Chapter Text
Marco’s face is the picture of innocence at the dinner table.
His brown eyes are warm and open, engaged and expressive as he tells them all some ridiculous story from high school, something about pushing cows over in an open field with some of his loser friends or something. The freckled constellations on his cheeks shift with his smile, standing out against a radiant flush brought on by laughter and a glass of some expensive wine Connie had ordered for the table. His voice is like listening to music, clear and made of a melody all its own.
And yet, Jean is all but convinced that Marco Bodt and Lucifer himself are one and the same.
The story he’s telling about cows and cornfields is one Jean’s already heard about a hundred times, but Marco makes him relive it every so often when he’s annoyed with him about something minor. The wine sits just out of Jean’s reach, but his eyes keep landing on it from their side of the table, the promise he’d made only the day before to cut back on his drinking if he wanted Marco to consider moving in with him echoing loudly in his ears. And all that’s to say absolutely nothing of the torment Marco’s visiting on him from the space in the booth next to him, below the line of the table and just shy of the gazes of their friends and teammates who’d come out with them to wish Marco a happy birthday.
There’s scarcely been a moment since they’d sat down that Jean hasn’t cursed himself for his choice of attire. The linen pants he’s wearing were a grand idea for preventing heat stroke, but a terrible one if the goal was to defend his virtue from his clandestine boyfriend’s bizarre penchant for semi-public escapades. Though, Jean supposes at least some of this is on him. He’d poked fun at Marco’s outfit one too many times and failed to heed the warning in the way those pretty brown eyes had narrowed and hardened around the edges. But seriously, he’s wearing a bowtie, for crying out loud. How was Jean supposed to resist?!
He’s certainly paying for it, now, though. Deft fingers skilled and delicate enough to pluck Chopin from the keys of the old Steinway in the home they’re soon to share trace lightly up and down the rigid line of Jean’s raging hard-on between his spread thighs, enough pressure to remind him who’s in charge here and not nearly enough to actually get him anywhere. No, Marco’s kept him hovering just shy of the edge for the better part of an hour now, and in all that time Jean hasn’t managed to come up with an effective defense. More than once he’s tried closing or even crossing his legs, but every time he does those same delicate fingers clamp down on him and squeeze. The first time it happened he’d kneed the table so hard he knocked Connie’s glass over, Marco looking at him with a concerned expression etched onto his face that looked so genuine that for a moment Jean almost bought it.
Then Marco slid his hand down past Jean’s dick to palm at his balls, and Jean’s teeth had snapped together with an audible click. He’d had to bite down on the pitiful whine he’d nearly released somehow, and he hasn’t dared loosen his jaw since then, not with Marco playing with the wet spot he’s making in his boxers every few minutes as if he’s making sure it’s still there.
Jean can assure him, it is. He’s going to have to untuck his shirt to get out of here unnoticed and ruin the vibe of his entire look this evening. Oh, and his jaw’s starting to ache from clamping his teeth together for so long.
The tips of Marco’s thumb and his first two fingers have just started massaging the swollen head of Jean’s aching cock when Sasha’s voice registers from across the table.
“Jean?” she asks, and he snaps open his eyes, unaware when exactly he’d closed them. “Are you ok? You look… kinda flushed and tense.”
Oh, does he? Strange.
Suddenly, every face around the table is turned toward him, every eye trained in his direction. Sasha, Connie, Armin, Mikasa, Ymir, and Historia are all watching him with equally concerned expressions on their faces, but Marco looks most concerned of all. Jean doesn’t trust himself to fully meet those brown eyes from mere inches away, or he’s worried he’ll start trying to suck the freckles off the column of his throat, but he can see it even in his periphery. Marco’s brows draw together and his head cants to the side as he waits for Jean to answer. Below the edge of the table, Marco wraps his fingers around as much of Jean as he can and gives him a few slow, firm strokes. Jean drags a hand over his face for an excuse to let his eyes flutter shut and his lips part in brain-scrambling pleasure, and a solution pops into his head so quickly and with so much relief that he smacks a hand down on the top of the table. A few of their friends seated around it jump at the sound, glasses and silverware tinkling.
“Actually… I feel kinda… funny.” Jean’s voice sounds humiliatingly breathless, and he runs a shaking hand through his hair, ruining all the work he’d done on it before leaving the house that evening. “Excuse me for just one second, would ya?”
He swats Marco’s hand away under the table and pulls his shirt loose as quickly as he can, praying to God no one notices as he shimmies his way out of the booth to turn toward the back of the restaurant where the bathroom’s located. He has to force himself not to bolt for the door as quickly as he can, his dick so hard and heavy now that it throbs as he walks, doing everything he can to avoid attracting the attention of the other patrons.
It feels like he’s barely shut and locked the door to the single toilet behind him and gotten his hand on himself when he hears a knock at the door and that damnably innocent sing-song voice of Marco’s calling out to him.
“Hey, just checking on you. Everything ok?”
Jean can hear the smugness in his tone even from here, and he lets loose a growl of frustration.
Without warning, and quick as a flash, Jean unlocks the door and drags Marco behind it with him before throwing it shut again, revelling in the momentary look of surprise that flashes across his boyfriend’s too-beautiful face.
That smug little bastard’s had far too much fun with him this evening. Now, it’s Jean’s turn.
Marco’s back hits the wall with a thud, the palm of Jean’s hand spread wide over the center of his deep chest, Marco’s eyes go wide while Jean’s narrow in the tight space.
“You asshole,” Jean hisses, shoving Marco back when he tries to push away from the wall. “What the hell were you trying to do, make me blow my fucking load at the table in front of all our fucking friends?”
Marco’s expression slides from wide-eyed surprise to devilish delight with truly unsettling ease. “Get it together, Jean. I thought that was obvious.”
“Oh, you think you’re funny, do you, sunshine?”
“I think I’m hilarious, and I don’t hear you complaining. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before making fun of what I’m wearing.”
That’s it. No more Mr. Nice Guy.
Jean bares his teeth, a shark staring down a fish too stupid to realize it’s just become dinner. Marco has the audacity to grin at him.
But it slides right off his incredulous face when Jean drops his trousers to the floor and kicks one leg free of them and his boxers, leaning back against one wall of the cramped bathroom so he can land the bottom of his brown loafer against Marco’s sternum, heedless of the mark it’ll leave on his boyfriends dark blue dress shirt. The thrill of victory goes through him as Marco’s eyes widen again, this time in hunger as they land on his own handiwork hanging between Jean’s thighs. Jean’s cock is swollen nearly to bursting and angry red, all the way up to the neatly-trimmed thatch of fine, bronze hair at the base, around which Jean’s fingers now curl almost protectively.
Marco moves to come away from the wall as if to chase him, eyes glued to Jean’s arousal, but with a flex of one strong thigh Jean shoves him back again, hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the walls. Marco blinks up at him in stunned desperation, and Jean lets a slow grin eat up one half of his face and he strokes himself once, long and languid, moaning quietly for Marco’s benefit.
Or Marco’s devastation. Either way.
“Oh no,” Jean mutters, stroking again and letting his head fall back against the far wall, never taking his eyes off Marco’s face. “No more touching for you. You watch from over there.”
And then Jean gets to work on himself, taking his sweet time stroking himself over the finish line, the pressure of his fingers and the pace of his hand just enough to get him there while dragging it out for Marco as long as possible. All the while, Jean’s giving little soft moans and gasps of pleasure and want, rolling his hips into his own palm and staring into Marco’s tortured soul. More than once his boyfriend tries to reach him from the other side, and every time Jean shoves him back again.
“Nngh, this feels so good, baby…” Jean groans, a silken utterance he gives as he bites his bottom lip, looking at Marco from beneath heavy eyelids as if pleading with him. “Wish it was you touching me like this, making me feel good. Don’t you?”
Marco nods his head so vigorously his dark hair shakes loose of its styling and falls in a mess over his forehead, and Jean chuckles at his expense. It chokes off in a gasp when he presses his thumb over the head of his cock.
If Marco wanted to be the one to get him off, he shouldn’t have tried to punish him by making it happen at the dinner table. As vengeful as Marco has shown he can be, he’s got nothing on Jean fucking Kirschstein who’s determined to put him to shame.
As primed as he was by Marco’s toying with him, it doesn’t take him long to wind up past the point of breaking. Heat begins to blossom in his core, sweat gathering beneath his arms and in his temples as it creeps down the insides of his thighs and tightens his balls between them. Pressure builds rapidly in the pit of his gut until it bursts with little warning, his orgasm hitting him like a wildfire and crashing outward in every direction. Colored lights dance behind his eyelids when they clamp shut, and he spills himself into his palm as his hips stutter to a stop with the little shocks of overstimulated pleasure that spark through him.
Jean’s chest heaves as he comes down, but he only allows himself a breath or two before he’s wiping his hand clean with a wad of toilet tissue and flushing the evidence, putting his foot down to pull his pants back up, keeping a careful distance from Marco and the tent he’s pitching in his dark grey trousers and the sunstruck look on that freckled face of his.
After giving his hands a quick wash, Jean turns to Marco and smirks at him.
“Tell the others I got sick,” he says. “See you at home. Have fun with that.” He gestures at Marco’s very obvious arousal, leaning in and pressing a brief, sweet kiss to the corner of Marco’s mouth, still lax with shock.
Then Jean unlocks the door and steps through it, casual as anything, heading for the front door without a backward glance at the table where their friends are doubtless wondering where the two of them could have possibly gone.
Jean makes for home, wondering how fast Marco will have to drive to beat him there.