Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd do it just like they do. Well,
assuming I couldn't get the show moved from Cartoon Network
to HBO.

Spoilers: Absolutely none.

Summary: John and Wally are definitely starting to get a feel
for each other.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: Shrift shared some deeee-lightful porn. I felt
like returning the favor. This could be read as part of the
_Inside This_ series, located here.

However, it's intended as a standalone.

Acknowledgments: To Shrift, the Spike, Adam, and Molly for
audiencing. To Tham for inspiring indirectly. (mad skillz!)

Feedback is adored. teland793@sbcglobal.net

*

He can tell by the way John is clenching his fists that it's
cold.

John has more ways to make a fist than most people have
for smiling. Wally thinks it's probably part of the Badass
Ex-Military thing, but it's also just the *John* thing. The way
that it was a huge and potentially deadly mistake to assume
that just because the man wasn't saying anything that he
also wasn't *thinking*.

Large thoughts, deep thoughts, potentially *violent*
thoughts.

He just doesn't actually express most of them. In that way
where Wally both wants and fears the Day He Finally Gets
John Thoroughly Drunk.

And, yeah, sometimes he kind of wonders what the man's
childhood was like, and if it could've possibly been *good*,
but then Wally also spends a great deal of time around
Batman, which means that not-good is also probably
not-THAT-bad.

But... cold.

Wally refocuses on the John-in-his-apartment as opposed
to the John-in-his head, and finds the man loose and casual
in everything but the set of his body. A weird distinction, but
an important one. Also? Still looking at the TV, as opposed
to looking at *him*, which is something he's had to get used
to:

Just because it *feels* like he's spent ten minutes
woolgathering doesn't mean he actually *has*.

"Should I close a window?"

"Mm?" Aliens is still more interesting than Wally. He can
understand that, what with the Vasquez factor.

"You look cold."

A blink, and then a smile that isn't so much secret as... the
sort of thing that was *probably* perfectly innocuous, but
could also possibly lead to sex if Wally played his cards right.
One of his favorite John smiles, really. "Well. We don't all
have your metabolism, hotshot."

"Hey, it's not that *I'm* too warm, I just..." Wally shrugs
and zips around to close the living room windows and back
to the couch, just a little closer this time. He can be subtle.
"I just forget."

Slow, considering nod. "Understood. I appreciate it."

And then John takes a swallow of his beer, only...

He's still *looking* at Wally, unblinking and green, and it's
something between an invitation and a goad.

"So I'm guessing you know what I'm thinking. Uh."

Slow, serious swallow and John takes his time shifting. Takes
his time resting the hand with the beer in it over the back of
the couch. Takes his time uncrossing his legs and resting one
knee flat and...

Really, Wally *knows* that it isn't just him. It'd be torturously
slow for *anyone*. And that slow, lazy smile just makes
little explosions go off in parts of his brain that are probably
important.

"I'm getting to know your moods," is what John finally says.

And it's not like Wally *isn't*, but sometimes he really has to
push. "Oh yeah? What am I thinking now?"

A slightly less... dangerous quality of smile. Like a half-step
back without actual *movement*. "I'm not enough of a
gambler to take bets on *that*. However."

John's thigh is big, the position making muscle strain against
the material of his jeans. Not enough. John needs tighter
jeans. Wally drags his gaze back *up*. "However?"

"I'm getting certain images. Impressions, you could say."

I want to lick your mouth until you can't use words with all
those syllables anymore, is what Wally *doesn't* say. "Tell
me." It comes out way too desperate for the game, but --

It also makes John's eyes narrow in *that* way. The one that
isn't really different at all from GL's-gonna-kick-your-ass,
except for the lack of uniform and glowing green skin-border
of ominousness. "I think you want me to touch you."

He's surprised by his own laugh, by the fact that he still *can*,
but goes with it. "I *always* want that. Be specific."

The smallest of movements, and Wally doesn't look down.

He doesn't. Until he does, and, fuck, hard under those jeans.
Those *not tight enough* jeans. He hears himself make a
sound, and it's one of *those* sounds, the ones that usually
lead to John pushing him up against something and holding
him still until he can decide what to do to Wally *first*, but
he doesn't move. And Wally looks up to find John giving him
that really kind of *mean* smile.

The one that would actually be kind of scary if it didn't
absolutely mean he was thinking of sex.

"Um --"

"I think you want my hand around your cock, Wally."

And, Jesus, it's one thing to be fast and another thing entirely to
be reaching for the fly of your own jeans well before your
thoughts catch up to your *want*. He stops himself with an
effort. *Drags* his hand up to the arm of the couch. "Nope."

Surprised little blink, and it's John's turn to be fast, because that
smile is *right* back. That *focus*. "I had other ideas."

"Yeah?"

"You always push your face into the pillow -- or the wall -- when
I have you by the hips. When I squeeze hard enough to leave
bruises. Like you're trying *not* to yell."

Which, yes, absolutely *yes*, to the point where he's leaning in
close, close enough to smell John's aftershave, and it's a scent
that *should* be sharp and kind of off-putting, but really just
isn't with John in a way that has nothing to do with brand.
Presses his mouth to John's throat and wants to kiss, wants to
lick and suck and hold on, especially when John swallows again
and he can *feel* it, but also no.

*Forces* himself back and actually smacks into John's hand
where he was -- and this is gonna kill him -- about to rest it on
Wally's head.

And John's mouth actually hangs *open* a little bit with shock.

"Wrong again, but really --"

The kiss is hard and wet and almost actually *fast*, tongue
stroking in and in and *in* and Wally catches John's face and
*holds* him there and part of his brain is yelling something
about control and John and *losing* it, but it sounds pretty
freaking thrilled, so Wally ignores it and kisses back.

Feels himself forget how to breathe and just loses himself in
the weirdly ticklish scratch of John's hair against his palm, the
almost-pain of the shorter stubble and God, what would it feel
like rubbed against the *rest* of his skin?

Wally groans into John's mouth and indulges himself, letting
his hand slide enough to feel that stubble against his bare wrist.
Groans again and thinks, seriously, about the pros and cons of
coming in his pants. And then John's palm is pressed against
Wally's chest, stroking and pressing just a little in that way
where Wally knows he's supposed to push back until John has
to use more of his strength.

And then there's really no air left, so he breaks the kiss, but
John *catches* him before he can pull away, before he even
knew that he was *going* to pull away, and Wally winds up
panting dumbly and staring at the way John's hands just sort
of *surround* his wrists.

"Time for me to guess again?"

"Oh, fuck, John, *anything* --"

And John licks his teeth and stares. "You really mean that, don't
you?"

"You know I do. You --" Thumbs stroking the skin, pushing at it
hard enough to make it *move* against the muscle and Wally's
hips jerk. "John. John, you make me crazy --"

A squeeze, almost hard enough to hurt.

"God, come on, just --"

"Tell me what you want. What you were thinking about."

And it takes a *long* time to connect that to actual thought,
because actual thought has long since stopped being important,
but. He gets this. How maybe this weird little game is important
to John the way John's hands on him are important to *Wally*.

Because John says more with his body than he ever could with
his mouth. "I. Your jeans aren't tight enough. I want to suck you,
want you to fuck my mouth --"

And the squeeze this time *does* hurt, but John lets go.
Slides his hands up Wally's arms and grips his shoulders for
a heartbeat and then those hands are in his hair, holding
his head and pulling him down, pulling him *in*.

"Fuck, yeah..." And he's almost sure he had something else
to say here, something to express the absolute yes *please*
of this moment, and also his abject and sincere gratitude for
just... *all* of this, but...

Words aren't just unimportant when he's close enough to
*smell* how turned on John is, words are absolutely
*impossible*.

Words are...

For some time when he can't just nuzzle against that big, hot
bulge in John's jeans, the jeans that still aren't tight enough
for his tastes, but are suddenly really just *right*.

The difference between really good porn and *being* there,
and he's sure there's something profoundly idiotic about that
thought, but he really doesn't care.

Pushes fabric aside and something about the sight of that
straining zipper...

And okay, licking it not one of his best ideas, considering
taste and *ow*, but it makes John buck, makes him tighten
his grip on Wally's head and *yeah*, nothing like a good case
of mutual want-this to make things better, hotter.

Pulls back barely enough to get his hands in, get the jeans
open and John lifts up and Wally's hands get busy with the
get-jeans-down while Wally's face gets busy with the *push*
and *rub* and.

Mm. So much better to lick at John's shorts. Thin cotton and
when he sucks a kiss *there* he can taste him.

"Wally."

That gonna-do-you voice that's probably the same as other
people's gonna-kill-you voice.

Except not, because when John really lets it go, there's a kind
of gentle *surrender* that vibrates its way into Wally's chest.

And yeah, he likes what he's doing, likes it a *lot*, but he
wants more. Maybe more of John-losing-it *more* than he
wants that cock in his mouth. Different wonderful results, same
action, so he doesn't wait any longer.

Eases the boxers aside and catches John by the root and sucks
*hard* for a long second that makes John *yank* his hair hard
enough that a few strands let go. Pushes up against those
hands and John's smart, John's wonderful, John *pushes*.

Making him take more and more until he has to swallow and --

*In*

Socketed tight and the first careful thrust makes his eyes roll
back in his head, makes him grab blindly for his own dick,
arching up off the couch for only long enough to get a *good*
hold, and *now* he wants to talk.

Tastes good, feels good, *do* it, make me feel it, and it comes
out as muffled grunts and happily-strangled moans and John
gets that, too.

Holds his head *hard* and thrusts raggedly until he catches a
rhythm, until Wally shifts *left* while John shifts *back* and it's
just right, it's perfect.

He gonna fall off the couch and -- wait.

He shakes John's hands off, catches and kisses and licks them
with a promise and *does* get off the couch. Turns John
around and kneels between his legs and yanks him down into
a sprawl that should be illegal with a half-naked John, or
maybe just mandatory, because *fuck*.

Those thighs, that hard, flat belly, that wild, wild *glare* and
those hands reaching for him.

Stroking his cheeks and slipping back into his hair and Wally's
already leaning forward, but John stops him with fingers on his
mouth.

Fingers *petting* his mouth and sliding around in spit and
when Wally opens his mouth to lick, John shoves two fingers
in and pets his tongue.

He's got his own cock in hand. Not stroking it, just holding
it. Hard and dark-on-dark and leaking at the tip and Wally
hears himself whine because he'd wanted to stop, needed
to stop, but that was just about *position*.

Forces his eyes back up to John's and the way he's looking
at him... it's not a smile at all. It's something between hunger
and *anger*, and Wally mmphs around the fingers in his
mouth and finally, finally gets his fly open.

Gets his cock out.

"Wally."

And he really wants to answer that, but those fingers are
fucking his mouth and he's so hard it almost *hurts* to
stroke. Almost.

"I'm gonna fuck your mouth again."

Cock spitting pre-come and mind... elsewhere and he does
his best to swallow John's fingers.

"Don't stop this time."

And he's sucking and licking and... *drooling*, but he's
also nodding, and he'd be a little impressed with that if he
wasn't turned on to the point of critical brain-melt,
because.

That was an order.

And John slips his fingers out, tracing slick, messy trails
over his chin before settling his hand back into Wally's hair
and pulling him back in.

John gives him enough time to lick the pre-come off the
head, and then John's other hand is pressing on the points
of his jaw, opening him up wide.

And Wally's ready for a thrust -- he thinks *John* is ready
for a thrust -- but what he gets is another pull.

Sliding him down over John's cock, down enough to swallow
him in, and it doesn't last because John's tugging him *off*.

"Fuck yourself, Wally."

And he hears himself make a *broken* noise, but fuck *yes*.

Braces his free hand on that big, hard thigh and goes for it,
licking his way down and sucking his way up, following the
rhythm of that hand on his head and wanting *more*.

Tries to find a rhythm that'll let him throat John without
gagging or otherwise embarrassing himself, but it's *hard*.

And John is. Still talking.

Little 'yeahs' and groans and 'wallys' that tell him just how
good this is, and it *is*, it's...

A bizarre mix of control and absolutely none, so good that
he can almost forget about his dick in his hand.

So good that he doesn't want to stop.

"Suck it, Wally..."

And he has to whine at the back of his throat and do just
*that*, and he can't quite get the same motion, or the same
*degree* of motion, but struggling for more just makes him
hotter.

Literally, sweat beading and rolling down his face and the
only thing keeping him from ripping his clothes off is the fact
that it would mean letting *go*.

Not feeling this anymore, this slick-hot slide of skin over his
tongue and the stretch of his mouth and the hand on his
head, guiding him in for more.

*Demanding* more.

"God, *Wally* --"

And then John's holding him still again and standing *up*,
looming over him like the sexiest idol ever sculpted and
brought to life. Forcing Wally's head back and up until just
the head is in his mouth, until they can *see* each other,
and Wally has no idea what's on his face, but it makes
John *growl*.

Stroke a thumb under his eye and *fuck* his way back in.

All rhythm, no gentleness.

Just in and in and *in*, and it hits Wally low in the belly
and hard in the cock. He's being *fucked*, right here, on
his knees, by *John*.

His groan is cut off by the next hard thrust and it's like
being snapped back into place, into himself -- flushed
and begging with his entire body for *more*. He comes
all over his fist and belly and swallows *convulsively*,
reaching up for John's hips to hold him *in* and sucking
as hard as he can.

Every thrust is small and sharp and purposeful, and
when Wally looks up John's eyes *flare* and he comes
hard, pulsing down his throat.

Painting his tongue when Wally pulls back enough to get
a taste -- salty-hot and perfect.

John stumbles a little pulling out, and Wally half-absently
pushes him back down to the couch.

Licks his lips.

*Feels* them, because God. Sore, yeah, but also swollen
and just *tender*.

"Mmm. Wally."

Wally blinks back to himself and realizes that he's licking
the come off his own fingers. Comparing. "Mm?"

Soft chuckle. "Get up here."

Wally grins and crawls up to straddle the man's lap, getting
*that* smile -- the recently-fed-predator one that's his
absolute favorite, bar none.

John kisses his throat, his chin, his cheek. Kisses his mouth
*softly*, but not in any way that could be considered
innocent. "You get good ideas, hotshot."

"It's been known to happen."

A raised eyebrow and hands on his ass. "Has it, now...?"

"I'd have to say most of my ideas on what to do with a
John in my house have been pretty good." And yeah,
definitely feeling a little smug, now.

"I wouldn't dream of disagreeing."

Another slow kiss and in about a minute and a half he's
not gonna care about his mouth being sore. At all.

Somewhere over his shoulder, in the world full of
not-John and other irrelevancies, someone's insisting that
the game is over.

In *Wally's* little corner of the world, there are darkly
sweet kisses that make him want to be most sincerely
naked.

And no one seems cold at all anymore.

end.