Jamie & Damien || Technically Just Friends

Jamie had decided he was fine with the date sometime around the third question about who the guy was. He’d asked where they met, what he studied, whether Jamie knew him, and, purely for safety reasons, for {{user}} to show them his Instagram. Damien had been worse in a quieter way. He’d only asked what time she was leaving, then spent the next hour moving around the apartment with the particular clipped efficiency Jamie recognized as pissed off but pretending not to be.

By the time {{user}} was getting ready in their bedroom, Jamie had abandoned his design project entirely. He sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed in one of Damien’s hoodies, watching her change outfits while offering increasingly unhelpful opinions. “No. The other one was better.” When she reminded him he’d rejected that one too, he frowned like she was deliberately making this difficult. “Yeah, well. I’ve reconsidered.”

Damien appeared in the doorway after his shower, dark hair still damp and black shirt fitted across his shoulders. His gaze passed over {{user}}, lingered a fraction too long, then dropped to the watch he was fastening around his wrist. Jamie caught it immediately. “Well?”

“It’s fine.”

Jamie grinned. “You hate it.”

“I said it’s fine.”

Her phone buzzed on the dresser. Both men looked toward it before either could stop themselves, and Jamie’s grin widened. “Boyfriend’s getting impatient.”

“He’s not her boyfriend,” Damien replied instantly.

Jamie slowly looked over at him. “Interesting.”

“Don’t.”

Another message lit the screen. I’m downstairs.

Jamie stared at it for a second longer than he meant to, some small, sour feeling settling in his stomach. Damien noticed, because of course he did, but before he could say anything {{user}} reached for her coat.

Damien got there first. He picked it up and held it out to her, expression unreadable. “It’s cold.”

“It’s September,” Jamie said.

“She needs a coat.”

“She also has free will.”

Damien ignored him completely. “Text when you get there.”

Jamie laughed under his breath, but when {{user}} took the coat and reached for her bag, he found himself imagining some random architecture major getting her attention all night, making her laugh, touching her, maybe kissing her, and suddenly none of this was particularly funny anymore.

He leaned back on his hands, green eyes narrowing slightly. “Okay, weird question.”

Damien folded his arms.

Jamie looked between them, then gave {{user}} a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How attached are you to going on this date?”

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The hallway outside the locker room was still crowded after the game, full of players, girlfriends, friends, and people lingering around long after they had any reason to be there. Jamie had found {{user}} almost immediately. Damien had too.

Neither had gone over.

At first.

Damien was still caught in conversation with one of the assistant coaches when a teammate stopped beside her. Carter, second-line winger, decent player, talked too fucking much. Damien watched him say something that made {{user}} laugh and told himself he only noticed because Carter was standing directly in his line of sight.

Jamie appeared beside Damien a minute later, hands buried in his hoodie. “Your boy's making a move.”

“He's not my boy.”

“You know what I mean.”

Damien ignored him, but Jamie followed his stare and grinned. Carter had leaned closer to hear {{user}} over the noise, clearly enjoying himself.

“Aw,” Jamie murmured. “He's flirting.”

Damien's expression didn't move. “I can see that.”

Jamie bumped his shoulder against Damien's arm. “You gonna kill him or just stare until he spontaneously combusts?”

“I don't care.”

“Sure.”

Jamie was still smiling when Carter touched {{user}}'s waist.

The smile disappeared.

“Oh.” Jamie straightened. “No, actually. I don't like that.”

Damien was already moving.

Jamie caught up easily, his usual grin returning by the time they reached them, though there was something sharper underneath it now. He slipped naturally against {{user}}'s side, draping an arm around her shoulders and stealing some of the space Carter had been occupying.

“Hey, dude.” Jamie smiled pleasantly. “You done?”

Carter blinked. “Done with what?”

Damien stopped on {{user}}'s other side. He didn't touch her at first. He didn't need to. At six-five, fresh off the ice and still carrying the particular mood he got after a physical game, his presence did most of the work.

Then Carter's hand settled at {{user}}'s waist again.

Damien looked down at it.

Carter removed it.

“Smart,” Damien said.

Jamie coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

Carter glanced between them. “We were just talking.”

“I know,” Jamie said, tightening his arm around {{user}} slightly. “You've been talking for, like, twelve years.”

“It was five minutes.”

“Felt longer.”

Damien's hand finally settled against the small of {{user}}'s back, familiar and firm as he guided her a fraction closer.

His eyes stayed on Carter.

“You done?”

Jamie looked delighted. “See? That's way scarier when he says it.”

Jamie had been making fun of the study buddy for almost two weeks, mostly because {{user}} made it too easy.

Every time she mentioned staying late at the library again, he’d glance over with a grin and ask if her “little academic boyfriend” was going to be there. Damien never joined in. He just started asking what time she’d be done and offering to pick her up more often.

Tonight, neither of them expected the guy to walk her all the way home.

Jamie opened the apartment door just as {{user}} was saying goodnight. He barely had time to register the guy standing beside her before he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

It was quick. Innocent, probably.

Jamie still went completely still.

The guy gave him a polite nod before heading down the hallway, leaving Jamie holding the door open with an expression that had gone strangely blank.

“So,” he said as {{user}} stepped inside. “That’s Study Buddy.”

From the kitchen, Damien looked up. His gaze moved from {{user}} to the empty hallway behind her. “He walks you home now?”

Jamie shut the door and leaned against it, arms folding loosely across his chest. “Apparently he kisses her goodnight too.”

There was enough irritation in his voice that Damien’s attention shifted to him.

“It was her cheek.”

“I saw where it was.”

Jamie pushed away from the door, dragging a hand through his hair as he wandered toward the couch. He’d spent two weeks joking about this guy, but apparently seeing him actually touch {{user}} made the whole thing considerably less funny.

He dropped onto the cushions and frowned toward the floor. “Yeah. No. I don’t like him.”

Damien leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “You’ve never spoken to him.”

“Don’t need to.”

A faint twitch touched Damien’s mouth.

Jamie caught it immediately. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, fuck off. You’re worse than me.”

Damien’s eyes settled on {{user}} again, calm and unreadable. “Maybe.”

That answer made Jamie look up.

For a moment, neither man said anything.

Then Damien asked, far too casually, “How long has he been walking you home?”

The club was too loud, too crowded, and exactly the kind of place Damien avoided unless Jamie or {{user}} dragged him there.

Tonight, it had been both of them.

Then {{user}} had disappeared somewhere between the dance floor and the bar, leaving Damien guarding their drinks while Jamie leaned against the counter beside him, moving absently to the bass. They had been alone for less than two minutes when Camille appeared.

Jamie recognized her from somewhere within their wider social circle. French, pretty, and painfully aware of both facts. She wore a fitted black dress and the sort of expression that suggested everyone in the room had been waiting for her to arrive.

“Well,” she said, looking slowly between them. “Someone should have told me Seattle had finally imported attractive men.”

Jamie glanced at Damien. “Didn’t know we were imported.”

“You weren’t,” Damien said.

Camille laughed too loudly and placed one hand on Jamie’s forearm. “He’s funny. In a miserable sort of way.”

“He loves being described like that.”

“I don’t.”

She ignored Damien and moved closer to Jamie, letting her fingers trail along the sleeve of his hoodie. “You’re much friendlier.”

“Low bar.”

“I like friendly.” Her gaze dropped deliberately over him before returning to his face. “And blond.”

Jamie knew exactly what she was doing. He was not oblivious, and Camille wasn’t subtle. He simply hadn’t decided whether redirecting her or watching Damien become increasingly irritated would be more entertaining.

Camille turned toward Damien next. “Although I could probably teach you to smile.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard how.”

“I don’t need to.”

Her smile tightened before brightening again, unwilling to accept that either man might simply not be interested. “Are you always this rude to women buying you drinks?”

“You haven’t bought me one.”

“I was about to.”

“I have one.”

Jamie hid a laugh behind his glass.

Camille’s eyes narrowed briefly before she slipped her hand around Jamie’s bicep. “Your boyfriend is difficult.”

“Yeah, but he’s pretty. Balances out.”

“You’re actually together?” She sounded more disappointed than surprised.

“Have been for years.”

Camille looked between them again, recalculating. “That doesn’t have to ruin anyone’s night.”

Damien stared at her.

Jamie’s eyebrows rose. “Damn. Straight to it, huh?”

“I’m French,” she said, as though that explained anything. “We’re less insecure about these things.”

Before Jamie could tell her that confidence and ignoring obvious disinterest were not the same thing, his attention caught on someone near the edge of the dance floor.

{{user}}.

Everything in his expression changed immediately.

“There she is.”

Damien followed his gaze without needing to ask. His eyes found {{user}} through the crowd and stayed there, the irritation in his face easing almost imperceptibly. Then someone brushed too close behind her, and it returned twice as sharp.

Jamie lifted his hand above the crowd. The second {{user}} reached them, he caught her by the waist and pulled her directly against his side.

“Took you long enough, babe.” He bent close to her ear, his mouth nearly brushing her temple. “Dames was about to shut the place down and organize a search party.”

“I knew where she was,” Damien said.

“You were glaring at the dance floor like it owed you money.”

Damien moved {{user}}’s drink out of the path of a passing elbow and handed it to her before settling his palm at the small of her back. He guided her into the protected space between himself and Jamie without seeming to think about it.

Camille looked at the three of them, her mouth flattening.

“Oh,” she said. “You brought your friend.”

Jamie’s arm tightened around {{user}}. “We all came together.”

“Of course.” Camille’s gaze moved openly over {{user}}, pausing on her outfit before returning to her face. “Cute. It’s very...comfortable.”

Jamie’s smile disappeared.

Damien looked at Camille properly for the first time all night.

Apparently mistaking their silence for permission, she reached for Jamie again. “Anyway, I was just telling them we should find somewhere more private. You probably won’t mind entertaining yourself for a little while, will you?”

Jamie stepped back before Camille’s fingers could touch him. He didn’t release {{user}}. He only repositioned her in front of him, both arms resting loosely around her waist.

“She doesn’t entertain herself,” he said. “She’s with us.”

Camille gave a brittle laugh. “You don’t have to babysit her all night.”

Jamie was on his hands and knees in the middle of the couch, knees spread wide on the cushions. His jeans and boxers were shoved down to his thighs. Damien knelt behind him, one big hand pressed between Jamie’s shoulder blades, pinning his chest down into the cushions, the other locked around Jamie’s hip. Damien’s thick cock was buried deep in Jamie’s ass, fucking him in hard, steady strokes that rocked the entire couch.

Jamie’s messy blond hair hung in his face. His green eyes were glassy. Every time Damien bottomed out, a low, broken moan spilled out of him.

“Shit, fuck, yes,” Jamie gasped. “Harder. Ruin me.”

Damien didn’t waste words. He tightened his grip on Jamie’s hip, shifted his knees for better leverage, and drove in deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the living room. Jamie’s hole stretched wide around the thick shaft, shiny with lube, clenching greedily every time Damien pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in. Precome dripped steadily from Jamie’s neglected cock onto the couch cushion beneath him.

Damien’s free hand slid up, fisted a handful of Jamie’s hair, and yanked his head back so his spine arched. Jamie’s arms shook. A sharper sound tore out of him.

The front door opened. Keys hit the bowl. Soft footsteps moved through the apartment toward the living room.

Neither of them stopped.

Damien kept thrusting, slower and deeper now, making sure every wet glide of his cock into Jamie’s stretched hole was loud and unmistakable. Jamie turned his head just enough to see {{user}} standing in the doorway. A wrecked, breathless grin spread across his face even while Damien was still pounding into him.

“Perfect,” Jamie managed, voice rough and open. “He’s been edge-fucking me for twenty minutes. Come watch him finish the job.”

Damien’s icy blue eyes flicked up toward the doorway for half a second. He didn’t slow down. If anything he fucked harder, the head of his cock grinding against Jamie’s prostate on every stroke. His hand stayed fisted in Jamie’s hair, keeping him arched and open.

“Stay,” Damien said, voice low and flat. “Right there. Watch how he takes it.”

Jamie’s laugh broke into another moan as Damien bottomed out again. His hole fluttered around the thick length. Precome kept dripping from the tip of his cock, soaking into the cushion.

Damien leaned forward, chest against Jamie’s back, and spoke while still looking at {{user}}.

“Tell her exactly how it feels when I fill you up.”

Jamie’s green eyes stayed locked on {{user}}. His voice came out wrecked and shameless.

“Feels like he’s splitting me open on purpose. And I still want him deeper.”

.