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Reiner is heavy on his tongue, all salt, sweat, and skin. He slides him deeper, and he’s filled, Reiner’s cock nudging gently against his soft palate.
Reiner’s fingers twist into his hair, firm, but not insistent. He stares down at Bertholdt with uninhibited desire. Bertholdt gazes back, reverent, eyes watering. Reiner raises his hand, thumb pressing to the corner of his eye, damp as he smooths it along his cheek. Bertholdt whimpers, the sound caught in the back of his throat, muffled.
He vows to bring him home. It’s his promise to himself, to Reiner.
If any of them get home, it will be Reiner—the boy who’d sacrificed everything for his mother, who’d shouldered the burden of Marcel’s death, who’d taken his place as their leader, who’d been let down again and again—he will ensure it is him.
Bertholdt chokes as he presses his nose to his pubic bone, blond hair tickling his skin. He pulls away after a moment, dragging the tip against the coarse ridges on the roof of his mouth. Suckling gently on the head, he dips his tongue into the slit, teasing carefully, just the way he knows Reiner likes.
They have no respite, here in Paradis, only each other. He will be Reiner’s rock, his one constant in this unrelenting world. But what can he do when Reiner is falling apart at the seams? What can he do other than hold onto him—when he’s also terrified of being left alone?
Marcel was his friend too, but it's jarring seeing his smile slide across Reiner’s face, his easy confidence, unselfish compassion. Reiner wears the mask well, and Bertholdt plays along, sometimes, if only to offer Reiner some form of happiness. He misses him immensely.
He hollows his cheeks, tucking his lips over his teeth as he begins to move in earnest. He twists his wrist once at the base, the skin burning to the touch, before guiding his hand up. His fingers wander beneath the hem of Reiner’s shirt, up the expanse of his abdomen. He presses his palm firm and flat to his chest, where his heart throbs and aches with life.
Reiner moans softly, tugging the roots of his hair to guide his movement. Bertholdt. Reiner says, breathes, prays. Like that.
Bertholdt obeys, because he would do anything for Reiner. He worships him, pressing fervent kisses up the underside of his length, jaw clicking as he opens it to take him into his warmth again. His fingers cradle Reiner’s balls, pressing and rolling them into his palm. Sliding him back into his mouth, he chokes on him, because he can’t get enough. His scent fills his nose, his taste, his weight, but it’s not enough: he wants their bodies to meld together, until their very existence permeates into one another. There’s wetness on his cheeks, on his chin. He craves more, needs more.
Reiner’s eyes are closed, brow furrowed as his grip tightens, hips pistoning into the inviting warmth. Bertholdt lets him, hands falling to steady themselves on Reiner’s muscular thighs, jaw aching as it’s stretched to its limit.
Even though he’s filled to the brim, Bertholdt’s heart trembles with want. He loves Reiner more than anything—more than himself, more than Liberio.
He loves his father, distantly: he hasn’t seen him in over five years. In that time, his face has blurred along the edges. His words, quieted by his sickness, have faded into childlike memories, the exact phrasings lost with time. Bertholdt had barely hugged him in fear of crushing his already frail body in his embrace. Even before his departure, his father had only smiled wearily, dragging a worn hand up to squeeze his arm. Come back home, Bertholdt.
Whereas he loves his father quietly, he loves Reiner endlessly, bursting at the seams, for he is the boy who has been by his side for as long as he can remember. In their training days, he had been the one to soothe the cruel wounds inflicted by the officers, walking him home each evening even though it was in the opposite direction. Reiner had held his clammy hands in his as they stood for judgment. Pressed those same hands to the broken, steaming flesh of his legs after he fell from his titan, as if it would make them heal faster. In the barracks, he is the one who had curled up beside him as he wept out of homesickness. Who had promised him countless times that they were going home. Out of everyone in the world, Reiner is the easiest to love. Cut open, it would be Reiner’s name carved into every inch of his flesh, from the corded muscle of his back to the delicate tissue of his throbbing heart.
Bertholdt’s grip on Reiner is real, firm, nails digging into his hips, and he will never let go, not now, not ever. He will bring him back, even if it kills him.
He wonders, peering up through tear-stained lashes, if his devotion will be enough.