[ Ridiculously, about to get fucked senseless by his... whatever the hell he and Jesse are, Hugh has the wherewithal to make a noise of complaint when Jesse tangles his no doubt spit-slick, gross fingers in his hair. (That's always been a talent of his, being able to bitch even in the most dramatic circumstances.) The angle is almost-but-not-quite wrong like this, open and embarrassing, delicious in the absolute worst way; everything burns, or aches, or throbs, unarmored and open under Jesse's sure hands, and he just - feels. Like a sparking nerve, all lit up inside with sensory information he can only endure.
And oh, does he feel it when Jesse presses in. For all his grandstanding and snappishness, Hugh can't help but drawl a gritty, satisfied sigh at that, urging Jesse on. The pants still make it hard (they're not even undressed, really, fucking on the cold floor of his workshop less than thirty feet from their unaware coworkers, that shouldn't be so thrilling), but he spreads his knees another inch or two, hand slipping down to wrap around his dick. ]
That - depends, [ Hugh chokes, reflecting on just how much he needed this. When did that happen? Still, he can't help but pick at Jesse, all smug tone and shaky smirk, back arching. ] Consider this your performance review.
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And oh, does he feel it when Jesse presses in. For all his grandstanding and snappishness, Hugh can't help but drawl a gritty, satisfied sigh at that, urging Jesse on. The pants still make it hard (they're not even undressed, really, fucking on the cold floor of his workshop less than thirty feet from their unaware coworkers, that shouldn't be so thrilling), but he spreads his knees another inch or two, hand slipping down to wrap around his dick. ]
That - depends, [ Hugh chokes, reflecting on just how much he needed this. When did that happen? Still, he can't help but pick at Jesse, all smug tone and shaky smirk, back arching. ] Consider this your performance review.