Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3993211.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shingeki_no_Kyojin_|_Attack_on_Titan
  Relationship:
      Marco_Bott/Jean_Kirstein, Reiner_Braun/Bertolt_Hoover
  Character:
      Jean_Kirstein, Marco_Bott, Armin_Arlert, Reiner_Braun, Bertolt_Hoover,
      Eren_Yeager
  Additional Tags:
      also_featuring_an_OC, A/B/O, Alpha/Omega, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Come
      Inflation, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Knotting, Biting, Marking, Scent
      Marking, Mates, Pheromones, a_sexually_aggressive_OC, Attempted_Sexual
      Assault
  Series:
      Part 2 of Heats
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-23 Words: 11922
****** With Warmth Inside ******
by missazrael
Summary
     “What are you laughing about, silly?” Marco’s voice is warm and
     affectionate as he peels a sleeve off Jean’s arm.
     “You going to do this with the gear tomorrow?” Jean snickers again,
     deeply entertained.
     “I hope I don’t have to.”
     “Yeah, but will you?” That’s suddenly very important to know, and
     Jean feels a pulse of heat at the base of his throat, like his heart
     had throbbed painfully for a single beat.
     Jean has had a heat now, and he's a pro at this. He knows how to
     handle himself, and how to deal with being an omega. It's just a
     coincidence that he's watching Marco more closely, and wondering what
     it'd be like to mate with him...
      
     The companion piece to What Is To Come, taking place immediately
     after its conclusion.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
There is no doubt in Jean’s mind that Marco would catch him, and he is not
disappointed.
He tumbles out of the bunk, and he intends it to look smooth and graceful, that
he’d have the same freedom of movement coming off the bunk as he does in the
air, when he’s using his gear and soaring above the tree line. His legs give
out on him, though, collapsing and refusing to obey him, and he comes within a
few scant inches of planting his face onto the barrack’s floor, smearing his
nose across hard wood and possibly breaking it. He has a split second jolt of
fear; not of injury, but of embarrassment. He’d already made enough of an ass
of himself the night before, and he didn’t need to give the child soldiers
anything else to gossip about.
He doesn’t need to worry; Marco is right there, his arms open, and he catches
Jean handily, steadying him on his feet and wrapping him in a robe in one
smooth motion, hiding his nudity from anyone who might be looking. Being naked
didn’t typically bother Jean—privacy is hard to come by in a military barracks,
and everyone has seen everyone else naked at least once. It is somehow
different though, different because he had never before been gnawed speckled by
hungry mouths, or had silver stripes of come up and down his legs. Marco had
somehow known that, and been prepared, waiting at the side of the bunk with his
robe open, the old, threadbare robe that’s too big for him and faded to a murky
green, the one he wears every day to go to the communal outhouse and showers
before getting ready in the morning.
Marco catches Jean and steadies him, enclosing him in a robe that smells
refreshingly of something other than pheromones and endorphins—pleasant enough
on their own but frankly overpowering when blasted in such high amounts—and
Jean pulls it tight around his bruised throat. Marco frowns at that, a line
appearing between his eyebrows, but then he smoothes his face out and looks up
at the top bunk, where Reiner had been looking down, shirtless and marked
around the neck by bites Jean knew he hadn’t left behind.
“Thank you,” Marco tells him politely, and then ushers Jean away, keeping an
arm around him, ready to jump in if Jean’s legs fail him. Jean will never admit
it, but if Marco hadn’t been holding onto him, he would have collapsed two or
three times over on the way to the showers, and he quietly thanks the gods his
mother prays to that today will be a day in the classroom and not with the
gear.
Marco stays quiet on the walk over, and Jean recognizes one of Marco’s
thoughtful, contemplative moods, the kind he usually gets in after discussing
the Military Police with Armin or talking about titans with Eren. Usually Jean
would fill that silent space with chatter of his own, but exhaustion weighs
heavily on him, and it is all he could do to keep putting one foot in front of
the other. He knows he’ll end up sleeping away a good part of their lecture
today, but the instructors tend to be a little kinder than Shadis, more likely
to ignore a fatigued student who stinks of pheromones and wears a necklace of
bruises.
A few boys still linger in the showers, but they scatter when Marco and Jean
enter, moving away from them as though parted by invisible forces. Jean manages
a wry chuckle as Marco leads him to the shower on the end, the only one that
had a privacy curtain still hanging. “It’s like they’re afraid omega is
catching.” His voice sounds rough and cracked, hardly recognizable.
“Shhhh…” Marco shushes him gently, and Jean allows himself to be silenced,
letting Marco push him into the stall and draw the curtain closed behind them
both. He raises an eyebrow, but Marco seems determined, despite already being
dressed himself, and he pushes Jean down onto a stool he must have brought into
the stall earlier.
“Come on, Mama Bott, I know how to wash myself…”
“I know you do.” Marco’s hands are insistent, the line forming between his
eyebrows again, and he slides the robe off Jean’s shoulders. When he gets a
full view of Jean’s neck and chest, he hisses through his teeth, and for the
first time, Jean feels ashamed. “Gods, Jean, what did they do to you?”
Jean shrugs, the sense of shame burning in the pit of his stomach, and he
brushes away Marco’s hands from where they fluttered around his throat, dusting
over the bruises like a butterfly’s wings. “It’s nothing. Alpha stuff.”
“It looks like they hurt you.” Marco’s eyes are shadowed, furious, and Jean
notices the dark circles under them for the first time. He remembers Marco
leaving the night before, and he wonders where he spent the night, and if he
came back at any point. “It looks like they were trying to do something awful!”
“It’s okay, I said!” Jean manages the energy to glare up at Marco, and Marco
relents after a moment, although the line in his forehead doesn’t disappear.
Jean softens his voice a little, realizing he’d almost been shouting. “It’s…
pheromone stuff. Scent glands and shit.” He shrugs again, feeling embarrassed.
“It felt good at the time.”
Marco snorts, an affectation he’d picked up from Jean, and Jean bursts out
laughing. Marco blinks at that, and then sighs and shakes his head. “It looks
awful.”
Jean grins at him, starting to feel a little like himself again. “Jealous you
didn’t get laid last night?”
Rather than answer, Marco pulls the robe out from under Jean’s legs and turns
the water on, stepping out of the way of the spray just in time. Jean yelps as
he’s hit fully in the face by the blast, and of course there’s no hot water
left, not this late in the morning. Water cascades down on him in icy streams,
and he starts shivering almost immediately.
“Come on, stand up.” Marco is at his side again, helping Jean to his feet even
as his own shirt sleeve gets soaked, and Jean clambers to an upright position,
ignoring the bone-deep twinge that runs through him at every movement. He
hurts, he hurts all over, but at least the hideous, unreachable agony of being
in heat and unknotted is gone. He thinks, as the water sluices down his face
and over his shivering body, that he might have overdone it a little last
night.
Marco wipes him down, the movements perfunctory and practiced, something he
must have learned caring for his siblings back in Jinae, and Jean holds still
and lets him do it. It’s only when Marco stops near his ass and lingers that
Jean reaches out and takes the washrag from him, gingerly cleaning himself off
as best he can. Dried come is surprisingly challenging to get out of the
tangled mat of hair between his legs, and it takes Jean longer than he’d like
to pick himself clean.
He turns when he’s finished, his hair plastered around his skull and water
running off him in droplets, and sees that Marco is staring at him. He follows
the line of his friend’s gaze, and realizes that Marco is looking right at his
belly, at the rounded distention that’s still there, and Jean feels his cheeks
flush pink.
“Gods, not you too!” He snaps a hand out, snagging Marco’s robe and wrapping it
defensively around himself, hiding the curve of his belly and not caring that
he’s getting the robe soaking wet. Serves Marco right for being a creeper.
Marco shakes his head and snaps out of it, his eyes widening as he realizes
what he’d been doing, and then his cheeks light up, matching Jean’s as blood
flows to them, making his freckles stand out like spatters of ink. “I’m sorry!”
He looks away, looking at everything except Jean. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t… I
didn’t mean to…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Jean brushes past him, making a beeline for one of the
toilets, one of the ones with a door. “Fucking perv-ass alphas…”
“I don’t know if I’m an alpha yet…” Marco’s weak retort carries to Jean’s ears
as he slams the toilet door ill-temperedly and sits himself down, preparing to
get rid of the stupid belly once and for all.
It takes longer than Jean would have thought to get rid of the belly, and hurts
enough to make him want to sulk in the smelly toilet and avoid the world for
the rest of the day. He keeps Marco’s robe close, and whenever he gets a
sudden, ripping pain from his ass, he turns his head and inhales the robe’s
scent; it’s like being hugged by Marco, and that’s a strange comfort, one he
will never admit he needs. If the tenderness between his legs doesn’t go away
soon, he’s going to be a wreck in the maneuver gear for the rest of the week,
and it’s that thought alone that gets him up and moving, some half-formed
thought about stretching out the muscles in his head. With his joints creaking
like an old man’s, Jean rises to his feet, Marco’s robe tight around him, and
exits the stall.
He’s surprised to find Marco waiting for him, milling around aimlessly, staring
at nothing and fidgeting. Marco perks up when he sees Jean again, and hurries
over to him, offering him his own clothes, clean and folded. Jean mutters his
thanks and slowly, agonizingly works his way into them, refusing Marco’s help
based on principle and not because he couldn’t actually use it. Jean notices
Marco glancing at his belly, and he’s pleased that it’s gone down to its usual
size and concavity.
When Jean straightens up, fully if a little sloppily dressed, Marco presses a
roll of bread into his hand. “It’s all I could take,” he says apologetically,
and Jean realizes that while he was in the stall, Marco must have run to the
canteen and stolen him some food. He knows how much Marco hates to steal, and
the little gesture makes it feel like something is cracking in his chest,
something hard and cold and almost forgotten, something with warmth inside it,
yearning to be free.
Jean squelches the feeling and tears into the bread, suddenly ravenous, and
ignores it when Marco touches the side of his neck, where the bruises are
darkest and heaviest. He hears Marco sigh, and then he’s looping something
around Jean’s neck. He looks down, and sees that Marco brought out his winter
scarf, woolen and warm, and used it to cover the marks on Jean’s throat.
He opens his mouth to protest—scarves are Mikasa’s thing, not his, this is
going to make him look silly—but Marco pointedly shoves more bread in his mouth
and knots the scarf at his throat, and Jean swallows and decides to let him.
They walk to the classroom together, Jean lurching on his feet, every step
sending dull, thudding aches through his hips and spine, and Marco hovering
near him, making sure he doesn’t fall. They arrive late, after the lecture has
already started, and Jean holds his chin up, looking haughtily out at the rest
of the class as they turn to stare. He wants to turn and flee, wants to go back
to the barracks and sleep all day, away from their prying eyes, but that would
be letting them win.
It’s still a close thing until Jean feels Marco’s hand on the small of his
back, and Marco guides him to the bench they always share, halfway into the
room, a compromise between Marco’s desire to be right up front and Jean’s to
loiter in the back. They settle onto the bench together, and Jean realizes
they’ve switched spots; Marco sits on the aisle, putting himself between Jean
and everyone else, as though he’s protecting him, and while that irritates Jean
on some level, it also makes the cracked thing in his chest turn over again.
He sighs and turns his gaze towards the teacher, already dozing off, and hopes
Marco takes good notes, knowing that he will. The last thing Jean feels as he
pillows his face in his arms is a soft, light touch on the back of his neck, so
gentle he’ll never be entirely sure it was there at all.
~*~
Jean sleeps through most of the day with Marco hovering protectively beside
him, and Marco ends up pouring him into his bunk after dinner. They’d usually
stay up later, talking or playing cards or chess, or sometimes, at Marco’s
insistence, even studying, but Jean dozes through dinner and is falling asleep
on Marco’s shoulder over his plate of food. The aches have receded a little,
changing to a dull, constant burn, a feeling of muscles overstretched and
exerted, a feeling that only rest will drive away.
Jean lays flat on his back in his bunk, half asleep, and doesn’t protest or
resist when Marco starts patiently stripping him out of his clothes. They’ll
have to wear the gear tomorrow, he knows, and the thought of wrestling into it
while this exhausted is enough to make Jean giggle like a drunk.
“What are you laughing about, silly?” Marco’s voice is warm and affectionate as
he peels a sleeve off Jean’s arm.
“You going to do this with the gear tomorrow?” Jean snickers again, deeply
entertained.
“I hope I don’t have to.”
“Yeah, but will you?” That’s suddenly very important to know, and Jean feels a
pulse of heat at the base of his throat, like his heart had throbbed painfully
for a single beat.
“Yes. Of course I will. Can you sit up a little?”
Jean does his best, and Marco manages to get his shirt off him. Jean hears him
sigh, and the weight on the bunk shifts as Marco gets up. Jean hears him
rustling around at his own bunk, and without really thinking about it, he
reaches out, blindly searching for a part of Marco to touch, something to lay
his hand on. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but he needs that reassurance.
Marco doesn’t make him wait long, coming back to the bed after only a moment,
and he shifts Jean’s reaching hand aside as he sits down beside him, close
enough that Jean can feel the heat off his body. It makes Jean relax, knowing
Marco is so close, and he closes his eyes when he feels Marco’s warm fingers on
the sides of his neck, spreading a salve across his bruises. Jean breathes
through his nose, and smells dried herbs and flowers, a scent like a meadow on
the edge of a forest, just as spring is struggling to break through the last
snows of winter, and he wrinkles his nose. He’s struck by a sudden, powerful
urge to draw that meadow, tentative and shy, trying so hard to come back to
life, and include Marco in the scene, bent low over some flowers, whatever kind
of flower comes through the snow first, gathering it, his eyes bright and an
excited flush spreading across his freckled cheeks. The image is so vivid that
Jean clenches his right hand, his drawing hand, into a fist, and Marco stops.
“Am I hurting you?”
He sounds so worried that Jean’s heart does that weird jogging thing again,
making his pulse points beat hot and close to the surface. “No.” He shakes his
head lazily from side to side, opening his eyes a fraction, just enough to see
Marco’s blurred outline. “It’s fine.”
“Okay.” Marco starts using the salve again, but his hands are even gentler,
moving slow and tender across Jean’s bruised skin, and Jean is half-asleep
again by the time Marco wraps a bandage he must have taken from the infirmary
around his neck.
“Is he okay?” Even with his consciousness fading fast, Jean recognizes Reiner’s
deep rumble, and he knows that if he breathed in through his nose, he’d smell
Bertolt behind him.
“He’s fine.” Marco’s voice is polite, but there’s a tightness that Jean hasn’t
heard before, and he feels the muscles in Marco’s leg flex where they’re
touching his side. “Just tired. You kept him up all night.”
Jean makes a soft sound that wants to be words but isn’t, and shifts his weight
a little, leaning against Marco’s thigh. He keeps his eyes closed, letting
himself drift further away. They’re fine. This is okay. Marco will take care of
it.
“Yeah…” Reiner has the decency to sound embarrassed, and Jean catches a whiff
of Bertolt, pungent and nervous, standing close to his mate. Because they’re
mates, and there’s no doubt in Jean’s mind about it. He’d spent the previous
night marinating in their hormones, and he’d known the strongest ones weren’t
for him. He’d seen the way Reiner had watched them, that last time, the way
he’d kept his eyes entirely on Bertolt, the way he’d bitten his lower lip and
studied every line of Bertolt’s body and face as he’d stroked himself off. He’d
felt them link hands over his swollen abdomen, felt how Reiner had reached
around him for Bertolt as they’d fallen asleep in a sweaty, sticky pile. He’d
had some resentment last night, a feeling like they’d been using him in one of
their weird little games, but that had washed away in the morning. He’d
understood, somehow, when he’d looked over the bunk and seen Marco standing
there, waiting for him.
It’s something that’s going to require some thought later, certainly, when he’s
more awake.
“Do you need anything?” Marco’s voice is still unfailingly polite, but Jean
feels him reach down and put a hand on his head, stroking his fingers through
Jean’s hair. It should make him angry, like he’s being treated like a child,
but Jean just sighs through his nose and keeps his eyes closed.
“No. Looks like you’ve got everything under control here.” Reiner sounds almost
amused, and Jean cracks one eye open enough to glare at him from under Marco’s
hand.
“Thank you, Marco.” Bertolt’s voice is soft and low, like always, and he takes
Reiner’s arm and leads him away. Jean hears them clamber up into their bunk,
but he’s closed his eyes long before then, fatigue giving way as he sinks
deeper into sleep.
Just before sleep takes him entirely, Jean feels the bed shift again, and then
Marco is curled behind him, chest to back, folded together like spoons, with
Marco’s arm heavy and sweet around his waist.
~*~
He wakes up the next morning with Marco next to him, and Jean spends a few
sleepy moments studying the outline of Marco’s face. They’d ended up with Marco
on his back, his arms thrown wide, and Jean on his side, his head on Marco’s
bicep and one of his legs thrown between Marco’s. Marco is still sound asleep,
his mouth slack and open a little, a faint trickle of drool on his chin, and
Jean self-consciously wipes his own chin when he sees it, clearing away the
inevitable wet patch there.
They’ve shared a bed before, especially during winter and outdoor trainings,
when everyone cuddles together to share warmth and when sharing a tent with
Bertolt becomes a sought-after prize, but this is still somehow different. Jean
lets his eyes trace over the line of Marco’s nose, the line of freckles across
the bridge, and down towards his lips, and he wonders what it would be like to
kiss him, to press their lips together and wake Marco by sharing his breath.
That they’ve never done, and except for Bertolt’s desperate attempt to keep him
quiet two nights ago, Jean has never really kissed anyone at all. He can’t stop
looking at Marco’s mouth, at the soft pink of his lips, and he licks his own,
wondering what Marco’s lips taste like, how they’d feel sealed over his mouth,
growling against his lips as Marco’s hands circled his wrists and held them
above his head…
From across the barracks, Eren bellows a loud, harsh guffaw, and Jean blinks,
snapping out of his trance. He realizes that he’s half-leaning over Marco, his
lips parted and his breath quick in his chest, and he sits up abruptly. The bed
shakes, and Marco opens his eyes, looking blearily up at Jean. “Time’s it?” he
asks sleepily, and Jean is gratified to see Marco lift a hand and wipe at his
chin.
“Time to get up.” Jean crawls over Marco to get out of the bunk, picking his
way over him carefully, trying desperately not to knock anything together that
doesn’t want to be knocked together, and Marco goes completely still underneath
him. Jean’s bare feet hit the floor with a thump, and he stretches, his spine
crackling, pleased that the ache between his legs has receded, dying away to
something distant and ignorable. “C’mon, let’s go get breakfast before it’s all
gone.”
He offers Marco a hand, and tries to ignore the little spark that moves up his
spine when Marco folds his fingers around Jean’s palm and hauls himself out of
bed.
~*~
Time passes, as it always does. The bruises on Jean’s neck and thighs fade, and
the ache in his ass dwindles until it’s just a memory. As he heals, Marco eases
back on his protectiveness, giving Jean his space again, and they fall back
into their regular routine, much to Jean’s relief. The thought of Marco, or
anyone, lingering over his shoulder and treating him like a fragile, quivering
little omega sits poorly with Jean, and he’s a bit overly aggressive in the
maneuver gear for the next week or so, trying to prove that just because he’s
an omega doesn’t mean that he’s weak or less adept than anyone else.
He pushes himself to his absolute limits, until he’s ragged and tattered with
exhaustion, and it’s Armin of all people who finally pulls him aside one day.
“Look,” he tells Jean, his blue eyes bright and earnest, and Jean has never
realized quite how intense Armin can be, “you’ve got another few months before
your next heat. Two or three, maybe even four, so it’s stupid and dangerous for
you to keep pushing yourself so hard. You’re going to hurt yourself or someone
else.”
“What do you know about it?” Jean tries to bluster, even as he’s internally
cringing. Has he been that obvious?
“Eren’s father was a doctor. He used to explain things to me.” Armin doesn’t
back down, perhaps sensing that Jean is putting on a show rather than actually
getting angry. He reaches out and pats Jean’s elbow, his hand as small and
fine-boned as a child’s. “You have time. By the time you hit another one, other
people probably will have had theirs, and it won’t be so noticeable. And,” he
pauses, looks away, uses a more diplomatic tone, “and maybe next time, you’ll
find a more suitable partner.”
Marco. Without even realizing it, Jean looks over his shoulder, finding Marco
in a clot of other cadets. Marco glances up, sees Jean watching him, and waves,
a small smile on his face. Jean turns back to Armin, flustered, and he’ll be
damned if the smug little bastard isn’t grinning a little, his brows knit
together knowingly.
“It’ll be okay, Jean. It’s just a bunch of chemical reactions that everyone is
going to have to go through.”
“You don’t.”
“No, I’m a beta; I won’t have heat cycles. But I can definitely smell it when
alphas and omegas are having them, and,” Armin looks away, bright spots of
color rising high on his cheeks, “betas aren’t immune to that, even if we can’t
really do it ourselves.”
“Aren’t you just a little smartass?” Jean means for it to sound biting, but
even to his own ears, he just sounds tired.
“I like to stay informed.” Armin is completely unflappable, and he pats Jean’s
elbow again before turning and heading back towards Eren, who has been watching
the whole thing and glowering. “Go get some rest, Jean.”
Jean takes another swing through the obstacle course, just to prove that he’s
not going to jump when Armin tells him to, and then goes back to the barracks
and crashes out, sleeping through dinner. He wakes up to Marco tucking a roll
of bread into his hand as he settles down to sleep beside him, and Jean
realizes that Marco must have switched bunks with Connie, because he never
moved back to his own bed. For some reason, that makes Jean smile as he tears
into the bread, and he wakes up the next morning with Marco’s hand on his
chest.
~*~
Armin turns out to be right. The days turn into weeks and then months, and
besides a healthy interest in sex that predates his heat, Jean keeps his
equilibrium. Some of the other cadets aren’t so lucky: Eren goes into heat
again, and Mikasa very nearly gets into a fistfight with Reiner when she
surprises him, barging into the boys’ barracks to retrieve Eren. It takes both
Bertolt and Thomas to hold Reiner back, and Jean watches with fascination and
no small amount of envy as Mikasa scoops Eren over her shoulder and hauls him
out of the barracks, complaining and squalling loudly the whole time. Hannah
goes into heat, and she and Franz disappear for so long that Shadis is in the
process of organizing a search squad when they stumble back, holding hands and
grinning. First Reiner and then Bertolt go into heat, and they both disappear
on those nights, not returning until the sun rises over the camp.
Others aren’t so lucky. Mariusz, a big, hulking brute with all of Reiner and
Bertolt’s size but none of their intelligence, starts exhibiting as an alpha,
but none of the omegas or betas want anything to do with him, and he spends a
few awkward, painful nights in one of the sheds by himself. When he comes back,
he walks bow-legged, and shoots Jean a look that bristles with hostility and
resentment before flopping into his bunk and skipping the rest of the day’s
lessons. Mina goes into heat not long after Mariusz, and Jean is silently
thankful, for her sake, that Mariusz ignores her and she ends up going off with
Samuel.
Jean’s own hormones stay settled, the ache in his gut staying away, but he
knows they’ll return, and he finds himself watching Marco more closely than
before, and paying more attention to his scent. Marco, infuriatingly, keeps
being his usual cheerful, sweet self, with no trace of alpha to his scent, no
matter how many times Jean takes clandestine sniffs when he’s close. He keeps
being helpful and friendly and everyone’s buddy, and Jean gets used to
swallowing down jealousy when he finds Marco cleaning his gear with Annie or
playing chess with Armin. Marco isn’t his mate, Marco might not even be an
alpha, and Jean has no claim on him. The sooner he accepts that, the happier
they’ll all be.
~*~
Summer bleeds its way into fall, the hot, sticky days giving way to chilly
nights and crisp mornings, and Jean feels the old tension start to build in his
gut again. He knows what’s coming this time, and somehow, that makes it worse.
He hates the thought of losing control again, of turning into a whining,
whimpering mess, desperate for anyone to take the pain away, and he starts
avoiding the other cadets after training. That’s not so unusual, in and of
itself: plenty of cadets take walks in the woods, or retreat to private places
around the grounds to be alone. Jean, though, likes being in the center of
things normally, and he knows—he knows—that people are watching him as he
slinks off, that they’re watching and they know.
He especially avoids Reiner and Bertolt, and pointedly ignores the worried
glances Reiner shoots his way.
The weight in his groin has turned into a stone, a tightly wound stone of agony
between his hips, when Jean wakes up on the first day when frost curls around
the window frames. He watches his breath rise from his lips in a faint white
puff, and is tempted to curl back around himself and spend the day in bed,
nursing himself through the pain and hoping it goes away on its own.
“Jean?”
He winces, looking over his shoulder with eyes squeezed half-shut. Marco is
already up and dressed, and he leans over the bunk, his broad shoulders
blocking the light. Marco’s brow is knit together, a line appearing between his
eyes, and Jean has a moment to wonder when, exactly, his friend got so much
bigger and stronger than himself.
“You know what it is.”
Jean watches as Marco brushes a finger under his nose, a nervous habit of his,
as he pieces it together. When he inhales, his eyes go wide, the curves of his
nostrils flaring, as he breathes in the scent of Jean’s insistent, demanding
pheromones. The stink, musky and heavy, leaves no room for doubt, and Jean
watches as Marco’s pupils dilate until there’s only a thin ring of brown around
them, and as Marco’s throat moves when he swallows.
It looks… inviting, the way Marco reacts, and Jean thinks that maybe, just
maybe, he catches a whiff of alpha pheromone in the air. He rolls over,
propping himself up on his elbows, and he knows that if he could see his face
right now, he’d be wearing the stupidest, soppiest look, full of expectation
and idiotic optimism.
Marco swallows again, the knob at the front of his throat bobbing, and Jean
wonders what it would feel like under his lips. He starts to sit up, clearing
his own throat, ready to speak—something foolish, no doubt, like “hey Marco” or
“so…”—but then Marco jolts to the side, someone else filling Jean’s line of
vision.
He blinks, the spell broken, and it takes a moment for his eyes to focus, for
Mariusz to swim into view. The bigger boy towers over the bed, looming like a
damn titan, and Jean instinctively scrambles back a little, wincing as his
abdomen pangs and cramps.
“Jean.” Mariusz always says his name wrong, puts too much stress on the first
syllable, making it hard and concussive in his mouth, and Jean narrows his
eyes. Mariusz licks his lips, his tongue thick, and repeats Jean’s name,
butchering the pronunciation a second time. “Jean. You’re in heat.”
“Yeah?” Jean pushes himself into a sitting position, tucking his legs
underneath him. He can smell Mariusz now; alpha pheromones are pouring off him
in waves, but they’re like nothing Jean has ever smelled before. Reiner had
smelled dominant, like something wild and enormous, reminding Jean somehow of
the turtles that live in the pond in Trost, like something from under the
water, hard and shelled, with the faintest, strangest hint of metal underneath
it all. Bertolt had smelled like sweat and salt, like heat and secrets, and
Mikasa, the brief hint he’d had of her, had smelled like spices from far away,
spices Jean had no words to describe. Mariusz smells oily, like the sprockets
and cogs in their gear when it’s been worked too hard under the hot sun without
enough oil, like the air after lightning strikes, like blood splattered on the
ground by an errant blade. He smells dangerous, and Jean has to fight every
instinct in his body that tells him to cringe away. He lifts his chin,
arrogantly exposing his throat, and meets Mariusz’s muddy eyes. “So?”
Mariusz doesn’t miss a beat. Jean doesn’t think he’s smart enough to even
realize beats are a thing. “So mate with me.”
Jean feels his nose wrinkle in disgust; he can’t even imagine being underneath
Mariusz, feeling him sweat and thrust above him, grunting and surrounding him
with his oily, choking pheromones. “No.”
Mariusz blinks, and for a moment Jean thinks he didn’t understand him. Then his
brow lowers, and he gets a mulish, obstinate look on his face. The scent of his
pheromones changes subtly, and Jean swallows roughly as he gets a whiff of it.
It’s darker now, more aggressive, more like blood and metal, and Jean feels the
first spike of fear go through him. “No?”
“No. No, I don’t want to mate with you. Go away.”
For a moment, Jean thinks it’s worked, but then Mariusz grips the bunk above
Jean’s head and leans in, pushing himself into Jean’s space, and Jean pushes
himself backwards, away from him. “You’re in heat. I’m an alpha. Take off your
fucking pants and mate with me.”
“I said no!”
Mariusz draws his upper lip back from his teeth, exposing long, sharp canines,
a mouthful of teeth as jarring as a titan’s split grin, and he snarls under his
breath. “That wasn’t a fucking request, omega!”
The word omega is dirty and twisted in his mouth, uttered like a curse, and as
he reaches for Jean with one beefy arm, Jean feels panic bubble up into his
throat, toxic and choking. He’s heard about alphas like this, the kind that
force themselves on whatever omega or beta that catches their fancy, that force
others into being their mates until they tire of them and discard them like
trash. He’s heard of them, but never thought he’d find one after him, and he
shoves his heels into the bed, pushing backwards, trying to get away, knowing
that if he has to run, the cramps in his belly will keep him from moving very
fast or getting very far. His back slams against the wall, and it’s not far
enough, Mariusz is going to reach him and pull him out, and he cringes as
Mariusz’s filthy hand closes in on him.
It never connects. Out of the corner of Jean’s eye, he sees a blur of motion,
of tan and white, and a hand clamps down on Mariusz’s wrist, drawing him up
short. Jean has just enough time to recognize Marco’s blunt-fingered hand, with
freckles spattered across the back and over his knuckles, and then Mariusz is
gone, twisted around and slammed up against the pillar holding up the top bunk.
Jean blinks, shocked, and scrambles forward, out from under the shadows, and
looks out at what’s happening.
Marco has Mariusz pressed against the bunk pillar, his forearm flush against
the other boy’s chest, face to face with him. Marco is wearing an expression
Jean has never seen, one he didn’t even know Marco would make: his upper lip is
drawn back, exposing his teeth, and his eyes are dark and thunderous, his brow
drawn down over them. Marco’s kind, gentle face—a face that less generous
cadets have called simple in the past, but never within Jean’s hearing range—is
rigid with fury, every line standing out like carved marble, and he snarls into
Mariusz’s face.
“He said no.” Marco pulls Mariusz forward a little before slamming him back
again, making the entire bunk shake. Marco’s strong, almost deceptively so, and
he always pays attention during hand-to-hand combat class. Jean hears Mariusz’s
teeth click together as Marco shakes him, and he catches a whiff of the roiling
hormones pouring off the two combatants, blending and mixing together into a
sickening reek. “He said no, and you need to leave.”
Mariusz has clearly been taken by surprise, and Jean watches as it slowly dawns
on him what’s happening. Once it does, he growls back and reaches up, seizing
Marco’s arm where he’s holding onto him and squeezing. Jean sees the muscles
near Marco’s eye flicker, and he knows that hurts, but Marco refuses to let go.
If anything, he presses closer to Mariusz. “Go.”
“And what if I don’t?” Mariusz is mulish, obstinate, and fear pumps through
Jean’s veins as he gets his feet underneath him, readying himself for retreat.
Marco opens his mouth to answer, but he’s interrupted by another sound, deep
and rumbling, rolling outward from the door, and for a moment, Jean thinks it’s
started to thunder outside. The idea galvanizes him, sends adrenaline coursing
through his limbs, so much so that the cramps even let up for a moment. If it’s
thundering, the other cadets can’t work with their maneuver gear today, and
they’ll get sent back to the barracks. If Mariusz is going to force himself on
him, Jean doesn’t want anyone else to see it happen.
Marco and Mariusz turn their heads in unison towards the source of the sound,
and Jean inches forward, jangled and uptight, ready to bolt at a moment’s
notice.
Reiner and Bertolt are standing in the door, and Bertolt is growling, so low
that it’s almost felt before it’s heard, vibrations that fill the room, that
sound like they’re coming from something significantly larger, like they’re
coming from some kind of enormous wild animal. Confused, Jean can’t even
imagine how Bertolt is making that sound, and as he watches, he sees some of
the tension drain away from Marco and Mariusz. Reiner is standing in front of
Bertolt, one hand behind him, lightly holding him back, and he looks like a
stone monument, his expression tight and unyielding.
“Is there a problem in here?” Reiner asks, and his voice is low and raspy,
blending into Bertolt’s growls.
There’s a moment when everything pauses, when time stops existing around them,
and Jean swears he can experience everything with the clarity of a god.
Everything sharpens until it’s almost painful, until the glint of saliva on
Bertolt’s bared teeth is almost blinding, until the runaway pounding of Marco’s
heart sounds like thunder, until the pheromones billowing off the four alphas
invades his sinuses and makes his nose gush blood. Jean thinks if he had to
stay like this forever, he’d go insane, trapped in a world that moves too slow
and expects too much.
But then Mariusz pushes Marco back, and the spell is broken. Jean lifts a hand
to wipe at the thin trickle of blood coming out of his nose, and Marco snaps
his attention back to Mariusz.
“No problem,” he tells Reiner gruffly, and tugs his shirt down to hide his
deflating erection. “Just talking.”
Reiner jerks his head backwards, towards the door and outside. “Go talk
somewhere else.”
Mariusz walks stiffly to the door, having calculated his odds and found them
lacking, and Bertolt’s growling gets louder the closer he gets, until he’s
standing in front of the two mates.
“Are you going to move?” he asks peevishly, and Bertolt’s arm slams out from
behind Reiner, catching the collar of Mariusz’s jacket and gripping it in one
tight, enormous fist. Slowly, with painstaking control, Bertolt lifts, and as
Mariusz coughs and scrambles for the hand at his neck, he’s lifted until the
toes of his boots skim along the wooden floor.
“We don’t like alphas like you,” Reiner tells him, his voice patient, as
Mariusz dangles from Bertolt’s hand. “If an omega or a beta tells you no, you
listen. Understood?”
Mariusz nods, his hands frantically trying to grasp Bertolt’s and make him let
go.
“Say it.”
“Understood!”
“Okay.” Reiner touches Bertolt, his hand gentle and caressing, his eyes never
leaving Mariusz, and Bertolt releases him, dropping him onto the floor. Mariusz
lands in a tangle, choking and sputtering, and leaps to his feet. He darts away
from the two alphas, choosing to launch himself out an open window rather than
try and get past them.
Reiner and Bertolt watch him go, and it’s not until Mariusz’s running footsteps
fade away that Reiner drops his hand, and Bertolt stops growling. The silence
that fills the barracks is vast and deafening, and Jean is suddenly, painfully
aware of Marco’s proximity, of the scent of the nervous sweat oozing from his
pores and the shallow pants of his respiration.
Reiner turns to look at them, concerned, and takes a step forward. “Are you two
all…”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish; Marco turns around and takes a step to the
side, bringing his arms up, facing the two alphas, his back to Jean. With a
jolt, Jean realizes that Marco is still protecting him, instinctually putting
himself between Jean and Reiner and Bertolt, and his mouth floods with sudden,
unexpected saliva.
Reiner stops, his face registering surprise for just a moment. He breathes in
through his nose, and he must smell Jean, smell the desperate, horny pheromones
pouring off him, and his pupils blow outward until there’s just a thin ring of
gold surrounded by black. He takes another step forward, and Marco starts
growling, faint but there, warning him away.
Behind Marco, Jean starts panting.
Reiner takes another step, and Marco’s growl rises in pitch, unmistakable, and
the muscles in his arms and legs tense.
Abruptly, Bertolt steps forward, closing the distance between himself and
Reiner in one smooth stride, standing chest to back with his mate. He wraps
both of his long, powerful arms around his mate’s waist and ducks his head low,
biting Reiner on the back of the neck, a gesture Jean remembers both of them
doing to each other but never to him.
The effect is immediate; Reiner closes his eyes and relaxes, practically
melting back against Bertolt’s chest. He sighs, a huge gust of breath escaping
him, and lifts one hand to clasp over Bertolt’s, pushing and entwining their
fingers together. As he relaxes, so does Bertolt, until it’s simply two lovers
standing in front of Jean and Marco, lost in a moment, lost in each other.
Marco’s shoulders slowly lower, but he stays where he is, standing before Jean
like a sentinel.
When Reiner opens his eyes again, they’re burning gold and filled with such a
deep, simple affection that Jean feels an unexpected pang of envy. “You two all
right, then?” His voice is thick and slurred with lust, and Bertolt makes a
noise against the back of his neck, something caught between a growl and a
purr.
Marco glances over his shoulder at Jean, and drops his hands to his side. “Yes.
We’re fine.” He studies the two alphas for a moment before adding “Thanks,” in
a begrudging tone that’s entirely unlike him.
Reiner smiles, lazy and content, and nods. “Okay.” He turns then, into the
waiting circle of Bertolt’s arms, and they’re gone, closing the door behind
them, undoubtedly moving towards one of the sheds set up around the barracks
for couples in heat.
The barracks are completely silent for the second time in one morning, until
Marco lets all his breath out in one long whoosh and collapses backward onto
the bed. It’s half-swoon, half-controlled sitting motion, and he manages to
land on his ass, immediately bending forward over his knees and putting his
face in his hands.
“Marco!” Jean is startled, but not afraid; he’s been Marco’s friend long
enough, and seen him faint enough times, to know exactly what this is. He
clambers forward, kneeling next to Marco, and puts an arm around his shoulders,
touching his arm with the other hand and rubbing it in quick, tight circles.
“It’s okay, man, just breathe. You’re okay, everyone’s gone, just breathe
through it…”
Marco makes a soft groaning sound into his hands, and leans into Jean, letting
his head loll to the side and rest on his shoulder. “I can’t believe I did
that…” He takes a few more long, slow breathes, then lowers his hands, looking
at Jean from the corner of his eye. “I think I’ve lost my mind.”
“No, it was great.” With Marco breathing normally again, Jean relaxes a little,
and settles down next to him, swinging his bare legs around so they dangle over
the edge of the bed, next to Marco’s booted feet. “You could’ve kicked all
their asses.”
Marco snorts. “Yeah, sure I could’ve. Me and what army?”
“They left, didn’t they?” Jean drops his arm off Marco’s shoulders, suddenly
all too aware of the heat of Marco’s body next to his own. “Turned tail and ran
like a bunch of little bitches.”
“Bertolt had to bite Reiner.”
“They bite each other all the time, it’s nothing.” Jean could tell Marco all
kinds of things about Reiner and Bertolt biting each other, but he doesn’t
think he wants to hear it. He’s also stricken by a sudden cramp, and winces,
one hand dropping to his gut as if it could massage the pain away.
Marco, observant, empathetic little bastard that he is, notices immediately,
and he looks Jean fully in the face for the first time. “Does it hurt?”
Normally, Jean would lie, but he can be honest with Marco, knowing that he
won’t betray his secrets. He nods and looks down at his feet, slightly
shamefaced. “Yeah. Not as bad as last time, but it’s not nothing either.”
Marco makes a quiet sound of agreement. “Last time…” He hesitates, and Jean
knows he’s about to talk about something they’ve been avoiding for months, and
steels himself against it. “Last time, Armin said it sounded like they were
hurting you.”
Jean blinks; this wasn’t the direction he expected things to go. “You asked
Armin about it?”
Marco shrugs, the gesture helpless and frustrated. “I wanted to know if you
were okay or not.”
Jean pokes him in the side. “I would’ve told you, dumbass.”
Marco turns to look at him, his eyes huge and dark, and he looks older than his
years as he shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t have. Just like you wouldn’t
have said anything if Mariusz had made you mate with him.”
Jean opens his mouth to protest, then snaps it shut. Marco’s right, and knows
he’s right; Jean wouldn’t have said anything, would’ve tried his damnedest to
keep his pride intact, even if it tore him apart on the inside. He looks down
at his knees, and his hands clench into fists on top of them. “Dammit…”
They sit in silence for a few moments, both studying their hands on their
knees, until Marco scoots a little closer, letting their knees bump each other
again, and cautiously touches the back of Jean’s hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t
help you the last time. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
Jean shakes his head, both to clear it and to hide the traitorous, touched
little bits of moisture welling up in his eyes. “They didn’t hurt me.”
“Good.” Marco’s voice lifts a little, trying to make a joke. “I’m glad I don’t
have to go beat both their asses right now; I don’t think they’d want to be
interrupted.”
Jean snorts surprised laughter at that, both the profanity and the joke, and
Marco grins, pleased with himself. They lean against each other for a few
moments, comfortable in their silence, and it gives Jean plenty of time to
smell the pheromones coming off Marco. They’re different than any he’s smelled
before, and he keeps inhaling through his nose, trying to piece together
exactly what they remind him of. In one moment they smell like pine needles,
wet under a spring shower; in another, like sunshine filtering through the
trees; and then they shift again, to mint and snowdrops and the snows of winter
all melting away. “Hey…” he nudges Marco with an elbow, glad they’re leaning
against each other so he doesn’t have to look him in the face, “what do you
mean, you couldn’t help me last time?”
Marco makes the soft humming sound he makes when he’s feeling awkward and out
of place, and he picks up one of Jean’s hands, cupping it in his own and
playing with his fingers. He’s never touched Jean quite like this before, shy
and intimate and hopeful all at once, and Jean feels his pulse rate pick up
again. “You know…”
Jean does, but he needs to hear Marco say it. “Do you want to help me this
time?”
Marco curls Jean’s fingers down into a fist, then lets them back up, tracing a
fingertip along the lines that criss-cross Jean’s narrow palm. “You smell
really, really good.”
“So do you.”
Jean watches Marco’s cheeks flush at that, and he glances over, looking at Jean
through his eyelashes. “I do?”
“Yeah.” Jean has to swallow twice, or risk drool spilling down his chin. “Like,
the best thing I’ve ever smelled.”
A slow, disbelieving but still flattered smile creeps across Marco’s face, and
he ducks his head again, focusing on their hands, entwining and releasing
Jean’s fingers through his own. The pheromones he’s releasing creep over to
Jean, and they’re the same smells, the same clean, fresh smells, but this time
there’s a note of cedar blended in, cedar that smells like hope and optimism.
It’s intoxicating, and Jean feels like his head is starting to spin, like he
could spend the rest of his life breathing Marco’s scent and never getting
tired of it.
He licks his lips. “Hey, Marco…”
Marco looks up at him, his eyes bright. “Yes?”
Jean can’t form the words, can’t get them past somewhere in the center of his
chest, where they’ve gotten stuck. Instead, as Marco watches, he tilts his head
back and to the side, in what he hopes is an inviting gesture. He’s noticed
Reiner do something similar around Bertolt, and he hopes it’s a universal
thing, and not just their own weird brand of almost telepathy.
Marco blinks, and his pupils blow wide. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he leans in
closer, until his nose is close to Jean’s collarbone, and inhales gently,
making the short, fine hairs on Jean’s neck tickle. Jean’s breath hitches in
his throat, and he feels his heart pound like it’s trying to leap out of his
chest. “You can…” He has to stop and swallow. “You can get closer.”
Marco nods, his bangs falling forward and grazing the top of Jean’s ear, and he
moves again, turning around so his chest is facing Jean, until Jean can feel
Marco’s heartbeat pressed against his shoulder. Jean swallows, and as he does,
Marco pushes in close against his throat, his nose touching Jean’s skin, and
inhales long and deep.
“Fuck…” Jean clutches onto Marco’s shirt, bunching the fabric in his hand, and
puts his head back further. Marco recognizes the invitation and scents him
again, moving closer yet, and Jean feels him open his mouth and start to pant
against his skin. The quality of Marco’s pheromones changes, becomes headier
and more insistent, and what had been terrifying from Mariusz now sends desire
coursing through Jean’s veins, so powerful it’s almost painful.
“Jean…” Marco says it like a prayer, like something to be treasured, turning
the sounds of Jean’s name into a blessing, and his nose brushes against the
swollen, hard nodule of Jean’s scent gland, sending exquisite pain rushing
through Jean’s head, and all he can do in return is moan and cling to him.
The touch to his scent gland releases Jean’s pheromones all at once, in a
needy, begging gush, and Marco freezes for a moment, breathing in through his
mouth like he can taste what Jean is giving to him. Then, in a flurry of
motion, he pushes Jean back onto the bed and climbs on top of him, straddles
him, and jams his face into the side of Jean’s neck, rubbing his cheek up and
down against the scent gland, mingling their two scents together and making
soft, growling sounds under his breath.
Jean laughs, breathless and surprised, and wraps his arms around Marco’s
shoulders, keeping him close. The sound makes Marco sit back, looking slightly
concerned, but when he sees how Jean is smiling, he smiles back, shy and
uncertain, and bends back down. Slowly, carefully, he kisses the side of Jean’s
neck, and his lips leaves burning trails like stars across Jean’s skin. He
closes his eyes and arches his entire body upward, pressing into Marco, and
when Marco carefully bites down on his scent gland, Jean’s entire universe
explodes behind his eyelids. He keens, digging his blunt, bitten-down nails
into Marco’s back, and winnows his legs up and around Marco’s waist, pulling
him down on top of him.
Marco pulls back a little, and Jean whines, trying to keep him close. Marco
relents, and rests his chest on Jean, pinning him to the mattress, and
something that irritated him when Reiner did it is now impossibly sexy. “So,
uh…” Marco’s cheeks are flushed dark, his freckles blending in against his
olive skin. “Can I… is it okay if I kiss you?”
The sweetness of that request, so earnest and thoughtful, melts away any doubts
Jean might have still been carrying, and he reaches up to thread his fingers
through Marco’s hair. It’s like liquid silk under his fingers, very different
from his own coarse thatch, and he pulls Marco’s head down until their lips are
almost touching, until he can feel the ghost of Marco’s breath over his mouth.
“You can kiss me.” Jean stretches up and brushes a quick kiss across Marco’s
lips, just to prove it, and he has to restrain himself from letting go and
losing himself in Marco’s mouth. He understands, now, why Reiner had gotten so
angry when Bertolt had kissed him. “You can kiss me all you want.”
Marco nods, his bangs whispering across Jean’s forehead, and then he closes the
distance between them, pressing their lips together, and Jean marvels at how
soft and sweet Marco’s mouth is, how it’s shaped like it was made to fit
against his own. He flicks his tongue out, tasting Marco’s bottom lip, and when
Marco moans, Jean darts his tongue into his mouth, only to discover that his
mouth tastes even better than his scent. He could lose himself in this taste,
in the pheromones swirling all around them, and never come up for air again.
Marco is heavy on top of him, but his weight isn’t a burden. It’s comforting,
the way he hovers over Jean, like a guardian, like a protector, and Jean
tightens his legs around Marco’s waist, pulling him closer. He feels Marco’s
erection press against his hips, weighty and thick through his clothing, and
pushes back against it, rutting helplessly into him as the pain in his gut
flares anew. Jean recognizes it for what it is now: a desperate, aching need to
be knotted, to have the pressure inside relieved internally, and he pants words
into Marco’s mouth.
“Please… shit, please, I need you…”
Marco pulls back a little, looking down at Jean with his dark, liquid eyes, and
his breath stutters a little in his chest when he inhales.
“You’re sure? I don’t…” He glances back over his shoulder, the muscles in his
throat working. “I don’t want to be like those other alphas.”
Jean whines, frustrated and amused all at once, and tugs Marco back down on top
of him. “I’m sure, yes, yes, I want you, I need you, for fuck’s sake, Marco,
please…”
Marco laughs a little at that, and drops a quick, sweet kiss to Jean’s mouth.
“Okay, baby. But you’ll tell me if I hurt you?”
“You won’t.”
“But if I do?”
Jean nods, his fingers moving over Marco’s shirt, undoing the buttons and
pushing it down his broad shoulders. “I’ll tell you.”
Marco nods and sits back, crouching over Jean’s thighs like a bronzed god, and
Jean has to wipe his chin as Marco strips out of his shirt. He knows on some
level that it’s hormones making him go crazy, that it’s the pheromones pouring
off Marco that are sending him into a hopeless lust spiral, but at the same
time, it’s more than hormones. He’s been in this situation before, watched as a
muscular, dark alpha stripped before him, and it hadn’t felt like this. He
hadn’t felt this deep, atavistic longing when it had been Bertolt and Reiner,
hadn’t felt the tug in his chest that threatened to overwhelm him. It’s
something about Marco, about the strength through his chest and shoulders, the
interplay of muscles over his bones, the freckles that go all the way down,
clustering on his chest like an explosion of stars, the lines in his warm, open
face and around his dark, heavily lashed eyes.
Marco stops with his hands on his belt, looking up at Jean and biting his lower
lip, flustered. “You’re staring.”
“Because you’re hot.” Jean licks his lips and sits up, trying to help Marco
with his belt and getting swatted away for his troubles.
“I’m nothing special.” Marco slides his belt through the buckle, nodding at
Jean’s ragged old nightshirt and baggy pants. “Are you going to take those
off?”
Jean could argue that point, and probably will later on, but for now he just
makes a scoffing sound and tugs his shirt up and over his head. He’s not
normally shy about his body, especially not since Marco has seen it so many
times in the showers and around the barracks, but his hands still slow as he
unties his pants, sneaking glances at Marco as he moves to the edge of the bed
and starts taking off his boots. He watches the interplay of light and shadow
along Marco’s spine as he bends forward, the little knobs casting shadows along
his freckled skin, and Jean scoots forward, his pants forgotten. Marco makes a
soft sound of surprise when Jean links his arms around his waist and presses
close to him, and then sighs and leans back against him as Jean’s mouth find
the knobs of his spine and start kissing up them. He growls quietly when Jean
gets to the back of his neck, and Jean feels Marco’s muscles tighten and tense
up through his shoulders.
Abruptly, moving with a singular speed that he’s never able to achieve with the
gear, Marco whirls around and pounces, shoving Jean back and flattening him out
on the mattress, using his weight and width to drive him down. Jean doesn’t
even have time to be surprised before Marco’s mouth is back on his throat,
biting and worrying at his scent glands, the vibrations from his growling
spreading all the way through Jean’s skull. He moans, loud and unashamed, and
scrabbles frantically for Marco’s pants, trying to push them down and out of
the way.
This time, Marco lets him.
Jean gives voice to another groan as Marco’s pants fall away and his cock
springs out, thumping heavily against his abdomen, and he leaves Marco’s pants
where they are, pooled around his thighs, to force his hands between them and
take hold of it. Marco’s growls get louder and he rakes blunt nails down Jean’s
sides as he’s touched, as Jean explores and squeezes his erect cock, marveling
at its heat and solidity, amazed at how it feels in his hands. He hadn’t
touched Bertolt or Reiner like this, had only felt them inside him, and Marco
is the first man he’s ever held besides himself. It’s as familiar as it is
wildly new and exciting, and Jean whines plaintively when Marco pulls back, out
of his grip.
Marco’s eyes have gone hazy and wild, his pupils dilated so wide that his eyes
look black instead of brown, and he’s uncharacteristically rough as he pulls
Jean’s pants down, not noticing when a seam gives way with a soft purling
sound. Jean doesn’t care; he’s too busy staring at Marco’s cock, jutting out
from a nest of tangled dark hair, flushed vibrant red and wet at the tip. He
thinks he can see knots starting to form, pushing out at the base where it
connects to Marco’s body, and this time Jean does drool, and doesn’t bother to
wipe it away.
“Jean…” His name is a blessing on Marco’s tongue, a prayer, and when Marco
dives down on top of him again, spreading out flat over his entire body,
covering him completely as he rubs the side of his face on Jean’s, leaving his
scent behind like burning little brands, Jean feels like his heart is going to
pound out of his chest.
“Marco…” He grips his shoulders, digging his fingers in, wishing his nails
weren’t bitten down and blunt so he could leave raking marks on Marco’s dark
skin. “Marco, Marco, fuck, Marco…”
Marco shifts his weight on top of him, moving his hips to the side, and when
his cock collides with Jean’s, thick and rigid, Jean arches his back and pushes
up into him. Marco’s wet and drooling precome already, and when he takes a cue
from Jean and starts rocking his hips, their cocks slide back and forth along
each other, slippery and silken, as they breathe each other’s names into the
other’s mouth. When Marco gets a little too enthusiastic and draws back too
far, the head of his cock catches under Jean’s balls, sliding along his
entrance, and Marco freezes at the volume of Jean’s moan.
“Y-yes,” Jean tells him, pre-emptive, knowing what that line between Marco’s
eyes means. “Yes, fuck, there, I want you inside me, I want you fucking me,
Marco please…”
Marco nods and swallows, and Jean lifts up to nip at the knot in his throat as
it bobs up and down. Marco growls at that, pleased, and turns his head, letting
Jean nuzzle the scent gland under his jaw for a blissful moment, letting Jean
fill his head with pheromones, before he pulls back and looks down at him.
“Do you have anything, uh… slippery?”
Jean pants and nods, twisting to the side and fumbling for the little tin of
maneuver gear grease he knows is somewhere in the sheets. As he searches for
it—damn thing should be under his pillow, where the hell did it go?—Marco bends
down and starts sucking bruises on his shoulders, around the base of his neck,
like he’s trying to make a necklace of marks on Jean. That thought is
incredibly appealing, and it slows Jean’s search, especially when Marco hits a
particularly sensitive spot near his clavicle. Jean whimpers when he does, and
that just encourages Marco, making him suck harder, until he pulls off with a
moist, popping sound.
“Thanks.” He plucks the tin out of Jean’s hand, and Marco takes a moment to
admire the mark he’s left on Jean’s chest, stroking one thumb over it, smearing
his saliva over Jean’s heated skin. Then he unscrews the tin and slathers the
grease on his cock, and the sight of his hand moving over his length, moving
over the head and then stroking down the shaft, is amazing, and Jean sits up a
little to watch more closely.
Marco pushes Jean back down and positions himself on top of him, slotting
between his legs when Jean lets them sprawl wide, and starts rutting against
him.
He can’t get it in.
Either too much grease or too much excitement, and either way Marco is sliding
all over the place, the head of his cock hitting Jean’s entrance and then
slipping away, and it’s the most horrible tease he’s ever known. Marco growls
and pants above him, his teeth grinding together in frustration, the scent of
his pheromones amping up, getting headier and more pungent, and Jean finally
puts his hands on his chest and pushes back on him a little.
“Marco.” Marco relents and leans back, his lips swollen and flushed from
working at Jean’s neck. “Marco, roll over.”
Marco blinks once, like it takes a moment for the words to process, but then he
obeys, rolling onto his back, keeping his grip on Jean and pulling him with
him. Jean sprawls on him, limbs akimbo, and yet somehow still feeling like a
king on a throne. He doesn’t allow himself the luxury for long, though, and
pushes up, rocking back onto his knees, crouching over Marco’s thighs. Marco
reaches out and grasps Jean’s thighs, his hands dark against Jean’s pale skin,
and watches him with a burning intensity, his mouth open and panting.
Jean reaches behind him, between Marco’s legs, and grips Marco’s cock at the
base. He can feel the knots now, firm and swollen under Marco’s skin, and Marco
whines when Jean touches them. He moves his hand, breathing an apology, and
positions himself, scooting backwards and lining himself up. When the head of
Marco’s cock touches him, and Jean’s muscles flex, hungry and eager, he pauses,
and looks down at Marco, illuminated by sunlight through the barrack’s window,
his skin and eyes and hair glowing. Marco catches Jean watching, and smiles up
at him, his chest heaving, and squeezes both his thighs.
“Come on, Jean… come on, let me knot you, please…”
It’s the please that does it; Jean bows his head, laughing under his breath,
and sinks back onto Marco’s cock.
There’s pain at first, bright and vibrant, but it dissolves into pleasure,
dissolves into a loud moan as Jean throws his head back and gives voice as
Marco drives into him, filling him and stretching apart his walls. Marco’s the
perfect size, the perfect width and length, and when Jean settles on his thigh,
with Marco’s cock bottoming out inside him, he swears the bottom of the bunk
above them lights up with stars.
Marco whines underneath him, his hands gripping Jean’s thighs so tightly
they’ll leave hand-shaped bruises, and arches his hips up, pushing further into
Jean, and Jean keens as Marco’s knots slip up and inside him. He leans forward,
bracing both hands on Marco’s chest, panting and gasping, dripping sweat,
temporarily overwhelmed.
Marco goes still and waits, his breathing heavy, sounding like the bellows of
some great machine, like the gears that raise and lower the gates leading
beyond the walls and between the cities, and one of his hands loosens on Jean’s
thigh, letting it go. A moment later, he curls it around Jean’s cock, neglected
and throbbing between his legs, and starts loosely stroking him. Jean yelps,
not expecting Marco to touch him like that, not expecting an alpha to care
about whether or not he gets off, and instinctively clenches the muscles in his
ass, bearing down on Marco’s cock and making him groan. It doesn’t stop his
hand, though; if anything, he speeds up, and Jean starts thrusting into his
palm, rocking his hips back and forth, and it only takes a few moments before
Marco joins him, finding his rhythm and matching it, every thrust sending the
head of his cock pushing against something deep inside Jean, something Bertolt
had missed and Reiner had never bothered to try and find, and Jean has to blink
sudden, unbidden tears out of his eyes.
He comes first, his orgasm taking him by surprise, Marco ripping it out of him
with a flick of his wrist and a thumb running along the slick in his cock. Jean
shudders through it, every muscle in his lower body clamping and spasming all
at once, and Marco gives a strangled moan as Jean squeezes around his knots.
The moment Jean’s muscles relax and loosen, Marco thrusts two or three more
times, disjointed and stuttering, and suddenly his knots swell, pushing against
Jean, and Jean instinctively clamps down on them, holding Marco in place. He
feels wet heat pumping into him, filling him, as Marco rides out his orgasm,
and when he goes limp beneath Jean, panting and shining with sweat, his knots
set, locking into Jean in a way that Bertolt’s and Reiner’s never did. All the
pain flows away, leaving Jean, and he falls forward onto Marco’s chest, limp
and pliable with relief. Marco puts a shaking arm around him, and Jean leaves
his head on Marco’s chest, listening to his pounding heartbeat.
Jean doesn’t know how much times passes, but Marco’s knots eventually go down,
and his cock slides out to rest against Jean’s thigh. He winces as it does,
feeling emptier than he thought possible, and Marco sighs softly, rolling them
both over onto their sides.
“Jean…” Marco frowns, looking down between them. “You landed in the mess.”
Jean glances down, and yes, he landed in the mess; as he leans back to get a
better look, thick, glistening white streams of come connect them, sliding off
his chest and getting matted in the hair on Marco’s. He scrunches his nose
before looking back up at Marco.
“Gross.”
“Yeah.” Marco nods solemnly. “Gross.”
Jean meets his eyes, and sees the way they’re twinkling, and before he knows
it, they’ve both dissolved into helpless, giddy laughter. He presses his
forehead to Marco’s shoulder and laughs until his chest hurts, until the ache
in his abdomen comes back, until he starts inadvertently releasing pheromones
again. Marco finds one of their discarded shirts and wipes Jean clean,
chuckling the whole time, and when he smells Jean’s pheromones, he perks up,
answering them with some of his own.
“Do you want to go again?” He catches Jean’s shoulders and rolls him onto his
back, landing on top of him. Jean’s breath hitches in his throat as Marco
positions himself over him; he can feel Marco getting hard again, and he
reaches up to touch Marco’s face as he nods.
“Yeah. I want to go all day.”
Jean loses track of time, loses track of how many times they come together, how
many times they knot; he only knows that by the time they’re done, by the time
Marco’s knots have shrunk until they’re hardly there and his own last orgasm
produces a single drop of come, the sun is painting long shadows on the
barrack’s walls, and they can hear the other cadets coming back from a day of
work. Marco grabs the sheet from the bottom of the bunk and shakes it out,
draping it over them just as the door swings open and their classmates come
back.
“Gods, it smells like someone’s been fucking horses in here all day!” Eren’s
voice is loud and strident, ringing out through the barracks, and Jean grinds
his teeth in irritation. He starts to pop up, to yell at Eren, to start a
fight, but Marco beats him to it. He turns around, sitting up so the sheet
pools around his waist, and stares out from under the bunk.
“Would you care to repeat that, Eren?” His voice is cool and collected,
completely calm, but there’s an underlying threat to it, something Jean has
never heard in Marco’s voice before, and it’s punctuated by a gust of
pheromones.
Eren mumbles something in response, backing down almost immediately, and Marco
nods at him before turning back to Jean and burrowing back down under the
blankets. He smiles at Jean and shrugs, then pulling the sheet over their heads
and pulling Jean into his arms.
As Jean lays in the protective circle of Marco’s arms, half-dozing and
listening to the hustle and bustle of the other cadets, he realizes that Marco
is releasing pheromones again. They’re soft this time, gentle, cocooning around
them, and as he slips off into sleep, he thinks that they smell a little bit
like the ones Reiner and Bertolt release around each other, but this time,
they’re only for him. They smell of pine forests and sunshine and warm,
freckled skin under his fingertips, and Jean falls asleep with a faint smile on
his face, listening to Marco’s heart beat steadily under his ear.
End Notes
     Oh look, a sequel!
     These are the two pairings I really wanted to write, but now this
     universe has taken hold of me and I have ideas for several more. I
     know which one I'm going to write next, but are there any suggestions
     or ideas for pairings you'd like to see in this 'verse?
     I'm also going to try and update once a month. Keep me honest and
     hold me to it! :D
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