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.

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.

December 4th

“La mela proibita” says the dark sign over the restaurant’s entrance. The letters are smoldering gold and gleam in the street lamp’s dim light. Inside it’s comfortable and warm, a whirl of cosiness luring Jean deeper in. He chose this place because it’s new, and all magazines are overboarding with praise for Signore Bodt’s exquisite cuisine. Jean doesn’t expect too much. His mother’s French and a fantastic cook, and he’s grown up to have such a spoiled sense of taste that nothing can ever satisfy him.

He’s roaming life full of wild thirst and hunger, and it’s not just caramel or vanilla he’s looking for, not the simple pleasures of a breathtakingly meal. People wear their aromas to the outside, all their secrets prominent and reeking from cheap flower scents. Jean misses the darkness, the deep rumbling desire of a good wine being poured into a crystal glass, the kiss of a lover who can fulfill and sate him – who takes his soul and tears him apart with skilled fingers, puts him back together in a way that has Jean gasp for air fucking perfectly, and has his heart boom in his ribcage where a heavy hand rests and holds him down.

The ancient oaken door to his right opens, a large bright kitchen flickering the gap of wood and wall for a second. Jean swallows heavily and his fingers grasp the table’s edge. Signore Bodt wears a white cook’s uniform and a star-glowing sky full of freckles all over his dark skin. His hair’s a mess of cowlicks and Jean bites back the urge to get up and grab a fist of it, to pull him down in the hope of getting a taste of smirking bold lips –

“Welcome to ‘La mela proibita’. What can I serve you to get a smile upon that pretty face of yours?” A voice like thick lavender honey, eyes darkening when they scan Jean from head down to his fingers helplessly clenching around the table. He’s gorgeous, he’s fucking perfect and Jean wants to have a taste of the hollow that sits where his collarbone shifts under warm skin.

Oh, he’s doomed.

He’s getting spaghetti carbonara when his voice is back to order, and a fine wine along with it – but Signore Bodt shakes his head and leans down, points into the menu to another wine. “This one will go much better with it. If you don’t mind, I’ll get it for you. And a few bruschetta as an entrée?” The way his tongue rolls around the Italian word has Jean lick his lips. God, he needs more, and Signore Bodt’s smile tells him enough. He turns with swift elegance and is back in the kitchen with a few steps. It’s only now that Jean realizes that he’s the only customer so far, and it’s already near midnight – fuck. He runs both hands down his face.

He’s gulping the water down and clings to the glass afterwards. It’s not long before the kitchen door swings open and Signore Bodt joins him with two small plates of bruschetta. “You came in when I was about to close,” he smiles and his fingers dance over Jean’s knuckles when he gives him the plate. Jean almost drops it, and when the cook’s hand guides a piece of bruschetta to his mouth, he closes his eyes and wraps his lips around it.

“Not very polite,” Signore Bodt says. “But it means we get to enjoy our meal together, and that’s why I’m glad that such a pretty thing like you bursted in after closing time.”

Jean chokes on the bruschetta and the cook’s hand slides on his back, patting gently until he’s caught his breath again. “It’s – I’m – sorry,” Jean croaks and for some reason, Signore Bodt’s hand suddenly wraps around his neck, and slides along his jaw. Calloused fingertips, fucking shit, Jean forgets every English word he knows and curses shakily, softly in French when a warm thumb runs over his lips.

“I rarely have any customers like you.” Signore Bodt’s eyes are charcoal darkness, and Jean’s ready to drown and give up all his self-control. “I hope we’ll… see each other again after tonight.”

They do.

Not even two days later, Jean returns. It’s midnight again, and he still feels where Marco (that’s his first name, beautiful and perfect like him) left fire engraved in his skin, warmth flooding Jean’s body whenever he licks his lips and remembers. Tonight, he’s hanging his jacket on the coat rack, turns around with a light swag to his step – but the kitchen’s dark, and his shoulders sag down in disappointment. Maybe he imagined things –

A hint of lavender honey, musk and darkly brewed coffee. Lips press to his neck, a strong hand slides over his waist. Jean’s eyes widen and he swirls around, and Marco crashes into him with a wild growl, a low rumbled curse in Italian that has Jean’s cock throb in his pants. He doesn’t know him, but it’s enough to know that Marco’s waited here for him and is fiddling with his fly, long fingers slipping inside and palming his painfully hard cock.

“Fuck,” Jean breathes when Marco bites his bottom lip, “shit” when he’s hauled up stairs and “oh God, fuck – ” once again when a mattress bounces back under his weight, and a heavy body takes his breath away, together with hands roaming under his clothes and marking his skin with nails and burning touches.

Marco’s moans are heavy with his name, and when a fucking perfect mouth hollows around his cock, sucking him, so slow and wet and goddamn heavenly, Jean curls his fingers into black hair and a tiny, broken sob comes together with him bucking his hips up, Marco grinning and swallowing his come with obscene slick noises.

Later that night, Jean learns that Marco switches back to Italian and that “mio Dio!”, along with a thick cock fucking him raw and fucking perfectly until his throat’s sore and aching from all the lewd moans he’s been spilling – that means that Jean might be eating Italian a little more often now.