Tag: jeanmarco

Marco’s gentleness is a wildfire on his skin, and Jean watches, stunned in silence, as his own freezing rage fades and a soft warmth he never thought he’d deserve spreads through his bones, underneath the holy touch of Marco’s hands, mouth, kisses.

Jean didn’t believe the sweet words about how love could hurt more than a broken arm, a flesh wound, the disappointment in his father’s eyes. He didn’t believe that the reason he’d been banished from the house he grew up in, where he learnt to walk and sing, that this reason could bring him anything but pain and fear and knowing that he was wrong, wrong, disgusting, “you aren’t our son anymore”. 

He didn’t believe that love could hurt so bittersweet and perfect that it swept him off his feet, right into the arms of a stranger with cheeks that were golden from freckles, a smile that was warm and welcoming and looked like chocolate and the home he was missing. 

Marco found him when he was a lost child, and Jean fell for him as if he’d been born to be with this gorgeous, breathtaking hurricane of a man. 

Jean teaches him the foreign language of bravery with dark promises and whispered love, with a tongue sliding along the cold of his body and lighting him on fire, with star-shining fingertips that trace all of Marco’s ugly battle scars, and with the touch of lips on his own that swear an oath of “my love, you’re the most beautiful thing I was ever allowed to love”. 

Marco doesn’t say it out loud. Ever since that accident took his voice, he spells love in another way. 

His lips press hot, burning lines of fire into Jean’s skin. They slide up his jaw, scattering along the sharp ivory of his collarbone, nails scratching lightly until the paleness of Jean’s nipples is bruised in the most beautiful way. He loves it, he loves it all, please don’t stop. Jean bites his mouth and closes his eyes, panting heavily and whimpering until Marco smiles. His fingers cup Jean’s face, tips glowing like embers, pupils gone dark, breath quick. 

He doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, his lips smile and his warm, goddamn perfect hands pull Jean close, on top of him, till they’re one and moving together, slick and good and world-shattering. 

‘Happy Birthday’, Marco’s silence says, and his fingertips spell love in bold, eternal letters. 

His first kiss tastes like storm and rain, like the hay of the barn that he and Jean hide inside, at night, away from everyone else’s curious glances. It tastes like liquid, golden fire flooding his veins and sparking inside his head, a phoenix on Jean’s lips. And Jean is gentle and rough all together, licks open his mouth and the soft, trembling insides of his thighs, and Marco gives in with the desperate moan of a man who’s losing himself to a dark, grinning mouth around his hard cock. Jean sucks him, head going up and down with Marco’s hand curling into his soft hair, pulling, tugging roughly, his own voice a raw scream when he comes into that wet, hot mouth that licks him dry. 
And his next kiss tastes salty, trickles warmly down his spine in tender shudders, Jean’s hands cupping his face and whispering “Marco, Marco. Let me – god, please, ‘m yours.” All Marco can say back, voice broken and smiling, is: “Yes.” 

His first meeting with Marco wasn’t immediate, overwhelming love. Yet still, Jean stood there, stiff and frozen as struck by a shining roar of lightning, when that boy came into his life with a smile too bright to look at directly. 
No, Jean didn’t fall in love just yet. It was worse. 

Because he looked at him, nails digging into his own sweaty palms – and Jean knew, fucking knew that if he was to ever lose that man, it would leave his soul in a screaming wreck of crimson flesh and cracked bones, of broken sobs raining from Marco’s mouth when he died, without anyone by his side, thrown away like a useless puppet or devoured into teeth that were stronger than life and love. 

And Jean decided to pray for the first time in his life. 

He prayed for a way to hate Marco Bodt, for a way to protect his poor, weak, hopelessly lost heart. God didn’t listen to him. 

Cold

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.