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Purely Physical

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“Thanks for the chat, bro,” Jake says, and the smile he flashes you is almost too bright as he pulls his god tier shirt on, complete with the little cape. “Especially considering I’ve not really been on a right proper date, you know?”

“No problem.” You shrug, trying to keep yourself looking as unaffected as possible as your fingers tense into fists where they’re shoved into your pockets. It’d been a bit of an effort to keep yourself completely unreadable during the bizarre conversation you’d just been roped into. You’re not quite sure yourself whether or not it’s a date Jake’s about to go on with Jane, even if he seems to think it is. You’re pretty sure she just wants to talk to him about her feelings, the uncomfortably high tensions threatening to snap within your group, and the fact that she’s over him.

Unless of course, she actually isn’t.

Shut up. You’re projecting. And the shit you’re projecting needs to get out of your brain. Because you need to get the hell over him.

You’re just here to talk. You’re pals. Bros. Nothing more.

Not anymore.

It’s been weeks since your breakup, and you and Jake are almost back to normal. Or what normal would have been, perhaps, had you been friends in real life before dating. It’s hard for you to think of Jake as anything but boyfriend, and part of you realizes that therein lies the problem. You spent so much of your time these past few years trying so hard to get him to want you, and even though you’re making efforts now to change that, to build some sort of platonic connection again, it’s damn difficult.

You’ve resigned yourself to be over him, and most of you is, though you’ve quickly come to the realization that the less time you spend with Jake English, the better. He is infuriating and endearing and sometimes he makes you doubt your convictions. Sometimes, you can’t help but lapse into moments of impossibly frustrating weakness.

Like right now, for example, since Jake’s crawling across his bed on all fours rather than walking around to reach into his nightstand, and his wiggling ass, barely covered by those ridiculous gold briefs, is directly in your line of sight as he continues to ramble. Leave it to Jake to feel that his god tier get-up is appropriate finery, as he puts it, for a rendezvous with a lady.

“I mean, I suppose we had a couple datey things, no? Though I’m not sure shooting up skeletons counts as much? Not really romantic or anything of the sort! I suppose fisticuffs doesn’t count as either, or all that strifing...“

It counted to you.

Jake bends down to open the drawer on the nightstand, and your eyes automatically flicker down to the curve of his impossibly perfect ass. You know you should have more self-control than this; you know you should turn away and stop creepily ogling him as he rifles around for whatever it is he’s looking for, but you don’t.

“You need help finding somethin’?” you ask, stepping closer.

You brush the tips of your fingers over the small of his back. You tell yourself it’s akin to patting him on the shoulder or fist-bumping in a conversational broment. And it could be, in other circumstances, with other people. Here, though, it’s not a platonically reassuring touch. It’s you needing to touch him and praying he doesn’t know it.

But he probably knows.

He doesn’t immediately react, so you simply rest your hand there, resisting the urge to slide it lower.

Touching him is pointless, self-indulgent, setting yourself up for further disappointment. Even if he did still want you, it’s not as if you were ever a good match for one another.

All the reasons in the multiverse about why you shouldn’t want him and definitely shouldn’t touch him still can’t keep you from feeling like some sugar-deprived kid walking past a candy shop.

“No worries! I just can’t seem to locate my socks is all,” Jake says, finally, sounding pointedly rushed and a bit nervous. It’s not a tone you typically hear from him, not unless he’s hiding something, or avoiding issues at hand. You figure it’s the latter, quite literally, as you gently slide your hand across his back.

“Dirk,” Jake continues quietly, turning his head to look at you. The expression on his face is vaguely akin to curious, but you long ago learned the hard way that there’s often more going on than he plainly reveals. As such, this expression is essentially unreadable, and the inability to interpret it makes you anxious.

“Sorry, dude. That was weird of me; I shouldn’t—“

“It’s alright,” Jake says softly. “I don’t mind if you’ve... got a bit of a hankering to touch me.”

You brain screams and your gut twists because you know this is the worst possible thing you could be doing, both to Jake and to your own bruised and conflicted emotions.

He’s getting ready for a what he thinks is a date, for fuck’s sake. But you can’t exercise your self-control enough to keep your hands off of him? Pathetic.

Yet the acknowledgement of how sad this is doesn’t stop you. In his cream and gold god tier outfit, every line of his body is visible, even highlighted. You slide your hand down, running a finger along the waistband of those ridiculous briefs on the way to fill your palm with a handful of that preposterously choice ass.

Jake sighs and the noise causes heat to flare in a line from your belly straight to your cock. Suddenly you have two handfuls, and you squeeze gently, massaging slowly as Jake moans. He leans down against the bed, sock drawer forgotten, resting his head on his arms and propping his ass further up in the air, pushing back slightly against your hands.

“Fuck, Jake, we shouldn’t do this,” you say, and the way the words rush out, rough and uncontrolled, makes you suddenly aware of the fact that you’ve been holding your breath. You hate the way he makes you come undone.

You want to be undone, unravelled, unwound. But not by him. You can’t let him do that to you; you can’t trust him with that. To him, this means nothing.

But you’re weak. So very weak.

“Dirk,” Jake moans, and you don’t know if he’s already retreated to whatever little world he has in his maddening brain or if he’s actively trying to avoid addressing what you’ve said. He rolls his hips slightly and spreads his legs a little wider and fuck, this is happening.

“Your outfit is ridiculous,” you manage to say as you climb onto to the bed behind him on your knees, hands on his hips. It’s only half-true—it’s your reaction to his outfit that truly fits into the category of ridiculous.

“Well I happen to find it dapper,” he pants, “and no offense, bro, but I’m not wearing it for your viewing pleasure.”

Anger and envy rise in you, as valiantly as you try to ignore it. You settle for running your nails down the backs of his thighs as you stare at his ass and he gasps, so you do it again, slightly harder this time. You bend to run your tongue up along the faint red lines you’ve left there on his skin, and your eyes roll back and close involuntarily as he begins to whimper and squirm.

It’s been too long since you’ve seen him like this. Since you’ve heard that noise.

It hasn’t been too long. This shouldn’t be happening.

You almost stop the whole thing right there, when you get your hands back on his ass and slap it lightly. His reactions remind you so vividly of the fact that you know precisely how he likes to be touched, and you’re showing so little restraint, so little patience that you’re practically giving him exactly what he wants.

He likes your hands massaging his ass. He likes you leering at him. He likes knowing how irresistible he is to you.

It’s a shame that you never felt even half as irresistible to him.

As much as your brain screams that this is an immeasurably bad decision, you lean in, gripping Jake’s hips. Tentatively, you press a kiss against the fabric covering Jake’s plush derriere.

“Don’t just tease me.” Jake sounds breathless, looking back at you with a goofy grin and a waggle of his eyebrows that would probably be a boner killer if you weren’t Dirk Strider and he wasn’t Jake fuckin’ English.

So you oblige him, taking a little comfort in the fact that you’re about to do this as much for your own pleasure as for his. You kiss him again and again, gently, until you realize that you’re getting too fucking tender and you’ve got to rein it in before you crack and start making confessions or begging him to give everything a second chance.

For him, this is purely physical. If you want to lose even that, then by all means, share your romantic desperation with him. Declarations of undying love to exes always go over so well.

You choose to ignore the fact that he just never fucking felt the same way in the first place, and right now you would much rather focus on turning Jake into a drooling, helpless mess.

As if he isn’t turning you into a mess, with those noises and those looks--

You’d rather give him something new to remember you by, right now—something other than emotional tirades and your own brand of apparently overbearing logic.

Overbearing enough to drive him away.

A sudden wave of irritation floods through you, and you use it to fuel the force behind the sudden slap you land on Jake’s ass before pushing his legs further apart.

“Lift your ass up,” you growl under your breath, and Jake obliges with a shameless moan. You resist the urge to kiss his lower back where it arches and instead get right down to business, pressing your tongue between the curves of his ass.

Jake starts to whimper, and you try to control yourself enough to keep an even pace, licking him with long, slow strokes until he’s moaning loud and ragged and pushing his ass back against your face. You slide your hands up to the waistband of his briefs and hook your fingers in, pulling at them slowly until you’ve rolled them partway down his ass—though not quite far enough to reveal what you’re currently worshipping with your tongue. The fabric dampens with your saliva until the spot you’ve been licking is so wet and near-transparent that you can almost see his hole through the obnoxiously bright fabric.

Almost is not enough, and you let go to leave them pulled half down before hooking a finger in and pulling them to the side. He whimpers pitifully when you expose him, and it takes all of your willpower to not just pull your cock out and fuck his pretty ass right there.

You massage him with your free hand while the other holds his briefs to the side, and you just stare, willing yourself to calm down before this begins to move too fast. Yes, you’re on a bit of a time constraint, but you want to savor this as much as you can.

“Dirk—“ Jake pants, almost sobbing, and you notice that his legs are trembling, “please—“

“You like it when I look at you?” you ask. He squirms as he nods frantically against the bed, and you hear his fists clenching the sheets.

“Say it,” you say, and when you smack his ass to punctuate your demand, his entire body convulses. Your cock is hard and aching and you feel a distant satisfaction over the fact that you’ve taken some semblance of control here.

Even if it’s only a semblance, because you need him as much as he needs you, if not more so.

It takes him a moment to respond, as worked up as he is, but when he does, it’s nothing short of what you were expecting. It’s funny and strange and you might not even take it seriously if his voice wasn’t so timidly small and labored with breath. “Yes I adore it when you gawk at me, Strider. Stop being coy and roger me already?”

You release him just long enough to move around and pull the drawer of his nightstand open, trying to ignore the fact that he called you Strider instead of Dirk as if he’s suddenly decided that this is strictly business and nothing personal. It takes you only a moment of digging around to find what you need. As you hastily snatch the lube from the drawer you wonder who he’s been thinking of, lately, when he uses it to stroke himself--

That doesn’t matter.

You push the thought from your brain and focus on lubing up your finger with shaky hands. You toss the bottle onto the bed and pull the fabric to the side again.

Yes, because playing with his ass will help you get over him.

That makes perfect sense.

Slowly, gently, you circle and caress his sensitive opening with your slick fingers, waiting until Jake is moaning and pushing back against you insistently before you press one finger in. A soft noise escapes his lips, and it’s all you can do not to echo it because he’s so burning hot and tight around your finger, and it’s already enough of an effort to keep your breath steady. It’s more intimate than his embrace ever was, and a wave of need rushes through you. You release his briefs to reach down and pull your own dick free as you slowly push in further and seek out his prostate with your finger.

It’s easy.

It’s too easy.

“By Jove, what are you waiting for?”

His choice of wording is ludicrous as always, and it’s amazing to you how Jake continuously manages to be so un-fucking-sexy while still being absolutely hot as fuck, because his ridiculous outburst is nowhere near enough to kill the steel rod of your erection. You withdraw your finger and hastily apply lubricant to your cock and press the head of it against his entrance.

“Yes, come on, we don’t have all night--”

You don’t have long because he’s going off on a date soon. Going to see Jane. Maybe even going to fuck Jane.

But right now, he’s yours.

You dig your fingers into his hips and push into him, biting your lip painfully hard at the all-too-familiar feeling of him opening for you. You worry that you’re rushing but he makes no protest and you only slide in easily, too easily, because you’ve done this before.

It was recent enough that he still remembers how to relax for you. He remembers what it feels like to have you inside of him.

“Jake,” you breathe, his name tumbling out despite your efforts to keep silent.

“Dirk, can you... please...”

You already know what he’s trying to ask you and you reach around, shoving your hand down the front of his underwear, wrapping around his shaft. It’s a challenge to get his stiff cock out of the fabric with just one hand while still thrusting into him with your hips, but you manage.

He still wants you. He still gets off on you.

That doesn’t mean he actually gives a shit about you.

You channel your frustration into fucking his ass hard, feeling your dick bump against his prostate with each movement. He grinds back towards you, as if he’s desperate for you.

As if you aren’t the only one who yearns for this.

You squeeze his cock a little harder, and he moans. Part of you realizes that it’s exaggerated, maybe even calculated. The rest of you doesn’t care. You grit your teeth and pound into him harder, your lust drowning out the cries of your conscience.

You’re using him. No, he’s using you.

You bring your hand down against the bare half of his ass briefly, reddening his pale flesh once more. He cries out and thrusts his hips back towards you, like he wants more.

Like he wants you.

With each move, it’s harder to pace yourself. It’s harder to keep cool and continue methodically stroking him, what with how sinfully slick and tight he is, how he shifts his hips up to meet your thrusts and how he cries out nonsense each time you hit his prostate.

Nonsense. Yet you lap it up, savor every drop, every bit of his reaction. You always have.

“Come for me, Strider. Please... pretty please...”

How did you ever think you were in control? You got him into bed, but as soon as he was there with you, he always called the shots. You wanted to be told what to do. You wanted him to control it, even as you grabbed him and squeezed him and fucked him. You wanted to make him happy. More than anything, you wanted him to love you.

You spill yourself inside of him, jerking his cock hastily even as you shudder with orgasm. He comes not a moment after you, crying your name.

Like it’s you that he craves, and not just the sex.

After the last threads of his cum spurt onto the bed, he shifts and collapses to one side. You follow, your own afterglow still warm in your veins as you squeeze him tight, his back against your chest. For a few precious moments he’s yours again, and you hear nothing except for his heavy breathing, feel nothing but his hot, smooth skin as you press your face against the crook of his neck and shoulder. It takes every ounce of your willpower to not press a kiss there.

You realize that you haven’t kissed at all, and it’s been less than a minute of holding him like this when he begins to stir.

It can’t last. He never lets it last.

He doesn’t let it last.

“Well that was a jolly good time, but... I don’t want to keep dear Jane waiting.”

You freeze, and he pulls himself out of your arms, adjusting his briefs before hopping off the bed.

Of course he’s leaving. Of course he just wanted to fuck. Did you actually think it was anything more? That there was anything more to it than his raging hormones and your own desperation to have him again in any sense? As if you were ok with intermittent fuck buddies in place of a real relationship?

Not that you ever had much of a real relationship.

Horrible waves of guilt and remorse flood through you, and there’s a lump in your throat and an empty ache in the pit of your stomach that only grows as he speaks.

"I don't mind if you stay here for a bit, but it’d be just stellar if you maybe changed the sheets before popping out? Don’t want anything to look amiss if Jane and I wind up back here.

“Actually,” he pauses and runs his hand through his hair sheepishly. “I guess... Jane shouldn’t know about this huh? That would probably confuse the poor girl’s feelings, wouldn’t it, knowing that you and I had gotten into.... this particular sort of tussling about?”

The sad part is that he’s entirely serious. Part of you is happy he’s at least trying to be something vaguely reminiscent of an emotionally competent human.

He winks and shuts the door behind him, and a few moments later you hear the shower turn on, presumably to wash away any trace of your touch.

Your emotions flare and you feel sick with them, twisted and heavy in your gut. You hate him. You love him.

You do exactly as he asks.