Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven - Saturday Morning
Yeah, nah. If he was like, thinking about it (and for real, Jamie didn't. The conversation with Holly had been pulling teeth, and Jamie stubbornly resisted any kind of capitalization of this thing, definite lower-case t) then this was like, stripped down to business. Jamie had dialed a fuck back when he saw lights and shimmers and ghosts, when the whole nameless, zipless thing was off the table because he wasn't haunting a bar in case a bar haunted him. There was like, zero patter, the light stuff that burned like damp paper and twists of wool. This shit was kerosene over dry wood, the evening had been like, aberration. Jamie was like, used to high voltage, high velocity, whatever, boom. And he didn't think about what 'used to' even MEANT.
So like, kerosene, right? He felt the guy twitch, hard and insistent against his ass-cheek, packed in tight and like, even under, Jamie's sleep was colored by the way that hit his solar-plexus, sharp and short and inevitable. It felt good. Like, it did, and Jamie like, slid against him, what would have been like, a wriggle if he'd been awake enough to make it a real thing of hips, but was mostly shove until Seven's cock wasn't jammed hard into the side of his ass but like, slid into the only fucking space, heavy against the cleft of his ass. Seven's hand hung heavy, his arm draped over Jamie's rib-cage, the heat of his palm reflective on Jamie's belly and like, shit was instinctive. He was muzzy, heavy with sleep but memory and dream wound fuzzily together, and left like, want drifting within reach if Jamie reached. He didn't reach.
Seven's arm tightened and his hand dropped, the skim of his knuckles sweet over the skin of Jamie's stomach and like, want didn't NEED to be reached for. Jamie rocked against the guy as his cock like, went from vague interest to all the way into this in a sweet, painfully-tight rush and Jamie made a noise all throat and no syllables.