Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
He didn’t play dumb, and he didn’t have any big habit of doing or saying shit a certain way just to be nice. The lack of expectations wasn’t an olive branch. And maybe he was conflating expectation and entitlement, yeah? Seven didn’t feel entitled to hand-jobs, or anything else, just because Jamie had opted for a ride, or to crash in his hotel room. (If the guy had even come to crash -- and yeah, it was bizarre that Seven wasn’t even sure of that much, despite the fact that Jamie had opted for hotel over a ride back to town and he was clearly wrung the fuck out.) But yeah, okay, there were things he’d come to expect, besides the insults. That was sort of an inevitability when you fucked someone on an ongoing basis for nine months, yeah?
He expected the way that Jamie’s teeth would catch against Seven’s skin somewhere tender, and that the guy wouldn’t give a shit about leaving marks. For his eyes to light up with amusement a half second before he was going to say something obnoxiously self-satisfied, or get ink-blot dark with arousal the more that Seven unbridled control and handed it over. “I didn’t say that,” he said mildly, and the barbed edge of a smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth. “It’d be hard to be near you and not want to fuck.”
Seven’s eyes opened and he looked at Jamie straight on now, still with his head tipped back against leather. He made a face. “Is not. It’s just fluid and gas escaping the joints, calm your tits.” And Jamie’s turn to be the picture of casual was painted in bold strokes, neither convincing or bothering Seven in its deliberateness, so he resisted the urge to echo Jamie’s pose and kept his arms where they were, one slung over the arm of the couch and the other along the back. One brow rounded up in an arch. “Is that your way of saying you want to put the ‘friend’ in front of ‘with benefits’?”