Pornstar AU
It would be wrong not to dedicate this to onelittlesleep since I’ve been spamming her journal with their previous exploits for days.
Title: Until It Hurts
Fandom: The Eagle, I guess? This is RPS though…
Pairing: Jamie/Channing (brief mention of Jamie/OMCS, not so brief mention of Channing/Jamie/OMC)
Rating: NC-17
Note:onelittlesleep is encouraging me to post our discussions/commentfic here, and I probably will as soon as I work out the best way, but I think this is fine to read on it’s own. Yup. Also, it’s shmoopy as hell.
Warning: Unbeta’d and written at midnight. Likely to be riddled with errors.
It’s a relatively quiet afternoon in October; Channing’s sitting in a coffee shop with a rapidly-cooling hot chocolate and a book in his lap. Across the street in the studio, Jamie’s getting fucked by three guys.
Channing can’t concentrate on the page.
His eyes pass over the same paragraph, again, and he takes nothing in, his mind too busy conjuring up vivid, Technicolor images of his lover bent in all sorts of interesting positions to accommodate today’s multiple co-stars.
It’s been two hours and forty five minutes of pretty much the same thing. His knee bounces under the table and he can’t make it stop, like his brain is frantic for something else to concentrate on. Pressing his fingers into the muscle doesn’t help.
The kid from behind the counter comes by and stares at his mostly untouched cup, asks if he wants a refill. Channing waves him off but he doesn’t take the hint.
“You waiting for your boyfriend?” the kid asks, looking out at the lot with an expression that says he knows exactly what kind of studio it houses. For months they’d come here after filming, him and Jamie, and had stilted, too-loud conversations that drew attention and made Channing blush. He shouldn’t be so surprised that somebody figured them out.
He presses his lips together. “You’ve got a customer waiting, kid.”
The boy goes back behind the counter and pays him no mind after that, doing mundane things like refilling the pastry counter and cleaning the filters, things that fail to distract Channing for long enough. He goes back to scanning the same paragraph over and over.
It still means nothing to him.
Fifteen minutes later he looks up, as if by instinct, in time to see Jamie shuffling out of the lot, cigarette hanging loose between his lips, eyes squinting almost closed against the sun. He’s walking like he aches, shoulders hunched up. Channing watches him with an invested interest. He supposes they are ‘boyfriends’ now - Channing’s got a toothbrush and a drawer of his very own in Jamie’s apartment - but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t still make him hard to see Jamie worn ragged.
It’d also be a lie though, to say the whole thing wasn’t starting to make him weary; spikes of jealousy firing off down his spine lately with startling regularity.
His shoulders loosen now, having been hunched for the entire three hours that Jamie’s been out of his sight, and Channing knocks his book closed and shoves it deep into his pack, no longer content to simply watch as Jamie ambles across the street.
Sometimes he finds himself convinced that Jamie is nothing more than a figment of his imagination - too wonderful and perfectly flawed to be real. He has to get his hands on him to be sure and, thankfully, Jamie tends to let him; wry, affectionate twist settling on his mouth while Channing paws at him.
He throws a tip next to his half-full cup and heads out, delights at how Jamie’s squint tightens when he sees him, cigarette bobbing as his mouth morphs around a smile. Jamie tugs it from between his lips, a plume of white following in its wake, and holds it out behind him while he leans up to plant a smoky kiss at the corner of Channing’s mouth. He turns his back to the sun and nods in the direction of his own place.
They often walk in step, unconsciously synched, their footfalls blending into one sound. Jamie usually picks up on it with a grin, knocks at Channing’s ribs with a pointy elbow and shuffles his feet until they’re walking with opposites. Today he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care to make a spectacle, just finishing his cigarette quietly, studying the odd, uneven shadow they make on the ground. Silence between them is never uncomfortable but it makes Channing uneasy, so used to Jamie’s accented voice filling the silence; husky when he’s aroused, pleasantly nasal when he’s just generally excited.
He didn’t know it was possible to love a voice.
They’re a block from the apartment, the sun so low in the sky that their shadows have become nothing but indefinable lines reaching out in front of them, when Jamie pauses, his cigarette abandoned on the pavement minutes earlier. Without words he steps close until they’re stealing each other’s air and Channing meets his upturned mouth, lets Jamie kiss him deeply even though this isn’t the best part of town.
He palms at Jamie’s lean waist, his hips, refrains from grabbing ass in the street, and when he pulls back Jamie steps right out of his space again; dark, thoughtful expression twisting his sharp features. Channing feels his brow crease, wishes he knew instinctively and didn’t have to ask, but Jamie is still a mystery to him sometimes.
“You okay?”
Jamie nods, lets the corners of his mouth flick up into a coy grin that rings false. He nudges at Channing’s jaw with his nose and lifts one shoulder. “Just…wanted you to be the last person with their mouth on me.”
Channing’s chest tightens. Jamie talks like this sometimes, like he’s sick of fucking other guys, like he wants true exclusivity and everything that comes with it. Other times he bats Channing’s concerned touches away and tells him it’s just sex, and Channing was doing it first so what’s his problem anyway?
It makes Channing’s palms sweat, his heart hammer beneath his ribs, trying to work up the courage to just ask for what he wants. Instead, he pulls Jamie in by the nape of his neck, the scruffy, shower-damp hair so familiar to him, and murmurs, “I can do that.”
Jamie kisses him again, briefly, before grabbing at the strap of his backpack and using it to draw him forward to the apartment.
They don’t fuck. Jamie’s sore from the shoot and he moves slow, languid, as he crawls into Channing’s lap like a kitten. He mouths at all the skin he can reach, sucking below Channing’s jaw until it hurts, huffing laughter against the damp skin when he’s pulled away by his hair.
He rolls his hips, sluttish, his cheeks creasing with his wide, pleased smile when he gets an involuntary thrust in response. Leaning close again he whispers, “Been thinking about you all day.”
Channing hums, digs his fingers into the muscle of Jamie’s upper thighs. “Yeah? Bet those other guys were real pleased.”
Sliding his hand down between them, Jamie gropes at the fat bulge of Channing’s dick where it fights to tent his jeans. “Still gets you stiff, doesn’t it? The thought of me getting stuffed full of cock, even if it’s not yours.” The roll of his hips doesn’t stop or even falter, but his voice is heavy, thoughtful. “Or maybe especially if it’s not yours.”
“Jamie,” Channing breathes, uncomfortable. He used to whack off, rough, to videos of Jamie with other guys, and then to just the idea of it once the actual visual got to be too much. Now he sits around a waits, gets hard thinking about how he’ll get to spread his boy out after and fuck every trace of the others away. He’d never tell Jamie to stop though. Instead, he says, “Everything you do gets me hot.”
Jamie seems to consider this as he works their jeans open, first Channing’s and then his own, hunching to let their cockheads - sticky with precome - brush together, mindful of zipper teeth.
“So I could give it up,” he murmurs, not looking up from where he’s sliding their cocks together. “…become a bin-man. That’d still get you hot?”
He gets the angle just perfect as he says it, long hot brush of their dicks that steals Channing’s breath. He still snorts at the thought but his voice breaks with his arousal as he murmurs, “Ooh, baby…the thought of you in a high-vis jacket and a blue one-piece…”
He trails off to concentrate on pushing his fingers up underneath Jamie’s shirt until he can feel the fine trail of hair that disappears in the open v of his jeans. He draws his bottom lip into his mouth and raises a brow. “You wanna give it up?”
“Sometimes.” Jamie nods, breath hitching, his mouth open like it always is whenever he’s fucking, or sleeping, or thinking particularly hard. He leans back like he wants a better view of Channing’s face but that just serves to improve the angle of their nudging, sliding dicks. “Would you…?”
It’s kind of a null question. Channing’s shot with a total of three other guys since he started studying again in the fall and, although the first had been exactly the mildly-humorous experience Channing had come to expect from fucking a curious straight guy, the second had just been a blowjob because the supposed-bottom lost his nerve before they even started - eyes almost popping out of his skull at the sight of Channing’s half-hard dick.
The third time he’d barely even touched the guy because they were tag-teaming Jamie.
That had been a revelation, watching from inches away as Jamie took a cock bigger than his, shaking and sweating on his hands and knees, exquisite in his pained pleasure. Channing had bitten at Jamie’s open mouth, whispered endearments and some hybrid of encouragement and condescension - you can take that no problem, sweetheart. We all know you want it. Know you can, too…take mine all the time, don’t you?
Jamie’s pissy response, “He’s bigger than you, Channing” had come with grit teeth and not a little malice, but he’d still made a heart-warming effort to maintain eye contact even once the other guy’s impressive prick was thundering against his prostate and his pupils were blown wide, eyes sliding out of focus.
He’d let the guy go at him for long, frantic minutes, breathing out little oh-oh-oh’s that got gradually higher in pitch and volume. It was then - Jamie’s head hanging down between his shoulder blades, his face hidden from view - that Channing had felt that first red burst of jealousy, forgotten and obsolete watching his boyfriend fall apart from someone else’s fuck in a way that he’d naively thought was unique to them.
The feeling hadn’t lasted long, not when Jamie had lifted his head a little to murmur, “Chan, I need to-” slapping a hand down on Channing’s wrist and wrenching forwards, twisting to grunt, “Fuck, get OFF a sec, would you?” at the baffled other guy, who’d lifted his hands in surrender.
Jamie had crawled over Channing then, other guy forgotten, and pressed him down to the bed, moaning, “Want it to be you. Fuck. Make me come, yeah?” as he slid down on Channing’s neglected cock. One long, easy slide and then he’d rocked his hips until he came, eyes closed, clever fist milking every last drop until Channing’s lower chest and abdomen was scattered with tiny pools of his spend.
Jamie had lifted off slow, tugged off the condom and laid out between Channing’s legs with his ass in the air. Voice husky and light, he’d thrown a, “Hop back on, tiger,” over his shoulder.
He’d licked Channing clean while he got fucked, only breaking their heated gaze when a particularly hard thrust sent him forward a little and drew his eyes shut. He’d taken Channing’s heavy cock deep into his throat when the other guy was close. They both came within seconds of each other and Jamie had spent the rest of the day looking pleased with himself.
Later, when Channing had whispered into the dark, “That guy-” with a frown and a hint of concern in his voice, Jamie had nodded, brushed his knuckles down Channing’s arm until they were almost holding hands, and said “Yeah. I’ll say no if they ask. Promise.”
He hadn’t broken it, even going as far as suggesting other bottoms for the gig when the inevitable phone call came. Channing must’ve looked at him with some sort of sickeningly happy expression because Jamie had thrown a pillow at him.
He thinks, if they want to be, they’re probably enough for each other.
“I’d quit. I’d quit right now,” he says, breathy and honest. Jamie’s face doesn’t give much away, but he presses his hot mouth to Channing’s cheek, to the corner of his mouth, before tonguing at the seam of his lips. They kiss like that, hot and wet, humping at each other’s cocks, until Channing grabs both of them up in one hand, hissing at the heat and the new friction between them.
Jamie leans their foreheads together, eyes closed, and Channing nearly goes cross-eyed trying to see his face. Knowingly, Jamie blinks his eyes back open. “You want to fuck me?” he asks, coy, with his eyes pinched.
“Always want to fuck you,” Channing tells him quietly, still fisting their cocks. He knows Jamie would let him too, even though he’s already been fucked a week’s worth just an hour or so before, too sore for it. Channing really fucking loves him. He squeezes at their dicks, pleased with his own finesse when his tip bumps that sensitive spot beneath Jamie’s blushing cockhead and makes him keen. “This is good though.”
He doesn’t laugh at Jamie’s relieved expression, but it’s a close thing.
Later, he kisses and licks at Jamie’s tender, pinked-up hole until they’re both shaking and then comes like a rocket between cheeks spread wide by shivering fingers. He jacks Jamie until he spurts on the sheet beneath them, not letting him roll onto the dry side of the bed until he’s cleaned them both off with a damp cloth. When Jamie rolls his eyes he tells himself it’s more affectionate than anything.
They lie together in the dark, wrapped up like they wouldn’t have dreamed of a couple of months ago - he learnt the hard way not to refer to Jamie as ‘the little spoon’ - and feels good, familiar and easy. Channing doesn’t want to break it, but he can’t stop himself from murmuring out into the dark room, “Are you going to think about it?”
“’bout what?” Jamie shuffles impossibly closer to him, skin to skin and legs tangled.
“Quitting,” he says, simply.
It sounds presumptuous though, out loud, despite their earlier conversation, and he holds his breath, worried that it might be perceived as a demand. He’s settled like this, with Jamie around - the porn isn’t a big enough issue to even dent the way he feels, not really.
Jamie’s exhale sounds pensive rather than annoyed, and they lay quietly for so long that Channing thinks he’s probably fallen asleep.
His eventual answer though, honest and with a hint of some deep, as-yet unspoken emotion, is, “I don’t really need to think about it.”
Channing makes a concerted effort not to sound too pleased when he says, “Yeah. Okay.”
Title: Until It Hurts
Fandom: The Eagle, I guess? This is RPS though…
Pairing: Jamie/Channing (brief mention of Jamie/OMCS, not so brief mention of Channing/Jamie/OMC)
Rating: NC-17
Note:onelittlesleep is encouraging me to post our discussions/commentfic here, and I probably will as soon as I work out the best way, but I think this is fine to read on it’s own. Yup. Also, it’s shmoopy as hell.
Warning: Unbeta’d and written at midnight. Likely to be riddled with errors.
It’s a relatively quiet afternoon in October; Channing’s sitting in a coffee shop with a rapidly-cooling hot chocolate and a book in his lap. Across the street in the studio, Jamie’s getting fucked by three guys.
Channing can’t concentrate on the page.
His eyes pass over the same paragraph, again, and he takes nothing in, his mind too busy conjuring up vivid, Technicolor images of his lover bent in all sorts of interesting positions to accommodate today’s multiple co-stars.
It’s been two hours and forty five minutes of pretty much the same thing. His knee bounces under the table and he can’t make it stop, like his brain is frantic for something else to concentrate on. Pressing his fingers into the muscle doesn’t help.
The kid from behind the counter comes by and stares at his mostly untouched cup, asks if he wants a refill. Channing waves him off but he doesn’t take the hint.
“You waiting for your boyfriend?” the kid asks, looking out at the lot with an expression that says he knows exactly what kind of studio it houses. For months they’d come here after filming, him and Jamie, and had stilted, too-loud conversations that drew attention and made Channing blush. He shouldn’t be so surprised that somebody figured them out.
He presses his lips together. “You’ve got a customer waiting, kid.”
The boy goes back behind the counter and pays him no mind after that, doing mundane things like refilling the pastry counter and cleaning the filters, things that fail to distract Channing for long enough. He goes back to scanning the same paragraph over and over.
It still means nothing to him.
Fifteen minutes later he looks up, as if by instinct, in time to see Jamie shuffling out of the lot, cigarette hanging loose between his lips, eyes squinting almost closed against the sun. He’s walking like he aches, shoulders hunched up. Channing watches him with an invested interest. He supposes they are ‘boyfriends’ now - Channing’s got a toothbrush and a drawer of his very own in Jamie’s apartment - but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t still make him hard to see Jamie worn ragged.
It’d also be a lie though, to say the whole thing wasn’t starting to make him weary; spikes of jealousy firing off down his spine lately with startling regularity.
His shoulders loosen now, having been hunched for the entire three hours that Jamie’s been out of his sight, and Channing knocks his book closed and shoves it deep into his pack, no longer content to simply watch as Jamie ambles across the street.
Sometimes he finds himself convinced that Jamie is nothing more than a figment of his imagination - too wonderful and perfectly flawed to be real. He has to get his hands on him to be sure and, thankfully, Jamie tends to let him; wry, affectionate twist settling on his mouth while Channing paws at him.
He throws a tip next to his half-full cup and heads out, delights at how Jamie’s squint tightens when he sees him, cigarette bobbing as his mouth morphs around a smile. Jamie tugs it from between his lips, a plume of white following in its wake, and holds it out behind him while he leans up to plant a smoky kiss at the corner of Channing’s mouth. He turns his back to the sun and nods in the direction of his own place.
They often walk in step, unconsciously synched, their footfalls blending into one sound. Jamie usually picks up on it with a grin, knocks at Channing’s ribs with a pointy elbow and shuffles his feet until they’re walking with opposites. Today he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care to make a spectacle, just finishing his cigarette quietly, studying the odd, uneven shadow they make on the ground. Silence between them is never uncomfortable but it makes Channing uneasy, so used to Jamie’s accented voice filling the silence; husky when he’s aroused, pleasantly nasal when he’s just generally excited.
He didn’t know it was possible to love a voice.
They’re a block from the apartment, the sun so low in the sky that their shadows have become nothing but indefinable lines reaching out in front of them, when Jamie pauses, his cigarette abandoned on the pavement minutes earlier. Without words he steps close until they’re stealing each other’s air and Channing meets his upturned mouth, lets Jamie kiss him deeply even though this isn’t the best part of town.
He palms at Jamie’s lean waist, his hips, refrains from grabbing ass in the street, and when he pulls back Jamie steps right out of his space again; dark, thoughtful expression twisting his sharp features. Channing feels his brow crease, wishes he knew instinctively and didn’t have to ask, but Jamie is still a mystery to him sometimes.
“You okay?”
Jamie nods, lets the corners of his mouth flick up into a coy grin that rings false. He nudges at Channing’s jaw with his nose and lifts one shoulder. “Just…wanted you to be the last person with their mouth on me.”
Channing’s chest tightens. Jamie talks like this sometimes, like he’s sick of fucking other guys, like he wants true exclusivity and everything that comes with it. Other times he bats Channing’s concerned touches away and tells him it’s just sex, and Channing was doing it first so what’s his problem anyway?
It makes Channing’s palms sweat, his heart hammer beneath his ribs, trying to work up the courage to just ask for what he wants. Instead, he pulls Jamie in by the nape of his neck, the scruffy, shower-damp hair so familiar to him, and murmurs, “I can do that.”
Jamie kisses him again, briefly, before grabbing at the strap of his backpack and using it to draw him forward to the apartment.
They don’t fuck. Jamie’s sore from the shoot and he moves slow, languid, as he crawls into Channing’s lap like a kitten. He mouths at all the skin he can reach, sucking below Channing’s jaw until it hurts, huffing laughter against the damp skin when he’s pulled away by his hair.
He rolls his hips, sluttish, his cheeks creasing with his wide, pleased smile when he gets an involuntary thrust in response. Leaning close again he whispers, “Been thinking about you all day.”
Channing hums, digs his fingers into the muscle of Jamie’s upper thighs. “Yeah? Bet those other guys were real pleased.”
Sliding his hand down between them, Jamie gropes at the fat bulge of Channing’s dick where it fights to tent his jeans. “Still gets you stiff, doesn’t it? The thought of me getting stuffed full of cock, even if it’s not yours.” The roll of his hips doesn’t stop or even falter, but his voice is heavy, thoughtful. “Or maybe especially if it’s not yours.”
“Jamie,” Channing breathes, uncomfortable. He used to whack off, rough, to videos of Jamie with other guys, and then to just the idea of it once the actual visual got to be too much. Now he sits around a waits, gets hard thinking about how he’ll get to spread his boy out after and fuck every trace of the others away. He’d never tell Jamie to stop though. Instead, he says, “Everything you do gets me hot.”
Jamie seems to consider this as he works their jeans open, first Channing’s and then his own, hunching to let their cockheads - sticky with precome - brush together, mindful of zipper teeth.
“So I could give it up,” he murmurs, not looking up from where he’s sliding their cocks together. “…become a bin-man. That’d still get you hot?”
He gets the angle just perfect as he says it, long hot brush of their dicks that steals Channing’s breath. He still snorts at the thought but his voice breaks with his arousal as he murmurs, “Ooh, baby…the thought of you in a high-vis jacket and a blue one-piece…”
He trails off to concentrate on pushing his fingers up underneath Jamie’s shirt until he can feel the fine trail of hair that disappears in the open v of his jeans. He draws his bottom lip into his mouth and raises a brow. “You wanna give it up?”
“Sometimes.” Jamie nods, breath hitching, his mouth open like it always is whenever he’s fucking, or sleeping, or thinking particularly hard. He leans back like he wants a better view of Channing’s face but that just serves to improve the angle of their nudging, sliding dicks. “Would you…?”
It’s kind of a null question. Channing’s shot with a total of three other guys since he started studying again in the fall and, although the first had been exactly the mildly-humorous experience Channing had come to expect from fucking a curious straight guy, the second had just been a blowjob because the supposed-bottom lost his nerve before they even started - eyes almost popping out of his skull at the sight of Channing’s half-hard dick.
The third time he’d barely even touched the guy because they were tag-teaming Jamie.
That had been a revelation, watching from inches away as Jamie took a cock bigger than his, shaking and sweating on his hands and knees, exquisite in his pained pleasure. Channing had bitten at Jamie’s open mouth, whispered endearments and some hybrid of encouragement and condescension - you can take that no problem, sweetheart. We all know you want it. Know you can, too…take mine all the time, don’t you?
Jamie’s pissy response, “He’s bigger than you, Channing” had come with grit teeth and not a little malice, but he’d still made a heart-warming effort to maintain eye contact even once the other guy’s impressive prick was thundering against his prostate and his pupils were blown wide, eyes sliding out of focus.
He’d let the guy go at him for long, frantic minutes, breathing out little oh-oh-oh’s that got gradually higher in pitch and volume. It was then - Jamie’s head hanging down between his shoulder blades, his face hidden from view - that Channing had felt that first red burst of jealousy, forgotten and obsolete watching his boyfriend fall apart from someone else’s fuck in a way that he’d naively thought was unique to them.
The feeling hadn’t lasted long, not when Jamie had lifted his head a little to murmur, “Chan, I need to-” slapping a hand down on Channing’s wrist and wrenching forwards, twisting to grunt, “Fuck, get OFF a sec, would you?” at the baffled other guy, who’d lifted his hands in surrender.
Jamie had crawled over Channing then, other guy forgotten, and pressed him down to the bed, moaning, “Want it to be you. Fuck. Make me come, yeah?” as he slid down on Channing’s neglected cock. One long, easy slide and then he’d rocked his hips until he came, eyes closed, clever fist milking every last drop until Channing’s lower chest and abdomen was scattered with tiny pools of his spend.
Jamie had lifted off slow, tugged off the condom and laid out between Channing’s legs with his ass in the air. Voice husky and light, he’d thrown a, “Hop back on, tiger,” over his shoulder.
He’d licked Channing clean while he got fucked, only breaking their heated gaze when a particularly hard thrust sent him forward a little and drew his eyes shut. He’d taken Channing’s heavy cock deep into his throat when the other guy was close. They both came within seconds of each other and Jamie had spent the rest of the day looking pleased with himself.
Later, when Channing had whispered into the dark, “That guy-” with a frown and a hint of concern in his voice, Jamie had nodded, brushed his knuckles down Channing’s arm until they were almost holding hands, and said “Yeah. I’ll say no if they ask. Promise.”
He hadn’t broken it, even going as far as suggesting other bottoms for the gig when the inevitable phone call came. Channing must’ve looked at him with some sort of sickeningly happy expression because Jamie had thrown a pillow at him.
He thinks, if they want to be, they’re probably enough for each other.
“I’d quit. I’d quit right now,” he says, breathy and honest. Jamie’s face doesn’t give much away, but he presses his hot mouth to Channing’s cheek, to the corner of his mouth, before tonguing at the seam of his lips. They kiss like that, hot and wet, humping at each other’s cocks, until Channing grabs both of them up in one hand, hissing at the heat and the new friction between them.
Jamie leans their foreheads together, eyes closed, and Channing nearly goes cross-eyed trying to see his face. Knowingly, Jamie blinks his eyes back open. “You want to fuck me?” he asks, coy, with his eyes pinched.
“Always want to fuck you,” Channing tells him quietly, still fisting their cocks. He knows Jamie would let him too, even though he’s already been fucked a week’s worth just an hour or so before, too sore for it. Channing really fucking loves him. He squeezes at their dicks, pleased with his own finesse when his tip bumps that sensitive spot beneath Jamie’s blushing cockhead and makes him keen. “This is good though.”
He doesn’t laugh at Jamie’s relieved expression, but it’s a close thing.
Later, he kisses and licks at Jamie’s tender, pinked-up hole until they’re both shaking and then comes like a rocket between cheeks spread wide by shivering fingers. He jacks Jamie until he spurts on the sheet beneath them, not letting him roll onto the dry side of the bed until he’s cleaned them both off with a damp cloth. When Jamie rolls his eyes he tells himself it’s more affectionate than anything.
They lie together in the dark, wrapped up like they wouldn’t have dreamed of a couple of months ago - he learnt the hard way not to refer to Jamie as ‘the little spoon’ - and feels good, familiar and easy. Channing doesn’t want to break it, but he can’t stop himself from murmuring out into the dark room, “Are you going to think about it?”
“’bout what?” Jamie shuffles impossibly closer to him, skin to skin and legs tangled.
“Quitting,” he says, simply.
It sounds presumptuous though, out loud, despite their earlier conversation, and he holds his breath, worried that it might be perceived as a demand. He’s settled like this, with Jamie around - the porn isn’t a big enough issue to even dent the way he feels, not really.
Jamie’s exhale sounds pensive rather than annoyed, and they lay quietly for so long that Channing thinks he’s probably fallen asleep.
His eventual answer though, honest and with a hint of some deep, as-yet unspoken emotion, is, “I don’t really need to think about it.”
Channing makes a concerted effort not to sound too pleased when he says, “Yeah. Okay.”