'Cause life is really the only
and last gift we've all r e c e i v e d.
"Oh, really? Because if memory serves,
you lost our latest round.
I understand if you’ve lost your nerve,
so we can end it here, how’s that sound?
I wouldn’t want to embarrass ya
in front of all these folks.
Bring it on, Jeanny boy.
Try not to choke.”
"You came to me, remember. Think I’ll jus’ run?
Nah, not a chance, Ymir. Where’d be the fun?
You won last time but that’s not the same,
Not when we’re rhymin’, you know that’s my game.
Got embarrassin’ for you last time, wanna go again?
Only if you’re sure, I guess. Could add to my score, then.”
"Ymir, we’ve done the rhymes before,
We went through ‘em all,
The victor, it seems, you jus’ can’t ignore,
Or is it that you don’t recall?
Maybe I’m wrong,
and you’re jus’ back for more,
So c’mon then, bitch,
I’ll put your ass on the floor.”
That was it. He rarely had any patience when it came to mister smug-a-lot to begin with. But, already sitting on the edge of panic and anger over having walked out on his job last week, the tolerance levels were in the negatives. One hand snags the shirt collar, fingers curling securely into the loose fabric while the other is raised threateningly. “Fuck you an this, ‘I know what’s best for you’ bullshit! You know jack about me! Even if I did ever want to quit—” He bites his tongue, loathe to admit he could ever be right, "You sure as hell didn’t do anythin’ to stop me though, now did ya?" It’s a weak argument, but that’s all the ammo he truthfully has.
"Oh c’mon, you’re not that dumb.” A snicker, one would think it gets old repeating himself quite as much as he had to, but Grumpy here—still—has that one-track-mind thing going on. "When ‘re you gonna get it? I don’t control what you do.” One hand sits over the one in his shirt, the other is jerked about in a half-hearted, amused, shrug before it’s sat on his hip. Unfazed. "That happens to include what you don’t do, too. I’dunno what’s best for you, far from it, I’m jus’…eh…an innocent bystander—” Lies. "—observin’ what you choose to do when you actually listen to that li’l voice in your head.” Not a lie. "So you can hit me if it makes you feel better, I don’t care; but no matter how you look at it. No matter how much you try to blame me. It’s inevitably all. down. to. you. what happens in your life.”
"—You think I can’t cope, huh?
There’s a huff as Marco turns away from Jean and heads for the front door, not wanting to watch the whole ‘packing’ process going on behind him. All those shirts that had carelessly been left behind in Jean’s constant hurry to leave that the taller couldn’t help but pick up from time to time and savor the scent of would be long gone in a matter of minutes. Sheets that were having to be washed daily to rid of post-sex evidence would soon lose that smell that came with doing the deed. Soon enough, everything would be as it was a week ago, before any of this began. This should be a heartbreaking, emotional time; but right now, Marco’s feeling the wrong kind of emotions.
Accused of not listening, but that’s all he can do in this situation. Marco knows Jean is doing this to please him; not even taking into consideration the what ifs and options they have to stay in touch because he’s too scared of commitment. Well, those feelings masked underneath excuses only makes the brunet angry, resentful, but most of all, he seeks some sort of payback. Jean won’t be the only one leaving this apartment craving those what ifs.
That’s why, when Marco hears the thumping of boots approach him from behind, meaning Jean is ready to say his goodbyes and leave, the first motion Marco makes is to grab that smaller build and slam Jean up against the front door and administer the most powerful kiss he can muster up. Every ounce of anger and regret Marco is feeling in that moment surges through their lips as larger hands wander down slightly paler, tones frame, resting at Jean’s hips while he finishes off his duty. He goes all out, darting his tongue inside that delicious cavern and covering every inch; it’s ironic, how similar the first and last time they kiss like this are. Intentions are set to make Jean think about his actions, not to crumble at his knees and beg he stay. Oh no, Marco’s not finished yet.
You’re gonna miss this when you’re gone.
Once the two cannot possibly hold onto the small amount of oxygen they have between them, Marco meets their foreheads for a moment, hands pulling Jean’s body closer in an act that seems weak, but that fire in his eyes soon returns as he pulls open that door and pushes the man in his arms out into the hallway. "Have a safe trip, Commander Kirstein." Voice is velvety as Marco’s teeth sink into his bottom lip, feet moving forward so the two’s faces are inches apart once more. Oh, what a shit he can be when he’s angry. "Ah, and don’t bother coming back ever again; I’m not really a sloppy seconds kinda guy. Especially not with scared little pups. I prefer my men with a little more…courage.” The icing on the cake? Right then and there, the Commander of the Military Police goes so far as to expactorate right into his fellow Commander’s eye. It feels damn good, too.
Was it too far? Maybe. But the satisfaction Marco gets from the look on Jean’s face just before slamming the door to his apartment shut is worth it.
It’s a shock that he managed to keep hold of his rucksack after he’d been backed out of the apartment. Heart racing, breathless, and his legs just barely keeping themselves from buckling. Jean’s confused, though he suspects that’s the point. As Marco speaks, tone almost smug with a look on his face that drives senses insane, he can only focus on keeping his ground. Ignore the twitch in his pants, pretend that the urge to dive back at Marco and shove his tongue down his throat again doesn’t exist; yet his lips tingle with anticipation anyway. He tucks his head back as though to gain some height when the taller approaches. Assembling some dignity in the middle of the hallway where anyone can see.
Then, single-handedly, Marco slaps away any pride he might’ve had, gives him more sass than he ever thought possible—the kind of talk that doesn’t need anything more to tear what little semblance of egotism the Commander held into shreds. A sort of blow that wounded all on its own and needed no more. It hit with such an impact that the wad of spit to come shortly after should have been expected but wasn’t. Rendering Jean’s right eye blind in the momentary time it takes for him to snap out of the shock and swipe his sleeve over his face. By the time he looks up he just barely catches that fucking satisfied bastard smile before the door’s slammed in his face.
——Walk the fuck away.
Even if his features contort into something murderous and he resists thumping his fist to the door, Jean takes his own advice. Throwing the rucksack over his shoulder, scowling profanities to himself as he once again wipes his sleeve over his face, that disgusting feeling is still there and it’s doing nothing to help his temper. Just keep walking. When all is said and done, he’d ended it—whatever it was between them—and that was his intention. Get out, get away. He should be relieved, he thinks, rounding a bannister to the floor below. Should feel lighter somehow, to have that nagging burden of how it’ll go off his back. Shouldn’t he feel good that he’d put Marco’s future happiness ahead of his own?
He should be so many things but none of them furious, and that’s all he can feel. Because even after he put aside the fact that sonofabitch spat in his face, what he’d said surely burned anyway. Who the fuck does he think he is?
Do. Not. Turn. Around.
And Jean would do well to listen to that little voice in his head. It’s got a point after all, this may have been a horrendous end to it all but at least it was the end. He’d done what needed to be done. It’s over.
But instead, Jean thinks fuck that little voice and fuck Marco, too.
When he turned around he couldn’t rightly say. The looks he’d gotten from Marco’s underlings hadn’t gone amiss on his way back to the top floor, not that he gave a shit. Doesn’t give a shit about much right now. He doesn’t bother to knock—fuck knocking—and if there were an aggressive way to open a door he’d done that, too. Gold scans about the room until they lock on-target, Marco. He doesn’t stop to register the look on his face when he hurls his bag to the floor and storms over to him. Face red with rage, breaths heavy and fast; it’s menacing how fast he moves.
But for all he would do for this idiot—
—He will not have the last word.
Shirt coiled in his hand and body hurled around, followed, until Marco’s backed into a corner. Slammed there for good measure. Jean presses his forearm against the taller’s chest and his knee between his legs, and barks, “I put my job on the line for you. I put my life on the line, for humanity, for you! Every single fucking day! I chose a life away from you, for you, because of what happened to you—because of my past mistakes.” An inch closer, nose-to-nose and breaths unstable; who the fuck does he think he is?
“Don’t you dare call me a fucking coward.”
It almost makes her laugh, and her grin just grows wider after she presses another peck to his lips. Jean’s not innocent, that’s been proven time and time again, but he’s clumsy and sometimes needs more time to process her and what she says and asks of him. It’s sort of charming, endearing, he got under her skin. Resisting the urge to hug Jean and call him adorable, Zoe pulled back and cocked her head to the side.
"I had a long day." she starts as if offering a real explanation. "It rained in the morning, I had to work extra hours. The sun comes up in the east and comes down in the west. Humans walk on two legs. Water is wet." Zoe can’t even finish saying ‘wet’ before starting to giggle. "What does it matter, I’m offering- are you taking?" Hands come to sit at the collar of his shirt, palms pressed warm against him. It surprises her, how affectionate she acts with him, despite everything. Despite all odds and promises she’s been making to herself, Zoe lets into the need to treat him like he truly is hers. She tries, truly and honestly tries to make it work, to find some way both of them gain. Sound the alarms, Zoe was a lost cause.
Leaning forward, she barely brushed her lips to his, a sly smirk still plastered on them. "You don’t have to if you don’t wanna." Another teasing peck. "I just thought you might like that." Another one. "Though I must admit. I’m curious." And another, this time accompanied with a roll of her hips against his lap. "What would you do to me if you had a chance like this?”
Truth be told, Zoe hates not being in control. It doesn’t suit her. Would usually fight, and fight dirty to gain it. Never really ever gives it over willingly to someone. Almost never. Surprisingly, tonight, she’s okay with letting Jean do what he wants. Surprisingly, she genuinely thought she’ll enjoy it. Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s the door that leads to the road of discovery of something deeper where deeper should not exist. It should be a big deal for her, but when her russet meet his tawny, it seems to be the most natural thing. Dangerous. Zoe knows it. It still doesn’t stop her, though, her mind is all made up and she knows Jean would want it. Question remains, does he want it now? "So. Yes or no?"
A blink. It took time to process that her explanation’s…lacking the details, for finer words. But once it becomes clear he wouldn’t be getting one. The simple of notion that her offer had been put on the table and all he had to do is take it instead, of course Jean’s suspicious, but he gets the feeling this ‘offer’ had an expiry date and it’s coming up faster than his mind can fathom.
But before the boy can give her an answer he finds a stuttered, unprepared breath hitching in his throat, Zoe’s lips close to his. Expecting a kiss and not getting one but instead further taunted by the woman in his lap, he’s beginning to wonder if he really was the one in control here; nothing more than addled as she continues to purr so dangerously close to his lips. He’s sidetracked, barely has his eyes open until there’s a devastating wake-up call most significantly concentrated around his groin that has him arch closer like a man possessed. And suddenly he’s all about this plan of hers, but the question remains: what would he do? Given a possible once in a lifetime opportunity and he knows better than to simply waste it.
Of course, because it’s so typically Jean of him, now that he has such a power—he doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t stop that lecherous grin of his though, even if his throat is closing up. He has a lewd mind, shouldn’t take long to come up with an idea or two.“Yeah,” the boyish snicker just kind of happens. It’s an exciting prospect and for someone like Jean to keep it concealed is laughable.
He bites his lip; eyes alight with anticipation as he looks her over. One decision he feels should have been made as soon as she walked through the door—those clothes will have to go. Funny how, just last week when he was fighting for this role he had plenty to say; now he doesn’t have to play dirty to get it and he’s stuck in his thoughts. What to do, what to do…
A look, back into those sinful eyes, the dumbest look possible on his face—probably appears like he’s bordering between excitement and nausea—Jean’s mind runs through a million things at once. Fuck. He better not be blushing, hopes that warmth in his cheeks was just because of how hot under the collar he’d gotten. But he can’t help the unusual thought, something they’ve never done before for a thousand reasons and yet it’s the one thing in his head that remains a constant, “…’S take it slow?”
Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.
Eventually, when Marco becomes comfortable with the idea that his sexual fantasy tends to leave the dishes unwashed and occasionally likes to walk around shirtless, their impromptu cohabitation becomes a dance of sorts. It’s not flirting what they’re doing, not quite; flirting implies a certain innocence, implies uncertainty, implies a playfulness their hungry kisses lack. No, this is more than that—it’s wild and passionate and once it starts it doesn’t end until both of them are naked and panting, their brains so fucked out neither can pronounce words.
When Jean wants to dance, his eyes light up a certain way. It’s dangerous, this; Marco reacts to it almost instantly, desire pooling low in his gut and he knows he must follow. Still, he resists, because this is how the choreography goes—Jean’s always liked a little bit of a fight, and truth be told, Marco does too; the sounds Jean makes when he tugs his hair and bites on his throat after being forcefully pinned to the bed are very pretty, indeed.
So he stays where he is, pretending his fingers are not tingling in anticipation and his cock is not stirring, because that’s part of the game. And so, it’s Jean’s turn again, and he chooses to just—stare. Hazel eyes pierce Marco’s body, the maddening smirk slowly curving his lips. An old trick, but it works: within moments, Marco’s holding onto the counter table behind him, as if somehow the IKEA furniture could save him. Jean knows this, of course he does: the way his look darkens and his smirk widens is proof of this, and he steps forward ever so slowly, a leopard hunting for his prey.
Marco is on fire. Jean’s eyes are unabashedly undressing him—shirt gone, pants discarded—and even though Marco hasn’t moved a muscle he feels naked. He stands his ground and gives Jean a look of his own, but this is Jean’s dance and so Marco can only follow and hope he doesn’t crash. He fights back a little bit more, just to be contrary; he does nothing as Jean reaches one arm out, graceful, and curls his fingers around the neck of Marco’s shirt. It’s a premeditated gesture, and so Marco expects it, leaning forward slightly and gripping Jean’s wrist to keep it there.
Jean leads, and Marco follows.
That is, until Marco changes the tempo and crushes their lips together, setting the stage for a different type of dance.
Zoe swallows, tries to compose herself and all the pieces she’s been scattering around for him. Yes, it was her who fucked up originally, the only reason why she put up with the pain. That and the fact that it was still Jean. Or what she made of his. Failing to choke back a sob, not because of the pain she feels for herself, but him and what he felt when she left. Eyes avert to the window, away from Jean, trying not to show more than she already has.
But he hates himself for caring. Can’t bring himself to stand there and listen to her cry; despite all of it, regardless that it’s his own foul display that reduces her to this. Jean can’t stick around to hear it. If he stays, he’ll just want to grab her, tell her he’s sorry and, if only just to get her to stop, tell her to ignore him. But then again, he doesn’t want to be ignored. He wants her to cry, in a way, wants her to care just as much as he did—still does. Zoe’s upset is a way of proof, something that satisfies his ability to get her to feel. He brought her down, but he won’t stick around to watch her pick herself up again; the click of the door is almost silent. As quiet as possible, so not to bring attention to himself, so he doesn’t have to say anything when he leaves. And it still hurts.
As if his words don’t grate on his nerves enough, that damn wink is a cherry ontop. "What the hell are you doin’ then?” Maybe he takes a step closer, voice lowering and fingers flexing, "You lost me my job. If you consider that a helpful donation to my life and want some thanks, you’ve got another thing comin’ bud.”
He takes that with a nod, hands up at his sides and a step to the side—not back. He throws a little worse on his left, so. "Again, I didn’t make you do anythin’ you didn’t wanna do yourself. So don’t blame me,” he merely…encouraged the inevitable. Fast-forwarded the future. Some whimsical shit like that. What he is doing should be obvious, and if it’s not yet understood well, it can wait. But if only just to be bastard; because he really is just too easy. "…Bud.”
Eyes avert back to the book, just so her tears, if they pool out, don’t stare at him. "I can’t fix that. I wish I could, but I can’t." Voice shakes and everything feels just so heavy. "I can’t…. d-do anything… except hope to see you again… every damn…. time… you leave."
He hears it, the shake and the trembling of threatening vocal chords. Her broken string of a sentence that clues him in on the upcoming tears, and he sighs. Curling his hands into fists at his sides, Jean resists the urge to move. Strays his stare away and clicks his tongue instead. "…Good." Now you know how it feels.