Contains sex
I'm sure you are pleased to discover that when I'm upset I find refuge
in writing fanfic.  :)  And since I want to avoid jadfe right now.. 

WINTER GALE

by James Walkswithwind
a seasonal pwp, because yes I still need practise
and so do you

	The door slammed, and he was pleased to hear a resulting crash.  Ma
had always yelled at him for slamming the front door, ever since he was
five years old and tall enough to push it that hard, for just that reason.
He did feel his conscience enough to hope it hadn't been something valuable
and unreplacable, but of course it was too late to care. He was just
glad Ma wasn't home.
	As he headed for the kitchen, he realised from the unusual 
silence that *nobody* was home.  A delighted grin spread across his face;
a rare occurance that just begged to be indulged.  He yelled at the top
of his lungs that he was home and raiding the fridge before dinner. 
No one complained.
	Laughing, he did just that- finding something wrapped in foil 
which, delight again, proved to be lasagna leftover from last night.
He'd missed dinner last night of course, having spent the evening chasing
men with guns through city streets.  It was too cold to be outside, the
snow was thick and dirty and made even walking treacherous.  Naturally
that had induced the thieves to take to the sidewalks and alleyways,
dragging their pursuer to his feet.  Wasn't fair- the heater in the Riv
had finally been working for the first time all week.
	He'd complained about it all the way to the station, all during the
paperwork, and all the way home-- nobody listened.  Nobody *ever* listened
anymore, but that was ok.  Someday, just to be perverse, the world would
listen and fix something he complained about, and then where would he
be?
	Ray stuck the lasagna in the oven and began hunting for more 
leftovers. There was no bread nor any makings for a salad, but there
was a slice of chocolate mint mousse hidden behind a jug of milk.  Well,
he'd *tried* to find something else, hadn't he? Of course he had.  Wasn't
his fault he was forced to eat the mousse.  He found a fork and decided
that waiting for the lasagna to heat was too long to wait for dessert.
A split of Merlot joined him, and for a half hour he sat in the middle
of his kitchen, eating wonderful homemade food (Ma had put mushrooms
and spinach in the sauce, just like he'd always loved and Frannie always
complained about) and drinking semi-expensive wine, and grinning at the
fact that someone had left the heat on. His toes were beginning to mumble
thanks.  He sat for a moment when the food was gone, and closed his eyes.
Silence, heat, full stomach.. what more could a city boy ask for?
	Well, one other thing.  He jumped to his feet and, leaving his 
dishes in the sink, he took the wine upstairs.  Another nice thing about
having the house to himself was it meant he had the *bathroom* to himself.
No other way to have a long hot shower except to have it without interuptions.
He shucked his clothes in the bedroom, and wrapped a robe around him.
The silk robe slid over his skin as he walked to the bathroom, the slight
coolness of the floor reminding him of the frigid air outside.
	He wasted no time turning the water on, and leaned back against the
laundry hamper to wait for the room to fill with steam.  He refilled
his wineglass, and rubbed one hand over his face.  After the shower he'd
head for his pillow for a long night underneath three heavy blankets,
and then tomorrow.. tomorrow the same thing all over again, chasing crooks
who hadn't the sense to stay inside nice warm cars.  Sighing, he stretched
one arm overhead, then switched the wineglass to the other hand and repeated
the motion.  
	He really needed that hot shower.  Good thing there was one right in
front of him.  He set the glass down within reach but out of the spray,
and doffed his robe.  Stepping into the shower before he had time to
feel cold, his body shook at the first moment of immersion.  The hot
water raised goosebumps-- something he'd never understood but always
enjoyed.  He turned slowly, letting every inch of skin get soaked, then
stood still and let the hot water soak through his skin to his muscles,
bones, and whatever else was still shivering from the cold.  He let out
a deep breath, and moved his face under the stream.
	The water poured over his eyes, down across his mouth and onto 
his chest, rivulets of water tracing the curves of his body as they fell.
He swayed his lower body back and forth, catching the water and 
letting it heat him through. Turning to let it cover his backside, he
tilted his head so the water got the top of his head, and he felt his
scalp prickle as the heat soaked into the last few untouched spots. 
Groaning, he reached over for the soap.  
	It was an excuse to run his hands over his body and he knew it; his
body knew it too, as his heart beat stirred slightly.  Rubbing the unscented
stuff across his palms, he lathered his hands and set the soap back in
its dish.  He began with his face and neck, closing his eyes and spreading
soapy hands everywhere.  He turned, then it was down his back as far
as he could reach, then along his sides; he picked up the soap for more
lather, and soaped the rest of his back.  Breathing deeply, he ran his
hands down, feeling the muscles relaxing under the water's and his touches.
He rubbed at his neck as the water rinsed him clean, letting his head
fall forward with another groan.
	When his back was clean and warm, he turned and felt the water 
heat his chest again.  He ran soapy hands quickly up and down, the touch
of his skin changing ever so slightly as the sweat and dirt washed away.
He rubbed his body again when his torso was clean, his hands the same
temperature as the rest of him for the first time since he'd climbed
out of bed.  He felt good, and his body seemed to be ready for more.
	Laughing at himself, he picked up the bar of soap.  As if teasing a
lover he continued to wash, running his hands almost impersonally over
his genitals and buttocks, not quite lingering here, not quite rubbing
there.  When more than water had imparted its heat, he leaned forward,
washing his legs.  Then he stood still, letting the water rinse him clean.
	When he had only his feet to go, he sat down in the tub and 
brought one up.  He soaped it with a heavier hand, loosening the tired
muscles.  He moaned again unintentionally, he hadn't realised his feet
were so sore.  He rubbed harder, up the ankle and down the top of the
foot, pressing and gently kneading until he could wriggle his toes without
a twinge.  He gave it another rubover, then did the same to the other
foot.  This time his body shook-- appreciative of an indulgence he gave
himself often, which didn't diminish the way it felt, the way his entire
body let go when his feet were massaged.  
	Leaning back in the tub, he closed his eyes and let the water 
cascade over him.  It still felt hot, but he was no longer quite so desperate
for it, warmed now and beginning to melt through the ceramic. Thoughts
of the outside had almost entirely drifted away, with one touch they
disappeared completely.  He rubbed himself now, easily, as if not trying
to arouse himself further.  As he knew it would, it had only that effect,
and soon he had to grip harder.  His breathing had quickened and his
legs tensed against the sides of the tub.
	He began to shake slightly, and he reached down with the other 
hand and pulled gently at his testicles.  Head back and moaning, he continued
the motions until every muscle in his body convulsed, once, twice, then
his hips canted forward on their own, thrusting into the air and hot
falling water.  His hand moving quickly now, he answered the need of
the thrust and he came, with a deep drawn-out moan.  His body shook again,
then again with lessened force; then every bit of energy drained away
with the water and he lay limply in the bathtub.
	He kept his eyes closed, smiling as the water poured over him, 
washing away the semen on his stomach.  He traced his fingers through
it, brushing himself until he was cleaned.  With a huge grin he sat up
and turned the water off and asked himself, as was his habit, if he would
walk or crawl to his room.

the end

James Kythe Walkswithwind     
jkw@u.arizona.edu	                        Practise Humility      gila@jbx.com