Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven - Saturday Morning
Jamie felt like, awake press in on him like fingerprints, sensation creeping in where sleep had smoothed out rough edges. The guy was hot and heavy breath on the back of his neck, dusting the hair there until it all stood on end, the sheet was twined around his middle, under the bellows of Seven's arm and with each sawing of the guy's forearm over his hip, the fug of warming cotton and arousal went up Jamie's nose. He could hear Seven pant against his neck and it was like, weirdly real, Jamie's focus pinprick sharp in the muggy heat of the bed. He could see, if he cracked his eyes open - and tbh, Jamie didn't want, a combo of the light and of being like, all cock right now, heavy in between the guy's fingers and a weird like, ache as the guy thrust against his ass, core-deep - the light, the way the sheets had twisted away from the mattress.
His toes flexed against the guy's ankle, his calf rasping along the guy's, thick with hair. Like, he had a weird, fleeting thought about toenails, about the callus on the ball of his foot, but the guy chose like, THAT SECOND to glide his finger over Jamie's tip and he like, convulsed and his foot slid backward, his heel digging into the meat of the guy's calf. Which probably hurt, but like, he had Seven breathing hard into his ear before he let go, and Jamie's screwed-up eyes opened then, sticky with sleep, in like, absence.
"What the fuck, Seven," he said, which was way articulate considering.
Because without thinking about it, and tbf thinking was like, discarded, softly irrelevant like his jeans loosely cast-off across the room, he was strung-nerve wound, lit up like little lights, a string wound tighter and tighter between fixed points, his spine flexed and pressure massed heavy and low and ached as his balls got heavy and tight, packed higher. He didn't care about the whole, dry palm thing in the absence of any kind of palm and he ground back against Seven, because like, friction - and a little desperation as his cock bounced brief against his stomach and Jamie made an inarticulate sound that was ninety percent demand and a little greed as the guy wrapped his palm around him, the weight of his forearm heavy over his hipbone.
It was better. Like, that went without saying, right? Except like, the guy was right there sliding against his ass, the muscle back there fluttered in like, sense-memory or something and Jamie's hips spasmed forward and his cock chose like, right then to blurt pre-come sticky over the guy's fingers. He choked. It was like, stifled sound and he turned his chin outward, until his cheek scraped raw over Seven's shoulder and he wanted to bite him or kiss him or like, anything except the agonizing fucking focus that meant parts of his neck, shoulder, ear or whatever were wet, shocking-cold or dirty heat as the guy fucked up against his ass. His toes curled, so hard the pleasure was like, sharp.
"Fu-uck," which was stifled, but like, long and Jamie couldn't hear it much anyway with the blood rushing in his ears. The rhythm was like, off, or maybe it was just, like, impatience, but he couldn't get hold of anything except the fucking sheets. He slid one hand back, like, over the guy's flank and he dug divots there with his fingertips because it felt like trying to breathe through water otherwise.