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Walt answers Jesse’s house phone because the boy is still preening himself in the first floor bathroom. Jesse bought a new suit, all black except for the white shirt underneath. He’s struggling with his tie though that doesn’t seem much of a mood deterrent. He’s got those ridiculous speakers of his blasting something a little slower than his usual junk, heavy bass simultaneously reverberating distressingly in Walt’s chest and amplifying his adrenaline, and Jesse’s bopping a little to the music that’s waxing oh so eloquently about “fucking bitches” and “getting money.” Jesse’s appalled Walt isn’t familiar with the song because “Yo, Mr. White this is fucking Biggie. It’s like a classic, man,” and Walt was honestly okay with anything that allowed him to drink bourbon and watch Jesse slowly moving his hips every beat or so as he proudly said things like “I look crisp as hell, yo.” And now Walt has to be the asshole relaying the message that their dinner reservations have been rained out.
Cupping the earpiece to muffle the manager still rattling off apologies, Walt yells above the music, “Yes, Jesse I realize the restaurant is indoors. There was some sort of structural damage to a skylight and the whole kitchen flooded. No, I certainly have no idea what a five star sushi restaurant is doing with a damn skylight above their kitchen.”
It takes another three or so disingenuous reassurances that they’ll reschedule before Walt can get off the phone and again sip the expensive bourbon Jesse gave him for their tenth month anniversary. The dinner was supposed to be Walt’s gift. And he knows ten months isn’t traditionally an elaborate affair for most couples. But most couples don’t manufacture methamphetamines in an underground laboratory and work for a damn murderer who doubles as the owner of a fast-food chain. He’s also assuming most anniversary talk doesn’t include mixed feelings on how their once three-month, now indefinite meth-cooking contract is likely to bleed over into a new year. Walt can practically visualize a calendar soggy with pulpy gore. He’s not even sure how many cartel members Fring has killed, but he and Jesse appear to be safe for the time being.
A small fraction of Walt is actually relieved both concerning this somewhat stability in their business and about tonight. It’s pouring outside. He’s a little too tipsy to drive. He wasn’t really up to going out. Perhaps Walt can scavenge for food in Jesse’s kitchen and pull something off so their celebration isn’t a total waste. The boy had really been looking forward to this.
And Jesse looks absolutely crushed, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with his tie improperly knotted. He smacks at the black silk article around his neck like a dejected child or perhaps a frustrated kitten.
“What the fuck? We get a little rain and it’s like everything fucking shuts down.”
Thunder booms melodramatically as if cued. And that’s when the electricity goes out.
Then they have to find batteries because they need them for the flashlight because they need that to locate candles, and it’s as much of an ordeal as it sounds. Then they “discuss” whether lighting both the jasmine and eucalyptus would be too overpowering and if they should save the cinnamon ones for Christmas and why Jesse even owns so many fucking scented candles (no answer besides a shrug as he pops open a Coke). Then there’s the issue of Jesse’s kitchen being stocked with little else but soda and enough packaged snack foods to open up a mini-mart.
But, by the time they’ve settled in the living room with a massive collection of grub that would satiate the munchies of at least six stoners, Walt absently observes with a mouthful of peanut butter pretzel nuggets that he’s completely hammered. Walt’s somehow managed to drink three-quarters of a bottle of bourbon. He’s fairly sure he might be more intoxicated than the cumulative inebriation of three and a half New Year’s Eves.
Walt squints, trying to do that math on his salt-dusted fingers though something isn’t adding up. The fifth is empty. Where the hell did the other quarter go? A quarter of something does indicate four parts, no? Who is giggling?
Jesse’s lounging back in the Papasan, laughing harder than Walt’s seen from him in a while, apparently a light weight. And Walt sets the bottle down on the glass coffee table, sways, and Jesse’s neighborhood has this sort of rainforest vibe through the darkened window. Walt burps and Jesse actually snickers.
“Yo, are you ignoring me,” Jesse says with a grin. “Or did you not hear my joke? ‘Cause it was hilarious. Mr. White, it’s alright. I’ll tell it again. What do you call a penguin in blue jeans?”
Walt lifts a shoulder and tips over a little with the movement and the whole room smells of cinnamon and bourbon and Jesse’s Axe body spray.
Jesse looks exceedingly thrilled to deliver his punchline. “Business…CASUAL! Get it?! Like business on top—” he smacks his chest “—and casual on bottom.”
He runs his palms down his thighs, back up, then down, the gesture transitioning from innocuous to considerably more sexual as the boy makes this gravelly little “Mmm” noise, fanning his fingers out, slipping a hand to his crotch.
“Can’t even remember the last time I beat off drunk,” Jesse says. The heel of his hand is in a hypnotic circling motion against his groin. “Shit feels awesome. How much you wanna bet I can get still get a boner even though I’m totally shitfaced?”
Walt is literally without words let alone hard figures for such a wager. Jesse is in head-to-toe formalwear, sitting in the flickering flush of candlelight, touching himself through his pants. He’s wearing this lazy, arrogant, charming sort of smile that Walt wants to kiss hard enough to smear it off and onto himself as if Jesse’s sex appeal could be as easily smudged and borrowed as a woman’s lipstick. It’s rather startling, almost belittling for Walt, how masculine Jesse appears in a suit. Yes, the boy is still as scrawny as ever and the sleeves are a hair too short with the scorpion peeking through. If Walt has the terminology down right, Jesse is in most regards a “twink.” He’s Walt’s gorgeous, boyish-faced, boney little twink. But, there’s something powerful about the stark line of his jaw. Aside from the sleeves, Jesse’s suit is tailored to his narrow body like a jaguar in its licorice-black hide. And his movements now are most definitely feline: licking his lower lip, subtly arching his back, eyes trained on Walt in a predatory fashion. Jesse looks like a damn jungle cat and Walt suddenly feels like someone’s dad in a Red Lobster with his slightly oversized brown sports coat and blue paisley tie.
Walt just shrugs. “You’re twenty-five. Getting an erection isn’t exactly stren…stern…strenuous work for you.”
“Yeah, apparently not as much as talking is for you, man,” Jesse says. He unbuttons his pants, tugs down the zipper, and shoves his hand inside. The boy’s still looking directly at him. “Yo, I’m almost there. Think I could like get a kiss or is that cheating?”
“Cheating,” Walt says. Though, he’s already leaning over the boy, needing to stand astride Jesse’s knees to get closer.
He forgot they were splayed so widely and almost loses his balance before bending down. And he’s near enough for Jesse to grab him by the back of his head and slip his tongue in Walt’s mouth in one seamless move like those rolling shoulder motions of a prowling panther. It’s rare for Walt to feel so nakedly insecure, but alcohol has done that to him in the past. And he doesn’t want to change anything about tonight. He’s just unsure of what he really has to offer with Jesse taking the reins so to speak.
Jesse’s breathing against the side of Walt’s face. “Shit, this is good. It’s like kind of a timesaver too, having you here and shit. I jerk off to you all the time, baby.”
Walt’s stomach does something funny at “baby” and how Jesse pronounces it with this confident honey-oiled bravado. Walt feels like a woman. It’s not like he feels emasculated. Hell no. With Jesse kissing along his throat, playing with himself, divulging details about his rather flattering masturbatory habits, Walt feels like a woman being utterly adored and seduced by the most handsome little punk Walt’s ever met.
He lets Jesse lead this next kiss for once, gives the boy total control of how he wants their mouths to fit together, trying to decipher how he feels participating in a more receiving position.
Jesse pulls back with a wet smacking sound because his technique is still a little high school: almost too much tongue and a bit of, most likely involuntary, dry-humping.
“Fuck yeah,” Jesse says. His dick is out and fully stiff. “Suck on that, bitch.”
Walt understands this is simply an expression, but he hopes to take the words literally with a suave crouch and steely stare. It’s difficult for him to admit that the execution turns out to be more so of him fumbling around, legs unstable like a damn infantile antelope, knees thumping down onto the hardwood floor sharply enough to make him wince. But, all that really matters is that he made it. He even claps the boy’s calf as if patting himself on the shoulder.
Gripping the hilt, Walt slips as much of Jesse as he can in his mouth.
“Mr. White,” Jesse moans.
He sounds thoroughly delighted. Walt has only done this once for Jesse, in Walt’s bed, Walt looming above Jesse with his own cock stuffed down the boy’s throat. Kneeling in front of Jesse like this is different to say the least, though the resulting vulnerable sensation is actually pleasant. It’s even turning Walt on. Barking instructions and strategizing and scheming all the time can become rather tiring. Maybe he’s at peace feeling contentedly subordinate sitting back on his heels and suckling cock. He can feel Jesse stiffen against the roof of his mouth at Walt’s next strong lap of his tongue and suddenly he’s scheming again.
Walt moves his head back, springs up on his scuffed loafers fast enough to need to shoot his hands out like he’s walking a tightrope, and he’s feeling a touch of vertigo as he plops himself in Jesse’s lap.
“Yo, what the hell? You’re fucking heavy.” Jesse sucks in a breath. “Mr. White, what do you wanna do, smash my dick or something?”
“No, Jesse,” Walt says, bracing his forehead against the boy’s and closes his eyes. “I want to ride it.”
Jesse giggles. “Write it? Like a letter? You mean, like, ‘Dear Jesse’s dick, you taste totally bomb, yo. I should invite you over to my mouth like way more often. Stay huge, my friend. P.S. I’m gay as hell as for you.”
The boy is in near hysterics, whole body vibrating beneath Walt, and he waits until Jesse’s calmed before he frames Jesse’s face in his hands.
He speaks against the boy’s lips, “I want to ride you.”
Even in the dimly wavering light around them, Jesse appears to blush and pale at the same time.
He rolls his eyes and playfully smacks Walt on the shoulder. “Yeah, sure thing, asshole. Let me just pencil that in between catching a ride on a unicorn and…I don’t even know…like watching a dog do like a backflip.”
Walt nudges Jesse back a little harder. “I’m being serious.”
Jesse pushes and so does Walt and then there’s some grappling and Jesse snickers again.
“Oh, so you want to wrestle,” Jesse says.
And it’s a logical conclusion to make because their irritation with one another has many times devolved into naked brawling that’s less about violence and more the kind of thing one might see in some Greco-Roman homoerotic painting of two men tussling. Their matches often end with the boy pinned to the floor, ass obligingly raised, Walt fucking into him. But, that’s not what Walt has in mind.
He shakes his head and manages to stand, still bestride Jesse’s knees, before taking Jesse’s hands and placing them on his belt.
“Jesse, take my pants off.”
Jesse’s fingers are still before he’s working the buckle loose. He shoots Walt a knowing look. “Yeah, yeah, I got it, Mr. White. You suck me, now I suck you. Don’t gotta go around saying crazy shit for a blowjob.”
Walt doesn’t say anything until he’s bare from the waist down, kicks off his shoes and the tangle of garments at his feet, and yanks off everything on top because he’s getting warm and if he’s going to do this, he wants to commit. Lifting clothing over his head is disorienting, Jesse needing to steady him with hands on his waist with a sweetly concerned, “Yo, are you alright, man?”
With an unbecoming wobble to his gait, Walt squats somewhat with his arms braced on Jesse’s slight shoulders and Walt most certainly has the polar opposite of whisky-dick: rigid and red.
Jesse actually nods to it with a reverent grin, always managing to gaze at Walt’s arousal like a child eagerly awaiting candy, saying, “Right on, Mr. White. Fuck the booze. Ain’t nothing holding you back.” And almost to himself, he whispers, “Gonna suck you dry.”
It’s only then, having to gently push Jesse back by his forehead, legs cramping from this position that Walt’s almost ready to speak again.
He lowers Jesse’s hand to the boy’s prick, swirling Jesse’s fingers against the pre-come at the tip and lifts the hand to move between his own thighs.
“Slick me up, son,” Walt says.
It’s more of a demand than a request, and maybe it’s the liquor that has Jesse blinking up at him only momentarily. Then the boy’s getting his digits nice and sticky, groaning at his own ministrations before rubbing his fingers just at the crevice of Walt’s backside. He’s quick to thumb at Walt’s opening and even quicker at slipping a lean finger inside.
Walt initially feels somewhat squirmy. No one has ever breached this part of him before, not even with an experimental fingertip. Jesse adds another of his fingers along with this “come here” curling motion that Walt’s familiar with in finding G-spots. While not setting off anything explosive, it feels good. It’s a little teasing like something further inside is yearning for more. And, he’s positive Jesse’s willing to accommodate such a request.
Even though Jesse’s cock is already poking through his fly, Walt wants to feel Jesse’s thighs beneath him so he tugs Jesse’s pants down, which thankfully doesn’t distract him. But, speaking of distractions, Jesse’s underwear is spotted with damn cartoon characters. For fuck’s sake, Walt is about to essentially lose his virginity to a boy in Ren & Stimpy boxer shorts.
But, Walt is ready for this to the extent of feeling anxious. He yanks Jesse’s shorts past his knees and only bothers unbuttoning Jesse’s shirt, leaving it open with his tie draping down his naked chest like the boy’s a slender, tattooed male stripper. Batting his hand away, Walt slowly hunkers himself above Jesse’s cock as the boy’s eyes expand comically as if he’d yet to truly believe Walt. And it’s all Walt when he guides Jesse inside, gliding down with just the right amount of friction, and once the boy is balls deep and elatedly choking, Walt is almost startled by how much his body wants this. It’s as if he’s taking a long swallow of water, dehydrated without even knowing it, all of him just craving to soak as much in as he can.
Walt slowly grinds back and grunts. He’s straddling the boy in this deep-set cocoon of a chair. The thunder has faded away. It’s still pouring out though. Jesse feels frail and jittery in his arms and perhaps that contrast to his throbbing erection makes him feel all the more thick inside of him.
“Mmm, you’re a big boy,” Walt says. “My big boy.”
Sure, he’s a little winded. But, that’s nothing compared to Jesse worming around beneath him and somehow moaning louder and more high-pitched than the first time they did this with their positions reversed. Jesse’s face can’t quite decide whether he’s in agony or bliss, mouth helplessly gaping open, chin tipped way back as if offering his throat to Walt.
He takes him up on that, dipping down to suck his way up small prickles of hair and warm skin and licking his Adam’s apple. And Jesse is even deeper inside of him. Walt moves his pelvis forward, backward, circles in a way that makes Jesse grab Walt by the ass and finally kick into gear. Then their moving almost in tandem, synched up, gears operating as smoothly as if this were an extension of how they work together in the lab.
Walt can tell he’s sweating and he can feel it on the tops of Jesse’s thighs as he mashes his ass down as firmly as possible. Jesse’s jerking up into him and panting in his efforts. Because, even with Walt’s knees steadied on either side of him in the chair, it’s still logistically difficult for someone with the boy’s body type to lift someone like Walt up very much for the kind of frantic upward thrusts he’s attempting. Walt’s happy to help with a little lesson in basic physics and gravity.
While in any other circumstance Walt would be inclined to quote Newton, he’s perhaps on the verge of finding his own prostate, still drunk, and Jesse looks far too attractive in candlelight for his own damn good, so eloquence isn’t of great importance here.
Walt ruts forward. “I’m heavier than you.”
“No shit,” Jesse says. He’s still putting an admirable amount of energy in driving into Walt. Jesse seems to register something and he sits up to kiss him. He sloppily plants a few more along Walt’s jaw. “Not heavy in like a bad way. Still smoking hot, baby.”
Walt snorts though shivers in spite of himself because he never wants to like it when Jesse insists on calling him that, but he begrudgingly loves it.
As Jesse drops back against the chair again, Walt attempts moving his hips the way Jesse had in the bathroom earlier tonight. Jesse sucks in his bottom lip between his teeth, which Walt takes favorably. He grabs Jesse by the tie, providing himself with an easier means of balancing, and the boy has this kind of innocent yet filthy awe to his expression as if he were seeing breasts for the first time. Walt smiles as he wraps the silk around his fist once and really grinds into Jesse.
The boy gulps and chokes. And oh, Walt’s never been in a situation to use one of these in the bedroom before. He might be strangling Jesse a little.
“’S okay,” Jesse huffs out. “I like it, Mr. White. Don’t stop.”
He hadn’t planned on it. He’s enjoying himself far too much. He can hear the storm has yet to let up. This is practically a monsoon for Albuquerque. Walt swears he’s one more little twist away from getting there.
“Jesse,” Walt moans.
The little devil managed to shift himself underneath Walt and snag the very place Walt had been searching for.
Walt shakes and feels Jesse shove further into it. “That’s a good boy.”
Jesse pushes up again and nearly spits between clenched teeth, “Mr. White, come.”
And with a “Fuck, Jesse,” Walt orgasms on command, everything tightening all at once, body both hot and cold, spurting onto Jesse’s belly. He closes his eyes and rocks into the afterglow and he swears everything even feels brighter.
Still in a haze, he realizes three vital details immediately: the power is back on, Jesse’s still erect, and at the peak of Walt’s fervid high, he managed to tighten his hold on Jesse’s necktie and the boy’s clawing helplessly at the cushioning of the Papasan. Walt’s suddenly hit by how strongly the article resembles a leash. There’s something deliciously empowering about that.
And with his makeshift choker in hand, Walt clenches brutally around Jesse’s cock, and nuzzles his forehead into side of Jesse’s damp scalp.
“Who’s a good boy?” he whispers.
Jesse cries out, trembles, and comes inside Walt with his eyes wide as ever.
Walt lets him ride it out as Jesse makes his usual post-coital little cooing murmurs and his entire being becomes jelly-like. Jesse swirls a hand along Walt’s lower back. He uses the other hand to wedge a few fingers under his tie and loosen it. And he’s smiling all the while.
“Whew,” Jesse says with a chuckle. “Thought I was gonna pass out for a sec.”
Walt wiggles his way off and cringes because he’s surprisingly sore, but once Jesse’s out, Walt feels exceedingly more naked than he ever thought possible. And with little thought on the matter, he maneuvers them so Walt’s sitting in the Papasan with Jesse curled up on top, his suit jacket blanketing out across Walt’s chest with Jesse kissing at his shoulder.
“We should totally order a pizza,” Jesse says.
Walt subconsciously holds onto Jesse a smidge tighter, hand finding its way in Jesse’s hair without Walt even considering it. “In a minute.”
Jesse’s grinning at him. “Yeah man, no hurry.”
And Walt’s grateful Jesse doesn’t snicker out something along the lines of “I totally popped you’re cherry, man.” Instead Jesse’s rubbing his arm, warm body flush against him, and smiling. Walt’s completely powerless not to kiss Jesse again, and he chooses not to say “Happy Anniversary.”
Instead, whispering, “I love you.”
And even though Jesse’s already tearing up to a degree, he nips Walt’s ear and whispers back, “Love you too, asshole.”