Archive of Our Own

Jean keeps tapping his foot, as he takes a drag of his last cigarette before the evening on Trant’s balcony.

He is nervous.

Very nervous.

He will not admit it of course, but his body is fluttering with excitement and uncertainty.

When he finally approached Trant with a certain hidden desire of his after a particularly difficult week, he regretted it the moment it had left his mouth. It seemed so pathetic and so unnatural.

Trant’s eyes gleamed, slightly predatory, but the kiss that followed was gentle. “I thought you would never ask, and I am so, so glad and grateful you came to me. That you trust me. Of course, Jean.”

It was a response to an offer Trant gave him after some time they started dating. It requires trust, especially on Jean’s part, and Trant was in no rush. But seeing Jean being put down again and again by the circumstances of his life and work, hurt him. He wanted to do more than just helping him get up and realize that there’s more to life than dead bodies, cruelty, mud, and depression.

A happier life and love?

That they were giving progressively more freely to each other.

Breathless moments, the grounding of their touch, the confirmation of their own existence?

That too.

But Trant wanted to give him more.

He observed Jean often after their happier moments and saw those shades of darkness across Jean’s face, creasing his brow. His brain was always trying to pull him back to the murky waters, not used to the feeling of joy.

Every time, Trant tried to kiss it away, but it was not that easy. Together with medication, it required time.

And therapy.

And hard work.

But Trant wanted to do more than that.

He approached it one day, after their moment together in bed, when they calmed down, and Jean held Trant close.

As he was watching the younger detective’s chest slowing down, he propped his head on one hand and cleared his throat.

“Jean?”

“Yea?” Jean turned his head, realizing that Trant is watching him. “Oh no. What is it this time?” He couldn’t stop the smile creeping up his face seeing Trant’s own. “You look like you want to give me a damn lecture about something.”

Trant laughed. “No, not that. I would like to offer you something.”

Jean turned to him fully, now intrigued. Trant could see how his body, especially his torso was still glistening with sweat, and for a moment he regretted that he didn’t have a round two in him.

But he had a task to fulfil. “Hear me out first, please. Do you remember how we discussed the necessity of grounding? And how you would like to work on it, so that you could quiet down the disconcerting intrusive thoughts?”

Jean groaned. “Why you’re bringing that up now? We’ve just had sex. Don’t ruin it with my fucked-up brain.”

Trant shook his head, still uneasy sometimes with Jean’s self-deprecating remarks. “Well… that’s exactly why I am bringing that up. I would like to try and shut down those thoughts for you, if only for a while.”

That got Jean’s attention, and he raised his eyebrow at Trant - everyone is taking after Lieutenant Kitsuragi, Trant couldn’t help but remark dryly in his head. “And how exactly would you do that? Without alcohol and drugs? Some hypnosis shit? Magic?” he wiggled his fingers forcing a smirk out of Trant, matching his own.

“No, no, nothing like that.” Suddenly, he felt awkward. He’s not that used to talk about his own emotions, let alone someone else’s. He cleared his throat again, gathering his thoughts.

“I have noticed… that during sex you sometimes enjoy overstimulation.” He immediately sees Jean growing hot in his face. He feels the red too. “A bit of denial. More sensitivity. I was… thinking-“ Rather extensively, haven’t you, Heidelstam. And not exactly appropriately, have you? “- I was thinking that… I could give you that. Get you to the point when your brain cannot construct those intrusive thoughts for you.”

Jean went very still at these words, his heart thrumming loudly in his ears. He couldn’t even deny Trant’s statements, he could be quite obvious when chasing his desires.

He wanted to be flooded with shame, reject what Trant was saying, dismissing it.

But his time with Trant did show him that his lover out of all people does not judge. He hadn’t judged him once.

On the contrary, he has already seen Jean through his worse moments, both before and during their relationship. And he stayed anyway.

And here Trant was, obviously thinking about Jean, about his desires, about how he could help him, while feeling awkward.

“How would you do that?” he whispered, concentrating on Trant’s face, searching for anything in his blue eyes.

Trant wanted to exhale in relief. Good, Jean didn’t immediately kick him out of bed and laughed at him. He reached into the certain fantasies that he’s been exploring and tried to construct them as reasonably as possible.

He should probably open the window. It was getting too hot in here.

“I… edging and denial require sensitive but deliberate touch. Slow. It requires complete safety and trust. Were you give me that trust, I was…” he shifted awkwardly, his blood pouring down to his lower regions, “I was thinking about tying you down.”

Jean’s breath hitched slightly. Trant immediately touched him on his arm, a calming gesture. “It’s just a suggestion; you don’t have to-” He mentally kicked himself, suddenly not knowing how to react, berating himself for even bringing it up.

“You would want that?”

Trant didn’t expect these words. Perhaps he was not too straightforward.

He looked Jean in the eyes, and while there was a bit of awkwardness, and embarrassment, there was also a clear want.

Oh, he liked that. He liked that a lot. He probably thought about it too. Trant didn’t dare to hope too soon. He swallowed.

“Yes. I would want to try that. I have some ideas. I want to push those thoughts out of your head, to make you feel good, really good.” He couldn’t stop now. “To make you breathless, just making you feel, feel and nothing else. I want to take care of you- Jean-”

“Fuck, Trant-” Jean hissed, not believing his ears. His pulse quickened, but at the same time, his heart was suddenly aching. There was something there, hidden inside, clawing at the walls of his heart, wanting to get out.

He tried to calm down, gripping the bridge of his nose.

God, he wanted that. So, so badly. He had these ideas, these thoughts, these fantasies. To become a sensation, throwing all rationale out of the window, and just feel, every molecule of his body alight simultaneously. Not having to do anything, just letting himself rest, and letting Trant- fuck.

Fuck, he wanted nothing more.

And it scared the shit out of him. He couldn’t want that; he couldn’t do that. That was too selfish. How could he even reciprocate that? Jean shouldn’t want that.

No, that was asking too much.

But Trant was offering…

His lover, sensing the trail of Jean’s thoughts, reached out again, scratching his beard, finding his balance once again.

“I want that too, Jean. I want to see you like that, giving that to you.”

But what if that fucked up their relationship? What if seeing Jean like that would push Trant away?

Fuck, no, he couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t fucking risk that, not when he cared about Trant too much, not when he loved Trant.

Shit.

“Do you trust me when I say that there will be no judgement either way?”

Trant’s voice was so soft, and Jean leaned into his hand, warm, grounding, real.

“How can you promise that?”

“I can’t. But I will do my best. I love you. Let me try. Let yourself try. You don’t have to answer now, but please think about it.”

And Jean did not answer that for quite a while. It took more trust not only in Trant but mainly in himself, to finally let go and ask for something. To be selfish.

But here he was, standing on the balcony, staring at the sunset above Revachol, nervous like a goddamn teenager.

But he trusted Trant. He already trusted him with his body, mind and were he a bit dramatic, also his soul.

So why not combine it together at once fully?

He stares at the stone railing where he’s been resting his elbows, and lets his fingers glide over the rough surface. He feels the small bumps against his fingertips, immersing himself in the touch. Anchoring himself the way Trant taught him — with saintly patience.

He imagines Trant’s fingers gliding like that over his own skin, the coarseness of it…

“Shit.” The cigarette almost burns him, and he stubs it out in an ashtray that Trant bought just for him.

He should take a shower; his lover doesn’t appreciate the fresh cigarette smoke lingering on him. He will wash his hair too – Trant told him to take his time while he prepares everything.

The thought makes his stomach churn.

Mikael is away for the weekend, and so they have the entire house for themselves.

No interruptions, no excuses.

When he walks around their bedroom to the shower, he peeks through the slightly open door.

Trant is standing with his back towards him, inspecting something in his hands.

Jean tries to look around but at this quick glance he cannot see anything out of the ordinary.

Great, now it’s his imagination jumping around. What could possibly go wrong?

He retreats into the bathroom. While he loves taking hot showers at Trant’s place, this time the temperature resembles the one at his own place, lukewarm at best, running cold sooner than later.

It hits his skin cold and forceful, and he welcomes it.

He is trying to calm down. He has never done anything like this.

God, he really is pathetic. Walking into shootouts, knife fights, dragging himself through the mud of Revachol like it’s Tuesday? No problem. This is what freaks him out? Get your head out of your ass, Vicquemare.

He tries to concentrate on threading his fingers through his hair, gently scraping the scalp, imagining it’s Trant’s hands doing it for him. He even smells like him, using the same shampoo and a shower gel.

I thought you wanted to calm down? This ain’t helping.

Yea. No. This isn’t helping. He closes his eyes, letting out a quiet hum. He’s pretty sure that Trant, hearing the shower running, is smirking for himself.

It’s not just his fingers that give the faintest twitch.

He hits the shower tiles with his fist and turns the water to cold, hissing at the shock.

“Fuck.” That certainly shifted his focus.

He breathes out, feeling his pulse in his temples. Breathe, Vicquemare. How did Trant teach him to do that?

Breathe in and count to four.

Hold. One, two, three, four.

Exhale. Count.

Hold. Repeat.

When he steps out and gazes into the mirror, he sees a tired man who definitely does not look like he’s in his thirties. There’s fatigue written on his face, coupled with small scars both from pox and his work.

At least his beard is trimmed, he takes a great care of his facial hair.

Trant never teased him about it.

There is however a change from the Jean Vicquemare from a few months ago.

This one has a glint in his eyes.

It’s probably a manic look.

But hey, better than nothing.

He dries his hair and brushes his teeth. It takes time, so his thoughts scatter in a million directions.

A gentle voice in his head sounding too much like his lover is trying to tell him that Trant is nervous too.

It doesn’t help.

He wants at least one of them to be the calm force.

He breathes in and out one last time before he walks out just in his sweatpants that Trant has prepared for him. Ah, fuck it, we ball.

His determination doesn’t last long. Standing at the bedroom door, he wants to run away again.

Nevertheless, he knocks loud enough to drown his heartbeat.

He wants to ask if he can come in, but his throat is dry.

“Come in!” Trant’s voice is even. Maybe a bit too even.

There aren’t any visible changes to the bedroom, apart from the dimmed lights and shut curtains. The duvet is folded on the other side of the room.

There are water bottles, bottles of lube and a black rope on the drawer.

He swallows. He’s so fucking cooked.

Trant is sitting on the bed in his black tank top and shorts, leaning back on his hands. His blond hair and blue eyes contrast the colour of his clothes. He looks relaxed.

“How do you feel?”

He is trying not to sound like a therapist. Jean can tell and appreciates the gesture.

“Real fucking nervous.”

“Me too.”

The raised corners of his mouth ease Jean’s agitation only partially as he pats the bed and extends his hand.

Jean sits down, feeling the fabric under him. He’s not sure what to do with himself, so he looks at Trant.

Trant searches for any signs in his face, still smiling gently, and takes his hand.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Jean scoffs, turning red. He rubs his face. “Fuck, sorry. I know. I trust you, it’s just…”

Trant’s thumb is rubbing circles on the skin of his hand. “… it’s difficult to let go. I know that too.”

“Well, you kinda managed.”

That forces a laugh out of Trant. It reaches his eyes with a glint of sadness. “Yes. It took just a lot of drugs, decades of loneliness and one divorce… and other things.”

He doesn’t elaborate on these other things, but it tightens something in Jean’s heart, nonetheless. He doesn’t want to see Trant sad, he wants to trust him with himself, goddamnit, and make him happy.

Trant sighs but then brightens again. “What I am trying to convey is that it is alright to be nervous. And the more I am grateful that you trust me with it.” He moves closer steadily, placing the other hand on Jean’s. “We can stop at any point and try later. Or not at all, and we can call it a day. I will check with you, and you can absolutely check with me.”

He is trying to keep eye contact, but Jean can’t resist and glances at the rope again.

Trant smiles.

“I can work without it; we don’t have to use that. But… I thought of it a lot. I’d like to. If you’d like it too.”

God, Jean thought of it too. Too much. Mostly at night alone in his apartment.

He can feel the red, hot wave creeping his neck and face.

“It’s okay.” He manages. “As I’ve said, I trust you. And if I don’t like something, you’ll know.”

He turns to his old friend to defuse the situation – humour. “I can throw you off the bed either way.”

That makes Trant grin and Jean answering in kind. “Oh, you absolutely would.”

His fingers suddenly travel higher, tracing the muscles forearm. Jean’s breath hitches and Trant’s eyes darken slightly.

“It’s one of your many, many appeals.” He murmurs, leans forward and captures Jean’s lips with his own.

Jean growls, opening his mouth in invitation, letting Trant lick his way in. There’s a warm hand on his cheek, fingers running through his beard, and he resists the urge to nuzzle into it. He places his own hands on Trant’s side and shoulder, pulling him closer.

Yes, yes, yes.

They kiss until their lungs demand air, shifting on the bed. Fire spreads to Jean’s limbs, the nervous energy ebbing away with every kiss, every touch-

Trant’s hand travels behind his neck through his hair and gently tugs him down, lowering him to the mattress.

That noise that just escaped him was not a whimper.

Motherfucker, that was definitely a whimper.

Judging by Trant’s smirk, he thinks so too, as he straddles him. He sits up, placing his hands on Jean’s bare chest, watching him, still fully clothed.

He is not heavy, his gaze is. He drinks in every inch of Jean’s body, like he’s a treasured and sacred piece of a hidden knowledge.

Jean’s starts crumbling under that adoring look, the nervousness showing its ugly head again.

It must show, because Trant traces his jaw with his knuckles. “Alright?”

Jean closes his eyes and nods.

“Look at me, Jean.” Trant’s voice drops to a lower register.

Fucking shit. Shivers travels down his spine. He cannot but obey that.

For a split second Trant looks like he wants to devour him. Then he blinks, and it’s gone, replaced with the intense care.

You’re not the only one battling with something.

Jean’s hands rested on his lover’s hips. Trant is smiling now, as his hands travel up and down Jean’s torso and sides, massaging the muscles, helping him relax.

It takes a while, but Jean finally feels like he’s melting into the mattress, the tension in his muscles leaving his body. Trant’s fingers are soft and all of a sudden, he smells a whiff of coconut oil.

He remembers when he massaged Trant’s shoulders like that after one of their sparring sessions.

“Is this okay?”

“Yea…” Jean breathes out. “Can you do that like all the time?”

Trant chuckles. “My hands would give out soon. But I’m glad you like it; I’ve learnt from the best.”

It’s a faint praise but it still makes Jean’s stomach flutter. He’s getting hard and attempts to shift under him. Trant notices, glint in his eyes, and grinds his hips experimentally.

“Ngh-” A grunt escapes Jean. He tries to match Trant’s movements, but he clenches his legs, stopping him.

“Come on, Trant-”

“Impatient,” Trant’s smile is all teeth as he withdraws and stands up, ignoring Jean’s huff. “Sit on the bed, closer to the headboard.”

It’s that purr again that does weird things to Jean’s insides. He swallows but nods as he sits next to the pillows, his back facing the wood.

So far it wasn’t that different from their previous times together, but apparently Trant wants to dial up a notch, as he reaches for the rope.

His mind is like a pinball machine given the excitement bouncing around his body. This turns his attention inexplicably to work. They did a great job hiding their relationship from most people but won’t crossing more boundaries- wait, why is he thinking about work?

Dolores Dei, Vicquemare, you’re not able to complete even a simple task of not working. Great fucking job!

“Jean,” a soft yet steely voice pushes him out. He looks at Trant who gently raises his chin and crawls to the bed. “Were you thinking about this right now?”

“No.” That inner voice is scoffing at Jean, but Trant is still smiling, placing the rope on the pillows. He scoots closer, settling between his legs, kissing him, putting his hand behind Jean’s neck, rubbing the sensitive skin there.

“It’s okay.” He murmurs against his lips. “You’ve been so good so far.”

Jean shudders, his cock twitching. He kisses him again, his body screaming for more touch, hands gripping Trant’s top.

Trant pulls just a few centimetres away from his face. “But I want you to concentrate now, okay? Do it for me.”

Yes, sir.

“I will.” Jean whispers, red staining his cheeks, overwhelmed by the care and pride in Trant’s face and voice.

“Wonderful.”

It fills his lungs with silk and honey.

They kiss for a while. Trant gradually directs Jean towards the headboard, between the pillows. Nails scrape his neck and scalp and Jean’s eyes flutter. His body grows hotter. He exhales into Trant’s mouth.

When Trant leans back, they are both smiling. The world outside means nothing to them in that moment. They are hidden, protected by the walls of Trant’s bedroom like a flame flickering in an oil lamp.

He reaches for the rope again and hands it to Jean. “Try it against your wrist first.”

Jean just nods and takes it, not trusting his voice.

The rope is surprisingly soft, warm… and oiled, he realizes as it slides across his palm.

Trant watches him, barely concealed hunger in his gaze, while Jean wraps it around his left wrist and forearm and tugs.

His skin is already tingling where the rope touches him. The nervousness is disappearing, adrenalin and excitement replacing it fully.

“It’s fine. Go for it.”

“Thank you.” Trant takes the rope again. It looks natural in his hands. “Hands above the head. Cross them for me, please.”

Jean positions himself instinctively, cold wood against his upper back. The moment, Trant’s hands caress his wrist, he lets out a shuddering exhale. His heart is pounding again, and he tenses.

“Relax.” Trant purrs in his ear. “I need to make sure it’s comfortable.”

Jean tries to do so, and so he turns to his usual helper – detecting. He feels and hears Trant’s movements, the rope tightening around his wrists.

“Where did you learn how to do this?”

Trant chuckles. “University.”

“The fuck did you do there?”

“Lots of things.”

Lots of people.

It was probably nothing long-lasting, but it left its mark. Trant works quickly, confident in his craft. He even manages to run his fingers up and down Jean’s hands to soothe him, eliciting soft sighs from him.

“Give it a tug and try to move a little. Does it hurt?”

Jean tests the ropes, now tied to the headboard. He rolls his shoulders experimentally.

“Wait. My left wrist. It rubs uncomfortably.” He squints, trying to localize the sensation. He wriggles his thumb. “Yea, it’s too tight.”

Trant kisses him for that. “Very good. Thank you, I will redo it.”

It takes only a second and Jean tries again.

The ropes are perfect this time.

A pressure on his skin, steady, ever-present pull when Jean moves. It hits his brain like a wave, whispering stay.

He clenches his fist, swallowing audibly.

The rope answers by prickling against his pulse.

“Good?” Trant sits on his heels, watching him.

His voice rolls gently over Jean.

He nods, heart hammering against his ribcage like a trapped little thing.

“Use your words, Lieutenant.”

The waves crush.

Jean gasps, tugging at his restraints.

“Fuck, Trant. Yes.”

Trant’s hunger is concealed no more, his eyes gleam bright, his face sharper.

He cups Jean’s cheeks in his hands, stroking his facial hair, and kisses him.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Jean instinctively wants to touch him, but the restraints put him back to his place. He exhales hard through his nose.

Trant doesn’t stop.

“You’re so good for me, Jean.” He mutters between kisses. “So pliant.”

Jean’s breath stutters.

He traces Jean’s hands, up to his tied wrists, adding pressure to the ropes. His caresses are like fluttering of hummingbird wings, heavy but fleeting, contrasting with the fire under Jean’s skin.

He looks in his eyes and sees dilated pupils, as his fingers find their way to Jean’s palms, massaging the sensitive skin gently.

Then he scratches down to his shoulders.

A strangled whimper escapes Jean and Trant’s cock gives a sharp twitch.

He wants more lovely noises, his heart jumping with Jean’s trust and enjoyment.

He shifts to his neck, brushing the sensitive skin with his lips just under his ear. Hot breath on Jean’s skin, he whispers: “I’ve got you.”

Jean is slightly trembling already. He almost chokes with pride.

Planting open-mouthed kisses on his neck, one of his hands travels to the other side, thumb tracing his Adam’s apple, then his jaw.

Jean squirms slightly under his ministrations, bending his knee, trying to press closer.

Trant stops him at once.

“Stay.”

“Fuck, I-”

Trant stops, watching Jean carefully, brushing his knuckles over his cheek.

“All good?”

He looks glorious. His chest is rising faster. Tiny beads of sweat start to gather on his forehead. He can see his fingers clenched, not knowing what to do with them.

“Yea,” Jean rasps. “Yea, just…”

He needs more. It’s so good but there has to be more. He knows he should be patient, but his skin is on fire, he wants to move, to touch Trant, to press against him, to reciprocate, and he can’t.

He’s not used to letting things happen, however good they are.

Oh, but you love this. It feels so good to have this agency taken from you.

It feels so alien.

“Don’t think, Jean.” Trant’s thumb runs against his lips, too fast. “Just be.” He finds a soft spot on his neck and drags his teeth over it. Jean swears again. “I’ll make it good for you.”

“Shit.”

“Okay?” He lifts his head to look at Jean, his lips wet.

Trant Heidelstam is the devil, Jean decides. And a goddamn tease.

“Okay.”

And he trusts him with his life.

Trant kisses him on his forehead for that. “Just close your eyes.”

He obeys, and Trant rewards him again, with a gentle drag of nails across his chest. He wants to push into them so badly, but Trant said he should be stay calm.

So he does just that.

Trant moves lower, tracing a path only he can see.

He kisses and licks his scars he catalogued earlier, one by one, his touch too light, never lingering, listening when Jean’s breath stutters, and immediately moving elsewhere, muttering praises in between. He checks for Jean’s closed eyes, seeing his brow creased with anticipation, but obeying, trying to stay still.

He straightens, kissing it away, until it smooths out, massaging his biceps in the meantime, alternating between firm touch and nails circling his muscles.

Jean sighs.

Trant presses a solid kiss on his lips. Jean chases it, hungry for more, but stops once his lover withdraws.

Trant takes the sight of Jean in, finally traveling lower with his gaze.

Jean is fully hard, a wet spot on his sweatpants showing just how much he enjoys it.

His eyes are still closed.

“Look at you.” Trant says softly, awe creeping into his voice, overcome with emotion. “You’re so good for me, Jean.”

He runs his fingers just above the waist of Jean’s sweatpants. His lover’s breath stutters again, arching involuntarily into his touch, but not shifting.

Trant places both hands on his thighs. Jean opens his eyes with the loss of contact.

“Should I take these off?” Trant asks him nonchalantly, but he sees that now familiar glimmer in his eyes.

The Lieutenant gathers whatever sass he has left and scoffs. “I’m not begging.”

It’s weak but it carries the message across, as Trant hums.

“I don’t expect that.” He places his hand on top of his sweatpants, just above his dick. He strokes the skin there.

“Yet.”

Jean grinds his teeth together, clenching his fists again.

His skin is on fire from Trant’s mouth and caresses, tingles spreading from his tied wrists all the way down. He’s sweating, and his dick is so damn hard. He knows he’s leaking into the fabric of his pants, noticing the dampness.

And Trant didn’t even touch him properly.

He’s breaking the RCM conduct; this is more and more like torture.

God, he wants it to stop, and he never wants it to end.

He probably never felt safer in his life.

He tries to even his breath, just the way Trant taught him, not breaking eye contact.

Something in Trant’s face softens once more.

He hooks his fingers around the waist of the pants and looks at Jean, waiting for confirmation.

Jean nods, exhaling shakily after holding his breath.

The moment his cock is free from the confinement, he sighs once more, lifting each leg dutifully, and soon the clothes is forgotten on the floor.

The air hits his skin, cold against the sweat, and Jean feels goosebumps all over his legs, so open for Trant’s relentless gaze. But not for long as Trant soothes them gently, so, so gently.

He groans.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Jean.”

That is more torturing than anything else so far. Trant barely grazes the skin of his inner thighs before moving back to his chest, finally, finally flicking over his nipples, circling the sensitive skin.

Jean’s hands twitch in their restraints.

For how long can you handle this, Vicquemare?

Not too long, he’s aware he’s leaking. But he wills himself to be silent and not to arch into Trant’s ministrations as he rests his head on the wooden frame.

Trant’s lips replace his fingers, and Jean’s head lolls to the side as he makes the softest noises.

He senses Trant grinning against his him.

His breathing is heavy. He wants to grind his legs together, to press Trant closer.

Instead, he lets his eyelids fall once more, trying to capture every fleeting sensation, not knowing on what to concentrate first.

There’s Trant’s mouth, his hot breath, his fingers travelling lower, his body so close yet so far, the rope rubbing into his wrist, his erection, his tingling skin, the solid wood pressed into his upper back-

It’s too much.

Trant sits up and places a hand on his cheek, interrupting his thoughts.

Jean opens his eyes.

Trant’s lips are curled up, as if he’s reading his mind.

He props his head back up and kisses him again.

“You look so good, Jean-Heron.”

Then he grasps Jean in his hand and gives him a long stroke.

Jean moans.

Loudly.

He tugs on the restraints secured around the headboard, arching for the touch. He groans as Trant presses their foreheads together, watching him, holding him still.

Jean could probably toss him over all the same, but he has enough willpower not to do so.

“F-fuck-”

“You don’t have to think, Jean. Let me think for you.” Trant whispers, not stopping.

Jean chases the sensation, groaning, as Trant strokes him perfectly, running his thumb over the tip.

His hips buckle. Trant holds him by his shoulder, his other hand never leaving his dick.

He’s deliberate, precise. He knows exactly what makes Jean tick, tracing his fingers and palm over the sensitive skin, as he listens to his mounting gasps, slightly out of breath.

He kisses Jean’s neck just to ground himself, placing the other hand on his throat.

It elicits full body shudder out of Jean as he trashes in the restraints, wanting Trant to squeeze him there tighter.

It’s so much, more, more…

He feels the pressure building, he’s shaking, it’s too fast, his muscles tensing, tensing-

And Trant withdraws.

Jean growls, tugging on the rope. Trant is looking even, so even that Jean wants to kick him.

“What the fuck, Trant-”

“Not yet.”

Before Jean can protest more, Trant cups his face and kisses him.

It’s gentle, apologetic. Trant puts everything into it, otherwise Jean might actually kick him.

Jean can’t help it, and he melts into it, however pissed off he is.

Trant strokes the black hair out of Jean’s sweaty forehead, trying to tuck them behind his ear. It’s such a soothing gesture that Jean closes his eyes.

“I love you so much, Jean.”

Any anger he could have felt, dissipates like smoke, replaced by the warm fire engulfing his heart.

“I love you too.”

He swallows, catching his breath, smiling. “But you’re a fucking tease.”

Trant huffs amused, then turning serious at once. “Still okay? Ready to continue?”

He’s giving him an out. Trant could finish him now, and it would still be the best orgasm he had in years.

But he trusts Trant, that despite the denial, in the end he will make him feel good.

Jean nods, trembling slightly. “Yea.”

“Good.” He kisses his forehead again. “You’re still thinking. Let me fix that.”

He checks his restraints, making sure that they didn’t hurt Jean. Then he lowers himself and starts planting kisses all over his torso once more.

This time, they are deep open kisses on every single imperfection made perfection on Jean’s body. Trant takes his time, even tugging at his nipples, ripping a moan out of Jean.

He’s louder. Wanting what was taken from him, he just chases every sensation, gasping, groaning. The inner voice trying to chastise him for it is growing quieter, and Jean doesn’t give a fuck.

Trant, however, is not in a hurry. He traces every scar with his tongue and lips, almost as if he could heal them. His hands finally travel lower, massaging his sides, his hips and thighs, yet avoiding his prize.

Jean wants to bury his hands in his hair, urge him to go down, but he fucking can’t.

“Trant… come on-”

His voice does not crack there, not even a little.

Trant smiles into his skin, noticing the tremble. This is almost what he wanted.

“Just a little longer. Breathe for me.”

He nips at his hips, trying to gather any remaining soft place there, making Jean swear. He blows on the sensitive skin before moving down to his inner thighs.

When he looks up, he’s greeted with quite a sight.

Jean’s head is slightly slumped forward, hair falling back to his face, sticking together with sweat. He’s breathing heavily through his nose, like a worn-down horse. His eyes are fixated on his lover with such intensity that it makes Trant shudder.

He will make it so good for him, make him fall apart.

He strokes his inner thighs with his fingertips, adding his nails here and there.

Jean attempts to move closer, arching into the strokes, biting his lip.

Trant denies him every time.

Then he leans forward and breathes him in, the hair around his cock scratching his cheek, Jean’s scent so heavy in his lungs.

Jean actually whimpers.

Trant is acutely more conscious of his own ever-present arousal but pushes the thought back.

He has a job to do.

He licks the entire length of Jean, before enveloping him with his mouth.

“F-fuuck…”

Jean is making all sorts of noises now, and Trant’s head is spinning. He takes him in this hand by the root, stroking what his lips can’t reach.

He’s tensing under him, much faster this time – twitching, when Trant hollows his cheeks, when he flips his tongue around one of the veins, when he moves his hand to cup his balls.

“Trant, Trant…” Jean is chanting his name, like a prayer, like a volta.

Like it’s the only fucking thing he can utter.

Trant carefully, very carefully scrapes his teeth against his dick.

The headboard creaks loudly. Jean’s wrists protest in pain. He doesn’t care. He sees Trant under him, dishevelled, the soft lips on him, watching him with such ferocity- fuck, he’s close, so close-

His hips tense, the high almost-

Trant stops.

“Trant, please!”

Jean slumps forward, shaking, his face screwed in a sob. His body tingles, hurts, wave after wave after wave of heat hitting him mercilessly. He’s falling but knows Trant will catch him. Stream of words fall from him, babbling, begging for release.

“Please, please-”

There are hands on his face. “That’s it, Jean. I’m here.”

He chases that loving voice full of promise, nuzzling into the hands, his neck no longer supporting him.

“You’ve been so good, so, so patient. Do you want to come?”

Jean nods frantically, whimpering.

Trant presses their lips together, firm, grounding.

He runs his fingers in his beard for a few more moments, lost too in the moment.

Then his hand travels lower and starts jacking him off with perfect, long, fast strokes.

It doesn’t take long.

Hot, red, pain and pleasure intertwine thrashing Jean’s body against the current. He can’t breathe, Trant’s hands take him apart piece by piece, setting him back together.

His vision whites out as he comes, shuddering in Trant’s hands, his breath punched out of his guts.

There’s nothing.

Then there’s everything.

He’s floating in the Pale, unaware of his body and his mind. No nagging inner voice, no ache in his chest, no numbness, nothing, drowning every single thought daring to resurface.

Just feeling, raw, overflowing.

He basks in it, warm, held, curling into it.

After what might be an eternity or maybe just a few seconds, a cold touch brushes his wrists, contrasting with the lingering heat. Dull pressure disappears from his arms.

There are tingles now and he’s gradually more aware of his body, the heaviness of his limbs.

Something is gently rubbing his wrists, massaging, kneading the flesh softly there, blood thrumming in his fingertips.

What follows is slightly wet, warm, tracing the redness.

Kisses, kisses, kisses.

He sighs, content.

A shadow leans over him, softness under his back, scratches at his hair and scalp.

Sweet, quiet nothings reach Jean’s mind filled with static noise.

“… so proud of you…”

“… so well.”

He wants to reach after that voice, but his hands are not cooperating, so he just hums.

Then he hears distant shuffling, the weight around him partially disappearing, but one still caresses his hair. He leans into it.

Without a warning, a different wetness trails his abdomen, accidentally brushing against his sensitive nether.

He flinches, a noise escaping him.

“Shh, it’s okay, Jean, I’m here.”

He blinks, slowly coming down from his high, recognizing the world around him.

There’s the dark grey ceiling of Trant’s bedroom, illuminated by warm light.

Then the familiar soft sheets of Trant’s bed.

There’s the heat of Trant’s body, Jean’s head in his lap.

And then there’re the brilliant blue eyes, the halo of blond hair, and the most adoring smile on Trant’s lips as he looks down at him.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

Jean smiles back.

“Hi.”

Trant strokes Jean’s cheek with his knuckles. “How are you feeling?”

He wants to say something, he doesn’t even know what, but it comes out only as “Hmmpf”.

“Sounds good.”

They stay like that for a few moments, Trant’s fingers tracing his face, as Jean’s breathing steadies.

Neither of them stops beaming.

“Give me a moment, please.” Trant’s face disappears, weight shifting.

Jean whines, wanting to say “wait”, reaching after him. Trant’s hand on his shoulder gives him a reassuring squeeze.

Jean blinks again, hearing the opening of a bottle, a squeeze and more shuffling.

A familiar coconut scent reaches him, and Trant’s hands are massaging his hand, his palm, his fingers, and his wrist, before moving to the other one.

Jean suddenly notices dried wetness on his cheeks.

He rubs his face with the heel of his palm, smearing the oil under his eyes. Something untangles in his chest, not knowing what to feel.

He tries to blink it away.

“You’re good, don’t worry.” Trant smudges the oil into his skin. “It’s okay.”

There’s nothing, absolutely nothing that would pester him about it, so he just closes his eyes, and lets the excess of tears fall.

When they dry again, Trant kisses the corners of his eyes.

Jean runs his fingers through Trant’s hair, holding his face close.

“Thank you.”

It says everything and more.

“You’re very welcome.”

I love you so, so much.

Jean doesn’t know for how long they stay like this, but in the end, Trant huffs quietly.

“I think I need to straighten up, my back and legs killing me.”

Jean grins. “Old man.”

There’s absolutely no bite behind it. Trant chuckles, as they both sit up, Jean slower.

His world spins slightly, he places both palms on the bed, centring himself.

“I may be old, but I can certainly keep up with you.” Trant winks as he stretches, his joints cracking with a soft “pop”.

That he can, but don’t- wait a minute.

Jean looks at him, feeling slightly more alarmed than he should. Trant answers with a concerning gaze.

“You didn’t...?”

It takes Trant a moment to realize what Jean means. He waves his hand dismissively, fond constellations in his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Ex-fucking-cuse me? Absolutely out of question.

Jean for once agrees with his voice wholeheartedly, as he stands up, stretching too.

The new goal on his mind clears the rest of the fog.

He grabs Trant gently by the waist, kissing him. It’s a long and slow kiss, interrupted only by the necessity of air.

“Shower?” Jean murmurs against Trant’s skin.

“Yes, please.”

Trant doesn’t suspect anything as they walk into the bathroom, pulling Jean into the shower stall.

Jean gets on his knees all the same.

The evening drowning in the running hot water, gets interrupted by a soft exhale of Jean’s name on Trant’s lips.

Jean’s limbs are pleasantly loose when they lie in bed together, naked, still slightly damp.

It doesn’t stop him from holding Trant close.

They face each other, Jean tracing the outline of Trant’s face. He’s still smiling.

They both are. It makes them look younger.

“Was it good?” Trant asks sheepishly, as if he didn’t melt Jean in his hands that evening.

Jean snorts. “Seriously? Fucking hell.”

“What? I need to know what to improve next time!” The stars in Trant’s eyes have shifted, more visible in the blue, as he laughs.

Next time.

Jean is so filled to the brim with love that he feels like bursting, his smoker’s lungs glowing. It chokes him.

There was absolutely nothing to fear.

“It was amazing. I don’t think I ever felt like it. Not even with drugs.”

The confession strikes something in Trant. Perhaps it was the anxiety that he would never be able to give love to Jean adequately. Perhaps it was the fear that after his own addiction, he would never be able to feel everything properly.

An ancient Mesque tale tells a story of creation. When the gods made people, they split their souls and put them into another.

When these two parts meet, then and only then a person is made whole again.

Trant is aware of many variations of this myth all across Elysium. Describing true love is in its core, universal to all cultures.

He always took it only as a myth, not feeling exactly lucky most of his life.

And here he is.

He feels inexplicably whole, as he kisses Jean again.

“I love you.”

Jean doesn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

They lie like this into the night interrupted by the distant whirling of motor carriages, entangled, until Trant traces Jean’s wrist with his thumb.

There is still some redness.

“It won’t be visible on Monday. And if yes, I wear long sleeves anyway.” Jean murmurs, then cranes his neck, tapping the hickey Trant made there. “This might.”

“Sorry about that.” Trant yawns and he snuggles up to Jean, turning around.

He’s not really sorry. He’s more than happy.

“I will manage. Jude might notice though.”

He shifts, letting Trant fit in perfectly as the small spoon, and envelops him from behind.

“Is that bad?” Trant sounds sleepy as he holds his arms close, settling into the warmth.

“Nope. She’ll actually cheer for you.”

He presses his lips at the back of Trant’s head, eliciting a sigh.

“Really?”

“Shit. Shouldn’t have said that.”

They lie like that for a few moments, slowly drifting into sleep, as Revachol hums around their small bubble.

“Trant?” Jean asks quietly from behind.

“Hm?” Trant mumbles, slightly unhappy that Jean is thinking again, but the way he traces his thumbs across his skin absentmindedly compensates for it.

A beat of silence.

“When can I do something like that to you?”

Jean feels Trant smile.

“Surprise me.”