Some moments burn in Reiner's mind, seared into his memory even when his thoughts fracture, and he can't remember who or what he is. The noises Eren makes—the need, raw and unfiltered—may become one of them. Reiner drinks down those sounds like he's dying of thirst, greedy, desperate for more. Eren moaning, Eren demanding to be fucked, Eren saying his name. Eren wanting him despite everything, or maybe because of everything. Eren. Just Eren.
His teeth scrape against Eren's throat, an open-mouthed kiss that turns to a swipe of his tongue, tasting the rain on Eren's skin. Fuck, he wants to devour Eren, to leave him a drooling, glassy-eyed mess. It's a sick impulse, probably. Some twisted tangle of frustration and desire, remnants of screaming at each other while Bertolt and Ymir looked on. Maybe Reiner will forget it later. Or maybe it will haunt him, waking him from restless sleep, confused and hard and aching for the taste of Eren's skin.
Eren pushes back onto his finger, the hand on his cock tightening, then stroking quicker. The touch is confident, bold in a way that would make Reiner smile if he weren't so busy kissing Eren's neck. Reiner's hips jerk forward, thrusting shamelessly into Eren's grip. It's not a perfect rhythm, but it's perfect in its imperfection. It's something real, something desperate and genuine. Something Reiner can look back on and believe it wasn't a fantasy.
"You feel so good," he finds himself saying, words kissed into Eren's throat. He withdraws his finger slightly, then thrusts in again. Withdraws, then thrusts, his wrist flexing, finding a rhythm that mimics Eren's hand on his cock. "Fuck, Eren, you feel so good…"
He'd feel even better around Reiner's cock, hot and tight and so damn needy. He'd feel better with his wrists pinned to a mattress, legs spread wide around Reiner's hips, head thrown back in a moan. He'd feel so good stripped bare, hot skin against skin, no walls between them. And Reiner is mumbling something, a jumble of could and could've been, his finger curling, pressing, searching for that spot that makes him see stars.
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His teeth scrape against Eren's throat, an open-mouthed kiss that turns to a swipe of his tongue, tasting the rain on Eren's skin. Fuck, he wants to devour Eren, to leave him a drooling, glassy-eyed mess. It's a sick impulse, probably. Some twisted tangle of frustration and desire, remnants of screaming at each other while Bertolt and Ymir looked on. Maybe Reiner will forget it later. Or maybe it will haunt him, waking him from restless sleep, confused and hard and aching for the taste of Eren's skin.
Eren pushes back onto his finger, the hand on his cock tightening, then stroking quicker. The touch is confident, bold in a way that would make Reiner smile if he weren't so busy kissing Eren's neck. Reiner's hips jerk forward, thrusting shamelessly into Eren's grip. It's not a perfect rhythm, but it's perfect in its imperfection. It's something real, something desperate and genuine. Something Reiner can look back on and believe it wasn't a fantasy.
"You feel so good," he finds himself saying, words kissed into Eren's throat. He withdraws his finger slightly, then thrusts in again. Withdraws, then thrusts, his wrist flexing, finding a rhythm that mimics Eren's hand on his cock. "Fuck, Eren, you feel so good…"
He'd feel even better around Reiner's cock, hot and tight and so damn needy. He'd feel better with his wrists pinned to a mattress, legs spread wide around Reiner's hips, head thrown back in a moan. He'd feel so good stripped bare, hot skin against skin, no walls between them. And Reiner is mumbling something, a jumble of could and could've been, his finger curling, pressing, searching for that spot that makes him see stars.