Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3693989.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Shingeki_no_Kyojin_|_Attack_on_Titan
  Relationship:
      Reiner_Braun/Bertolt_Hoover, Marco_Bott/Jean_Kirstein, Reiner/Bertolt/
      Jean
  Character:
      Reiner_Braun, Bertolt_Hoover, Jean_Kirstein, Marco_Bott, Connie_Springer,
      Eren_Yeager, Armin_Arlert
  Additional Tags:
      A/B/O, Knotting, Breeding, Come_Inflation, Threesome_-_M/M/M, Weird
      Biology, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Biting, Marking, Scent_Marking, Mates
  Series:
      Part 1 of Heats
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-06 Words: 10301
****** What Is To Come ******
by missazrael
Summary
     “Marco,” and his voice is pleasant, in control, “get away from that
     bunk, please.” The request is polite enough but thick with
     threatened, primal violence, and to his credit, Marco stands his
     ground for a few moments, watching Reiner with narrowed eyes, subtly
     putting himself between the tall cadet and Jean. Bertolt watches this
     little development with interest, wondering how things will be
     affected later when Marco comes into his own, but then Jean lifts a
     hand and pushes on Marco’s chest.
      
     “It’s fine,” he rasps, and lifts up onto his elbows, tilting his head
     back and inhaling through his nose, drawing in the alpha scent
     rolling off Reiner. “It’s okay, Marco.”
      
     First heats are awful, or so everyone says. Bertolt knows that his
     own first heat had been pretty bad, but at least he'd had Reiner to
     help him get through it. Jean is the first omega to hit his heat
     cycle, though, and someone needs to do something about it before he
     drives everyone mad.
The air in the barracks is thick and heavy, pungent with pheromones and
expectations. Jean is curled on his bunk, his arms and legs wrapped tightly
around himself, tended to by a fretful Marco who knows what his friend needs
but can’t do a thing to help him. It’s a shame, Bertolt thinks, sitting on his
top bunk and observing, his long legs dangling over the sides, that Marco
hadn’t matured at the same rate Jean had. It would be an easy thing, then, for
the two of them to come together and satisfy each other’s needs, but Marco is
still, despite his height and heft, lagging behind. Everyone is fairly sure
he’ll be an alpha, and then Jean won’t be in this predicament, but until Marco
catches up to his best friend, there’s little he can do to make Jean’s anguish
go away. What Jean needs is an actual alpha, one that’s fully developed and
realized, one who can knot him and relieve the aching pressure in his guts.
Bertolt can wait. He knows how this is going to play out.
Marco fusses and Jean whines, the sound of their voices rising to Bertolt’s
ears, muffled and indistinct. He sympathizes, he really does; he remembers what
it had been like, being gripped by such a powerful force, something so outside
your own control. He remembers the ache and the fear, the simple, overwhelming
need, and how it grew and grew in his mind until it blotted out everything
else. It had been terrifying, thinking that he might lose control, thinking of
what might come bursting out if he let loose, and if it hadn’t been for Reiner,
things would have gone much, much worse.
At least Jean doesn’t have to worry about a warrior bursting through his skin.
Bertolt’s bunk shakes underneath him, and he looks over to see Connie clamoring
up the side. Connie’s a beta, the scents and sounds of an omega in heat won’t
bother him that much, and Bertolt relaxes as Connie comes over to sit beside
him.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” he observes, peering over the edge at the bunk where Marco
keeps helplessly stroking his hands through Jean’s sweat-damp hair, and Bertolt
has to admire the smaller boy’s way of getting right to the heart of the issue.
“I always thought it’d be Marco, you know? That he’d be the one to take care of
Jean.”
Bertolt makes a soft noise of agreement, and Connie, bolstered, continues. “He
can’t just wait it out, right? I mean, he can, but why should he? Hey,” he
leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that carries no
less than his regular tone, “it doesn’t bother you, does it?”
Jean, fortunately, saves Bertolt from having to reply. “I can hear you, you
know!” he snaps, rolling over on his side and glaring up at Connie with wild,
semi-feral eyes. “I don’t need your shit right now, Springer, so shut it!” His
gaze falls on Bertolt for a moment, golden eyes narrowed and considering,
before he rolls back over, turning his back to them. Marco glances up,
apologetic, before leaning over Jean again and trying to soothe him.
“No,” Bertolt tells Connie, his tone quiet and measured, “it doesn’t bother
me.”
“You sure?” Connie’s never been the smartest cadet, but he has an annoying,
unerring sense for people, and he turns his bright, inquisitive eyes on
Bertolt, and Bertolt has a moment of wishing he could shove Connie off the
bunk, letting him shatter against the floor. “You’re sweating more than usual,
and…”
Bertolt is about to cut him off, about to interrupt and possibly ruin
everything—the pheromones in the barracks are going to his head, making it
swim, and everything feels itchy and close to the surface, as though his
warrior could come surging out at any moment—when the door to the barracks
swings open and Reiner enters, his broad shoulders blocking out the last of the
late afternoon sunshine. Everyone falls quiet, a hush settling among them, and
Connie skitters away from Bertolt, moving to the edge of the bunk, close to the
ladder.
Reiner, who had gone through the change before anyone else; Reiner, who
everyone had known would be an alpha and who had not disappointed; Reiner, who
everyone looks to now with hope and desperation writ all over their faces, and
Bertolt has to swallow down the bile that rises in the back of his throat.
Eren, standing close to the door, shies away from him, not in heat himself but
as affected as the rest of them by the pheromones coming off Jean in waves.
Reiner hardly notices; his attention is riveted on the bunk with Jean and
Marco, his eyes intent as he sniffs the air.
“Marco,” and his voice is pleasant, in control, “get away from that bunk,
please.” The request is polite enough but thick with threatened, primal
violence, and to his credit, Marco stands his ground for a few moments,
watching Reiner with narrowed eyes, subtly putting himself between the tall
cadet and Jean. Bertolt watches this little development with interest,
wondering how things will be affected later when Marco comes into his own, but
then Jean lifts a hand and pushes on Marco’s chest.
“It’s fine,” he rasps, and lifts up onto his elbows, tilting his head back and
inhaling through his nose, drawing in the alpha scent rolling off Reiner. “It’s
okay, Marco.”
Marco glances down at his friend, then back at Reiner. His upper lip curls over
his teeth, and Bertolt wonders if Marco is even aware what he’s doing. “Don’t
hurt him, Reiner. You make it as good for him as you can, okay?”
Reiner nods agreeably, and Marco runs his hand over the side of Jean’s face,
the touch a caress, before he gets up and melts into the shadows, leaving the
barracks through the back door. They’ll be mates someday, Marco and Jean, and
Bertolt wonders how many heats they’ll have together before everything comes
crashing down around them. He hopes they get at least a few.
Reiner moves into the room now, his tread purposeful and heavy, scattering
other cadets in his wake. He only has eyes for Jean, and Jean watches him
advance, tilting his head to expose his neck, the breath in his throat
quickening. Reiner’s fast, faster than someone his size has any right to be,
and he’s almost to the bunk before Bertolt makes his move.
He slides off the top bunk in one smooth, fluid motion, landing heavily,
deliberately, and both Reiner and Jean turn to look at him. Jean’s face is
bright with expectation while Reiner’s draws closed, and Bertolt strides across
the room towards them, his long legs eating up the space between them in the
now-silent barracks.
Bertolt stops when he’s a few feet away from Reiner, chest to chest with him,
and Reiner turns towards him. The two alphas face each other, and the entire
barracks seems to hold its breath.
Reiner’s mouth is tight over his teeth, fighting against baring them, and
Bertolt remembers Reiner’s first heat. He remembers Reiner’s pain and
confusion, the way he’d fought so hard against hormones and instinctual urges
that he couldn’t control, and had eventually fled into the woods around the
encampment. Bertolt had followed him, tracking his progress through the
woods—it hadn’t been hard, Reiner had moved through like an enraged bull,
marking his path clearly—and found Reiner in a clearing, leaning against a
tree. He’d been clawing at his forearms, gashing them open with his nails, and
they’d been steaming merrily away, healing, the rising fog hiding Reiner’s
face.
“Go away,” Reiner had told him, and Bertolt hadn’t listened, stepping into the
clearing. He’d figured out what was happening by then, and thought he could
help. He hadn’t realized that he smelled like another alpha, not until Reiner
had charged forward and caught him by the throat, pinning him up against a
tree. Bertolt had dangled, his toes brushing against the ground, and felt his
breath and his world squeeze down to a pinprick. For a moment, he’d considered
just… stopping. Just letting Reiner do what he had to do—fights and even death
between alphas weren’t uncommon, although they were frowned upon—and he’d
closed his eyes.
A moment later, Reiner had dropped him, and Bertolt’s throat had burned as
Reiner clung to him and sobbed, taken over for the first time by something he
couldn’t control. They’d knotted for the first time in that clearing, with
Bertolt’s throat aching and Reiner’s arms clawed open again by Bertolt’s
fingers, and then steamed together as they clung to each other’s bodies and
healed. When Bertolt hit his own heat a few weeks later—brought on, perhaps, by
Reiner’s pheromones and their repeated knottings until his heat had
passed—Reiner had submitted to him, in the same clearing, and Bertolt had
gnawed on the back of his neck until he broke the skin under his teeth and his
mouth filled with steam.
Others had come into their own after that, but mostly on the female side of the
barracks, which meant they could be avoided. Eren is the first and, until now,
only omega in the boy’s barracks, and he’d been claimed so vehemently and
obviously by Mikasa that there hadn’t been a chance to get too riled up by his
pheromones, although Reiner had dragged Bertolt behind the canteen and kissed
his neck raw. Bertolt hadn’t minded; he’d given as good as he’d gotten, and
Reiner had had to heal clawed scratches all down his broad back. But Jean is
the first omega to emerge without a clear mate, without an alpha of his
own—someday, it will be Marco, but not yet, not until Marco is physically able
to claim him—and none of them are getting any rest until this is dealt with.
The question remains, though… by whom?
Reiner watches Bertolt through heavily-lidded eyes, his pose and the way he
holds his arms out at his sides belying any false sense of calm he tries to
project. Bertolt knows Reiner better than anyone, knows him better than he
knows himself, and he can practically see the tension radiating off him in
waves, billowing towards him the same way pheromones leak off Jean. It’s a
heady cocktail, one that speaks of violence and subjugation, and Bertolt
realizes that he’s smiling.
“Reiner,” he says, his voice pleasant, pitched low. It rings through the silent
barracks.
“Bertolt.” Reiner is equally cordial, although his hands clench into fists at
his sides, the veins standing out in his forearms.
Jean watches them both, his eyes darting back and forth, glittering, and he
starts to pant, open-mouthed. He knows this is all about him, and Bertolt isn’t
surprised that part of him is reveling in it. Jean has always wanted to be
needed, always wanted to belong, no matter how hard he tries to deny that basic
truth about himself, and he’s simply fortunate that most everyone else is too
caught up in their own lives to see it. Bertolt sees it, though. Bertolt knows.
Reiner swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and Bertolt remembers
it between his teeth, remembers sucking a dark bruise over Reiner’s pulse
point. If this were anyone but Reiner, he would have attacked by now, would
have given in to the urges flooding his bloodstream, the undeniable, atavistic
drive controlling him. But he loves Reiner, loves him more than anyone else in
this whole sorry world, and he won’t attack him.
But neither will he stand down.
The moment stretches, elongates, filled only with the sound of Jean panting,
and it feels like they might end up standing here forever, until everything
around them crumbles away to dust.
It takes Eren to snap them all out of it.
“Have fun with this, Ponyboy!” he says, his voice loud and gleeful, cracking
and resounding through the barracks. He knows that he’s not the one who has
caught the attention of the alphas, and his constant, simmering tension and
competition with Jean has lost the battle against common sense.
Reiner twitches, his hands opening and closing again in fists, but it’s Bertolt
who turns around to face the shorter man. He looms over Eren, towers over him,
and, realizing his error too late, Eren shrinks away. Bertolt realizes how his
smile has grown, how his lips are stretched back over his teeth, showing all of
them in a death’s head rictus.
“Eren,” he says, and his voice is a growling rasp. “Run.”
Eren doesn’t need to be told twice; he turns and flees, Armin trailing after
him, bursting through the barrack’s door and out into the night. Perhaps he’ll
meet up with Marco and they’ll spend the night in the same place, though for
very different reasons.
Someone touches Bertolt’s elbow, and he doesn’t need to turn his head to know
it’s Reiner. He recognizes the way Reiner fills his personal space, the heat
and bulk of Reiner’s body a comforting presence, and he relaxes a fraction.
Reiner leans up, his mouth next to Bertolt’s ear, and whispers, “Close your
mouth, warrior. You’re showing your teeth.”
Bertolt pulls his lips down over his teeth, grimacing as his face resumes a
more natural position; Eren has seen his warrior, and if Bertolt is showing his
teeth, it might stir an association in the back of Eren’s mind. He can’t, and
he won’t, be responsible for revealing them, not over something as foolish as
an omega in heat.
Reiner’s hand lingers, and his lips near Bertolt’s ear shape themselves into a
kiss, into a caress. Bertolt closes his eyes, and imagines, just for a moment,
that it’s Reiner, his Reiner, releasing those omega pheromones and begging him
for release. He leans into the other man’s bulk, relaxing against a scent that,
now and always, reminds him of home, and feel Reiner link his arms around his
waist.
“Share?” Reiner asks, and the word conjures up a thousand images in Bertolt’s
mind, a thousand connotations: Reiner as a child, offering him part of his
meal; Reiner with scars etched across his cheeks, burn marks from his warrior,
encouraging Bertolt as he heals from falling off his warrior’s shoulder; Reiner
letting Bertolt curl against him during the night, so he doesn’t see the images
of Armored Titan effigies, beaten to stuffing and set aflame, behind his
eyelids. They’ve always shared everything, they’ve always felt like one heart
beating in two bodies. This shouldn’t be any different.
“Share,” he agrees, and Bertolt feels Reiner’s lips curl into a smile against
his ear.
Reiner lets him go, and they turn together, towards Jean’s bed. Jean eyes them
both, looking worried for the first time, and he brings his knees, formally
sprawled out shamelessly, together. There’s no mistaking the lust in his eyes,
though, especially not when Reiner drops down beside the bed and reaches for
him, pulling him out from under the bunk. Jean makes a startled noise of
protest, but comes along willingly enough, his legs tangled with blankets and
his hair mussed, despite the smoothing efforts of Marco’s fingers. He stumbles
a little as he stands, but it doesn’t matter: Reiner ducks underneath him and
rises effortlessly, Jean slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“What the fuck!” Jean beats on Reiner’s back with closed fists, squirming
frantically. “Put me down!”
Reiner just laughs, and Bertolt knows why; he can smell Jean too, can smell how
Reiner’s proximity is exciting him, and they all know that if Jean were in
actual distress Reiner would put him down. Instead, Reiner carries Jean to the
bunk he shares with Bertolt, and Bertolt follows them, reaching out to grab
Jean’s wrists and keep him from swinging too wildly and overbalancing. Jean
glances up at him, his eyes wild and feral under his shaggy hair, and Bertolt
ducks in. It’s not a kiss so much as it’s two pairs of lips crashing together,
and he feels Jean shift forward, drawing towards him, torn between two alphas
and wanting them both. Jean’s mouth is hot and wet under his own, his lips
curling and making little snarling sounds, and Bertolt nips at his lower lip to
silence him, catching it between his teeth and tugging it forward.
It’s over too soon, over when Reiner tosses Jean up on the bunk and then looks
back at Bertolt, grinning wildly. Bertolt brings a hand to his mouth, touching
lips swollen and chafed from Jean’s, and curls his upper lip at Reiner. Their
love for each other notwithstanding, Reiner is still another alpha, and
instincts prevail sometimes over cooler heads. Reiner’s cheeky grin catches
Bertolt’s attention, ensnares it, and for a moment he’s wildly jealous. How
dare Reiner assume that all the omegas will want him, how dare he think he can
lay claim to someone who could just as easily be Bertolt’s?
Bertolt surges forward, knocking his chest against Reiner’s and pushing him
back. Reiner’s knees buckles and he falls onto the lower bunk, Bertolt on top
of him, snarling and furious, snapping his teeth in his face. Reiner’s hands
fly up to grapple with him, clamping down on Bertolt’s wrists hard enough to
grind the bones together, and neither of them is quite powerful enough to take
down the other. They snap at each other’s face, their growls echoing and
reverberating in the enclosed space of the bunk, and Bertolt wedges a leg
between Reiner’s thighs and presses it hard up against Reiner’s groin, rubbing
against the swelling there, and the friction of his own cock scraping along
Reiner’s belly is enough to make him see stars.
Reiner’s teeth click closed near Bertolt’s face, and just as soon as their
fight started it’s over, with Bertolt bearing down on top of Reiner and forcing
his tongue into Reiner’s mouth. Reiner groans around it before sucking on it
eagerly, letting go of Bertolt’s wrists to clutch at his face, holding it in
position while he ravages Bertolt’s mouth. With a grunt, Reiner flips them
over, positioning himself above Bertolt, and Bertolt is too caught up in the
moment to mind that another alpha is on top of him. He pushes his hands under
Reiner’s shirt and drags his blunt nails down Reiner’s broad back, knowing that
he’s leaving behind red lines and scoring up his skin, and knowing that Reiner
will leave those scratches to heal naturally, wearing them like a badge of
honor.
“Hey!” Jean is leaning over the edge of the top bunk, looking flustered and
aroused and entirely put out. “You going to bang each other down there or
what?” There’s a high-pitched, nervous keen to his voice, like he’s unsure
whether he wants to watch them maul each other or come up there and maul him.
Reiner lifts his head to look back at Jean, and Bertolt takes advantage of the
moment, leaning up to nip at Reiner’s neck and suck a quick, dark bruise there.
For all his bulk and heft, Reiner has always bruised surprisingly easily, and
Bertolt likes seeing evidence that he’s been there, that he’d been the one to
break through Reiner’s armor and get to his soft insides. Reiner turns and
looks back down at him, smiling, and the spot on his neck steams quickly and
heals.
“His highness awaits,” he says, and climbs off Bertolt, offering a hand to pull
him up and onto his feet. Bertolt smiles up at him, the shy, sweet little smile
that only Reiner ever gets the privilege of seeing, and takes his hand, letting
Reiner pull him to his feet. They look each other in the eye for a moment, and
something passes between them, some understanding that’s beyond words, beyond
language, something deep and primordial and ancient. Then Reiner grins again
and turns to the bunk, laying his hands flat on the top bunk and hoisting
himself up, pulling his legs over and onto it with the strength in his arms
only.
Connie practically explodes off the far end of the bunk, scrambling down and
beating a fast retreat while barely touching the floor, and Bertolt shakes his
head in bemusement. He takes his time, aware of all the eyes on him and for
once not caring, as he climbs up the ladder and into the bunk, kicking off his
boots as he goes.
Reiner is already on top of Jean, pinning him down under his broad chest and
worrying his neck with his teeth. Jean has his hands on Reiner’s shoulders, and
while he’s making a show of trying to push Reiner away, the pheromones coming
off him tell another story, and saliva floods Bertolt’s mouth. He pauses at the
edge of the bed to strip off his shirt—more for Reiner’s benefit than Jean’s,
he knows Reiner likes looking at him when he’s shirtless—and edges closer.
Reiner glances over at him, his lip starting to curl in a snarl, but then his
eyes clear and he shifts, rolling over onto his side, pulling Jean with him.
Jean gasps and squirms, but Reiner has a good grip on him, and he ends on his
side, facing Bertolt.
Bertolt moves closer, pushing his legs out along the bunk, and he’s about to
lie down when he catches a glimpse at Jean’s face and pauses. Jean’s expression
is set in determination, his jaw clenched even as he moves his head to let
Reiner get at his neck, but there’s fear glittering deep in his eyes, pushed
down and denied, ignored in the face of what he’s about to do. Bertolt is
intimately familiar with fear, knowing it as his life’s constant companion, and
for all that Jean is an insufferable, boisterous jackass most of the time,
Bertolt doesn’t want him to be afraid.
“Hey,” he says quietly, laying down across from Jean, and Jean looks up at him,
meeting his eyes for the first time. He must see something he recognizes there,
because Jean’s tough guy face softens a little.
“Hey,” Jean answers, his voice a much softened version of his usual nasal bray.
His eyes comb over Bertolt’s face, and he must like what he sees there, because
he reaches out with one hand, the fingers only trembling a little. Bertolt
takes it, threading Jean’s slender, artist fingers through his own broader,
calloused ones, and scoots a little closer when Jean squeezes his hand in a
grip that’s faintly panicky.
“It’s okay,” Bertolt tells him softly, ignoring the sounds Reiner is making
behind Jean’s head. “It doesn't hurt that much. It even feels good after
awhile.” He figures there’s nothing wrong with embellishing the truth a little;
Reiner’s knot had never felt good to him, and while Reiner had seemed to enjoy
his, Bertolt was pretty sure he was faking for Bertolt’s sake. Maybe it’s
different with omegas, maybe they’re designed internally to take a knot.
Jean’s jaw tightens a little, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not scared,” he says
scathingly, but he doesn’t let go of Bertolt’s hand, and when Reiner bites down
on the side of his neck, Jean jumps and shifts closer to Bertolt.
“I know.” Bertolt knows all about what it’s like to pretend to be brave until
you are.
Jean looks at him searchingly, like he’s not sure he believes what he’s being
told, but then Reiner finds one of the scent glands on Jean’s neck and gets it
between his teeth, squeezing it gently, and Jean’s eyes flutter shut as he
moans. Bertolt watches as Jean tilts his head, stretching out the full length
of his neck, the cords and tendons pulling taut under his pale skin, already
blooming with bruises from Reiner’s mouth, and Bertolt has to swallow a
mouthful of saliva. He leans in and kisses the front of Jean’s throat, working
the spots Reiner can’t reach, and when Jean pulls on his hand, Bertolt moves
closer easily.
Jean is slender and fragile against him, almost frail compared to Reiner’s
bulk. As Bertolt settles himself against Jean’s chest, he realizes how much he
dwarfs the other man, how he and Reiner completely enfold Jean’s form, and he
feels a faint pang of understanding in his chest. Not only does Bertolt
understand fear, but he understands feeling like you’re being subsumed, like
you can’t possibly stay yourself when you’re surrounded by another, and his
mouth is gentle across Jean’s throat. He feels Jean groan before he hears it, a
little rumbling vibration underneath his lips, and then Jean is stroking one
hand through Bertolt’s hair, and that’s okay. That’s just fine.
Bertolt works his way up, trailing along Jean’s windpipe and then over the
curve of his jawline, but he avoids kissing him. That’s for mates, and Jean
doesn’t press the issue, perhaps relieved that Bertolt isn’t insisting on it.
He nuzzles shyly at Bertolt’s ear when it gets close enough, and Bertolt snorts
softly against Jean’s jawline, his skin prickling ticklishly. Jean slowly
relaxes against Bertolt’s chest, his icy demeanor melting against the heat of
Bertolt’s skin, and Bertolt wraps an arm around Jean’s waist as he presses
closer, the line of Jean’s torso flush against his own.
Bertolt realizes they’re being watched, and looks up to meet Reiner’s eyes.
Reiner’s mouthing slowly at the back of Jean’s neck, but his attention is on
Bertolt, and his golden eyes are glowing. Bertolt feels his mouth quirk into a
tiny, knowing little smile, and Reiner grins, showing all his teeth, before
ducking his head back down and biting Jean on the shoulder. Jean yelps, and the
scent of pheromones floods Bertolt’s nose. He growls at Reiner, unable to help
himself, and pulls Jean closer, the gesture almost protective. Reiner lifts his
head, his eyes narrowed, and Bertolt can feel Reiner’s growl, reverberating all
the way through Jean.
“Fuck…” Surprisingly, it’s Jean who speaks up, and both Bertolt and Reiner
pause, their snarls dying on their lips. They both look down at him, and Jean’s
eyes are dazed, the pupils dilated wide, only a thin rim of whiskey gold around
his enormous black pupils. “Stop fighting with each other and just fuck me
already!” He wiggles between them for emphasis, pushing his ass back against
Reiner’s hips and pawing ineffectively at Bertolt’s chest. “It hurts, make it
stop!”
Bertolt realizes, dimly, that omegas must really be different internally, if
their heats hurt until they’ve been knotted. His own heat had been confusing
and frustrating and turned him into someone he barely recognized, but it had
never been painful. The thought that they’ve been fooling around and leaving
Jean in pain fills him with shame, and he whispers an apology against Jean’s
throat, trying to kiss away at least some of the hurt.
Reiner is, as always, much more practical, and sits up with a grunt. In one
smooth movement, he takes his shirt off, and Bertolt can’t help sneaking a
glance at his broad chest and the lines through his shoulders. He remembers the
taste of Reiner under his teeth, the way his skin bruises like a piece of fruit
too long on the tree, and Bertolt has to forcibly drag his attention back to
Jean as Reiner starts to fumble with his belt.
Bertolt pushes himself up and then helps Jean sit up, running his hands down
Jean’s sides before taking hold of his shirt and helping him lift it over his
head. He can feel Jean tremble under his touch, but he lifts his arms
willingly, looking at Bertolt with defiance in his eyes once his shirt is gone.
Jean is all lean lines and flat planes, the strength Bertolt knows is there
hidden by his slight frame. He’s nothing like Reiner, and nothing like Bertolt
either, but there’s something attractive about him all the same, something
delicate and sensuous that neither of them have. Bertolt runs a hand down his
narrow chest, over the maneuver gear scars on his skin, and down to the trail
of downy golden hair that starts at Jean’s navel and disappears into the
waistband of his pants.
He wonders if Annie’s hair down below is the same color.
Jean watches Bertolt’s hand move and shivers, reaching out with hands that only
tremble a little and trying to undo Bertolt’s belt. He manages to get the
buckle undone and the tab starting through it before Reiner snakes his arms
around Jean’s waist and starts pawing at Jean’s belt, and Jean leans back
against him, his eyes fluttering closed. Bertolt catches a glimpse of Reiner’s
side, naked and exposed, before taking off his pants on his own and setting
them aside.
Reiner has never had a great deal of finesse in anything he does, and he
doesn’t bother to unbutton the fly of Jean’s pants, choosing instead to shove
them over his hips as soon as he gets the belt loosened. Jean hisses as the
fabric drags over his erection before freeing it, and Bertolt can’t help
getting an eyeful. He’s seen Jean naked before, in the showers and around the
barracks, but never like this, panting and flushed and wanting, and he growls
deep in his throat before advancing on him.
Jean’s eyes are blurry with lust when he opens them, but they widen in shock
when he looks between Bertolt’s legs, and then Jean is scrambling backwards,
pushing himself against Reiner’s chest and shaking his head. “No no no, I’m not
taking that, gods-fucking-damn, NO!”
Reiner looks up, meets Bertolt’s eyes for a split second, and promptly
dissolves into laughter. Giggling helplessly, he wraps both arms around Jean’s
waist, as if to keep him from escaping or from hurting himself. “It feels
amazing when it’s inside you,” he murmurs into Jean’s ear between giggles. “I
know it looks scary, but trust me, you want to ride that.”
Jean stops squirming, but he shakes his head as he looks at Bertolt’s cock, and
Bertolt can’t blame him. He can feel a flush rising on his cheeks, and he hangs
his head, momentarily embarrassed. All he can smell right now are Jean’s fear
pheromones, and while that gets some alphas riled up, it leaves him completely
cold, his erection starting to wilt. “Reiner can go first.”
“See?” Reiner mouths at the side of Jean’s neck, gentle now, no longer biting.
“I’m not as big as he is. It’ll be okay.” He nips lightly, as though the
admission of size pains him and he has to assert some dominance. “We won’t hurt
you.” Reiner glances up then, and the pain and knowledge in his eyes is almost
too much for Bertolt to bear. No, they won’t hurt Jean now, but they’ll hurt
him in the future, someday soon, and it will be much worse than anything they
could do with their cocks and their knots.
Bertolt swallows, and when he speaks up, his voice is unexpectedly rough. “Come
here.” He reaches out for Jean, and Reiner, understanding, lightly pushes him
forward. Jean comes into Bertolt’s arms willingly enough, but he moves warily
around Bertolt’s cock, as though he’s afraid of being impaled by it
unexpectedly, and Bertolt feels a spike of anger in his gut. Does Jean really
think he’s that kind of alpha, the kind that takes and takes and doesn’t care
about his partner? Is he really afraid Bertolt is going to hurt him?
“Hey.” Reiner’s hand is soft on Bertolt’s face, gentle and knowing, and Bertolt
blinks before looking up at Reiner. There’s knowledge and understanding in his
eyes that goes beyond words, beyond pheromones, and Reiner is kind as he pushes
on Bertolt’s shoulder.
Bertolt lays back, taking Jean with him. Jean yelps in surprise and starts
squirming again once he’s sprawled across Bertolt’s chest, as though he’s
afraid Bertolt hadn’t listened and is going to spear him in the ass. “Shhhhhh…”
Bertolt rubs a hand soothingly on Jean’s lower back, and stretches up to nip at
his neck. Jean shudders at the bite, and stops moving. “It’ll hurt less from
this position.”
Jean pushes his hands on Bertolt’s chest and props himself up, looking down
suspiciously. “How would you know?”
“He’s done it.” Reiner’s voice is a low rumble behind them, and Bertolt looks
over Jean’s shoulder, noticing that Reiner has a tiny pot of the grease they
use to lubricate their maneuver gear, and he’s focusing on scooping out the
dark-colored grease and rubbing it over the length of his cock. Bertolt can
smell the grease, cloying and metallic, and he remembers the slide of Reiner
inside him, pushing against his inner walls and stretching him wide, and the
unrelenting pressure of his knots when he’d shuddered and spilled himself
inside. It’s enough to make Bertolt’s cock jump and twitch against Jean’s
abdomen, his own knots pressing against Jean’s flat belly, and Bertolt shifts
his hands to Jean’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart and exposing him to Reiner.
Jean starts to protest, opening his mouth to complain, but Bertolt growls at
him and his mouth snaps shut. He looks down, his brows knit together over his
eyes, worried and concerned but also wanting, panting faintly through his mouth
again, and Bertolt stretches up to bite him under the chin. Jean melts down
against him, wrapping both arms around Bertolt’s neck, and even pushes his ass
back against his hands, towards Reiner. Reiner growls low in his throat and
moves over them both, hovering over Jean’s bony shoulder, and lines himself up,
the back of his knuckles brushing against Bertolt’s fingers.
He bites down on the side of Jean’s neck, over a pulse point where the blood
runs hot and close to the surface, but it’s Bertolt he’s looking at as Reiner
pushes forward, sinking into Jean.
Jean jolts against Bertolt’s chest and cries out, the sound surprisingly soft
and breathy, as Reiner pushes into him, and buries his face in the side of
Bertolt’s neck, his arms tightening to almost a stranglehold. Bertolt lets go
of one of his cheeks and strokes his hand through Jean’s hair, combing out the
tangled strands with his fingers, murmuring quiet, wordless sympathies in his
ear. Reiner looks slightly ashamed of himself, and slows down, pushing forward
a scant fraction of an inch at a time, waiting until Jean’s shaking resides
before pushing deeper.
“Fuck…” Jean mutters against Bertolt’s throat. “Fuck fuck fuck…”
“Relax,” Bertolt tells him, rubbing a hand over Jean’s shoulders. “Relax, your
body knows what to do, let it do it, just breathe and relax…”
Jean nods, drawing in a great, shuddering breath, and if Bertolt felt wetness
on the side of his neck that hadn’t been there before, he’ll never mention it
to anyone.
Reiner breathes deep above them, and Bertolt feels them both shift forward as
Reiner adjusts himself. He takes his teeth off Jean’s neck, and soothes the
growing bruise there with his lips, licking him like a dog, and Bertolt has a
moment of envy, just imagining how Jean must taste. They wait, in mutual
anticipation and unease, until Jean lifts his head up, and while his eyes are
glassy, his cheeks are dry.
“Okay.” He’s trying to sound brave, Bertolt can tell, and Jean almost pulls it
off; he has enough practice in being boisterous and aggressive that it comes
naturally to him. Bertolt knows what to listen for, though, and he can hear the
faint unease lurking behind Jean’s bold words. “Okay, I’m ready. Fuck me hard.”
“Jean…” Bertolt moves to touch Jean’s face, to tell him it’s okay, that they
can go as slow as they want, but Reiner—beautiful, golden Reiner who has never
been afraid of anything, not a day in his life—doesn’t recognize the
uncertainty that Jean is trying so hard to hide, and takes what he says at face
value. With a grunt, Reiner thrusts forward all at once.
Jean throws his head back and keens, loud enough to wake everyone in the
barracks who had started to fade into sleep, and Bertolt winces. They’re all
going to answer for this tomorrow morning, and distantly, he hears some
grumbling from the other bunks, phrases and snatches of conversation drifting
up to him.
“… stink is making me horny…”
“… bad enough we have to smell it, now we have to listen too?”
“… figures Kirschtein wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut…”
Bertolt can feel his cheeks burn, and even though he knows no one is watching,
he wants to cringe away from what feels like countless eyes on them. That’s all
he’s ever wanted, to be able to fall away into the shadows and keep everyone
from looking at him, and Reiner and Jean are completely oblivious, making
enough noise and throwing off enough pheromones to give a dead man an erection.
In desperation, Bertolt reaches up and grabs Jean’s head, pulling him down for
a messy, open-mouthed kiss, trying to muffle his yowling against his lips.
Jean’s mouth is wet and panting, and he falls into Bertolt’s kiss readily,
parting his lips and trying to pull Bertolt’s tongue into his mouth. Bertolt
goes with it, feeling the faintest twinge of amusement that even when he’s
being sandwiched between two alphas, Jean is still trying to assert himself,
and Jean sucks hungrily on his tongue, worrying it with his teeth. It’s not a
good kiss, but it’s faintly reminiscent of how Reiner kisses, and Bertolt lets
Jean gnaw on him, hardly feeling ashamed at all when the rough treatment makes
his cock perk back to life.
Reiner rumbles above them, and Jean is suddenly gone, leaving Bertolt mouthing
at the air. He opens his eyes, and Reiner has one hand under Jean’s jaw,
tilting his head back, and his teeth at Jean’s throat.
“Watch it, little man,” he growls, and Bertolt cringes at the menace in
Reiner’s voice, sounding to his ears like a titan’s roar. “That’s my mate
you’re kissing.”
His mate… the idea reverberates in Bertolt’s head, ringing in his ears and
making the whole world seem a little bit brighter. It’s the first time Reiner
has said anything like that, the first time they’ve danced around the issue,
and it’s somehow completely appropriate that Reiner would just announce it and
expect Bertolt to follow along.
“Reiner…” He reaches up, past Jean’s terrified face and rolling eyes, and
cradles Reiner’s face in his hands, gently but firmly turning him away from
Jean’s neck. Reiner lets go only reluctantly, and his golden eyes are burning
when he looks down at Bertolt. “Of course I’m your mate, I was just quieting
him down, everyone else is sleeping.” Bertolt glances at Jean, and he doesn’t
look quite as afraid now, listening to everything they’re saying. He can
probably smell what just hit Bertolt: the nearly overpowering bombardment of
mate pheromones, pouring off Reiner and leaving Bertolt nearly breathless.
“It’s okay,” Bertolt tells Reiner, and his eyes sting unexpectedly, like
they’re about to betray him. Time is short, time is so very fucking short, and
with Reiner as his mate, he wants all the time in the world. “It’s okay, you’re
my mate, you’re the only mate I want.”
As Reiner lunges downward, catching his mouth in an aggressive, needy kiss and
flattening Jean between them, Bertolt recalls a line of poetry his mother used
to read him, back in the village when he thought the world was still a good
place.
Had we but world enough, and time…
Jean squirms between them, making indignant sounds, and when Reiner picks
himself back up, Bertolt sees that Jean has gotten over his fright. If
anything, he looks a bit like a wet cat, irritated and put out, and as soon as
he has enough room, Jean pushes his hips back against Reiner, looking pointedly
over his shoulder at him. “Come on…”
Reiner laughs, the sound low and rumbling, and needs no further encouragement;
he starts thrusting rapidly, setting up a bruising, no-nonsense rhythm that
Bertolt remembers well, and he has to push the flats of his hands down on
Jean’s hips to keep him from getting knocked up into his face. Jean grunts each
time Reiner slams into him, wincing at first and then starting to ride the
thrusts, bracing his hands on Bertolt’s shoulders and pushing back, and Bertolt
watches Reiner’s face as he fucks the hell out of Jean.
It doesn’t take long; after so much build up, Reiner must be aching for
release, and when he slams forward a final time and groans, loud and unashamed,
clearly knotting, Bertolt shudders and nearly comes himself, just from watching
the lines of Reiner’s face contort and relax as he rocks through his release.
Jean makes a strangled sound between them, and collapses forward, landing on
Bertolt’s shoulder. Instinctually, Bertolt lifts his hand and smoothes it over
the back of Jean’s head, combing it through the damp spikes of his hair, and
uses the other to touch Reiner’s cheek. Reiner’s eyes fly open at the touch,
and he turns to kiss Bertolt’s palm, the best he can do while still supporting
his weight with both arms.
Jean whines into Bertolt’s ear, wordless, and shifts his hips back and forth.
“He’s knotted,” he whispers in Bertolt’s ear. “Fuck, it’s huge…”
“Does it hurt?” Bertolt is genuinely curious, and Reiner opens one eye to look
down at them.
Jean moves a little more, then shakes his head. “No. Feels… feels pretty good.”
He moves again, and whatever he did, he hit the right spot; he groans loudly in
Bertolt’s ear, and Bertolt feels Jean’s cock move against his belly, leaking
precome all over him and tangling the hair leading down from his navel.
“Bertolt’s’ll feel better.” Reiner leans down and kisses the back of Jean’s
neck, panting openly through his mouth. “His is even bigger.”
Jean makes a desperate, hungry sound at that, and his entire body shudders as
he lets his breath out. Bertolt can smell him, and he’s releasing wave after
wave of pheromones, more powerful than anything he’s ever smelled before,
pheromones that put images in his head of holding Jean down and knotting him
again and again, fucking him until he’s raw and sore and pleading for a break,
and then knotting him one more time after that, because Bertolt is an alpha and
that’s what alphas do to omegas who question them.
Someone is growling—deep, rippling sounds, domineering and harsh—and Bertolt
hardly even realizes they’re coming from his own throat. He grabs the back of
Jean’s head and pulls him down, snuffling at Jean’s neck until he finds a scent
gland and then biting down on it, and while Jean yelps and scrabbles at his
chest with both hands, he thinks he can taste the pheromones just as well as he
can smell them. Reiner groans above them, his hands braced on Jean’s narrow
hips, and from over Jean’s shoulder, Bertolt can see him duck low and lick a
long, smooth stripe up Jean’s spine.
It’s Jean that lets him know when Reiner’s knot has gone down, Jean who tries
to sit up and position himself over Bertolt’s crotch, pushing against Reiner to
get him out of the way. Reiner moves back with a quiet grumble, but stays close
to Jean’s back, his arms still wrapped around him possessively. Bertolt grips
Jean’s thigh with one hand, his long, tan fingers spreading over Jean’s pale
flesh like a ravenous spider, and uses the other to grip the base of his cock,
positioning it up, bumping the head of it against the back of Jean’s leg. The
feeling of a thick, heavy cock touching his legs drives Jean into near
hysterics, his eyes wide and starry as he fights against Reiner’s firm grasp
and gets himself lined up.
He goes down all at once, taking Bertolt’s entire cock in one smooth thrust,
and Bertolt yelps out loud as he’s sheathed in Jean’s tight heat, his hand
squeezing down on Jean’s thigh. Jean slams down onto Bertolt’s lap with a thick
squelching sound, his head thrown back and his throat exposed, and Reiner darts
in immediately, biting down on Jean’s scent gland and releasing a flood of
pheromones and endorphins. Before Bertolt can gather himself enough to do
anything, Jean starts riding him, rolling his hips back and forth and riding
Bertolt’s cock, sliding back and forth on it easily, and Bertolt realizes that
Jean’s been lubricated with Reiner’s come, that it’s spunk that’s making this
ride so easy.
With a sudden growl, he surges forward, sitting up and pushing Reiner away.
Surprised, Reiner falls back, and Bertolt’s teeth find the spot on Jean’s neck
where Reiner had just been biting. He worries the small, hard lump with his
teeth, tasting pheromones under his tongue, and Jean clings to his shoulders
with both hands and keeps frantically pumping his hips, trying clumsily to
stimulate Bertolt into knotting him.
Reiner moves around behind them, and for a moment, Bertolt forgets about him.
He gets his long legs underneath him, sitting on his knees and holding Jean’s
ass with both hands, and his fingers get sticky as each desperate thrust forces
more come out of Jean and sends it dripping down his hands. Then Reiner reaches
around Bertolt and links his arms around his waist, biting at the back of
Bertolt’s neck, the nape, the titan’s only weak spot, and Bertolt comes so
explosively that his vision blacks out for a moment.
When the world swims back into focus, Jean is collapsed over Bertolt’s
shoulders, panting and shuddering, and Bertolt can feel his knots hardening,
pushing against the confines of Jean’s body, stretching him out, widening him,
and he knows it will be easier for Reiner to push in for a second round. Reiner
is growling against Bertolt’s spine, his arms iron bands around Bertolt’s
middle, and Bertolt can feel Reiner’s erection poking against his bare butt
cheek. It feels like his knots are just going to keep going, going to grow
until they’re actively painful like they did before, but then Jean’s body
clamps down on them, squeezes them back into a reasonable size, and Bertolt
gasps as he feels another little drool of come shoot out of him.
Reiner laughs quietly in his ear. “He just squeezed you, didn’t he?”
Bertolt nods, unable to find his voice, and turns his head towards Reiner. They
kiss, aggressive and full of teeth—Reiner bites his tongue so hard it breaks
the skin and bleeds, and when it heals, Bertolt blows the steam into Reiner’s
mouth—and Bertolt eventually feels Jean lift his head and bite tentatively at
his collarbone. Some alphas would try and snap an omega’s neck for that kind of
audacity, but Bertolt doesn’t care; it wouldn’t be Jean if he wasn’t trying to
assert himself, and he lifts one hand from Jean’s ass to stroke it down his
back, over his sweat-damp skin, and Jean bites him a little harder.
Bertolt’s knots start to go down, and he eases both himself and Jean down onto
the bunk, laying on their sides and facing each other. Reiner moves to Jean’s
back, eagerly waiting for his turn, and Bertolt feels him poking at Jean’s ass
with the head of his cock, getting himself lined up and ready to go. For a
moment, the idea of both of them in Jean dances through Bertolt’s head, their
cocks squeezed with exquisite tightness, their knots pressed flushed against
each other, and he almost knots again himself.
The moment Bertolt slides free, Reiner thrusts back in, making Jean yelp and
pant, and Bertolt lays back on his side to watch their coupling.
Evening bleeds into night; Bertolt notices the stars coming out, through the
cracks in the barrack’s ceiling, and he hears everyone around them drift off to
sleep, snores starting to drift up to them. They start to slow down, taking
longer between each knotting, spending more time paying attention to each
other, to Jean. Jean’s neck and shoulders look like a war zone, bitten black
and blue, and his narrow eyes are shadowed and exhausted, but he keeps reaching
out for them, keeps letting off slow, intoxicating waves of pheromones, and so
they keep knotting. Bertolt has lost track, but his cock feels sore and chafed,
and his erections come slower and slower, his knots smaller each time. The
insides of Jean’s thighs are a mess, sticky and dripping with white fluid, and
Bertolt can hardly imagine what his ass must feel like, but Jean has yet to
turn either of them down. First heats for omegas must be pure misery, if it’s
taken this long to wear away all his cramps.
Bertolt watches Reiner push into Jean, slow and dreamy, nothing like the hard
pounding from before, and he swears that Jean is half asleep, his arm tucked
under his head and his eyes closed, his face relaxed and slack. He thinks he
could go again—he’s flying at half mast, as they say, and his knots are almost
nonexistent at the base of his dick—but he could also roll over and go to
sleep. He reaches out instead and touches Jean’s face, and Jean frowns and bats
at his hand, muttering something indecipherable and sleepy.
Bertolt smiles faintly, amused, and instead trails his hand down Jean’s chest.
Jean is tacky and grimy, coated with sweat and come from the three of
them—about every third coupling or so, Jean would blow his load across his
belly, and Bertolt had only licked it off the first two or so times—and Bertolt
sits up a little, finding a discarded shirt to wipe some of the mess off him
before they sleep. Shirt in hand, he wipes it down Jean’s chest, narrow but
still hard with muscle, over the sparse hair on his chest and down to the
coarser, heavier hair running down from his navel, gently mopping up all the
mingled come and sweat.
He pauses when he gets to Jean’s abdomen, frowning a little. Something is
different here, something that hadn’t been this way before, and Bertolt leans
closer. Jean smells like sex, exhaustion, Reiner, and pheromones. It’s a heady
perfume, and Bertolt feels his cock give a twitch of interest, but that’s not
what has changed. He traces his hand over Jean’s belly, and the soft curve of
it hits him like a lightning bolt to his groin: Jean hadn’t been this shape
before. None of them are, no one in the barracks carries any extra weight on
their frames, and Jean’s abdomen, formerly flat and almost concave, is bowing
out gently now, transformed into a sloping, pregnant curve.
Once, omegas had been able to carry and bear young, regardless of sex, but that
had been lost generations ago. Bertolt wishes someone had told his dick that,
because the feel of Jean’s slightly rounded belly awakens things in him that he
didn’t know were there, slumbering just under his consciousness. A wave of
protectiveness rages through him, fierce and torrential, unstoppable, and he
snarls at Reiner, his lips curling back from his teeth.
The atmosphere in the barracks changes in an instant; all the sounds of
sleeping boys switch off, replaced by near silent, taunt wakefulness all around
them. Jean’s eyes fly open, and he looks confused, glancing down at Bertolt’s
hand on his belly and then up at Bertolt’s face, his lips forming around a
question. Before he has time to vocalize it, Bertolt has surged forward,
wrapping both arms around Jean and yanking him away from Reiner and across the
bunk. He pushes Jean up against the wall and turns, crouching low in front of
him, glaring at Reiner and growling under his breath.
Reiner sits up, tension wrought through his shoulders, his face closed off. He
hadn’t knotted Jean, thanks the gods, although his cock is still erect and
dripping between his legs, and he gathers his legs underneath him, hulking and
staring at Bertolt.
“Bertl, what the hell?” He keeps his voice pitched low, as though everyone else
in the barracks weren’t awake and listening.
Bertolt snarls at him, showing all his teeth. Protection, he needs to protect
Jean, he needs to protect their young… except there are no young, there never
will be, and Bertolt’s snarls die as though someone had cut his throat. He
blinks, and glances back over his shoulder at Jean. Jean stares back at him,
completely flummoxed and not understanding, and Bertolt’s eyes drop to his
distended abdomen. Jean looks down at himself, realizing, and pokes gingerly at
his belly, wincing faintly as his fingers press down into roundness that hadn't
been there before.
“Oh, shit…” Jean’s eyes widen with understanding, his lip curling in disgust,
and he meets Bertolt’s eyes. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not pregnant, it’s just that
you fuckers came too much, you godsdamn filled me, and…”
Reiner’s arm snakes over Bertolt’s shoulder, clapping his hand down on Jean’s
mouth. Bertolt feels himself flush; Jean is constitutionally unable to speak in
anything that’s less than a bragging shout, and the whole barracks now knows
what’s going on. “Shhhhh,” Reiner whispers, resting his chin on Bertolt’s
shoulder as though Bertolt had never growled at him and thrown him aside.
“Jean…” His voice is raspy, thick with lust, and Bertolt feels Reiner’s cock
poke him in the small of the back. “Jean, do you have any idea how hot that
is?”
Jean looks down at himself again, disbelieving, and cups his hands around his
belly. Bertolt realizes he’s drooling, and swallows noisily. “I’m fat,” Jean
tells them, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Bertolt wonders
if there’s something in his past that he’s not telling them, something deep and
hidden that he keeps to himself, something that he might only share with Marco.
“You’re hot,” Reiner tells him, in the tone he uses when he’s in no mood to
argue, and Jean relents, although he clearly doesn’t believe them. Satisfied
that Jean is done arguing, Reiner nips at Bertolt’s shoulder, then pushes him
forward. “Go on. I’ll guard you.”
Bertolt looks behind him, surprised, but Reiner has already taken up residence
on the edge of the bunk, sitting crosslegged with his back to the wall, where
he can see Bertolt and Jean and watch the rest of the barracks at the same
time.
“Reiner?” A voice floats up to them, high and soft. Armin. Tiny, inoffensive
Armin, Armin who Reiner could pick up with one arm and carry away, Armin who is
most assuredly a beta and no threat at all. “Is everything okay up there?”
“Everything’s fine.” Reiner’s tone is reassuring, measured. “I wouldn’t come up
here if I were you, though.”
There’s a pause, and Bertolt can imagine the line between Armin’s eyes as he
thinks that over, the same line that appears when he’s pondering his next move
in chess. “Jean?”
“It’s fine.” Jean’s voice sounds half-strangled, and he clears it violently,
even as he’s reaching forward and pulling Bertolt close to him, hormones coming
off him in slow, sleepy waves. “Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
Armin must accept that explanation, because he doesn’t say anything else, and
Bertolt can hear people shifting behind him, grumpy boys getting comfortable to
snatch a few more hours of rest. All his attention is on Jean, though, and he
takes him into his arms, his touch tender and more gentle than before.
Jean rolls his eyes at him. “I’m not going to break, shit.”
“It’s different,” Bertolt admit, slightly shamefaced, but that doesn’t stop him
from running his hands over Jean’s belly, feeling its curve and imagining that
there really are pups under there, that he and Reiner could have made something
so magical together, that he and Reiner will live long enough to ever see a
child with Bertolt’s eyes, or Reiner’s smile.
Jean must see something on Bertolt’s face, something that stops the acidic,
biting comments on his tongue, and when he touches Bertolt, his hands are
roughly gentle, the kind of awkward, aggressive affection Jean usually reserves
for Marco and Marco alone. “Okay, fine, act out your weird pregnancy fantasy or
whatever. Just know that I’m going to shit it all out tomorrow morning.”
Bertolt snorts surprised laughter, and hides the sound in Jean’s shoulder. Oh,
Jean, such a way with words. He hears Reiner chuckling behind them, still
standing guard, and Bertolt arranges Jean so he’s on his hands and knees, so
Reiner can watch them and so Bertolt can watch Reiner. Jean, being Jean,
immediately drops down onto his arms, his ass up in the air, but that’s fine.
Bertolt lines himself up and sinks in with a groan, his hands on Jean’s hips,
and there’s nothing to stop his passage, no resistance or residual tightness.
Jean is slick and stretched wide and lubricated with all the orgasms from
before, and Bertolt is able to slide all the way inside him, pressing in until
his testicles touch Jean’s and come dribbles out of Jean’s ass onto them.
It’s slower than before, dreamier, like everything is happening underwater, and
across the bunk, Bertolt sees Reiner reach down and start stroking himself,
watching the two of them with hungry, half-lidded eyes. Bertolt reaches down
and strokes one hand over the curve of Jean’s stomach, and he watches as Reiner
bites his lip, holding back a moan, and speeds up his hand.
Bertolt touches Jean’s stomach and watches Reiner’s hand, the way it disappears
over the dark red, glistening wet of his cock, and when he knots Jean, Reiner
isn’t far behind, moaning softly and splattering his own hand with white
liquid. Jean groans under Bertolt, but his knots are small this time, hardly
larger than fresh peas, and he pulls out after he’s done, collapsing onto his
side and pulling Jean with him. Jean moves willingly, fucked and knotted into
exhaustion, all limp limbs and grumbling protests, but he lets Bertolt wrap his
arms around him and hold him to his chest, and when Bertolt strokes a hand over
his belly, Jean only bats it away the first time before giving up with a sigh.
Reiner comes to join them, lowering himself at Jean’s front, and his legs are
long enough to wrap around both Jean and Bertolt. He links his fingers with
Bertolt’s, over Jean’s distended abdomen, and the way he sighs sounds wistful
and a little watery to Bertolt’s ears. It’s something they’ll have to talk
about tomorrow, he and Reiner, talking about the things that have been and will
be, and quietly mourning everything they’ll never have. Bertolt sighs too,
squeezing Reiner’s hand, and closes his eyes. He drifts off quickly, far faster
than usual, content for a time in the warm cocoon of Jean and Reiner’s scents
and warmth.
~*~
They awake to the usual noise and bustle of the barracks waking up, boys
stretching and yawning and shouting at each other as they arise, and Bertolt is
surprised to find that he stayed in the same position all night, that he hadn’t
moved across the bunk or sprawled over either of them. He allows himself the
tiny luxury of watching Reiner sleep, watching his eyes move behind his thin,
fragile eyelids, the rest of his face hidden behind Jean’s wild, mussed hair.
“Excuse me?”
Marco. He must be standing just below them, looking up at the bunk, and though
he sounds nervous, there’s also a steely determination to his voice that
Bertolt has to admire. He has no resolve of his own, but he admires it in
others.
“Excuse me, can I have Jean back now, please?”
Reiner’s eyes open at that, and he blinks lazily at Bertolt for a moment before
smiling. He sits up, a blanket Bertolt doesn’t remember anyone putting over
them falling off his chest and pooling at his waist, and looks over the edge of
the bunk. “You’re awfully confident that his heat is over.”
“I can smell it. I’d like him back now.”
From under Bertolt’s arm, Jean groans and flails impotently, trying to get up.
Bertolt lets him go—after one last, lingering touch to his stomach—and Jean
flops towards the edge of the bunk, leaning over the edge next to Reiner. “For
fuck’s sake, Marco, I’m not a damn kid!”
There’s the sound of rustling below them, and Marco doesn’t sound shamed by
Jean’s acerbic words at all. “I brought you a robe. C’mon, everyone else is
going to use all the hot water if you don’t hurry.”
Jean looks at Reiner, then back over his shoulder at Bertolt. There’s something
calculating in his eyes, like he’s thinking a little too hard about something,
before he turns back to Marco. “Yeah, okay, I’m coming.” And just like that,
he’s gone, spilling over the edge of the bunk into the arms waiting for him
below, and Bertolt realizes that Jean had completely trusted that Marco would
catch him.
Reiner watches them go for a moment, then shakes his head and moves back to
Bertolt, laying down heavily beside him. Bertolt reaches for him, and Reiner
pulls him close, tucking Bertolt’s head into his shoulder and running a hand
down between his shoulder blades.
“My mate?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically shy and uncertain, and
Bertolt swallows the lump in his throat before nodding, scrubbing his face up
and down along Reiner’s chest.
“My mate,” he confirms, and he and Reiner lay together in the thin morning
sunlight, holding each other as the rest of the world moves around them,
stealing a single moment of happiness against what is to come.
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