word count: 686
summary: i-it’s…. an unabashed pwp, not even gonna lie. for por, who came up with the idea of marco/armin hallway sex in the first place—so this is her fault, really.
Marco is a patient person.
On his best days, some would even call him a fucking saint—if Jean’s words are anything to go by. But the truth is, Marco is human just like anyone else, and even he runs out of easy-going smiles and patient words when he’s tired and starving and annoyed by rude people who give him shit for things he honestly can’t control.
Which is why, when he gets home from a bad day at work and Armin greets him dressed only in boxers and one of Marco’s t-shirts, Marco immediately pins him against the hallway wall and kisses him, frustration fueling his desperate need to touch.
Blows your back out as your homie
Gotchu walkin funny as a testament to our friendship.
makes you cum in the spirit of comradery
Got ur legs on my shoulders to show u how deep our friendship is
hits it from the back to let you know im here for you
THIS TIME WITH EVEN LOOPIER MARCO AND EVEN MORE AWKWARD HANDJOBS.
You came. You read. You blew up my ask box. Shit got silly on twitter and yolownly declared today to be Frickle Frack Friday. I overshot friday by three hours but HERE WE ARE anyway.
Have some more of Marco being terrible at being a vampire and jean being, allthings considered, actually pretty good at being a boyfriend.
And also a juicebox.
(oh yeah it’s a little cheesy but this was my writing music
In the sixth months since I first kissed him, tangled up in that careworn hand-stitched quilt, I managed to convince Marco to drink my blood exactly twice. He’d contracted his own personal brand of freckly - vampire sunstroke on both occasions. The first time a dog, this ridiculous little head on collision between a corgi and some form of collie-ish thing, got clipped by a car on the main road and limped up the alley into our lot and he spent the two hottest hours of the day coaxing the whimpering, snapping mess into a box to get her to the vet. (“Why the hell didn’t you just call me?” “I don’t think straight when there’s cute things!”) The little gray-and-black corglie left a couple of holes in my hand during the process of transporting her to the vet school, and by the time I’d finished filling out forms and come home he was once again a shivering heap in his big four-poster bed, stomach full of an ice-cold AB+ slushie and it wasn’t too hard to crawl into his nest and convince him to lick away the scabs forming on the (thoroughly disinfected okay) holes in my wrist.
The second time I got a text at around 4 am announcing, without preamble, that the last time he saw a sunrise Jimmy Carter was president and at 8 am I more or less scraped him off his front porch with a spatula.