🌑🌘🌗🌕

ad astra per aspera [she/her] [bisexual] [beware! here there be 18+ content] 22

[twentytomidnight]

hi darling i've been fingerblasting my way through ur entire master list and i'd love to submit a request if they're still open!!!!!!! i'm a senior in college and i'm SWAMPED with assignments this week, can you write something with the reader studying the the batcave and how each members of the batfam would offer study support :3 ok love you thanks!!!!

bestie that is so kind of you to say, I hope that you’ve enjoyed!!! I wish you the best with your work and hope you come out the other side intact and with a hopeful break in your future 😔🙏🏽🫡

Supporting You Through the Study Hall Trenches: A Batfam Tale

Bruce:

Is kind of…not great when it comes to giving emotional support, except for an occasional rotation around the cave and coming back to ask how it’s going, which, based off of the world-weary look you give him every time he checks in—is not going great. Think awkward emotional distant father who can’t communicate but wants to be present.

So, he’s here for parallel play more than anything; while you study and try to make sense of your notes, he’s next to you analyzing fingerprints or comparing sound bites or cross-referencing dates and aliases. It’s nice to know that someone’s going through different trenches besides you, in a way.

Dick:

Is actually more helpful than one might expect. He’s sitting beside your stack of books, going through the notes and organizing them in chronological order and decoding the photocopied study guide your professor has Frankenstein-ed out of three others.

He checks in with you every half hour to see how you’re doing and cheers you on even if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking at. The perfect cheerleader if not the perfect scholar.

Barbara:

Actually knows what she’s doing and is happy to help you, efficiently. Has one computer going through JSTOR for all of the resources that will help you finish your work, while on another computer organizing all of your notes into a comprehensive doc that is color coded, organized by chapters, and has summaries at the end of every section for readability.

At one point she offers if you’d like to take the test the honorable way or if you’d like for her to hack your professors’ hard drives to get their notes—it’s a tough moral question but one she’d only offer to you.

Jason:

Is kind of out of his depth here, and also not great at the emotional support aspect of it all. But he knows, based off of the frantic look in your eyes and the mess of papers scattered all over the desk that you could really, really use some support. So he offers his services in the way of a human bean bag, letting you sit on his lap while you suffer (hey, it’s free real estate), or use his shoulder to lean on when the crushing weight of your mistakes to get into higher education really start to loom.

Expect an occasional soothing hand running up and down your back or a casual offer of “how about I just kneecap all your professors? Then you don’t have to take any exams.” It’s another tough call you’re going to have to make.

Tim:

Is suffering besides you studying for the same classes and finishing the exact same assignments. Your handwriting is starting to look like his—no, those are his notes that are somehow sliding over to your side. The two of you have been exchanging the same can of Monster back and forth and there’s another six cans waiting to be consumed.

Every so often the two of you will raise your heads from the desk and see another frightened creature staring back, trembling with caffeine overstimulation and crippling exhaustion. Good luck 🫡

Duke:

Is actually a voice of reason as you study (suffer). He’s sitting next to you asking questions, helping highlight concepts and terms that you haven’t really fleshed out and/or need to go back to. As you finish page after page, he’s the one offering to proofread and go through and fix or reword anything that doesn’t make sense that your sleep-addled mind happened to miss out on.

And, as the sun begins to rise, he’s the only one that has the sense to gently suggest you should go to sleep, and start to walk-carry you back to bed. After all, not everyone has the resiliency of a vigilante when it comes to all-nighters.

Damian:

Is sitting beside you while you suffer. You’re not entirely certain why he’s sitting with you whilst Titus chuffs hot breath onto your knee in between the two of you. But here Damian sits, watching you study, occasionally lifting up a page of your ramshackle chicken scratch notes to his scrutiny. When he puts it down, he asks you a question related to your work—and it always happens to be a very well-thought one that gives you pause as you think up an answer.

Once you respond in kind, he gives a nod, as though you’ve passed some test, then continues to watch, and read, and inquire—and so the cycle continues throughout the night.

Alfred:

Present with dry wit and a cup of oolong tea throughout the night, to help keep you awake. He offers heartening support as he refills your cup and the encouraging smile he gives is enough to keep you pushing another half hour.

Hope this helps you make it through!!! All the best to you in your studying endeavors 😔🙏🏽

(dividers provided by the wonderful @cafekitsune)

[brdie]

rereading this at 4 am because i literally graduate in two days and i'm still balls deep in homework... thank you @twentytomidnight for your services 🫡🫡

[sakunai]

italian-american ! jason as your boyfie. pairing ! jason todd x fem!reader wc ! 1.2k warnings ! smut. nasty cunnilingus, reader!orgasm, shitty italian. 🗒️ me and my thing about italian american men in media, pls restrain me also if any native italian speaker comes across this i am sorry i only know my catholic hymns in italian 😬 art creds : @/stefphe

now playing ! teach me tiger — april stevens 🎧

italian-american! bf jason whose mom was sicilian. he grew up watching her straighten her hair dead and bleach it blonde, all the while she would scold him with a ma che fai or a non dire cavolate whenever he was acting out with the other punks in their neighborhood.

italian-american! bf jason who still utters little sicilian words and phrases every now and then, barely noticing when he stubs his toe and lets out a madonna that sounds like marone, and carries over this habit to the way he pronounces certain words — coffee starts to sound like caw-fee when he’s tired, mozzarella is mootz-a-rell when he’s hovering behind you in the kitchen and dictating the steps to his favorite recipes.

italian-american! bf jason who you never get tired of hearing speak. the way he talks is so old world, something completely new but a perfect amalgamation of the lilted ease that is so upper east side — park row by way of little italy type diction and that cool, ever-charming cadence of bristol county, which makes him sound like a mediterranean bruce wayne half the time.

italian-american! bf jason who calls you amore, ragazza cara, bambolina, and most times bambina, other times only bambi. nothing truly makes him relax more than when he comes home to you, shoulders heavy and tense from a world of noise and violence where he can wrap his arms around your middle and burrow his nose into the crook of your neck with a soft grumble of, “missed you, bambina.”

italian-american! bf jason who tans so easily. nothing is more attractive than watching him run around outside in the summer with the kids who live on your block. he plays soccer — or maybe bocce — on hot asphalt streets flooded from water hydrants while tiny fists cheer him on and he laughs carelessly, the sun kissing the chub of his cheeks and his thick biceps. he comes home to you later, his skin warm all over and browned like a million kisses.

italian-american! bf jason who is a community man above all else. people adore him, he keeps it tight knit. watching him go from little italy to crime alley to the bowery is like watching the city’s prince go on tour. the deli a whole train ride over knows his and yours regular order. he hosts a bi-weekly book club over at the community center near leslie’s clinic. he drops by every now and then by the church his mom used to take him to for mass.

italian-american! bf jason who makes your jaw drop when you see him for the first time in a ribbed white tank with a gold cross necklace nestled at the uppermost curve of his autopsy scar, his hair wet and nearly slicked back with that gel he uses that you like so much, and his eyes all hung low and hungry.

“you look like a greaser,” you say to him. he only grins and pulls you in by the loop of your jeans with a hushed, “c’mere, you.”

italian-american! bf jason who thought the way you stared at him all starry-eyed when he spoke just meant that you were hungry to add a new languge under your belt.

italian-american! bf jason who only now realizes just how much you like it when he speaks italian while his head is buried between your thighs.

he leaned over you, bracing himself on his his forearms planted on either side of your body. “so pretty...” he kissed your cheek, then your hairline, the line of your jaw. “say it to me, and i’ll do it for you, whatever you want.”

you trembled, arms snaking around the bulk of him, your nails scraping down his back as you pulled him down further. “kiss me,” you whispered. his bare cock twitched against your thigh and his lips grazed the corner of your mouth.

“where?”

“everywhere,” you answered.

his hands teased up your sides. “say it to me properly,” a peck to your cheek again. “baciami,” a tickle of warm breath against your collarbone. “da—” a vulgar lap of his tongue behind your ear. “—pertutto.”

“ba—” you gasped, the warmth of the tip of his tongue grazing your folds with a kitten lick had you shivering.

“keep going, doll.” he cooed. “doin’ so good.”

with a shaky breath you soldiered on. “baci—ami... hah—” you squirmed, or tried to but his palms met the back of your thighs, spreading you open and still for him. “dappertu— fuck, fuck, oh my god, jason!”

“uh huh, it’s okay... just make a fuckin’ mess for me, doll.” your thighs shook and moved to squeeze shut but a light slap from him to your searing flesh had you squealing in time with each swirl of his tongue over your pulsing clit. “show me how you look when you want it that bad... yeah, cosí?”

“c-can’t— fuck,” you cried. “wanna cum so bad, jay...”

“aspetta,” he shook his head, dissatisfied. he ground the heel of his palm just to watch you buck your hips forward in an attempt to chase it once he pulled away. “be nice, you can be nice... sweetest girl in the whole world,” jason punctuated the end of his declaration by gliding his tongue from the tip of your bud to your weeping hole, easing his tongue in and out before introducing his middle fingers to your insides.

“mi fai impazzire,” he murmured under his breath, more to himself than to you. his palms pushed the back of your thighs forward to fold you further and keep you open. “you drive me crazy. i could eat you up, doll... just too goddamn pretty.”

“all yours, jay,” you moaned like ecstasy was murder. “keep talking to me...”

“y’like it?” came muffled from his mouth making out with your pussy, all messy with open mouthed kisses and suckles against your heat. when he rose his head, he grinned, the swollen tip of his cock was flushed red and leaking against the sheets. “sei tutta bagnata... you really love it when i speak all foreign?”

your back arched harshly as he worked his fingers deeper into you, the sickening squelch! sound of your cunt making a mess had you keening with shame. “mhm! love it, love you—”

“don’t cum yet,” he warned.

“m’ trying— o-oh!” his thumb circled your clit as he spat a fat glob of saliva to your folds, the spit mixing with your cream and turning frothy. he curled his middle finger in a come hither motion, and cum hither you did. “i’m cumming, i’m cumming, wait—!”

“look at that, fuuuck” jason withdrew his fingers with a wet pop! your orgasm crashing over you and slick gushing from your swollen pussy in a hot rush of wetness. “minchia, che bella.... look at you, baby.” he ground the heel of his palm over your used pussy to smear the mess you made and you whined, twitching against him.

“bellissima.” he stated, grinning wolfishly. then he looked up at you, baby blues darkened with that pleasure filled haze but dimples peeking out playfully. “when’s our next class?”

italian-american! bf jason who drives you crazy.

[brdie]

i'm looking for a fic!!

it's tenrose, and i don't think it's on ao3 or fanfic.net. rose and the doctor keep getting stuck in these sexually compromising situations (the first one they have to pretend to have sex to establish rose's "ownership" of the doctor) and in the last chapter the doctor takes her to this planet with a really fancy restaurant and they watch these weird but beautiful fish birds hatch and take their first flight or do a mating dance and then finally admit their feelings for one another back in the tardis. does this ring a bell for anyone??

[sunee-syrup]

>> sleepy, platonic dry humping with best friend!tsukishima >> part two >> here's part one for you!

tags: grinding (dry and wet), a "use" kink (idek what to call this??? is this considered free use????), a wittle bit of fingering, a wottle bit of fuckin, tsukki who begs :'))), 2.1k of straight up NONSENSE

you dont talk about it.

you dont talk about how, when you both wake a few hours later, tsukki just climbs out of bed and reaches into his designated section of your closet, tugging out a fresh pair of boxers and sweats. how he just silently rushes to your bathroom to shower, his ears burning red and his shoulders tense.

you dont talk about how he barely meets your eyes, how every time you look at him as he's leaving (smelling like you, but you cant think about that, too), all you hear is the sound of him grunting and swearing in your ear as he comes in his pants.

you dont talk about the bulge you can see forming in his sweats, even now, as he's grabbing his keys and wallet and muttering 'see you' before all but running from your apartment.

you dont talk about it.

you just go to work and pretend that your brain isnt empty of everything but tsukishima kei bending you in half and rutting against you until he cums. of your best friend using you and of you using him. of how much you'd loved it.

of how badly you want to do it again.

he doesnt come over again for a few days, despite usually stopping by every night to complain about work and watch your show together.

and neither of you texts or calls, despite years of your phone buzzing constantly, because hes a double-triple-quadruple texter and you're just as bad.

by the time that nearly a week has passed, youre a mess of anxiety and the looming dread that your best friend will never speak to you again.

and then he's there, at your door, with a bag of takeout and a shameful blush dusting his cheeks.

you dont know what to say, so you say nothing at all, just letting him in. he sits where he always does and pulls containers of food out — food he always gets, because he's a picky eater and because he knows your orders by heart. and then he turns on the show he always does, giving you the same look he always has when he's waiting for you to join him so he can press play.

you dont talk about it.

you just watch your show, laugh at all the right times, kick your feet up and relax into the cushions in all the right ways. and you do your best not to think about the fact that your panties are soaked, that they have been since he'd shown up at your door looking like he always does, smelling like he always does.

you do your best not to think about the fact that he's hard. that you can see the tent in his pajama pants, that you notice when he shoves a throw pillow over his lap to hide it.

that he's wearing pajamas, which means he plans on staying.

he stays until it's too late to leave — you watch the clock next to the TV, watch as it passes his usual time to pack up and go home — and then he mumbles under his breath.

"want me to sleep on the couch?"

your heart jumps, because you recognize what this is. that he's giving you one last chance to leave things here, without ever moving forward. that it would be okay if you want him to stay here tonight.

your heart jumps, because you know what it means if you say no.

you swallow and stand, stretching in a way that you hope doesn't show how shaky you are, and move down the hall, praying it looks casual.

"no, it's fine. the couch isnt comfortable, anyway."

you dont let him know that you can hear when he breathes out a quiet 'fuck' and moves through the room faster than he usually does.

you dont sleep. you just lie there, facing away from him and staring at the wall. waiting to hear his breath even out, waiting to know that hes asleep.

it never does.

every time you think he might be asleep, he shifts, and your heart flies into your throat. and you know that tricking him into thinking youre asleep wont work, because your breath keeps hitching and your heart keeps pounding so hard that theres no way he cant feel it through the mattress.

you stare at the wall until streaks of sunlight start to fall against it.

thats when his fingers brush against your back, gentle and cautious.

your skin breaks out into goosebumps wherever he touches. he takes it as permission.

when his chest presses against your back, it's with a shaky breath and trembling fingers on your waist. he doesnt ask if this is okay, and you dont tell him that it's so much more than that.

he just presses his hips against the curve of your ass, and you just gasp, because he's still hard, even after all these hours.

but you shouldnt be surprised, because youre still soaked, the desire for him feeling more and more like a craving, a desperate need.

tsukki buries his face in your hair, letting out an uneven sigh when he rolls his hips forward against your ass. you arch your back, pressing into him gently.

"fuck," he whispers, sliding his arm under and around your body and pulling you flush against him. you whimper, pushing back and enjoying the feel of him.

and then you choke out a moan, because he's slipping his other arm over your waist and shoving his hand down your pants.

"o-oh, my, god-" your voice breaks when his fingers — ice cold and trembling with nerves — push past the band of your underwear and land right where you need him, swiping one circle over your clit and then one more.

his hips jerk forward, breath heavy against your neck when he slides his fingers through your folds. "so fucking wet f'me," he groans. "just like last time."

you cant answer, too busy trying to find the breath in your lungs. hes rocking his hips the whole time, always managing to bump you forward against his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyelids whenever he pushes down on your clit.

"tsukki-"

you dont need to say anything else. he understands.

it's no more than a jagged inhale and his hand ripping out of your pants before you find yourself on your back.

your pants and his pants missing.

your underwear soaked and his boxers tented and wet with his own pre-cum.

when he grinds down on you, way less fabric between you than the first time, his moan is low and drawn out, echoing in your ears and forcing you to whimper in response.

he bends you in half again. you mewl embarrassingly loudly, the thought of being used smacking around inside your brain and setting your skin on fire.

he grunts in response. "you liked this last time, too." the shallow rut of his hips makes you bounce, and you hear when he moans in the back of his throat. your shirt is dragged up and over your chest, the hem pushed up to your lips. he doesnt tell you to bite, but you do anyway, the fabric soaked with your drool the moment you piece together that he wants to watch your tits bounce while he grinds against you.

he swears under his breath, both hands coming up to cup your breasts, his hands so big compared to yours. he kneads them under his fingers, calloused and rough, and you whine, your hips wriggling against his in response.

you dont need to tell him what you want — that this feels nice but you need him to refocus. he just gets it, either by the look in your eye or by the way your hands reach down to tug on his boxers.

when his fingers clamp down on the backs of your thighs and your knees end up closer to your face than anyone else has ever been able to get them, the shirt drops from your mouth, because youre letting out an echoing, needy sound that youve never made before.

he slams his hips down against yours, again and again and again, grunting and moaning and biting down on his bottom lip to keep the sound trapped in his throat. and then he huffs out, breath ragged, and takes in the sight of you properly.

"fuck, y/n, whats all this about?" his voice is rough, and hes sweating and flushed, and his hands are gripping your thighs tight but trembling nonetheless. "what is it, huh?"

your answer comes out in broken pieces, matching the rhythm of his hips. "us-ing-me-nngh-"

he stops. you cry out, tears pricking at your eyes. he just stares down at you, eyes wide as he examines the frustrated look on your face and the humiliated burn on your skin.

you start to cry, barely noticing when he uses one hand to brush the tears away, his thumb rough on your cheek.

you barely notice, because he covers it up by reaching down and tearing your panties off of you in one smooth motion.

you gasp when your body jostles against the mattress. you stop breathing entirely when he shoves his boxers down to his thighs.

"want me to use you?" he mutters. "okay. i'll use you."

you dont respond, just staring down at his cock and trying to process that that is never going to fit inside of you.

but he even doesnt try.

he just lines his cock up against your folds and slides through them slowly.

your head falls back and a cracked, broken moan falls past your lips. he doesnt sound much better, his breath sharp and his grunt tense in his throat.

"fuckin'-" he slides against you again, choking. you cant breathe. it's so hot and hard and nothing like anything youve ever felt before. "so fuckin' good," he breathes. "you feel so fucking good-hah-"

and then he leans forward, putting all his weight on the backs of your thighs and folding you in half, just like you like it.

his lips fall on yours like he's in love.

you kiss him back like you are, too.

the pace he finds is brutal, but he doesnt keep it for long. between kissing you and mumbling about how good you feel, his hips are unsteady.

which is exactly how the tip of his cock ends up catching on your entrance, slipping in just far enough for you to feel the stretch.

"oh-fuck-fuck-" he chokes, his eyes flying open and his hands slipping clumsily off your thighs and slamming into the mattress on either side of you. "fuck-y/n-"

your back is arched, chest pressing against his and your breath stuck in your throat. you stare up at him, unseeing, heart pounding in your ears.

"tsukki-"

he hears it again. what youre asking. but for your sake, he pretends it's his idea.

"c-can i-" he stumbles. "just a little?" he still hasnt slipped out, so he feels when you clench around his tip, dragging him in just a little more. he drops his head, groaning low and watching where your bodies meet. "fuck. fuck. i-please, y/n-" he lifts his eyes, staring down at you, his gaze wild and his arms shaking and his face radiating waves of heat. "please?"

there are more tears rolling down your cheeks, burning as they go, and you can only nod frantically. "please, tsukki. need you to-"

-use me.

he breathes out a quiet "oh, fuck," and starts to roll his hips in, soft "fuck, fuck, fuck"s falling past his lips the further in he pushes. the more he stretches you around his cock.

you're letting out embarrassing sounds, ranging from simple moans to humiliating chants of his name and the words "more" and "please" and "yes, fuck", all slurred and babbled together.

you dont even realize he's fucking you into the mattress until you hear the headboard slamming against your wall, over and over and over again. until his voice is right next to your ear, his chest pressed to yours and your thighs gripped tight in his hands.

"thank you," he grunts. "fuck, thank you. thank you."

you feel when it pushes you right over the edge, feel yourself mouth the words "yours" and "take it" and "please" against the shell of his ear, your walls squeezing tight around him as you come.

the noise he makes rumbles low in his chest and feels primal, and suddenly your headboard is hitting twice as fast and youre feeling his cock smack up against a spot you'd never realized was there.

when he comes, it's with your name on his tongue and his cock buried deep inside you, warm and pulsing and filling you just right.

you fall asleep like that, and he does, too. just like last time.

you get the feeling it'll happen again.

[heartkaji]

18+. 𝐋𝐄𝐓'𝐒 #𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓 !

cw: coworker!toji, workplace sěx, fingëring, dry hūmping, p w plot, pälming, ôrǎl. art by o6frog on twt ! 𓏲 .˚˖ ᵎᵎ

“TOJI FUSHIGURO IS DEFINITELY A B MINUS,”

lunch break at goldman sachs means jam sticky on your fingers & shoko’s bleary eyes. beside you she’s plum cheeks & lashes fluttering, lips smudged with brownie-choc & something else she swears isn’t laced with weed.

“that’s not very generous. i thought you liked the guy.”

and you do. toji fushiguro is a man divorced with broad chest & tired eyes. but even thick arms & bulging pectorals aren’t enough to earn a print grade of D++.

“not to the point that i’d lie to myself,” you click your tongue. “see how the peak of his crotch rests right below the middle? that’s a B minus.”

two cubicles & a half-opened laptop away, toji fushiguro is there.

sleeves folded over thick forearms, glasses heavy on sunken nose. and his eyes? low & lazy & gazing nowhere near your direction. and you’d worn this skirt just for him !

you shake the thought away. beside you, shoko smushes a palm against her cheek.

“i think you’re wrong.”

“hm?”

“have you seen how he walks?” shoko leans in, eyes glimmering. “slow. heavy. like he’s weighed down by the sheer mass of it,” she licks her canines,

“that man is packing.”

“but the print chart—“

“fuck the print chart,” shoko interrupts. “i say we investigate.”

INVESTIGATION #1 : COMPANY GYM

the company gym is mirrored walls / sweat-soaked skin / air heavy with the haze of midsummer heat. somewhere between the barbell racks & bench press machines, your palms bruise red from the weight of a dumbbell.

toji fushiguro has the body of a god.

you won’t admit it, though. won’t even look at it. even now you’re low lashes trained on shoko sprawled against her mat. said girl is shameless & gawky & wide-eyed.

“shoko,” you hiss. “stop staring.”

“i can’t! his waist is too slutty!”

your tongue licks your canines. girls like you don’t feel the need to sneak a peek. toji fushiguro is a man who knows he will never be refused. to seduce you, he’d need more than broad back or slow gaze or thick thigh—

oh my!

you only see it for a second, really. he shifts & the material clings far too tight—stretching & dipping just enough to outline his cock; thick & fat & far too heavy against his right leg.

“bitch. did you fucking see that?”

“see what?”

girls like you tell lies like they’re gospel. even now, shoko’s shoving your side, spitting something about ‘playing hard to get’ & just ‘sneaking one more glance.’

you do. lashes low. lips half-bitten. eyes on the mirror because girls like you can’t look men like toji in the face.

your cheeks burn hot when your eyes lift.

toji fushiguro is already looking at you.

PRINT ASSESSMENT : B(+) FOR BIASED.

DIHVESTIGATION #2: BOARDROOM 4-B

one half-drunk coffee browning at the rim. two men with glasses who don’t know how to murmur. in boardroom 4-B, there are three reasons why you can’t fucking focus.

reason number one: toji fushiguro is staring at you like he knows how you taste when you lie.

it shouldn’t bother you, really. 3PM at goldman sachs means company whiteboards & stock market projections. this afternoon you’re buttoned blazer & tight skirt & tighter bun. there’s a clipboard in your hands & two knots in your gut.

you’re presenting something about liquid assets. toji’s gaze has liquid pooling between your thighs.

the nerve of him. toji fushiguro has a pen in his teeth & a tie half-loose. his glasses slip low on his nose, chair leaning, thick arms crossed over thicker chest. & his eyes—glazed over & half-lidded—blink slow. heavy & bored & flitting to your hips before glancing away like you don’t even exist.

the projector goes out.

& it’s a good thing it does. it’s hard to talk about assets when toji’s got you wishing his shove through your pussy. you bite your lip, thighs aching like a fucking virgin. down the table, shoko notices.

IT girl shoko ieri doesn’t stand up.

she should. you’re already irritated & it’s her fucking job for christ’s sake, but shoko seems to have other plans. instead she turns to toji,

“mr. fushiguro—do you mind getting that? you’re closest to the port.”

toji doesn’t mind. at least, that’s what it looks like. he gets up, body all spine & lazy muscle, and stops just in front of you.

“s’cuse me, miss,”

he lowers himself to pick at the wires by the screen. you’re quick to clamp your thighs shut & pray he doesn’t catch your soaked panties or the way they cling between your folds.

you also pray he doesn’t catch the way your eyes flick to his crotch.

& god, he’s huge; thin slacks not bothering to hide his shape in his pants. he’s thick. so thick you can’t guess if he’s hard & bulging or some sort of monster even when soft or if his cock would twitch if he shoved it right into your aching cunt—

your thighs squeeze. there’s three crevices in your palm where your nails dig into your skin & your knees feel weak & god why the fuck is he so hot? his hair’s all messy & shirt half-unbuttoned so when you sneak a peek, his chest peeks back.

you bite your lip & sneak a peek at his face as well.

toji fushiguro does not peek back.

he’s consumed by the wires it seems—shuffling cables; one arm lifting to rest on the chair beside you & unavoidably bracketing your knees. you’re leaned back against the wall now, chest heaving, thighs shut, lashes fluttering because toji’s nose sniffles & it’s so fucking cute.

& so fucking annoying. because you’ve used your pretty heel to nudge him twice now & he’s still plugging wires like he can’t feel your thigh brush hot against his arm. like he can’t hear how heavy you’re breathing, or the soft squelch under your skirt when he leans so close you have to shift away. like he can’t—

“legs,” he mutters.

you shift your heel back, cheeks ripe-red & sweltering hot.

toji drops a cable. arms on his knees now, still crouched low, bleary eyes flicking up to yours. there’s only silence for a beat, and then he stands up slow. heavy. you don’t miss the soft knock of his cock against his crotch.

you gulp.

toji stretches. gaze low, eyes somewhere too close to your skirt.

“fix that.”

toji doesn’t clarify as he turns to leave.

PRINT ASSESSMENT: D(-) FOR DICKHEAD.

DIHVESTIGATION CUT THE EYE TAG N’ FUCK THIS CUNT !

5PM at goldman sachs & there’s an elbow wedged between your ribs.

the elevator’s full—too full—& you’re too foolish; and the bone in your rib clearly isn’t yours. to your left there’s a man in khaki suit & beach blond hair & heavy goggles. the man on your right has pearl white hair & talks to him a mile a minute.

behind you is something hard.

but your body knows the scent of maroon’s dogwood et tabac. behind you toji fushiguro is leaning, hands heavy on the rail behind him, crotch conveniently caught behind your ass.

the elevator air is sticky as a chewed prayer. the first time you grind against toji, it’s purely by accident.

too many bodies press together, sweat-slicked & aching in the midsummer heat. the elevator stutters & you can only shift back, backside dragging over his semi-hard cock.

the second time you grind against him, your hips are the culprit.

not you, your hips; because girls like you have bodies with minds of their own so you can only bear witness as they rub against his crotch. heavy. slow. assisted by the weight of two grown men pressing beside you every time the elevator simmers.

behind you, toji hasn’t tensed.

in fact, he yawns. like he hasn’t noticed you frotting on his cock. like his dick isn’t semi-hard & kissing your ass beneath your skirt.

he’s so fucking frustrating.

so you stop for now. even your hips know better than to lie to you twice. you try to move forward, keyword: try, but the elevator slams to brake & you’re shoved against toji’s chest.

big hands catch your hips automatically. you muffle a squeak. how cute.

but you’ll never know if toji thinks the same because he only grunts behind you, sound rumbling through his chest. the elevator fills out quickly, too many footsteps eager to find home.

it’s time for you to find home, too. heaven knows this workday has filled you with embarrassment.

you’re about to step off when toji pushes the emergency stop button.

you only realize it when you bump against his back. you blink once, twice, & toji turns to you with lips ticked up in a smile too cruel to be kind.

“you gonna pretend you don’t know why i did that?”

you tell lies like they’re gospel so you play the fool. “i have no idea what you’re talking about.”

you say it with clicked tongue but blisters swell where your thighs touch. there’s a heat on your cheeks that you can’t itch away.

toji laughs, shakes his head. the sound is close to guttural.

“heard you and shoko at lunch earlier,” he muses, voice low & steps heavy. “B-minus, was it?”

“what are you—“

a palm pats your cheek. heavy, hot. “rubbing up on me like a bitch in heat. that desperate to find out, miss?”

you shiver against his touch, neck hot, thighs burning. toji’s thumb drags at your lip. the other hand slips towards his pants.

he’s palming himself now, gripping at his crotch, moulding & pressing as you suck air in with glossy eyes.

“don’t be shy,” he murmurs. you’re still rag dolled in front of him, shaky knees & lust-glazed eyes. his palm leaves his crotch to take yours gently, so gently, & you almost moan when he presses it to his hard, swollen cock.

fuck.

“easy,” he rasps, low. you’re half-bitten lips now, pupils blown & palms playing with his zipped-up cockhead. his pants twitch with each clothed rub, & your body has a mind of its own so you whimper.

“wanna take it out for me, miss?”

“yes—i mean, yes.”

you don’t miss the tug of his lips. the expression he wears is close to mocking but you’re half-devil half-girl so you zip him free anyways. he springs free & god he’s huge. veiny & thick & tip an angry pink.

toji pumps himself, horny & pulsing with each stroke. his thighs twitch like it fucking hurts.

“knees, dollface,” he’s breathless now. “tell me i’m a B with my cock stuffed in your throat.”

toji fushiguro doesn’t need to tell you twice.

you sink obediently, palms resting at his thighs. you reach to cup his dick but it only slaps against your face.

“tits out, doll. wanna watch ‘em bounce while you suck me.”

& you’re half-devil half-girl so you obey immediately; knuckles shaky & fingers clumsy against your buttons. toji sighs & snaps them open with a grunt.

“can’t do anything right…”

he murmurs but you’re peering up at him with doe eyes. toji thinks you’re so fucking cute, hot cheeks & clenching thighs & a nose that scrunches in self-denial. ten minutes ago you were rubbing against his cock. five minutes & you were telling him otherwise.

nevermind that, though. he’s always wanted your glossy lips wrapped around his dick.

& the precum on his tip makes them glossier. toji’s got his head tipped back now, thighs twitching, hips thrusting himself into your hot mouth. the sight of your pebbled nipples glistening with sweat makes him groan, & you pump his cock & suck so good he thinks he might be seeing stars.

“mm—fuck, that’s it,” he rasps, “that’s good, s’good, miss.”

you lick a stripe up his slit. toji shivers.

& you’re a devil of a girl so you take it a step further. your thighs squeeze, & the soft squelch of your panties stick to his ears. you take your other hand & fondle with your perky nipples.

“fuck—“

but toji doesn’t let you continue. he yanks you by the hair just as his cock twitches, pulsing & sputtering with sticky precum.

“up,” he rasps, pulling at your waist, “get up.”

you’re only in his arms for a moment before he gets to work, neck flushed & rock hard against you. he’s much too rough in folding up your skirt, dragging it up so your ass spills out & the cool air licks your panties.

“been so fuckin’ noisy,” his fingers rub circles on your juicy clit, “soaked & begging for me since the meeting. thought i wouldn’t fucking notice.”

he’s muttering more to himself than you, pressing his thumb to your panties before he somehow gets annoyed & slides them away. you’re slobbering on his fingers now, sticky & drenched & squelching with each pump.

“mhm—right there, ah—“

“quiet,” he hisses with two fingers in your folds. he’s pumping them in & out now, brows furrowed, hair sweaty, dick impossibly hard. you go limp against him, tits smushed against his chest as he works to stretch you out; cockhead still poking against your swollen clit.

“so fucking tight,” he rasps. “god, baby. why’s your pussy so fuckin’ tight.”

toji fushiguro is big man with little patience. so when he circles your swollen clit one more time, your thighs trembling against him, you’re not too surprised when his palm shifts back to his cock.

he’s still got a palm on your hip, heavy & aching. he pumps himself two more times before kissing the crook of your neck against his chest.

“gonna stuff you with my cock,” he’s pumping harder now, lips brushing just under your jaw. “that okay, sweetheart? want my B-minus cock in you? or is that not big enough?”

“it’s big! so big—please toji—“

“so cute,” it’s almost a laugh now, guttural & vibrating through your chest. he hooks your thigh up with an arm. “starin’ at my cock and rating it with your friend. shoulda stuffed it in you ages ago.”

& he does. he strokes your clit once before pushing himself in, pussy sputtering & spitting around him. your walls streetch, velvety & aching, hips twitching as you clench around his cock.

“m’sorry! so sorry, can’t take anymore, please—”

he only shoves himself deeper as you cry over his cock. he’s panting now, groaning, palm shaky as he grips your thigh. “look at me—this feel like a B to you? can’t even take B-grade dick, hm?”

he thrusts into your squelching pussy as you go limp against him, lashes fluttering, lips bitten hard as your nipples drag against his chest.

“it’s a D! fuck, toji—!”

he slides his dick out as your pussy sputters; walls cumming, body aching & tingly on his chest. toji’s got his dick in his palm & pumping slow; thick white cum dripping out with each stroke. “mhm…fuck.”

you’re still breathing heavy on his chest, nipples budded & glistening with sweat. against you toji shoves his dick back in his pants, breath heavy, tugging on his zipper as his thumb slips low to circle at your swollen clit.

your lashes flutter open to peek at his jaw. toji fushiguro is already looking at you.

his eyes are low, grin sleazy.

“still a B?”

your eyes flutter shut. what a fucking bastard.

PRINT ASSESSMENT : A(-) FOR FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE.

catch print, end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or re-upload.

[sugarwarachan]

driving you crazy

pairing: tsukishima kei x f!reader

summary: being in the same phd program as tsukishima kei was already the worst, and that was before you and the snarky bastard were tasked to teach the same class together. during a late-night run-in at the library, will things finally come to a head?

(note: reader writes smut on the side to make some extra money, since phd students barely make shit *sobs*)

content warnings: tsukki being a degrading lil shit *barks*, like so much sexual tension, slight exhibitionism (gettin' nasty in a library), slight angst, dry humping

word count: 2.1k (an anon ask turned into this, whoops!)

art credit: @Freaka_LoonyZ on x

You shouldn’t have kissed him.

Not even as a joke in the back of that shitty dive bar you’d taken him to because grading papers was making both of your eyes cross. But he’d looked so fucking handsome underneath the neon lights, sipping coolly at his beer, that you couldn't help dragging him by the collar into that alley and sucking his soul out through his mouth.

Fuck.

Staring down at the battered copy of Macbeth and your scattered pile of notes, you’re no closer to chasing him away from your thoughts than you had been the night before, achy and desperate in your bed.

Ever since you began your PhD program, Tsukishima Kei has been an ever-present pain in your ass. Sarcastic, flippant, and irresistibly intelligent in a way that makes your heart speed up every time you spar with him.

You hate him, perhaps just as much as you want him.

It's cowardly to hope he won't find you here, but you need to get work done, and the library feels like a good spot to avoid him in. He hates being around people, even when they're confined to calm spaces like this.

“You’re not hiding from me, are you?”

Of fucking course.

When you look up, he’s smirking, all self-assured arrogance while he leans against the library stacks. You want to strangle him and straddle him in equal parts.

“Why?" you snort, turning back to your notes. "Because of one kiss? You’re not that good, Tsukishima.”

(He is, though. You’ll be thinking about that kiss until you die.)

Maddeningly, he says nothing, only pulls out a chair and settles in across from you.

You really wish you could read him better, but the best course of action seems to be to shut your mouth and pretend you’re not affected. For a guy as detached as him, you think that’s the right choice.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

The fuck?

Looking up from the notebook you’re scribbling non-notes into, you see what appears to be concern on his face.

“Umm. Yeah.” You’re pretty sure you’re looking at him like lobsters sprouted out of his ears. He's never once asked about your well-being like this.

He nods. “Good. We did stay up late talking about Kantian ethics.”

That's certainly one way to boil down last night.

“And to think it came to blows only once,” you shoot back.

A small smile curves his lips before he takes out a book and some notes, seemingly content to start working on something.

Fine.

If he won’t bring up the kiss, neither will you.

Silence lapses, the only sound the scratching of pens on paper. You’re not sure how much time passes; it’s hard to be around Tsukishima for very long because of how much he seems to slow time for you.

You sneak a look and immediately wish you hadn’t, because you notice the edge of a sheet of folded paper and recognize notes you lost two weeks before.

Your entire body flashes cold.

You write down ideas all the time as they come to you. What can you say, you’ve got an actively flourishing sexual mind, which has helped tremendously in your choice of second income. Smut doesn’t just write itself.

But the last thing you want anyone to see, let alone Tsukishima, is a scene where you couldn’t stop picturing him as one of the participants…

You try not to let your thoughts race away from you. You can only imagine how much he’d tease you for it, how actively humiliating it would be to admit to Tsukishima fucking Kei that your fantasies more than often than not star him.

“You can’t be alright.”

“Excuse me?”

Golden-brown eyes confront you. He’s frowning.

Why the fuck can’t you lust over someone normal?

“You heard me.”

“There’s a book on Shakespeare and gender in the stacks I need to find,” you say, ignoring him and ignoring the fact that you already have that book sitting to your left.

He regards you carefully. Each second that ticks by, you know he’s weighing what to say. The hush of the library does nothing to calm the din in your chest, the awful racket of your heart furiously pounding behind your ribcage.

He smirks and waves a hand at the stacks. “By all means. “

Surrounded by a wall of books, you take a deep breath. It’s just as likely he hadn’t even seen the notes he’d accidentally snagged from you. All you have to do is get them back, right?

“You always deflect when you’re uncomfortable.”

Whirling around, you see Tsukishima leaning against the stacks like a Lothario in a Victorian play, and fuck, you must have it bad, because he actually looks good doing it.

“Might it have something to do with this?” He pulls out that folded-up sheet of paper, and you watch in horror as your notes literally unfold in front of you.

You know exactly what’s written there.

His eyes pin you in place and you feel like a bug wriggling on a cork board, helpless under his gaze.

“This is what’s bothering you.” He shakes the paper a little, like a master shaking a treat in front of a dog. “You didn’t want me to read it.”

Anger sparks in your chest. “Brilliant fucking solve, Sherlock.”

He glosses over the sarcasm and takes a step forward. You retreat one step back.

“Why didn’t you want me to read this?”

You stare at him, incredulous.

“Because it’s private, asshole.”

The look he gives you screams, Try again.

“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s a smut scene, Tsukishima. Do I really have to spell out why that would be awkward for you to read?”

“Why? Because you imagined me while you wrote it?” Condescension drips from his words. Below your navel, your insides pull taut.

“What makes you think that? Because I deigned to kiss you last night?” You’re flirting with fire and you know it. You lean in, and so does he. “Come on, Tsukishima, you’re gonna have to do better than that. Where’s your hard evidence that I think about you like that at all?”

His eyes flash, and a near-feral smile splits his face.

He taps the side of the paper.

“Because you wrote this.”

And there, in small, nearly-smudged writing, are the words: Stop picturing Tsukki.

Blood pools in your cheeks. There’s no way he’s going to let you live this down, not ever.

You finally notice the red ink in the margins, his own annotations littering the page underneath your imaginings.

“Did you make fucking critiques?”

His laugh is so immediate it startles you. “I think you might call them suggestions.”

He’s close now, his hip nudging yours back along the books. Spines dig into your shoulder blades.

“If you’re fucking with me right now—"

One hand settles next to your head.

“One word, y/n,” his breath ghosts over your temple. “One word, and this stops.”

The rational part of your brain considers the consequences of messing around with someone in the same program, let alone someone like Tsukishima.

The rational part of your brain doesn’t answer.

“I don’t want this to stop.”

Exhaling sharply, he takes a step forward, his body now completely aligned with yours. You suppress the small moan climbing up your throat.

You were right, damn it to hell. This already feels better than most things you’ve ever done: your back curved against the books, the musty smell of paper, Tsukishima’s shirt shifting with yours.

One hand possessively cups your jaw.

“In that scene you wrote, were you picturing yourself?”

“Does it matter?”

His eyebrows rise. “Does it matter? How do you ground yourself in the scene if you don’t picture the characters?”

It’s an obvious taunt, but as you stare at the hollow of his throat, all you can think about is the fact that he smells warm and spicy, and you want to lick the column of his neck and wipe that fucking smirk off his dumb, handsome face.

You want him to be as affected by this situation as you are.

“If you tell me why you wrote all over the scene, I’ll tell you.”

He exhales. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“The hardest.”

He presses a knee between your thighs, spreading your legs apart. Without thinking, you grind your core down onto him, brain firing as soon as the pressure on your clit increases.

His hand grips down hard on your hip as he pulls you close, whispering furiously in your ear. "I read over this scene a hundred fucking times and I added what I would do. That’s what those notes are.”

Pleasure spreads over your chest; you barely remember your promise. 

“I pictured myself. In that scene. I pictured you watching another man fuck me until you stepped in and showed him how it’s done.”

Tsukishima makes a noise like a whimper and a groan in his throat. His head falls forward on the stack, right next to yours. “Goddamnit, y/n.”

He presses his thigh more insistently against you, hand near to bruising on your hip. 

“Did that not figure in your notes?” you ask, fisting your hands in his shirt, greedy for him to touch you more.

With strength that makes your pussy clench, he picks you up by the waist and drags your core along his leg. You can feel how wet you are, the slide of your cunt slippery in your underwear.

And we’ve barely done anything, a giddy part of your brain whispers.

“If it was real, no one else would be able to make you cum like I could," he's saying, voice low. "But I bet you’d love to see them try, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Fuck them in front of me until your sloppy pussy needs me to step in and fuck you like the little whore you are.”

His words travel from your ear down to your clit, and a low ache twists in your gut. You fall forward onto his chest, hands twisting around his shirt collar.

You're already climbing toward release with each slide of your core against his thigh.

“Please, Tsukki.” A whine erupts in your throat. “Please. Fuck, I’m so close.”

He doesn't even entertain your implied suggestion. “You’ll come on my thigh, y/n, I know you can. I can feel how much of a mess you’re making through your jeans. How wet would you be if I pulled those off?”

“Take them off and find out," you pant into his skin.

His hands deftly shuck your jeans down your legs, just enough to expose your underwear. You should feel ridiculous riding a man’s thigh in the back of a library stack with your pants around your knees, but you can’t be damned to care.

Fingertips trace over your pussy, outlining the lips through the cotton of your underwear. He skims a thumb over your clit.

“You’ve ruined these.” He sounds delighted.

“Fucking take them off, Tsukishima, for fuck’s sake.” You’re begging, and you hate it, but at this point, you’d do anything to feel his touch on your bare skin.

“No,” he says softly, tempering the denial with a kiss to your temple. “You’ll finish like this.”

You’re glad your face is pressed against him. This way he can't see how affected you are, how every time he drags you against his thigh, you practically drown in pleasure.

Little gasps and pleas fall from your lips, muffled against his chest. One more drag and you cum violently, your hips chasing after your orgasm with such intensity you feel like you’re floating.

You come down slowly, ears ringing. You're pretty sure you hear Tsukishima talking to you, but the only thing drifting through your mind is that you haven’t cum like that in years, and of course it’s with the man you can’t stop thinking about, for better or for worse.

You look down and take in your soaked underwear, the damp stain on his trousers.

He hands you back the notes and helps you right yourself on shaky legs.

Somehow, this feels more intimate than anything you've done with him so far. His hands are calloused and strong, and you want to hold onto him a little longer.

The thought jolts you, and before you can stop it, the words are out.

"This was a mistake."

And what takes you aback is not that Tsukishima agrees with you, but that he looks almost sad when he does.

masterlist here. reblogs and comments always appreciated <3

[sodaneko]

kitten i’ll be so honest daddy is not going to read that fic in small font

[gumdrops-stuff]

[moluvies]

crawl home ꔛ reiner braun x reader

a/n: spent way too long writing this bc i love reiner

words: 9.3k

cw: lowkey bff!jean, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy reader, soldier!reader, pre-timeskip friends/lovers, betrayal, forgiveness, reiner is pathetic, angsty, kinda serving friends to enemies to lovers, SMUT!!, oral (f!reader recieving), pinv sex, breeding, MDNI !!

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

Reiner was taller now, even if it was hard to believe. Maybe not as tall as Bertholdt was, but taller. Not only that, but while he maintained some of the more prominent muscles in his figure, it was noticeable how much weight he had lost. His hair was slightly longer - maybe he didn't keep up with cutting it as much as before. But to be fair, the change wasn't necessarily drastic. Not like the amount of facial hair he let grow out, which was completely ridiculous but so on brand for him.

But what did you care?

Your gaze lingered on him a moment longer, practically having to force yourself to look away from the man you swore was dead to you. But he wasn't, was he? He was standing right there, talking to Connie and Jean like nothing happened. As if the night prior Jean didn't literally punch him. Did they all just forgive him suddenly? Traitors.

You sighed. Maybe you were being dramatic.

The only thing you wanted to hear now was the sound of the water swishing beneath the boat, maybe even a seagull. But it was like you couldn't drown out his voice. It hadn't changed. It was exactly as you'd remembered it being about four years ago. Though, back then you swore you'd found it charming.

Odiha. That's where you were going, what you were focusing on, in order to service the flying boat that would help you and your fellow scouts reach the Rumbling, you needed to reach Odiha. To stop Eren. So why was Reiner's presence bothering you so much?

Reiner was your best friend at one point. When you first joined the cadet corps, it was obvious you were nervous to anyone who took a second to look. And for that, most people didn't see you as a potential reliable comrade.

Most people.

Reiner liked you. He had once playfully claimed you made funny faces during sparring exercises and took you under his wing, seeing your potential. Back then, Reiner had a talent for making anyone feel seen. Even stubborn cadets like Annie seemed to at least tolerate him, maybe even respect him.

So how could you not fall in love with him?

It was ridiculous how quick it happened. You were sure there were other girls vying for his attention just like you were, but you swore Reiner gave you special treatment. It was stupid.

Reiner would see you entering the mess hall and instantly make sure there was a spot open at his table for you. Bertholdt had typically sat across from him, but most of the time there was a spot directly next to Reiner conveniently available just for you. He'd call you by your last name over to their table, always a smile on his face, always so damn sure of himself.

"Bread?" He had offered, causing you to shake your head with a nervous smile on your face. Nervous. Not nervous enough, apparently. But that didn't matter—not when Reiner was offering you bread, or to train after hours with you, or take you into Stohess one weekend when you mentioned wanting a change of scenery.

"I know you wanted that muffin," Reiner said regretfully as you walked away from the bakery stall at the food market. "Sorry I couldn't get it for you."

You shook your head, mouth full from the cookie he'd already got for you just ten minutes prior. "It's fine, really," you assured him, words slightly muffled from the pastry.

Reiner simply smiled at you, taking a bite of his own cookie.

When you returned to Trost that evening as the sun was just beginning to set, the teasing from your comrades was relentless.

"Woah!" Connie had exclaimed, realization dawning on his face as he looked at you and Reiner entering the mess hall together. "Where've you been all day?" He asked, nosy as ever even if the answer was plain as day.

"A date. Is that really such a foreign concept to you?" Reiner had teased, making Connie grin mischievously.

A date. You had your suspicions that that's what it was, but Reiner hadn't explicitly said it. Not until Connie asked. The straightforward explanation made your heart race, gaze dropping instantly to your shoes as Connie's laughter filled the space.

"So that's why you've been polishing your boots and actually combing your hair. I was wondering what the special occasion was," Jean had said to you, his brow raised and arms crossed in a way that was so distinctly Jean. Despite the words, you were sure it was his own way of approving.

"Oh, my God, is that a hickey?" Sasha suddenly butt in, moving into your personal space. Her hands held your head in place as she stared at the scrape from training on your forehead.

"Hickey—what—Sasha, that's on my forehead!" You had defended, but it was too late. Multiple other cadets heard the word hickey and ran with it, causing a flurry of gossip surrounding you and Reiner. And Reiner didn't deny it. He just smiled at you, and somehow that made you feel better.

There were plenty of times he'd made you feel better. An embarrassing amount of times. A pathetic amount of times, considering what he might've been comforting you about.

You sniffled, attempting to straighten yourself out before dinner was served in the mess hall as you sat on a log on the outskirts of the training grounds, taking in the yellow and orange blend of sunset before you. Even with the view, your mind was elsewhere.

It hit you every now and then at random. Despite it happening almost five years ago, you had pushed the grief down as far as you could bury it when your family was killed during the breach of Wall Maria. You were so young when it happened, but suddenly you were alone. When the Armored had broken through the inner gate of the wall, your childhood home had been crushed by a stray boulder.

You were lucky. You came to terms with that at a young age. Far too lucky. It chipped away at you everyday since, even without you realizing. What made you so fortunate to have escaped? Avoided certain death like your family couldn't? What made that soldier step in and save you but not them?

The wondering was pointless, though. They died and you didn't. For some reason fate had kept you alive until now. And for that, you had to live with a purpose. Even if now that purpose was wiping your snotty nose and trying to compose yourself enough to go eat with your friends.

"Bread?"

You had looked up to see none other than Reiner holding out a small loaf, a second one for himself in his right hand. Hesitantly, you had taken it, using the moment Reiner sat down beside you to attempt to discreetly wipe at the tears on your cheeks.

He didn't ask. You supposed it wasn't his style, or maybe he just assumed you didn't want to talk about it.

Reiner simply took a bite of his bread next to you, leaning forward as he chewed. After moments of silence, Reiner looked at you for a second and then towards the sunset. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards into a soft, almost wistful smile, but he said nothing.

"What?" You finally asked.

He almost replied with "nothing," you could tell, but he sighed and leaned back, either hands at his sides resting on the log. "You know what I miss most about home?" Reiner asked, his gaze locked with the sky. "The way the sun would rise over the hills," he stated.

You realized you'd never talked about it—why you were crying that day. To be honest, you didn't want to. Something about his presence had just put you at ease back then, to the point you forgot all of your troubles.

When graduation drew near, you weren't even sure what Reiner's plan was. Everyone knew his perfect scores got him into the top ten, eligible to enlist as a military police officer in the interior. That would've been great for him, but you weren't sure where that left you.

You weren't with Reiner when the Collosal titan had appeared and breached the wall into Trost. But you were there when Eren was discovered to be a titan himself.

From there, something in Reiner had shifted.

Back then, you figured it was realization of some sort. Realization that things were complicated, things were scary, things were real...

Things got even more real when Marco died. Marco wasn't someone you were close with, but he was always there, always kind. If someone as capable as Marco, as determined, as strong, as kind as Marco could die, what would that mean for you and your friends?

Many cadets dropped out that day, despite graduation being so close. You almost did as well. Especially upon seeing Jean's reaction to Marco's death, you didn't know if you had the guts to continue.

But Reiner always had to step in.

"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for," he said, his strong hand on your shoulder. "Look at me," he commanded softly. You hesitated but met his eyes. They were serious, and almost cold now. Different from how they used to look at you. "I know you've got what it takes."

And that was that. Along with Jean, who was sure he'd join the military police, you joined the Survey Corps, falling under the wing of the Commander Erwin Smith.

You were terrified, but you had Reiner.

Things in your lives seemed to come to a halt when Annie was revealed to be a titan. And then Ymir, along with Krista being some kind of royalty and living with a completely different name—Historia.

It was all confusing and overwhelming, and you really wished Reiner was there for you. And he was, physically, always there. But then he was distant. Even when sitting directly beside you during meals like he did before, his focus was obviously elsewhere.

And then it happened.

You revisited that day often. When Reiner and Bertholdt transformed, and everything you thought you knew came crashing down.

You couldn't even cry, or scream, or do much of anything. You'd learned a long time ago to accept these things, but God did it hurt.

Then he was gone. He and Bertholdt, back to wherever they came from—their "hometown" as they so often called it. You didn't know back then, and you'd honestly stopped caring.

When Eren was rescued from them, he tried telling you on the way back what Reiner had said in response to him screaming at them. Eren had brought you up, telling Reiner about all the pain and trauma you endured years ago when the inner gate of Wall Maria was broken and your family was killed.

Sorry. Sorry was what he said, according to Eren.

What a coward.

The next time you saw Reiner was a few months later. But it wasn't really him. It was the Armored titan, the same one you remember from childhood who had breached the wall. And now here you were, back in Shiganshina with your fellow scouts.

The bloodshed was monumental in Shiganshina. Bertholdt had died, but Reiner lived—barely. You weren't there when Hange and Jean had captured him. And you were grateful you weren't. Just three months after discovering his true self, you knew you'd do something stupid like let him go if you had been there. But that part wasn't really up to you, and he got away regardless.

That's when you discovered the truth of everything. The titans, the walls, Paradis, Eldians.

You wished you could hate him. But everyday you'd hoped for the day you could speak to him again, just once.

Those feelings seemed to have formed into anger as the years passed. And by the time you and your fellow soldiers raided Liberio, you basically lived in a shell. You promised your comrades you weren't going to allow feelings to get in the way, and you delivered.

So much happened in such a short amount of time it was difficult to even remember it properly.

You remembered seeing him—really him—for the first time again on Paradis. He was almost pathetic looking now, but a part of your heart still yearned for him.

Were the feelings even the same, though?

You and the rest of the scouts had to compromise and join forces with the Warriors in order to put a stop to Eren's plan to go through with the Rumbling. It was the first night that Jean brutally punched Reiner at the campfire. Years ago, you might've blindly taken the side of Reiner. Hell, if he said a word to you since being back on the island maybe you would've defended him. But he didn't. So you let it happen.

When the kids, Gabi and Falco, rushed to Reiner's side after the altercation, you felt as though you needed to physically drag yourself away to avoid saying anything to him.

Instead, you found Jean, cooling off in the outskirts of the woods. His head was in his hands, leaning against a tree as he shook.

You placed a gentle hand on his arm, causing him to jump. You made eye contact, but he was quick to look away. Though, your small touch grounded him.

"Sorry about that," Jean apologized. "I got carried away." His voice was breaking, you'd noticed, but you shook your head.

"Don't apologize," you replied.

You made a choice that evening. The choice to stay loyal to your comrades instead of blindly following Reiner like you did when you were a dumb kid. But it didn't make it any less difficult when he stood there on the boat looking almost like he had years ago.

The expression on his face was that of determination. And the people at his side were none other than Jean and Connie.

You scoffed, pulling your gaze away from the men and staring off into the vast ocean—the ocean you didn't even knew existed years ago; the ocean Reiner didn't bother mentioning to you those nights you sat together for hours.

You'd gone over every emotion the past four years. You saw his side as best you could. Even so, it was hard to forgive. Especially when Reiner himself hadn't made an effort to speak to you.

"Hey." You didn't look up, you knew it was Jean.

"You gonna talk to loverboy or what?" He asked after a beat of silence. You finally lifted your head to shoot him a glare. Jean simply smiled, looking back at where Reiner and Connie were still talking and then back to you, sitting beside you on the bench.

You remained quiet for a moment after Jean sat beside you, your fingers absently picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. The gentle rock of the boat beneath you seemed to match the churning in your stomach.

"I'm not talking to him," you finally said, keeping your voice low despite the distance between you and the others.

Jean snorted. "Right. Because ignoring him is working so well for you."

You shot him another glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've been staring at him every chance you get since yesterday." Jean's knowing smile widened as your cheeks flushed with heat. "Don't worry, he's been doing the same thing."

Something fluttered in your chest at his words, but you quickly tamped it down. "Has he... said anything?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice smaller than you intended.

Jean chuckled, that same knowing look in his eyes that made you want to shove him off the bench and into the sea. But then his expression softened.

"No," he admitted. "But it's getting annoying watching you two dance around each other like this. You look at him when he's not looking, he looks at you when you turn away. It's really embarassing for both of you."

You sighed, turning your gaze back to the endless blue horizon. The vastness of the ocean still amazed you, even now. "Well, if he wanted to talk, he would've said something by now."

"Maybe he's thinking the same thing about you," Jean pointed out.

"That's different," you protested weakly.

"How?"

You opened your mouth to respond but found you didn't have an answer that wouldn't sound childish. Jean was right, and you both knew it.

"Look," Jean said, his voice gentler now, "I'm not exactly Reiner's biggest fan. You were there when I..." He flexed his hand, the same one he'd used to punch Reiner the night before, his knuckles reddened now. "But we're all stuck here together now. And whatever was between you two—"

"There was nothing between us," you interrupted, the lie bitter on your tongue.

Jean gave you a flat look. "You're a terrible liar. Always have been."

You looked down at your hands, suddenly finding your fingernails fascinating. "It doesn't matter now anyway."

"Maybe not," Jean agreed. "But you're never going to stop wondering if you don't at least talk to him once. Really talk to him."

The silence between you stretched for several long moments as you considered his words. The rational part of you knew he was right. This tension, this unspoken thing hanging in the air between you and Reiner, it would only continue to distract you. And with what lay ahead—with Eren and the Rumbling—you couldn't afford distractions. And more importantly, you didn't want to die with regrets.

"Fine," you muttered, standing up with a resigned sigh.

Without waiting for some type of reaction from Jean, you turned and made your way across the deck toward where Reiner and Connie stood. Your heart hammered against your ribs with each step, and you briefly considered turning back. But Jean's words echoed in your mind—you would never stop wondering if you didn't at least try.

Connie noticed you first, his animated conversation with Reiner faltering as you approached. Reiner turned, and for a moment, you were transported back to those days in the mess hall—him turning to call your name, saving you a seat beside him.

But his eyes weren't the same. They carried a weight now, dark shadows beneath them speaking of sleepless nights and unshakable guilt.

"Um, I'll just..." Connie mumbled, already backing away, but you barely registered his departure.

You stopped a few feet from Reiner, suddenly unsure what to say. All the anger, all the hurt, all the things you'd rehearsed in your head over the years—none of it seemed right now that he was standing in front of you.

"Can we talk?" The words came out steadier than you felt.

Reiner looked surprised, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you. He nodded once, hesitantly. "Yeah. Of course."

You nodded, and without another word, turned to lead the way to the stairs. You could feel his presence behind you as you descended into the dimly lit interior of the ship, the wooden steps creaking beneath your weight. The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of salt and damp wood.

The sleeping cabins were arranged in a narrow corridor, small compartments with barely enough room for the bunks they contained. Most were empty now, with everyone gathered on the upper deck to watch the endless expanse of ocean passing by. You chose one at random, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The room was tight, with just enough space for two narrow bunks built into the walls and a small porthole that cast a circle of fading evening light across the wooden floor. You sat on one of the bunks, the thin mattress sinking beneath your weight. Reiner hesitated at the doorway for a moment before entering and sitting on the opposite bunk, the space between you barely more than an arm's length but feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.

Reiner's shoulders hunched slightly, his large frame somehow seeming smaller in the confined space. His eyes darted around the cabin before finally settling on his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap.

You found yourself remembering another small space you'd shared once, years ago during a thunderstorm. The supply shed had been the closest shelter when the rain had caught you both during evening training. You'd sat side by side on crates of gear, listening to the rain hammer against the roof, shoulders touching as Reiner told stories about his hometown to distract you from the thunder. And you remembered how you felt when he held your hand, the way his touch was so gentle, his fingers lacing with yours. Back then, his voice had been warm, his smile easy, his eyes bright with something that made your heart race.

Now, he sat across from you, silent and tense, his gaze fixed on the floor between your feet. The only sound was the creaking of the ship around you and the distant, muffled voices from above.

The silence between you stretched until it became unbearable. Your fingers dug into the thin mattress beneath you, knuckles turning white with the pressure.

"My family is dead because of you," you finally said, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the heavy air. The words hung there, raw and unavoidable. "Every time I look at you, I see that day. The Armored Titan breaking through the gate. The boulder that crushed our home."

Reiner didn't flinch, didn't look away. He just nodded slowly, his eyes hollow. "I know."

"You know?" A bitter laugh escaped your lips. "That's all you have to say? You know?"

"What do you want me to say?" His voice was flat, resigned. The voice of a man who had already condemned himself a thousand times over.

"I want you to say something—anything—other than 'I know,'" you snapped, the anger you'd been holding back finally beginning to surface. "I want you to explain how you could sit with me that day by the training grounds, offering me bread while I cried about my family, knowing it was you who killed them."

Reiner's gaze dropped to the floor again. "I don't have an explanation that would make any sense to you."

"Try me," you challenged, leaning forward. "I've had four years to think about this, Reiner. Four years to try to understand."

He looked up then, and the defeated emptiness in his eyes almost made you recoil. This wasn't the Reiner you remembered—the strong, confident soldier who always seemed to know what to say, what to do. This was a shell of that man, worn down by guilt and grief.

"I compartmentalized," he said after a long moment. "The Warrior and the Soldier. Sometimes, I... I forgot which one was real."

"And which one was it?" you asked. "Which version of you was real, Reiner?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know anymore. Maybe neither."

You stood up abruptly, unable to sit still with the storm of emotions churning inside you. The cabin was too small to pace properly, but you moved to the porthole, looking out at the darkening sky without really seeing it.

"Do you have any idea what your betrayal did to me?" Your voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "It wasn't just that you were the Armored Titan. It was that you were you. Someone I..." You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Someone I cared about. A lot."

You heard the bunk creak as Reiner shifted his weight but didn't turn to look at him.

"I nearly quit the Scouts after you left," you continued, watching your breath fog the glass of the porthole. "I couldn't understand how I could have been so wrong about someone. How I could have trusted you so completely."

Your fingertips pressed against the cool glass as memories flooded back—training together in the rain, his hands adjusting your grip on the ODM gear controls, his laughter at your terrible jokes, the way his eyes would find yours across the mess hall.

"And it wasn't just you," you said, your voice growing thick with unshed tears. "I haven't been able to truly trust anyone since. Not completely. There's always this voice in the back of my mind asking if they're hiding something too. If they'll betray me just like you did."

"I'm sorry," Reiner said, his voice barely audible.

You whirled around to face him, anger flaring hot and bright. "Sorry doesn't bring my family back! Sorry doesn't erase the fact that you lied to me for years! Sorry doesn't change the fact that every memory I have of us is tainted now because I don't even know if any of it was real!"

"It was real," Reiner said, standing up now, something finally sparking in his eyes. "That's what you don't understand. It was all real for me too."

"How could it be real when it was all built on a lie?" Your voice rose, echoing in the small space.

"Because I didn't know how to separate the lie from the truth anymore!" He took a step toward you, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Do you think this has been easy for me? Do you think I just walked away and forgot about all of you—forgot about you?"

You stared at him, momentarily stunned by the sudden emotion in his voice.

"I've thought about you every single day since then," he continued, his voice breaking. "I see your face in my dreams. I hear your voice when it's quiet. You've been haunting me for four years, and I deserve it."

The raw pain in his voice knocked the breath from your lungs. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you stared at him, really seeing him for perhaps the first time since you'd learned the truth—not as the Armored Titan, not as the Warrior, not even as the Soldier, but as Reiner. Just Reiner, broken and haunted and so very human.

"I know you hate me," he said, quieter now, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. "You should hate me. If I could go back and change what I did..."

"But you can't," you whispered.

"No," he agreed. "I can't."

The admission hung between you, simple and devastating in its truth. You couldn't change the past. Your family was still gone. The walls were still broken. And Reiner—your Reiner—had still been the one to do it.

But the man standing before you now, shoulders slumped under the weight of his actions, eyes filled with a pain that mirrored your own—he wasn't the Armored Titan anymore. He was just as broken as you were.

Then suddenly you moved, your arms wrapping around his waist, your face pressed against his chest as sobs wracked your body. You could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your cheek, so at odds with the broken man it belonged to.

For a terrible second, he remained frozen, and you thought you'd made a mistake. Then his arms came around you, tight and desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head as he buried his face in your hair. His body trembled against yours, and you realized he was crying too—silent, shuddering sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.

The stubborn shame that had kept you both at arm's length dissolved in the salt of your mingled tears. There, in the dim light of the cabin, with the gentle rocking of the ship beneath you and the uncertain future ahead, you held each other like the last two survivors of a shipwreck—broken, exhausted, but somehow still alive.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, holding each other in the dim light of the cabin, your tears gradually subsiding into uneven breaths. His arms around you felt both familiar and foreign—the shape of him changed, but the way he held you still the same.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to look up at him, your faces were inches apart. Your hands had somehow moved to his shoulders, feeling the unfamiliar angles where muscle had once been. His eyes, red-rimmed from crying, searched yours with a question he didn't dare voice.

"I still hate what you did," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I don't know if I can ever forgive that."

Reiner nodded slightly, accepting your words without defense. One of his hands had found its way to your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear from your cheek.

"But I don't know how to hate you," you admitted, the confession tearing itself from somewhere deep inside you. "I've tried for four years, and I just... can't."

Something flickered in his eyes—a spark of something you hadn't seen since before everything fell apart. Hope, maybe. Or longing.

You weren't sure who closed the distance. Maybe both of you, drawn together like the inevitable pull of gravity. His lips found yours in a kiss that was hesitant at first, as if he expected you to push him away. When you didn't—when instead you pressed closer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt—the hesitation gave way to a desperate need that matched your own.

Reiner's arms tightened around you, backing you against the wall beside the porthole. The cool glass pressed against your shoulder, a stark contrast to the heat of his body against yours. His kiss deepened, years of unspoken feelings pouring into it as his tongue met yours.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, longer now than you remembered. The scrape of his beard against your skin was new, and your heart skipped a beat at the way his breath hitched when you tugged gently at his hair.

When you pulled away again, breathless, his eyes were dark with a mixture of desire and pain. "I shouldn't be doing this," he whispered, even as his thumb traced circles on your hip. "After everything I've done..."

"Shut up," you murmured, pulling him back to you. "Just shut up, Reiner."

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob against your lips. "Still stubborn," he breathed.

Your hands tangled in his hair, eyes squeezed shut as you took in the feel of him. You were desperate, you knew. You felt pathetic, but you wanted him. Needed to be close to him.

"It's embarrassing how long I've wanted to do this," you murmured against his lips, your voice barely audible over the sound of your racing hearts.

His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed as he took an unsteady breath. "When we were back in training, that day in Stohess..." His voice was rough, trailing off as your lips found the curve of his jaw.

"Why didn't you kiss me then?" you asked, the question muffled against his skin.

Reiner's laugh was soft and broken. "I wanted to. Every second we were together." His hands slid down to your waist, anchoring you against him as if afraid you might disappear. "I told myself it was because of the mission. That I couldn't get distracted."

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your hand coming up to touch his face, feeling the unfamiliar texture of his beard beneath your fingertips. "And the real reason?"

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "I was afraid that if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. That I'd tell you everything." The admission seemed to cost him, his voice barely above a whisper. "And then you'd hate me."

"I did hate you," you said quietly. "When I found out."

His eyes clouded with pain, but he nodded. "I know."

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his again, more gently this time. "But I hated myself more for still wanting this. For still wanting you."

Reiner's response was to kiss you again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours more firmly against the wall. One hand tangled in your hair while the other gripped your hip, his touch both gentle and desperate. You could taste the salt of tears—whose, you weren't sure anymore—and something else, something uniquely him that you had tried so hard to forget.

The ship rocked with a stronger wave, causing you both to sway. Reiner's arm tightened around your waist, steadying you, and for a brief moment, you were back in the training grounds, his arms around you as he corrected your stance, his breath warm against your ear.

"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth, the words so quiet they might have been imagined. "Every day."

You didn't answer with words. You couldn't. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, alongside grief and betrayal and a hundred other emotions you couldn't name. But for now, in the dim light of the cabin with the sea stretching endlessly around you, you let yourself remember what it felt like to be in his arms.

Your lips found his again, harder this time, your teeth catching his lower lip in a way that made him groan. His hands tightened on you in response, lifting you slightly as he pressed you more firmly against the wall. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, years of longing and hurt and need pouring into it.

The world outside—Eren, the Rumbling, the fate that awaited all of you—seemed distant and unreal compared to the solid warmth of Reiner against you, the familiar-yet-different taste of his mouth, the sound of his ragged breathing mingling with your own.

This wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, tracing a path that made your breath catch, you realized it might be something like a beginning. A chance to finally confront all the things left unsaid between you, all the hurt and the betrayal, but also all the moments that had been real.

Reiner’s hands slid down your sides, fingers digging into your hips as he kissed you with a desperation that made your knees weak. The rough scrape of his beard against your skin sent shivers down your spine, and when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, you gasped—only for him to swallow the sound with another searing kiss.

This isn't at all how you expected your "talk" to go. Years of rehearsing different scripts in your head about how you'd tell him you hate him when you saw him, how you'd show him how it felt to feel betrayed and alone... All of those came crumbling down when he touched you like this, so gently but also so needy.

Not that the idea in general hadn't crossed your mind an embarrassing and pathetic amount of times. That, you couldn't deny. Since your cadet days you'd wondered what it would feel like with him, hoping he'd make a move. But he never did. Your heart skipped a beat when you felt the sadness well up inside you again, but that feeling quickly went away when he tilted his head to better kiss you.

His body pressed you harder against the wall, the heat of him searing through your clothes. You could feel the evidence of his arousal against your thigh, and the knowledge of how badly he wanted you—after all this time—sent a thrill through you.

Then, without warning, he broke the kiss, his breath ragged. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice rough.

You didn’t.

A low sound escaped him, something between a groan and a growl, before his hands tightened on your waist—and then he was lifting you, turning, and depositing you onto the narrow bunk behind you in one swift motion. The thin mattress barely cushioned the impact, but you barely had time to register it before Reiner was on his knees between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

His gaze flicked up to yours, searching, hesitant—like he still couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you.

"Please," he breathed, fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. "Let me taste you."

The raw need in his voice sent a jolt straight to your core. He was begging. Reiner—the man who had once been so confident, so sure of himself—was now on his knees for you, looking up at you like you were the only thing that could save him.

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. You also didn't expect it to go like this. The Reiner that you knew back then presented himself to be some kind of big leader, something you admired because of how he never seemed to let it go to his head. He was one of the strongest, but he was humble.

So seeing him like this, desperate between your legs, felt almost like culture shock.

But even so, being with him, feeling him, talking to him all felt so good. So good you could cry. "Okay," you breathed, nodding.

His fingers trembled slightly as he undid the fastenings of your pants, tugging them down your legs along with your underwear. Your cunt was already pathetically wet just from making out, and suddenly you just wanted to close your legs so he wouldn't see how much he affected you. Stubborn pride still warred inside you even now. The cool air of the cabin ghosted over your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Reiner’s breath as he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, making your heart swell.

Reiner’s hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing over the damp curls between them. His breath stuttered when he saw how wet you were, his fingers tracing your folds with agonizing slowness.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

He kissed at your inner thighs some more, almost like he just couldn't get enough of the simple action. He'd lick at them, suck them, anything. Reiner was willing to drag this out, it seemed.

"Has anyone ever done this for you before?" Reiner asked, his tone carrying a mix of emotions, staring up at you with his pretty hazel eyes as he kissed at the soft skin of your thighs. Deep down, he selfishly hoped no one else had gotten to see you like this—feel you like this.

Your breath hitched at the sight, unable to pull your gaze away and similarly unable to stop your arousal and need as you felt yourself wet the sheets beneath you even further. "I don't see how that's any of your business," you replied stubbornly, wanting to keep the small amount of control you still held.

That gave Reiner all the answer he needed. "Hm," he responded, careful not to anger you, careful not to upset you. but also understanding and seeing just how much you wanted this—wanted him. And equally he was exceptionally aware of the way his cock twitched in his pants, desperate to make you feel good, desperate to feel your thighs around his head and your fingers against his scalp, desperate to hear you in these moments he's imagined you in so many times.

Reiner didn’t wait for another teasing remark from you—his mouth was on you in an instant, his tongue dragging a slow, filthy stripe up your soaked cunt, groaning against you like he’d been starving for this. The sound alone made your back arch off the bunk, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as his hands clamped down on your thighs, holding you open for him.

He was messy—no finesse, no practiced rhythm, just pure, desperate hunger. His tongue lapped at you like he was trying to memorize your taste, his nose pressing against your clit as he buried his face between your legs. Every flick of his tongue was sloppy, wet, loud, the obscene sounds of his mouth working you filling the tiny cabin. You could feel his stubble scraping against your sensitive skin, the rough drag only making the pleasure sharper, more overwhelming.

“Fuck—Reiner—” Your fingers tangled in his blonde hair, gripping hard as his tongue circled your clit before sucking it between his lips. His groan vibrated through you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips up, giving him better access as he devoured you.

He was relentless, like he’d been waiting years for this—because he had. Every muffled sound he made against your cunt, every time his tongue plunged inside you only to drag back up, every time his lips sealed around your clit to suck—it was all too much, and yet you never wanted it to stop.

His enthusiasm was almost embarrassing, the way he moaned into you like he was the one being pleasured, his hips moving against his hand as he rubbed his cock through his pants. You could feel the wetness of your own arousal smeared across his chin, and the sight alone had your thighs trembling around his head.

Drool mixed with your arousal, dripping down his chin as he ate you out like a man possessed. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, keeping you open for him as his tongue plunged inside you, fucking into you with rough, eager strokes before retreating to suck your clit again.

"Taste so good," he panted against you, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, fuck, I knew you would—"

His words cut off into a groan as he redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit before he sealed his lips around it again, sucking hard. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on you filled the cabin, obscene and perfect, and you could feel the way his hips rocked slightly against the bunk, rutting into nothing as he got off on just tasting you.

"Been thinking about this—" he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in, his tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "—every night—"

His fingers dug into your thighs, leaving marks as he held you down, refusing to let you squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.

"Close," you choked out, your hips jerking against his mouth. "I’m so close—"

Reiner growled, the sound vibrating through you as he sucked your clit into his mouth one last time, his tongue flicking over it rapidly—

And then you were coming, your back bowing off the bunk as pleasure crashed through you in waves. He didn’t let up, licking you through it, swallowing every drop of you as you shuddered and gasped above him.

When you finally went limp, panting, he pulled back just enough to look up at you.

His chest heaved, his eyes dark with need. But above that, it was like he needed some confirmation he did good.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Are you okay?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him up your body until his weight settled over you, pressing you deeper into the thin mattress. His skin was fever-hot, his muscles taut with restraint, but his eyes—those damn hazel eyes—were soft, almost reverent, as he looked down at you.

You didn't answer, not verbally at least.

Your hand slid into his hair, gripping tight as you dragged his mouth to yours, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. A rough groan tore from his throat, his hips jerking forward instinctively, the hard length of his cock grinding against your still-sensitive clit through his pants.

His groan was muffled against your mouth as you licked into him, your fingers tightening in his hair. You could feel the way his body shuddered when you nipped at his bottom lip, the way his hips jerked forward instinctively, grinding his cock—so fucking hard against your thigh.

“God, you’re—” His voice broke as you kissed him again, rougher this time, your teeth dragging over his lip. His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. “Fuck, I need—please—”

"Reiner," you breathed, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Please fuck me."

You could feel it—the way his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against your mouth. His hands fumbled with his belt, his fingers shaking as he undid the buckle, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and aching for you.

Reiner didn’t waste another second.

He hooked his hands under your knees, spreading you wider, his gaze locked on where your slick glistened between your thighs. His breath hitched, his cock twitching against your stomach as he lined himself up, the blunt head pressing against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough.

You did.

His eyes burned into yours as he pushed inside, slow, so agonizingly slow, his jaw clenched tight as he fought to keep control. The stretch was delicious, the way your walls fluttered around him making his hips stutter.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. “You feel—Christ—you feel even better than I imagined.”

And then he was seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt. For a moment, neither of you moved—just breathed, just felt, the weight of years of longing crashing over you both.

Then—because he needed to see it, needed to know this was real—he leaned back on his heels, pulling out almost all the way just to watch the way your cunt clung to him, glistening and desperate, before slamming back in. His cock disappeared inside you, your wetness coating his dick as your body stretched to take him.

The sound you made was sinful.

Reiner’s hips snapped forward again, harder this time, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that made your toes curl. His grip shifted from your wrist to your hip, holding you in place as he fucked into you with slow, deep strokes—like he was savoring every second, like he wanted to memorize the way your body took him.

His dick glistened with your arousal, disappearing inside you with each thrust, your cunt gripping him like it was made for him. He couldn’t look away—couldn’t stop the way his breath hitched as he watched himself fuck into you, over and over, your body taking him so perfectly.

Reiner’s rhythm was relentless, each deep stroke dragging a gasp from your lips. His broad palm slid down your stomach, fingers gliding through your slick until his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, rough circles that made your toes curl.

"There you go," he murmured, voice thick with praise as he watched your face twist in pleasure. "So fucking pretty when you take me like this. Can’t believe you’re real—can’t believe I get to have you."

You whimpered, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, for everything. Reiner moaned at the way your body clenched around him, his thumb pressing harder against your clit.

"Love the way you take me," he panted, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. "Like you were made for me, huh? Made to take my cock just like this—shit—"

Then, without warning, he leaned forward, his chest pressing flush against yours, his weight pinning you completely beneath him. The new angle made him sink deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that had your vision whiting out for a second.

"There," he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. "That’s it, sweetheart. Let me have you just like this—fuck—"

His thrusts turned slower but impossibly harder, each one dragging a broken moan from your lips. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you again, swallowing your gasps like he needed them to survive.

He braced himself above you, muscles taut, sweat glistening on his skin as he watched your face—every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-off moan—like he was memorizing you all over again.

His hips rolled into yours with a deep, almost reverent grind, pressing so deep you could feel him in your ribs. Your breath hitched as he lingered there, his tip nudging that perfect, aching spot inside you before pulling back with a slow, torturous drag that made your toes curl.

"Feel how deep I am?" he breathed, his fingers tightening on your hip as he rocked into you again, slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. "Fuck, you’re perfect."

His voice was wrecked, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. But he didn’t rush—just kept moving inside you with that same maddening pace, every thrust a sweet torment.

"Could stay like this forever," he admitted, his lips brushing your jaw. "Just like this—buried inside you, feeling you clench around me like you never wanna let me go."

"Reiner," you whined.

"I've got you," he responded, hips never stopping.

And when your back arched, your body tightening around him, he didn’t speed up—just kept fucking you through it, his lips pressed to your neck, whispering praise as pleasure washed over you in waves.

Reiner’s thrusts grew more erratic, his control slipping as your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper with each desperate clench. His breath came in ragged gasps, his forehead pressed against yours as he fought to hold on just a little longer.

“I—fuck—I’m close,” he groaned, his voice rough with need. His fingers dug into your hips, his rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled tight in his gut.

You arched beneath him, nails scraping down his back as you panted, “Inside… please, Reiner—I want you to cum inside me.”

His entire body tensed at your words, a shudder running through him. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark with lust and something dangerously close to worship.

“Are you—fuck—are you sure?” he rasped, hips stuttering as he struggled to keep his pace steady.

You nodded, biting your lip as you clenched around him deliberately, drawing a broken groan from his lips.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Want to feel you—all of you.”

That was all it took.

Reiner’s restraint shattered.

"Fuck—gonna fill you up so good," he panted, his forehead dropping against yours. "Gonna make sure you feel it—"

You clenched around him, your own climax building again, and he cursed, his rhythm faltering.

"Come with me," he demanded, his voice wrecked. "Wanna feel you cum on my cock while I’m deep inside you—fuck—please—"

His words tipped you over the edge. Pleasure crashed through you, your body tightening around him in waves, and Reiner lost it.

With a growl that was almost feral, he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulsed inside you, hot and thick. His body shuddered violently, his fingers gripping you like a lifeline as he spilled deep, his release filling you in waves.

You could feel him pulsing inside you, his cock twitching as he rode out his orgasm, his forehead pressed to yours. When he finally stilled, he didn’t pull away—just stayed there, his body heavy and warm against yours, his breath slowly steadying.

After a long moment, he lifted his head, his gaze soft as he brushed a sweaty strand of hair from your face.

"Okay?" he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

You nodded, your fingers lazily tracing the muscles of his back.

Reiner exhaled, something like relief—or maybe wonder—flickering in his eyes before he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

"Good," he murmured against your mouth.

You lay in comfortable silence for what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Reiner's weight pressing you into the thin mattress, his breath warm against your neck. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, as though memorizing the feel of you. Neither of you wanted to break the spell, to acknowledge the world waiting outside this small cabin.

"I love you," you whispered finally, the words escaping before you could think better of them. They hung in the air between you, raw and honest.

Reiner stilled, his breath catching. Slowly, he raised himself up on his elbows to look at you, his hazel eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart skip. For a terrible moment, you thought you'd said too much, revealed too much of yourself to someone who had once betrayed you.

But then his expression softened, a genuine smile—one you hadn't seen in years—spreading across his face. "I love you too," he said, his voice steady and sure. "I always have."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. "I know it doesn't change anything," he murmured. "I know it doesn't make up for what I did. But it's true."

His eyes grew serious again. "Whatever happens with Eren, with the Rumbling… I'm going to protect you. I promise."

Before you could respond, a sharp knock at the door made you both jump.

"Hey, you two done?" Connie's voice called through the thin wood. "There's food up on the deck if you're interested. Kinda limited, but better than nothing."

You and Reiner exchanged wide-eyed looks before scrambling to get dressed, movements frantic and clumsy in the small space. Your fingers fumbled with buttons and clasps as you tried to make yourselves presentable.

"Uh, yeah," Reiner called back, his voice remarkably steady considering his panicked expression. "We'll be right there."

You could hear the smirk in Connie's voice as he replied, "Take your time. Not like we can hear everything through these paper-thin walls or anything."

Your face burned as you hurriedly tucked in your shirt. Reiner looked equally mortified, though a small, almost boyish grin played at the corners of his mouth when your eyes met.

"Ready?" he asked softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the door. Connie was waiting in the narrow corridor, a knowing grin splitting his face. Without a word, he turned and headed up the stairs, gesturing for you both to follow.

Reiner went first, and you couldn't help but notice the way Connie immediately engaged him in animated conversation as they climbed, acting as though nothing unusual had happened at all. Their voices faded slightly as they reached the deck above.

Jean appeared at your side as you finished climbing the stairs.

"So," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I take it the talk went well?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "Yeah, really well," you replied, hoping that Connie was just teasing and no one else heard a thing.

"I just mean," he continued, a stupid and annoying grin on your face, "when I suggested you two clear the air, I didn't necessarily mean you should bring down the whole ship with your—"

Your face burned with embarrassment and fury. "I will literally throw you overboard, Jean," you hissed, shoving his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble back. "I swear to God—"

Jean laughed, ducking away from your next swing. "Hey, I'm happy for you guys! Honestly!" He held up his hands in surrender, still grinning as he backed up the stairs. "Just doing my part as your friend to give you shit about it."

[catgirljaneway]

professors love me because of my swag! (brings up star trek at least once per class, but is it really my fault that star trek is such a large body of work that so much of it can apply to so many places)

[pizzapartyplayhouse]

people who say "how is anyone supposed to take Guy Gardner seriously with that haircut" are forgetting the crucial bit of information that the man has a Baltimore accent. There Are Bigger Fish To Fry

[musteilss]

Draw your fav with your problems

[lovergf]

There should be special protections for dykes who don’t care about heated rivalry

[stra-tek]

[bornwithoutaname]

sandor clegane needs to touch me inappropriately

[pamurpamur]

Sandor who lives in some hut he’s been rebuilding while working as a (idk big sexy man job!!!) and one night he’s awoken by a woman who’s clearly seen better days and when he fights off the men who chased her he lets her sleep in the hut and then wakes up to her cleaning or something

And maybe reader is plus-sized idk

(Also idk how much detail to give with this stuff so feel free to add/leave out whatever)

(THANKS AND I LOVE SANDOR AND YOUR VOICE IN YOUR WRITING!!!)

A Strange Kind Of Honor

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Pairing: Sandor Clegane X Fem!Reader

Tags: Damsel in distress, Injuries, reader is plus sized (heavily implied), Sandor being kinda problematic (canon accurate imo), fluff, injury recovery, kissing, getting together sort of, short and sweet, just a bit of banter, domesticity, very canon divergent, not beta read. slightly OOC Sandor maybe? I'll let you be the judge, kinda plotless somehow, romance

Plot: The rebellion was a mockery, it fell through and Sandor has since retired away from the Westerlands to escape the wrath of his brother and the control of the Lannisters. For many years he has lived in a cabin at the edges of the most desolate countryside. Many years he has spent in blissed silence and quiet, with no sniveling cunts to account for and his wood chopping to sustain him. That is until a late fall night that will change things forever for the bloody hound, handing him the responsibility of looking after an injured and exhausted woman who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, hunted down by soldiers.  Is change all that bad?

Warnings: I wanted this to be sweet but without being too similiar to softer days in tone, so maybe I made Sandor a bit of a meanie, I am on a mean Sandor STREAK. ALSO i have been playing a lot of rdr2 and while writing I kept hearing Arthur Morgan's voice and not Sandor's and it was throwing me off, I hope he doesn't sound too OOC

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Sandor snuffed out the lights about three hours ago. He surrendered to the creaking of his bed, and the smell of wet wool of his breeches drying where he hung them above the door.

It’s dark, yet his eyes keep tracing what little he can see of the beams above him. His chest rumbles with a groan, maybe directed to the gods above. Despite so many years spent away from the Westerlands he sometimes hallucinates another time, another place, the wooden walls become stone, the knots in the wood planks become bricks the size of a fist, climbing up in a narrow tower.

His eyes close. But he can't chase sleep, it’s elusive, like fighting with some flighty squire. He misses a good fight. His sword lays in the corner of the hut, propped against a wall, the blade is dull and he hasn’t bothered to sharpen it in a long time. Not since the illusion of change crashed and Westeros went back to its old ways. 

He tries to sleep again, rolling on his side and propping his head up on a thin pillow. 

Suddenly there is a great deal of noise, clanking of armor, shouts, dogs. Sandor frowns. If someone wants to die tonight by crossing through his land he will make sure they get their wish.

He sits up in bed, his hand reaches for the blade. He would opt for his axe if the voices weren’t so many. The shouting is almost impossible to make sense of, but he knows soldiers from the inflection alone. Vulgar, loud, grating. Just like him.

He stands then, the wood creaks and he rolls back his shoulders like a ram about to slam his head into stone. Gods he has missed this, his sword arm tightens then loosens like a well oiled spring.

There is insistent slamming on his door.

“Help! Help please! Help me!” Comes a cry between the banging on the wood, it is the voice of a woman, wet with tears and thick, like something lodged into her throat. The yelling outside roars, suddenly the men circling the hut start rushing to the door, having spotted their game. Dogs bark, angry, with spittle dripping down their maws.

Sandor knows the noise better than any other cunt in Westeros. The creaking of his bones sounds akin to the howling.

It is the Bloody Hound that stands up from the bed, his body unclenching from the discomfort of sleep, his head rolls side to side, he can feel his tendons under the skin, tight like ropes, knotted and ready for a fight.

Sandor rips open the heavy door and grabs the woman. She stumbles inside with a gasp, and he makes quick work of pressing a hand against her mouth to shut her up. 

He doesn’t try to look at her too much, she looks like any other woman, with a heap of hair that came loose from her hairstyle and a pair of crazed eyes that shine in what little light is coming in, sweat trickles down her temples, flattening the strands of hair to her forehead like a thousand veins popping up from under the skin. S

he gasps against his palm and he feels the hot brush of her breath on his callouses, her lips are dry and scratch against his coarse skin.  She struggles for a moment, like a fish about to die, before she realizes he doesn't want to kill her. One of her hands tries to hold onto him but he is quick to react.

His sword is heavy in his hand as he presses his wrist to the sturdy oak of the doorframe and leans forwards to peer out the door. He shoves her to the side and breathes deeply, preparing himself for the fight. 

Outside there must be at least seven of them, some stand further away, on the hillside, holding the horses and the dogs. Two of them are searching his land, one hopped over the fencing around the garden, another one is inching towards the door, with eyes like an animal. Sandor scoffs, he is good at playing animal too. The woman is blissfully silent. Sandor slips a knife into his belt and rolls up his sleeves.

He had been aching for a tumble, and the gods provided.

——————

Once he successfully scared all of the soldiers off he comes back into the hut to find the woman passed out right on his cot. 

She is not wearing shoes, and her dress sports a considerable rip from the hem all the way to the middle of her thigh, she has tried to cover up with a ratty woolen shaw before passing out it seems.

He scoffs. Then he comes closer.

Sandor hates a lot of things, most of all he hates damsells in distress and wet dicked fuckers who think it is their calling to save them.

He is none of that. He is the one who hunts and chases. He is the men who drove her here. He is the monster in the story, not the simpering savior. He has no taste for saving wenches from hordes of men, yet here he is. 

He imagines she must be a prostitute, or a country girl, although he can’t tell, for this far into the county they dress all similar and no one has any interest in bathing their whores in gold and perfume like back in the Capital. 

She fills her home spun very well, she lays on her side so that the round of her hip draws a wave on the backdrop of the dark wood of the wall. 

Sandor has his cot pushed into the corner, some habits die hard, and he can’t quite chase away the feeling of danger even all the way here. Yet it is the first time he sees it filled by someone, and the hut suddenly feels smaller, tighter.

The bed is mostly in the dark, and he has to move his frame to let the light bathe her, caressing the skin and the fabric of her dress, her features peek out more clearly, the curve of her cheek, the soft lines of her arms. 

Sandor frowns, mean and ugly. 

He has become too used to his own company. 

She breathes hard, her lips parted, one of her eyes is swollen, a big bruise yellowing and reddening and turning purple and ugly under her eye socket.

Some men are not content with hunting deer and boar, some men like their game scared and screaming. They set off girls like foxes and chase them on their horses, swinging swords madly and yelling to direct them through forests. It is a taste that soldiers and nobles share, that of hunting maidens.

Sandor never had any interest in stupid and vile games of the sort. Killing is the only mercy he knows how to show, and he needs not stupid fanfare to be evil, he has started being this way early in life.

He doesn’t like company, and he doesn’t want to nurse a wench back to health like some fool from a romance.

He rips some old woolen cloaks from the shelf in the left corner and throws them on the ground, he places his axe next to him, lays down, and falls asleep at last.

——————-

The morning flutters inside the hut on thin dragonfly wings. Sandor opens his eyes when he hears a clanking sound, not unlike armor, it gets sharper as his mind wakes up, barking at him to be alert.

Of his dreams he remembers only a golden field of grass and sun rising down from a too bright sky. Screams, and the balconies of King's Landing jutting out from the walls of Clegane's Keep.

His peers one eye open from where he propped himself to sleep on the floor. His neck aches, but he makes no show of discomfort.

The woman is still here, she has shrugged one of his old tunics above her dress to cover herself up and synced it with her shawl. She is cleaning his old stew pot while sitting on the stone step of his hearth.

He grumbles and stands up.

“What is it you are doing, woman?!” He barks and she jumps up, spinning around to face him.

The bruise has gotten uglier, under her eyes, it bloomed and is now streaked in visible if thin red veins, there are some capillaries that burst right underneath her eyes, a thousands specks of red bleeding into the skin and up to her cheekbones, indicating some sort of struggle. Maybe they tried to choke her out, or she suffocated by some other means.

“I-I-…” she mutters, her hands quickly hooking the stew pot back on the hearth and her shoulders shaking under the chemise. 

He looks at her, his eyes mean, his brow pulled low. She looks at his burn scar. He guesses she must have seen it already while he was asleep, but now she traces its movement, the ribbing of flesh, the vines of skin drawing a gruesome pattern over his sideprofile. He lifts his neck even higher and her eyes drop back down in a last ditch attempt at politeness.

He lets the hair dangle over his burned side. Even when he is alone he never forgets his ugliness, how could he? When it becomes too hot it burns, when it is too cold it goes numb faster tan his toes, he can’t feel the skin most of the time, and sometimes he feels the fire on his skin all over again. Gregor's work is always there, hunting him, from deep beneath his thoughts.

“Why are you touching my stuff, huh?” He says then, tone accusatory, she squirms “-And wearing my clothes—“ his hand plucks at her sleeve and then pulls her arm close, prying the cloth she was using to scrub right off her fingers. 

She seizes up, looking panicked.

“I apologize” she has a thick accent, something weird, maybe from the north.

“Of course you do.” he answers, she cannot meet his eyes any longer and looks down at her bare feet in embarrassment.

“I wanted to do something to thank you,” she says. Her cheeks are plump but dull, her face is round, she is a pretty thing, maybe too pretty for a common country wench.

 Although he can’t tell for sure where she comes from he can tell she is not from here, she surely had food to eat, more than measly farmers in this rotten lands could have on their plate, but she doesn’t have the cunning of a prostitute either. She lacks the shine of them, and the sense of self preservation it seems.

Sandor doesn’t care if his assessment is mean, she is just a weird woman,  and since she dropped in here like so, scampering away from a group of bastards like a fawn spurred by hunting dogs, and he saved her fine arse from them, he can be as mean as he likes. 

“I- I meant no offense” she adds.

He straightens up, but his gaze doesn’t soften, it is so sharp it almost hurts, he can see where it stabs her and makes her shift on her feet in fear. She cups her own cheek with a cold palm, soothing away her embarrassment. 

“Once every three days a farmer passes by on his cart, you’ll have to hitch a ride back to where you came from” Says Sandor, there, done, give her a way out and be done with it. 

She looks at him, surprised, and attempts to conceal a wince when her eyes widen and pull at the bruise on her face.

“When will that be?” She asks, swallowing whatever other question she may have. 

“Two days” He says, then shoves past her and gathers his axe. “If you touch anything in here, or steal anything, I’ll make you regret not being caught by those cunts the other day” He threatens. Her eyes widen, but she nods in obedient understanding anyways.

She’d be a fool to test her luck now.

 Sandor hasn’t been doing much killing and chasing in the past years, but she can’t tell that from looks alone. He is still huge, tall, mean and ugly. That’s all that matters.

—————-

That annoying little woman can’t seem to keep her hands to herself. She keeps tidying up his cabin, which he doesn’t want her to do. Maybe he was right about her having no sense of self preservation 

“If I put it there, I want it there” he barks as she adjusts his jars of condiments.

“If you open the door too much they’ll get knocked off” she points out. He knows of course but that’s none of her business. 

“Sit your ass down” he growls and she obliges. 

Sandor’s scary arse has always worked in his favor, but maybe this specific pretty thing hit her head too hard because she keeps testing his patience. Today she has been nagging him about his plan to prop her on a turnip cart and let her fuck off away from here.

“I can’t really go back-“ she starts again. He almost rolls his eyes. 

“Too damn bad” he grumbles. 

“I’ve worked for an important lady, a dancer, Milica was her name, from beyond the narrow sea. She was well known in all courts– But there is no way I can go back–” 

“A whore” he says just to get her angry. Her eyes widen comically and she shakes her head, pudgy cheeks going red. 

“Not at all—a dancer ser, a dancer” she repeats “but the men who came for her…she contracted debts, that is why-”

Sandor rolls his eyes dramatically. Then looks at her, the bruise on her face has become swollen and mean looking, the yellow flare has bloomed larger and reached further down to her cheek. The red capillaries are still there, dotting her face in an ugly array of blemishes.

“I can’t go back, she must be in prison or under trial” her hands join together “I- umm— I can do very good work, I’m sturdy.” She says. 

“I can see that.” he says in a bite of food. 

“I can work around the cabin, you need a woman’s touch to keep it clean”

His eyebrow twitch in annoyance. She really must be stupid.

“Says who? Huh? The wench who ran up to me with hunting dogs at her heels, who said I wanted to keep you as a pet huh? It is a lot i didn’t leave you to be eaten” He mumbles.

“Oh but you did not!” she says joining her hands together at her chest “I don’t ask for wages, just a place to stay,” she insists.

“Are you daft?! I said no.”

“I beg of ye!” She says and suddenly stands, hands braced on the table. “Oh, I have nowhere to go ser, nowhere! And no one to help me. You have been so kind just allow me to try” 

Sandor grumbles into his food. He suddenly doesn’t feel like refusing her a fourth time. When has he gotten this stupid? He isn’t sure.

“Just sit your arse down woman, I’ll think about it” he says and she goes back to sitting. “Fucking cunt” he adds for good measure and focuses back on his food. 

She is lucky she is pretty. She is lucky he is a sad, sad son of a bitch.

————-

The mule sways side to side as she guides it towards the nearby town. Sandor told her they are running out of wine and condiments, and she has to ride into town for him and make purchases on his tab. 

It was clear the man didn’t trust her with his money, but she is glad he trusts her even just with his mule. 

Sandor has been standoffish, so slow to warm up, like a huge ice giant, a product of some wildling’s story. She had never seen a man such as him before, so tall and so brash and so scary.

Yet, she told herself, she ought not to be scared of him. She had found a certain softness hidden behind the brashness. Not the kind of kindness one is taught to spot and to admire, but a strange kind, one that took the color of the world around it, one spoiled and rotten and left to melt in the sun like a ripe fruit. 

A strange bittersweet thing. Honor maybe, more than kindness. A grotesque kind of honor, but honor nonetheless. He may not have been sweet, or particularly welcoming in his words and his ways but— he always was in his actions. He has given her a place to stay, fixed her a mattress of straw and old woolen blankets. He has given her old fabric to repair her dress, and when asked guided her to the stream to show her where to bathe. 

To her that was enough proof not to write him off as a brute, even when he acted much like one. And smelled like one, for most part.

And besides, she is in need of a place to stay, whether with a nice host or not.

 He lets her stay, and he doesn’t ask any strange chore of her, and most times her days are spent in lonely silence or silent company. That is all well, mayhaps better than she deserved after helping her lady with stealing those golden dragons from that awful man.

She was never a thief, and surely the gods are frowning down on her and planning to send her to the hells for what she did. But had she not done it she would have been chased off by her lady way sooner, if she refused then she would have lost her trust and her occupation along with it.

No matter what, she guesses, she would have lost something. Maybe it is just the way things had to go, she had to run, and she was lucky enough to find the lumberjack in the first place.

The mule shakes his big head side to side, shrugging off the insects buzzing among the trees. It is a cold day, and no matter how she bundles up, or pulls her shawl to her neck, the cold sleeps below the hem of her dress and tickles her legs where they straddle the rough saddle.

Her eyes squint, the icy wind blowing in her face.

She thinks of Sandor again, the great ice giant, the big bear of a man she shares the hut with. She dares not share these thoughts with him, fearing he would be truly angry at her if she did, or think it insulting if he knew she makes such strange comparisons when thinking of him. 

Her face colors, rising in heat and this time not for the cold. The mule’s ears flicker again, this time flattening against the wind’s huffing and puffing.

“He is quite handsome, is he not?” She mutters to herself. The woods do not respond and neither does the mule. She blushes, thinking about what the other girls she used to work with would think of her.

She never had much luck with men, but then again, the men that approached her and her lady were no good. Her lady liked them, and she guesses she also was good at giving them what they wanted to procure herself more golden dragons and more shows. 

But she has always found them rather unattractive. Salacious, like vipers or snakes, always hissing, smiling. She avoided them best she could, even when tempted with favors and money.

But those were good looking men, with brushed and fine hair, with faces whole, with shiny eyes and shiny golden buckles.

Her mouth twists. Mayhaps it is just because he saved her that her mind started brewing some strange notions. Or even boredom. Or perhaps she just is a silly weird thing, as they used to say back when she still worked for her lady. 

“Do you think so?” She asks out loud. The mule doesn’t respond.

“Well…nothing’s to come of it anyways, isn’t it? So why should I worry?” she asks the wind. 

The edges of the town appear in the distance, brown and not dissimilar from jagged old stones. She breathes and pulls her shawl over her head to cover herself better.

She is glad she was allowed to roam, the cabin had become stifling.

She can indulge in a bit more than just mere chores, she decides. Sandor won’t mind anyways.

————-

The wind sweeps below the grass, moving it like the ocean, moving the ocean as if it was grass. It catches the light, and reflects a thousand glittering specks over the land. It blows great mouthfuls of air over the cabin, making it rattle above their heads.

Sandor has come back with the wood about an hour ago, the woman has been cooking, and the smell of stewed hare has invaded the living space.

She is tense, more than usual. He hasn’t been kind but he hasn’t kicked her out either. 

He sends her to the market and to buy him whatever is needed when he doesn’t have time to get to the city. This has been happening for over two weeks now, and the routine doesn’t seem to change much. Today she went to the city as well, and scored some good wine for a low price. He wonders if the secret to that is a pretty face, something he has been lacking his whole life, and knows not the benefits of. 

Well, to hells with that. He gets good wine for cheap. 

She can’t ride Stranger, but he has an old mule that is more than happy to trot into town when needed.

He initially didn’t trust her with money, but nowadays he lets her carry coppers to buy what she thinks needs buying for his place. She seems to have a clearer idea than him about that. 

Maybe it is not so bad to have someone look after this place. His sheets are cleaner, his belly is full, and the silence is a bit less eerie.

But Sandor still favors his loneliness, and spends most days away in the woods chopping at the trees and collecting the wood to sell.

“Why are you so tense? You look like you need to take a shit, girl.” He says. She frowns, obviously not finding it funny.

“I– I was in the market” SHe starts, eyeing the door before she fills his bowl with stew, he takes it and places it on her side of the table, then gets himself a portion of his liking. 

“I know that” He grumbles, his eyes riding up her shape.

“I… Some of the soldiers were in town, although they did not recognize me. I hope.”

His eyes squint. 

“The ones who hunted you down?” He says. She nods. “You ain’t telling me the whole truth are you?” His legs spread, he leans back in his chair, it creaks against his back, his hands settle on his thighs. She eyes him and drops her eyes back down. 

“They are after stolen money, although… I don’t have it.” She murmurs. 

He scoffs. 

“I ain’t a thief!” She immediately defends and he scoffs even louder, throwing a cup of wine back.

“Sure you ain’t.” 

“I really am not!” She insists, her eyes wide and pleading “I had to, you’ll understand, I had no other choice” She says.

He looks at her from below the stringy and ugly drape of his hair. “I understand, little bird. I do” He says. Then silence befalls them, she loses some of her tension, her shoulders softening again, until the round arch of them goes back to looking plush and warm where it juts out her dress.

“Yes but… are you not distrustful now?” She says. His eyes are distant for a moment and then his lips twitch in what may be a smile as much as it may be a frown.

“You have no idea what you are dining with,” he says. Then looks back at her. Her eyes are kind, compassionate and soft, her lips open just a bit to show a peek of white teeth behind. He shakes his head.

“They are not coming for you.” He says “Come eat now!” He gestures to her stool and she rushes to sit down. 

“I apologize.” She stutters, face red in embarrassment.

“I know.” Is his only answer. 

—---------

She must be imagining things, or maybe she truly went crazy after that terrible night with the dogs, when she ran so far, and hurt so terribly for hours.

But she cannot help but think that Sandor has taken a shine to her. It started that night when she embarrassingly confessed to her crimes. He seemed not to care. Maybe it was stupid for her to worry in the first place, considering she saw the sword and armor many weeks back while cleaning. He too must have seen his share of sins, things she probably can scarcely imagine. Things her former lady could never measure up to.

That night changed something in the air, the way he acts now seems to hint at– gods forgive her– some sort of affection. 

He hasn’t insulted her in a few days, that she is sure of, for she has kept a careful score of his speech. He hasn’t even tried to call her lady a whore for a while, even if she can read it in his stormy eyes that he wants to. 

He has double stuffed her straw mattress when she complained about it being too thin and went off into town to but her rosemary when she forgot it on her regular trip. 

And his hands have been roaming, clutching her arms, pulling at her, moving her around. Despite what she had hoped in the early days of her stay here her strange attraction for the man has not dimmed, and laughably she has started finding him even more attractive when he started touching her so often.

Some signs are more subtle, but she can’t help but read them in a strangely romantic light. That is why he is barking in her face now, and she can only smile softly into her shoulder. 

“Are you even listening?!” He huffs “You can’t go climbing up there, not even to clean” He scoffs. He has caught her trying to sweep at the spiderweb on the trim of the straw roof. And now he is fussing, in his own very brash way.

“What are you grinning for, you loony moron?” He adds, she shakes her head.

“I apologize” She says and he almost groans. 

“Shut your mouth” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. So she keeps talking.

“It’s just that… Spiders keep dropping on my head” She says and he groans.

“We can’t have that, huh?” He mocks and she stiffens.

“Well, no.” She says. He rubs his face in irritation. 

His hands hook in his belt again, he stands even taller, and she thinks for a moment he may knock his head against the roof that way. But no, the cabin is very much Sandor sized, the door is taller than the average door. Noticing that detail alone makes her blush.

“It is a wonder I haven’t thrown you on that turnip cart by now” He says. “Annoying little creature you are” He adds. She blushes and smiles, Sandor gets a peek of that and his eyebrows pull low.

“What are you up to, huh?” He says. She shakes her head again, wordlessly. 

It’s a split second decision, she leans up for a kiss. Her lips on his scruffy beard.

The imprint of her lips is soft, he feels them caress his skin then her breath blows over it as she drops back down. No more than a couple of seconds

Sandor blinks down at her and shakes his head. She smiles sheepishly.

“Thank you…for helping me and keeping me”

“You thank all men like that, or just the vile ones?” He asks, unimpressed, at least on the surface. His eyes are mean, but something slithers beneath his words, beneath the gates of his heart, something clamors for freedom. Something new, both young and old.

She smiles.

“Only the ones I fancy” she says. He scoffs.

“Did your lady teach you to do that?” He looks away, feigning irritation. She doesn’t buy it anymore.

“I taught myself.”

“Sure thing, daft, foolish woman” he grunts back. Then one of his hands rises and cups the back of her head, his fingers sweep over the soft, fine hair at the nape of her neck. His mouth pulls in a strange smile, one most would interpret as a threat.

“Sure thing” he murmurs at last, then his face dips in the side of her neck, where it smells of lavender and it smells of her too. Where the skin is warm, wet, soft.

She can’t help but think he is a strange sort of man, but after all she is a strange sort of woman. 

Silence befalls the whole world, for a long minute, not one soul in Westeros speaks a word. Then, the wind blows again, playing the edges of the rocky Mountains like a fine fiddler, and she smiles.

 His next kiss tastes of honey and wine, her lips taste like the night air. Time slips by, and neither can tell.

Perhaps there is space here for someone more, just below his old ribs. Just one person, and no more after that. 

[teatitty]

Every time Barry leaves Central to help deal with somebody else's villain he comes back to the Rogues holding up a massive "WELCOME HOME CHEATER" banner and glaring at him like a group of jilted lovers