Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven - Saturday Morning
Like, comparatively speaking? Jamie wasn't pressure and compression, pulverizing force. He felt like, cleaned out? Hollowed out, like his bones were honeycomb and his body thick, wet paper and like whatever had been in his head hadn't even kindled all the way alive until it had been subsumed. He was aware. He was way aware of getting petted by the pressure of the guy's fingers over his chest, he was aware like of the NERVE endings in the skin of his dick as Seven detached and wiped his hand in the sheets which was way considerate given like, the degree to which Jamie was painted in that shit, which was like, grossly sticky. He just like, didn't have anything left to do anything. It felt like letting the fucking tide take you, dumb as fuck to do but a wasteland of like, the desire to do fuck else.
But he felt the like, tremors. He felt the guy shudder behind him like the water was in his lungs, quake surface and the groggy, throaty sound of the guy crammed up behind him which shouldn't have been hot but was. The guy's breath shivered over Jamie's skin, wet and hot and Jamie laughed - well, he almost laughed, full on laughter would have been like, serious effort so it was more like a general buzz that resounded up the empty corridor of his throat, caught the corner of his mouth and slid it like a drunk on a Saturday night. "Way to make yourself comfortable," he said of the like, sheets thing as he felt shit ooze. But yeah, okay. Sleep. He could go for that. Everything felt way heavy and delicately, Jamie picked the guy's hand off his chest, where he was getting petted like a cat - because that was like, borderline af, and lowered it to his hip as he tugged the sheet higher.
"Eight hours, minimum," Jamie said, sleepily as drowsy like, threatened to run in where the fuck had carved out empty space. "How long before you have to go?"