"Eren…" The sigh past her lips is breathy, heated; her body arches ever so slightly into her hand. Her fingers are teasing, coyly tickling herself above her underwear. There's a hitch in her breath, swallowed by the surrounding quiet. She's barely started and already seeing stars, touching the sky.
She should stop—is potentially getting busted worth this?—but she can't (won't).
When her fingers slip underneath, she presses against the small, tiny nub she knows will make her body jolt. The resulting shock slides through her veins, wakes her body up from any lingering tiredness she'd had from the day. There are stars—bright, warm, and welcoming—beneath her lids.
She knows Eren wants her to wait for him—he said he'd follow behind her soon—but soon for him and soon for her is two different definitions. She's likely to hear complaints in her ear later on for not waiting, but she can't bring herself to care; her fingers have slipped inside and she forgets her earlier promise to wait.
Sometimes she prefers it like this, alone and peaking by herself. Eren never intentionally puts pressure on her but she feels it anyway; that constant, habitual need to place his happiness above hers. Often his contentment comes at her expense, inside and outside of the bedroom. His regret is always evident when he's finished before her; she finds it endearing how much he cares about her pleasure, even if it isn't always a successful attempt.
But these moments… in these moments by herself, she's always successful. She always reaches the moon and back.
"Eren…" Her voice is louder, more pronounced, and she's starting to almost regret not waiting for him. She curls the two fingers inside her slightly, angling them perfectly to make her squirm and writhe. Her thumb goes in small, practiced circles around the small bump that causes her breath to spike. She's close—so fucking close—when she feels a hand over hers, stopping her motions.
"You couldn't wait for me?" Eren's breath ghosts against her ear. There's an involuntary shiver that runs down her spine, tickles her back, and reminds her of her broken promise.
"You took too long," she responds, hearing the hitch in her voice at being pulled away after being so damn close. She feels him remove her fingers from her body to be replaced by his. His fingers—longer with a much better, deeper curve than hers—are always a bit like heaven. If only he always had the patience to wait for her.
"Oh, I did? I guess I should make it up to you." His fingers easily replace hers and the quiet, hushed sound that roll off her tongue and past her lips sounds suspiciously like his name.
As he arches his fingers, maneuvering his hands just so, she sees stars—millions and millions of stars, so close she thinks she might be able to reach the moon.