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Jean had known his type since he was 14, and had always wanked off to dark hair and darker eyes ever since. It had been his first night home alone, and he’d spent hours trawling through dodgy porn websites to find something he liked. That night had been his awakening to the fact that he was not as straight as he’d assumed he was, considering that what pushed him over the edge of orgasm was not the women in the videos, but the image of the men’s pouty lips curling over his dick.
It had only taken him 4 more years and a hook-up with Eren at 16 to admit his bisexuality to himself, but at the grand age of 19 he would now definitely not restrict himself to watching hetero porn. He and Eren still fooled around occasionally if they were both drunk and hoped that the other wouldn’t remember the next morning.
As such, he was not afraid to admit that he found his accidental new best friend incredibly attractive. Marco was funny, friendly and witty, but also had abs of steel, lips Jean wanted to kiss and hair he longed to drag his fingers through. It was becoming a bit of a problem. Jean had thought about taking up climbing just to see Marco pull himself around by his arm, biceps and abs flexing under the strain.
Jean flopped back onto his bed on where he’d been perched on the end, arms sprawled above his head. Every image Marco had sent him during their conversations had been saved to his phone, and he’d searched through Marco’s entire Facebook gallery for pictures so he could build a better image of his best friend. He felt more than a little like a filthy creeper for storing pictures of his friend away, but the lingering satisfaction of having them outweighed his reservations about the whole thing. Jean had decided around the time of making out with Eren the first time that being basically shameless was better than being a prude.
Right on cue, his phone buzzed with a message from Marco. Jean opened it with hasty fingers, and smiled, chest easing into something soft and warm.
Marco: Somehow I doubt that Jean
Jean tapped out a reply, laughing under his breath. Marco was so easy to joke around with, and he’d never met someone who was so willing to verbally spar with him.
Me: i dont know we might be
what am i thinking now
Marco: “i should do my chemistry and blow up some more ceilings”
Me: close
thats what im thinking a lot to be fair
but no
He would never, ever tell Marco what (who) he was thinking about - Marco would probably never speak to him again out of embarrassment.
The alert from Marco’s next text startled him, but when he saw the words, he froze, mind flitting from thought to thought as he tried to process them.(They were just pixels, it was just a joke, it didn’t mean anything… He fucking well hoped Marco wasn’t psychic.)
Marco: “marco is truly amazing and should be worshipped daily by hot slaves in very little clothing on their hands and knees”
But now Jean couldn’t see anything but Marco, draped artfully across a vintage chaise lounge wearing only thin strips of cloth, being pampered by beautiful men in equally scanty outfits: Marco, head tipped back to bare his neck, skin speckled and dark as a young man knelt on the floor in front of him pushed open his knees and leant forward to move the cloth covering Marco’s crotch out of the way.
He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but the caramel curl of arousal settling below Jean’s stomach was rich and compelling. He wasn’t hard yet, not completely, but he had given up denying himself a long time ago. Jean just shimmied his boxers off and flung them over the side of the bed, not bothering to see where they landed. Now naked, since he’d woken up on his alarm and he slept in only his boxers, Jean pressed the heel of his palm to his dick and moaned low and plaintive at the pressure, even as he turned his face into his pillow to muffle the sounds.
“Unnh…”
Jean closed his eyes and pictured Marco against the backdrop of darkness. This Marco was naked unlike before, as Jean’s imagination filled in the gaps of Marco’s cock, but this time Jean was the one kneeling between his legs. This Marco smiled darkly and dragged Jean’s head up by his hair to kiss him roughly, and Jean’s free hand twisted into his own hair to mimic the sensation. He’d taste like sex and sunshine and fruit – sweet and seductive all at once.
“Want you,” he’d rasp, voice husky and thick with lust against Jean’s lips, “Want you to suck my dick. Can you do that for me baby?”
Jean ran his fingers over the head of his dick, the skin sensitive and tingling beneath the rough pads of his fingers, calloused from years of playing guitar. (He imagined Marco’s fingers would be the same, large and hot and rough from climbing. He imagined Marco’s fingers dusting teasing trails down his length, imagined squirming beneath his confident touch.)
The fantasy Marco would shove Jean’s head down to his crotch whilst his hands (twitching, warm, and Jean’s own nails dug into his hips) splayed out across Jean’s shoulder blades to spur him on.
“Will you suck me off, Jean?” he’d ask again, and Jean would nod and lay reverent hands on the young man’s thighs before leaning in and taking him in his mouth. One hand would wrap around what he couldn’t fit, and the other would move to-
Would move to pull at his own cock hard, like Jean couldn’t help himself from doing and he moaned at the heat and the rough friction. Arousal swirled and pulsed in his lower body, sending sharp sparks down to his toes where they were curled up in the sheets.
He’d lick and suck on Marco’s pretty, long, thick dick, drinking in the moans spilling unabashed from Marco’s mouth, would hollow his cheeks just to see what Marco would do. In his fantasy, Marco would sit up and pull Jean off him, and he’d be panting and flushed and his eyes would be bright and blown dark.
Jean wanted to know what Marco looked like when he was properly flustered. He knew he’d made the man blush before, made his eyes sparkle and his cheeks blaze a deep red, but he’d never seen it. He needed to feel the blush under his fingers as it spread down his chest, across those chiselled abs and defined v-line. His fantasy blurred, and he lost the surroundings he’d been picturing before. Instead, Marco was laid out under him in his bed, naked and with his arms pinned by Jean’s hands taut above his head.
“Jean,” he’d breathe, he’d moan, “I need you, please, Jean, I need you!”
Jean drove his hips up into the tight circle of his fist, drawing harsh, heaving breaths with his bottom lip clenched between his teeth in a futile effort to remain quiet. He knew Eren was floating around somewhere, but he was reaching the point where he didn’t even care: let him walk in on him, Jean would give him a show like no fucking other. Jean knew he’d enjoy it, the pervert.
He imagined Marco rolling his hips up, a slow, heated grind against Jean’s body, imagined leaning down and kissing the sighs from his mouth. Marco would breathe his name into their shared space, would moan it and curse it and scream it.
“Shit,” Jean groaned, “Oh fuck, mmmmmh, uh.”
Marco was strong. He couldn’t be held down, not by Jean, and suddenly fantasy Marco was overthrowing Jean’s grip on his wrists and flipping them over, so he was sitting on his hips. He was grinding down in hard circles, grin coy but his eyes playful and just a little bit filthy. Somehow, and really, Jean didn’t have the brain function to think how, fantasy Marco had found lube and was slicking himself up with shaking fingers and twitching muscles. Jean was dancing his hands over tanned and freckled skin, biting and licking and kissing his way up a chest that Jean knew – he didn’t have to imagine the way Marco’s collarbone jutted, or the way his shoulders would heave when he took in a sharp breath. (Thank fuck for Facebook videos.)
Not like the way he had to imagine the soft noises Marco would be making as he fingered himself open. Jean thought, hoped really, that Marco would like it as wet and messy and noisy as he did, limbs entangled and kisses traded open mouthed, with impatient hands roaming everywhere. Jean’s hips jolted into the air and he squeezed his dick a little harder, needing the pressure to just tip him that bit closer to the edge. Fantasy Marco finished prepping himself, and slid himself down onto Jean’s dick, hands pushing hard onto Jean’s shoulders. Bringing a hand up to his mouth, Jean licked around his fingers until they were wetter, slick enough to mimic the lube that would be filling Marco and rubbed his fingers over the head.
“Jean,” Marco would whimper, “Jean, it… Oh, God- It feels so good… You gonna f-fuck me, baby?”
Jean whined, high and needy, and jerked his hips up to wrap his hand around the rest of his length. Marco would start to ride him, just little, teasing movements at first - sharp grinds accompanied by a wicked smile and slow, seductive circles being drawn into his chest by careful fingers. He’d speed up, fingernails digging into Jean’s shoulders as he brought his hips up and down in an unrelenting roll. His breaths would be harsh and Jean would lean up, tipping Marco fully into his lap to kiss those pink, spit-slick lips. But Marco would push him back down again, with a cock of his head and a warning hand on Jean’s hip.
“L-Lay back, baby, o-aah-okay?” he’d murmur. “It’ll f-feel better.”
And then… Jean screwed his eyes shut tighter, lips white under his teeth, moans still escaping into the electric air of his bedroom. And then, Marco would slam his hips down, pulling Jean’s up at the same time to meet him, and again, and again, and again, and again, until Jean’s fantasy blurred into nothing but white-hot pressure and Marco’s chocolate voice whispering filth in his ears.
“Shit! M-Marco-Oh, oh fuck- Nnngh…” Jean moaned, then inched a finger over his balls, then further down to brush his hole. He’d done it before, had just teased the tips of his index finger inside, and he knew he just needed to-
Just needed to push-
Heat swarmed through every nerve in his body, alighting every inch of his skin. He was on fire, and came with a strangled scream that broke into a groan when he let his mouth fall open. Come splattered up his chest as far as his nipple.
“Fuck…” Jean breathed. He sat up slowly, toes curled into his duvet, then winced as come dripped down onto his thigh. Leaning over the side of his bed, Jean reached for his discarded boxers and used them to wipe as much of his come off his chest as possible. He knocked his phone off the bed in the process, and scrambled to catch it before it smashed. The screen was on, and Jean swore when he noticed the texts from Marco – from 15 minutes ago.
Marco: Oh wait they’re just my thoughts :D
Jean?
Are you there anymore?
Me: oh sorry man I was distracted
I was just
cleaning up after myself
Jean tipped his head into his hands and sighed heavily. Naked, alone and cold, he had just under an hour before he had to leave for his Chemistry lab, and he had a serious case of the cuddles needing to be fixed right the fuck now. Dragging his duvet around his shoulders, he made his way into the kitchen in search of something to eat. Hopefully Marco would text him during his classes. If he didn’t get cuddles, communication was the next best thing.