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There’s something special in the date nights shared solely between Kevin and Jeremy. First off, they’re never just date nights. The two of them are disgusting, true romantics at heart and between that and the spoiled little rich boy upbringings, there’s really no hope for anything simple or easy.
No, when Kevin and Jeremy have a date night, they go the whole nine yards. Or more if possible. Date night for the pair starts at the disgustingly early hour of seven a.m. where the two walk to the nearby gym that’s become a bit of a homebase for the five of them and spend the next two hours getting sweaty and worked up adjacent to one another before returning and collectively ruin whatever were trying to make happen by taking a shower. There’s brunch, there’s long walks - again - after a quick stop at Target for frozen peas. They feed the ducks for crying out loud. Sit on a park bench and just enjoy each other’s silent company. Date night is lunch at some fancy café with overpriced sandwiches and hand pressed lemonades. It’s spontaneity, shopping trips, bookstores, espresso flights, vineyard wine tastings, concerts, theater plays. The whole pretty package of a walk on a private beach at sunset, love filled shared kisses interrupting sappy whispered sweet nothings.
It’s disgusting. Disgustingly sweet, disgustingly them.
But the something special about the date nights shared between Kevin and Jeremy has nothing to do with Kevin and Jeremy themselves and everything to do with the single second lasting shared look between Andrew and Jean anytime these date nights come about.
They’ve spoken about it in length before, all five of them, their limits, their boundaries, their wants and desires and dreams and fears. Their bedroom preferences. What they want out of sexual intimacy with one another, what they need from it.
And well, there’s just something safe about having a partner who’s previously had their boundaries violated. Who knows the terrible weight of going too far. Has spent the time and effort learning what’s acceptable and when to cut the cord before the experience takes a terrible turn. No one likes what has happened to them in the past. It’s an awkward and uncomfortable subject to breech, to speak about, to remember. But there’s a safety there neither are sure how to feel about. They don’t take reassurance in it. There’s no happiness in sharing a safety that’s come from a past of rape and violation. But it’s safe. It’s there, no matter how they feel about it. Theirs.
So date night begins sharply at 7 a.m. for Kevin and Jeremy, because that’s what they’ve determined works for them. Which means date night for Jean, Andrew, and Neil also begins at 7 a.m., to which only Neil is ever really on time for but not really because he spends the better part of the hour out of the house, disrupting whatever sidewalk traffic he can on this morning runs.
It’s a strange twist of events, that the man who prefers their two cats over dogs chooses to wake early and leave the warmth of their bed. To abandon two comfortable sleepy children and a loving warm boyfriend in favor of exercise and mayhem.
But he returns each time with treats in hand, so Andrew can’t complain too much. This time, it’s drinks. Blended fruit and ice smoothies from the new superfood hipster restaurant a couple blocks opposite of where Neil usually starts his run and not one but two large milkshakes for Andrew from the gas station on the corner across from them. One cookies and cream drowned in hot fudge and filled with hidden gummy worms, the other chocolate but thick with peanut butter, dome shell stuffed with crushed M&M’s and brownie bits instead of whipped cream.
It’s the threat of them melting which really spurs Andrew into waking, into apologizing to the furry children who love him more than Neil and shuffling his way to their shared kitchen. He’s a little more than half asleep still in the barstool but he debates between the shakes with the full mentality of some egotistical overpaid wine connoisseur.
The thrill of treasure hunting for gummy worms wins out in the end, just in time for the first plate of crêpes to appear in front of him. He reaches for it, reaches towards the plate which holds the floury vessels, the thin excuse to eat chocolate spreads and cream and sugar and other garbage first thing in the morning, the only thing the three of them can agree on for mornings like these, only to have it taken from him. Slid back across the counter by the same hand who’d put it there in the first place.
Andrew looks at Jean, Jean looks at Andrew, Neil cleans fruit by the sink.
It’s the game they play, agreed upon by a loud thick slurping instead of a thank you for breakfast or the plate.
“Votre gratitude est inégalée,”Jean mumbles, rolls his eyes just to be extra. Your gratefulness is unmatched.
“Wanna try that one again in a language we can all understand?” Andrew asks. His eyes flit from the lost crêpes to the Frenchman’s gray eyes and back. There’s a moment where Jean seems to think it over, to consider starting the day with better words, in a better way, but the crêpes return to Andrew instead, flicked instead of given, nearly lost to the floor instead of to Andrew’s hunger.
Jean cocks an eyebrow. “Regarde ça. Maintenant, si seulement vous mettiez la moitié de cet effort dans le but.” Look at that. Now if only you'd put half that effort into the goal.
“You just think you’re better than me because you’re French,” Andrew scoffs. He pulls the bowl of fruit towards him before the offered bowl even hits the counter, picking several pieces-which he thoroughly inspects for his approval- from it before Jean even gets a chance.
Neil’s more careful with the strawberries, emptying half of the contents onto his own plate before even offering them to the counter. “It’s the crêpes actually,” he says, double checking the toppings spread before them. He puts the extra milkshake in the freezer, adds the whipped cream they were missing. ”Well, the cooking, gives him a big head. Which is a French thing.”
“And Neil is unendingly pestiferous,” Jean says, taking the strawberries from Neil’s plate instead of the bowl. “That’s a British thing.”
They bicker through breakfast, start to bicker through cleaning before Andrew puts a stop to it. He takes the plate from Jean’s hands and nods deeper into their stupid expensive apartment.
“Shower,” he instructs. Jean cooked, they’ll clean. “Thoroughly.”
Andrew’s face is hard. His eyes unwavering, his eyebrows creased, nose just slightly scrunched at the bridge. A blank page to anyone who doesn’t know him, who doesn’t know where to look. But to Jean, the look, like so many things Andrew does, is a promise.
Jean swallows.
He does as instructed, comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist sometime later. Water droplets clinging to warmed pinkish skin, trailing down from long dark waves, plastered to his neck, nearly his shoulders.
He expects it, Andrew. Isn’t surprised at all when he’s checked into the wall. The rush of breath that leaves him is instead from the impact of his back against plaster, the electric thrum of excitement that shoots through his body when he’s manhandled by the other, his hand a sturdy heavy pressure that remains against the middle of his chest, pins him there. There’s part of him that’s silently grateful, that appreciates just how loudly and slowly Andrew had approached him. Had made himself known whether he was expected or not.
Andrew’s eyes are still hard. Still unwavering. Beautifully golden, beautifully safe.
“The attitude from breakfast,” Andrew says. “Drop it. I’m not dealing with your shit all day.”
He will. And more. Even Kevin and Jeremy who aren’t even here at the moment know such things.
Jean scoffs, arches his back and knocks Andrew’s hand away. He’s pushed back again, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He struggles to regain it through the grasp Andrew has on him, fingers cradling his chin, side of his hand pressed against his throat.
“Drop it,” Andrew bites out.
Jean regains the air in his lungs, keeps Andrew’s gaze in his glare.
“Question, Moreau,” Andrew says after Jean doesn’t back down. “Do you give a dog a treat when you tell it to sit and it doesn’t?”
“No,” Jean says.
Andrew hums.
“And when it bites, do you give it a treat then?”
“No,” Jean says again.
“What happens to the dog when it bites, Jean?”
“It gets punished,” Jean mumbles, hisses when Andrew’s nails dig into his skin.
“It what, Jean?” Andrew demands.
Jean speaks more clearly. “It gets punished. Dogs that bite get punished.”
“So you agree that bad dogs deserve to be punished?”
Jean’s head races.
“Bad dogs get punished,” Andrew repeats. “Yes? Or no, Jean?”
It takes a minute. Jean’s being is focused on the pinpricks of pain from Andrew’s nails, on the pressure on his throat, his chest. The way his heart slams against his ribs at the thoughts, the words.
“Yes.”
Andrew keeps their eyes locked, waits. “Drop the towel, Jean,” he says.
And it’s not that Jean doesn’t want to obey, doesn’t want to make himself vulnerable in the way Andrew tells him to, it’s that he’s not quite sure he can move his fingers. They’ve tangled themselves within the towel, grasping it hard enough that his knuckles now match the fluffy white color. They’re shaking, trembling with his thoughts and anticipation. And god, that really is half the fun of it all, the knowing. Knowing that once, not very long ago, he’d made his boundaries and preferences clear. Knowing that anything that’s going to be done today is for his pleasure and security, his state of mind.
Knowing that his attitude earlier this morning might have gotten him whatever preapproved punishment Andrew has up his sleeve, but at the end of the day, it’s going to do nothing more than add to his ruin.
And that’s what Jean wants more than anything. To be ruined. To be fucked and used, thrown to the wolves and ripped apart. And to be loved.
At the end of it, Jean wants to be loved. To know that after all is said and done, after he’s been chewed up and spat back out, naked and broken and bruised onto the dirty floor, that he’s not any more or less to anyone than the person he was to start. That any pieces now missing from him are ones he gave away willingly. That with a word, with a shake of his head, he could deem something vital. And everyone would see it was.
It’s that special part he shares with Andrew. The knowing that to be ruined isn’t ruining. That to be loved doesn’t just mean the whole of him but all the shattered splinters he’s putting back together.
It’s letting go of the towel because he wants to when he wants to. It’s because Andrew told him to instead of taking it from him that Jean’s able to let go.
The towel hits the hardwood floor with a damp noise but no one’s eyes move to follow it. Jean is naked, it’s not an invitation for Andrew to further take. Not until it is.
Andrew hums approvingly, the soft short praise is music to his ears. He twitches as the pale thumb against his chin taps him twice, breath hitching as the grip loosens, catching again and again in his throat as the hand slides downwards. He’s arching into the touch far before it ever gets where he needs it, chasing little pops and sparks all over his chest and stomach. And when Andrew gets to where Jean craves him most, hand moistened with shower-left dewdrops and charged with built up electricity, Jean’s ready to crumble.
Andrew’s hands are thick and warm. His fingers travel down slowly through the freshly trimmed black curls, cup him gently, press a mostly flaccid penis back against the mass of his body. Jean gasps when Andrew squeezes, just a bit of pressure to let him know Andrew’s holding all of him, as if Jean isn’t very aware of the man’s palm against his shaft or the way the tips of his fingers brush the back of his balls. God, Jean’s so aware of him, of his hands, the way they touch him. The way they caress the soft skin of his most private parts, the way they squeeze and roll and push and pull. Jean’s nothing more than a toy for him.
His cock twitches, seizes in response to the fondling. Begs for more more silently, wet beading at his tip, at the corner of his eyes. He’s rewarded with a pinch, nails sharp and merciless at the base of him.
It hurts, stings. Jean bites down on his bottom lip to aid him through it. His budding erection wanes, blood retreats back up through his veins.
For the first time, Andrew looks down at him, pokes a finger carelessly against the limp muscle. “Punishments aren’t supposed to feel good, Jean,” he says. He pinches Jean again, lighter this time but enough to get the point across.
Jean hisses, splays his hands out on the wall behind him. “You must be out of practice,” he says. “Too used to going too soft on Neil.”
Andrew squeezes, hard and sudden enough to make Jean whine. He squirms, attempt to pull back thwarted by the wall behind him, and ends up with only his toes on the ground for support, the rest of his mass supported by the forearm Andrew’s pushed against his ribs. It’s a crushing sturdy pressure, one that’ll leave his bones sore if it remains for as long as he’d like it to.
“You’ll be well trained by the time Jeremy comes back,” Andrew says. “Promise.”
He lets go, except for the arm holding Jean against the wall. There’s cold metal against Jean’s stomach suddenly, just above his crotch, following the thin line of hair between his abs down down down. He shivers at the contact all the more when its weight takes up the space Andrew’s hand had left.
He’s been straining his neck. Stretching it up and back, making his Adam’s apple dance with the noises he swallows down. He can feel it now that he’s relaxing it, letting his head roll forward to glimpse whatever Andrew has for him.
Jean’s gray eyes land on the shiny silver metal and stay there. The cage is lovely in Andrew’s hand, bars bent gently and artistically instead of something solid or simple. It’s nothing over the top. Not some metalworking masterpiece that belongs in a museum but it’s something extra and Jean can appreciate that. He watches with the same appreciation as Andrew takes it apart, showing Jean every little piece. His breath hitches at the sight of the metal piece held in the middle, thin and bulbous, like a stiff string of pearls.
“Yes or no, Jean?” Andrew asks. He drags the piece with the metal beads over Jean’s dick as he asks. Up and down, pressure against his tip then back up.
“Yes,” Jean breathes out, hisses the word needily.
“Hold yourself up. Don’t move.”
Jean agrees silently but he’s not sure how he’s supposed to stay perched up on his toes while watching Andrew sink to his knees. He wraps his fist around Jean’s shaft, so warm compared to the lube Andrew drips onto him, and starts working him, pulling foreskin back and back until it’s as bundled as it could be around his tip, held in place by nothing more than Andrew’s thumb. Jean shivers, Andrew drips some more lube onto his exposed head, pulls the damned beaded metal rod from his mouth where he’d stashed it while prepping.
The rounded metal edge meets the slit in Jean’s cock, circles once, twice lightly before the pressure comes. The metal warmed by Andrew’s mouth breeches him, Jean gasps, inhales sharply. Feels the toes he’s standing on curl, threaten to let him fall. He feels the second bulb push at him, tiny all things considered, but so is it’s destination. Jean feels them all, gasps and whines as every little bulb pushes against him, urges him open to take more, another, another. When the metal cap finally finally meets his head, cage enclosing him, Jean’s breathing heavier than he thought he would be. He can feel it inside of him, stiff and strong and deep in a way he rarely gets to feel. The end rests pleasantly within him, rubs against the difficult to reach glands and nerves deliciously. Andrew gathers him, lifts his balls upwards and hooks an open ring under him. He’s all bundled together when Andrew looks up at him, loops the tiny heart shaped lock’s shackle into the little ring that holds it all in place.
“Look at me,” Andrew commands.
Jean does so, gray flicks to hazel quickly, easily. Locks into them, won’t dare blink unless Andrew allows it. He hears the soft click of the lock closing in on itself, knows that his pleasure now rests entirely in Andrew’s hands.
It’s so fast, what happens next. One moment, Jean’s pretty sure he’s in love, wrapped in a metal cage, breached open by a delightful mockery of some sinful string of pearls. The next, he’s heading towards the ground. Jean almost curses his own toes before realizing they’ve been knocked out from under him. It’s not because of anything he’s done or failed to do which landed him there against the hardwood. It’s because he wants it. He’s told Andrew before that he wants it. Andrew has told him he’s allowed to want it.
But it’s so easy from his position on the ground to see Riko above him. To hear Riko’s laughter, to prepare for a kick to the ribs or a cold knife against his skin. Maybe it’s been years since then, years since Riko last abused him, years since Ichirou put his own brother down with a bullet in his brain.
There’s hands on him, in his hair that he’d spent so long growing out, on his chin, keeping his face still even though his eyes are distant and wild.
“Look at me,” Andrew commands again.
Jean does so, hates that the eye contact ever stopped in the first place. Hates gravity for having stopped it.
“You are Jean Moreau,” Andrew continues. “You’re a backliner for our stupid professional exy team. You have an apartment that you share with myself, Jeremy, Kevin, and Neil. There’s two cats and we’re all telling Jeremy we can’t have a dog per our lease so we can get him a puppy for his birthday. No one is allowed to hurt you. You are safe. You are loved. Do you remember what to do if you want things to stop?”
Jean swallows down the information. “Yes,” he answers.
Andrew doesn’t roll his eyes but Jean can tell he wants to. “Prove it,” he says instead, “What do you say if you don’t want something?”
Jean takes a moment. “No,” he says.
“And what will I do if you say ‘no’?”
“You’ll stop.”
Andrew’s hands leave his hair, loosen the grip they have on his chin, keeping him steady but not confined. “Every time,” he promises, seals it with a gentle kiss against Jean’s forehead. “Do you want to keep going? Yes or no?”
Jean is safe. Jean is so very loved. So Jean takes the time he needs and says yes only when he’s ready to. When he wants to.
“Yes,” Jean says, “Andrew, Yes.”
His “yes” seems to snag for a minute, catches on the net that is Andrew and hovers for a moment in freefall. Because he’s not the only one in this situation who has a choice, who gets to say “yes” or “no.” It’s not only his consent which matters.
“Follow,” Andrew says without waiting for him, pushes his way into Jean’s room and leaves the door open behind him.
Jean obeys, lifts himself up from the floor where Andrew had tossed him and follows into his own room. He stops next to his dresser, next to Andrew, and doesn’t have to wait for things to continue.
“You’re still in trouble,” Andrew says, pushing down on Jean’s back until he bends. Until his chest touches the dresser top and his nose is squished up against the mirror backing. “But you’re not allowed to forget who’s punishing you.”
The position has him bent a bit awkwardly, moreso as Andrew kicks his feet further apart, but in the mirror Jean can see the appeal, his back bowed and ass upward. He feels the weight of the cage pulling against his cock pleasantly, a constant bit of stimulation dangling between his legs. Admittedly, Jean’s a bit lost in his own face when it happens, gray eyes trailing over his flushed face, over his bitten up bottom lip - had he really gotten all of this just from some soft touches and being caged? From just the reassurance that he was safe and loved? - so he’s a bit unprepared for it all. The quick and sharp smacksmacksmack of Andrew’s palm against his ass stings delightfully, but he’s so much more caught off guard by his own reaction, literally mirrored back at him. Andrew allows him some pause to come to terms with this, pawing and pinching at the skin he fully intends to leave burningly bright red.
It’s a bit of a stupid question, given that it’s only himself and Andrew in the room, but had that been him? In the mirror, had that been him who’s neck had stretched out like that when his head lolled backwards? Had it been his eyelashes that fluttered at the end of it? That had relished in the brief burn and the way Andrew was still petting him?
Fuck.
His eyes snap to Andrew’s in the mirror, watching the knowing pass over the goalie’s pale features.
Oh. Oh, he was so fucked.
Again and again Andrew’s palm strikes his ass, skin growing more and more sensitive with every hit, brighter and brighter against the rest of him. He can see it in the mirror somewhat, how the red of his ass nearly matched the heat on his face. Even if it’s difficult with how close he’d ended up to it. Every solid smack sends him forward little by little, rocking his body in the same way it forces his cock to move, swaying between his legs. He’s dripping. From his eyes, tears gathering at his cheek squished against the mirror. From his pores, hot sticky sweat runs down his neck, the back of his knees and down his legs in some poor attempt to help cool him. Drool gathers at his jawline, drips from him in strings.
Had he ever been this wet before? He wasn’t hard, couldn’t be hard in the cage Andrew had him in but god he can feel it. Can feel precum oozing from him, sliding down through the bubbled tube Andrew has locked inside him, free to drip into his carpet or splat against his stomach with particularly hard hits.
“Oh, ooh,” Jean moans from his thoughts alone. His legs tremble with Andrew’s laugh, face flushes at the realization.
“All this for me,” Andrew whispers. “I’ve barely even touched you.”
And that was embarrassing, knowing that Andrew had him crumbling with the light touches gifted over hot sensitive skin. Had him moaning at his own thoughts from just a few fingers that hadn’t even been inside of him. Hadn’t reached between his legs since dragging him to the bedroom, hadn’t stroked or fondled or teased.
Andrew smacks him once more with his hand before withdrawing it completely. Pulling away both his pain and the gentle touches. Jean shivers at the absence but takes the break for what it is, a second to breathe, to readjust into a position more comfortable. He pulls back from the mirror, from the wet marks he’s left there and would have to clean up later.
“Yes or no?” Andrew asks his mirror.
He leaks at the sight of it, at he leather flogger Andrew holds for his inspection.
“Yes,” Jean says, hisses the word out again when the ends feather against his skin.
Andrew hits him. Over and over the strands crack against Jean’s ass, leave bright red lines cross hatching until Jean feels something break. He’s been leaking steadily for a while now, tears pulled to his eyes from the way his flesh burns but it’s a particularly hard hit that swings his moans to a sob, drives breathy pleasurable whines into crying. His legs give out under him and Andrew understands it’s a no before he even gets to say anything.
All at once hands are off of him, the only touch present a hand guiding his head down onto the dresser instead of allowing Jean to crack against it. Even that withdraws once Jean is safe.
For quite a while, Andrew lets it go, lets Jean be a pitiful pile of himself against his dresser as he works through whatever it is that broke within him. He sits on Jean’s bed and waits for Jean to come to him if he wants to.
Andrew hasn’t moved when Jean returns to himself. He’s still there on Jean’s bed, leant back on his elbows with one leg neatly folded over the other at the knee. He’s got Jean in the corner of his vision but his thumb clicks away at the free Tetris game on his phone. He doesn’t move when Jean does. Doesn’t turn his head to him, doesn’t flick his eyes towards the movement, but Jean feels his boyfriend’s attention as he always does, heavy and sudden, like being taken by a wave. Like being slammed into by a wall of water and dragged under. Rolled and tossed to the whims of the world. Whether he ever breathes again is no longer his choice, the air he pulls deeply into his lungs then and there is because Andrew allows it.
His body twitches and shivers against the dresser. Phantom strikes of the flogger adore his skin, the memory of Andrew’s hands ghost over his shoulders, tighten on his neck. His cock meekly protests its jailing. He looks to Andrew, lulls his head to look at the man he’s drooling over.
The phone chimes and Andrew does not look away from it even when he beckons. Two fingers curl towards himself, a single quick motion out and back into his palm, and Jean is crawling the short distance across to the new opening Andrew’s made for him between his legs.
Andrew puts on a lazy show for him. The hand unoccupied with Tetris rubs the crotch of his dark jeans, thick fingers draw back and forth, tracing the seam there, the denim zipper cover. He circles the metal of the button holding it all together, the gift wrapping that’s kept Andrew’s straining dick obedient this whole time.
Jean’s breath hitches when it all comes undone with a pop. He watches Andrew’s hand approach him, watches his thumb catch on the zipper to undo it. Andrew’s pants are dragged down until the waistband hugs his thick midthighs. Only then does Andrew reach out to tangle up Jean’s hair, guiding him closer. His senses fill with Andrew. The feeling of dark damp denim against his face, the deep musk of Andrew’s interest knit into the stitching. With Andrew’s direction, Jean presses his nose against the fabric and inhales until he’s dizzy. Blindly, he reaches out with his tongue, searching desperately for any droplets that might have made it through the barrier of Andrew’s boxer. The hand leaves his hair but Jean remains where it’s placed him. Greedily, he breathes and licks, drinks from the well of life like a man dying of dehydration. His head and lungs and being fills with Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
He doesn’t stop until he’s made to, Andrew pulls him from his self imposed drowning in the denim to a better treat. He slides Jean’s face alongside his newly freed cock, spreads his sticky leaking arousal over the side of his face carelessly. Jean’s eyes flutter closed. His mouth hangs agape in silent worship, lips quivering when they brush against warm rigid flesh. Breathing degrades to gasping. The sudden flood of Andrew’s interest directly into his senses renders him limp and boneless.
“Make yourself useful while you’re down there,” Andrew directs. He’s not taken his attention away from his Tetris game, hasn’t looked at Jean once. Jean feels himself wilt under the easy disregard, but another part of him surges at it. He’ll make Andrew pay attention to him. He’ll be useful. He’ll do whatever it takes to just get those honey brown eyes looking at him and only him.
Andrew leaves his head resting against his pelvis, leaves his dick throbbing on top of Jean’s nose, splitting his face diagonally. It’s close enough that Jean’s tongue can reach it easily. The wet muscle presses flat against the shaft, drags up in a long tasting lick. Andrew’s juice gathers on his tongue. He laps it up slowly, gathers every drop he can to puddle in his mouth and releases his control over it from there. Whether it slides down his throat or drips from the corner of his lips is of no importance to him. He wants both. Coated with the very essence of Andrew inside and out. Fully undoubtedly, completely claimed.
Kevin and Jeremy will return from their date to him like this. Will investigate the wet desperate noises coming from his room and find him just as he is now, Andrew’s own personal whore, kneeling at the altar he’s created between his knees. He won’t stop at the intrusion. He’ll worship openly, slurping sloppy and messy at a piece of flesh in which he’s found god. He’ll survive solely on the sweet nectar Andrew blesses upon him. Every second of his life working to prove he’s earned it. His life will stop and start with Andrew’s gaze upon him. His breath will grace his lungs when Andrew allows it, the only air he’s allowed hot and heavy with the sweat gathered in Andrew’s pubic hair. If they pull him from Andrew, Jean will dive back in head first.
He whines at the loss when Andrew’s hand interrupts, wrapping around his treat and effectively cutting him off.
“Open,” Andrew commands and Jean’s lower jaw hangs limply before he’s even finished speaking. He slaps his cock against Jean’s stretched cheek thrice, encourages precum to drip and splatter and mark until enough has built to leave a trail behind. Sticky love glistens in a web over Jean’s skin. Andrew simply adds another strand when he guides himself to Jean’s open waiting lips.
It’s just the tip at first, Andrew’s fat head breaching his mouth. It’s gifted to him slowly, fed it in just to be taken. The wet pop echoes about the room, stains blue walls and soaks into the carpet beneath them. When his hand flees back to the free Tetris game, Andrew’s cockhead is left pleasantly stretching out Jean’s lips.
He sucks lightly at first. Drools and slobbers over his prize before fully claiming it, sinking down as far as he can without gagging. His tongue dances over fat healthy veins, swirls around and around with meticulous studious effort.
His jaw already aches when he’s pulling back. Andrew’s penis is nothing to scoff at, thick and heavy and gorgeous just like the goalkeeper himself. He’s all sugar and icing like the sweets he stuffs into himself. Jean will savor every last succulent bite.
Knowing it’ll only benefit them both in the long run, Jean pulls back, dragging his tongue and sucking the entire way. When he reaches it, Jean mouths at the tiny slit, lips and tongue and oh so lightly teeth coaxing more of Andrew’s sweet syrup forth.
He’s jealous all of a sudden. His tongue flicks hard against the little opening, does it again just to be a brat. Andrew is so free before him. Easy and uncaring as Jean sucks his dick. Andrew’s cock is withheld only by Jean’s warm wet mouth. No steel cage holds him, no metal tube pries him open, leaves him exposed and leaking. Andrew will cum when he wants to, Jean will readily help him get there. In return he’ll be left hot and wet and wanting.
Jean sinks back down with a whine, tries to fill every nook and cranny with Andrew’s cock as he takes him deeper. Storm colored eyes roll at the sensations as he bobs and swallows, feels the head press against the entrance to his throat but not breach it. He’s toying with himself in such a way when Andrew shifts, stretches a leg out and up so that it’s caught between Jean’s thighs. Carefully, lightly, Andrew kicks out, bumps against him in such a way where his shin taps against Jean’s captive cock.
One tiny movement and it’s enough to send Jean reeling. He gasps at the feeling, unintentionally sending himself forward to choke and gag on Andrew’s penis. His eyes burn at the stretch, at the way Andrew sends his vision nearly right up into his skull. Pitifully, Jean whimpers and, not yet ready to lose the high, ruts forward to chase the feeling again.
He’s had his prostate touched before. Having four boyfriends has the benefit of numbers and at least one of them was going to find it eventually. He counts himself oh so very lucky that the four have well acquainted themselves with his body, enough so that he hardly goes without these days. But rare are the times in which he has it stimulated from this side. In which his partners take the time and careful steps needed for urethral play. The tiny metal bulb pets him deliciously. Nudges, bumps, and rubs and rubs and rubs. Vibrant sparks travel his spine and firework out through his nerves.
Jean’s sure that he’s in love. With Andrew, with the sounding rod inside of him, with the dick in his mouth, with Neil and Kevin and Jeremy and the world. He’ll prove his love here and now, whatever they want, whatever they need. As long as the pleasure raging inside him never ever stops.
Tight fingers in his hair pull him both back to reality and off Andrew’s cock. He despairs silently at the loss. As the hard and delicate muscle is pulled from him inch after beautiful inch until it’s gone.
Jean can’t bring himself to close his lips. His jaw limp, mouth open and useless to him. Fluids flood from him, race down his cheeks and chin to drip and dribble onto Andrew’s pelvis. Tears and snot and drool and precum puddling in one indeterminate mess.
Amusement runs wild and rampant in Andrew’s honeyed eyes. He allows the emotion this time, if only because he’s sure Jean, if able to actually see anything at all with the blissed out faraway look in his eyes, won’t be able to process the sight, let alone remember it any time later. He ends his game with a snap of the phone’s lid down onto itself.
“Stay here,” he instructs, maneuvering Jean’s head to rest against his thigh. It’s far enough from him to coax Jean into a breathing break but he tries all the same. The same French tongue that spews out curses and insults in hot heated hate searches for him now. Stretches and reaches for more. Just one more lick. One more touch. One more taste.
Andrew’s correction is a soft but stern: “No.” Something solid but gentle for Jean to hang onto while he finds himself. While Andrew takes advantage of his elevated state to steal one of the good cigarette’s Jean hides away in his bedside table.
He fishes his lighter out of his pants pocket, takes the time to pet Jean’s cheek resting overtop of it on the way back out.
Jean’s eyes never leave his face. He’s enthralled by the little movements, the way the cigarette bounces with a flick of the tongue behind it. The attention demanding click of the lighter, the growing glowing bud of the cherry as Andrew breathes life through it. In. Out.
The smoke from his second drag curls in front of Jean’s face. Hot whisps of nicotine burn his eyes, leaves them red and watery but it’s practically unnoticeable with the state Jean’s already in. He’s a mess in Andrew’s lap, face wet and dripping, fresh paint on a newly stretched canvas.
Jean’s beautiful like this. Andrew won’t speak the words into existence but he thinks it. Knows it. Jean has been beautiful from the start. A beautiful boy someone had broken the bones and skin of in an attempt to reach his soul. He’d shone in spite of the starvation, the bruises. The hot unending fires of a star, once made small and distant, now a sun. He glows now, more brilliant and brighter with each step forward.
Andrew breathes in a drag and reaches for him. Sets fingertips firmly on the pudge in his cheeks to pull him upwards, leads him until their lips are leveled and he’s tonguing smoke into his Frenchman’s mouth.
“Andrew,” Jean sighs into his mouth.
He’s rewarded with a growl, a hand grips his ass and manhandles him into sitting. The cigarette is back between Andrew’s lips to free his hands. It’s only for a moment though, they’re occupied with Jean’s legs soon enough, spreading his thighs out to encompass his own.
“Oh, Andrew.”
It’s the first time he’s managed to look away from Andrew’s face, attention pulled to where their dicks meet. Where the tiniest amount of steel keeps Jean from meeting Andrew fully. He can still feel the heat that radiates off Andrew through the thin metal bars and swirls but the friction he desperately needs feels ever so far from him.
“Andrew,” he babbles, begs. Whines. “Andrew, I need to cum so bad. Andrew. Andrew. Touch me, s’il vous plaît, touch me, touch me, touch me.”
It's nowhere near enough. Andrew wraps his big hand around Jean’s trapped cock and doesn’t touch his skin at all. His thumb circles the tip of him, follows the rounded edges that keep the sound from disappearing into him completely with a bitten short nail.
Jean’s hands move. There’s sweet delicious pressure inside of him, building more and more each time the beads flick across his prostrate. He grabs at himself, fingers digging into his cheeks while his teeth bite down on his lips. The self inflicted pain is his last wall, the single still holding thread that keeps him from full on crying.
He could cum from this, he thinks. Caged and so far from the searing heat of Andrew. It could be the only chance he has. Andrew is cold and unrelenting on a good day. If he has decided that Jean will not cum then he’s screwed and not in the way that he’d like.
He’s closest to crying when Andrew removes his hand. When Andrew attempts to remove him from his lap entirely.
At his protests, Andrew stops. Stills enough for Jean to shuffle back just in time to get a face full of smoke. His eyes may flutter and his brain may fog over but he still notices when Andrew taps the ashes off to fall into his carpet.
“Jean,” Andrew says. His voice is bored. His cock is not. Hard and hot and throbbing when Jean ruts against it. “Be a good dog and get on the floor for me. Kevin and Jeremy can have you when I’m done.”
It’s enough. Kevin and Jeremy will be much kinder, will be much easier to sway into giving him what he wants. Andrew will ruin him like he craves. Kevin and Jeremy will be the balm after.
Andrew guides him back down, there’s a hand tangled in his hair pushing slightly. Jean’s own trace Andrew’s legs all the way down.
The hand in his hair guides his head back and back until he opens his mouth, allows his jaw to hang and his lips to part. Andrew takes himself in hand, strokes himself twice before taking it to Jean’s mouth. Precum coats his lips like gloss, tracing and circling over the plump flesh as Andrew admires him.
“I’m going to fuck your mouth,” Andrew says, presses just enough for Jean to get a little taste. “You’re going to focus on remembering how to breathe. When you’re done being a good fleshlight for me, I’ll let the others have a turn.”
Jean moans at the words or starts to. The start is enough of a confirmation for Andrew and their previously discussed boundaries. It’s enough for Andrew to recognize that his words are wanted, that he is welcome to give Jean everything he has and more.
None of them like the old rumors that Jean is a slut, a pretty toy to be fucked and wrecked and used. That doesn’t mean that the rumors aren’t true though. At least when Jean is safe and comfortable. Jean will be as much of a whore as the public once believed and more, as long as it’s on his own terms.
Andrew is immediately cruel to him. He feeds his cock into Jean’s mouth with no amount of the previous patience shown when playing with him. When he finds resistance at the opening of Jean’s throat, he simply rolls his hips back to thrust himself in harder, jerking Jean’s head forward in a single swift movement to sheath himself within Jean fully.
Jean’s eyes roll up and backwards into his head. The dick in his mouth is suffocating. His throat convulses against the intrusion. The girth of Andrew strains his jaw and cuts off his airways but the hand in his hair keeps his lips flush with the pale pelvis, keeps his nostrils buried within the wiry forest of hair.
He’s going to puke. Jean can feel it building. Mucus drips from him, pools within his mouth where it cannot escape and seeps from his eyes and nose instead. A desperate rush from his sinuses to flush his system as if the problem lies somewhere within himself.
It’s a disgusting dripping mess when Andrew pulls back. Jean pulls air back into his lungs desperately, pants and heaves until he no longer feels on the edge of a cliff. Andrew looks down at him the entire time, keeps his hand firmly twisted in long dark curls while Jean pulls himself together.
When he’s ready, Jean simply opens his mouth again.
It’s easier after the first time. Andrew doesn’t keep himself in as long, pulling Jean back and forth, his dick in and out as Jean leaks and only remembers to breathe. Tears and snot and spit gather at his chin to drip from him. He’s beautiful, but doesn’t manage to hear Andrew tell him so. His mind is blessedly quiet and blank, like a good cock sheath should be.
The fat veins along Andrew’s shaft rub against his tongue again and again. His head bounces somewhere deep within Jean’s throat, reaches and presses and stretches parts of him so rarely blessed in such a way.
This, Jean feels more than thinks to himself, this is bliss. This is his purpose, his lot in life. Andrew’s penis fucking into his mouth is the divine and each mixed drop of himself and Jean is salvation. He doesn’t need to breathe. Jean will survive on Andrew and Andrew alone.
A particularly rough and deep thrust that’s meant to be a warning is lost on the Frenchman beneath him. Jean’s haze remains when the hypnotizing rhythm of Andrew’s thrusts break into something fast and erratic and desperate. Holds firm even when Andrew’s cumming inside him, both hands holding tight to Jean’s hair and head. Keeps his mouth kissed against Andrew’s pelvis as his throat takes spurt after spurt of Andrew’s thick hot cum.
It gathers, builds and overflows. Mixes with the drool and spit to spill from him. Strings of it remain when Andrew removes himself, keeping the twitching spent tip close to Jean’s outstretched and limp tongue.
For a moment, Andrew simply admires his work. Watches Jean’s breath return to him, the cum and spit bubbles with it. When he’s able to unwind his fingers from now knotted locks, Andrew moves his hands to hold Jean’s face, to cup his wet and sticky cheeks and look . To admire the flushed empty face as if it were a painting, each glistening perfectly placed by the same hands that carved people out of marble, the same artists whose work adorned the ceilings of chapels, whose lives stilled between the walls of Le Louvre. He ruins it all with a sweep of his thumb. Pulls paint from the canvas of Jean to slather it over an already coated tongue.
He tilts Jean’s head backwards and easily meets the sweet empty gaze. One hand returns to Jean’s hair to brush strands back and out of his face, then rises to snuff and discard what little remains of the stolen cigarette.
Andrew leans down close enough for Jean to feel his breath land against his ear and throat, hot and heavy with smoke and sex. The words meet his skin like a kiss, curl and caress like a searching claiming tongue.
“Swallow, Jean,” Andrew says and Jean wastes absolutely no time in doing so. It settles deep in his stomach like a promise, leaves his thoughts sweet and body shivering. “Whatever Kevin and Jeremy plan to do with you, they will not take me from you. They can’t. No matter how hard they might try.”
Distantly, Jean can feel his body moving. Cloth brushes against his back and bare shoulders before Andrew’s hand is once again holding him up. He feels plastic press against his lips, allows their parting once more for the cool welcome rush of water into his system. He empties the bottle before Andrew takes it from him, heaves a deep and shaky breath back into himself when he’s done and feels a little more present by the end of it. It’s only when he’s able to verbally respond that Andrew deems it safe to leave him, to dart across the hall and return with a dampened wash cloth. His face is cleaned dutifully and silently. He drifts in Andrew’s gentle care and feels loved. Feels it all the more so when he fully wakes again to find Andrew still present and there. When Andrew doesn’t need to meet his eyes to know just where he is and what he’s ready for.
“Kevin and Jeremy got back about an hour ago,” Andrew allows. It helps Jean with his sense of time, provides him with the delightful sense of options. The smallest metal key is set gently on Jean’s stomach. It's heavy with the assurance that Jean is free to pick, is always allowed to make his own choices. He shivers at the feelings, at the idea of Kevin and Jeremy taking time out of their date day just so he can cum. Is he really that greedy? That desperate and wanting of a whore?
“I want them,” Jean tries his best not to whine out. A bead of precum slips out of him, runs down over his skin and the bars of his cage. He swallows whatever remains of his pride and lets himself be as much the slut he wants to be. The side of himself Andrew helps him feel safe to be. Jean draws his legs back to himself, spreads himself open and rolls his hips up into nothing but the air. After all, does he really need to cum when he could be fucked and used and at the end of the day absolutely loved by the same people who’d tried to ruin him and let him know they never could.
“Andrew, will you let them use me?” Jean asks, already knowing the answer. ”Will you share me? I want to show them what a good toy you made of me.”