Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
It was the only gift that Seven could give rn — the not-thinking, not needing to, not mattering. It didn’t make up for him being a serious fucking asshole, but it would have been worse if he apologized again. That would have implied there was reason to care more than could be waved off in one. Yeah, Seven could have kept on talking, but it took a lot to change that. It wasn’t a big deal to respect what Jamie’s body language read out loud in stereo. Jamie’s tolerance for conversation that didn’t lead directly to sex was a line that he knew real well by now, even if they’d agreed to let that one blur under the guise of it being for Seven’s sake. Better to sleep on it than ask for miracles, yeah?
Seven let his fingers go lax as Jamie went to work on peeling them away from his hips, although the fact he didn’t really go out of his way to move them on his own (and that his smirk stayed fixed in place) spoke to the fact that as much as the idea of sleep appealed, he wasn’t overly eager to get the guy out of his lap.
“You’re not gonna fight me on it? That’s gotta be a first,” he ribbed, tone mild as his gaze raked over Jamie’s torso once it came into view. It’d been a while, but still only a matter of weeks, yeah? So the fact that he could note as much of a difference in the ease with which he could trace the lines of Jamie’s ribs as he did -- he didn’t know shit about ballet training at the pro level, fucking obviously, but he figured it said a lot about how hard he’d been at it since the last time he’d seen the guy without a shirt. “Hell, even if I whined you’d be lucky to hear me from opposite sides of the bed. They’re practically in different zip codes.”
The smirk stayed as he took Jamie’s offered hand and climbed out of the depths of the couch, because he’d spent enough time with Jamie glued to him while asleep (a night or two was plenty, yeah?) to think it unlikely that the guy would spend the whole night on his own side of the bed. Which was its own expectation, yeah.
“And anyway,” he added as an afterthought, leading the way into the suite’s master bedroom and tossing the words over his shoulder as he untied the knot on his sweats with a tug. “Whining’s your department.” There was a grin audible there even with his back turned, as he thought about Jamie’s expression in the shower, after Seven teased him that he was kinda whiny when his dick wasn’t occupied. And then he was yanking the sheets back on the bed that practically could have taken up half the bedroom in that house back in the Neighbourhood -- though just a little bigger than the one Seven had in his, at home -- and stepping out of his sweats after they’d slipped off his hips and down to the floor. All the decorative pillows joined them, because only sociopaths thought those things were comfortable. And he didn’t even try to bite back the appreciative groan that escaped as he slid into the cool cocoon of Egyptian thread count.