Work Text:
Just landed.
Jean stares at the text message with acid in his gut. He’s hot all over with something fleeting and dangerous that he thought he left in the past along with the worst parts of himself. But now it’s reawoken, hauled back to the present just to burrow under Jean’s skin again. The tips of his fingers tingle with that sodapop fizz sensation that makes him want to claw into himself just to rip the feelings out. If he gets his nails into the sinew deep enough, surely he'll find it this time. He’ll tear out all these flutters and damned emotions and leave them in a still-beating lump on the ground.
It’s always like this when Kevin, stupid, gorgeous, loathsome Kevin, comes back around.
The time stamp for the text is from hours ago. Jean, always fighting like a rabid dog for the tiniest scraps of power when Kevin is involved, left him on read. And though he is staring at the message again, and has done so every few minutes since he first received it, he’s got no intention of replying.
The Trojans are playing at home tonight. It’s the Foxes’ bye week. Kevin, knowing better than to reach out to Jean, made plans with Jeremy to attend tonight’s match. To his captain’s credit, Jeremy had broken the news to Jean softly. He’d waited until after a particularly gruesome practice so Jean would be too tired to spew too much vitriol in his direction for agreeing to send Kevin the tickets.
Jean looks back at the text message. The urge to close his fist around his phone and squeeze until shattered glass punctures his palms is almost too great to resist. He can already hear the metallic plinks the little pieces of glass would make on the metal table as Nurse Ashley picked them out of his hand with a pair of tweezers.
“Getting naughty texts before the game, bro?”
Jean can practically hear Derrick’s eyebrows wiggling suggestively as he makes the comment.
Jean scoffs and sets his phone inside his locker, but it’s too late. The damage is already done. Derek pokes his head around from the other side of the locker and makes a grandiose show of trying to look over Jean’s shoulder.
“Gonna share with the class or what?” he says, standing shoulder to shoulder now with his striker minion. They’re staring Jean down as if they are genuinely anticipating a response to their antics.
Jean slams his locker shut with enough force to rattle all the surrounding ones and snubs them.
It’s Derek again who speaks, calling after Jean, “Hey! I would totally show you if someone sent me a picture of their rack!”
“No one is sending you pictures of their boobs, jackass,” Xavier supplies all too helpfully from across the locker room.
“Yeah, well if they were, I’d totally share,” Derek concedes, arm lifted to scratch the back of his head.
Jean is finding a quieter corner to put his pads on when another teammate points out that the only boobs in the locker room are named Derek and Derrick. If Jean weren’t in such a sour mood, he might have allowed himself a small laugh. As it stands, official warm-ups start in less than 30 minutes and Kevin is very likely already taking up too much space in the stands with his overbearing presence. So no, Jean cannot find humor.
He pulls the straps of his armor a little too taut. For old time’s sake.
“Hey.” His captain steps around the corner, already donned in his full gear and ready to storm the court.
Jeremy’s brown eyes are soft and gently searching when he speaks. He dips his head slightly so he’s looking up and into Jean’s eyes.
He doesn’t ask if he’s alright. They both know what’s got Jean so on edge. He’s just letting Jean know he’s there—a soft place to land if the past starts to creep in and nudges Jean too close to the lip of the nearest cliff.
Jean wants to sneer and snap his jaws like the mongrel only the tattooed man in the stands knows he really is. He won’t. This is Jeremy: his captain and his friend.
He swallows and nods in Jeremy’s direction, adjusting the strap of his left knee pad.
“Should be an easy victory tonight,” Jeremy says when Jean stays quiet. He’s trying to disperse the storm clouds gathering around Jean with comforting words.
“Should be,” Jean says with a venomous emphasis on the word should. They’re playing a small, forgettable team. Kevin wasted his money on the airline tickets to witness such a pitiful match. It makes Jean feel a little better.
Jeremy lets his comment slide. “Let’s show them who we are, yeah?”
There are a lot of little meanings there that Jean isn’t in the right headspace to unravel and dissect. So instead, he just says, “Yes.”
***
“What is it to you?”
Jean’s heart throbs pitifully in his chest hearing his own accent on the tongue of another. It reminds him of faces he can no longer place and a home that was never really his. He chews his scabbed over lip until there is an iron tang in his mouth.
“What is what, Kevin?” He whispers.
Kevin looks at him for a moment. He’s probably piecing together his thoughts in French before he opens his mouth to share. They’ve been at their secret lessons for a while now. Kevin is a quick learner, but he fumbles his phrases occasionally—still flinches when he does even though Jean would never lift a hand to him.
“This game,” he finally says.
Jean scowls, taken aback by such an idiotic question. He only lets himself think it for just a moment that Kevin is lucky he is so beautiful.
This game.
It is a set of rules to learn and an achievement to be won. It is a court, plexiglass walls, a ball, and weighted rackets. It is the acrid smell of sweat, aching ribs, and the blue of freshly bloomed bruises. It is drills run over and over until he is spilling the contents of his guts onto linoleum. It is horrible and unforgiving, a means to an end.
The means to Jean’s end.
He doesn’t know what to say. He goes for honesty and lands just a little off the mark. “It's expectation.”
Kevin nods along after a moment’s silence, digesting Jean’s words. He’s sporting a bruise high on his cheek bone, the one left unmarred by a tattoo needle. His bottom lip, much like Jean’s, is split from a stray fist. Jean thinks about how they could taste each other if he were braver and Kevin weren’t so one-track minded.
“Is that all?”
It’s pathetic of him. Kevin is under the thrall of this sport and cannot fathom someone else abstaining from his wild devotion. Jean wants to yell and scream and rip his hair from the root but it won’t do any good. It won’t make Kevin see him.
“Yes.” Jean struggles with honesty mostly because he doesn’t know what’s true himself. “And for you?” Jean doesn’t have to ask to know the answer, so he’s not sure why he moves his lips in the first place. Maybe it’s just so he can hear more of his accent on Kevin’s tongue?
There’s no hesitation. “It’s everything.”
Jean wants to laugh in his face. He wants to lash Kevin with his words because he’s too weak to wound him with his fists. He wants to pull him flush to his own battered body and show him what everything means to Jean.
His toes are dangling over the edge of making a huge mistake when the door opens and Riko steps in. The moment splinters like bone.
***
Jean does not love Exy. For him, the sport is a passionless art that he’s mastered so that he can continue to draw breath. He’s an expert, not from natural-born talent or an insatiable greed to conquer some nebulous dream, but from forced practice and discipline. The stipulations of this game have been beaten into Jean’s bones. He’s like a shark once he steps onto the court: he must keep moving forward as an act of survival. Every move looks strategic and calculated, but really, it’s just a body in motion.
Laila once told him the first 3 minutes of each game are her favorite. The first screech of her sneakers as she steps into the goalie’s box always sets her ablaze.
“The lights are so bright and the entire stadium is leaning forward in anticipation. It’s like they think they can get that first buzzer to sound faster if they cheer their heads off loud enough.” She’d paused, like she was listening to a distant crowd’s lilting chants before finishing her thought. “Fucking chills. Every. Time.”
He’s heard similar sentiments from his other teammates, present and past. Cat loves the thrill of sending a perfectly timed pass into a waiting racket’s net. Jeremy’s heart skyrockets when he cleanly intercepts the ball from a rival player. Neil, the obsessed rodent, plays with such ferocity Jean doubts he could pinpoint a favorite moment. He’s too infatuated with every second he spends on an Exy court.
He does not catch the contagion of the lunatics he surrounds himself with. Jean’s stomach does not perform somersaults when the plexiglass door shuts behind him. The crowds’ cheers do not electrify his senses. The racket in his hands does not feel like a ticket to freedom.
Jean Moreau is only a man dressed in red and gold on a court.
Several hands, all belonging to his teammates, pat him on the shoulder as they break their pre-game huddle up and jog their way into warm-up drills. It’s easy to get lost in the mechanics of the movements. The music in the stadium is blaring with some popular hip-hop beat that plays before every match. The announcers’ voices pierce through the cacophony, reading off the starting line-ups for both teams.
He’s jogging alongside Cat when Cody taps him on the elbow. “Looks like you’ve got a fan.”
When Jean wrinkles his nose in confusion, Cody points upwards to the huge screen above their heads. Jean follows the line of their finger to the image on the televisor.
The stop he comes to is so violent his molars clack.
Cat is left running ahead almost comically before she also stops and whips around to look at him. Concern is a paint smear over her features. “Jean?”
And though she’s only a few steps away from him, her voice sounds far away. It’s like he’s underwater and she’s standing on the shoreline. Jean can’t pull his eyes off the massive screen to acknowledge her.
A moving banner rolls along the bottom of the screen, the name KEVIN DAY sticking out like a rusty blood stain. Above it is the moving picture of the striker. His expression is somehow bored and cutting at the same time. Those green eyes pierce through to Jean’s very soul even through pixels.
It’s not Kevin’s beauty that forced Jean to such a jarring stop. No, he’s learned to live with and look past that part of Kevin.
It’s the jersey covering his chest that locks Jean’s knees: red and gold and plastered with a number that doesn’t belong to him.
29.
If Kevin were to turn around, everyone would see Jean’s name plastered along his shoulder blades in blocky letters.
He doesn’t even notice how his hands have gone around his own neck until Cat has her palms wrapped around his wrists. “Jean! Hey, look at me.”
He doesn’t listen, so she physically has to place herself in his line of sight. Her head effectively blocks his view of the televisor and he finds himself staring into brown eyes instead of green.
“Let go, Jean. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Jean drops his hands but can’t keep the snarl out of his voice when he says. “He has no right.”
Cody scratches the back of their buzzed head awkwardly. “Uh, I didn’t mean to—” Their voice trails off, unsure.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Cat assures them. She turns her attention back to Jean. His chest is rising and falling quickly now. “Do I need to get Jeremy?”
Jean doesn’t need Jeremy. He needs a pair of shears and a lighter. He needs to tear that jersey from Kevin’s chest with his bare hands.
A buzzer sounds overhead, a warning to both teams that warm-ups are ending and they should be transitioning into the starting line-up. The sound jolts Jean from his fury. Kevin is no longer on the screen when Jean peers over the top of Cat’s head this time. He’s lost somewhere amongst the crowd, indiscernible to Jean.
Someone on the coaching staff blows a whistle. Jean tucks his mental breakdown into his back pocket for later. He cannot ignore the call of a coach. He turns away from Cat and jogs in the direction of the sound. Every footfall has him feeling launched further from his body. He’s outside himself when he shoulders his way into the final huddle before the game.
His nails dig bloody crescents into his palms in a sorry attempt to bring him back to himself. He tries focusing on the way Coach Rhemann’s pointer finger taps along the clipboard of plays in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cat whisper something in Jeremy’s ear. Jean pulls his gloves on over the fresh wounds on his hands and ignores the worry that flickers in his captain’s eyes.
There is no time to talk.
There is only the chant,“Ready we ready we ready!”
And the responding, “Fight on!”
Then the first buzzer sounds.
While Exy has taken and taken from Jean all his life, it has also offered something to him: predictability. And that is the only way to describe the current game—predictable. Every time the ball touches Jean’s net, a part of him returns to his body. He listens intently for the plays called from Jeremy and lets his muscles react before his mind can.
The game is ridiculously clean. A glance at the scoreboard reads 36-8 in favor of the Trojans. Jean hopes it’s boring Kevin to tears. He hopes he regrets every penny he spent on his airline ticket. He hopes a fan drops their hotdog on his jersey and soils it beyond repair.
Almost unconsciously, the game is won.
His teammates humbly celebrate their victory all about the court surrounding him. Jeremy claps him on the shoulder, his million watt smile beaming at Jean through his face mask. “Nicely played!”
Jean gives a curt nod. With the loss of the game’s distraction comes the return of that prickly feeling. His eyes shift over the crowded stands as if he’ll be able to pick out a pinprick of green amongst a sea of red and gold. His hands are uncomfortably damp inside his gloves.
He’s forced into the line-up and jogs down the row, clapping hands with the defeated team. In front of him Jeremy parrots “Good game!” over and over again. Jean stays silent. Touching hands with them is enough of a show of sportsmanship for him.
The press starts picking at his teammates like vultures at carrion. Jean makes an active effort to avoid them. All the while, his eyes are scanning the emptying stands. Of course, he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. He’s grateful.
His teammates are already talking about which afterparty they’ll be blacking out at before they even make their way back to the locker room. He ignores them.
Cat and Laila catch up to him. Cat has her hand out like she’s expecting Jean to give something to her. He raises an eyebrow.
“Your hand.”
Jean hesitates but she insists, shaking her empty palm at him in an impatient gesture. “Hand,” she reiterates like she’s talking to a wiley pup.
He rips his glove off with his teeth and puts his hand in hers, fist closed.
“Jean.”
He unfurls his fingers.
The nail marks in his palm are shallow and already scabbed over. They barely bled. Laila makes a soft, sad sound.
“It’s nothing.”
“What upset you so bad?” Cat asks. She flips his hand and runs her thumb lovingly over his knuckles. The tenderness makes his chest hurt.
He’d rather have a go at a circular saw then explain it to them. The same cruel and oblivious Kevin that ran is suddenly back and brandishing Jean’s number? Surely he’s not stupid enough to think it can mend or rewrite any of the blood-soaked past. It will take a lot more than a fucking jersey to cauterize the knife wound Kevin left in Jean’s back on his way out of the Nest.
“I cannot,” his anger is a wisp of smoke that chokes him. “I cannot talk about it.”
He knows they want to press. He’s thankful when they don’t. Guilt is an uncomfortable weight in his gut, heavy with everything he still can’t bring himself to share with them. He brings Cat’s hand to his lips and brushes a brief kiss over her knuckles. It’s the best Jean can offer right now.
She smiles at him and Laila squeezes his shoulder. “Come find us after you’ve showered.”
Jean nods as they walk off towards the women’s locker rooms.
The court is virtually empty now. A few cheerleaders loiter by the home side benches, chatting with the now headless mascot and the cleaning crew is already sweeping popcorn and discarded soda bottles out of the stands. Jean, not ready to face his team yet, decides to run a few cool-down laps before making his way into the locker room.
He tries to outrun his anger but he ends up only chasing it.
His vision is red with Kevin. The number 29.
Kevin and 29.
Jean’s sprint comes to a screeching halt. There is sweat in his eyes and he has to brace his hands on his knees for a second to catch his breath.
When he finally storms into the locker room, he’s alone. It’s not unusual for his teammates to clear the stadium with extra haste after home games with friends and lovers and after parties beckoning them away from the sunshine court.
There is nothing nice or gentle about the way Jean rips his gear off. He’s all teeth and snarls. He’s too mindful of the cost of the equipment to throw it around needlessly though. It just pisses him off more as he sets everything gently in its rightful spot when all he wants to do is hurl it at the wall.
“I didn’t believe them at first when they said you were becoming a Trojan afterall.”
Jean keeps his back turned to the voice. If he faces Kevin, he’ll have to hurt someone and they both know who it’ll end up being. He closes his eyes and tries to inhale slowly through his nose. He counts to 10 like Cat always tells him to.
“And now?”
“After that game? I’d say they’re right.”
Jean scoffs. “What are you doing in here? Locker rooms aren’t open to rival players.”
He hears Kevin take a step closer to him. The hair on the nape of Jean’s neck raises as Kevin gets closer.
“Jeremy.”
“Of course.”
“That pass in the first 10 of the second half—”
“Shut. Up.” Jean snarls. He makes the mistake of turning around then. It’s so, so much worse up close. And, oh, is Kevin close. Barely an arm’s length from Jean wearing his colors, his number, and worst of all, his name.
Jean’s eyes zero in on those two damning digits and then back up into a familiar green gaze. “Your critique means nothing to me anymore.”
“Was beautiful,” Kevin finishes in French.
Once, praise from Kevin Day would have sent Jean’s knee buckling and crashing to the floor. Now, it just makes his stomach churn.
“Stupid of you to show up here without your tiny bodyguard,” Jean threatens. They both know it's empty, but Kevin humors him anyway.
“He’s waiting in the car.”
“And the rat?” Jean says with a curled lip.
Kevin just arches an eyebrow at him as if to say do you even have to ask?
“You look horrendous in red and gold,” Jean spits.
Kevin looks down at his chest as if he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. He toys at the hem of the jersey. Jean wants to slap his hands away.
“You don’t.” Kevin has the audacity to look him up and down. “It suits you.”
Jean doesn't realize what he's done until he hears Kevin's spine crashing into the locker behind him.
The voice echoing off the tiled walls can't be his. It's too warbled and high-pitched; it's too much like a wounded animal.
“Take. It. Off.”
His brain starts to catch up with him but then retreats again. He gets his fists bunched in the fabric of Kevin's, no, his, jersey, and slams him back into the lockers—harder this time. He does it again and again like he's trying to emboss the number on Kevin's back into the metal he's pounding him into.
29.
Kevin lets him have a few more good hits before he uses Jean’s backwards momentum to push him back and flip their positions. Now it’s Jean's back slammed against metal, but the result is the same—the number 29 stamped into steel.
“Jean!” Kevin shouts his name like that is enough of a command to get him to stop.
Jean struggles against his grip and they’re evenly matched. Kevin gets his forearm pressed across Jean’s clavicle to hold him down. “What the fuck, Jean?”
“You don’t get to wear my number. Take it off.”
Kevin’s face is bunched with the effort of holding Jean against the lockers. “No,” he snarls so close to Jean’s face he can feel it.
“You choose now to grow a pair? Fuck off.”
A muscle in Kevin’s jaw ticks. “That’s not fair and you know it.”
“Cry about it.”
“Jean.”
God, his name is perfect on Kevin’s lips in the accent that he taught him. It’s enough to send him up and into the clouds and down into the depths of the earth. The last time they were like this, there was a room full of mediators. Now, it’s just the two of them and echoing walls. Jean realizes it’s been years since he’s occupied a space all alone with Kevin. He can’t help but let out a wicked laugh at the thought. Kevin walked in here thinking the same thing. He was looking for this response.
Kevin is staring at him bewildered, arm still pressed meanly to Jean’s throat. “It’s mine. I’m not taking it off.”
“Yours?” The word comes out inhuman. “Nothing of mine has ever been yours.”
“That’s a lie.”
Jean has never wanted to hit someone so badly in his life. He thrashes pointlessly against Kevin’s grip and imagines his fist connecting with the smooth jaw inches from his face. He gets his arms around Kevin’s sides and digs his fingers into cloth and vulnerable flesh. If Kevin won’t take the jersey off, he’ll tear it off of him.
“You weren’t my partner,” Jean hisses, tangling his fingers in fabric.
Kevin releases his hold on Jean’s throat just to grab his wrists and slam them above both of their heads. The lockers rattle with the impact. Kevin gets his knee in between Jean’s thighs and he leans in to keep him in place. Jean can’t stop the startled gasp that rips from his throat.
“So what? It’s over now, Jean.”
“For you it is! You left me there. You didn’t even leave me a way out. You forced me to make that bullshit promise and then didn’t even have the fucking curtesy to die off so I could break it.”
“Am I supposed to regret that? Because I don’t.”
“I hate you.”
Jean would have been better off hitting him. Hurt flashes across Kevin’s expression and he loosens his grip. Jean rips his arms away and shoves Kevin. He stumbles back and away. The only sound in the locker room is their heaving breaths for several long beats.
“Fine,” Kevin finally says into the space between them. Jean tilts his head in silent question. “Take it off of me.”
Jean narrows his eyes and approaches. Kevin walks backwards until his back is flush against the wall of lockers again and there is nowhere for him to go. It doesn’t stop Jean from prowling ever closer, crowding Kevin against the steel against his spine. Jean reaches for the hem at his waist, gets it between his forefinger and thumb when Kevin grabs his wrist and tugs him closer.
Jean doesn’t know what’s happening until warm lips are pressed firmly to his own. He opens his mouth in a gasp. Kevin uses it as a chance to get his tongue into Jean’s mouth and it’s over.
Jean snarls into Kevin’s mouth and drops the edges of the jersey to grab both sides of his face instead. Even if Kevin wants to pull away, Jean’s vice grip won’t let him. He’s going to make him finish what he started. They kiss like the world is ending and they've only got seconds left until the final eruption. It's all teeth and tongue and rude fingers clawing into each other.
Jean will never hate anyone more than he hates Kevin Day because it would literally kill him. He’s amazed that he’s survived the abhorrence this long. They both should’ve been made into corpses long gone cold by now.
He gets his teeth locked around Kevin’s plush bottom lip and bites hard enough to make the other man yelp.
“Fuck, Jean,” Kevin croaks.
“Keep my name out of your mouth.” He seals his threat with another beast-like bite, this one to Kevin’s jaw instead of his mouth.
Kevin whines, a sound high and broken in the back of his throat. It makes his cock jump and Jean wants to hurt him even worse. Kevin doesn’t let him, grabbing his cheeks one-handed in a too tight grip and forcing his lips back against his.
Jean slams his fists into the metal at either side of Kevin’s head to keep himself from pummeling the vulnerable skin around Kevin’s ribs. Kevin, the idiot, just pulls him closer until they’re touching from chest to hips to thighs. Jean groans, slotting his thigh in between Kevin’s legs like he did earlier when their positions were reversed.
Kevin lets out another cry when the firm muscles of Jean’s thighs brush against the fattening length of his cock. “You’re killing me, Jean.”
The feeling is very mutual but Jean will actually die before admitting it. So instead, he just says, “Good.”
It makes Kevin choke on a laugh right up against Jean’s lips. Jean presses him harder into the lockers to wipe the emotion away. They’re bound to leave dents in the metal that will haunt Jean every time he has to change out in here for the rest of his college Exy career.
While he’s distracted with these thoughts, Kevin snakes his hands between them and around Jean to get underneath his jersey. His bare hands on Jean’s skin set him on fire. Kevin stokes the flames by dragging his nails meanly down his back.
Jean hisses sharply into Kevin’s wet mouth. Kevin’s eyes are open now, cursed emeralds sparkling at every reaction he rips from Jean’s body. Jean retaliates by grinding his thigh harder in between Kevin’s legs.
Jean looks down to watch. There’s a very obvious bulge in the front of Kevin’s jeans. Jean knows it's got to be hurting. Kevin lets his head fall back against the lockers, bloody lip clenched between his teeth.
He tears his eyes away from Kevin’s crotch. “Leaking yet?”
Kevin rolls his hips against Jean’s leg obscenely. “Find out.”
“Pathetic.”
Kevin doesn’t deny it.
Jean’s sweaty palm squeals against steel when he slides his hand down the locker to the button of Kevin’s jeans. It’s so easy to get his fly undone and zipper down. Jean plunges into black briefs and takes Kevin into his palm, his grip rude. More whines from Kevin and Jean runs his thumb over the sensitive head.
When he yanks his hand out of Kevin’s pants, his fingers glisten. He holds it up for them both to behold. Kevin licks his lips. Jean wants to kiss him again but he smears his pre-cum wet fingers over Kevin’s slightly parted lips instead.
They both moan loud enough for it to echo.
“Fuuuck, Jean.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Taste it.”
Jean should deny him, but his desire is too great. He kisses him tongue first. Amongst the iron tang is something saltier that drives Jean mad. Kevin is still wildly undulating his hips, his flushed cock hanging out of his jeans and bobbing against Jean’s shorts. With his mouth still on Kevin’s, Jean gets his fist around him again. His strokes are tight and mean, dragging mewls from deep out of Kevin’s chest.
Kevin starts tugging at the elastic of Jean’s waist band now. He manages to push his hand into Jean’s shorts but Jean grabs his wrist and twists, just enough to hurt but not cause any damage.
“Not your hand.”
Kevin shoots him a bewildered glare. When he realizes what Jean is insinuating he should use instead, his pupils blow wide.
“You want my mouth, Jean?” He’s speaking in French again.
“Don’t make me say it,” Jean responds.
Kevin’s gaze is lecherous on the tent in Jean’s shorts. “I want you to.”
Jean wants to scream that none of this has ever been about what Kevin wants but decides he’s lied enough for one interaction.
“Suck my cock, Kevin.” It sounds dirtier spoken like this in his mother tongue. Kevin seems to like it this way.
They wordlessly maneuver themselves with Jean leaning back against the lockers and Kevin on his knees before him. Jean hopes his kneecaps start to sting.
Kevin’s a mess beneath him, black hair disheveled and face blotchy and red from Jean’s harsh touches and kisses. He really does look shitty in red and gold, the colors clashing with his viridian eyes. He realizes he’s said this out loud when Kevin arches a brow up at him.
“Not too shitty to suck you off.”
No, never that, Jean concedes within his mind. On the outside, he just gestures to his own hard cock still covered by his shorts.
Kevin gets his fingers under the lip of his waistband and pulls down just enough to free his cock. It springs lewdly to his belly button. Jean tracks the way Kevin’s pink tongue licks his lips. He keeps his eyes locked on Jean when he leans in to place a chaste kiss under the head of his dick.
Jean slaps his palms flat against the metal at his back and bites down on his lip to keep his curses in. Kevin doesn’t tease him any further, sucking him down the base almost in one go. The liar has definitely done this before. Distantly, Jean wonders which of the small blondes he’s practiced on but resigns himself to never knowing.
Kevin works him relentlessly with his mouth. He’s a bitch with his tongue in more ways than one and Jean wonders how many men have made the same realization. He curls his fingers meanly in Kevin’s dark hair in silent retaliation for Kevin’s nameless partners.
He tugs at Kevin’s roots when he snakes a hand up to cup his balls. “Shit,” he curses, opening his eyes to stare down at Kevin. He pulls off with slickened lips. He’s smirking.
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Jean says.
Kevin rolls his eyes. “Seemed like you were getting a little close.”
Jean sneers. He wants to deny the pleasure Kevin is giving him but he can’t. Kevin tries to wrap his lips around his spit-slick cock again but Jean grabs a fistful of his hair and wrenches his head back so he can’t move.
Kevin’s eyes go wide with shock. Jean leans down to snarl in his face. “Stand up and turn around.”
Kevin does what he’s told a little too easily. It makes something hot and possessive curl in Jean’s gut. Kevin stands facing the lockers. “Like this?” he asks, a little too much snark in his tone for Jean’s liking.
“Put your hands on the lockers.”
Kevin scowls but obeys all the same. His palms splay wide against the metal. Jean approaches his back, fingers going up to trace every letter on his last name spelled across Kevin’s shoulders. He can see goosebumps raising the flesh on Kevin’s arms where they’re strained against the wall of lockers.
Barely restraining himself, he tugs Kevin’s jeans and briefs down, revealing his sculpted ass and the backs of his thighs. Jean closes his eyes against all the unmarred flesh he wants to leave the tattoo imprint of his teeth in.
He presses his chest flush to Kevin’s back, his cock pressing into one of his ass cheeks and making them both moan. Kevin’s head falls back against Jean’s shoulder and the side of his neck.
Jean reaches around and strokes his cock a few times, gathering Kevin’s pre-cum from the tip to ease the glide.
“What are you gonna do?” His throat is scratchy from how deeply Jean’s cock plunged there just moments ago.
“I am not going to fuck you,” Jean answers honestly.
He thinks that is disappointment he sees in Kevin’s eyes.
Jean releases his hold on Kevin’s dick and brings his hand right under his chin.
“Spit.”
Kevin does.
Jean brings his hand down, wet with Kevin’s pre-cum and spit, and wipes it in between Kevin’s slightly parted thighs. Kevin catches on quickly.
“Yes,” he pants.
They repeat the motion a few times until Kevin’s sensitive inner thighs are shiny with Jean adding his own saliva to the mix. He gives himself a few healthy strokes before lining himself up with Kevin’s strong thighs. The first thrust, albeit stuttered and too loose, makes them both moan wantonly.
“Squeeze them,” Jean instructs. Kevin clenches his thighs a little tighter and it makes Jean see stars. He pulls back and pushes back in. The simulated fuck of it all has his balls pulling tight. “Shit, like that,” he groans.
Kevin just nods dumbly and squeezes his thighs even closer together.
Jean reaches around and works Kevin’s leaking cock in tandem with his thrusts. He slides in and out of Kevin’s thighs fast enough to leave the striker chaffed. He hopes the skin will be raw for days and Kevin will have to tote this memento back to South Carolina with him like a souvenir.
“Jeannn,” he drags the tail end of his name out on a guttural moan that has the hairs on Jean’s arms rising.
“Be quiet,” Jean bites out in reply.
“I can’t. Fuck, it feels so perfect.”
Jean hates that word on Kevin’s lips. There was a time he’d do anything to be perfect in this man’s eyes. And now how easily he falls apart with Jean’s cock between his greedy thighs. Jean feels misled and lied to, channeling all of the emotion into his thrusts.
Kevin swings one leg over the other, twisting them together and making the crevice between his legs somehow tighter. It’s almost impossible to slide between them now. Jean cries out, resting his sweaty forehead against the ‘E’ in his name on Kevin’s back. He bunches his fist in the fabric and continues the pistoning of his hips.
“I’m close,” he admits into the red cloth.
“Me too,” Kevin sighs. “God, I want it so bad.”
Jean pumps Kevin faster, twisting his wrist when he gets to the tip. Kevin just nods along, totally lost to the sensation. He drops one of his hands from the wall to wrap a weak hand around Jean’s straining forearm. “Come on, come on, come on,” he chants.
Jean gets his teeth into the jersey on Kevin’s back, biting back shouts into the fabric. He wants to rip the letters from his shoulders and shake his head like a rabid hound with them still clamped between his teeth.
“Oh fuck, I’m coming,” Kevin’s voice is absolutely wrecked. The vice-like clench of his thighs mixed with the sound of his cum hitting the lockers sends Jean over the edge too.
His entire world whites out, his orgasm rattling the very foundation of his being. He paints the insides of Kevin’s thighs with his cum, the letters of his name falling from his lips with a silent scream as the pleasure wracks through every cell in his body.
“Fuck,” he whisper yells, his cock giving a few more pathetic kicks. Kevin is almost collapsed against the locker in front of him, chest pressed to the metal, his back and ass arched out and away from the mess they made.
Jean pushes his own sweaty hair off his forehead and pants into the silence stretching between them. His cum slides in heavy trails down Kevin’s inner thighs. His instinct is to just leave him there, cold and ashamed with what they’ve done.
Even the Jean Moreau that was left behind in the Nest wouldn’t be that cruel. Not to Kevin.
Jean snatches his shorts up from around his ankles and snaps the band back around his hips. He yanks a clean towel off the rack and wets the corner with warm water. He brings it back to where Kevin still hasn’t fully collected himself. The best he’s managed is flipping around so he’s leaning with his back to the lockers instead of his chest.
He holds out his hand to accept the towel but Jean ignores it. Instead, he kneels and starts gently wiping their exchange away from Kevin’s thighs. Kevin watches him silently the entire time he works.
When he’s finished, he switches focus to the mess Kevin left dripping down the wall. While he’s doing so, Kevin rebuttons his jeans and straightens out his jersey. A shaky hand runs through his hair.
“You can leave. I still have to shower,” Jean says.
Kevin stares at him.
“Don’t leave the rat and his boyfriend waiting any longer,” Jean insists when Kevin doesn’t say anything. They’ve already been here too long. Andrew probably already got impatient and abandoned their striker as it stands. It’s a miracle no one stormed in to find them. Jean flushes with how stupid and irresponsible the whole encounter was. They could have been caught. They should have been caught.
“I’ll text you when I get back to the hotel.”
Jean just grunts. “Don’t.”
“I’ll text you,” Kevin tries again. There’s a touch of earnestness in his tone that scalds Jean’s overly sensitive skin. “And you’ll reply.”
“Presumptuous. I still don’t owe you anything.”
“You never did,” Kevin says.
It startles Jean. He jerks his head in his direction, eyes wide before schooling his expression. He opens his mouth to speak again but Kevin cuts him off.
“We can talk about it later.”
Jean knows the “it” he’s referring to is more than just the orgasms they tore from each other.
“We can,” Jean whispers.