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marco’s fingers are cold and reddened, pressed into the nape of his neck. it’s searing, yes, but it sinks jean further into his skin, desperately craving each and every bit of marco that he is willing to give up to jean. and jean is selfish, so, so selfish, and he wants more. needs more.
his mouth is a vortex, sucking every breath jean dares to take from his lungs; it leaves his head reeling, leaves him helpless, hopeless — in any other circumstance, jean would be kicking, screaming, harsh threats barked and clenched fists raised, but here? trapped underneath marco’s thighs, marco’s forearms pinning him down, marco’s lips against his? is there a better way to be helpless?
no; here, jean is entirely at marco’s mercy. he is careening down the slope of addiction; a car spinning into a ditch, antiseptic against bruises, petrichor in the early morning, shatterlets of glass grinded into his eyes. it hurts, and it burns, and he loves it. marco’s mouth is an incessant force against his own, pushing and pulling and licking and biting, until jean is a whimpering mess, the impressions of his teeth left in jean’s bottom lip; as if he knows jean will run his tongue over them later, sated and dazed, eyes glassy and lips swollen and red.
marco pulls away and jean whines, teary-eyed and disoriented, already missing the feeling of marco’s lips against his. his chest heaves under marco’s wandering hands, and marco attaches his mouth to jean’s jawline, nipping and kissing, every hiss and strangled gasp and stifled groan only spurring him on his tirade to claim every bit of jean for himself. jean gives himself eagerly; how can he not, trapped between the bed and marco’s eager mouth?
when marco leans back from further bruising him, wipes his mouth, a satisfied grin on his face, jean cannot help but reach out with now-freed hands, entangling his fingers in doe-brown hair, pulling him back down and reconnecting their lips. it’s just as good as the first time, and the second, and the third, and however many other times they have kissed. marco’s nails graze at his scalp and he shudders underneath him, a noise not unlike an aborted whine swallowed up by marco’s impatient, all-consuming mouth.
jean whimpers, desperately. marco’s hands rest on his hips, nails digging crescent-shaped marks in his skin; he lets his own slide down to rest on marco’s nape, pressing himself impossibly closer. marco is a black hole, and jean is torn apart by him, molecules rearranged by every press of lips against his own, by the overwhelming smell of french lavender and grapefruit, by the taste of strawberry intermingling with menthol.
(jean is content with losing himself here; becoming sucked into the void, broken apart and pieced back together by careful hands, atoms melded until he resembles something akin to himself again.)
in an article he’d read, whilst marco slept beside him, soft snores echoing through the quiet room, he’d found that scientists believe that there is a supermassive black hole at the centre of every universe. he had scoffed, then; swiped off the tab and turned his attention to other articles on his feed, rolling his eyes and settling further into marco’s gentle hold. there’s no way scientists could believe that, not when a supermassive black hole would consume everything in its path, hungry and voracious.
but he thinks back on that article as marco presses him against the bed, ravenous in his attempts to claim jean’s mouth, puffs of breath gently brushing against his cheeks. perhaps the article has a point; marco is at the centre of jean’s universe — jean is stuck relentlessly revolving around him, entangled in his grasp and not willing to pull away, because why would he be? and the way that marco claims him, bruises his mouth and throat and jaw, settles his weight on jean’s body and refuses to let him up (not that he wants to be let up), he wonders if perhaps that article has a point.
marco curls a hand up to jean’s face, cups his cheek, and the frenzied flurrying of their frantic kisses slows to a gentle, saccharine pace. it’s whiplash-inducing, makes jean’s head spin, tears spilling down his cheeks before he can stop them. all of a sudden, marco draws back; jean keens, low in the back of his throat, cracks open his eyes and sees him, soaks him in.
the apples of his cheeks are stained red, visible even over tanned skin. his lips are puffy, eyes dazed and hair mussed, and jean cannot help the burst of pride that floods his chest because he made marco look just as debauched as he feels. it takes him a moment to process, but marco is staring down at him, seeing eye pooling with concern, brows knitted and his mouth twisted in a frown.
“what,” he manages to rasp out, voice grainy and cracking; it’s not quite a question, yet not a statement. marco leans forward, and jean’s eyes flutter shut, before he registers the butterfly kisses of marco’s lips against his cheeks, kissing his tears away.
“you’re crying,” marco murmurs against his skin, chest rumbling with his voice, and jean– jean cracks all over again. because marco is so, so perfect, and even in the midst of such a passionate session, his heart wins over his mind; he still exudes the same thoughtfulness that had jean enraptured the day they met, and– marco is everything to him.
he sniffles, curls his fingers around marco’s, shrugs his shoulders. “not cryin’ ‘cause ‘m sad, just– i love you.”
marco huffs out a laugh, and it sounds like the trills of liszt’s liebesträume no. 1, a phenomenal composition of soft fingers against keys and the embellishment of a melody that soaks into jean’s marrow. he thumbs away the remaining dewdrops soaking his face and smiles; jean swears his heart stops, if only for a moment — an eternity.
“i love you, too.” he says, the words easy, spoken millions of times — in the dark of the night, moonshine spilling silver into puddles on the floor, illuminating the room in dustglow; the amber tendrils of the morning sun, soaking skin in warmth; in the black, when the rain thuds against the windows and the lights have flickered, once, twice, gone; in the heat of summer, sweat sticking to skin and the window cracked, voices muffled by the soft breeze cooling their sunburn; in the haze of the evening, slow and sticky and right.
jean scowls. his mouth tingles, and he smacks marco’s biceps, mouth twisting up into an unconsented smile. “you dick,” he huffs, pushing himself up on his forearms, marco still perched in his lap, “i bare my heart out to you and you laugh at me?” marco rolls his eyes and jean cranes his head up, ghosting his sore lips against the freckles and blemishes that dot marco’s tanned cheeks.
jean is not used to this; the itch to reach out and touch, the electricity tingling whenever he grazes his fingers against plush skin, when he skims a kiss against marco’s mouth. he isn’t used to being so– so hungry for touch, to the point where soft and sweet makes him weep like a child. jean has never allowed himself to truly indulge in the gentle side of love; he has never had someone like marco before, who makes him desperate, clinging to every drop of honeyed affection as if it were his last.
he brushes a kiss to the corner of marco’s mouth, tilting his head just so. he cannot stop the grin from spreading as he sinks into yet another kiss, boneless and brainless.
and perhaps marco is not the centre of the universe, but the universe itself. perhaps the freckles that bloom across his cheeks are constellations of stars, weaved perfectly into the night sky and carrying stories unlike any mere mortals have heard. perhaps the flush that pools into his face is caused by twisting, chaotic magnetic fields from within the sun’s convective zones; or perhaps it is the storm on jupiter’s surface, the hurricane more than twice the size of earth. perhaps his eyes, one brown and ringed of gold, the other flushed grey and glazed over, are asteroids, big enough to slam into jean’s subconscious, linger there for all eternity. perhaps the wrinkled scar mottling his face is a desert of quicksand, hellbent on thoroughly consuming him.
and that begs the question; if he is the universe, how did he come into existence? was he cast, born in an explosion? was he melded by the gentle fingers of a god, created in a perfect envision of a sprawling galaxy? jean does not know; he does not care to learn, not when the universe is kissing him so sweetly, undoing him so righteously. perhaps his mouth is the black hole, at the centre of the universe, and jean is but another mindless drone sucked into his orbit, torn apart by his own desire to get closer, closer, closer.
marco’s lips tear him apart so eagerly, rip him limb from limb, teeth scraping his bottom lip and invoking a keen from the hollow of his throat. with the need to breathe becoming increasingly apparent, he plants his palms on marco’s shoulders and pushes him away, just slightly; a thin strand of saliva connects their mouths, and jean flushes a deeper red as marco licks it away.
“christ,” he flops back, tugging marco down on top of him again, savouring the weight against his body, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you,” his voice breaks ever so noticeably as marco begins to scrape his teeth against sore spots on jean’s throat. he can feel marco’s smile against his skin as incessant teeth make way to kiss-slick lips, zephyr-like and light, soft and pleasant; the kisses soothe the ache of vibrant red bruises, and jean is already beginning to brace himself for the tirades of teasing he is surely going to endure the following day.
“not my fault,” marco mutters, the reverberations of his voice rumbling in his chest, underneath jean’s hands. he says nothing more, though jean knows he wants to, aches to — instead of prying, however, he simply cranes his neck to the side, exposing pale skin for marco to conquer. he does so ardently, warm and enthusiastic and teetering the edge between painful and pleasurable. jean’s breath hitches in his throat and he curls his fingers in marco’s quiet green shirt, gripping tightly, unwilling to let go.
the swell in his chest is back, with a vengeance. he burns, enclosed in marco’s atmospheric layers, careening towards the surface and crumbling apart. and there he will remain, for decades and centuries and millennia. he brings a hand up, scrapes nails across marco’s nape as he drags it through soft hair, tugs him up for another razing kiss.
(he thinks he must have done good in a past life; must be doing something good now, to have the universe in his lap, kissing him breathless. whatever it may be, he thanks the stars that he has marco; that he has done enough good in this world to deserve a man that encapsulates the universe.)