
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/283691.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Jake_English/Dirk_Strider
  Character:
      Jake_English, Dirk_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      POV_Second_Person, Masturbation_in_Shower, Sexual_Fantasy, Unrequited
      Love, Wordcount:_1.000-3.000
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-11-26 Words: 1134
****** Your Moment of Zen ******
by elegantanagram_(Lir)
Summary
     Dirk Strider enjoys marathon showers. He enjoys his epic ablutions
     like some people enjoy religion, in a zen relaxation way, and he
     enjoys that private time because it is the ideal space in which to
     fantasize about his best bro Jake English.
Notes
     As these things go, this is pretty straight-up PWP with a side of
     angst. I ship Bro and Jake something awful already, but within the
     constraints of the story Bro's interest is as good as unrequited.
     I will probably re-tag and tweak the summary once Bro's name is
     revealed, but the second person POV means I won't be revising the
     actual text. I secretly love writing porn in second person, okay.
     Someone needs to take away my titling privileges because the Daily
     Show reference may or may not be a bit absurd.
     ETA: Switched Dirk's name in the summary and the tags, figure this is
     all I really need to change.
You can feel the scalding water on the back of your neck, the vertebrae
outlined sharply as you curve forward. Everything you see is a curtain of
opaque steam, a barrier through which you can perceive the white tiles of your
shower stall but which you know is imbued with the mystical property of
separating you from the reality beyond your bathroom. The sound of the water
drumming against the shower walls is a dull roar in your ears that keeps you
from wondering if you're hearing the buzz of the pesterchum client on your
shades receiving a message.
You enjoy epic showers because this pocket of space where you are warm and damp
and clean is completely private. You imagine it might be like why some people
meditate, a zen experience where you can just relax and chill out.
It isn't private any more.
Barricaded away from the rest of the world, you are trapped with your thoughts,
and it has been such a long fucking time since your traitorous brain first
decided to seal your best bro Jake English in there with you. You no longer
know which option is more safe, when it is a grim certainty that you will not
drive him from your mind. Do you live for the moment in the encompassing
fantasy? Do you eschew the real Jake, the rough-and-tumble rogue with a love
for weird shit like skulls and guns and crappy fucking movies for an ideal? Or
do you remember that outside your moist bubble of want, the real Jake is
probably trying to contact you for the upteenth time?
There is an appeal in the fiction, where you can press your forearm to the cool
tile surface, forehead braced against it and muscles held tight, your other
hand wrapping snugly around your cock and giving a slow, tight stroke. In this
version, you can imagine that somewhere back in the steam, just a breath too
far away to touch, is Jake, and that it is his hand leisurely jerking you off
in a manner that is knowing and sure and impossibly intimate. If you delude
yourself, it becomes a possibility that Jake might reciprocate all your
overwhelming goddamn feelings. Then there is no need for shame, because no
matter how guiltily you want him, he wants you too.
But there is a dishonesty there.
Recently, no matter how hard you try to think of Jake's gun-callused fingers,
his hands that would be so capable because this is a physical pursuit and Jake
is nothing if he is not the embodiment of idolization for immediate, physical
masculinity, you cannot escape encroaching reality. You know that you are alone
in a way that borders on the truly pathetic, touching yourself furtively to
thoughts of your best friend because the possibility that he would ever do it
himself is slim to none. Your dissatisfaction is frustrating, and you jerk
harder and grit your teeth and bear down on your sorry erection in a way that
almost hurts, but does not kill the arousal. It's perverse that you can't seem
to get off any more, not like you used to, but the conditioned response to
feeling warm steam and sluicing water is still for you to get hard before the
last foaming suds slide off your chest beneath the spray.
You roll away from the wall, pressing your back to the slick tiles and letting
the spray cascade down on you. Your hand curled around your cock grips loosely,
your other hand impatiently swiping back your hair from your forehead. This
isn't fucking working. You cannot maintain the fantasy where Jake follows you
in here on a happy whim any longer, not when the inherent idealism burns the
back of your throat like bile. Worse, the scenario you have been operating
within is too sterile. You don't want him at a distance, touching you in a way
that has gone bland, stale. You need a new kind of immediacy.
The new scenario comes up around you like the rising steam, your eyes drifting
shut, your mind's eye painting Jake into the tiny cubicle just in front of you.
In your head you tease him, still with that eloquence that you adhere to even
under fire, obliquely challenging his masculinity under the assumption that
therein lies his pride. What you want is for him to touch you, and in this
imagining his fumbling toward fisticuffs at least gets his hands on your chest.
You can almost feel the slide of fingers against your skin, tangibly, and you
suppose you would pull him forward by the hips. If your hands linger on his ass
after tugging him against you, it's only a bit of appreciation for his truly
premium behind.
In the fantasy, your hand wraps around both of your cocks and the needy motion
of your hips and the pumping of your fist draws half-startled gasps from both
of your lips. In reality, your fingers are grasping only your own length, your
grip going tight and quick and the pressure building in that delicious way you
have missed. The warmth of your shower simulates the proximity of Jake's body,
your free hand burying itself in your own hair and your head lowering because
if this were real you would be gripping Jake by the back of his neck and
kissing him as hard as you could.
It helps to think about the solid weight of his body pressed against yours, to
imagine the supple give to his ass when you grab him, yanking him close and
wanting to squeeze hard enough to leave fingermarks. Your breathing is ragged
and hoarse, your head tipping back and the hand not gripping your cock dropping
to press flat against the tile. And there is something about allowing your own
hands to touch, even in the fantasy. You can pretend that you're also bringing
Jake off with swift, firm strokes, but this time you are doing everything
yourself. When you come it is almost a surprise, like you were expecting Jake
to get there first despite the impossibility of that outcome.
You slump sideways against the back wall of the shower cubicle, letting the
still-pouring water wash you clean without any overt effort on your part. The
water is still hot, prolonged exposure starting to turn all of your skin a
warm, glowing pink. You stay in a while longer, needing to reach that point of
nirvana where you're euphoric from orgasm and only further sated by that
pleasant shower glow you pick up.
This time, when you emerge into the sterility of your bathroom, lean against
the sink, and swipe your glasses off the rim, your subjugated shame does not
immediately kick in at the thought of wanting to talk to Jake.
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