Eren yanks Jean around and slams him into some wall, just after Jean said goodbye in a voice wet from tears and a night of ragged sobbing in Eren’s arms, and Eren whispers the usual soft insults into his ear before he locks their lips too harshly, too gently to be enough, steals Jean’s breath and promises that he doesn’t have to go.
Please don’t.
For once in his life, Jean swallows pride and fear and gives in to the warm hand curling around his neck.
Jeanmarco Halloween
sfw.
mentioned suicide
The year dies in October.
Jean doesn’t know or care much about seasons or the change of colour in leaves, the wind going colder and whirling under his clothes and soul. It’s the 31st, and for some strange reason, it’s not midnight like in those horror films when he’s perched on the floor of his room and fiddling with the old wooden ouija board.
When the brim between living and dead shivers and blurs, when children scream for candy outside and loud orange and neon green screech for attention in the stores, Jean’s sitting in his room inside a chalk pentagram surrounded by candles.
It’s the third year after the incident.
He speaks the words he’s been mumbling to himself all week. Jean puts his fingers on the board, the wood warm and pulsing under his tips. The letters mean nothing, and neither does the triangle that starts moving around all by itself.
Jean smiles and blinks the tears away.
“I missed you so fuckin’ much.”
A shiver runs up and down his spine when Marco giggles, his laughter hollow and foreign.
“Missed you too, idiot.”
Jean swallows, gulps down the guilt and fear, just like every year. Marco becomes less human every time; every time Jean feels a kiss ghosting over his lips, Marco’s colder than before and his blurred spirit hovering over the board becomes thinner and so translucent that it’s almost fucking beautiful.
The hole under his chin where he fired the gun and killed himself is still there.
Marco’s mother followed him half a year later. His father’s in jail now, after three years at last. Marco’s form twitches and coils around Jean’s crossed ankles when Jean tells him how the police came, finally enough evidence. He’d dared to touch another boy, and had gotten himself caught. Finally.
Marco’s last kiss tingles on Jean’s lips, salt and sadness.
“Thank you, Jean.” No, don’t say that, Jean whimpers into his hands and tries to hold him, just fucking keep him close – you come back next year, don’t you Marco?
No. Marco doesn’t say it, but his eyes are the last part of his ghost fading into a golden gleaming light, and he leaves Jean behind with a guilt that’ll never be satisfied, never be eradicated like a vanishing form of silver soul melting with the cold night air flushing in from the window.
Every year, on the 31st of Halloween, Jean sleeps with the board under his pillow.
His fingers find the wood in the middle of the night, and he bites back all those sobs that Marco left behind when he went to peace.
Where Jean was wrath and sadness, breathing fire in his lungs destroyed from crying and ragged of screaming til his soul cracked –
there Marco was wind and water, the whisper of night in trees, the cool ice gliding down Jean’s throat and chest when hands took all his pain and fear. And his kiss left Jean struggling, writhing, breaking; and finally, with soft fingers promising healing and ease to his strained heart, he gave in.
Marco said his name like a prayer, and Jean sobbed ‘amen’ before he closed his eyes and the world melted around them.
“What’s wrong, Jean? You’re all pale.. Bad dream?”JeanMarco Week, day 4: Candlelight
Send me a word/fandom/characters and I will write a drabble
{ Gymnophoria } – The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.
——————————-
He’s been doing this for three weeks now. Marco counted. Fifteen days minus weekends. That new guy is staring at him. Not hidden or in secret, no. Open and conspicuous, with one hand holding up his interested face, propping up his chin, and blinking bright eyes. Oh god, his eyes, Marco quickly turns away and focuses back on his texbook. He swears they are golden, with dark spots around the iris. Marco Bodt, you’re an idiot. His classmates whisper answers to each other while the teacher scribbles math exercises on the board.
In every lesson, Jean Kirschstein examines him from head to toes. His glance sticks to Marco’s face as if he had a nasty left-over blotch of spinach from lunch on his cheek. Marco doesn’t know how to react, how to respond – do you respond at all to someone who’s staring at you as if you were some pretty girl wearing a breathtakingly short mini skirt? It’s almost as if Jean’s… hungry.
Marco bites his bottom lip and nervously looks down. Maybe the guy knows.
Maybe Jean Kirschstein knows that he’s gay and this is just a test. It wouldn’t be the first time. Marco remembers his last school, before his parents moved – but that’s over. Panic won’t make this any better. He’s just being watched, that’s all. Maybe… could Jean be…? No. Absolutely not. Marco has seen him kiss a girl after school, right on the lips. His stomach twists. Suddenly, he doesn’t want lunch break to come. Because sometimes Jean is sitting down close to him on the schoolyard, when Marco is eating his lunch alone under apple trees where the leaves rustled in autumn.
Sometimes, Jean follows him and they sit ten meters apart. Marco then counts the crumbs his sandwich left over in his lunchbox. He shuffles his feet around and paints figures and patterns into the dirt with the tip of his shoes. And after long minutes of cold wind swirling over the yard, Jean gets up, and Marco jolts and glances after him when golden eyes return back into the classroom.
The teacher taps her pointer on the blackboard and calls someone’s name, but not Marco’s. He relaxes a bit, tries to remember what the correct answer to something in his textbook is.
His fingers clench around the pencil when Jean shifts, two seats away from him. Marco’s pencil cracks, the tip falling off when Jean tilts his head and blinks at him. Gold. An ugly graphite grey smudge smears over the paper and Marco curses softly, hides his blushing face behind dark hair.
“Silence,” the teacher says. Her eyes sting when she glares at him. Nobody disturbs math class, not when she’s explaining a new exciting topic. Marco ducks, nods in apology.
“I’m sorry.”
The teacher snorts and some other kids giggle. Marco knows his cheeks glow red by now, and he hides behind his text book. His seatmate is sick, and so it’s Jean’s luck that nobody disturbs his strange glances. Marco shifts around and it’s not even uncomfortable anymore. He’s gotten used to Jean’s eyes sting and prickle all over his skin. He knows the dark spots around his iris, knows how he laughs when his friends ask him what he’s doing in the afternoon, and he says that he has a date. But that one day, when Marco saw him kiss a girl, and Jean turned away and his mouth fell open at Marco’s sight – that is his favourite memory.
Marco blinks when a pellet of paper is thrown on his desk. The teacher is scribbling on the blackboard again. There’s something written on the tiny piece, blue ink shimmering through. Marco gulps and glances over. Who would – oh. Oh. Jean smiles briefly, brightness lighting up his face, and then he ruffles his hair. Marco nearly chokes on his breath, god he’s – he’s –
The paper quivers in his fingers when he folds it open behind his textbook.
I’d do anything for you to smile back at me. I’d even continue to sit next to you every break and kinda stalk you in class. But I’d rather ask if you’d wanna go on a date? Because, if you’d say yes, then it’s a date next lunch break. If you’d say no, it’s not.
Then it’s not a date.
Marco’s cheeks are deep red, and he’s barely holding back the tremor in his fingers while he scribbles a reply. The piece of paper comes back to Jean, all crumpled and with black ink and tiny letters on it.
You’ve been staring for weeks now. I think I’ve lost all my clothes in your mind already. Means you owe me at least a sandwich next lunch break.
It’s a date.
Jean nearly chokes when he opens the paper, and Marco sees his palms squeeze around the message. Finally Marco glances back, cheeks glowing when he brushes his hair back, and whispers a few words into the mumbling of his classmates.
“My favourite sandwich is cheese and salami. I hope you don’t really undress me next break.”
Jean’s eyes spark for a second, and he leans over with a grin that has Marco’s heart skip a few beats.
“Wouldn’t dare. I kiss before I undress people.” The teacher doesn’t pay attention, is busy writing more numbers on the blackboard. Marco slowly puts his math book down, bites his lip. Jean’s arms rest loosely on the table; he’s got his sleeves pushed up and a purple vein twitches on his forearm. Marco worries his lip for a second. Then an honest smile spreads over his mouth, brightens his face from shyness to a sun beaming with freckles.
“A kiss has to be earned.” Jean isn’t taken aback. He cocks his head, ruffles his hair, and his next rasped words let Marco’s heart leap into the skies and fly right away.
“I earned a smile, didn’t I? And a pretty one on top of that.” A chuckle, and for a second, Jean reaches out and his finger traces along a cloud of freckles on Marco’s hand, nobody’s seen it. Their classmates stare at the blackboard, don’t see Marco blush and gasp for air, beaming like a love-sick idiot. Jean’s eyes are warm. Gold. It sparks when he says:
“Maybe we can eat together more often. As, uh. Boyfriends."
Inktober x JeanMarco week! Day 1 – Zero Gravity
I’m a little late to the party…
Well, I’m not really sure if this fits the prompt. I was like “Zero Gravity… So Space?” And from Space, it was only a short jump to stars, which led to starchild Marco (it doesn’t help that I’ve recently read Moami’s starchild Marco fic, Nightglow) and well… here we are now. I really like how this turned out, a lot of it was very experimental for me but I think it looks pretty good. And thank the gods, my tablet scanner decided to take a decent photo for once (it’s been having issues focusing a lot, but it actually focused alright this time). And yeah. Hopefully the rest of my week turns out a little more accurate to the prompts, hahaha.
awww I’m so glad that I inspired you! it’s so cute, lil starbaby and Jean nearly touching~ and I really like Jean’s outfit ♥ Thank you!!
Scene from Moami’s wonderful and magical fic ‘Nightglow’ ❤
It’s seriously amazing that far and I can’t wait to see how the story unfolds! Also, Starchild!Marco. Let that sink in. (◕჻‿჻◕✿)
Ahhh beautiful my bby ❤ don’t worry about his wings because FINALLY someone chose my favourite scene to draw!! Jean pressing into the tree looks so damn exACTLY as I pictured him, also yes those clothes damn ♥♥ I LOVE IT.
also blue and golden colours ❤
Jeanmarco Week 2014 Day 1: Zero Gravity
okay hear me out on this. I had trouble with this prompt bc I didn’t want to do just straight up astronauts but I couldn’t think of anything creative.
Then my brain turned Zero Gravity to Space and then eventually to Starchild!Marco. So my inspiration for today’s prompt comes from moami’s fic, Nightglow. Except with Starchild!Jean as well
So enjoy today’s picture UwU
dedicated to mintycrystal’s amazing art of Marco and Jean stretching and the conversation with her and nippaaah and twitter. You left me no other choice, comrades. Here we go with a short drabble.
———————-
“I’m gonna pair you up for stretching now. Do it thoroughly, you don’t want to hurt your ligaments! Girls first, you guys wait until I’m done and then you’ll start.”
The trainer of the cheerleading class was obviously designed to be a young slender woman with legs as flexible as a rubber band. Otherwise she wouldn’t sit there, thighs split into the most impossible angles and still a smile on her face.
Jean had no idea why he’d started all of this, cheerleading (that included stretching) wasn’t really his thing and neither were those damn tight pants that stuck to his body obnoxiously and outlined all of his bumps.
Maybe it was the temptation to see short skirts flying up with every other movement. Maybe it was to get his own hands on a nice female butt when lifting a tiny figure of a girl up in the air and have her cling to his shoulders, squealing and laughing when he threatened to let her fall, whispering a soft “idiot” and still meaning the opposite, because he was so damn smooth when flirting –
Jean smirked and the trainer’s voice blurred and faded, his attention swayed away from instructions and warnings.
Being a male cheerleader had undeniable benefits and all of those were sitting on the floor and bending forward to push their arms up and butt out into his general direction. God, cheerleading was a wonderful sport and should be taught in every gym class, Jean decided and elbowed the guy next to him, grinned, and twitched his head towards the girls.
“Hey, you here for them too? I’d seriously die to lift one of those cuties up in the air and peek under their skirts.” Having at least one male friend around here would be nice. All the guys were standing in a row and waiting to start stretching. The trainer was still giving instructions to the girls, and to Jean’s disappointment she also reminded them to switch positions soon and keep their skirts at a reasonable level.
Dammit.
“Actually I’m here for the sport itself.”
A low voice replied from his left and Jean jolted.
The guy he had spoken to was now looking at him. His dark hair was pushed back, a few wisps framing his sharp jaw. He should cut it, Jean thought, it made him look so soft and warm. Men were supposed to be masculine and not have the facial features of an attractive woman – what? And no guy should have that many freckles, and why the hell was Jean now eyeing down on him and checking if his pants were as tight as his own – oh god, they were.
“For… the sport?”
Jean had found his speech back and threw the trainer a glance. Still busy, and with the other guys talking out of boredom, he could also make new friends around here. And no guy went cheerleading without clear intentions. He was probably just shy to admit it. Perfect, maybe he’d make a nice wingman. So Jean tried his brightest smile and brought one hand to the guy’s ear, whispering:
“You aren’t here for some cute girls? Nah, I don’t believe you. You can tell me, ’s cool.”
Jean grinned smugly, feeling absolutely certain that he’d just found an ally for this boring practice. But Mr. Too-Many-Freckles just quirked a dark brow and wrinkled his nose. Adorable, Jean thought, and then he mentally slapped himself because those weren’t female freckles and definitely no cute dimples along the guy’s cheeks when he smirked –
“Too bad you aren’t here for the sport. No, I’m not doing this for the girls. The butts are a plus though, well – not theirs but maybe yours, to be honest.” What was that supposed to mean? Jean made a face and his hand slid off the guy’s shoulder.
“Uh. What? I mean – hah?”
Jean bursted out a few unintelligible noises and wrung his hands helplessly. All of a sudden, he felt really uncomfortable. That guy was looking up and down on him, and the way his mouth twitched in amusement wasn’t exactly comfortable anymore. Jean swallowed a lump in his throat.
“You’re not here for – uh. You actually enjoy this shit?”
“I play for the other team. Also, maybe we should exchange names first before you come talking about girls’ butts to me. I’m Marco. And yes, I’ve been cheerleading for six years now.”
The guy simply took Jean’s hand and shook it. Jean barely squeezed back. He was busy gathering the ruins of his self-confidence that had just been blown away by a simple silent statement of “I’m gay and you just made a fool of yourself” by the cutest version of a Marco Jean had ever seen. Marcos were supposed to be old Italian guys in pizza restaurants, with terrible accents and lame pick-up lines for women.
Marcos were so NOT supposed to be two inches taller than him, have a far too large biceps tensing under tanned skin, and they were definitely not supposed to smile as if Jean had just embarrassed himself in the most awkward way possible.
When had it gotten warmer in here, Jean briefly wondered and tugged at his shirt collar. “Fuck, man, I’m – sorry. For saying that it’s shit. You, uh, seem to take this sports thing really seriously, that’s cool. But you’re seriously really gay?”
“Yes, I am ‘really gay’. Not half gay, not 40 percent gay. Homo from head to my manicured toes. And I love cheerleading.”
Jean laughed and bursted out: “You seriously manicure your toes?!” Then he stopped and clapped a hand over his mouth. Shit.
“No, that was a joke.”
Marco smiled sweetly and still, Jean was a bit afraid of the low rumble in his voice when he raised both hands behind his head and tip-toed up with a grunt. He wasn’t the most tactful person and he very well realized that Marco was going easy on him. Anyone else might have already hit him. So why couldn’t his stupid mouth stay shut?
“Gay,” Jean breathed shakily and kind of wanted to sit down and scream for a few minutes.
No cute girls for him, instead a training around guys who were after HIS butt. Suddenly, he pitied the girls, knowing how they’d feel under his eyes. Moral of the story ahead, fuckin’ shit.
“Okay, that’s uh – a surprise. You don’t look like you, well, prefer cock over a cute butt.” Fuck. That had been hella insulting and Jean instinctively bit his lip before he spilled more nonsense. But could he even be blamed? He’d never met a gay guy before. But Marco, the guy with freckles and an unfairly strong rippedness, laughed out loud and Jean decided that he was officially too nice for this world when Marco said softly:
“You know, gays aren’t a mystery. We actually exist. And I wouldn’t advise you to hit on the girls, by the way. Our trainer might be small but she could roundhouse-kick you straight into the infirmary.” Marco brought his arms back down and flexed them behind his body, turning the fingers outwards and lacing them up. Jean automatically imitated him and the other male cheerleaders followed them.
Marco then said: “So, why don’t you just take a lesson of cheerleading? Too late to flee now, anyways. Also, for the taking cock thing – I still like cute butts, too. Just not from girls.”
Jean nearly choked on his own breath when Marco winked and turned to face the approaching trainer. Fucking shit, what the HELL had he gotten himself into?
“Oh and Jean? Coming here to assault girls isn’t nice. Just imagine – how would you feel? Let’s find out.”
Jean stared up at dark brown eyes and fuck, it felt as if he’d just swallowed his own tongue because Marco’s calm words had him open and close his mouth dumbly now, and when the trainer put them into pairs and Marco began to guide him over to the yoga mats by grabbing his wrist painfully hard, Jean knew he was fucked.
—————
Five minutes later, and Jean cursed all existing deities into the smoldering depths of purgatory and hell.
Marco was spread open before him and panting heavily. His arms were holding onto Jean’s knees and he threw his head back in a breathy moan when Jean pressed forward and towered over him.
“God Jean, don’t treat me like I’m porcelain. I can handle your hands being rough. Just – ” And then Marco honest to god moaned in pleasure and rocked forward into Jean’s arms, his legs looming into the sky.
“Fuck, just like that, you’re so good to me.
"Shut up, shut the fuck up.”
Marco smirked, and Jean wanted to wipe the smugness and content hum off his stupid mouth.
Marco threw him a lewd noise and a “come on, harder” and Jean included him in his curses, even thought of an extra painful death for Marco-not-Italian-but-perverted-as-hell. That guy was enjoying every second of their collective stretching, and the position Jean was forced to treat him in was pure and utter humiliation and brought a flush of blood to his cheeks.
Marco was lying on his back, legs outstretched into the air and his butt pressing into Jean’s knees. And because of that damn trainer, they had been paired up – (“Marco, you can show Jean how to stretch, he’s new after all!” – “Yes, I’d love to”) and Marco was taking his revenge through agonizingly slowly stretching himself with Jean’s help and his fingers wrapped tightly around Marco’s calves.
‘I’m not gay,’ Jean thought as he bent Marco’s legs a bit and shifted around, searching for the position in which he’d fell as little as possible from the firm backside prodding into his knee and distracting him. ‘I’m not gay, and stretching Marco’s legs isn’t turning me on the slightest bit.’
“What’s the matter, Jean?” Marco’s eyes had turned into malicious black blurs, focused entirely on Jean. His grip around Jean’s knees was merciless, muscles of his forearms protruding and stretching under his tanned skin. Jean licked his lips and wished he’d shut up earlier. He wished that all the girls were gone and that he could just apologize, and maybe find out just how flexible Marco was.
“I’m fuckin’ fine,” Jean pressed out between gritting teeth and cursed the sweat dripping down his hairline and falling from his nose to Marco’s chest. Marco’s legs were still tensed but now they were shaking the slightest bit and Jean knew he was at his limits. The strained muscles under soft skin quivered, and Jean instinctively caressed Marco’s calves with his thumbs.
“What about you?”
His voice cracked, a mere whisper left of it at the end of his pathetically weak question. Marco’s eyes had fallen shut after Jean’s last long press and now flew open again. Fuckin’ shit, the sight Jean was getting was seriously to die for. Marco had intented to mock him, punish him for the impudence Jean had allowed himself with him. And yeah, okay fine, he had been tactless and stupid.
“I’m peachy, babe,” Marco purred and his tongue made a quick appearance, coating his mouth and Jean felt his sanity crumble. Oh god, this was heaven and hell and the best torture ever.
But now they were both panting from the stretching before, and with Marco’s legs resting in Jean’s sweaty hands, and his thumbs tracing the skin insecurely, dancing lightly over Marco’s ankles, it was a whole different story. No punishment anymore, or revenge for him being an asshole about someone gay. In fact, Jean would doubt his own sexuality right now, with a tall masculine cheerleader pressed to his heaving chest, if only he could take his eyes off Marco’s cute lips.
“How long,” Jean bit his own bottom lip and worried it for a second. Marco watched him with blown out eyes; the gym was boiling from heat and other people panting and stretching, and Marco waited for his reply with a face peeking from in between slightly parted legs. Fuck it, just fuck it.
“H-how long do we have to do this?” Jean let his head sink down, it fell into Marco’s legs and then all pressure was gone. Marco yelped softly and his knees bent rapidly. He threw them around Jean and pulled him down in a wave of force. Jean had no time to think, his elbows caught the momentum and he came to a halt, hovering a few centimeters from Marco’s sweat-damp face.
“We’re done when you learned your lesson,” Marco breathed out shakily, his fingers tangling in Jean’s hair and fuck, Jean’s eyes widened when Marco brought his knee over his crotch and rubbed against him. That last moan he could impossibly bite back. Jean sunk down and cracked.
“I’m sorry, fuckin’ shit, okay! I’m sorry I – s-stop it, you idiot!”
But Marco seemed to be perfectly content with holding Jean against his chest, his legs wrapped tightly around Jean’s sweat-damp waist, lips pulling back into a white-teethed smirk.
“Fine. You owe me a date and I’ll let you stretch me a bit more until that problem of yours goes away.” Marco purred and tilted his head on the mat, hair spread out darkly around him, eyes glowing in smoldering heat. One hand found Jean’s crotch and gave it a squeeze, fingers cupping him through his gym pants.
“G-god, I – fine, okay! You always get what you want, right?!” Marco made a soft noise and unwrapped his legs, bringing them back to his chest – but this time his ass pressed between Jean’s thighs and rocked gently into him.
“I do, you’re right. And I have the feeling that you’ll only run after one cheerleader in the future.” Jean rolled his eyes and punished Marco’s boldness with a curl of his fingernails into the freckled skin of his stupid attractive biceps.
“Only if you wear a skirt, asshole.”
Marco’s grin was the best promise in the world. “We can arrange that. Now get my legs up again, we’re not done stretching, Jean.”
He could get used to Marco saying his name like this.
Moami 