Eren's hips jerk forward, pressing toward a touch that Reiner had to withdraw. It's endearing, in a way—as much as something that makes Reiner burn inside, half-delirious with lust can be called "endearing." Automatically, Reiner shifts his stance, pressing his thigh more firmly between Eren's legs. His thigh isn't as good as his hand, but at least it'll provide some friction, some semblance of relief.
It's a kindness. One that Reiner shouldn't give his enemy. One that he doesn't question before bestowing. He barely even notices he's done it, too accustomed to looking after the people he cares about—looking after Eren—willfully ignorant to his own contradictions. He'll chop off Eren's limbs if he has to, but he won't leave Eren hard and aching without some small comfort.
Then his fingers slide past Eren's lips, sucked into a willing mouth, skin scraped and nipped by blunt teeth. Reiner thought he knew what it would feel like: a quick, cursory wetting, erotic but entirely manageable, a mere prelude to other things. Trust him to underestimate Eren again.
Reiner doesn't curse as Eren looks up at him, green eyes dark beneath lowered lashes, teeth teasing before that hot tongue moves, licking and caressing every centimeter of Reiner's skin. Cursing would require more brainpower than Reiner currently has, his thoughts short-circuiting, his grasp of language failing. All he can manage is a noise deep in his throat, too breathless to be called a groan, a hot flush staining high cheekbones.
He could come just from this. Just from the sight of Eren looking at him like that, sucking his fingers like they're a cock, face flushed, tongue utterly lewd. In some very distant corner of Reiner's mind, he knows he'll jerk off to this memory later; he doesn't even think he'll hate himself for it. Why would he? How could he, when Eren is so fucking gorgeous it hurts?
As it is, he's seriously considering altering his plan and putting Eren on his knees. But Reiner tries to be a man of his word. He thinks he is, for the most part, when he can be (which isn't a ringing endorsement, even to him). So he draws in a shaky breath, willing himself to stay the course. Reminding himself that there's always next time.
(There has to be a next time. He thinks he'll go even crazier if there isn't.)
"Eren," he murmurs when he can parse language again, the name falling from his lips too readily, too naturally, echoing the way his own name tumbles from Eren's. He moves his fingers a little, the shadow of a thrust that isn't subtle at all. "Look at you…"
He'll stay the course. But he can't stop himself from appreciating this moment, indulging just a little.
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It's a kindness. One that Reiner shouldn't give his enemy. One that he doesn't question before bestowing. He barely even notices he's done it, too accustomed to looking after the people he cares about—looking after Eren—willfully ignorant to his own contradictions. He'll chop off Eren's limbs if he has to, but he won't leave Eren hard and aching without some small comfort.
Then his fingers slide past Eren's lips, sucked into a willing mouth, skin scraped and nipped by blunt teeth. Reiner thought he knew what it would feel like: a quick, cursory wetting, erotic but entirely manageable, a mere prelude to other things. Trust him to underestimate Eren again.
Reiner doesn't curse as Eren looks up at him, green eyes dark beneath lowered lashes, teeth teasing before that hot tongue moves, licking and caressing every centimeter of Reiner's skin. Cursing would require more brainpower than Reiner currently has, his thoughts short-circuiting, his grasp of language failing. All he can manage is a noise deep in his throat, too breathless to be called a groan, a hot flush staining high cheekbones.
He could come just from this. Just from the sight of Eren looking at him like that, sucking his fingers like they're a cock, face flushed, tongue utterly lewd. In some very distant corner of Reiner's mind, he knows he'll jerk off to this memory later; he doesn't even think he'll hate himself for it. Why would he? How could he, when Eren is so fucking gorgeous it hurts?
As it is, he's seriously considering altering his plan and putting Eren on his knees. But Reiner tries to be a man of his word. He thinks he is, for the most part, when he can be (which isn't a ringing endorsement, even to him). So he draws in a shaky breath, willing himself to stay the course. Reminding himself that there's always next time.
(There has to be a next time. He thinks he'll go even crazier if there isn't.)
"Eren," he murmurs when he can parse language again, the name falling from his lips too readily, too naturally, echoing the way his own name tumbles from Eren's. He moves his fingers a little, the shadow of a thrust that isn't subtle at all. "Look at you…"
He'll stay the course. But he can't stop himself from appreciating this moment, indulging just a little.