I fell in love with you like droplets in the ocean. Every facet of you was just a drip, but— but the ripples they caused were massive. I … all those times I should’ve been more plain with you; I’m in love with you.” – Droplets Ch 19 by theprophetlemonade
For buttchou ❤ Happy Birthday babe!
Most of the time, he’s alright. Jean can deal with a lot of things – old pain, being yelled at by his boss, colleagues talking behind his back about “that strange gay guy who’s probably anorexic. God, look at him, why’s he so thin, can’t he eat properly? I bet he’s jerking off while thinking of you, huh?”.
Jean doesn’t listen anymore. He’s doing a great job, he’s sitting at his desk and doing well and being quiet, nice, fulfilling every task he’s given. It’s never enough, never, not enough. Failure. His parents somehow knew that he’d fail, weak at birth and unwanted from some man his mother had barely known, and sometimes Jean can’t deny that it’s the reason they left him by the dirty sink of a cheap fast food restaurant, one night – over twenty years ago.
Some days are bad. Some days have him walk home with his arms wrapped around his thin body, shoulders shaking, face wet from rain and tears. He doesn’t just get cold – Jean freezes down to his bones, rigid, motionless, stiff. The cold is a force of elemental magnitude. It’s gnawing, susurrating, tempting him to lie down and never move again. When he returns home, it’s just in time. His fingers are blue, lips trembling. It’s almost impossible to slip out of his shoes without breaking down.
His lips taste like salt and wet, dirty rain.
Marco is on the couch already, having set up their dinner, Jean’s favourite red blanket warmed by a heatable pillow. There’s mac and cheese with a bit of leek in it, because Marco knows what Jean loves and even if he himself doesn’t, he feels when there’s time for comfort food and disney movies. The dvds are out and ready, too. Jean loves him so much, and he knows it’ll tear his small helpless heart apart and scatter his pieces into the winds and waters.
Jean falls into his arms. He collapses, all tension breaking out, everything pouring out of his veins. He’s shattering into chips of quiet sobs, tears spilling in silent speechlessness.
Marco catches him. He’s always there, strong and warm like a fire burning steadily, dark scent of wood and love and home. And when a hand slips into Jean’s neck and fingers curl into his hair, lips trailing over his jaw, Jean closes his eyes to listen to Marco’s whisper.
“Welcome home, my love.”
“Mhm.” Jean buries his nose into Marco’s chest, inhales deeply. There’s the usual scent of Marco’s beloved wood, his work as a cabinetmaker shining through the thin veils of his bright form. Jean’s fingers lace up with Marco’s free hand, and he gives a weak noise when Marco runs short fingernails through his hair, massaging his skin, holding and owning and loving him.
“You hungry?” Marco speaks into his hair, breath warm and fiery. Jean tilts his head up a bit and catches Marco’s mouth into a kiss. They melt together, wet and hot happiness tingling on Jean’s skin as he parts his lips and moans when Marco’s tongue presses against his, licking and claiming everything so perfectly.
“Food later. Now kissing.” Jean isn’t really coherent when he’s with Marco, and a horrible day at work doesn’t help it. But Marco is perfect and gorgeous and the best boyfriend in the world, so he just laughs in a way that has Jean’s chest vibrate, toes curl, and then Marco leans over to grab the remote, turning on the tv.
“Alright, baby. How about ‘The Little Mermaid’ and cuddling then?”
Jean doesn’t know what made him deserve Marco Bodt. He doesn’t believe in Karma or reincarnation or good things coming to those who do good and are brave and wonderful. Jean isn’t any of that.
Marco came and conquered him with warm lips and dark eyes full of liquid gold, and Jean’s walls came crumbling.
“Sounds perfect.”
Eren has never kissed Jean. He has never kissed Marco, either.
But if he could, without consequences, without any confusion or pain or anger, Eren would get up right now and stomp over to Jean’s bunk where the air is thick and boiling with heat from dark moans and tangled limbs under bed sheets.
But Eren is a coward.
All he’s ever done is lie awake in the middle of the night, eyes open and a hand pressed over his own mouth to muffle the pathetic little moans he’s choking on – listening to Jean whimper helplessly when a dark shadow leans down to him, wet warm kisses echoing in the warm barrack as Marco whispers “shh, they’ll hear us” and shifts the smallest bit. Then, Jean does that desperate sob, the tiniest noise of ‘oh god please more yes yes’, and Eren loves how vulnerable and fucking beautiful he is in the moonlight, under Marco’s stronger body, how the two other boys move as if it was just for him.
A private show he hasn’t been invited to.
Eren has never kissed Jean.
He’s never fallen apart on Marco’s cock with a cry dripping down his lips like fire, has never tasted Jean’s salty skin on his tongue, never adorned his neck with blue marks. But god, one day, he’ll be brave enough. Until then, Eren shuffles deeper under his covers, careful to be quiet, and continues to listen to the lewd, wet squelching that comes from where Marco thrusts deep into Jean, their mouths finding each other in dark rumbles of stuttered words, and then they’re just two silhouettes melting together.
Eren turns around and stares at the wall until he hears them breathe calmly. He grasps his chest and closes his eyes and tries not to choke on the bitter lust rising up his throat. One day.
Some days are bright and warm, taste like chocolate and the sleepy salt on Marco’s skin when Jean kisses him awake, their legs tangled into a nest of safety under damp blankets.
Other days melt into starless nights, Jean curled in a corner, whimpering and clawing at his own skin till it’s raw and open and Marco kneeling in front of him, rocking him back and forth like a child, words like “it’s okay, we’re in another life, I won’t die on you again. I love you, love you” into his ear. To Jean, Marco is the only god he’ll ever believe in. He prays to him in kisses, and when the tears are gone, Marco wipes the salt off his cheeks, praising him with a love Jean can’t ever deserve.
He lost his right arm and half of his cheek to a titan’s grinding maw. Marco’s smile went out like a candle’s fire dying in the wind’s hoarse breath. Jean finds it hidden underneath his skin when he kisses Marco’s deep scars one night, whispering liquid golden tenderness to his torn heart, patching the cracks with his hands that lace up with Marco’s. Jean finds his smile. It’s tiny and shaky, because Marco hasn’t used it in a long time, yet it’s there like a light that was buried under dirt for too long and is being discovered again.
Jean is just glad that it’s still there, and he presses a passionate kiss against it so he can lick and adore it until Marco moans softly, letting Jean know that he won’t lose it ever again.
It’s one day before Christmas and they’re visiting Noel’s grave. Marco leans heavily against Jean, lets him carry that burden once, the only day out of 365 where Jean is allowed to help and Marco is allowed to be weak and cry over his little brother’s death. It’s snowing when they return, and the bouquet of red roses and white lilies looks beautiful. Noel would have loved them, Marco says. Jean nods and stops, getting on his tiptoes to kiss Marco’s forehead. Then he presses a butterfly-soft kiss to his temples, trailing them down until he tastes the salt of Marco’s lips.
It’s only us left now, Jean whispers and a sob rips from Marco’s wounded chest, deep within where he carries his family and Jean’s parents and all those people they’ve lost. Their hands lace up, two golden rings gleaming in the rising winter sun’s light.
We still have us, Marco says after a long time. And her, Jean says softly and pushes his reading glasses higher on his nose. When he smiles, there’s crinkles around his eyes, laughter lines that years of happiness with his husband painted on his face like a canvas that’s only filled after it’s been through life, love, pain.
Their daughter comes running back with a collection of dirty, snow-wet stones in her tiny hands and excitedly signs some words to Marco. He replies with a loving gesture in sign language and their little girl smiles, nodding and running forward, towards the graveyard’s exit where Jean parked their car and their grown-up son is waiting with the dog excitedly tearing at its leash.
Jean doesn’t cry when Marco’s body burns to ashes in a fire as bright as the morning sun. He doesn’t cry when he kisses his blade with lips that belong on Marco’s before battle, the hand that held Marco’s ashes and that held his soul at night. The tears come when he receives a packet from Marco’s family, and fifty letters. “To Jean” they say, and the first one starts with “If you receive this, then I’m dead. Those letters are my love to you. Burn them or keep them. I just wanted to make sure… that you never feel unloved ever again.”
It should be Jean standing at the ocean, digging his bare feet into the cold sand, watching the thunderstorm rise over crashing waves, tears blown away by salty wind and dried from the fading sun. It should be Jean, clenching his hand around Eren’s little key, the one that’s always around his neck and dangling where his chest is warm, where his heart is beating softly, steadily, forever. It should always be Jean, seeing the ocean as they’d promised each other, right there when Eren had lost all his limbs from being cut out of the Titan once more, writhing and crying in pain, Jean holding his body and kissing the screaming ache in his bones better.
It shouldn’t be Eren, standing there motionlessly when the storm went down, when rain pattered on his face and carried his wild desperate scream into the skies.
It shouldn’t be Jean’s wings of freedom, the emblem from his jacket, clenched tightly in Eren’s shaking fists, dried blood splattered all over it and the white colour of the wings… gone dark.
The blindfold is finest silk. It’s black, exquisitely soft and Jean isn’t surprised that Marco only picked the best for him. He took it willingly – lips parted in a shivering moan when Marco put it over his eyes and tied it, rough fingers sliding down Jean’s neck, stealing his breath with whispers of “so good for me, my darling. Proud of you.. Lie down for me.” Jean nods desperately, mouth falling open when Marco shifts, his knees straddling Jean’s head carefully, looming above him in darkness. Then there’s fingers in Jean’s hair, gripping it tightly, he whimpers “p-please” – and Marco’s cock slides into his mouth, thick and heavy and goddamn perfect, wet from precum dripping on Jean’s tongue, curls of dark hair against his nose when Jean mewls, muffled, and clings to him. He melts under Marco, groans when his mouth is filled and it’s good, more –
“F-fuck, god you’re… so good. Good boy, c’mon.”
Jean smiles around that mouthful of Marco’s perfect cock, swallows, hear him growl and starts to suck when fingers tighten in his hair and Marco whispers “just like that… my boy.”
Moami 