Work Text:
Jean didn’t remember the last time he’d woken up this horny. It was almost distressing, behind the haze, given how tame his dream had been and how usually his dick wouldn’t even stir even if he’d spent the last few hours having a very vivid train run on him by whatever his awful head could come up with. This time, he’d just been doing hand stuff with some faceless stranger, grabbing and pawing at whatever he could reach – god, even thinking about that made him sigh happily.
Thank fuck it was a Saturday. He wasn’t going anywhere. He sighed out a pleased hum as he stretched his body out, for now just… basking in even the feeling of wanting to jerk off. He’d avoid touching himself right away, content to let his hips squirm, searching for friction that wouldn’t be anywhere near satisfying if he didn’t put the effort in. It didn’t take long before the ache in his cock became frustrating; he rolled on to his side and squeezed his thighs together — ah, a full body shudder of pure delight as he groaned softly into his pillow and began to rock hips back and forth with slow and even strokes. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on the feeling of just how wet he was already, and how that made the push and pull of his own folds around his cock even more intense. He’d never been able to get over the hump (ha.) of sexual frustration that came with not being able to fuck like he wanted to - really fuck them like a man was supposed to. He wanted to hold someone’s hips and fuck them with his cock, hear them moan and sigh and purr out his name while he hit everywhere he needed to get them to cum for him with his own dick. More importantly: he wanted to feel it.
He’d used a strap-on before. The feeling of needing to jerk himself off after all was said and done had made him never want to do it again, even though it felt incredible to have his hips piston back and forth to drive “his” length into someone. It was just as frustrating as jerking off to a fantasy that would never happen.
Well, all that to say that he could definitely feel something similar to what he wanted like this. His cock stood hard and desperate between his thighs, having his own arousal soak the heated skin in a way that if he rocked his hips just right, he could fuck into something hot and wet and soft and let his imagination do the rest. And it was great, until his humping and squeezing became too frantic to keep up the illusion, which is when he simply steadied himself and slowed down into a slow, teasing roll of his hips into whatever hole he was offered like the dumb, desperate, horny dog he was— but then it was too slow, not the real fuck he needed to cum, and his hips were starting to ache with all of this anyway. He wasn’t young anymore, he couldn’t just squeeze and roll his thighs and hips to a quick orgasm when he wouldn’t dare use his hands to touch himself lest he want to kill his own arousal in favour of the deep ache and nausea that came with—
He rolled over on his back again and sighed deeply. No use getting into that, not when he had the chance to get off for the first time in however long. Besides: that was then, and this was now, and maybe his dick wasn’t average, but it was a hell of a lot more tolerable than it was. As if to prove it to himself, Jean slipped his hand beneath the sheets, between his thighs, to his soaked cunt that was now begging him to just get on with it. He wrapped his fingertips around his cock - an action that caused it to twitch hard in his grip, which in itself was enough to pull a soft moan from him - and began to stroke it, up and down, a slight tug upward and a rough press at the base where he squeezed and swivelled it slowly, carefully, like some kind of joystick, and then another tug upwards. He was starting to breathe heavier again, and his stroking was speeding up, again becoming more frantic as he chased his orgasm, his hips rising up to meet his hand as the vulgar sounds of his slick cock between his fingers were only drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears and his absolutely pornographic moans, because, fuck it, he lived alone - and even when people deigned to pity-fuck him, he wasn’t about to pretend he was too much of a man to keep quiet about it.
The only problem was, when you’re as fucked in the head as Jean to the point where you need to take pills to barely prevent yourself from swan diving off your tempting little balcony, you tend to meet some unfortunate side effects. Jerking off wasn’t a rarity to Jean just because he was some sort of frigid weirdo who couldn’t cope with the shame of his own libido, it was a rarity because of the pills he had to take. Even when he could get it up (or, get wet, whatever), actually being able to come was one of those events he needed to carve out a few hours just to attempt. And usually those attempts ended in failure. A sweaty, frustrating, panting lump of failure laying in the wet patch in the middle of an unmade bed, with the only thing to show for his efforts being a bit of wanker’s cramp.
He’d have more fun in chastity.
The hard throb of his dick at the thought was something he’d get introspective about later.
The point was this: after about ten minutes of alternating between every technique that made his hips jerk and his breath hitch and his entire body tremble and his voice rise in pitch to the point of cracking, he still wasn't close. Or rather, he was very, very close, teetering on the edge of an orgasm that he could tell would give him a surge of dopamine that would do more for him than the pills ever fucking did, but no! No, of course not, when those pills were the reason he couldn't fucking cum in the first place. He felt pathetic as he choked out a sob and threw his head back with a string of curses - really throwing a tantrum because he couldn't jack off properly. Even toddlers had more emotional resilience than him. And so, now he was there again, a panting lump of failure laying in the wet patch in the middle of an unmade bed, the only thing --
Oh, for fuck sake. He couldn't even finish a self-loathing lament properly as he heard someone knock on his front door. It was always fucking something. Though this at least it got his mind off of his still throbbing cock. Not a lot, but enough.
He threw on the t-shirt and sweatpants he dropped at the side of his bed the night before, the ones he'd worn after work two days in a row now, and shuffled to the door otherwise unchanged from his sad little horny hissy fit a few seconds prior. Who gave a shit? He could lie. Another set of knocks hurried him along, "I hear you, I hear you," he called out loud enough for them to hear - this really better be good - and finally, with the door unlocked, he swung it open to reveal -- ah.
Harry looked almost overjoyed to see Jean, only for a split second, before cycling through a couple of emotions, each one with a question: "Mornin'!" he began, then, confused, "Wait, are you okay?" then, concerned, "Are you okay?" then, uncertain, "Is it a bad time? I thought it would be a great time, since," then, a bit defensive, "you're the one that suggested this, so..." and then, finally, some kind of sheepish nervousness that he seemed to wear around Jean all the damn time now, as he held up a folder he'd brought with him, "you know, to finish this?"
Jean's expression stayed hard (ha.) as his eyes flicked between Harry and the folder, then his brain caught up with the situation through the thick fog of arousal. "Oh- yeah, right, no," he nodded and pushed his hair out of his face, "I did ask you, fuck! Right," he nodded more certainly this time and stepped aside to let Harry in, but the other man still seemed hesitant to move - beyond the usual hesitation he had around Jean, that is.
"... are you sure? You look..." he paused and sucked on his teeth, traversing this minefield of a not-ex-partner that he was only just recently starting to sort of get. "I can come back later."
"No." Jean was pleased with himself for not snapping, but it still came out with an edge that he couldn't ever seem to shake, though thankfully Harry came to be at peace with that edge rather quickly and didn't become so skittish, and it was bittersweet to be the one that Harry had to walk on eggshells around now, given the opposite was true less than a few months ago. He nodded toward the inside of the house, "Don't wanna put shit off. Just lost track of time. C'mon, I'll get coffee on."
Harry nodded slowly, but still hesitated. There was a moment where his eyes seemed to sharpen, just for the tiniest second,
( perception: jean’s house smells oddly alluring; sweet, a little musky, thick somehow... what is that?
electrochemistry: that’s pussy, babe!
logic: explains why he looks so flushed. you interrupted something. )
and he nodded again, but he seemed almost bashful about it now.
Jean wasn't going to think too much about it. The point was, Harry was inside now, and so Jean headed to the kitchenette as his visitor made himself right at home. Ready to work. On a fucking Saturday morning. He settled on the couch and set the folder on the coffee table, away from a small pile of other folders that Jean hadn't cleared away yet, seeming to be actively avoiding messing up anything already on the table, thank god. Jean had already gone through the autopilot motions of setting up the coffee pot to brew, only snapping back to reality proper as the machine hissed and began to gurgle its way through its process. In the meantime, he looked back over to Harry, now scanning the top folder from the pile he'd avoided. It had already been laying open, and it was something they'd both been working on together anyway, so it wasn't anything worth leaping into action over.
Not when Harry was hunched over as he was, elbows on knees, one hand hovering over the open folder with thumb rubbing against forefinger idly, the other on his chin, his eyes focused and calculating - god, he looked competent. It was bittersweet again, the feeling that Jean couldn't bring him this kind of clarity in all their years together, but that he was still able to see that clarity, here, now, in a partner that may not be the one Jean was used to, but one that was very much alive.
And very attractive- no. No, none of that. Jean pointedly opened a cupboard and took out two mugs - one was Harry's that he'd left here years ago somehow, but that wasn't intentional - and he very much didn't focus on the movement of muscle under skin as Harry's arm reached forward to turn a page, looking at the words with such an intensity- imagine what those hands could do- lord, shut up--
Harry suddenly looked up, because why wouldn't he when Jean's eyes were burning holes into him from across the room, and frowned just slightly in some kind of confusion. Concern, too, Jean could tell. "Yeah?" was all he said, both a genuine question and a prompt for Jean to maybe not keep acting like a socially inept cretin? Maybe? Possibly?
"Sorry," Jean mumbled, picking up the now-full coffee pot and beginning to pour, "out of it. Happens. Pills, probably."
( drama: a complete lie, sire. a weak one, at that. )
Harry didn't say anything. Just tipped his head in a half-nod, then slowly dragged his eyes back to the page in front. He knew too much. Jean felt his face flush. Harry knew, there was no way he didn't know, either that Jean was standing here thinking about his hands like that or that he'd been attempting to jack off while Harry was on the way here. That was the guy's Thing. He just fucking knew things. Jean huffed through his nose defiantly, as if anyone had said anything; so what if Harry knew he'd been jerking off? Guys jerked off all the fucking time. Wasn't like Jean was swimming in pussy at the moment either, obviously he was gonna start his Saturday jerking off. None of this justification helped though. He dumped two sugars into Harry's mug, otherwise both of them left black, and carried them into the living room to set down on the remaining surface visible on the coffee table. Harry was still reading, only offering a nod and an absent thanks, babe that made Jean’s heart flutter a little because it just felt so much like how it used to, before things got really bad.
He simply grunted in response and settled down on an armchair that didn’t match the couch because his grandma had given him the couch and his neighbour had given him the armchair and Jean was as broke as the rest of his neighbours so he said yes of course. It was the right choice; it was comfortable as fuck. And if Jean sat down on the couch there was no promising how he’d act, not when he’d effectively been edging for the last however many fucking months since he’d last been able to get it up but not follow through so now he was desperate to cum and would, unfortunately, do anything to make that happen. Including right now, where he was sitting with his legs crossed under him in a way that had his heel pressing against his sweats which made the rough fabric inside press against his sensitive and desperate dick, and it just felt good enough to press down a little and roll his hips- he sipped his coffee in order to burn his own tongue because this shit was weird. His fucking partner was right there.
Harry had stood up, always preferring to pace when reading case files because it got the juices flowing, and shit like that, and now he was stood with his hand on his chin again in that thoughtful pose, eyes back to being sharp and calculating as he scraped through every single little thing to find every single little thing to find the answer that would bring it all together. He stood there, contrapposto, in a plaid shirt - coloured garishly, of course - rolled up around his fucking forearms, in pants that actually sort of made sense for the fucked up colour scheme of the shirt that emphasised both his lack of ass and the almost overcompensation at the front, and fuck, he looked healthy while he looked right at Jean- oh.
“Enjoying the view?” He practically purred in a way that wasn’t sexy to the point of being sexy in just how unashamedly unsexy it was, and he wasn’t giving Jean the expression, but his smile was as lop-sided as it always was. It was… cute. Fuck, it was cute. Jean was almost nauseous at how absurd it all was, how this man that fucking terrorised him for years managed to look cute because he just looked so friendly- Jean’s heart leapt again.
“You look healthy, man,” he shrugged, his own smile was muted, content, and almost alien to his muscles who seemed to quake under the pressure of having to perform something that wasn’t a scowl or a seething gritting of his teeth. “Your shirt sucks, but it works.”
Harry paused then, blinking like he hadn’t expected that- which he didn’t, but it looked as if his whole brain rebooted as a result of it. It was over almost immediately though, replaced by a raised eyebrow as his smile grew, just as lop-sided, but cockier now. He used the open folder to motion to Jean’s own shirt.
( inland empire: the smell of cigarette smoke cutting through the crisp air of late autumn.
a figure leaning against a wallwith a vacant stare, jarred by the sound of the fire exit opening.
there's a hostility in those grey eyes that has more feeling in it than the usual glares from
teenagers, even through the dark curtain of hair grown out enough to cover them. it's just
you two out here; you have a free period, but you know the child doesn't. a hunched posture
makes-- him look smaller than he is, intentionally, and only becomes more hunched when you
appear. it's not really in your job description to herd kids back to classes that aren't yours, and
you're just out here to smoke. "could use a light," you gesture with your cigarette to the
disposable lighter he fidgets with, and it takes almost an age for him to relent, to see you're
not here for trouble. his arms uncross as he uncurls his back, revealing more of the cartoon
cat design on the fabric currently drowning him, and hands you the lighter. the only word
between you is a muttered thanks. you're more than happy smoking in silence. )
“You’ve had that one since you were fifteen,” he pointed it out like it was a casual thing to say, “and you’re talking to me about shirts that suck?” he sucked in through his teeth with a quirk of his brow as he looked back to the folder, “You’re a bold one, Vic…”
Jean couldn’t tell which hurt more: the fact he’d just been rinsed like that on his clothing choice by Harry Fucking Du Bois, or the fact Harry seemed to remember this shirt somehow. At the forefront, it was definitely the latter, because fuck Harry and his stupidly selective amnesia – though selective was a lot better than what they started with. The sting of the former was comforting, actually, in a masochistic sort of way. It was a jab that could be parried easily, the ball sent right back into Harry’s court, then back, until one of them backed down. Right now, Jean was very much not in the mindset of trading blows, because even the thought of the words “trading” and “blow” next to the name Harry right now had him closer to his fifteen year old self than some ratty t-shirt ever could. Meaning he couldn’t come up with a retort because he was too busy thinking about getting blown, because his cock didn’t know when to quit.
(And, for the record: the shirt was fine, and it actually fit him now, because he got it when he was fifteen because it was huge on him and he had tits to hide at the time. It was threadbare and had an old cartoon animal design on it - Errantentz, it was called. He still thought it was a good shirt, it just wasn’t one he was wearing outside the house at all.)
Jean was about to at least ask how Harry knew about the shirt, but it only came out as a choked out syllable as he felt Harry’s hands on his shoulders. “You sure you’re okay?” He squeezed Jean’s shoulders as he asked, “you’re not usually this spacey in the morning, right? Like, spacey, but not this bad.” He began to knead at the tight, knotted muscles of Jean’s shoulders in a vague idea of a massage, and it was barely anything, but it was enough to get Jean to relax, lean back into the touch, and, against his will, let out a low, pleased hum that could easily be mistaken for an outright purr. “If it’s a pill thing… I dunno. Sounds like they’re doing more harm than good, you know?”
Jean barked out a sharp and mostly-genuine laugh and muttered, “You have no idea.”
“Mm, I think I have some.” Harry’s voice was soft and thoughtful, and Jean hadn’t realised his hands had stopped kneading his shoulders to slide slowly down his chest until he felt a feather-light scrape of fingers against the fabric covering his nipples. This was– he should be mad, right? Or creeped out? Harry was molesting him so casually, and all Jean could do was suck in a sharp breath and swallow back a pathetic noise. He wanted to pretend he didn’t want this, but– fuck, man! He heard Harry make a soft and thoughtful noise to match the tone he’d spoken with before, but this time, it was closer to his ear, close enough to feel every vibration with an almost overwhelming intensity. Which was to say, every one of those vibrations went right to his dick to wake up his boner that had only just started to settle back into its misery; that son of a bitch had been woken up with an airhorn in the ear and - as Harry intentionally grazed his nails over Jean’s nipples again through the soft fabric of his shirt - a cup of cold water thrown in its face. He felt his cock twitch and this time he didn’t even bother to hide his miserable little noise. This was pathetic. He was pathetic. Couldn’t even put his brain before his dick and get on with his job, couldn’t even bring himself to get Harry’s hands off of him and tell him off for being a fucking creep, why bother hiding it now?
“You’re no good to me like this, brother,” Harry was speaking into his ear now as he ran his fingers around those stupid little traitorous nubs - around, not over, but around as in teasing with the idea of a touch, and all of that just made Jean roll his hips up against nothing and push his chest out in a full body squirm that only served to make his own dick harder with how much of a stupid whore he was being. He’d be less embarrassing if he just begged Harry to touch him now. But, god, if the thought of being a pathetic, horny dog didn’t do something for him. His breath hitched as his mind began to sprint into the distance; what if Harry told him that? That he was just a pathetic mess who could only think with his dick? Harry, of all people, telling Jean-Heron “I thought about killing myself a lot more than usual last night, but I still managed to stay sober, put on a suit, and come to work” Vicquemare that he was a brainless fucking whore– an ill-timed (question mark) pinch of his nipples had Jean letting out a shuddering whine that petered off into a delirious chuckle. This was insane. This was disgusting. He heard Harry suck on his teeth as his hands trailed lower, “You think I don’t know when a guy’s been interrupted while jerking off? C’mon, give me some credit!” he trailed his hands back up, away from Jean’s waistband, the bastard- “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“No, just six months ago.” Jean grumbled, and Harry’s chuckle into his ear did more for his arousal than it had any right to.
“Yeah! Right, but that’s enough time to get interrupted while jerking off. I’m a simple man with simple needs, Vic.”
“Jean- not Vic-” Jean whimpered– fucking whimpered like a complete bitch, and cleared his throat to continue, but Harry was already trailing his hands back down his stomach with a noise that was too understanding to handle right now. It was… good, though, that he didn’t need to say it himself. Harry just seemed to accept it,
( empathy: it's an intimacy thing. he just feels stupid saying that. )
that he wanted to be called Jean instead of Vic, because Vic had become a colleague thing, and Jean just felt more… for fuck sake… intimate, and he kind of got off on that feeling of intimacy with someone, because he was pathetic, remember?
“Jean, then,” Harry breathed, a little bit mocking with the sort of flourish you might hear in Sur-le-Clef tryhards, but now his nails were raking gently up Jean’s stomach directly as he lifted his shirt now, earning him another utterly pornographic, shuddering whine, “I just mean, I knew I was kind of blue-balling you, I just didn’t know it was this bad. I’ve barely even touched you.”
And yet here Jean was, shivering and squirming and breathing like he was seconds away from coming. With all the throbbing his cock was doing, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was. Whether or not he did was another matter entirely, given the circumstances. “I was fucking– blue-balling myself, don’t get cocky,” he growled with his remaining composure, “these fucking pain in the ass fucking pills don’t do shit they’re supposed to, but I’ll be fucked if I can –” he was cut off with a sharp cry as Harry rolled both his nipples between the thumb and forefinger on each hand, softly and slowly enough that Jean could feel every fucking callous and groove. Then Harry had the audacity to coo like he was dealing with a particularly stupid child, and Jean was back to forcing his voice not to shake out of sheer defiance in the face of his own shame, “I know it’s not going to fucking work, I’m just making it worse for myself, I just fucking–” he took a shuddering breath in, held it, then exhaled slowly. He wasn’t so badly controlled by his dick that he was willing to say anything further. That was the situation, laid out in plain view: Jean Vicquemare’s dick didn’t fucking work, and it was making him stupid.
Plus, he knew he did not need to say anything beyond that anyway, given Harry’s supranatural ability to read between the lines. He could tell when Harry reached his waistband and sighed with an air of pity, that the man had picked out Jean’s unspoken plea of I just need to come so badly.
( electrochemistry: if you don't touch him soon, he's going to lose all sense of domestication.
empathy: ... you know what? that's actually the entire truth for once. )
Jean was thankful for it. Begging could happen later.
“I got you, baby,” Harry murmured, and pretty unceremoniously plunged his hand down into the fucking sauna that was Jean’s sweatpants, but there was a pause after
( reaction speed: oh shit, that's not a penis!
electrochemistry: YOU'RE GOD DAMN RIGHT IT'S NOT!
empathy: and he needs to know that's completely fine.
physical instrument: is it?
volition: of course it is. he's your best friend.
electrochemistry: and what are friends for, if not making each other cum? chop chop! )
that immediately set Jean on edge, his hackles raised and a good idea of how he planned to go for Harry’s throat from his current position— but Harry was quick to recover, with a kiss placed just behind Jean’s ear and a soft shushing. “It’s cool, it’s cool, relax for me, just- gimme a second here-“ he pulled away suddenly, leaving Jean to whine - pathetically, of course - and lift his head to look for where the bastard went, only for said bastard to settle down on the arm of the chair, “I’m getting old, Jean. Gotta pick my angles better if I wanna, y’know, blow your mind and shit.”
( savoir faire: c'mon man... )
Jean forced a wry smile, but it just looked like a sneer. Charming as that was, he was still on edge. Harry’s reaction had been fumbling in a way that felt like… disgust, in the politest possible way. Harry’s face fell as Jean remained silent, his eyes flicking rapidly as he took in Jean’s coiled posture, fight or flight having become something closer to fight or fight harder. Then it clicked. Visibly. Harry’s expression softened then, as he slowly leaned closer, tentative, the same way he’d approach a feral cat with its tail puffed and back arched. “I, uh- you don’t need to worry? I’m not freaked out or anything,” he offered, and wilted more when Jean’s nose twitched and his sneer became almost caustic, “I remembered! You and I, we've… done this before, haven’t we?”
( inland empire: "you sound so good, baby boy," your voice is a rough whisper, a predatory
growl, and your hand is held tight between the equestrian officer's thighs. he covers his
mouth with one hand as the other presses your own closer to him. your fingers curling into
him, the heel of your palm pressing down against his cock, and the sound of your voice is
what finally gets him shuddering and bucking against you. his voice wavers behind his hand
as he tries to keep quiet -- c-wing is right outside. "that's it. there we go. fuck, that's good..."
you keep playing him like an instrument until he pushes your hand away with a gasp. too much.
your fingers slip out of him with a slurp and you bring them to your own mouth to suck them
clean, right in front of him, where his eyes darken in a way that you're pretty sure means he'll
be riding your cock like one of his ponies later. "can't wait to get you home so i can really hear you." )
Jean’s face softened then, into something hopeful while his heart swelled and his face burned. “Yeah?” he tried, unsure of how to feel now that the adrenaline-fuelled defensiveness had been swapped out for whatever this schoolgirl-ass feeling had settled over him. It was definitely something positive. Bittersweet, of course, but mostly sweet.
“Yeah! Yeah, I remember, uhh…” Harry was hard, it was obvious, but his next thought affected him enough to shift in that I’m hiding just how horny I am right now, but not too much way. “I remember how to make you come. I think,” he was rubbing his thumb and index finger together idly again, just to give himself a way to fidget, and his hand returned slowly to Jean’s waistband again. Time to pet the cat.
( that thought caused him to chuckle, to which Jean had frowned and asked “the fuck are you laughing at?” and Harry had replied “time to pet the cat. it’s a double entendre.” and Jean had been silent before he just nodded slowly and said “okay.” because this was clearly a conversation he hadn’t been involved in. )
Harry’s hand slid down over Jean’s cock, and Jean had bucked into it with another one of those moans that would make a porn star blush. “Oh, fuck me, you’re wet,” Harry’s voice sounded forced and rushed, almost reverent in a way that made the cock in his hand twitch, which he responded to with a slightly louder “Oh fuck!” in the same tone. His fingers took their place properly, firm around Jean’s dick, and gave it an experimental squeeze that earned him a harsh buck into his hand as both of Jean’s own hands came to grip his forearm and wrist. He looked at Jean finally, and felt his own cock throb as he took in the sight of his flushed face, slick with sweat already, eyelids heavy with pupils darkening the normally light grey irises, mouth hanging open just enough to pant softly, at first looking down at the hand between his thighs, but turning to look up at Harry with a half-hearted scowl when he grew impatient.
“This isn’t how you make me come, shit-for-brains,” he ground out, and Harry was enough of a bastard to give him another squeeze that had him having to choke back another one of those moans. It felt so good, even just this- he didn’t remember the last time he’d had someone focus on his dick in a way he liked. It was normally just an awkward fumble, treating it like a regular pussy until Jean got impatient and got them off just so it could be over – and, yeah, it wasn’t like Harry was doing anything other than the most basic fucking handjob, but – whatever. It was well established that Jean was a touched-starved, miserable little ant. Harry could probably pet his hair and call him a good boy right now and he’d come in his pants like a fucking teenage boy. He should be so fucking lucky. “It’s not, though!” his voice sounded so petulant even in its low growl, became more like a snarl when he felt Harry laugh against him, “It’s not funny either, you sicko-o-oh fuck-!”
( authority: that's good. don't let the brat get too comfortable. keep him quiet, whatever it takes.
electrochemistry: you better watch what you say, you uptight fuck, there's not much standing between us
and coming-in-pants embarrassment. )
The grip around his dick finally started to move, slowly, then built up speed as Jean gripped Harry’s arm hard enough to bruise and tipped his head back with a choked and silent scream. He was still laughing that quietly amused little chuckle and Jean had to hide his face against the arm he clung to in embarrassment that just made his brain even more hazy with arousal. His hips bucked in a rhythm into Harry’s fingers like a stupid animal, pathetic horny dog, et cetera, which Harry obviously picked up on because of course Harry would, he adjusted his grip to curl his fingers into a loose fist for Jean to have something to fuck properly, and lifted his free hand to rake his fingers gently through Jean’s hair, and then, because he’s a stupid sexy telepathic sociopath, announced: “We spoke to a witness- no, listen, it’s relevant- and they had a dog that kept trying to fuck the throw pillows. Kind of awkward. But, like… I dunno, I’m just reminded of the stupid thing right now, watching you.”
Jean let out a shuddering sigh as his cock throbbed hard in Harry’s grip.
( electrochemistry: i'm not coming out of this alive. )
“Seriously?” Harry sounded both amused and bewildered and Jean could only whine. “What do you think came first? Your dick not working, your shitty attitude, or how hard you get for getting degraded? Or do you think it’s some kind of package deal?” he chuckled again, gave Jean’s hair another pet, and lowered his voice to ask, “does it feel good to fuck my fist like that? Like, do you think you can come like that? Or,” he moved his hand again, arranging his fingers to have the index and pinky pressed down against the folds on either side, with the middle and ring finger holding his cock between them, and he pressed his hand down against Jean’s entire cunt to put pressure on the whole of his dick - because somehow,
( encyclopedia: his dick - in this case, the clitoris - doesn't begin and end with what you've touched so far.
there's more to it under the inner labia on each side. apply some pressure there, he might enjoy it. )
he didn’t remember what money was, but knew the intricacies of sexual organs - and while Jean was busy grinding against him and continuing to look pathetic, asked as casually as one might ask what the weather’s like, “would you rather fuck my mouth?”
It was less of a question and more that he was telling Jean to fuck his mouth. If he hadn’t pulled his hand away right then, Jean was sure he’d have come, or began to at least. But Harry had pulled away completely and stood up (his dick was still hard, Jean could see it straining against his pants. Fuck.) to walk around to the front of the armchair. He took a moment to just, look down at Jean as he slumped back on the chair, breathing hard, looking like he’d already been fucked a few times today which made Harry even more determined to see what he looked like after he’d been fucked even once. Jean’s eyes focused enough to scowl up at him, and he snapped “What?” as if Harry hadn’t just felt him throb in his hand while being humiliated even slightly. Harry didn’t even respond properly, just shrugged one shoulder and brought his hand up to his mouth to suck his fingers clean. Jean felt himself twitch again, and then again when Harry hummed in satisfaction.
“I’m gonna enjoy this,” he announced cheerily, and Jean felt his cheeks burn even hotter. He didn’t know how to feel comfortable with feeling so… wanted. Enjoyed. Desired. Not determined to fuck with the lights off.
“Then get on with it.” he muttered. Harry grinned and dropped to his knees a little too fluidly for a man in his 40’s. There was barely any time for Jean to register his sweats being tugged down, he was suddenly just exposed in front of Harry, not for the first time, but sort of for the first time too. It was entirely possible that Harry could see him naked for the thousandth time, and Jean would feel deeply self-conscious about it. Ashamed, even. He’d closed his legs on impulse, hiding himself despite himself, and fixed his gaze to somewhere else in the apartment without managing to lose the scowl that Harry had come to know as his neutral expression. The oaf himself lifted a hand to place on Jean’s thigh and he stroked it with his thumb like he was handling something made of glass.
( empathy: he's in love with the way you're looking at him. he's ashamed of his own shame because of it. this is precarious. )
“We don’t have to. Sorry.” He moved his hand down to settle on Jean’s knee instead, “I got caught up in… the moment, but…”
“No, I want to,” Jean snapped, but it was little more than a cornered animal’s hiss, “I want to, it’s just… mm.” he shrugged and felt a tiny smile tug at his lips, “this always happens. Just don’t wanna freak you out.”
Harry’s reply was immediate and almost painfully earnest, “You won’t! It’s not standard, but, I dunno… I talk to my tie, may he rest in peace.” he trailed his hand back up to Jean’s thigh, “I think I’m more than qualified to deal with non-standard.”
God, Jean hated that it was hard to argue with stupid shit like that. His smile grew as he shook his head and kept looking away only because if he looked back at the heartfelt, honest expression he knew Harry wore, he’d probably cry, which would just be weird and sort of a mood killer, maybe. “You’re so lucky I’m too horny to argue,” he sighed. Harry just patted his thigh. Open sesame.
( electrochemistry: OH YEAH! COME TO PAPA! )
“I’ll say!” he shifted forward to settle in between Jean’s thighs, closer to his prize, “Fuck, this looks hot. You’ve got no idea how sexy you are, do you?” he purred, but didn’t give Jean time to be too embarrassed by the compliment, “Is it safe to be this hard? I don’t think it’s safe.”
“Hasn’t killed me yet.”
“And it won’t get the chance!” He felt Harry get his shoulders up under Jean’s thighs, then plant a kiss to the inside of one of them. There was a contemplative pause as he inspected what Jean was packing, lucky in that the mood was halfway dead right now anyway when he said, “Wow. It’s really… it sticks out, isn’t that kind of uncomfortable? Wait, is that why you do that cowboy walk sometimes?”
Jean actually snorted in amusement then. “I— yeah, is it- fuck, it’s not that obvious is it?”
“No. You know I just notice these things. Now I know you get boners at work! I thought that was beneath you or something. Ah, well,” Harry flicked his hand dismissively, ending the moment, and his voice turned hot and low again, like there had never been a moment between now and Jean fucking his hand, “I want you to fuck my mouth like you mean it, Jean,” he continued kissing at Jean’s inner thighs - it was enough to get him desperate again, “you looked so good like that, I wanna give you a better hole to fuck this time.”
“Fucking shut up,” Jean growled out with absolutely no bite in it. Harry just hummed in amusement and pressed an open-mouth kiss to the outside of his cunt, and then licked a slow stripe from his hole to the tip of his dick that earned him a shuddering, breathy whine, made even louder when he wrapped his lips around his dick properly and swirled his tongue around the tip. Holy fuck. Even if he hadn’t been told, it was pretty fucking difficult for Jean not to just tangle his fingers into Harry’s hair and buck into his mouth right away. It was difficult, almost impossible, but he kept his composure at first - he just made the mistake of looking right down at Harry then, into his darkened eyes while his mouth was right between Jean’s thighs, and that’s what got the first dam to break. Jean reached forward to grab Harry’s hair and pulled his head further between his thighs as he pushed forward. It was still a frustrating feeling, knowing Harry wouldn’t have trouble with gag reflex or anything, but… maybe it also wasn’t so bad. It still felt amazing, his dick surrounded by the wet heat of Harry’s mouth, sliding back and forth over his tongue that Harry sometimes swirled around it or pressed harder against him for some extra resistance. And then there was the sight we’d already discussed that had only grown more debauched with Harry’s skin now flushed with arousal (much different from the previous alcoholic flush, much sexier) and his eyes holding as much focus as they could while his mind swam with his own arousal - which, Jean noted, he wasn’t touching. Both of his hands were visible. He was hard as a rock and wasn’t even doing anything about it, he was only focusing on Jean; his cock, his comfort, his needs - it made his heart ache in a sort of embarrassing way. It really didn’t take much.
( empathy: even in his grief, if you asked him to leave everything behind and walk into the pale with you
right now, he wouldn't hesitate to follow you.
volition: he's fragile and it scares him. don't--
electrochemistry: can you bleeding heart pussies shut up for a fucking minute? we've got cock to suck. )
Jean’s laments were interrupted by Harry pulling off his cock with a lewd slurp. “C’mon, Jean, I said fuck my mouth!” he whined, demanded, “Thought you wanted to come, not stare at me like a fucking schoolgirl with a crush.”
Jean couldn’t help the little spark of irritation, indignance that lit up in his stomach. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He scoffed and tightened his grip on Harry’s hair. “Sounds like you want that more than I do.” he rolled the next words around in his mouth for a second, then spat them out, “That desperate, faggot?”
( authority: WHAT-?
electrochemistry: YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP TOO. THIS IS GOOD SHIT. )
There was a flash in Harry’s eyes as his breath hitched. There was a moment then, silent, but Jean could practically hear Harry’s mental pleas for him to keep fucking going, and the throbbing in his cock found it hard to disagree. He shifted in his seat and tangled both hands into Harry’s hair to bring him forward again, but this time, he didn’t stop to admire the scenery. “That what you want, fag? To choke on my cock?” Jean growled out, very much aware that there was little to no choking being done here, but he was never one to overthink a fantasy, and he both heard and felt Harry moan around him in agreement anyway, “Couldn’t even wait for a real one, had to settle for my pussy, yeah? Eating pussy like this doesn’t make you- any less of a f-fucking homo, you know- f-fucking miserable little- shit! Use your tongue then- just like before— fuck, that’s it, such a good cocksucker- holy shit,” He paused to grind against Harry’s mouth, which Harry met with pressing his tongue flat against his cock and moving it in a slow, wide circle, the pressure ripping a loud groan from Jean. He went back to fucking Harry’s mouth properly, but— there it was again. The peak that was just out of reach, fucking with him enough to wrench a frustrated sob right from his chest as he ground his hips hard against Harry’s mouth, with the other man offering the same swirl of his tongue as before-
Jean opened his eyes to look down at Harry, just in time to see another flash of something in his eyes before he sucked Jean’s cock hard, and holy shit— Jean’s entire body shuddered and jerked and the cry that came out of him was something visceral. He held Harry’s head against him still, feeling his cock throb in his mouth— “Again, fuck- do that again, you fucking cocksucker- please!” he growled out breathlessly, and Harry was happy to oblige, looking up at him as he sucked hard and ran his tongue around the ultra-sensitive tip this time, then sucked again. Jean sobbed once around a string of curses, in between harsh moans and cries raising in pitch and volume, and there was a pause from Harry as he shuddered and groaned against Jean’s cunt and oh fuck, he’d just came in his pants- “Did you just- come in your pants from s-sucking dick, you fucking—“
( composure: sorry. )
A few teasing little suckles that vibrated with Harry’s horrid little chuckle, then one more hard suck with a long moan around it, and Jean finally tipped over the edge, at first with a silent jerk of his hips as his voice reached a pitch too high and ended up just cracking entirely, then a final sob around a strained whimper of oh, fucking hell that ended up being the last coherent word from him for the next- fuck, it felt like minutes. His mind stayed blissfully blank through his orgasm, his body working on its own as he bucked, shuddered, and, of course, moaned like he was going for an academy award in the porn category and didn’t plan on heading home empty handed. He wasn’t even sure what he was babbling, his mouth was just forming words without his input, but Harry was pretty fucking smug in the knowledge that it consisted mostly of curses in between praises and the repetition of his name.
He smirked as he looked up at Jean, watched him squirm and tremble and, god, saw an actual sweat drop slip from his temple, down his cheek, and drop heavily off his chin. He was soaked through with sweat, but Harry was pretty sure he was the driest between the two of them. He didn’t have memories of Jean being a squirter, so he was willing to take his ruined clothes as a compliment.
He lapped and sucked at Jean’s cock through his orgasm, easing up his attentions over time, just drawing it out until he felt a weak tug against his hair and felt Jean try to squirm out of his grip to get away from the overstimulation.
Harry was happy to sit back and admire his work then.
Jean looked blissed out. Truly blissed out to the point of looking strung out. He was slumped down on the chair, arms limply draped into his lap, chest heaving, face flushed, and thighs parted to show his still twitching cunt as it returned to the inevitable month(s)-long slumber. It was only now that Harry realised he hadn’t even taken his sweatpants off the entire way, just left them pooled around his ankles, and they’d been in the splash zone too.
Speaking of. He looked down at himself and huffed in amusement; he knew he’d got the brunt of it, but god damn. He’d have been more dry if he’d taken a garden hose to himself. He looked back up and met Jean’s gaze, now slightly more lucid as he returned to his body from nirvana, and even through the exhausted flush, it was obvious he was embarrassed.
“Enjoy yourself, kiddo?” Harry asked, not even bothering to hide his self-satisfied smirk or the well-timed drip from his moustache to his shirt.
Jean glanced off to the side and brought his hand (trembling, dear lord) to his face to wipe the sweat from his own beard. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Are you?” Harry prodded.
Jean was quiet then, his face splitting into a genuine and bright, if not slightly loopy, smile, “No,” he admitted airily, “didn’t even know I could do that. Nobody’s ever… managed.” his smile turned slightly wry as he lazily jabbed a finger toward Harry, “just keep your fucking ego in check about it. You came in your fucking pants.”
( composure: you can't see me, but i'm very much shrugging right now. )
Harry really couldn’t argue. He just shrugged instead. “You sounded hot, what can I say? You ever heard yourself? That’s a career right there.” he stood up with a groan and stretched out his back, then rubbed at his jaw to ease some of the ache, “I should clean up a bit, before I have to deal with dry cum in my pubes. Your neighbours were chapping on the ceiling, by the way.”
Jean’s face fell for a moment before his grin returned, with a hint of guilt for being amused at all. “Really? Shitt…” he covered his mouth to hide his smile, then dropped it and shrugged, “Fuck it. They’re welcome!”
Harry’s laughter felt good in the afterglow, and his hand ruffling Jean’s hair as he passed by to clean himself up felt even better. There wasn’t a bitter, then, only the sweet.