Tag: marco bodt

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.

December 23rd

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.

December 20th

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.”

December 15th

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.”

Ours.

At first, he thought it’d be a catastrophe. A foolish idea. “I don’t think you understand,” he told Jean and Eren over and over again, fingers tangled tightly in his lap, knuckles white, insecure. “You don’t – I can’t. I, I love you both, f-fuck, I do – but you wouldn’t be happy – ” Jean then leaned in to kiss his mouth, gently, and Eren ran a warm hand through his hair, fingers grazing his neck. “We love you,” Jean said solemnly, and Marco wanted to object, but Eren went on “and we know what asexual means. But we love you. We do. We want you to be ours, and we’ll belong to you.” Jean kissed him again, and Marco nodded, heart aching and tears welling up in his eyes.

It isn’t a catastrophe now. It’s good, it’s warm when he’s sandwiched between their bodies at night, when Eren’s hands rest on his stomach, heavy and strong, when Jean nuzzles his nose into his chest. They’re good. Maybe he can start believing… that they do love him. Because the tenderness they have for him is all he needs, all he thought he’d never get.

December 13th

The memories come back singing with melodies of war and tears. Jean doesn’t expect it, and neither does the stranger. They’ve never met, haven’t seen each other’s faces or watched out for a certain familiarity in people, for a faint trace of freckles on cheeks, for a sharp jaw and a loud cheerful laughter. But when Jean bumps into a man with wood-dark eyes, when their shoulders crash in the university’s corridor and all of their papers scatter on the floor, it’s like an eternal search ends. Jean feels his breath stop, heart crumble. Fingers clench, find a shirt to fist and a chest to curl himself into, and now he does believe in fate and soulmates and all that shit. Marco cries, holding him tightly and stammering “y-you remember, you know t-too – Trost, the others – we… T-titans. I shouldn’t be ali – ”

Jean kisses it all away, devours the memories from Marco’s lips and nobody understands, how they’re just standing there and kissing and crying over something they lost, somewhere, in another life.

December 10th

An anon asked for a modern fighter AU with Jean body worshipping Marco who’s crazy insecure about the burns on his right side. Bonus points for crying babies.

“Let me, please just – just let me. I promise I’ll stop if you say so. Please, darling. I love you. Let me… let me love you like nobody ever has before.”

He isn’t asking for sex. He doesn’t even want Marco to take off his pants. Jean holds him against his chest, has Marco listen to the calm steady beating of his heart, and he whispers love and gentleness to him. They’re songs, almost, little hummed melodies that Jean makes up with his musician’s brain, and there are days when he’s just playing on his guitar hours and hours until his fingers bleed a little. He’s doing it for Marco. He’s doing it for the soft brown eyes he’s fallen in love with – no, not just fallen, he shattered and bursted his shell for that man but still –

Still Marco believes that Jean can impossibly love him.

All he wants is to give him safety. All he wants is to worship him till the end of his life.

“No, I – Jean, you’ll be disgusted by me, you’ll hate me – ” Marco’s voice is tiny, wet from sobbing into Jean’s arms, from clinging to his shirt and from a past of blood, dirty rust and cracked skin. It breaks Jean’s heart.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say that I’ll find you disgusting,” Jean cups Marco’s face and he kisses him. He kisses his lips and his jaw where the burn scars are thickest, where his past marked him with fire when he wanted to escape. Jean lays him down and it’s an eternity, it’s centuries before Marco’s tears dry on Jean’s lips and then Marco nods. Okay. There’s so much doubt in his beautiful eyes, this perfect dark warmth that Jean will love until he dies.

He kisses it all away.

They stay up all night, hiding under Jean’s blanket. No light but the moon shimmering somewhere far away. Marco’s right side is a burnt labyrinth of stories, and Jean discovers, reads, adores them until Marco is curled in his embrace, and, finally – smiles.

Eren can’t imagine not loving Marco.

He’s there when Marco has his coming-out, and they’re both sixteen, young and hungry for the world and love, and Marco falls in love with an older boy named Jean. They become a couple, and Eren’s silent. He yields, he’s soft and warm and by Marco’s side when he laughs, happiness sparking in his eyes.

He’s there when Jean’s done with school and goes away, leaves the continent to study, and after three weeks Marco’s crying in Eren’s arms because it didn’t work out, not even with skyping every day, and it’s not anyone’s fault but it just didn’t feel the same and Jean skyped five hours with him when they broke up, apologizing over and over again, cooing I still love you but not as much anymore and crying just like Marco. Eren tries not to hate him but it’s hard when Marco’s curled up against his stomach and hurts his soul out of his body.

He’s not there, not with Marco when they’re somewhere in their twenties, in college, when someone hits on Eren and he thinks “fuck it” and kisses a whole night long. Marco’s eyes are wide and sad when he comes home to their shared flat with a stench of beer in his mouth and red lips. They fight, loud and heavy, and then Eren’s spitting I love yous and You’d never look at me like you looked at hims, and then there’s nothing but silence and tears.

Eren stays. For a day, there’s nothing, just a void swallowing him deeper and deeper. Then Marco knocks at his room. Eren can’t not open – he has to be there. For Marco. He can’t imagine not loving him, and Marco’s dark red-rimmed eyes, tears on his cheeks, tell him that Marco knows. He apologizes between sobs, and Eren holds him. He doesn’t know what they’ll become. But the way Marco’s nose brushes his, that can’t be just – Maybe, he can allow himself hope.