Work Text:
…So how the fuck did they end up here?
It’s three in the afternoon on a regular weekday, Jean’s supposed to be at his desk, filing whatever report it is that Kitsuragi’s asked of him. Instead he has his back pressed against one of many dusty shelves of the evidence room -- did they even lock the door? -- his hand on Harry’s shoulder, not sure whether to pull him in or push him away because -- Harry’s mouth is on his.
It’s not a gentle kiss. Jean wouldn’t let it be. There’s too much history between them, and Jean doesn’t think he could be gentle even if he physically tried. So he bites Harry’s lower lip.
Harry laughs, bright and warm. It’s *different*. It’s been so long since Martinaise, and Jean still hasn’t gotten used to the warmth. It’s stupid, it’s not like they haven’t done it before Harry’s amnesia, amongst drunken nights and drunken fights --
-- He doesn’t allow himself to think about it any longer. He takes the opportunity to lick into Harry’s mouth instead, and now they’re properly kissing, great, weren’t they arguing about -- the case? The last person to use the coffee machine? The pile of reports on Harry’s desk that he hasn’t deigned to grace with his presence yet? There are too many things they banter over these days, sincere or otherwise -- and it’s hard to focus when Harry’s sucking his face off, his tongue tracing the inner contours of Jean’s mouth. Jean could hear the wet sounds of their kissing, Harry’s moan vibrating between their lips, a little noise from himself in response.
When Jean breaks the kiss, he’s breathless and panting.
“…The fuck were we talking about again?”
Harry gets this annoyingly smug look on his face -- ugh, he’s going to take it as something like ‘I kissed you so well you forgot a whole conversation’.
“What do you think?” He throws the question back at Jean.
“I think you’re full of shit as usual, so tell me what type of shit you’re on today.”
For a moment, Harry actually considers. Then he just shrugs and says, “I don’t remember.”
“What--“
Jean’s immediately derailed by Harry kissing his cheek, then worrying his earlobe with the slightest hint of teeth, and down, trailing kisses on the bare expanses of his skin. The next sound that comes out of Jean is a shaky breath. His grip tightens on Harry’s shoulder, head tilted back to offer himself up.
This is extremely unprofessional. And it shouldn’t even be hot, fucking in the evidence locker, surrounded by decades’ worth of unwanted bloodstained shit, smelling dust in his nostrils and hearing the constant fluorescent buzz, the faint chatter of the silk mill outside. But Jean’s not stopping Harry either, he’s pressing a knee between Harry’s legs and Harry’s muffling a sound -- surprised, heated -- into the skin of Jean’s throat, feeling Jean up through his shirt, hand sliding downward to fumble with the fly of his trousers.
…Though it’s hard to undo Jean’s pants when Harry has most of his attention on slobbering over Jean’s neck like a dog.
Jean scoffs, impatient, slipping his own hand down there to join the action. “If you want to do this, at least be quick about it--”
“Fuck off, I'm getting there--“
“Yeah? M’ gonna die of blue balls over here.”
“You wouldn’t if you’d just stop moving around and-- there we go--“
Harry finally unzips the fly and shoves his hand down Jean’s boxers -- Jean jerks his head back, bumping into the shelf -- the skin contact is direct and sudden as Harry palms him roughly. It’s dry and slightly unpleasant, but that does it for Jean, fuck, he’s pent up. His voice has taken on a rugged edge as he moans, “Shit, Harry--“
That grin on Harry cannot be more insufferable with the way Jean just called his name like a porno cliche. “Yeah, baby?”
“Shut the fuck up-- ah, fuck--“ Another whine slips from his throat as Harry begins to jerk him, too much too fast, but they’ve never kept things slow when it comes to flings like these. Harry laughs.
“Come on, you wanted this the entire day we were arguing.”
“Oh, it’s not like--“ Jean rocks his thigh against Harry, hard. It’s particularly satisfying when Harry groans low in his throat, as he grinds into Jean, and oh, they’re fucking each other up now, chasing their own pleasure. “It’s not like you weren’t rock hard sitting at your desk, chit-chatting with the *love of your life*--“
“You also get hard talking with the love of my life. He’s your boyfriend.”
Jean’s not even sure if *boyfriend* is the right word. He has no idea what his thing with Kitsuragi is, what this thing between the three of them is. He’s leaning heavily against the shelves now, held up by Harry’s hand on his waist, saying, “Not on the job he’s not--“
“You know what I think he would really like?” Harry interrupts him with that glint in his eyes that always screams shitkid levels of trouble. Jean hears warning sirens.
“Harry--“
“I think he’d like this. Fucking in the precinct.”
What, Kitsuragi, humping Harry -- or him -- in the evidence locker, the way they’re doing it, like a dog in heat? Jean can’t tell if he’s appalled or aroused. They shouldn’t be desecrating the good lieutenant this way, god knows he’s probably somewhere in the bullpen wondering where they are, and Jean doubts that Kitsuragi would ever get this desperate anyway -- but the imagery is vivid in his mind, and he can feel himself twitch in Harry’s tugging hand, so it’s -- okay, it’s fucking hot.
“You liked that,” Harry’s eyes light up.
Jean doesn’t deny it. “What the fuck, Harry.”
“No, Vic, listen,” Harry leans in, his breath in Jean’s ear as he continues pumping Jean -- Jean doesn’t think Harry even remembers their escapades long past, but Harry’s doing it the way that gets him shaking, lightly scraping the underside of the head, and Jean knows he’s not going to last long --
“Kim, between us, right now. I can hold him, and you can jerk him off. He’ll protest, talk about how inappropriate this is; but he’ll stay anyway, trying to muffle himself, because someone might hear, and he loves that. The thrill of it.”
How does Harry sound so *sure*? Jean can’t help it, he’s bucking into Harry’s fist, imagining it. Kim, caught between the two of them, cargo pants shucked down to his knees, head in Jean’s chest as he shivers from Jean’s ministrations, he would be chewing the two of them out if he weren’t busy biting back his little noises; and Harry’s behind him, holding him tight in his embrace, talking in the lieutenant's ear as he’s doing to Jean right now--
“Or--” Harry’s getting into it now, whispering conspiratorially, and Jean finds himself clinging to every word. “He might not. He’ll stand by, uninterested, while we’re doing this. But you’ll know he’s watching, because his ears will blush, and he’ll glance over once in a while--”
“Fuck--”
Jean has his eyes scrunched shut now, rocking in tandem with Harry’s motions, he’s so fucking close. Maybe Kim really is here, standing at the door, acting all dispassionate to the scene in front of him: Harry’s crowding Jean against the shelves, lazily grinding on Jean’s leg while stroking him hard and fast; and Jean knows what he must look like, all flushed and ruffled up, holding onto Harry like a lifeline. What would Kitsuragi think? Would Jean catch a glimpse of his dark eyes staring, pupils blown behind his lenses? Would he talk Jean through the pleasure, like Harry? Or -- if Kitsuragi were a less inhibited man -- would he touch himself to the view?
“Yeah, that’s it,” Harry murmurs in a rough cadance, “He’ll step out so fast once we’re done with it, but that night you’ll hear all about it when he drags you home--“
“Harry--”
“Yeah? You’re thinking about him now?”
“How could I not, you fucking asshole,” Jean chokes on a laugh that morphs into a gasp. “I’m so--“
“I know,” Harry says, “Come on.”
Jean’s orgasm floods him. He’d slide to the floor if Harry weren’t propping him up, still whispering dirty nothings in his ear, and Jean hears himself answering with gasps and groans, panting Harry’s name and *Kim’s* name, as he comes all over Harry’s hand…
When Jean finally comes to, Harry has the most shit-eating grin plastered on his face. In fact, Jean doesn’t think he has stopped grinning since the start.
“You good?”
“Mmngh.” Jean says eloquently. He thumps his head into the crook of Harry’s neck.
Harry takes the chance to ruffle Jean’s hair. Honestly, it feels good. “I’d take that as a yes. That was hot.”
“Ugh,” Jean mumbles against Harry’s shoulder. “You’re just being a pervert. I don’t know what Kitsuragi would say to this.”
“Mhm.” Harry sounds pleased.
In post-coital clarity, Jean’s feeling the cooling stickiness on his crotch, hearing the commotion outside: the world is slowly coming back to him. He’s still in the precinct, it’s three in the afternoon and he’s supposed to --
Jean jerks away. He points at Harry accusatorially. “We were arguing about that fucking report that Kits asked me about!”
At least now Harry has the decency to look mildly abashed. “Ahaha… so now he remembers.”
“Weren’t you supposed to file it -- what, a week ago?”
“Um, yeah.”
Jean glares at Harry, unimpressed. “You cannot seriously have dragged me into the evidence locker because you wanted to distract me with sex.”
“Hey! I have sex with you because I love you. The distraction is just a sweet, sweet bonus.” Harry winks.
Jean doesn’t even pause when Harry says the l-word now, kudos to him. He just huffs. “Nope. Distraction over. You’re going back out there and actually doing the work.“
“But-- “
Harry doesn’t get to finish that sentence. Because the next second, a *click* sounds in the direction of the door -- who the fuck?
Harry freezes. Jean swivels his head towards the sound--
Kitsuragi stands at the doorway, hand still on the handle. Notably, there’s an *emotion* on his perpetually inexpressive face -- his eyes are very, very wide.
Jean has never been more aware of the fact that his dick is in Harry’s hand. They speak over each other--
“Uh, hey, Kim--“
“Lieutenant--“
With a loud thud, Kitsuragi slams the door shut behind him. They both shut up again. For a moment, the three of them just stare at each other like this is the world’s most pitiful dick measuring contest.
Eventually, Kitsuragi speaks carefully. “…Detectives. I was looking for you.”
Jean miraculously finds his voice. “…Kitsuragi.”
“Hi, Kim,” Harry sounds properly embarrassed now. Funny, if Jean were the one to catch Harry in the act, Harry would just drag him along for the ride. “Um. It’s not what you think it is?”
“I’m more than sure that this is exactly what I think it is.” Kitsuragi says.
“Right.” Harry nods.
Kitsuragi nods in response, proceeds to remove his glasses, and takes his time wiping them clean with a handkerchief.
It’s their cue to tidy up. While Harry seems perfectly content just leaning into Jean, Jean isn’t sure whether to tuck himself in or to dig a hole into the ground and bury himself. He chooses the former.
Good thing when Kitsuragi puts on his glasses again, his face has mostly returned to its impassive state. His gaze is as sharp as ever when he turns to Jean and says, “Vicquemare. I’ll need that incident report by five.”
Jean resigns with great tragedy to file the report himself. “…Okay.”
“And…” A crack shows in the facade of Kitsuragi’s mask as he purses his lips, scanning the two of them. His eyes linger. “I would advise the two of you to…clean up, before you return to work.”
“Of course, Kim.” Harry agrees.
It’s now that Jean notices: Kitsuragi’s ears are bright red.
“Good. Then…I’ll be going.”
Kitsuragi adjusts the lapels of his jacket. And then, with a swish of orange, he’s gone as he came.
Harry’s attitude does a 180 the moment the door clicks shut.
“Did you see? Kim’s flustered.” He’s practically vibrating with excitement.
Jean thinks not with little fondness to the blush on Kitsuragi’s ears. Still, he says, “I didn’t see shit, Harry, my dick was in your hand.”
“You have much to learn, Vic.” A dreamy expression settles over Harry’s face. Jean could see Harry’s lungs glowing, it’s that sappy.
“Yeah, whatever, I’m getting out of here.” Jean grumbles, straightening up and smoothing his clothes down. He needs to sit the fuck down to recover from the orgasm, the post-orgasm, and whatever the fuck that was. “I’m filing your damn report. Thank me.”
“Wait, wait-- “ Harry grabs Jean by the wrist.
When Jean looks at Harry -- Harry, this ridiculous dog of a man, is staring at Jean with those puppy eyes, gesturing to the situation at his crotch with the other hand that’s still coated in Jean’s --
“What, you’re not gonna help me out?”
Jean narrows his eyes at Harry. “No.”
Harry is batting his eyelashes at Jean. “C’mon, haven’t you heard of equivalent exchange?”
“You-- “ Jean can laugh from the absurdity of it. He shakes his head, planning to tell him to go jerk it in the toilet, or hold it off until he gets home, he’s not helping Harry either way…
Then -- he thinks of something, and just smiles at Harry.
“Why don’t you go hitch a ride home with Kim tonight?”