Re: The Apartment: Jamie/Seven
Seven was control. He was tempered steel, a blade’s edge finely honed, and Jamie was something messy and rough and caustic that fucked up the temper and left him reeling and had sparks showering down onto really fucking flammable everything, yeah? So, sure, chalk Seven’s classroom up to life, or whatever the fuck, and you had a guy who had spent his formative years spinning out of control and desperate to sink his nails into something that was tangible and safe and controlled by his own shit. The control was how Seven was viewed, how he was feared, back then and still today. His reputation and his empire and the fact that he was a war machine in a three piece fucking suit when he needed to be.
Seven’s picture of Jamie, though? Was fragmented, different pieces, siblings and parents and emotionally abusive ex-boyfriends. But more than that was the sharp clip to the guy’s words, the way that he snapped against Seven like a rubber band and left his metaphorical skin smarting and red, yeah? Seven wanted to reach out and gather the guy’s face in his hands, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. “Yeah, that was what she talked about,” he mumbled, reaching up to rake his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been too busy talking to her therapist about how to not fuck her up.”
He swallowed hard, and he smirked against the stretch of Jamie’s mouth on his own. “Except that you’re too scared to deal with your balls.”