Resse Oneshots

1. Why Talk About It?

A/N: this one's angsty! you've been warned. heavy guilt themes and weird sexual complexes abound.

Jesse has this…thing. Call it a pavlovian response, or whatever – Jesse has psychoanalyzed himself enough to know it gets him nowhere, explains nothing.

What it boils down to is this, Jesse’s hand closing around his own dick, his other hand clutching at his throat, slumped against the wall next to the door of his office that he'd barely even had time to lock, right after a debate. Right after a debate with him . God, he wishes it was him– Rob touching his leaking cock, choking him, maybe touching his chest or mouthing at his neck.

The way he can completely decimate him on any given day, while somehow remaining completely calm and in the good graces of the rest of the Kamer. No one thinks he's unkind. Even Jesse doesn't think he's unkind, even on days like this when he's clearly fed up with him.

He doesn't think that Rob knows that he still does this to him. It's been years, and Jesse’s still hooked on the way it felt to have him. So hooked that he’d had to retreat to his office to touch himself instead of reconvening with his party after the debate.

Jesse knows he should redirect his thoughts, maybe to Jolein, or at the very least some nebulous fantasy with an undefined party. He's angry with himself, for not being over something that happened a few times in college, for having thoughts like this– thoughts that could easily be a slippery slope to being unfaithful to his wife.

And now he's thinking about his dreams coming to fruition. Getting Rob to come back with him to his office, bend him over his desk, open him up with his fingers and then with his cock. He shouldn't feel like this, so desperate for his colleague, and sometimes political enemy, to use him. It's pathetic. It makes him so hard he pulses in his hand.

But something about being pitted against him, standing up for the issues he believes in only for him to so gently destroy him…it gets him going. Undeniably. Knowing that when Rob looks at him from the podium, he could be undressing him in his mind, remembering what it was like to have him underneath him– maybe he could be feeling a fraction of what Jesse feels whenever he gets up to speak.

Jesse lets his hand fall from his throat and to his chest, playing with a nipple. He whimpers softly. He can't quiet himself down further than that, not when it feels like he's burning up from the inside out.

He's still stuck on Rob fucking him, stretching him out in preparation to take his dick. No one's even done that for him since he was in his early twenties. He's done it for himself, a few times when he's away at conferences so he doesn't have to run the risk of Jolein finding him like that.

It's humiliating, the thought of her finding him, ass up and stuffed full of his own fingers or a toy– but it only makes him stroke his cock faster, migrate his hand from his chest to under him, between his spread legs, to tease his rim. He's not going to fuck himself, not like this– but he might when he gets home, damn the consequences and the fear. He needs it.

He needs to get this done, come quickly and clean himself up with tissues from the box on his desk– but something in him wishes he could draw it out, keep going until his legs shake and his chest heaves and tears brew in his eyes.

He thinks about the way Rob's hands grip the podium when he speaks, as if he's so impassioned about the subject matter that he has to ground himself in the physical world with the edge of the wooden lectern and white knuckles. Jesse wants nothing more than to see his hands like that, but with bedsheets in between his tense fingers.