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“Do you think we’re all blind?” Jean finds himself demanding in a rough growl, lighting a cigarette as he steps out on the roof of the old silk mill building where Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi is smoking as well. Kim turns, face already twisting with familiar dislike. He and Jean had never seen eye-to-eye, only tolerated one another because they worked together and tonight, the tension of their mutual hatred is wound tight as a garrote.
“What?”
“Do you think we’re all fucking blind?” Jean repeats, aggression and frustration rising.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, officer,” Kim says dismissively.
“You know full fucking well what I’m talking about. The way you and Harry look at each other, ogling one another. Has he fucked you yet?”
Kim stands for a long moment, cigarette dangling in his fingers, just looking at Jean. He has one brow raised, as if he’s trying to subdue him. Jean doesn’t budge.
“Well?” Jean prods.
“No. We haven’t done anything of a sexual nature, officer. Not that it is any of your business.”
Any of his business? As if Kitsuragi could possibly understand the depths of Jean’s ‘business’ when it comes to Harry.
Jean remembers late nights, doing lines of speed and shots of alcohol like it’s a race to death. He remembers Harry’s wet tongue in his ear, fingers prodding him through his pants. He remembers the first time, in the alley behind the precinct, Harry yanking his pants down and fucking Jean roughly with nothing but phlegmy spit for lubrication, Jean whining and whimpering against the mingled pain and pleasure, feeling ashamed as Harry finishes and he has to pull up his uniform pants only for Harry’s cum to dribble down the inside of his thigh. He remembers blood in his briefs that night and the dull pain the next day and still wanting it again.
Jean remembers hating Harry, but wanting him nonetheless. And Harry had wanted him right the fuck back, even while being unable to forgive Jean for not being Dora.
Late, intense cases and nights spent doing embarrassing, heinous shit to one another. Jean letting Harry stick a wine bottle halfway inside of him and nearly having to go to the lazareth after. Jean fucking Harry’s throat within an inch of perforating his trachea. Harry sucking on the end of his gun while he paints Jean’s face with cum, both of them so deeply disturbed that they chased the darkness in one another to find its completion, to romance the ruin within one another’s souls.
They stared longingly into the void and found it staring back, green eyes meeting gray, self-hatred and despondency pouring out of ink black pupils blown wide with every drug they could get their hands on.
Jean hated it, and loved it.
He remembers finally asserting himself, pinning Harry down the first time he thought he could, holding Harry’s wrists above his head and grabbing him by the balls until he squealed with pain.
Jean remembers the hot, tight pressure around his cock as he fucks Harry, remembers Harry crying and calling Dora’s name even as Jean came all over his back, wishing he was anyone else.
Drug trips and hospital trips and rough, painful fucks. Hitting each other, biting each other, Harry breaking a bottle over Jean’s head and then fucking him on the ground while he lay, dazed. Jean returning the favor, ramming himself inside Harry as he drools on the carpet in a drunk stupor.
They were beyond fucked, but at least they had each other.
And now Harry’s got Kitsuragi instead.
Jean trembles in place, trying to decide if Kim is lying.
The smaller man’s eyes slip away, avoiding his gaze.
“You have fucked. You’re lying.”
“Don’t,” Kim warns.
Jean feels some awful blend of jealousy and arousal.
If Harry doesn’t want him anymore, maybe he can take what Harry does want, love by proxy. Destruction mutually assured.
Jean locks the door to the roof.
“What are you doing?”
Kim does not ask this with concern or fear. His tone is more one might use if they were asking how the weather is or what color the sky is. He knows full well what Jean is doing and does nothing to stop him, this simmering hatred boiling over into full blown ‘I want to fuck you to death’ lust.
Kim leans back against the ledge of the roof, still smoking his cigarette, watching Jean through hooded eyes, ebony pupils blown wide with arousal, denied or not.
Jean steps toward him, sucking smoke into his lungs from his own withered cigarette, then blowing it into Kim’s face.
Kim doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move a muscle.
Jean goes to his knees, grovelling, fisting his fingers into Kim’s cargo pants. He’ll ruin him. He’ll destroy whatever Harry wants here, scorched earth. Or so he’ll tell himself, but it’s a lie. He wants to lick Kim’s skin, just to have one last taste of Harry.
“Please,” Jean says, and Kim does nothing, says nothing. He’s not stopping this. Jean can see his pants tenting and knows with surety that Kim is attracted to this kind of pathetic, desperate behavior. He loves seeing big men beg for him, scratching and moaning at themselves for just the barest sliver of approval from him. He doesn’t give an inch, but he tips his hips forward.
Jean unzips his pants and reaches his hand into the warm humidity of Kim’s underwear, stark white y-fronts, probably pressed with an iron before the lieutenant put them on. He pulls Kim’s cock out, thumbs at the loose skin covering the end of it, sliding the golden brown flesh backwards and lapping the plush head, dipping his tongue into the slit.
The quiet hiss from Kim’s mouth sends a jolt of lust straight between Jean’s legs. He looks up, but Kim isn’t looking down at him.
“Stop,” Kim says. “Harry and I–”
“It was Harry and me. You think this is any different? We’re all fucked, Kitsuragi. I’ve already got your cock out of your pants. You’ve already crossed a line,” Jean croaks, knowing he’s won, because even if Kim swears to Harry that he didn’t do this, there will always be that doubt. Harry, this new, supposedly improved Harry, will always wonder if he can taste Jean’s misery on Kim’s cock.
With that, Jean takes the whole of Kim into his mouth, sucking obscenely. Kim’s gloved fingers fist into Jean’s hair, yanking him back. Jean gasps, saliva briefly connecting his pink lips to the dark head of Kim’s cock.
“Stop,” Kim says, and his voice is shaking.
“He ruined me, Kitsuragi. Did you think he’ll stop with you?”
“Fuck,” Kim hisses and Jean feels the adrenaline rush of victory, the same rush he felt every time Harry swore it was ‘the last time’ only to have Jean on his knees in the bathroom the next day.
Despair is contagious and Jean is infected with the most virulent strain.
If I can’t have him, I’ll have you, he’s thinking, I’ll ruin you the way he ruined me, complete the circle of devastation.
Kim’s fingers are still in Jean’s hair and Jean tugs his head forward, back toward his goal, back toward Kim’s cock. Kim’s grip is tight, but his arm is slack, it allows this movement, takes no measure to prevent this sin, taking what is not rightfully Jean’s.
But Kim is his own person. He could have stopped this at any point.
After weeks of bickering with one another, each hating how the other interacted with Harry, this was inevitable. Harry was just a focal point for blind, hate-filled want.
Jean moans softly as he takes the head of Kim’s cock back in his mouth, sucking mindlessly. Kim makes soft, angry noises in his throat.
“Shit,” he huffs. “Why are you like this, officer?” he asks. Jean lets go of his cock, glares up at him.
“Ask the man who made me this way.”
Kim’s mouth screws up into an ugly expression of disgust and Jean’s uncertain if he disapproves of blaming Harry, or if he finds the truth of the statement discomfiting.
“Stick out your tongue,” he orders.
Jean does so without hesitation and Kim puts out his cigarette and leaves the butt.
“Swallow.”
Jean almost laughs. He’s lost count of the number of times Harry pulled shit like this. Maybe that’s the source of their shared fascination – they’re all the same kind of fucked up. He swallows the butt and Kim drops his trousers, kicking one pant leg off. It’s a warm spring night and no one’s coming up here.
Jean takes him in his mouth again, shows him all the things Harry likes, including turning him around and lapping across his hole. Jean’s not doing it for Kim’s pleasure, but for his own desperation. Can he taste Harry? Licking the whorl of puckered flesh, he spits and presses the end of his finger inside.
“No,” Kim barks, tone harsh, definitive. This will not be allowed, not for Jean.
“Fuck you,” Jean growls and there’s a stalemate, a trembling pause where he can feel Kim’s slender waist shudder against his hand, can feel the self-disgusted temptation to allow this violation at the hands of a man he hates. “Did Harry use you, hmm? Did he fuck you raw the way he used to fuck me?” Jean says right against his ear, biting the lobe hard enough to elicit a sharp cry of pain from Kim and he takes this as another small victory.
There’s a sudden violent struggle and Jean’s not even trying to win, lets Kim get him on the ground, his arm folded behind his back so tightly his shoulder blade feels like it’s digging into his own spine.
“I said ‘no,’” Kim repeats.
“Please,” Jean whimpers out, “anything. Everything,” and Kim obliges an open-ended supplication, flipping Jean onto his back and pressing his cock against Jean’s lips until he is allowed entrance. Kim fucks his mouth hard, his balls slapping against his chin, Jean’s eyes watering and his throat aching, and he’s right – they’re all the same, all slightly different varieties of the same species of ‘fucked up.’
Kim’s fingers are in his hair again, holding him in place as he bears down, using his hips and bent knee as a fulcrum. Jean comes up for air, gagging around Kim.
“Fuck me,” he begs.
Kim takes a shaky breath.
“You don’t deserve it,” he says after a moment of deliberation, and he’s right, but that’s not the point. Jean squirms, trying to flip himself back over onto his belly so he can shove his needy ass in the air.
“Use me, Kitsuragi.”
“Is this what you had with Harry?” Kim shudders, an expression nearing remorse briefly crossing his usually strictly composed features.
“What do you want to hear? That we loved each other? That we fucked for convenience? Of course this is what I had with Harry,” Jean snarls. “And he doesn’t even fucking remember me.”
“As though you do anything to make yourself memorable aside from being the most unpleasant person I’ve ever had to work with,” Kim pants, flipping him.
“Yes,” Jean pants, thrusting his ass upwards. Kim pulls his pants down abruptly enough to burn across his pale asscheeks and he moans into the gravel beneath his unkempt goatee.
Kim spits between his cheeks, and Jean turns his head to see him pulling his glove off with his teeth. His finger invades Jean, making him howl and squirm, but he’s doing him the mercy of preparing him, which is more than what Harry had usually done. Jean blinks as his own breath stirs up dust and dirt that grits into his eyelashes and irritates his eyes. Dully, Jean chalks his tears up to that as Kim presses inside of him, wordless, no sweet nothings, no snarled accusations about how worthless he is, or how pathetic he is for craving degradation, just silent judgment and the stiff press of his cock inside Jean’s ass.
Like everything about the lieutenant, every stroke is measured, precise, just shy of touching Jean’s prostate, but it doesn’t matter. He’s rock hard, his cock straining against his belly, oozing precum in his body hair. He reaches for it but Kim pins his arms behind his back, shoving Jean’s pock-marked cheek into the gravel where he snivels and tries to decide if he wants this to last forever or be done with already. Kim’s breathing grows louder, a little quiet grunt with every stroke and just as Jean is sure he’s going to cum in his ass, Kim pulls out and crouches, turning Jean roughly and cramming his cock back into Jean’s mouth before he finishes with a strangled cry.
Jean tastes his own filth and the salty bitterness of Kim’s cum and forces himself to swallow, because this was exactly what he asked for. Far be it from him to refuse a taste of his own vile medicine.
Pulling away immediately, Kim leaves Jean lying there, half-twisted on the gravel-covered ground. The lieutenant tucks himself into his underwear and pulls his pants back up, straightening his clothing and then brushing his hair back into place before putting his glove back on, every movement tense.
“Do you enjoy ruin, officer?” Kim murmurs softly after a long moment where Jean takes deep breaths, forcing himself to calm and go flaccid, despite his aching balls.
“It’s the only thing I know,” he croaks out, sniffing and getting back to his feet, his ass aching and a terrible metallic and bleach flavor on his tongue.
Kim lights another cigarette, takes a drag and after a moment offers it to Jean. They pass it back and forth, silent, watching the city below.
“Are you going to tell Harry?” Kim asks as the cigarette begins to dwindle to ash between them.
“Are you?”
Neither of them answer.
Neither of them have to.
When they return downstairs, Harry can see it on their faces, in the way Kim can’t quite meet his eye, in the way Jean meets his eyes relentlessly, the disgust at his own behavior not enough to crowd out his desperate need to ensure that Harry won’t be happy without him.
“Fuck you,” Harry mutters to Jean, voice tight, cheeks red.
“Harry,” Kim begins, face going pale.
“Get out of my sight,” said in an agonized tone, the wound clear to see.
Pain dispersed among all three of them now, intentionally inflicted misery.
That’s all Jean ever wanted.