulder while he settled into the cushions, one knee in the dip at the back, the other braced against the edge, his foot flat on the floor. Winston's eyes swept over the length of him; Peter's neck bowed and bare, hair falling forward, the length of his back and the line of the muscles that flexed under the damp, flushed skin. Yielding to impulse Winston stroked his index finger down the dip of his spine, weaving back and forth as Peter had with his tongue. He didn't stop at the top of the exposed cleft but continued down and swirled lightly around the puckered hole, watching it flutter at his touch, the slightest thrust backwards to encourage Winston to move deeper. Instead he moved further down, across the delicate perineum, cupping the firm and furred sac in his hand before grasping the other's penis for the first time. It was warm and hard and felt very good in his hand, less girth but more length than his own. One that would no doubt feel very, very nice breaching his own body. Perhaps later.

"Tease," Peter gasped.

"Tease? Just who's wiggling what at who?" Winston grinned at Peter's back, reaching for the oil left on the coffee table. It was warm when he poured it into his hand, warmer than just room temperature. He snorted at the discovery; just how obvious had he been?

Ignoring the question for now he moved back to his impatient partner, running his oiled hand along the cleft that divided Peter's nicely firm ass, gratified at the shiver he elicited. Winston flicked his finger lightly against the exposed opening and enjoyed the little start Peter gave. One hand then on the small of Peter's back to hold him still, Winston eased the tip of his finger into him, gasping at the soft heat that clung to him, the way the tight ring of muscle yielded.

"More," Peter demanded. "Now." He pushed into Winston's hand, bucking slightly against the pressure. Obliging, Winston pulled back and returned with two, the thickness stretching Peter wider; a welcome move from the psychologist's moan and shiver. Fingers as deep as they could go he paused, feeling the flutter of Peter's pulse through the delicate tissues before spreading his fingers and pulling them slowly back, watching the rosebud opening bloom wider. Just before pulling his fingers completely out he leaned forward and licked lightly at the opening, enjoying Peter's near constant moans.

With the last of the oil on his hands Winston reached for his own erection and began coating it. "Pete," he growled, yanking his partner's attention to him. "Look at this, is this what you want?" He began fisting himself, the sound of flesh sliding against flesh drowned by the tiny whimper Peter gave at the sight. "Are you sure? I think you should tell me again, just to make sure."

Peter was flushed and sweating, panting slightly and wide eyed. He twisted around and swallowed twice before he found the words, and his voice was harsh. "Oh, yeah, that's what I want." He raised his eyes to Winston's and the lust there sent a rush of heat through the black man's body before Peter turned away from him.. "Fuck me, Winston. Please?"

The pleading note in Peter's voice did what all his enticing couldn't and drove Winston forward. One hand gripping a sharp hip steadied him while the other guided his erection to the heat awaiting it. Dimly he heard Peter chanting; "Now. Now, now, now," until the words blended into a long moan of pleasure as Winston sank himself into the welcoming heat. God, so tight, so hot. So good. Good, good, good.

Winston's hands roamed over the flesh under and around his, cupping the firm ass that cushioned him. He leaned over the arched back and sucked at a mouthful of warm skin until he saw a dark mark rise to the surface. Hunger gripped him and he needed more; more of the hot body under his, more of the tight channel that rippled around him, more of the aching little whimpers that spoke of a need the equal of his own.

Gritting his teeth Winston pulled back, hands holding Peter's hips tight, stopping him from following Winston's penis in its movement. The sucking feel broke the last of his control and he snapped forward hard, hard driving strokes and he didn't dare look down in case the sight of his dark flesh buried in Peter's body would end it too soon.

Breathe, he demanded of himself, breathe and ride it out!

He felt Peter moving under him, meeting him stroke for stroke, skin slapping together and then the angle twisted; Peter was reaching for his own erection, intent on diving over the edge, something that Winston knew would take him along with it.

"No!" he ground out, and sat back on his heels, pulling Peter back onto his lap, the sharp move surprising the air from Peter's lungs with a grunt and driving Winston impossibly deeper. Like lightening Winston grabbed Peter's wrists and jerked them up and behind the younger man's back. His grip was almost painfully tight and he knew Peter would have bruises in the morning.

"Not yet," he snarled, using his own knees to spread Peter's wider and loosed one hand, using his body to keep Peter's hands pinned between Peter's back and his own chest. Winston's free hand wrapped around Peter's hip and over his thigh, cupping the tight sac and forcing Peter to spread his legs another inch, to arch his back a touch more, head thrown back against Winston's shoulder.

"That's how you'll come, Pete, against your own stomach, your own skin." Winston was panting now, pumping hard between the wide-spread cheeks. He risked a glance down to watch his hand on Peter, dark and light, skin and hair wet with sweat and oil and come. No more. "Now, Pete, do it now. Come for me, baby. Let me see it, all over you, your chest and your face and your hair. Now!"

Winston fell over the edge and through the heat haze that blinded him with pleasure he felt Peter cry out and convulse around him, nearly bucking him off the couch. With an effort Winston collapsed to the side and pulled his partner with him while they both shuddered through the final pulses of orgasm.

For a long time there was only the sounds of the street, barely heard above their harsh breathing, until with a small sound Winston managed to ease himself out of Peter's body. He shivered when the cooler air struck his still sensitive flesh and immediately arched his hips forward until his penis rested between Peter's buttocks, still slippery from the semen he'd dragged out with him.

Peter groped on the floor blindly, eventually coming up with his still damp towel. Winston snagged it from him and began to gently wipe the pale liquid from Peter's body, pausing between swipes of the towel to lap at stray droplets. Rough cleaning finished, Winston twisted around to rest his head on Peter's chest, looping an arm over Peter's stomach to keep him firmly on the couch.

"You okay?" Winston finally asked when the silence became too much.

Peter's voice was a little raspy when he answered. "Oh. Yeeeaaahhh." He stroked his hand through Winston's short hair, letting it rest on the back of his neck.

"I never knew you were gay," Winston said softly to Peter's chest.

"I'm not, exactly. I'm bi, but—" Peter chuckled slightly. "I like women, just prefer men."

Winston thought about that. "What about Egon? And Ray?"

Peter sighed. "Egon likes men well enough, he just prefers women. And Ray—well, Ray's probably the only truly omnisexual person I've ever met; honestly doesn't have a preference, just that the feelings are there. Can I nap now?"

Winston twisted out from under Peter's hand and halfway sat up, waving off Peter's protest at losing his blanket. "Wait a minute. In college. You guys were roommates. Are you saying--?"

Peter tugged Winston back down and arranged his warmer body to Peter's liking. "Hey, sleeping here; let's just leave that as a story for another time, hmm?" Peter's breath began to even out into the deeper rhythm of sleep.

Winston smiled and pulled the afghan over them to keep off the chill and wrapped the words around his heart for warmth before falling into slumber.

 Another time.