A/N: Set somewhere in the middle of season 4.
Walt shoves his hands between fresh linens and that nearly intangible cool underside of his pillow. Jesse might call Walt's apartment one dope-ass bachelor pad, but Walt's not succumbing to any slovenly bachelor tendencies. He launders his sheets almost as often as his income, cleaning them on a precise weekly schedule every Thursday evening. Walt's fallen on a bit of a providential fluke that Jesse's birthday happens to be on a Friday. Otherwise, his knee and elbow position would be an even farther inconvenience if his bedding still smelled of night sweats and ejaculate.
"Yo, Mr. White, you looking for something?" Jesse says. His gravelly voice is coming from where Walt irritatingly, exactly, innocently left Jesse approximately seventy-two seconds ago. "You hide my present and then like lose it or some shit?"
Walt ever so slowly shakes his head, shutting his eyes at Jesse's sheer stupidity.
"Little imbecile," Walt says.
It's mildly worrisome how quickly his frustration is mounting, but he doesn't allow his mood to percolate itself into his words too strongly. "Imbecile," that once stinging insult, has been brightened and glossed over like the cover to a hardback fairy tale book. Walt knows Jesse likes Walt's children's library collection of interjections: "Little Idiot," "Little Moron," "Little Imbecile." Jesse may deny it, but his transitory bashful-smile-turned-petulant-frown is easier to read than dark, boldface font on the spine.
"Stop being such a grumpy asshole. I don't give a shit if you didn't get me a gift. You said we were gonna fuck." Jesse lightly gyrates against the soft flesh of the inside of Walt's knee.
He'd indeed asserted tonight's agenda a short while ago after their pleasant outing at an authentic Italian pizza eatery, because Walt could not stomach any more delivery, and a shared tumbler of scotch in the living room. The trek to bed included a languid post-dinner interlude of mutually beneficial touching, kissing, and removal of all clothing that left them both achingly erect. Jesse's is currently acting as an eager, wet thump, thump, thump like the curious snout of a puppy.
Walt drags his forehead across the pillowcase, mentally willing himself to halt all future proceedings. He's at best marginally tipsy, too clear-minded for such asinine behavior. Quietly coughing phlegm from his throat, he speaks into the linens, "I'm offering."
"Offering what?" Jesse says.
Walt cranes his neck enough to survey his own current physical state: back mostly flat, kneeling on joints much older than twenty-five years, ass humiliatingly poised in the air. He's watched enough Discovery Channel specials with the boy to know he most certainly should comprehend Walt's unspoken proposition. While it's true that Walt has never been on this end before, for god's sake, mammals have been initiating sexual contact with much less social grace and communication for over a million years.
"Oh, shit," Jesse says. His palms are warmly cupping Walt on each side. "Yo, are you fucking for real?"
"Yes, Jesse."
It's a sufficiently straightforward answer. And, Walt doesn't feel the need to delve under any more layers of how he's come to this other than the fact that he's experienced his share of lackluster bedroom birthday favors. With Jesse precariously dangling from Fring's marionette strings, partnering with Mike on jobs like their Butch Cassidy and the fucking Sundance Kid, lackluster isn't going to cut it.
Jesse is trembling. "Is this like the time you said you were gonna blow me, but you just bit the shit out of the inside of my thigh and I like accidentally jizzed on your face?"
Walt's acutely aware that his almost four month foray into sexual experimentation with Jesse will not be wining any most healthy, vanilla, saccharine lovemaking awards any time soon. That particular episode had ended with Neosporin and Jesse's bitter exclamation of "Jackass" almost enough times to make Walt forget the need to wipe the boy's contradictory enjoyment from his cheek.
"No. I'm deadly serious," Walt says.
Jesse grins, excitement exuding from him so strongly Walt's somewhat surprised Jesse doesn't have a tail to wag. Though it has been an exceedingly long time since anyone has acted so jubilantly over Walt's tail end and Walt can't help but feel a little proud of the expression on Jesse's face.
Jesse glides a hand along Walt's spine. "Let's do this right then, yo. Flip over on your back."
"Jesse, don't push it."
Walt uses his obedience school voice, because this very act has been stewing inside his head as premeditated hypothetical ooze for a week. He'd undertaken some deliberate consideration and casual data collection via homosexual pornography, which Walt took no joy in for the unsettling, reluctant observation that none of the muscle-heavy "actors" looked like Jesse. Walt finds no visceral attraction to any other man. This tick in Walt's character made his shameful, Jesse-stimulated masturbation originating as early as when he watched Jesse fall from that woman's bedroom window seem all the more inexplicably insane. But, Walt has decided if he's going to go through with this, his chosen position provides him with the self-respect to make a nominal effort to hide his face. That's final.
"Yeah, sure," Jesse huffs.
Walt's not sure, but he's betting Jesse followed it up with an eye roll. This isn't really a relative concern when Walt feels the blunt ends of a pair of thumbs spreading him apart and Jesse's cock a mere breath's distance away.
He snaps his neck back. "Lube, Jesse. Lube."
"Yo, of course, sorry," Jesse says, sheepish smile, inked forearm resting on the scruff of his buzz cut.
Walt looks sharply away, swallowing down insults like bile because he doesn't want to start an altercation. An overwhelming percentage of him wants this over with already. He can sense Jesse moving to the nightstand and hears the familiar click and squish symphony that Walt's normally orchestrating at this point in the night.
Jesse's finger is only a slickened, moderate discomfort once it slides in. After a few seconds of Jesse clumsily wiggling it around, a second digit is introduced, and Walt holds his breath before his body acclimates properly.
"Mmm, you like that, Mr. White?"
"Shut up," Walt says. There might be a gradual heat simmering in the lower region of his abdomen, but Jesse doesn't need to be privy to such information.
Jesse chuckles. "Always such a sweet-talker."
He presses a series of kisses between Walt's shoulder blades, stubble scraping along his skin in a way that's unfairly erotic. Walt's ready to say something along the lines of "hurry the hell up" when those thumbs are parting the entryway again and Jesse eases himself inside in one slow push.
Son of a bitch, Walt's hands immediately morph into fists under the pillow with no say-so from Walt. He clenches his jaw, and while he understood this wasn't exactly going to be pleasant, right now it's tremendously painful. He'd rather be mowed down by a pair of drug dealers driving his own 2004 Pontiac Aztek than to vocalize such a thing, but Jesse feels impressively large. He's much larger than Skyler's thin, exploring fingers that never really dived beyond the shallow end because she'd decided mid-stroke that this wasn't a technique she much favored.
No matter how badly it hurts, Walt is not going to give in to the instinctual desire of telling Jesse to stop. They'd made it through Jesse's first time even though Jesse had cried himself to near asphyxiation. Jesse had been distressed then, healing from Hank's beating, new to the lab and vulnerably pursuing another injection of praise from Walt in whatever way he could. Stumbling inside Walt's "dope-ass bachelor pad" with an empty fifth of Jack Daniels and one of his filthy, arrogant smirks, Jesse reached out for a means to prevent himself from backsliding into anything harder than liquor. From an outside perspective, Walt's platonic shoulder pat devolving so quickly into an insistent caress against that confused, swollen lump straining against Jesse's jeans could have been interpreted as malicious. But, despite the sobs juddering Jesse's body like the hydraulics of his car, he'd pleaded with Walt to continue. And, Walt is determined not to succumb to any maudlin displays of weakness. Walter White will take a dick with much more dignity than that.
True, Walt could have been gentler those four or so months ago. It was just that Jesse was so….
"So fucking tight," Jesse sighs. He sounds like he's choking. "Gah…Mr. White…tightest."
He exhales noisily. "Shit, it's like…the world's tightest pussy."
Walt should be insulted by such a demeaning, emasculating comparison, but the searing claw-like tear of Jesse starting to move seems to cut the synaptic vesicle that translates offense. He doesn't want to appear overly crippled with discomfort, so he barks out a desert dry chuckle. "Is that some sort of prison joke?"
Jesse moans. "Mr. White, yo, you gotta relax. I'm gonna fucking blow my load."
Walt wants to say, "Isn't that the point," but decides on, "What makes you think I'm not relaxed" in a sulky way that doesn't at all make Walt sound like an obstinate adolescent denying he's nervous in the waiting room of a dentist.
Jesse sets his palm an inch above Walt's right elbow, his back-and-forth stilled. "Maybe 'cause your muscles look like they're knotted tenser than fucking come-filled camel testicles."
Walt has the wherewithal to grimace at the metaphor. "Do you make such foul comparisons in front of people like Mike?"
"Gross, Mr. White," Jesse says, making melodramatic gagging noises. "I ain't sleeping with the guy. God, I really don't want to picture Mike right now. It's like you want me to lose my boner."
A beat, a silent second, a pulse in Walt's ass.
"Yo, do you want me to lose my boner?"
"Don't be ignorant," Walt says. It explains nothing and he doesn't care.
Jesse's touch is hesitant and gentle, and it takes a moment for Walt to fully register that the boy is giving him an actual, downright, full-blown shoulder rub. His fingers feel as if they're programmed to the sinews and ligaments of Walt's back, returning to those familiar tender spaces perhaps not entirely out of freewill, but trained habit. Thumbs to tendons: Jesse to Walt.
Jesse traces a finger along Walt's jaw. "Yo, if you loosen up your mouth, it like makes shit easier for your ass. I sort of googled that after…you know."
Walt never imagined being on the receiving end of a lot of things, but somehow the most surprising is getting an inelegantly worded biology lesson from Jesse Pinkman: former slacker student. Regardless, he makes an effort to ease the grit of teeth against teeth. It's makes things hardly better in the slightest.
"Mr. White," Jesse says. "I know you got like a hang-up about this or whatever, but it might feel better if you're on your back."
He opens his mouth around the shell of Walt's ear. "Don't you wanna watch me come, baby?"
Walt genuinely wants to recoil every time Jesse uses such syrupy-sweet bedroom nomenclature. But, there's something about his voice that sets Walt off, like the most seamless auditory concoction of bourbon and honey. It rubs Walt bristly raw in a fashion that frightens him a little.
"Alright," Walt says.
"Hell, yeah," Jesse almost shouts. It's loud, so close to Walt's ear, sounding like Jesse's satisfied hooting when he's shooting up zombies on his X-Box.
Once Jesse eases his way out, Walt rolls his eyes before doing the same with his body. His initial strategy is to avoid eye-contact at all costs, but he's not properly prepped to witness Jesse in all of his flushed pink, panting, tattoo-speckled glory. Jesse's dick is impossibly red and rigid and weeping. He's not sure where Jesse's fluids end and the K.Y. begins, but Jesse's practically gleaming. And, Walt recognizes how intensely Jesse's been withholding his own orgasm. Jesse might be treating Walt like a woman, but Walt can appreciate the notion of Jesse wanting to wait for Walt. It's endearing and Jesse's beautiful.
"Yo, what?" Jesse raises an eyebrow.
Walt's been caught staring. "Nothing, it's nothing."
"Mr. White, you gotta open up."
Walt momentarily wonders if Jesse can read his mind before he realizes Jesse's talking about his legs. He splays them apart, bending with his knees, which are instantly cradled in Jesse's hands.
"Yeah," Jesse says with a shit-eating grin. "Be my bitch, Mr. White."
"Do not call me that." Walt's close to sinking his teeth, Cujo-like, into Jesse's throat again for Gustavo Fring and the whole damn world to see.
Jesse giggles. He honestly giggles. The boy giggles and Walt is simply without the appropriate immunity defenses not to be affected.
Walt leans forward to kiss the sound from his mouth. Jesse's lips obediently part, snaking his tongue out, nipping Walt's lower lip. He's skilled in this area, so much so that it's not until Jesse's balls deep again that Walt is aware he was even penetrated.
Walt disengages with a sloppy, suctioned plop as Jesse rolls his pelvis forward. He leans down to brace a wiry arm on each side of Walt, and he's pretty sure this is not any better. Walt's persistently prevailing erection is pleasurably pinned against Jesse. But, if anything, Jesse's just possibly deeper. No, he's most certainly deeper.
He's honestly resigned himself to just lie here while Jesse finishes, considering Jesse appears to be in a state of such enviable bliss.
"Come on, Mr. White, you can do it," Jesse says.
Even if he's winded, Jesse still articulates his encouragement with an air of confidence Walt's not used to observing in him. His eyes are determined, body making more consciously measured movements. A modicum of power looks remarkably appealing on Jesse.
"Oh," Walt moans. It's essentially syphoned straight from his vocal cords.
"Good?" Jesse's got both eyebrows up now.
"Yes." Walt sounds like a hissing wind more than a human. "Jesse…thought…this was your first time."
Walt had to appease Jesse with a tired, halfhearted hand job after their first go, nowhere near to pleasuring him the way Jesse is now.
Jesse smirks. "Just 'cause I'm new to this side of ass, doesn't mean I don't know how to find a spot, Mr. White."
Walt feels his lower half quivering, wonders what other homoerotic data Jesse's electronically searched because G-spots are a fairly separate entity and the head of Jesse's dick is hitting Walt's prostate unimaginably spot-on. Walt needs this.
He pinches Jesse's left nipple between thumb and index finger. Jesse arches his back, so refreshingly sensitive here, whimpering out "Mr. White" to the accompaniment of Walt's rough tweaking. Walt switches to the other, tonguing the first, and Jesse slams into him so hard Walt can't stand it.
He tries to inhale the dryness from his mouth in order to form words. "More, Jesse. Be a good boy. Give me more."
Jesse practically yaps at his favorite order, so blindly wanting to be a good boy in all facets of the grimy meth-laden remains of his life. He picks up his pace as Walt spreads his thighs farther to grant Jesse greater access.
If Walt was held hostage with a gun and an eight-pack of magic markers, ordered to illustrate their current position as canines, he'd be hard-pressed not to draw them as a yelping Chihuahua on a comically high stepladder, mounting a salivating St. Bernard in the middle of a dog park. And, Jesse's humping his little heart, that nicotine-absorbed straining cardiovascular organ, out with commendable vigor.
Walt manages to lift himself upright enough to lick the irritatingly enticing dragon design on Jesse's chest. He's immensely pleased with this rash decision because Jesse's even deeper than before.
Jesse's breathe plumes out in hot, clammy bursts of carbon dioxide against the tops of Walt's shoulders. "Shit. I love you, Mr. White."
Walt flops back down; those words inflaming inside of him like a malignant tumor because his own feelings are much murkier and acidic. He's guided this boy in ventures of both business and pleasure, yet has little idea as to why. In chemotherapy and in remission, Jesse's honored him. Through rehab and drug dealers and Gale Boetticher, neither has forsaken the other. It's more than Walt could ever say about Skyler, yet he's still not assured he can use that particular verb.
He mentally grasps for strings, not sure if Jesse's are even the ones he's reaching for when Jesse pecks his collarbone.
"Yo, if you try any harder not to act like a prick, you're gonna pass out."
Walt smiles, but Jesse misses it. His eyes are closed, eyebrows snapping together like the congruent ends of a magnet, moaning through his teeth. Walt knows Jesse's in that moment: trembling behind a loaded gun, trigger cocked, ready.
"That's it," Walt says. He lays a firm hand on Jesse's back. "That's a good boy. Come, Jesse."
Just a fraction of a second before Jesse, Walt feels himself shoot out, splashing Jesse's stomach and chest. His orgasm radiates from his very spinal cord, traveling out in electrified pulses to every single nerve ending.
"Shit," Jesse groans. He expels himself in powerful convulsions.
While foreign, the sticky resulting product inside of Walt doesn't feel as nearly disagreeable as he had previously theorized.
Jesse's breathing eventually evens, shivering in the last of his thrusts. He submits to Walt an imploring, curious glance. "How was it?"
Exhilarating, addicting, phenomenal. "Fine, Jesse. It was fine."
Jesse grins. "Oh, yeah? Just fine."
He starts up an openmouthed trail down the middle of Walt's chest, past his navel, right to his dick. Lapping along Walt's length, he engulfs the tip between his lips, sucking like his health, vitality, and existence depends on it. It's delirious and delicious, and maybe Walt's flying high on a cocktail of endorphins and serotonin, but he actually opens his mouth to do more than grunt.
"I thought it…was your birthday," Walt says.
"Yeah, but I want you ready for another round sometime before like meth goes out of style," Jesse says, lips all smug and come-smeared. "Don't worry, yo. Just do what you do best and like lay back."
Jesse swirls his tongue along the underside of Walt's shaft, and Walt's a bit alarmed to feel a responsive twitch. He smiles.
"Good boy, Jesse." Walt rustles his fingers along the short, soft yet simultaneously stubbly hairs at the base of Jesse's neck, rewarded with a hum from him that vibrates exquisitely.
Even if Walt doesn't exactly fixate on it, the fact that he's the St. Bernard that Jesse has chosen to direct his attention onto might be the best thing to happen to Walt in a long time. And, he guesses he's willing to put up with Jesse: relapses, fleas, and all.