It happens in history class, old Franz droning on about the industrialization of the southern regions around Wall Rose. Jean’s dead bored out of his mind but still maintains an effort of at least looking like he’s paying attention, which is more than what half the class is doing. Sasha’s snoring in the back, Connie doodling anatomically incorrect penises on her notes and Armin is using both his elbows to keep Mikasa and Eren awake.
Jean’s shifting in his seat so he can complain to Marco about how fucking stupid Eren looks with drool all over the front of his shirt and it happens.
Marco’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, the way he always does when he’s concentrating hard on a lesson. His lips are slick and red, the skin under his teeth going white from pressure. In the dim torchlight, Jean can see a faint trail of freckles lingering on the curve of Marco’s jaw and down the line of his throat.
Heat coils in the pit of his stomach and Jean imagines those soft lips pressed against his head, wet with precum. Imagines Marco’s hand wrapped around the base of his dick, running up and down the shaft, thick callouses tugging at soft skin. Imagines following those freckles down Marco’s throat and under his shirt, kissing each and every one that he finds.
“Oi, pay attention to the lecture.”
Jean blinks, the tip of Marco’s fountain pen prodding his arm. “There’s going to be an exam next week on this.” Marco’s eyes narrow and he cocks his head. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Fine,” Jean says, forcing himself to look down at his notes. He leans forward in his seat and his dick twitches uncomfortably, half-hard and aching.
The hot water is a miracle for his sore back, melting away the aches and pains from 3D Maneuver Gear training. Jean leans forward and soaks in the heat, forehead touching the tiled wall.
Three hours, jumping from tree to fucking tree like a monkey, hoping that your hooks held and you wouldn’t fall thirty feet and die from a smashed spine. Three hours of hanging from a branch fifty feet in the air with nothing but a leather harness and two flimsy little wires, hoping that you were good enough to never see a Titan in the flesh.
Jean checks the hourglass hanging on the steel divider on his left; he still has a good ten minutes left before his allotted shower time is up. More than enough time for a quick jerk off. With fifteen guys crammed into a tiny room, the only privacy any of them ever had was in the showers.
Unbidden, his mind flits back to Marco’s face and his wet mouth, red and just begging to be fucked. Jean’s hips jerk and his dick grinds against the palm of his hand. It feels good, even better when he pretends that it’s not his but Marco’s-- Marco’s fingers that circle around his base and squeeze, Marco’s thumb that traces swirls on his head, Marco’s teeth just grazing his skin.
“Oi, Jean, I think I left my soap in there!”
Jean freezes, hand still wrapped around his dick.
“Not now,” he manages to choke out. “I’ll be done soon.”
“Come on, just hand it over.” Marco’s hand sneaks around the edge of the curtain. “It’s not a big deal.”
Jean scrabbles at the soap on the shelf to his right and in his haste, drops both bars on the ground. Swearing, he bends down and picks it up with shaking hands. “Here,” he says and shoves the soap at Marco’s waiting hand.
Marco pokes his head through the gap between curtain and wall and beams at him. “Thanks, I appreciate--” Then his eyes flick down and Marco flushes, cheeks heating up a deep red.
Jean looks at him blankly, looks down, back up and then back down again. Fucking shit, of all fucking times!
“I, er, erm.”
“I--” Jean says in a strangled voice.
“I should probably let you finish,” Marco croaks and his face heats up even more. “I mean, erm, er--”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Jean says abruptly and then grabs at the wall next to him. It sounds even worse aloud than in his head, with none of the sarcasm that would’ve made it funny, instead of just. Fuck.
“Yeah?” Marco laughs shakily, but he doesn’t back away. “Seriously?”
Jean swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says.
Marco blinks and the two of them stare at each other for a long moment, faces getting redder by the second.
“Okay,” Marco says and he slides into the stall, dropping the towel wrapped around his waist onto the ground.
It’s nothing that Jean hasn’t seen before, but here, the two of them alone with nothing but hot steam and a flimsy shower curtain to keep the rest of the world out, Marco’s body is electrifyingly unfamiliar. He has freckles scattered all along the lines of his chest, hips sharp and defined. There’s a trail of dark hair down his stomach that leads to a dick that’s half hard and growing stiffer by the second.
“Hi,” Jean says, his voice rough.
“Hi,” Marco says and gives him a crooked smile. “I totally interrupted you, didn’t I?”
“It was a pretty asshole move,” Jean says and takes a step forward, water sliding over his chest.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Marco says in a low voice and then gets down on his knees. Jean stops, surprised, but it only gives Marco time to push Jean back against a steel divider, dark head pressing against Jean’s thigh.
“Are you okay with this?” Marco looks up, pupils dilated so wide his eyes look black instead of their normal light brown. “Do you want this?” Marco’s mouth is so close that Jean can feel his breath ghosting over his dick.
“Fuck yes,” Jean says raggedly.
Marco hums and licks his hands, spitting on his palms and rubbing them together. Jean nearly comes from the sight.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” Marco says and Jean’s about to retort that if Marco ever got around to starting, maybe he’d have a chance to say so, but by then Marco’s hands are wrapped around Jean’s dick and all the words fly out of his head.
His grip is perfect; not too tight, but enough that it feels fucking amazing, up and down in a smooth, unrelenting motion. Jean’s hips jerk rhythmically, and he’s practically rutting in Marco’s face. “Holy shit,” Jean breathes, and leans back against the wall, steel deliciously cold against his skin.
Marco gives him a smile that’s just a touch self-satisfied. “Feel good?”
“If you stop, I’m going to fucking kill-- oh.” Marco takes him in one swallow, going in so deep that his nose just brushes Jean’s curls at the base of his dick. “Fuuuuck,” Jean groans. Jean’s pathetic fantasies have nothing on the wet tightness of Marco’s mouth, the way his tongue swirls and laps at the precum leaking from his head, the way his cheeks hollow as he sucks.
“Marco, Marco please,” Jean begs and Marco looks up at him, eyes half-lidded and mouth full of Jean’s cock, and what little self-control he has snaps in an instant. Jean thrusts madly into Marco’s willing mouth, hands fisted in dark curls and pulling him in as close as possible. Two deep strokes and Jean comes in a blinding white hot fury, knees buckling and half-collapsing onto the wet floor. Marco swallows it all, throat working as Jean pours what feels like every inch of his soul into his mouth.
Jean collapses bonelessly into Marco’s arms.
“You alright?” Marco’s right arm is braced around his shoulder, his left hand drawing aimless patterns on his chest. Jean raises a heavy hand and tugs Marco head down for a kiss. The taste of his own cum on Marco’s tongue is salty and bitter and incredibly satisfying.
“Fucking fantastic,” Jean says, his voice hoarse. “Feels like you tried to suck my brains out through my dick.”
“My apology for interrupting you,” Marco grins, water beading down his face and dripping down his throat.
“You should do it more often if it ends like this.” Jean shifts and feels something hard press against his thigh. “Would you like an apology as well?” he asks, looking speculatively up at Marco’s eyes.
“The great Jean Kirchstein, apologizing?” Marco’s fingers trace the edge of Jean’s jaw. “How can I miss this?”
“Good,” Jean says, smiling wolfishly. “I’ll see you later then.” He stands up on wobbly legs and shuts the water off just in time for the last grain of sand to fall through the hourglass.
Marco looks up at him from the ground, slack-jawed. “What?”
“My fifteen are up,” Jean says, pointing at the hourglass. “So you’ll have to wait until next time.”
“You asshole,” Marco laughs and gets up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “See if I help you out next time.”
“Make sure you forget your soap tomorrow too,” Jean grins and swipes his towel from the hook, wrapping it around his waist. “I’ll be waiting.”
The shower stall is small enough that it only take two steps before Marco is close enough that Jean can count all of his freckles. “Tomorrow?” he asks again in a softer voice, looking up at Marco’s gentle brown eyes and trying hard to breathe normally.
“Tomorrow,” Marco nods and leans in to press a kiss on the corner of Jean’s mouth. “I’d like that.”
Jean gives him a small, shy smile. “Me too.”