[ That isn't fair. This thing Jesse's doing where he's still pissed off but spins vivid sort-of compliments that get Hugh's blood running alkaline, it isn't playing the game correctly, going for the throat like that - Hugh's voice is throaty enough when he laughs, the next stroke turning almost too much, near-punishing, and then entirely too light in the same heartbeat. ]

Spend a lot of time thinking about how I fuck myself, do we? [ There's something exciting in the coarseness there; it tastes sharp, he likes it. Pinning Jesse down and working him up to this point was an excellent idea, he should do it more often. ] For reference, I do take it slow. Hours. You see, Jesse, someone with my particular mindset doesn't do anything in halves - I work myself to exhaustion down here because otherwise, I'd be up lingering and tinkering for god knows how long. I can't turn off, to put it in layman's terms; I have to shut down completely.

So when I get off, it has to be awful. Exhausting. Messy. A little painful, even - but then again, my definition of "a little painful" is different than most, you know that.

[ But Jesse's not wrong. Getting rough is pretty much the only way to shut him up, honestly. Glancing over his shoulder, all calm and collected and self-assured, Hugh shifts his weight off Jesse's arms (enough to grab, or pull, or pin) and sets his hands on his bare thighs, thumbs tracing the crease where Jesse's thighs and pelvis meet. ]

For the most part, I think about you fucking me raw.

[ So get at it, tough guy. ]