bakerstreet | But we get along when I'm inside you

But we get along when I'm inside you

but we get along when I'm inside you;

This isn't hate sex. You don't actually hate each other, you just get along like cats and dogs during the middle of a fireworks show. Speaking of fireworks, though, there is a spark the two of you can't deny, which is what lead you to some sort of intimacy. Maybe it was sexual tension reaching its breaking point, maybe it was something else. But the fact remains that this isn't hate sex, and you're actually more in synch now than you ever have been. In fact, this is the greatest tryst you've ever had, due to all that frustration you have towards them. It begs the question: why don't you two become more?

...then you remember how you get along otherwise.

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Have some UST. Banter. Bicker. Flat out fight, then fuck.

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Sh -- shit. [ Jesse bites out, because yeah, Hugh has him off his game. He keeps changing it up, and each touch feels good, each touch makes his breath hotter and harsher - but it's never enough to get there and Jesse knows it won't be.

So he goes another route, arching his hips just a little. ] Mm, no. No, I don't got time to tease myself. [ He breathes out, impatiently moving again. He's getting tired of being pinned like this - he wants to touch, wants to grind Hugh into the goddamn mattress, the table, the wall, something. ]

What about you, m'not anything special. But you, you gotta take it slow, huh? You're a diva about it, you fuck into your hand real steady. [ He loses his words for a second when Hugh strokes him, rolls his wrist - takes advantage of the slick. Jesse has to catch his breath. ] Bet you press your fingers into the bruises you got, huh? Give yourself more. Get all fucked up on the ache. You even use lube when you fuck yourself on your fingers? You got that pain thing, you get off hardest when m'fucking you hard enough to bruise, when I got my fingers 'round your throat, I seen it.

[ He kind of loses track of where he's going, seeing as he's picturing it. That's a mental image. ]

[ 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. ]

[ By the time Hugh's let his arms up, Jesse's practically aching to get his hands on the other. It's why he doesn't hesitate - Hugh gives him that last line and Jesse groans in frustration, immediately grabbing for Hugh. However he has to do it, manhandling or wrestling him down, Jesse gets Hugh off of him, gets him pinned to the ground on his stomach.

Whatever is left of what Hugh has on, Jesse yanks down, just enough, too impatient for anything else. Jesse makes sure Hugh's arms are held at the wrists over his head with one hand and briefly spits into his other hand to make the finger he presses inside Hugh possible to do. ]

M'gonna fucking ruin you. [ Jesse almost hisses against Hugh's ear, grip tight on Hugh's wrists. ] If you need lube this would be a good time to ask, sweet thing. [ And like before, it's angry, it's twisted, the way he drops that endearment, like he's calling Hugh something much, much worse. There's something about this, this in particular, being in control - Jesse's blood is practically boiling.

He'd just go without the fingers, but he doesn't want to listen to the inevitable bitching later. And besides, this gives him the chance to pay Hugh back. ]

Now th-- ha-- [ That first finger has him cutting off with a choke, forehead pressed against the cool faux-metal laminate. He smacked his head on it when Jesse flipped them, actually; the throb is slow and steady, something entirely different from the way his heart is pounding. ] That's it, does a little foreplay really get you going this hard? Or are you a little sore over not getting your face fucked?

[ Nobody's ever accused Hugh of knowing when to stop, of not biting off more than he can chew - that's never been more evident than now, when Hugh shoves up against Jesse like a dare, sneering, spitting. ]

Screw you. Shut up and get to it, lieutenant.

[ Lieutenant - fuck if that doesn't make his blood boil with anger rather than arousal. Lieutenant, like he's better, like Jesse's second rank - Jesse grits his own teeth, pressing a second finger inside Hugh sharply. He should be careful, but - he isn't. He won't be. Hugh goads him on and Jesse just falls for it, falls into it, nipping at Hugh's shoulder sharply. ]

Little sore over not getting face fucked. [ Jesse murmurs, low and heated. ] You cheated me outta that one with your lame as shit power struggle thing. [ Slower, Jesse presses his fingers inside, trying to get a rhythm - it's difficult, but Jesse isn't exactly worried about hurting the man under him. ] You're really fuckin' into this whole pain thing, huh? You're gonna bleed - you're into that, though, aren't you? Fucked up, s'fucked up.

[ He tightens his grip again, working bites and hickies along the back of Hugh's neck, his shoulders, leaving marks all over the place. It's almost possessive. He also adds a third, with another round of spit and struggle. He really should go for lube but he won't unless Hugh asks him for it. ]

[ It is almost possessive, and almost more than anything else, that does it for him - I fucking despise you but I'm the only one allowed to, like laying a claim on one another with bruises and blood, jesus fuck.

Still, the discomfort is starting to outweigh the thrill - he's wound too tight, and even if he does like it, he knows better than to push his body's limits. Three fingers, he thinks, gasping. ]

You're still talking? [ But there's less bite, forehead against the floor, eyes pinched shut. ] Why don't you do something useful with your mouth and spit? I know you enjoy the hell out of the sadist routine, but I--fuck, I do have to work later. At least one of us should.

[ And Jesse knows better than to push too far. He'd never hear the end of it, first of all - but really, he's not looking for pain that Hugh's not looking for. Jesse sighs, but he eases up a little, slipping his fingers out and not even bothering to be polite about the extra spit. Listen, Hugh asked for a little more, so Jesse adds it, ungracefully.

Two fingers this time. Just a little easier to take. ] Still talking. [ He confirms, with a bit of a hum. He's the one in control and that gives him something so close to a high he's practically buzzing. ] And you ain't working later. Not after I'm done with you.

[ He presses forward, presses deep, just to get a reaction. His tone is dismissive as usual, but - hey. He makes sure. ] You gonna cry more, or can I fuck you without hearing you bitch?

[ Smug little shit. It almost leaves Hugh's mouth, but then Jesse says (promises!) what he does, presses deep like he does, and it's all Hugh can manage to bite down a throaty whimper, an embarrassed flush painting his face. ]

No promises. [ He's dropped his head, hidden his face so Jesse doesn't have the satisfaction of seeing him fight down pride. ] Get on with it before I change my mind, Finch.

[ It's supposed to be a snap. The fact that he's rocking back onto Jesse's fingers is another matter entirely. ]

Fuck me.

[ It's not like he can resist much longer after that noise - the whimper sends this jolt of electricity through him, makes him sigh soft. Almost impatiently, Jesse slips his fingers out of Hugh just as Hugh's rocking back, meaning to ruin and sort of shoves him forward, makes sure his head stays down. He doesn't bother with much in the way of words, not yet - both of them know it won't be long until he can't shut up. Slicking himself up, Jesse leans over Hugh and tangles his fingers into Hugh's hair, keeping him at an almost uncomfortable (but not quite) bend as he presses inside, slow but steady.

For a moment, he actually lets Hugh adjust. As much of an asshole as he can be, there's something in him that doesn't actually want to make this only good for himself. Sure, it's hatefucking - it really is, Jesse can't fucking stand the prick underneath him, but he's not looking for anything but an equal amount of pushing back. It's why he keeps coming back to this, to Hugh.

With a shudder, Jesse swallows hard, and almost tests, rocking his hips gentle once and then rougher, fingers tensing in Hugh's hair. He leans down, presses against Hugh's back, mouthing over the slowly forming bruises along Hugh's neck. ] Still thinking about changing your mind? [ He murmurs, emphasizing his words with another rougher thrust forward. ]

[ 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.

[ Whatever the fuck they are... it works. Jesse ignores the wordless complaint, and nips at Hugh's neck in response. When Jesse found himself on this ship, he'd promised himself he wasn't going to pull this sort of thing, wasn't going to find someone or something to tear apart. And really - he's not. Really, Hugh is a lot stronger than the people Jesse used to fall into. Hugh can take Jesse throwing all of his might at him and toss it right back, send Jesse metaphorically reeling. Nobody can keep up like Hugh and it's fucking addictive.

Like now, like how Hugh shifts just that much, opens himself up a little wider and that's enough to drive Jesse up the wall. It isn't even a significant movement, isn't meant to be, but it's what gets Jesse picking up his rhythm, gets his grip in Hugh's hair to tighten, gets his teeth in Hugh's neck again, sharp, possessive bites.

And as always - Hugh picks at him, aches his fucking back and Jesse knows that anybody could hear them but it doesn't stop him from groaning quietly, muffling it against Hugh's skin. Performance review, he can't even take that as anything other than a challenge, and he rises to it, breath harsh as he presses deep into Hugh, already unable to stop the quiet filth from escaping his lips.

Could make you scream, he murmurs, could fuck you into the floor so hard everybody would hear but you'd like that, huh, probably would get off on it - breathes out gasps and played up little sounds, things to get Hugh to roll his hips back. Whispers about how much Hugh wants this, needs it, needs someone to hold him down and fuck him until he cries for it, needs someone to fight him down, how he's not going to be able to move without feeling this every step, every shift, every time his bruised skin brushes against his clothes. Jesse has a dirty mouth and he can't shut up, pressing Hugh down into the floor by his hair and fucking roughly, quickly into the man underneath him. ]

[ Whatever the fuck they are, it works. It absolutely works. Jesse is a line of coke in a buzzing Chicago club's bathroom, the shot of grain alcohol-bordering-on-rocket-fuel that nearly killed him in the Great Bar Crawl of '74 (which ended in a grain alcohol-related fire of catastrophic and entirely predictable proportions) - they're not good for each other, but they're a good kind of bad. The fun kind of bad. Now that Hugh's kicked the good stuff, this is the next best thing he can get.

And christ, that mouth. Where's an inked up shitheel like Finch learn to talk like that?

It's an embarrassingly short amount of time before he's whining for it, meeting every snap of Jesse's hips with a greedy roll back - and his sounds definitely aren't played up, low and gutty, I needed this so goddamn bad and fuck yes please in equal measure. He's never gotten to scream before, not genuinely, no matter how tempting, but he can make up for it like this - being a little slutty for him. Nobody else gets that. ]

Fuck, fuck, yes-- [ A particularly terrible, wonderful roll of Jesse's hips has him burying his face in the body-warm tile, nails catching at the grout. ] Jesse--

[ If please please yes oh god yes harder could be condensed to a tone of voice, this is definitely it. ]

[ This inked up shitheel got his mouth from a life full of back-alley fucks and seedy motels. And it's funny, almost, how similar they are; maybe it's why they can do this. Maybe it's why, for both of them, this is like a rush, this is what comes instead of drugs. Chasing rough, near-violent sex instead of a high. Jesse knows he doesn't want to give this up any more than he wants to give up smoking - this is too good.

Sure, it's quick, but that's sort of how it is with the two of them. Jesse's aleady feeling it build, breath harsh and hot, flushed from the effort. It's fucking crazy how much this turns him on, how much the fact that people could catch them if they came close enough, how people probably think they're just arguing or maybe the rest of the crew doesn't, maybe they whisper about how the engineers are fucking. It's crazy how much he wants to strangle the man he's got pinned to the floor sometimes, how hot the image of Hugh face down in the tile is, back arched and greedy and open.

He doesn't have any problem with moving harder, either - he can hear it in Hugh's voice. Jesse slows just a little, but doesn't stop; he rocks harder to make up for it, presses deep, hand tightening in Hugh's hair for a moment before letting go entirely. He wants Hugh up, bent over the table, but he knows how much noise that'd make and he doesn't think they can afford it. Instead, he fucks roughly into Hugh, practically grinds into him, hand sliding up to grip at the back of Hugh's neck, wrap his fingers partially around it.

Jesse leans a little forward, voice rough: ] You gonna beg me for it? [ He punctuates his words with a dragging grind inside Hugh, breath catching. The way Hugh's spine arches, the way Jesse's free hand fits so nicely against the small of Hugh's back, lets him dig his nails in - he's already halfway there. ] Say my name again.

Nnn--narcissist! [ It's rough, throaty; he laughs in a way that's much too breathy to be convincing. ] Fucking narcissist.

[ It's pointless rebellion, Jesse will always drag it out of him if he wants to - sometimes he wonders how people would react if someone caught them, Hugh the hardass moaning into his wrist like he's paid for it, what would they say? Would they stop respecting/fearing/respearing him, knowing that one of their own had him on his knees?

Probably. But Jesse rocks into him just right, digs his nails in just like that, holds him down just like this, and it's good, good, so good. He can hardly breathe. ]

No. You heard me.

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