lucy

.ᐟ I write sometimes .ᐟ

[lucyyx3x]

݁ ⟡ ݁ . .ᐟ  masterlist .ᐟ  ݁ ⟡ ݁⊹

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hello there ݁ ⟡ ݁ my name is Lucy, I'm 25 and and my niche is writing stuff about the AOT men :') (mostly Reiner...<3)

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Attack On Titan:

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A Gentleman’s Pursuit (Bridgerton AU)

involving: Female! reader x Eren Yeager, Jean Kirstein, Reiner Braun, Armin Arlert, Connie Springer, Erwin Smith, Levi Ackerman !multiple part series!

part I. part II. part III. part IV. part V.

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A Knights Honour (Royalty AU)

involving: Knight! Reiner Braun x Female! reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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The Gladiator (Ancient Rome AU)

involving: Gladiator! Reiner Braun x Female! reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

part I. part II.

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Two Crowns (Royalty AU)

involving: Prince! Reiner Braun x Princess! Reader x Prince! Jean Kirstein !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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One Night Only (AU)

involving: Rockstar! Reiner Braun x Female! reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

part I. part II.

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Night Shift (College AU)

involving: Football Captain! Reiner Braun x Radio Host! Reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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Knockdown (Modern AU)

involving: Boxer! Reiner Braun x F. Reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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My King (Royalty AU)

involving: King! Reiner Braun x Queen! Reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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Red Flag (Modern AU)

involving: Racer! Reiner Braun x Flag Girl! Reader x Racer! Jean Kirstein (NSFW!)

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Needy! Reiner Braun x Female! reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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Come Back To Me

involving: Reiner Braun x Female! reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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I Missed You

involving: Post Rumbling! Reiner Braun x Female! reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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Come Find Me When It's Over

involving: Reiner Braun x Female! reader !oneshot!

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What We Survived For

involving: Post Rumbling! Reiner Braun x Female! reader !oneshot! (NSFW!)

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[lucyyx3x]

Nightmares ✦ Attack on Titan✦

.ᐟ Post Rumbling! Reiner Braun x F! Reader .ᐟ

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Reiner Braun x F! Reader (oneshot!)

summary: After another nightmare drags Reiner back to the rumbling, he wakes up terrified that he's lost you. But safe in your arms, he finds comfort in the one person who reminds him that some things are worth holding onto.

a/n: I have received some of the nicest and sweetest messages ever recently from people complimenting my writing and it makes me so happy I'm so glad people enjoy it :') thank u to everyone who reads my stuff I love u all very much :) anyway hope u all enjoy this one >:)

wc: 3.8K

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You knew about Reiner’s nightmares the way you knew everything about him.

Not because he'd sat you down and explained them. Not because he found it easy to talk about what lived in the darker parts of him— he didn't, and you'd known that from the beginning, and you'd never pushed. You knew them the way you knew the rest of him: through time, through sleeping beside him long enough to learn the difference between the breathing that meant he was actually resting and the other kind. The shallow and quick kind, the kind that meant something was building.

Tonight you'd fallen asleep tucked against his side, warm, bare and completely at ease. He'd had his arm around you and his lips against your hair and everything had been exactly right. Until you woke to the sound of him. Low and strained— the compressed version of something much larger trying to be contained. You were sitting up before you'd finished waking, hand already reaching for him.

"Reiner." Your palm flat against his chest, his cheek, anywhere. "Hey— wake up. I'm right here."

He came out of it all at once— gasping, lurching upright, hands going out instinctively and finding nothing. Chest heaving, eyes wide and somewhere else entirely. "Reiner." You got your hands to his face immediately, both palms cupping his jaw, tilting him toward you. "Look at me—hey. It's me."

His eyes found yours. The breath went out of him in a rush and he grabbed you— both arms, pulling you hard against his chest, face dropping straight into your neck. No words, just that. Just the desperate, bone-deep grip of someone who'd been somewhere terrible and needed the physical proof that you were real and in front of him.

You held him just as hard. Hands on his back, your face in his hair. "I've got you," you said softly. "I'm here. You're okay."

He was shaking. Not a lot— just enough to feel it under your hands, that fine tremor that his body couldn't quite suppress. You held on and didn't say anything else because you knew him, knew that what he needed right now wasn't words but this— the warmth of you, solid and real and not going anywhere.

Slowly, the shaking stopped. And slowly, the grip on you eased from desperate into something that was still very close but less like he was afraid you might disappear. "Hey," you said quietly. "Come on."

You lay back down together and he went with you, curling around you from behind, both arms around your waist, face pressed into the back of your neck. Closer than he needed to be, but you didn't say a word about it. 

"Sleep," you said, and his arms tightened once. "I'm not going anywhere."

His lips pressed to the back of your neck, and then he was still.

When you woke the second time the room was full of proper morning light— and his arm was still around you, but differently. Loosely now, the grip of someone who was fine rather than someone who was holding on. You shifted and he stirred instantly, and when you turned over to face him he was already looking at you.

He looked better, that was the first thing you noticed. The nightmare had receded and left him just— himself in the morning. Tired around the edges, yes, but present. Here. His eyes warm on yours in the way they always were first thing, the way that still sometimes caught you off guard even now. "Hey," you said quietly.

"Hi," he said, his voice was rough with sleep and something else.

You studied his face. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," he said. And then, quieter: "Yeah. I am."

He didn't say anything else for a moment. His hand moved to your face— thumb tracing your cheekbone slowly, like he was mapping something he needed to confirm was still there. You let him, and you watched his expression while he did it and saw the thing moving through him that hadn't fully resolved yet.

“What was your nightmare about?” you asked gently.

He was quiet for long enough that you thought he might not. Then: "I lost you," he said simply. "In the dream, it was during the Rumbling." His thumb stilled against your cheek. "I couldn't find you. I looked and I couldn't— you weren't anywhere. I knew what it meant."

The room was very quiet. "Reiner," you whispered softly.

"I know it wasn't real," he said. "I know that. But it felt—" He stopped. His hand was still on your face, holding it carefully, like he couldn't quite stop touching you. "It felt real enough."

You put your hand over his where it rested against your cheek. "I'm here," you assure him. "I was here the whole time. You didn't lose me."

"I know," he said. His eyes moved over your face— slowly, thoroughly, like he was checking every part of you. "I just—" He exhaled. "I needed to look at you this morning. When I woke up. I needed to see that it was just a bad dream."

Something in his expression shifted at his words, then it softened. The last of the nightmare finally released its grip and left just him— just Reiner, in the morning light, looking at you like you were the best thing he'd ever woken up next to.

"I'm always going to be here," you promise him. 

He looked at you for a long moment. His hand moved from your cheek into your hair, slow and deliberate, and the way he was looking at you had changed— warmer now, the fear gone, something else entirely in its place.

"I don't know what I'd do," he said, quietly. "If anything ever happened—"

"Don't," you said, soft but certain. "Nothing happened, or will ever happen. I'm right here.” You moved closer, your hand going to his jaw.  "I love you," you said, right into his eyes, no distance, nothing between you. "So much. And I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."

The laugh that came out of him was short and slightly broken at the edges, but real— the kind that arrived when something had been wound too tight and finally loosened. He pressed his forehead to yours.

"Good," he said roughly. "That's good."

Reiner kissed you then. Not soft, not gentle— but more desperate, his mouth crashing against yours with a force that drove your head back into the pillow. His hand in your hair tightened, tilting your head, and his tongue swept into your mouth with a hunger that tasted of relief and need. He kissed you like he was trying to consume you, like he could crawl inside your skin and never leave, and the sound he made against your lips was a broken groan that vibrated through your chest.

You kissed him back. Your hands found his face, his jaw, the rough stubble scraping against your palms. He was shaking— fine, invisible tremors running through his massive frame, his muscles taut beneath his skin. His mouth moved to your cheek, your temple, the bridge of your nose. He kissed the corner of your eye, the line of your jaw, the spot below your ear that made your breath catch.

"I love you," he said between kisses, the words pressed into your skin like brands. "I love you, I love you, I love you—" A quiet chant, repeated against your eyelids and your forehead and the point of your chin. His voice cracked on the third repetition, and his arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him.

You felt the heat of him everywhere. The hard press of his chest, the ridge of his abs, the solid weight of his thighs against yours. His cock was half-hard against your hip, thick and warm, and the involuntary roll of his hips pressed it more firmly against your skin. He shuddered, his breath catching, and his face buried in the curve of your neck.

"Sorry," he mumbled against your throat.

"Don't apologise." You pulled back, your hand on his jaw, tilting his face up. His eyes were dark, the amber nearly consumed by black, and his lips were swollen from kissing. "Don't apologise for wanting me."

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. "I always want you. It's— it's always going to be you. You're all I think about."

You kissed him. Slower this time, deliberate, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he opened for you. You swallowed the sound he made— a whimper, high and needy, completely at odds with the sheer size of him. His hand on your waist flexed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and his hips rolled again, a slow grind that pressed the growing length of him against you.

You shifted. Your leg hooked over his hip, opening yourself to him, and the movement pressed your core against the hot length of him. You were already wet— had been since he'd looked at you with that shattered expression and told you about his bad dream, since you'd felt the trembling in his hands, since you'd realised that this enormous, powerful man was terrified of losing you. The slick heat of you slid against his cock, and he groaned into your mouth, his hips stuttering.

"Please," he breathed. The word was ragged, pulled from somewhere deep. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, and his jaw was clenched so hard you could see the tendon standing out. "Can I—"

"Yes." You said it against his lips. "Yes, Reiner."

His breath shuddered out of him. His hand moved from your waist to your hip, gripping, and he shifted his weight. The broad head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and you felt your body yield, the slick folds parting for him. He pushed forward— slow, agonizingly slow, his arm shaking with the effort of restraint— and the first inch of him stretched you open.

Your breath caught. He was thick— always thick, always enough to make your body sting with the stretch of it — and he entered you inch by inch, his jaw working, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave marks. The heat of him filled you, pressed deep, and when he was fully seated inside you, his hips flush against yours, he let out a sound that was half-groan, half-whine.

"Fuck," he breathed. His voice was wrecked. "You feel— God, you feel so goo—" He couldn't finish the sentence. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss was sloppy and wet, his tongue tangling with yours as his hips began to move. The rhythm was slow— lazy, unhurried, the kind of pace that spoke of morning and tangled sheets and nowhere else to be. Each thrust was deep and deliberate, and you felt every inch of him as he pulled back and sank in again.

The wet sound of him moving inside you was obscene in the quiet room. You could feel your own arousal coating him, slicking the way, and each thrust sent a pulse of heat through your core. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your nails digging into the dense muscle, and his name fell from your lips like a prayer.

"Reiner—" Your voice broke on the second syllable. His cock hit that spot inside you, the one that made your vision blur, and your back arched off the mattress. "Right there, don't stop—"

"I won't," he gasped. "I won't, I've got you, I—oh, fuck—" His hips stuttered, the rhythm faltering, and his face buried in your neck. You felt his teeth graze your pulse point, not biting, just pressing, and the vibration of his groan traveled through your skin. "You're so perfect. You're so— I don't deserve—"

"You do." You said it firmly, but breathless, your hand in his hair pulling his head up so you could look at him. His eyes were wet, the golden fire inside them blazing, and his face was flushed red from his cheeks to his chest. "You deserve this. You deserve me. Reiner, look at me—"

He opened his eyes. The connection was electric, his gaze holding yours as his hips rolled, slow and deep, and you could see everything in his face. The fear, the worship— the desperate, consuming need. He looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

"I love you," you said, and the words came out clear, steady, even as your body trembled around him. "I love you, Reiner. I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere."

He made a sound— a broken, wounded noise— and his mouth crashed into yours. His hips picked up pace, still slow but harder now, each thrust driving deeper, and the coil of heat in your belly tightened. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pressing your joined hands into the mattress beside your head. The weight of him was overwhelming— all that muscle, all that heat, all that desperate tenderness focused entirely on you. His breathing was ragged against your mouth, each exhale a groan or a whimper or a fragment of your name. The headboard tapped against the wall with each thrust, a soft, rhythmic sound that punctuated the wet slide of his cock inside you.

"Tell me," he gasped. His forehead was pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut, and his hips ground against yours in a slow circle that made your breath catch. "Tell me again— please."

"I love you." You breathed it against his lips. "I love you, I love you, I love you—"

His rhythm faltered. His hand tightened on yours, and his whole body went rigid, the muscles of his abdomen clenching against yours. A groan tore from his throat, low and guttural, and you felt him pulse inside you— hot, thick, and filling you. His hips jerked, stuttering through the aftershocks, and his face pressed into the pillow beside your head.

You held him. Your arms wrapped around his broad back, your palms flat against the sweat-slick skin, and you could feel the tremors running through him. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving, and his weight settled onto you like a collapse.

Reiner was still inside you. You could feel the softening of him, the warmth of his release, and the intimacy of it made your chest ache. He hadn't finished you— but that wasn't the point of this. This wasn't about finishing. This was about connection, about reassurance, about the desperate need to be inside someone, to be held, to know that they were real and present and staying.

His mouth moved against your neck. "You didn't—"

"Shh." You stroked his hair, your fingers carding through the short blonde strands. "It's okay. That's not what this was about." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, the amber soft and hazy, and his expression was something you couldn't name— raw, open, stripped of every defense. He looked at you like you were sacred.

"Let me—" He shifted, his hand sliding between your bodies, and his fingers found your heat. You were soaked— slick with your own arousal and his release— and his touch was gentle, reverent. His fingers circled your clit with a slow, practiced pressure, and you gasped, your hips tilting toward his hand. "That's it," he murmured. His voice was hoarse, wrecked, and his eyes never left your face. "Let me take care of you."

His fingers moved with a patience that contradicted everything about his size, his strength, the raw power coiled in his frame. He touched you like you were something precious, something to be handled with care, and the tenderness in his touch made your breath come faster than any rough handling could. You felt the coil tightening, building, and your hands gripped his shoulders. "Reiner—"

"I've got you." His lips pressed to your forehead. "I've got you. Come for me, beautiful."

The words undid you. The tension snapped, and your body arched, a cry tearing from your throat as the pleasure crashed through you. His fingers worked you through it, slowing as the aftershocks faded, and his other hand cupped your face, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone.

You collapsed back into the mattress, your breathing ragged, and he gathered you against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, his chin resting on the top of your head, and you could feel his heartbeat— fast, strong, but gradually slowing.

Silence settled over the room. The gray light had brightened, pale gold now, the sun climbing somewhere behind the clouds. The sheets were tangled around your legs, damp with sweat and other things, and the air smelled of sex, sweat and Reiner— that specific scent of his skin, clean musk and something almost like cedar.

You lay against his chest, your cheek pressed to his pec as his hand traced idle patterns on your back, his fingertips dragging lightly over your spine, and his breathing had evened out into something slow and deep.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice was still rough, but the edge of panic was gone. Replaced by something softer, something that sounded like contentment if contentment could be heard.

"Mm?" You didn't lift your head. Your hand was splayed on his stomach, feeling the rise and fall of it, the ridges of muscle beneath warm skin.

He shifted, his lips pressing to your hair, and his arms tightened around you. "Stay here. Stay in bed." You made a questioning sound, your brow furrowing against his chest. "Let me make you breakfast." His voice was earnest, almost eager, and his hand moved to cup the back of your head. "Just— stay here. Keep the bed warm. I'll bring it to you."

You lifted your head to look at him. His face was soft, the hard angles smoothed by morning and satiation, and his eyes were a warm gold. He looked at you with an expression that was almost shy, like he was asking for permission rather than offering.

"You don't have to," you tell him.

"I want to." His thumb traced the line of your jaw. "Let me do this for you."

You studied him. The sincerity in his face, the way his hand cradled your head, the slight tension in his shoulders that said this mattered to him in a way that went beyond breakfast. This was how he loved— with service, with attention, with the constant, quiet effort of making sure you were cared for.

"Okay," you nod, a smile pulling at your lips. "Okay, breakfast in bed. But you have to actually cook, not just burn things."

Reiner huffed out a laugh— the first real laugh of the morning, and the sound of it made something loosen in your chest. "I make excellent eggs."

"You make acceptable eggs."

"My eggs are great." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose, then a third to your chin. Each one was deliberate, placed with care, and his lips lingered on your skin. "I'll make you the best eggs you've ever had."

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder, and he pulled you closer for a moment, his arms wrapping around you in a full embrace. His chest expanded with a deep breath, and when he exhaled, the tension that had been in his body since he woke was finally, fully gone.

He pressed one more kiss to your mouth— soft, lingering, his lips moving gently against yours — and then he was pulling away. The mattress shifted as he sat up, and you watched the play of muscle in his back as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The morning light caught the lines of his torso, the shadows delineating each cut of muscle, and he stretched his arms overhead with a groan.

Reiner stood, and all of him was on display— wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the V of his hips, the curve of his glutes. He glanced back over his shoulder, caught you looking, and a grin spread across his face— slow, genuine, a little bit smug. "Enjoying the view?"

"Always," you said, and you meant it.

His grin softened into something smaller, something private, and he shook his head. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the chair in the corner and pulled them on, the waistband sitting low on his hips, and then he was padding barefoot toward the bedroom door. He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looked back at you. The gray light caught the gold of his eyes, and his expression was open in a way that made your breath catch.

"I love you," he said. The words were simple, unadorned, and they carried the weight of everything he couldn't articulate— the fear and the need and the desperate, consuming gratitude of someone who couldn't believe his luck.

"I love you too," you said. "Now go make me those excellent eggs."

He laughed— a real one, warm and full — and disappeared through the door. You heard his footsteps on the hardwood, heavy and sure, and then the sound of the kitchen: cabinets opening, the clatter of a pan, the hiss of the stove igniting.

You settled back into the pillows, pulling the sheets up to your chest. The bed was still warm from his body, the sheets still carrying his scent, and you pressed your face into the pillow he'd used. It smelled like him— clean sweat and something underneath that was just Reiner.

The radiator clicked. The sounds of cooking drifted from the kitchen— the sizzle of butter in a pan, the crack of eggs, the low hum of a song he was singing to himself, the melody indistinct but the tone warm. You closed your eyes, your body loose and sated, and you smiled into the pillow. He was making you breakfast. He'd had a nightmare about you leaving, and you'd told him you were staying, and he'd made love to you like you were the only thing keeping him alive, and now he was in the kitchen making eggs and humming to himself.

This was the life you'd chosen. This man, this bed, this morning. All of it.

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[lucyyx3x]

No special Reiner short story for his special day? 🎂 💕

a: YALL DIDN'T THINK ID FORGET MY BOOS BDAY?? And if course I had to do my favourite kind of AU.....a medieval royalty one >:) I felt very inspired by game of thrones writing this fr....hope you all enjoy <3

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My King ✦ Attack on Titan ✦

.ᐟ King! Reiner Braun x Queen! Reader.ᐟ Royalty AU .ᐟ

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

King! Reiner Braun x Queen! Reader (oneshot)

summary: Your husband, Reiner, leaves as a king ready for war. He returns three weeks later battered, bloodied, and desperate to be back in the only place he's ever truly found peace— you.

wc: 8K

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The ceramic cup had long gone cold in your hands. You turned it between your fingers, feeling the intricate glaze work— roses and thorns fired into the clay by the royal potter three winters ago. The tea inside had been steeped too long; the chamomile had turned bitter, the honey separated into a golden film across the surface. You hadn't taken a sip in nearly an hour. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting the private royal chamber in a low, ruddy glow that made the tapestries on the walls seem to breathe.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days since the messenger had arrived with the sealed scroll, and the news had been tense. There was a northern rebellion at the border, and the king— your king— was riding out to put a stop to it. You'd read the words twice, folded the parchment into a square, and tucked it beneath your pillow, where it had remained ever since, the parchment growing softer each night as you gripped it in your sleep. You brought the cup to your lips anyway. The bitter liquid touched your tongue and you swallowed, grimacing. Outside the arrow-slit window, the sky was the colour of old iron, heavy with the threat of snow that wouldn't quite fall. A late autumn evening in the kingdom, the kind that settled into bones and made the cold feel personal.

Your handmaiden, Sasha, had retired an hour ago after you'd dismissed her for the third time. She'd left a fresh pot of tea on the side table, the kettle wrapped in wool to keep it warm, and a plate of honeyed biscuits you hadn't touched. The candles on the mantel had guttered low, their flames leaning sideways in some draft you couldn't locate. You should have slept, but you knew you wouldn't have slept. Sleep had become a country you couldn't enter, not while he was out there somewhere beyond the northern ridges, swinging that great sword of his, blood on his armour, blood on—

A sound cut through the stillness. Distant, but sharp. You set the cup down on the side table with a clink that seemed too loud in the quiet chamber. Your head turned toward the window, your body stilling entirely, and you held your breath. The castle had a language of its own— settling stones, wind through the courtyard, the distant clatter from the kitchens where the night cook prepared morning provisions— but this sound was different. This was the groan of the outer gates.

You rose from the chair so quickly that your knee struck the side table and the cup rattled. You didn't care. Your bare feet crossed the cold stone floor in three strides, and you pressed your face against the arrow slit, the stone's chill biting into your cheek as you craned your neck toward the main road.

Torchlight— moving torchlight, a procession of them, winding up the hill toward the castle. The distant clank of tack and armor reached you a half-second later, carried on the wind, and then voices— men's voices, tired and hoarse, but alive, speaking to each other in the low, clipped cadence of soldiers who'd marched far and long. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your fingers gripped the stone edges of the window so hard your knuckles went white. You counted the torches— five, eight, twelve, more behind them— and then, at the front of the column, a figure too broad, too tall in the saddle to be anyone else.

Reiner.

You didn't remember crossing the chamber. You didn't remember pulling open the heavy oak door or the way it slammed behind you as you fled into the corridor. Your nightgown billowed around your ankles as you ran, bare feet slapping against the cold flagstones, your hair loose and unbound streaming behind you. A servant carrying a tray of cleaned goblets flattened himself against the wall as you barreled past, but you were already taking the spiral stairs two at a time, your hand barely catching the stone wall for balance, your lungs burning with the effort and the cold.

Down, down, down through the guts of the castle. Past the great hall where the fires had been banked for the night. Past the guard post at the main door, where two men-at-arms leapt to their feet with exclamations of surprise and then understanding. You were already shoving the heavy iron-bound door open yourself, the wood scraping against the stone threshold, the night air hitting you like a wall of ice.

You weren't wearing a cloak, you weren't even wearing shoes. The nightgown was cotton and thin, and the cold seized you immediately, raising every fine hair on your arms, but you didn't feel it. You felt nothing except the terrible, overwhelming need to reach him.

The courtyard was churned mud and straw, frozen into ruts by the cold. Your feet registered the discomfort distantly. Torches blazed from the gatehouse, throwing long shadows across the assembled company. Horses stamped and snorted, their breath rising in white plumes, and soldiers were dismounting, some limping, some being helped down by comrades. The smell hit you— sweat, iron, leather, and underneath it all, the copper-ink scent of blood.

Your eyes found him instantly.

He was still on his horse, a grey courser with a black mane, swinging one leg over the saddle. Even in the half-dark, you would have known the shape of him anywhere— the width of those shoulders, the way he moved, heavy and deliberate even when exhausted. His surcoat was torn across the chest, and the royal crest embroidered there was half-obscured by something dark and wet. His hair, that shortish blonde you'd run your fingers through a thousand times, was matted with sweat and grime. In the torchlight, the stubble along his jaw looked darker than usual, almost a beard.

He hadn't seen you yet. He was saying something to the man beside him— Bertholt, you realised, his second-in-command, tall and dark-haired with a long face that always looked vaguely apologetic. Bertholt was nodding, one hand on the reins of his own horse, the other gesturing toward the castle.

You ran.

Someone called your name— maybe one of the guards— but you were already across half the courtyard, your nightgown hiked up to your knees, mud squelching between your toes. Reiner turned at the sound of your approach, his amber-gold eyes— those eyes that had looked at you like you were the only fixed point in a chaotic world since the day you'd married him two years ago— going wide.

He caught you. Of course he caught you. His arms came around you even as you launched yourself at him, your body colliding with his with enough force to make him stagger back a half-step. His armor— the breastplate, the mail beneath— bit into you through the thin cotton, cold and hard and slick in places where the blood had soaked through. You didn't care. Your arms went around his neck, your face buried against the gap between his body armour and his helmet, and you held on.

He held you back. One gauntleted hand pressed flat against the small of your back, the cold metal making you flinch even through the fog of desperate relief. His other arm came around your shoulders, pulling you tighter against him, tighter than was comfortable, tighter than was probably wise given the state of him. His chest expanded against yours with a ragged breath.

"You're alive," you said into the curve of his neck, the words muffled against his skin. Your fingers found the back of his head, tangling in the matted hair. "You're alive, you're alive, you're—"

"I'm here." His voice was hoarse, scraped raw, and it vibrated through his chest into yours. "I'm here. I'm—"

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at your face. His gauntlet came up, the metal fingers hovering near your cheek before he seemed to remember he was still wearing armor. He pulled the gauntlet off with his teeth, the leather lining coming free with a wet sound, and then his bare hand was on your face, palm rough with calluses, thumb brushing away something wet on your cheek. Your own tears, you realised. When did you start crying?

"Look at you," he said, and his voice cracked on the second word. His eyes moved over your face like he was memorising it, cataloging every detail, the way he used to look at maps before a campaign. "You're barefoot. You're— Christ, you're freezing."

"I don't care."

"You'll catch your death."

"I don't care." You grabbed his face with both hands, heedless of the grime and dried blood on his skin, your thumbs pressing into his stubbled jaw. "You were gone for three weeks. Three weeks. The last messenger said the rebel forces had—"

"We broke them." His hand covered yours, fingers curling around your wrist. "It's done. The rebellion is crushed."

"That's not what I—" You shook your head, words tangling in your throat. Your gaze dropped to the dark stain on his surcoat, and your breath caught. "You're bleeding."

"It's not mine. Most of it."

"Most of it." The words came out thin. "What does that mean, most of it?"

Reiner's jaw tightened. Behind him, Bertholt had dismounted and was watching the two of you with the careful, practiced gaze of a man who'd learned exactly when to be invisible. A younger boy— Falco, Reiner's squire, barely fifteen, with a face soft with youth— stood at the horse's head, holding the reins and looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

"My Queen." Bertholt's voice was calm, measured as he greeted you. "If I may— the king sustained injuries during the final engagement. A sword cut to the left side, below the ribs. Another to the right shoulder. But—"

"He needs the royal physician," you said sternly, and you hadn't taken your eyes off Reiner's face. "Send for him. Now!"

Bertholt glanced at Reiner, who gave a short nod. "As Her Majesty commands." Bertholt turned and barked an order at one of the men near the gatehouse, who took off on a run.

"We need to get him inside," you said. Your hands moved to the straps of his breastplate, fingers finding the buckles by instinct— you'd helped him out of this armor a hundred times before, after court, after training, after the quiet evenings when he'd let you unbuckle each piece slowly in your chambers while he told you about his day. Your fingers trembled now, slipping on the leather.

Reiner caught your hands. His grip was gentle, his thumb stroking across your knuckles. "Let Falco do it. Let me look at you first."

"You're hurt—"

"I'm standing," he tells you, quieter. His eyes held yours, and in the torchlight, the honey-gold seemed to glow with its own warmth, a warmth that had nothing to do with the fires. "I told myself I'd stand here again, and that I'd see you, and I'd—" His voice broke as his hand tightened on yours.

"I know," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper. "I know."

The next few minutes passed in a blur of activity. Falco appeared at Reiner's side, young hands working efficiently at the armor straps while you stood close enough to touch him, your hip pressed against his thigh, as if you could keep him anchored here through sheer proximity. Piece by piece, the armor came off— the breastplate first, then the vambraces, the gauntlets. Each piece was dented, scratched, stained. Falco handed them to another squire who stacked them on a wooden frame brought from the armory.

Underneath the armor, the padded lining was worse. The cotton was soaked through with sweat and blood, torn in two places— a long gash along the left side, just below the ribs, and a shorter but deeper wound at the right shoulder. The soldiers on the battlefield with him had packed both with linen and herb paste, but the dressings were saturated, dark and wet.

Your stomach clenched. You pressed your hand flat against his chest, over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong beneath your palm. Reiner's hand came up to cover yours.

"I'm all right," he said softly.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm alive. That's not a lie."

Bertholt appeared at Reiner's other side, steadying him as he stepped away from the horse. You saw Reiner's jaw clench— just for a moment— when his weight shifted, and you knew the wounds hurt more than he was letting on. You moved closer, pressing against his uninjured side, your arm sliding around his waist.

"I can walk," Reiner said, but he leaned into you anyway.

"I know you can," you said. "You don't have to."

The walk through the castle was a strange, suspended thing. Soldiers and servants lined the corridors, having been roused by the commotion, and they knelt as their king passed, fists to their chests in salute. Reiner acknowledged each with a nod, but his eyes kept drifting to you— at your bare feet on the cold stone, at your thin nightgown, at the way your hair fell unbound down your back. His arm stayed heavy around your shoulders, pulling you against him with every step.

Bertholt walked ahead, clearing the path, his long stride eating up the flagstones. Falco trailed behind, carrying the remaining pieces of armor and a bundle of fresh linens someone had pressed into his hands. The castle was waking up around you— servants emerging from doorways, candles being lit, the kitchens stirring to life with the promise of hot food and drink.

"Your Majesty." Bertholt paused at the door to the king's chambers— your shared chambers, the largest room in the castle, with its great canopied bed and the fireplace that could fit a man standing. "I'll have the men billeted in the barracks and the wounded seen to. Falco can stay if you need—"

"Thank you, Bertholt." Reiner's voice was steadier now, the king's voice, the voice that commanded armies. But his fingers tightened on your shoulder, betraying him. "We'll need the royal physician first."

"He's been sent for. Should be here shortly." Bertholt hesitated in the doorway, his dark eyes moving between the two of you. Something in his expression shifted— softened. "It's good to be home, Your Majesty."

"It's good to be home, Bert."

Bertholt nodded once, sharply, and withdrew. Falco set the armor and linens down on the chest at the foot of the bed, cast one uncertain look at Reiner, and followed Bertholt out. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud.

You two were alone.

The fire in the chamber hearth had been kept lit by Sasha— court protocol dictated the royal chambers never go cold— and the warmth hit you like a physical thing after the frozen courtyard. Your teeth had started to chatter, your body only now registering how cold you'd been. Reiner turned to face you, and in the firelight, you saw him fully for the first time.

He looked like hell. The stubble was thicker than you'd ever seen it, edging toward a real beard. There were shadows under his gold eyes, and a small cut on his forehead, scabbed over, that hadn't been there when he left. The linens he was wearing were ruined, soaked through, clinging to the hard planes of his chest. He was broader than you remembered— had he gotten bigger? Or had three weeks of fear distorted your memory?

He was looking at you the same way. His gaze moved from your face to your bare feet— mud-stained, the toes red with cold— to the thin nightgown that had been sheer enough in the warm chamber and was now nearly transparent, clinging to every curve with the dampness of the night air.

"You ran through the courtyard in that," he said, his voice low, rough.

"I would have run through it in less."

Something flickered in his eyes— heat, need, something that had been banked during the weeks of war and was now catching fire. He reached for you, his hand settling on your hip, thumb pressing into the soft curve above the bone. "You're shivering."

"So are you."

He was. You could feel the tremor in his fingers, the fine vibration running through his body like a plucked bowstring. Not from cold—from exhaustion, from pain, from whatever it was he was holding back. His other hand came up to your face, cupping your jaw, tilting your chin toward him. "I thought about you," he admitted. "Every night. Every single night. I thought about this room. This fire. The way you smell." His thumb traced your lower lip. "The way you taste."

A knock at the door shattered the moment. You stepped back, your face hot, your pulse hammering. Reiner's jaw tightened with something between frustration and resignation.

"Enter," he called.

The royal physician was a thin man with a long nose and steady hands. He entered with his leather case, took one look at the king's ruined gambeson, and set to work without ceremony. You stood by the fireplace, arms crossed over your chest, watching as the royal physician cut the linen away and revealed the wounds beneath.

The sword cut below the ribs was ugly— long, ragged at the edges where the blade had dragged, the flesh around it bruised a deep purple. The shoulder wound was cleaner but deeper, still seeping sluggishly despite the field dressings. The royal physician clicked his tongue, murmuring to himself as he cleaned and probed.

Reiner sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on you the entire time. Even as the royal physician cleaned the wounds with vinegar-soaked linen, even as he applied the herbal paste that made Reiner's breath hiss through his teeth, he didn't look away from you. His gaze was a living thing, hungry and urgent, and you felt it on your skin like heat from a flame.

"The sword cut will need stitching," the royal physician said. "The shoulder will heal cleanly with rest and fresh dressings. I'll need to clean both again in the morning."

"Do it," Reiner said. His eyes hadn't left yours.

The physician worked quickly and efficiently— the stitches were small, neat, placed with the precision of a man who'd done this a thousand times. Reiner didn't flinch, didn't make a sound, but you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled into fists against his knees. You wanted to go to him. You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to press your mouth to his forehead and tell him it was over, he was home, he never had to leave again. The royal physician bandaged both wounds with clean linen, wrapped a compress around his ribs, and stood back. "No riding for at least a fortnight. No lifting anything heavier than a cup. I'll leave a poultice for the swelling and a draught for the pain."

"Thank you," you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt. He bowed to you both, gathered his case, and let himself out. The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence. Reiner exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to empty him entirely. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out of him now that there was no one left to be strong for. He looked up at you, and in his amber-gold eyes, you saw it— the exhaustion, the pain, the desperate, aching need.

"Come here," he said.

You crossed the room in two strides. Your knees hit the edge of the bed as you climbed up beside him, your hands finding his face, his jaw, the rough stubble beneath your palms. He groaned— a low, broken sound in the back of his throat— and then his mouth was on yours.

The first kiss was soft, gentle. His lips were chapped, split in one place where he'd been struck, and you tasted copper and salt and the herbal residue of the medicines. You kissed him carefully, mindful of the cut on his lip, mindful of the bandages around his ribs, mindful of everything except the overwhelming, consuming need to be closer. His hand found your waist, pulling you against him. You went carefully, avoiding his injured side, fitting yourself into the curve of his body. His skin was hot beneath your hands— too hot, feverish—a nd you felt the tremor run through him again as your fingers traced the edge of the bandage on his ribs.

"Careful," he murmured against your mouth.

"I'm always careful."

"Liar." His breath caught as you shifted closer. "You've never been careful a day in your life."

"Then we're well-matched."

He laughed, and it turned into a wince, his hand pressing against his ribs. You pulled back immediately, your brow furrowing.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You have stitches in your side."

"I have stitches in my side and a wife who ran through a frozen courtyard in her nightdress." His thumb traced the line of your jaw, his eyes softening. "I'd do it all again. Every battle. Every cut. If it means I come home to this."

Your throat tightened. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, and let out a shaky breath. His hand moved up your spine, fingers spreading wide between your shoulder blades, holding you there.

"I couldn't sleep," you said. "Every night. I'd lie in this bed and reach for you and you weren't there, and I'd think—"

"Don't." His voice was rough. "I thought I'd die without seeing you again." His hand tightened on your back. "Without touching you. Without—"

You kissed him again. Harder this time, less careful, your fingers tangling in his matted hair. He responded with a hunger that stole your breath— his mouth opening against yours, his tongue sliding against your lower lip, his teeth catching gently before releasing. His uninjured arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and you felt the bandage compress, felt him stiffen, felt him ignore the pain and pull you closer anyway. You broke apart, both of you breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his amber eyes half-closed, his lips swollen and red.

"I need to wash the battle off me," he said. "I smell like a horse."

You leaned back slightly, your knees still pressed against his thigh on the mattress, and let your gaze travel across him— the matted hair plastered to his forehead, the grime ground into the lines of his neck, the dried blood flaking along the edge of his bandages. The scent of him filled your lungs with each breath: iron, sweat, leather, smoke, and underneath all of it something unmistakably him, warm and alive. Your fingers traced the edge of his jaw where the stubble had grown thick and coarse over three weeks of campaigning.

"You do," you agreed. "But I'm not letting you bathe alone."

His honey-gold eyes flickered, a crease forming between his brows. "I can manage—"

"You can barely move your arm." You pressed your thumb to the crease between his brows, smoothing it flat. "And the last time you bathed alone with stitched wounds, you tore them open reaching for the soap and bled all over the clean floor."

A sound escaped him— half grunt, half laugh that caught in his chest and turned into a wince. His hand found your hip through the damp cotton, fingers curling against the fabric. "You recall that with remarkable detail."

"I recall everything that involves you bleeding unnecessarily." You slid off the bed, your bare feet striking the cold stone, and crossed to the bell-pull by the door. You yanked it twice, the distant jingle echoing through the walls, then turned back to find him watching you with that heavy-lidded gaze that made your skin prickle beneath the thin cotton.

The door opened within minutes, and Sasha appeared, her eyes widening at the sight of the king sitting shirtless and bloodstained on the bed. She dipped a curtsy, her hands already wringing.

"Your Majesties—"

"Have the tub brought up," you said. "The large copper one. Set it beside the bed, near the hearth. Fill it with hot water, as hot as can be managed. Enough for two."

Sasha's gaze darted between you and Reiner, and the faintest colour rose in her cheeks. "At once, My Queen."

She disappeared. In the corridor beyond, you heard her voice raised, issuing commands, and then the heavy thudding of footsteps— multiple pairs, the shuffle of burdens being carried. Servants arrived in pairs: two bearing the great copper tub between them, its polished sides catching the firelight, then others with bucket after bucket of steaming water drawn from the castle's kitchen boilers. They moved with efficient quiet, the only sounds the slosh of water and the clank of pails, setting the tub close enough to the bed that you could have reached out and touched its rim from the mattress. Steam curled upward in thick ribbons, catching the orange glow of the hearth, and the chamber filled with a humid warmth that pressed against your skin like a living thing.

Reiner sat watching the whole process without comment, his jaw working slightly, his good hand gripping the edge of the mattress. When the last servant departed and the door clicked shut behind them, the chamber seemed to swell with silence— just the crackle of the fire, the whisper of snow against the arrow slits, and the soft lap of water cooling in the tub.

You turned to face him. Your hands went to the hem of your nightgown, the damp cotton clinging to your thighs, and you pulled it up over your head in one motion. The fabric dropped to the floor with a soft wet slap. The warm air of the room met your bare skin, and you stood there before him— mud-stained feet, gooseflesh rising along your arms, your hair falling loose over your shoulders and down your back.

Reiner's breath changed. You heard it catch, heard the slight hitch in his ribs that had nothing to do with his wounds. His eyes tracked down your body and back up, slow and deliberate— but this was something else entirely, something raw and unguarded that made his throat move as he swallowed.

"You're staring," you smirk.

"I'm looking at what's mine." His voice had dropped to something rough and low, almost inaudible beneath the fire's crackle.

You stepped toward the tub and tested the water with your hand— hot enough to turn your skin pink, not scalding. Good. You swung one leg over the copper rim and lowered yourself in, the heat swallowing you inch by inch, rising up your calves, your thighs, your hips, your waist, until you sat submerged to your chest with your back against the curved side of the tub. The heat sank into your muscles, and a sound left you that you couldn't have held back— a long, low exhale, your head tipping back against the copper rim.

"Get in," you said. "Before the water cools."

Reiner pushed himself off the bed with his good arm, the motion stiff and careful, his jaw clenching as his ribs shifted. He crossed the short distance to the tub and stopped, looking down at you. The firelight played across his torso— the white bandages wrapped around his ribs, the smaller dressing on his shoulder, the bruises blooming purple and green across his skin in patches you didn't remember seeing before. He gripped the tub's rim and lifted one leg over, then the other, lowering himself into the water with a controlled slowness that made the tendons in his forearms stand out like cords.

The water rose around him, turning faintly clouded where the grime and dried blood began to dissolve from his skin. He settled across from you, his legs stretched out beneath the water alongside yours, the tub just wide enough to hold them both. His head fell back against the copper edge, and a sound broke from him— half groan, half sigh— his eyes closing, the tension in his shoulders unknotting by degrees.

You reached for the soap on the small wooden tray Sasha had left beside the tub—a block of hard milled soap, tallow and lye, smelling faintly of lavender. You worked it between your palms until a lather formed, then leaned forward, your knees brushing against his thighs beneath the water. "Let me," you whisper.

His eyes opened. He looked at you— your wet hands, the soap suds running down your forearms, the water lapping at your breasts— and something shifted in his expression. The hard set of his jaw softened, and he nodded once.

You started with his good shoulder, the right one, your soapy hands pressing into the muscle there— dense, knotted, the flesh over steel that had spent three weeks in armor. You worked your thumbs along the ridge of his scapula, and he let out a sharp breath through his nose. The water turned grey as weeks of road dust and sweat lifted from his skin. You moved down his arm, lifting it from the water, running your palms over the hard curve of his bicep, the ropelike tendons of his forearm, his wrist, each individual finger. Calluses rough against your slick palms. You set his hand back beneath the water and moved to his chest, careful now, watching the edge of the bandage across his ribs.

"Does this hurt?"

"No." His voice had gone thick. His eyes tracked your hands as they moved across the plane of his chest, through the hair that covered it, now flattened and dark with water. You traced a bruise on his sternum— purple, finger-width— and his breath stuttered.

You moved to his neck, rising onto your knees in the tub to reach, the water streaming down your body in sheets. Your fingers worked into the muscles at the base of his skull, and his head tipped forward, forehead dropping against your collarbone. You felt the scratch of his stubble against your skin, the heat of his breath washing over your chest. He was filthy— sweat and blood and grime— and you cleaned him with slow, deliberate strokes, working the soap through his matted hair, your fingernails scraping gently against his scalp. He shuddered. His good hand came up beneath the water and found your hip, his grip tightening.

"Your hair smells like a stable," you murmured against his temple.

"And you smell like a woman who ran through a muddy courtyard barefoot." His lips moved against the curve of your breast, and the words vibrated through your skin.

You cupped water in your palms and let it spill over his head, rinsing the soap away, watching the suds run down his neck and shoulders in white rivulets. The water in the tub had turned a cloudy grey-brown. You would need to change it later, but that was a problem for later— for now, you tilted his head back, combed your fingers through his wet hair until it lay flat against his skull, and looked at him.

Now he was clean, he was something else entirely. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the blade of his cheekbone, the amber of his eyes— brighter now, the exhaustion still there but something else kindling beneath it, something hot and focused that made your stomach clench.

You kissed him again. It started gentle just as before— just a press of your lips against his, the water lapping at your bodies, your hand still cupping the back of his head. But his mouth opened beneath yours, and the taste of him flooded through you: soap and warmth and underneath it the iron tang that clung to his teeth. His good hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you closer beneath the water, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh— rigid, hot despite the water's warmth.

You broke the kiss, breathing hard, your forehead resting against his. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath your hand, the bandage across his ribs expanding and contracting with each breath.

"Reiner." Your voice came out unsteady. "Your wounds—"

"I don't care about my wounds."

"I care about your wounds." You pulled back enough to look at him, your hand still flat against his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart through your palm. "You're stitched together like a torn tapestry, and I won't have you tearing yourself apart."

The muscle in his cheek jumped. "Then what would you have me do?"

The words left your mouth before you'd fully formed the thought. "Let me take control."

His eyes searched your face. You watched the war play out across his features— the part of him that was a king, a man who led armies, who took what he wanted when he wanted it— grinding against the part of him that trusted you completely, the part that had ridden through snow for three weeks with your name caught between his teeth like a prayer.

"I'm taking control tonight." You repeat, letting your hand slide down his chest, over the plane of his stomach beneath the water, your fingers brushing the hard ridge of muscle above his hip. "You're going to lie back and let me."

Something broke in his expression— not broke, exactly, but gave way. The tension in his jaw released. His grip on your hip loosened, and his hand slid away, settling against the rim of the tub. He looked at you with those amber-gold eyes, and the word left him like something he'd been holding for a long time.

He finally nodded. "Yes."

You rose from the bath. The water slid off your body in sheets, running down your skin in warm rivers that caught the firelight, and you stood in the tub with your legs apart, looking down at him. Water dripped from your hair onto your shoulders, traced the slope of your breasts, ran down your stomach and the insides of your thighs. His gaze followed every drop, every rivulet, the way a man dying of thirst might watch rain fall.

You stepped over the rim of the tub and onto the stone floor, the warmth of the bath giving way instantly to the cold air, and your skin prickled, nipples hard and aching. You stood there, dripping, your back half-turned to him, and looked over your shoulder.

"Are you going to join me?"

The water erupted. He was out of the tub in a motion that had to have cost him— the muscles in his arms bunching, his ribs twisting, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth— but he was up, water streaming from his body, his hand already reaching for you. You caught his wrist before he could grab you, your fingers circling the thick bone, and walked backward toward the bed, pulling him with you.

His chest heaved. Water ran down his torso, darkening the bandages, and the hard length of him stood rigid between his legs, flushed dark and heavy. You backed into the edge of the bed and sat, then lay back, pulling him down after you.

"Careful," you breathed, guiding his weight onto his good side, away from the stitched ribs. "Here— like this."

He settled beside you, propped on his good elbow, his body angled so that nothing pressed against his wounds. His hand came up and found your face, his calloused thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone, and you turned into the touch, pressing your lips to his palm.

"You're so beautiful." His voice had gone rough, scraped raw. "Three weeks of sleeping on frozen ground, and the only thing that kept me sane was you—"

You silenced him with your mouth. His lips moved against yours, hungry and urgent, and you kissed him back with equal force, your tongue sliding against his, tasting him, claiming him. His hand slid from your face to your neck, his fingers curling against the back of your neck, and you arched into him, your breasts pressing against his chest.

You pulled back. "Lie down. On your back."

He obeyed, lowering himself with a grunt, his jaw clenching as his shoulders met the mattress. You rose over him, straddling his hips, your knees bracketing his waist, and settled your weight carefully across his thighs— not across his stomach, not near the ribs. You felt the hard heat of him pressing against the inside of your thigh, and your body clenched in response, a rush of wetness slicking between your legs.

You braced your hands on his chest and looked down at him. His eyes were black in the firelight, the gold swallowed by the expanding dark of his pupils. His chest rose and fell beneath your palms, the bandage across his ribs damp from the bath, and you could feel the tension in him— the coiled restraint of a man holding himself back.

"I'm going to take care of you," you almost whisper. "Don't move."

"I'll try."

You rolled your hips once, a slow grind that dragged your slick cunt along the underside of his cock, and his whole body jerked, his head pressing back into the pillow, a strangled sound tearing from his throat. You moved off him before he could protest, sliding down between his legs, your hands parting his thighs. His cock stood thick and flushed, the head dark, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, and his hips bucked— then stopped, held rigid, as if your words had anchored him to the bed. You leaned forward and took him into your mouth.

The sound he made— half groan, half gasp— filled the royal chamber. Your lips sealed around the head, your tongue tracing the ridge, tasting salt and the clean remnants of the bath soap. You took him deeper, slowly, your hand working the base where your mouth couldn't reach, your other hand pressing flat against his stomach to feel the muscles jumping beneath the skin. His hand found your hair, fingers tangling in the wet strands—not pushing, just holding, as if he needed something to anchor himself.

You pulled back, letting him slip from your mouth with a wet sound, and looked up the length of his body at him. His jaw was clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out, his chest heaving.

"Stop," he said, his voice wrecked. "Stop, or this ends before it even begins."

You smiled and moved back up his body, pressing a kiss to the bruise on his sternum, then to the edge of the bandage on his shoulder. You settled over him again, and this time you reached between your bodies, took him in your hand, and positioned the head of his cock against your entrance.

You sank down onto him.

The stretch of it pulled a gasp from your throat— thick, deep, your body opening around him inch by inch. You braced your hands on his chest and took your time, rolling your hips in slow circles, letting your body adjust, feeling him fill you completely. His hands came to your hips, his grip almost bruising, and you heard the sound of his breath coming in short, sharp bursts through his nose.

"Gods—" His voice cracked.

You silenced him by rolling your hips, a slow, deep grind that pressed him against the place inside you that made your vision blur. Your head fell back, your hair spilling down your back, and you moved—slow, deliberate, your thighs doing the work, your hands on his chest for balance. Each roll of your hips dragged him against that spot, and the pleasure built in waves, each one cresting higher than the last.

His thumb found your clit. You hadn't told him to, but the pad of his calloused thumb pressed against that swollen bundle of nerves and circled, and your rhythm faltered, a moan breaking from your lips.

"I thought I told you not to move," you gasped.

"This isn't moving." His voice was ragged, wrecked, barely recognisable. "This is touching."

You couldn't argue, and you didn't really want to. You let him keep his hand there, let his thumb work you in slow circles as you rode him, your hips finding their rhythm again— slower now, deeper, each stroke dragging him to the hilt and back. The pressure built, coiling tight in your belly, and you felt your inner walls clench around him.

His hips bucked— just once, a reflexive thrust that drove him even deeper— and his face contorted, pain and pleasure warring across his features. You pressed your hand harder against his chest, pinning him.

"I told you—"

"I know." He was breathing through his teeth, every muscle in his body rigid. "I know. I'm sorry. I—"

You leaned down and kissed him, swallowing the words, swallowing the apology. Your hips kept moving, and his thumb kept circling, and the pressure in your belly was building toward something you couldn't stop. You broke the kiss and sat up, grinding down hard, taking him as deep as your body would allow.

"Let go," you breathed. "Let go, Reiner. I've got you."

His hand tightened on your hip. His thumb pressed harder against your clit, and the coil in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you— hard, sudden, your whole body seizing, your cunt clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that tore a sound from your throat you didn't recognise as your own. You rode the wave, your hips jerking through it, your hands sliding on his sweaty chest.

He followed you over— his whole body arching beneath you, his jaw clenching, a groan tearing from deep in his chest. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep, and you ground down against him, milking every pulse, your body still clenching around him in the aftershocks.

You collapsed forward, catching yourself on your elbows, your forehead pressed against his shoulder. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs. His hand came up and pressed flat against the small of your back, holding you against him, and you felt his chest rising and falling beneath you in rapid, uneven waves.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled as his heartbeat thundered against your cheek. Then he moved— carefully, his good arm wrapping around you, rolling you both onto your sides so that you lay facing each other, his injured arm tucked between your bodies. He was still inside you, softening, and you both hissed at the shift.

"Stay," he said. "Don't move yet."

You didn't. You lay there, your leg thrown over his hip, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back, and let your breathing slow. The heat of him radiated against your skin, and the damp bandages pressed cool against your chest where your bodies met.

After a while, you felt him shift, and he slipped from you with a wet sound that made you both exhale. He rolled onto his back— carefully, wincing— and you turned your head to watch him. His eyes were closed, his chest still rising and falling heavily, but the tension had left his face. The lines of pain had softened. He looked, for the first time since he'd ridden through the gate, like a man who had come home.

"I told you." His hand found your knee beneath the blanket and squeezed. "I told you I'd come back to you."

You looked at him— the bruises, the bandages, the stubble darkening his jaw, the amber eyes watching you with that steady, unwavering devotion that had undone you from the first day you'd met him. You leaned down and pressed your lips to the edge of the bandage on his ribs, then to the dressing on his shoulder, then to the bruise on his sternum.

"You did," you said against his skin. "And I'm going to make sure you stay in one piece."

His hand slid up your thigh beneath the blanket, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip. "I believe you mentioned something about taking control."

"I did take control."

"That was once." His mouth curved into that lopsided smile, the one that made your stomach flip. "I was thinking more along the lines of a regular arrangement."

You laughed— a real laugh, the first one you had uttered in three weeks— and pushed him back against the pillows. "Anything for My King."

Reiner smiled at that. The snow fell harder outside the arrow slits, piling on the stone sills in white ridges, and the fire burned low in the hearth, casting the chamber in deep amber shadow. You lay down beside him, your head on his good shoulder, your hand over his heart, and felt his arm close around you. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, and the cold that had lived in your bones for three weeks finally, finally began to thaw.

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[lucyyx3x]

HERE ME OUT‼️

I see your hockey player reiner and i raise you boxer/mma fighter reiner with some hurt/comfort?👀

a: Thank you to whoever sent this yass absolutely exquisite taste. I really tried with this one but I don't really know boxing lmao (But I do know needy Reiner and smut eyy) ....anyway hope you all enjoy <3

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Knockdown ✦ Attack on Titan ✦

.ᐟ Boxer! Reiner Braun x F! Reader.ᐟ Modern AU .ᐟ

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Boxer! Reiner Braun x F. Reader (oneshot)

summary: Your friend Jean ropes you into helping out at an illegal boxing match for one night. You expect blood and bad decisions— not Reiner, a boxer who somehow manages to knock you off your feet outside the ring....

wc: 8K

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Jean said he owed you one.

That was the exact phrase he used, standing outside the venue at nine-thirty on a Friday night while you looked at the building— a former warehouse you believe, the kind of place cities forgot about until someone found a use for them— and tried to decide how you felt about the whole situation. The door was unmarked, and two men stood outside it who weren't dressed like security but functioned as it. The people filtering in ahead of you were mostly young, mostly male, mostly looking over their shoulders with the particular energy of people who'd paid cash for something they couldn't tell anyone about.

"It's one night," Jean had said, with his hands in his coat pockets and the particular expression of a man who knew he was asking for too much and had decided to ask anyway. "Two hours, maybe three. Walk the cards between rounds, look like you know what you're doing— which you always do anyway— and I'll owe you one."

"You already owe me one," you kindly remind him.

"I'll owe you another one then." 

You looked at the building behind him before letting out a loud sigh. "If anything happens to me," you said, "I'm haunting you specifically."

"Nothing's going to happen to you,” Jean protests. "I'll be there the whole time."

He was not there the whole time. He was there for approximately seven minutes before someone found him about ‘the money side of things’ and he was absorbed into a corner conversation that seemed to require his complete and undivided attention for the rest of the evening. You stood at the edge of the room with your round card, your dress doing more structural work than a dress should reasonably be expected to do.

The venue really was something, you'd give it that. High ceilings, exposed beams, the kind of bones that must have been a theatre or a music hall before it became whatever this was— the balcony still intact above you, already lined with people leaning over the rail, and below it the main floor packed tight around the ring with proper ropes, the canvas white under the single spotlight that hung directly above it like a judgment. Everything else was amber and shadow, with cigarette smoke and warm bodies and the specific electricity of a crowd that had paid cash and expected something worth it.

No officials, no matchmaker in a jacket at a microphone. Just the ring, and the people, and the money changing hands in the corners, and somewhere in the back Jean talking to men whose faces you didn't look at too long. You stood with your back to the wall and learned the space before the space learned you. The exits, where the money was, the crowd's centre of gravity— and then, lastly, the man on the far side of the ring.

He was alone, which was the first thing you noticed— no friends, no one pressing a water bottle on him or supporting him for his fight. Just him, standing beside the ring in black shorts that hung low on his hips, his hands already wrapped in off-white tape, looking at the canvas with the inward focus of someone running through something only they could see. And he was— well, you needed a moment to just look at him, honestly. The width of him, the depth of him— not tall in the way that announced itself but broad, built the way things were built for actual use rather than appearance, every part of him in service of a function, and the function was power. The chest. The arms. The toned stomach, flat and deeply defined, a line of muscle from his ribs down that you followed for longer than was professional and then looked away from. Short dirty-blonde hair, pushed back slightly from a heavy brow. A jaw graced with light stubble and a mouth set neutral, which you sure had the shape of something beautiful when it wasn't working at neutral. He turned, and his eyes moved across the room, and they found yours.

Amber. A warm, golden amber, even in this light, even at this distance— and steady in the specific way of eyes that were used to reading situations quickly and had assessed this one and decided on something. He looked at you the way you'd been looking at him, which was to say directly and without the pretence of doing anything else. Not rude. Not the sweeping proprietary look you'd been clocking from the rest of the men in the room since you walked in. Just— steady. Considering, like something had caught his attention and he was being honest about it.

You held it for a moment. Then you did the thing you sometimes did when a situation called for a small act of nerve: you crossed the room towards him. You stopped a few feet from him, and you realised up close he was even more handsome. "Good luck tonight," you said to him.

His head tilted slightly, like the directness of it had surprised him. "Thanks." Then, after a beat, like it had just occurred to him: "My name’s Reiner." He offered it plainly, like a question about whether you wanted the rest.

"I know who you are," you smiled at him.

Something moved in his expression— not quite a smile, but close to one. "Should I be worried about that?"

"No." You looked at him steadily. "Jean told me about you. He’s a friend of mine too, I'm doing the round cards tonight."

"Oh." He nodded once. "Have you known Jean long?"

"Long enough to be here on a Friday night doing him a favour." You watched his face. "And long enough to know he wouldn't put me somewhere actually dangerous."

Reiner glanced around the room, then back to you. "This is pretty close to actually dangerous."

"Mm." You tilted your head. "You don't seem very dangerous."

He looked at you for a moment with an expression you couldn't entirely read— the outermost layer being something like surprised, and beneath that something warmer that he wasn't showing. "You don't know that."

"You haven't moved into my space once since I walked over. You’re being respectful of me." You looked up at him with a small smile playing on your lips. "Dangerous men aren't respectful."

"Right." He glanced toward where Jean had last been visible, then back to you. His eyes didn't wander— they came back to your face and stayed there, which you noted. "You do this often then? Walk cards at illegal boxing matches?”

"I told you, tonight's just a favour." You tilted your head slightly. "Do you do this often? Fight alone with no friends or men in your corner to support you?"

"Often enough." He said it without bravado. Just a fact. "Don’t have many people around to support me in the first place."

You held that, a quiet sadness filling your chest at Reiner’s confession. The crowd noise around you went on being what it was, and neither of you were paying it any attention. "What's your name?" Reiner asked.

You told him. He said it back, once, quietly, like he was committing it. The way he said it did something very small and very inconvenient to the region of your chest which you tried very hard to ignore. From across the room: Jean, cupping his hands around his mouth shouted loudly. "Two minutes!"

Reiner looked over. Then back at you. "We should— "

"Yeah." You gave him a nod. "Try not to get hit too much."

"I'll try." He held your gaze for one more second. His eyes dropped to the round card in your hand, briefly, then back up. "I'll see you between rounds," he said, almost asking hopefully without it being a question. 

"Only if you're still standing," you smirk. 

Something in his face shifted— the surprise of it, and beneath that something that looked like it had enjoyed being surprised.

The other fighter came out of the far side of the room about a minute later. Eren— you'd heard Jean say the name a few times, heard other people in the crowd say it with varying degrees of reverence and scepticism. He was younger than Reiner by a few years, lean and dark-haired with bright green eyes and the body of someone who was fast and hadn't yet been in enough fights to learn to be humble about it. He bounced on his toes as he climbed through the ropes. He had good energy, and also had the specific confidence of someone who had been told they were exceptional often enough to have started believing it was permanent.

Eren watched you as you held up the round card, a low whistle leaving his mouth. "Oh, come on." His voice carried well— a performance for the crowd as much as anything else, but directed at you with enough focus to make it specific. He was grinning. "How am I supposed to concentrate with her standing there? That's genuinely not fair."

There was a loud noise erupting from the crowd. The appreciative kind, which was the kind you liked least, but you kept your expression exactly where it was as you moved from the ring after holding up the card. You had learned a long time ago that a reaction was the most valuable thing in a room like this, and you were not in the business of giving valuable things away for free.

What you had noticed, in your peripheral vision, was Reiner. The harsh set of his jaw, which had changed. His eyes, which had moved from the canvas to Eren with an expression that had lost the warmth entirely. A muscle in his jaw clenching once, then twice, and then going still as he got hold of whatever had moved through him.

He caught you looking. The now darkened amber eyes held yours for a half-second, and something passed between you that was too quick to name. Jean said something that served as a bell, the crowd pushed forward, and the fight began.

The first round ended just as quickly as it began— Eren's speed against Reiner's size, with neither of them committing to anything, both of them learning each other's movements. Eren was fast. Faster than he had any right to be against a man of Reiner's size. He worked in and out, punched and moved, and Reiner absorbed it and looked for the right moment, but he didn't rush. You stood ringside and watched with the focused stillness you brought to things you were genuinely becoming interested in, and you were invested.

The second round was difficult. Eren found a weak spot— a right hand that Reiner hadn't slipped away from cleanly, catching the side of his head at an angle that spun him half a step sideways. The crowd reacted, and Eren reacted to the crowd, which was his mistake in general terms, but in the short term it worked for him: he pressed before Reiner had fully reset, and another punch landed before he could re-establish his guard.

The cut above Reiner's eyebrow happened at the end of the second round. You weren't sure exactly when— one moment Reiner's face was unmarked, or as unmarked as a face got in this situation, and then there was a split above his left brow seeping red in the overhead light, and the left eye was beginning to swell in that dark, vascular way that moved fast and didn't stop until it wanted to. 

You noticed Reiner didn't have any cornermen or friends around him like Eren did. No one to press a cloth or an ice pack to his cut between rounds except Reiner himself, who pressed the heel of his wrapped hand to it briefly and looked at the blood on his palm with an expression that was more sad than anything else. He sat on the slumped on the edge of the ring as Eren basked in the crowd's glory, Eren with the support of everyone and Reiner with the support of no one.  

You were moving before you'd made the decision out loud. You climbed up onto the canvas and ducked under the rope as Reiner looked up. His expression shifted— surprise, first, then something more guarded. "You can't be here."

"And yet here I am." You crouched down in front of him. You'd thought to grab a cloth left on the equipment table— some practical part of you always thought to grab things— and you pressed it to the cut without asking permission as he went very still. "Let me see."

"It's fine-"

"Well it obviously isn’t." You held the pressure, careful. "Tip your head back, slightly."

He tilted his head back. You were very close to him now— closer than you'd been when you'd crossed the room to introduce yourself, closer than was warranted by a professional interest in the cut above his eye. The heat of him was something you noticed. The size of him at close range. The way his breathing was controlled even now, even post-round, disciplined in the specific way of someone whose body had been trained to manage itself.

Reiner was quiet. He was looking up at the ceiling with the cloth held to his brow, and you could see the working of his jaw, the thing he was doing inside his own head that wasn't quite defeat but looked very much like it.

"Hey." Your voice came out quieter than you intended. "Look at me." He lowered his head. The amber eye— the one that was still fully open and not swollen— found yours. "Eren's fast," you tell him. "He's been fast all night and he's going to stay fast. Stop trying to fight around it and fight through it, just close the distance. You're bigger than him, so get in close and don't give him room to move." You held his gaze as silence fell between the two of you. The crowd was doing what crowds did, but the ring had its own atmosphere.

"You seem know a lot," he said. The same thing he might have said to anyone who'd just told him something useful, but he was looking at you in a way that wasn't about boxing strategy at all.

"I know a lot of things." You checked the cut— still seeping at the edges, not closing, but you knew it wasn't going to yet. "You came here to win tonight, right?"

"Yeah—"

"Then act like it." Your eyes were on him, solid but steady. He looked at you. 

"Why do you care?" he almost whispered. "You walked over to wish me luck forty minutes ago. You don't even know me."

"No," you admit. "But I’d like to." That landed— the slight shift in his expression, the adjustment of something behind the amber eye that had nothing to do with the fight. You looked at him— the blood, the swollen lid, the face that was battered and still, somehow, distractingly, the most striking face you'd looked at in a long time. The way he was watching you with that careful, unhurried attention. "You have a good face," you smile. "I'd quite like it to stay that way."

The corner of his mouth moved, barely. "A good face?" he repeated. 

"Don't get too excited. You also have a very bad eye."

"Right." His mouth moved again. 

Jean was shouting something from outside the ring that sounded like thirty seconds. The words were somewhere in the noise and you were not listening to them.

You were looking at Reiner and he was looking at you. And the thing that had been building since you'd crossed the room— since eye contact across twenty-five feet of warehouse floor, since he'd said your name back to you quietly like he was keeping it— arrived at a point where it required some kind of action and you looked at it honestly and thought: fine, we’re doing this then. 

You leaned forward and kissed him. Not soft nor tentative. A real kiss, with intention in it, his face in your hands and your mouth on his, and he made a sound very low in his chest and his hand came up to the back of your head. His hand was enormous and warm against you. He held you with a kind of careful deliberateness— not tentative with that either, nothing like that, but deliberate in the way of someone who had decided exactly how to hold you and wasn't going to be careless about it.

You pulled back. His hand stayed for a moment, then released. He stared at you. The honey coloured eye, very wide, the composure he'd worn all evening entirely absent for approximately three seconds.

"Okay," you said. Your voice was impressively steady given the circumstances. "Now go beat his ass."

He blinked. Something happened in his face— something shifted, cleared, reorganised, like a weight had been set down. He looked at you once more, a look that had too much in it to name quickly, and then he stood up and he was very tall as he turned towards the ring.

"Yeah," he said. "I've got it."

You climbed back through the ropes and pressed your fingertips briefly to your mouth as stepped back through the crowd and tried to look like someone who had not just kissed a man she'd met twenty minutes ago in an illegal fighting venue on a Friday night. You were not sure you entirely succeeded.

The third round was different. It was obvious immediately— not just to you but to the crowd, which shifted and tightened with the particular attention of people who sense the momentum of something changing. Reiner came forward from the first second. No hesitation, no circling, no concession to the speed advantage that had been working against him. He moved like he'd made a decision and the making of it had freed him from something.

Eren was good enough to know what was happening. He tried to reset, tried to put distance back between them, but Reiner was already inside, already working, and at close range the size difference was crucial. Eren landed shots— he was too good not to, too fast not to get something off— but they landed on a man who had decided to accept them as the price of being somewhere, and Reiner had somewhere to be.

The knockdown came at the two-minute mark. A hook, short and heavy, coming from low, and it caught Eren at the jaw and the sound was something you felt in your back teeth and Eren went down the way things went down when something structural had given way. The crowd erupted into cheers.

He got up. He had courage, or stubbornness— the same thing sometimes— and he put his hands back up and tried. Reiner met him in the centre, gave him a moment that was more than the situation required, and then finished it cleanly. Eren went down again and stayed.

The room became extremely loud.

Jean was shouting and the crowd was moving. Somewhere in it, Eren was being helped up by someone who knew him, and there was the usual post-fight reorganisation of a room that had gotten what it came for.

And Reiner was standing in the centre of the ring. Chest heaving, the blood still on his face, his hands at his sides. His corner men— if he'd had any— would have come to him. Instead he stood there alone in the ring under the industrial lights and looked out at the room, and then he looked down at the exact part of the crowd he'd been looking at all night. At you.

You looked right back at him.

He held it for a long moment. There was blood on his face and his eye was nearly closed from being so swollen and he looked wrecked, battered and tired and wound down from the specific exhaustion of having given a fight everything available. He also looked, in the particular way of someone who had just done the thing they were built to do, like himself. More like himself than at any other point in the evening.

You gave him a small nod. He didn't smile— too much effort, possibly, and you got the sense he was the kind of person who didn't scatter smiles around. But something in his face shifted that was in the direction of one.

You were putting your coat on when he found you.

The room had reorganised into post-fight mode— Jean deep in a conversation with several people who all looked like they had opinions about who won, the crowd thinning toward the exits, the ring already being taken apart by two men who worked fast and didn't talk. You'd found your bag where you'd left it, had your coat half-buttoned, were making the internal calculation of whether you needed to say a proper goodbye to Jean or if a text would cover it.

Then someone stopped beside you. Not touching you. Just there, in your peripheral vision, a presence large enough and warm enough to register before you'd turned. You turned.

He'd pulled on a grey t-shirt— too-small, worn soft, pulled across those shoulders in a way that didn't do much to make him less overwhelming— and someone had put a fresh dressing over the cut above his eye, rough but holding. The left eye was swollen and nearly shut. The right one was entirely open and carrying something that it had been carrying since the first moment he'd looked up and found you watching him from across the room.

You looked at the eye. At the dressing. At his jaw, which had a bruise developing along the bone.

"You're a mess," you tell him.

"I know." He didn't sound bothered by it. "I've been worse." You looked at him steadily. He looked back with the same unrushed attention he'd given you all evening. "Thank you," he said softly. "For what you did in the ring."

"The boxing advice or the kiss?"

His face went slightly pink as he scratched the back of his neck. “...Both."

You let that sit for a moment. Around you the room was thinning, the noise level dropping. Jean had moved somewhere further away, absorbed in the money conversation.

"You came over to see me," you observe. “When you could have just left."

"I could have." He was quiet for a moment. He was standing, you noticed, at the same distance he'd stood from you at the start of the night— close enough to be a conversation, far enough to be a choice. "But....I didn't want to."

"Why not?"

He considered it. Actually considered it, like he wasn't interested in giving you the easy version. "Because you walked across a room to wish a stranger good luck. And then you climbed into a boxing ring to tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself. And then you kissed him— " He paused, his jaw working slightly. "I spent the whole third round thinking about it. About you. Which is the most distracted I've ever been in a fight." He looked at you and something in your chest moved at his words.

"I live about twelve minutes from here," you say before you could stop yourself. "And I make a decent tea."

He looked at you. Searching for the subtext, maybe, or just confirming that the text was what it appeared to be. "You want me to….come to yours?" he says, almost stuttering. “For tea?” 

"Yeah,” you confirm. “It's late and you look like you need something warm."

"Right." The corner of his mouth. The thing that wasn't quite a smile but was its own thing, specific to him, that you'd been cataloguing all night without meaning to. He held your gaze. "Yeah. Okay."

“Oh—fuck yes, Reiner.” 

You were practically screaming as you leaned back against the kitchen counter, your fingers curling into the edge of the granite behind you. The countertop was cold through the thin fabric of your dress, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off the man kneeling between your thighs.

An hour ago, you'd been standing in this same kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, making small talk about the fight. Reiner had sat on your kitchen stool with his hands on his knees, too big for the space, his shoulders nearly spanning the width of the counter behind him. You'd handed him a mug full of tea, and his fingers had brushed yours. He'd looked at you over the rim— his amber-gold eyes steady, that same unhurried attention from the venue— and then he'd set the mug down carefully and kissed you.

Not a careful kiss. Not the quick, adrenaline-sharp press of lips from the ring. This one had started slow and then deepened, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your throat, and you'd felt the sound he made against your mouth— a low, broken thing, almost a whimper. You'd pulled him closer by the collar of his grey shirt and he'd come easily, eagerly, his big body pressing you into the counter as his hands found your waist and gripped like he was afraid you'd dissolve.

Now his mouth was somewhere else entirely.

His broad shoulders wedged your legs apart, the muscles of them dense and warm against your inner thighs. His stubble scraped a slow drag across sensitive skin as he worked you open with his tongue, and the sound of it filled your kitchen alongside the low, needy groans vibrating from his chest. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing crescents into the soft flesh, holding you steady against the counter as his mouth moved with a kind of reverent hunger.

"Fuck," you breathed, your head dropping back. "Reiner—"

He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, breath hot against your slick folds. "You're so beautiful." His voice was wrecked, hoarse, like the words had been dragged out of him. He pressed his mouth to you again, tongue sliding through the wet heat of you, and you cried out, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. His tongue found your clit and circled it, slow and deliberate, and your spine arched off the counter. He groaned again— that same broken, desperate sound— and pressed closer, his nose pushing into you as he worked you with an attention that was almost unbearable in its gentleness. He was shaking. You could feel it in his hands, in the fine tremor running through his shoulders, like he was the one being undone.

"I thought about you the whole fight," he murmured between long, dragging strokes of his tongue. "Couldn't stop thinking about you." Another stroke, deeper, his tongue pushing into you. A groan vibrated against your cunt and your thighs clamped around his head involuntarily. His hands tightened on your hips, not pushing you away, just holding you, steadying you. "You're so perfect. You're— fuck, you're so—"

His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked, and your vision went white at the edges. Your fingers found his hair, short and rough-textured, and you yanked. Not gently. You hauled him up by the scalp and he came willingly, stumbling to his feet with his mouth wet and swollen, his amber-gold eyes blown dark, the pupil swallowing the iris. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving under that grey t-shirt, and the sound he made when you pulled him against you was almost a whine.

"Bedroom," you demanded. "Now."

He didn't argue or hesitate. His hand found yours, fingers interlacing, and he let you drag him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy and uneven behind you. You shoved the bedroom door open and pulled him through, and then his hands were on your waist again and he was walking you backward, step by careful step, until your knees hit the mattress and you sat down hard.

He stood over you. The grey t-shirt was rucked up, exposing the ridged muscle of his stomach, the defined lines of his obliques, the faint trail of blonde hair below his navel. The bruise along his jaw had darkened, and the dressing above his eye was starting to peel at one corner. He looked wrecked and gorgeous and desperate, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven pulls.

You grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He helped, arms crossing to yank it off, and then he was bare from the waist up, broad chest and thick arms and the kind of muscle built from years of violence and discipline. Up close now you noticed a scar ran along his left side, old and silver. His skin was flushed, a faint pink spreading down from his collarbones.

You reached for his belt. His stomach clenched under your knuckles as you worked the buckle, and the sound he made when you pulled the leather free was quiet and strangled. You undid the button, the zip, and shoved his jeans down his thighs. He kicked them off, clumsy, and then he was standing in your bedroom in nothing but his boxer briefs, the fabric straining over the obvious outline of his cock, thick and hard and curving upward.

"Off," you said, hooking your fingers in the waistband.

He shoved them down with a rough, impatient sound, and his cock sprang free— flushed dark, heavy, the head slick with pre-cum. It was thick, proportionate to the rest of him, and the sight of it sent a sharp pulse of heat through your lower stomach.

You pulled your own shirt over your head ans Reiner's breath caught. His hands came up, hovering, like he needed permission, and you grabbed his wrists and planted his palms on your breasts. His fingers spread wide, spanning the curve of them, and the sound he made was barely audible— a raw, involuntary "oh."

You pulled him down onto the bed with you. He came down carefully, bracing his weight on his forearms so he didn't crush you, his big body caging you in. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your thigh, and his hips canted forward instinctively, seeking friction. You felt the wet smear of pre-cum against your skin and reached between you, wrapping your hand around him. He almost choked.

"Fuck— please—" His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your skin. "Please, I need—"

You guided him to your entrance. The blunt head of his cock pressed against the slick heat of you, and he stopped, frozen, trembling.

"Look at me," you almost plead. “Look at me while you fuck me—”

He lifted his head instantly, his amber-gold eye— the one not swollen shut— was glassy and dark, the pupil blown wide. His lips were parted, his breath shallow as he pushed in. The stretch of him was a slow, deep ache, your body opening around the thick length of him inch by inch. He groaned— a low, shuddering sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest— and his arms shook as he held himself still, letting you adjust. His face was pressed into the curve of your neck, and you felt his lips move against your skin, forming words you couldn't quite hear.

"Reiner." Your hand found the back of his head, fingers sliding through the short blonde hair. "Please move."

He pulled back slowly, the drag of him inside you exquisite, and then pushed in again, deeper. The sound he made was almost a sob. "You feel so good," he gasped against your throat. "You feel so good, you feel so—" Another thrust, harder, and the bed frame creaked. You pushed him back and grabbed his hips, rolling you over so you were on top, your thighs bracketing his narrow waist, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. He looked up at you with an expression that was almost pained— jaw slack, eyes wide, his big hands coming up to grip your hips like he was holding onto something that might slip away.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Oh, f–fuck."

You rolled your hips. A slow, grinding circle that pressed him deep against the front wall of your cunt, and his head tipped back into the pillow, the tendons in his neck standing taut. The sound that came out of him was a moan, loud and uncontrolled, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise.

"You like that?" You coo as you did it again.

"I—yes—fuck, yes, please—" He was babbling, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your lower belly, his hips jerking up to meet yours. "Please, please, I need—"

You rode him. Slow at first, then faster, lifting your hips and sinking back down, the wet slide of him inside you obscene and loud. Each downstroke punched a sound out of him— a grunt, a moan, a whimper that cracked at the edges. His hands roamed your body, palms sliding up your ribs, cupping your breasts, thumbs dragging over your nipples. He touched you like he was memorising you, like every inch of skin was something he needed to learn with his hands and his mouth and his cock. "Beautiful," he gasped, thrusting up to meet you. "You're so fucking beautiful, I can't—I can't—"

You clenched around him and he cried out, a raw, desperate sound, his hips stuttering. His abs clenched, the muscle jumping under sweat-slick skin, and you watched the way his face twisted— jaw tight, brow furrowed, that amber-gold eye squeezed shut and then forced open again like he couldn't bear to stop looking at you.

Before you could do anything more, He flipped you. It was fast— one moment you were on top, and the next his big arms had wrapped around your waist and he'd rolled, taking you with him, and your back hit the mattress with him above you. His forearms bracketed your head, the thick muscle of his biceps caging you in again, and his hips settled between your thighs. He was breathing hard, his chest pressing against yours with each ragged inhale.

"Can I—" His voice was rough, scraped raw. He pulled back enough to look at you, his amber-gold eye searching your face. "Can I—can I take it from here? I need—" He swallowed. 

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, almost too quickly. "Just fuck me, Reiner."

His eye fluttered closed. A shudder ran through his whole body, his arms trembling where they braced against the mattress. "Okay," he whispered. 

He pulled back and thrust in, slow and deep, and the moan that came out of him resonated through the room, through the walls, a sound so raw and unguarded it made your chest ache. He set a rhythm that was almost unbearably tender— long, measured strokes that dragged the full length of him through the clutch of your cunt, his hips rolling rather than snapping, each thrust punctuated by a low, helpless sound.

His forehead pressed against yours. His breath came in hot, uneven bursts against your lips. "You feel so good," he murmured, his voice cracking. "So good, I—" A harder thrust, his hips stuttering out of rhythm. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, his face pressing into the curve of your neck. You felt his lips against your pulse point, felt the shape of your name in the movement of his mouth. His hips maintained that slow, devastating rhythm, each thrust grinding his pelvis against your clit, the pressure building in low, rolling waves.

"Reiner," you gasped, your nails raking down the broad expanse of his back. "Harder."

He made a sound like he'd been punched. His hips snapped forward, a single hard thrust that drove the head of his cock against your cervix, and you cried out, your back arching off the mattress. He did it again, and again, and the rhythm shifted— still careful, still measured, but deeper now, more urgent, the gentleness fraying at the edges.

"I'm—" His voice was breaking apart. "I'm close. I'm so close, I can't—"

His thrusts grew erratic, his breathing ragged, his big body trembling against yours. He pulled back enough to look at you, his amber-gold eye dark and glassy, his expression raw and open and desperate.

"Can I finish inside you?" The words came out rough and needy, barely above a whisper. "Please. Please, you're so perfect, I—" His jaw twitched. "I need—I've never wanted anything this much. Please."

You nodded desperately. "Yes."

He shuddered. A full-body tremor that started in his shoulders and rolled down through his chest, his stomach, his hips. "Thank you," he breathed. "You’re so good—"

He thrust deep, one final stroke that buried him to the hilt, and then he was coming. His whole body locked up, his arms caging you tight against the mattress, his face pressed into the pillow beside your head. The sound he made was a moan and a whimper and something close to a sob, the noise muffled against fabric but still loud enough to fill the room. You felt him spill inside you—hot, thick, pulsing—and his hips jerked through it in small, helpless movements, each one accompanied by a soft, broken whimper against your neck.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice wrecked and trembling. His lips brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. His hips slowed before completely stilling. He stayed inside you, his cock softening in the wet heat of his own release, and his arms stayed wrapped around you— careful, gentle, like he was holding something fragile. His breathing came in shuddering pulls against your shoulder, and you felt the dampness of sweat where his chest pressed against yours, the fine tremor still running through his arms.

Then Reiner’s gaze dropped, to your flushed chest, then your stomach, then lower. The way your thighs still bracketed his hips, tense and unsatisfied. The way your cunt clenched around him in small, involuntary pulses— chasing something you hadn't reached. His eye widened.

"You didn't—" He stopped. His throat worked, and when he pulled out, the wet sound of it was obscene— his cum slipping out with him, hot and thick, trailing down your inner thigh. He looked at the mess he'd made of you, and something shifted in his face. Not guilt, but need. "I didn't take care of you—"

You shook your head at him quickly. “It’s okay—” 

Reiner moved down the bed before you could finish your sentence of protest, settling on his knees between your spread legs. His big hands found your thighs, palms warm and rough with calluses, and he pushed them open wider. You watched him look at you— really look— his own release glistening on your swollen cunt, pink and flushed and dripping with him. His jaw tightened, the bruise along the bone darkened the motion.

"Fuck," he breathed. The word came out cracked. "You're—fuck, look at you."

He lowered his head, and the first stroke of his tongue was slow. He dragged it flat through the mess of cum and your own slick, starting at your entrance and dragging upward to your clit. You let out a loud gasp as your hands flew to his head. He didn't flinch at the taste of himself, if anything he licked into you deeper, tongue curling, pushing inside your opening where his cock had just been, chasing the cum that leaked from you like he needed it back.

"Good— so good," he murmured against you, the words half-lost in wet heat. His lips sealed around your clit and he sucked, gentle, so gentle it made your hips jerk. One hand slid under your ass, tilting you up toward his mouth.

"Fuck, Reiner," you whimper softly, grinding yourself on him slowly. "I'm so close."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet, chin shining, that single golden eye blown wide and fixed on your face like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing. His voice came out wrecked. "Come on my mouth. Please. I need— I need you to."

He dove back in and his tongue found a rhythm— slow circles around your clit, then faster, then sucking, then circles again. His fingers joined, two sliding inside you where you were slick with him, curling against the spot that made your back arch off the mattress. The bed frame creaked under the thrashing of your hips. His mouth worked you with a devotion that bordered on worship, sloppy and wet and relentless, and when your thighs started to shake he only pressed closer, groaning against you like your pleasure was feeding his own.

Your orgasm hit like a punch. Your cunt clamped down on his fingers, spasming, and you came hard against his mouth—convulsing, gasping and moaning, one hand fisting the sheets and the other grabbing his hair. He didn't stop. He licked you through it, tongue gentling as the waves rolled, his free hand stroking your thigh like he was soothing something wild.

When you finally stilled, he pressed one last kiss to your oversensitive clit. Then rested his cheek against your inner thigh, breathing hard as his lips curved into a faint, dazed smile. The bruise along his jaw looked darker in the low light of your bedroom. The dressing above his eye was peeling at the corner. He looked wrecked and gentle and utterly, devastatingly sincere as he crawled back up to your face.

"Thank you," he said again, quieter now. His thumb traced the line of your jaw. "......For the tea, of course."

You laughed. The sound surprised you— bright and sudden— and his face broke into that not-quite-smile as his thumb kept tracing your jaw, slow and wondering before you rested your head on his chest.

In the silence that followed, you heard it— the small, sharp intake of breath through his nose, the kind that came when someone was holding something back. His arms stayed around you, but his grip had shifted. His fingers trembled against the curve of your spine, and when you lifted your head from his chest to look at him, his amber eye was squeezed shut, the muscles along his jaw working in a slow, grinding clench that pulled the bruise there taut and dark.

"Hey," you said softly. "Hey— look at me."

His eye opened halfway. The haze from earlier had burned off, replaced by something tighter, more contained. The skin above his left brow was swollen nearly shut, the old dressing peeling away from the sweat and heat, and underneath it the tissue had gone a deep, mottled purple-green that spread toward his temple. You reached up and brushed your thumb beneath the edge of the dressing, and his whole body flinched— a single, involuntary jerk that ran through his shoulders and down into his ribs.

"That's not nothing." You sat up, pulling the sheet across your chest, and swung your legs over the side of the bed. "Stay here."

You padded barefoot to the bathroom. The tile was cold under your feet as you opened the medicine cabinet, pulling out the small first-aid kit you kept on the second shelf— gauze pads, medical tape, antiseptic wipes, a tube of gel that had been there long enough to collect dust. You ran a clean washcloth under cool water, wrung it out, and carried everything back.

Reiner hadn't moved. He sat where you'd left him, back against the headboard, his hands flat on his thighs. The trembling was more visible now without the distraction of your body against his. His breathing came in careful, measured pulls— the kind of breathing that cost effort.

"Come here," you said, settling onto the edge of the bed beside him. You tore open an antiseptic wipe. "Let me see it properly."

He turned toward you slowly, tilting his chin down. You peeled the old dressing away, and he hissed through his teeth. The skin underneath was hot to the touch, swollen tight, the discolouration spreading from his brow bone down toward the socket. You pressed the cool, damp washcloth against it, and a sound came out of him— low, broken, somewhere between relief and surrender. His shoulders dropped three inches.

"Hold still." You worked carefully, cleaning the area, smoothing a thin layer of soothing gel across the swollen tissue with your ring finger, the lightest pressure you could manage. He didn't flinch again, but his jaw stayed clenched, and a muscle in his neck jumped with each pass of your fingertip. You layered a fresh gauze pad over the swelling and taped the edges down with small, precise strips.

"There," you mumble. "That's the best I can do for now." You reached for his jaw, turning his face gently toward the light. The bruise there was deep, a dark bloom along the bone, but the skin wasn't broken. "Does anything else hurt? Ribs? Hands?"

He shook his head. Then paused. "Hands," he admitted, the word coming out rough and low, like it cost him something to say it.

You reached for his hand and turned it over. The knuckles were split and raw, the skin around them angry red from the fight earlier. You cleaned each one in silence, wrapping two of them in small bandages while he sat still and let you, watching your hands work with that single amber-gold eye.

"You need to sleep," you said, setting the supplies aside. You stood, pulling back the duvet on the other side. "So get in bed and go to sleep."

He looked at the bed, then at you. Something moved across his face— not the not-quite-smile this time, but something rawer, something younger. He swung his legs into the duvet and lowered himself down with a control that told you every movement was costing him. He settled onto his back, one arm draped across his ribs, and stared at the ceiling.

You turned toward the door. "I can go sleep on the sofa—"

"Don't. Please."

The word stopped you mid-step. You looked back. He wasn't looking at the ceiling anymore. He was looking at you, and his eye was wide open now, the gold in it catching the low light— his mouth was slightly parted, and his chest rose and fell too fast for someone trying to rest.

"Stay." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Please. I don't—" He stopped, swallowing as his hand lifted from the mattress, reached toward you, fingers open. "I don't want to be alone right now."

You stood in the doorway for a long moment, the washcloth still damp in your hand, the hallway light falling in a thin stripe across the floor. Then you set the cloth down on the dresser, crossed back to the bed, and slid in beside him.

His hand found you immediately— not grabbing, not pulling, just settling against your hip, his fingers curling into the fabric of the sheet. You turned onto your side, facing him, and tucked your head beneath his chin, your forehead resting against the hollow of his throat. You could feel his pulse there, fast and unsteady, and the warmth of his skin, and the faint vibration of the trembling that hadn't stopped.

His arm came around you, slow and heavy, pulling you in until there was no space left. His chin rested on top of your head, and his breathing began to slow— one ragged pull after another, each one a little longer, a little deeper, until the trembling faded to a faint, intermittent shiver that moved through his frame like the last ripples of something receding.

You pressed your palm flat against his chest, over his heart, and felt it steady beneath your hand. His fingers traced a slow, absent pattern along your shoulder blade, the motion growing lazier, less deliberate, until his hand stilled and his breathing went deep and even and slow.

The room was dark now, the only light the faint glow from the street leaking through the curtains. His body was warm and heavy beside you, solid and still, and the gauze on his eye was a small white shape in the darkness. You closed your eyes, and the last thing you registered before sleep pulled you under was the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your palm, and his arm holding you like you were the only fixed point in a world that wouldn't stop moving.

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[dojikkodere]

YIPEE fic fanart, for @lucyyx3x 's thin ice oneshot!!

ice hockey captain reiner made me weeeak, thank u lucy for all ur x readers, ur writing always makes me so giddy >u<✩

[lucyyx3x]

I AM IN SHOCK….THIS IS AMAZING I AM IN AWE!!! Huge thank you to my amazing moot ILYSM YOU SMASHED THIS <3 INCREDIBLE artwork AHHH I’m fangirling SO hard rn🤭

[lucyyx3x]

Red Flag ✦ Attack on Titan✦

.ᐟ Reiner Braun x F! Reader x Jean Kirstein .ᐟ Modern AU.ᐟ

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Racer! Reiner Braun x Flag Girl! Reader x Racer! Jean Kirstein (oneshot!)

summary: You're the flag girl at an illegal underground street race, where the winner walks away with the cash, bragging rights, and one drink with you. Competing racers Reiner and Jean are determined to claim all three, but by the end of the night, they discover some prizes are better when they're shared....

a/n: Guys I have no excuse for this other than I want Reiner and Jean at the SAME DAMN TIME OKAY?? Anyway....enjoy >:)

wc: 7.3K

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Coupe — a small, passenger car with a sloping rear roofline, and typically two doors; prioritising sleek styling and sporty performance over interior space.

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The night air carried the bite of spent gasoline and cooling gravel, a mixture that had become as familiar to you as the perfume you wear. You stood beside Sasha's battered car, tugging at the hem of your skirt— a gesture that accomplished nothing. The black fabric was designed to ride high on your thighs, and it did so with enthusiasm, leaving the long line of your legs exposed beneath the amber glow of a nearby caged work light. Sasha had picked the outfit out for you— specifically for tonight. 

"You look like trouble," Sasha said proudly, leaning against her car with her arms crossed. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and she wore her usual uniform of oversized denim jacket and scuffed boots. She looked at you the way a painter looks at a finished canvas— with satisfaction and a touch of pride. "Good trouble. The kind that makes people do stupid things with their cars."

You smoothed a hand down your hip, feeling the fabric stretch tighter across your curves. The top Sasha had lent you a top that was cut low enough that you'd been aware of your own breathing all evening— every inhale shifted the neckline a fraction lower, and you'd caught multiple people staring openly since you'd arrived at the warehouse district. You'd learned to move through that kind of attention the way a ship cuts through water: without stopping, without acknowledging it.

The lot behind the old textile mill in your town had been converted into a staging area. Cars were parked in uneven rows— some stripped to bare metal, others repainted in vivid colours that caught the light like oil on water. The smell of rubber fuel hung thick, mixing with the distant clatter of a portable generator someone had set up behind a stack of pallets. People milled between the vehicles, their faces half-lit by the occasional headlight beam sweeping across the lot like a searchlight.

Sasha walked ahead of you, weaving between a group of spectators who had gathered near the starting line— two painted lines of white stretched across the cracked concrete. Sasha knew everyone here it seemed. She stopped to clap shoulders with a guy in a grease-stained hoodie, exchanged a word with a woman carrying a keg of beer, and gestured for you to follow.

You followed, your heels clicking against the uneven ground. You'd chosen the shoes carefully— high enough to make your calves flex with each step, but not so high that you couldn't run if things went sideways. Underground and illegal races had a way of going sideways. You'd learned that the hard way last summer, when a race had ended unexpectedly because the cops showed up and you had to run in 6 inch heels.

Sasha stopped beside two cars parked side by side at the starting line. One was a deep midnight blue, sleek and low, with a matte finish that swallowed light. The other was a stripped-down coupe in gunmetal grey, its body panels slightly mismatched where replacement parts had been bolted on. Both had the look of cars that had been rebuilt from the inside out— engines swapped, suspensions tightened, every unnecessary ounce stripped away to create maximum speed.

A man leaned against the bonnet of the grey coupe, one boot crossed over the other, a cigarette between his lips. He was broad. Not just tall— but wide. His shoulders strained the seams of a grey shirt with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, forearms thick and corded with vein lines that caught the work light. He had shortish blonde hair, not quite buzzed but close, and stubble that was more than a shadow but less than a beard. His eyes caught the light from the work lamp nearby, and for a moment, they looked almost golden— like honey held up to a flame. And his hands— you noticed, were large and dusted with the kind of grease that no amount of washing fully removes. They were fixed on Sasha as she approached, then landed on you, and stayed.

His lips parted around the cigarette in his mouth and smoke curled from the corner. His gaze dropped— slow, almost involuntary— down the length of your body, and something shifted in the set of his jaw, a subtle tightening, as though he'd bitten down on the cigarette harder than he meant to. His nose was slightly large, crooked at the bridge, the kind of feature that should have thrown off the symmetry of his face but instead gave it a roughness, an asymmetry that drew the eye.

"That's Reiner," Sasha said, gesturing as you were broken from your thoughts. "Don't let the size of him fool you— he's gentle as a lamb— mostly."

Reiner straightened up from the bonnet, pushing off it with one hand. He was taller than you'd expected. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, exhaled smoke to the side, and gave you a nod that was almost shy— his chin dipping, the amber eyes cutting away for half a second before finding their way back to you. His hand came up in a half-wave that he seemed to think better of and turned into adjusting the cuff of his sleeve instead.

"Hey," he said. His voice was lower than the rumble of his car idle, the kind of voice that made you lean in.

Before you could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air from the other car. The driver's door of the midnight blue one was open, and a pair of legs in dark jeans stretched out of it, crossed at the ankle. The man attached to them unfolded himself from the seat— tall, lean, but muscular in a way that was visible in the cut of his shoulders and the line of his arms beneath a fitted black t-shirt. His hair was an ashy light brown, cut into a short mullet that was longer at the back, and his jaw carried a fine scatter of stubble— less than Reiner's, more like he'd forgotten to shave for two days rather than committed to it. His eyes were hazel, bright under the lights, and they found you with an immediacy that was almost aggressive, like a wolf spotting prey across a field.

"And that's Jean," Sasha says. "Don't engage him in conversation unless you want to get annoyed as fuck."

Jean leaned against the open door of the car, arms folded, head tilted to one side. His mouth pulled into a grin that was all teeth and challenge. "Who's this, then?" He pushed off the door and walked toward you, stopping close enough that you could smell his cologne— something sharp and layered over petrol and cigarette smoke. His hazel eyes moved over you with a frankness that had no shame in it, tracking from your boots to the bare skin of your thighs to the neckline of your crop top with the precision of someone cataloguing details they intended to use later.

Sasha waved a hand between you and them. "Boys please. I'd like you to meet my best girl. She's flagging the race tonight." Sasha said proudly. "She's starting you both off."

"She's starting me off, is she?" Jean said, and his grin widened. "I’d like that."

Before Sasha could reply, you spoke before you could think about it. "You'll have to do better than that, Jean. If that's your opening line, I'm already disappointed."

Jean's eyebrows went up. The grin didn't falter— if anything it sharpened. He looked at Sasha, then back at you. "Oh, she's got teeth. I like that." He turned to Reiner. "What do you reckon, big guy?"

Reiner was still standing where he'd been, cigarette between two fingers now, smoke trailing upward past his face. His amber eyes hadn't left you, and at Jean's words, something flickered across his expression— not annoyance, exactly, but something adjacent. He took a drag, held it, and exhaled through his nose. "I reckon you should shut up and let her breathe."

"Breathing's not what I had in mind."

"Clearly."

The exchange was quick, clipped, the kind of back-and-forth that came from familiarity. You watched Reiner's hand tighten around the cigarette, the knuckles of his broad fingers shifting. Jean noticed it too, and the grin on his face shifted into something more private, more satisfied.

Sasha groans next to you. "Boys, please play nice."

"Always," Jean said, without looking at her. His eyes were still on you.

Reiner glanced at Sasha, then back at you, and something in his posture softened— his shoulders dropping a fraction, his weight shifting onto his back foot. He looked, for a moment, like a man trying to decide whether to speak or stay quiet, and choosing the latter. He brought the cigarette to his lips again. The cherry flared, illuminating the crooked bridge of his nose and the gold in his eyes.

You reached into the inside pocket of your leather jacket and pulled out your own pack of cigarettes. The pack was slightly crushed— you'd been sitting on it earlier— and you tapped one free and placed it between your lips. You patted the jacket pockets, and found nothing else. You checked again, more thoroughly this time, pulling the zipper down and reaching into the inner lining. No lighter, fuck. You must've left it in Sasha's car....

You looked up to find Reiner was watching you— had been watching you the whole time, the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, the ember still glowing. He'd tracked the entire sequence: and something moved behind his eyes, a quiet recognition, and without a word he straightened up and stepped toward you.

He was close— close enough that the heat coming off his chest met the cold air between you. He didn't say anything, instead he lifted his cigarette to his mouth, took a slow drag that filled his cheeks and sent smoke drifting past his crooked nose, and then he pulled it free and held it out to you— the lit end angled toward the tip of your unlit cigarette, his hand steady, his fingers large enough that the cigarette looked small between them.

You leaned in. Your lips closed around the filter, and you tilted your head, bringing the tip of your cigarette to his. The ember touched and you inhaled, and the drag caught— heat blooming at the end of your cigarette as smoke pulled through the paper and into your mouth. His eyes were on you the entire time— not on the cigarette, not on the process of lighting it, but on your mouth. On the way your lips wrapped around the filter, on the hollowing of your cheeks as you drew. His jaw was tight, the muscle in his cheek flexing, and his breathing— you noticed, because the night was cold enough to see it— had gone shallow, the plumes of vapour thin and quick.

Jean was watching from three feet away. His arms were still folded, but the posture had changed— tighter, more locked, his fingers gripping his own biceps. His hazel eyes moved between your face and Reiner's hand with an intensity that stripped the humour from his expression. The grin was gone, and in its place was something rawer, something he was working to keep off his face and not entirely succeeding.

You pulled back, cigarette lit, and exhaled smoke upward into the cold air. "Thanks," you said, looking up at Reiner through the haze.

He nodded. His throat moved— a swallow, visible, deliberate. "Anytime," he said, and his voice was rougher than it had been a moment ago.

Jean cleared his throat, loudly. "So," Jean said, turning to Sasha while his eyes kept sliding back to you. "What's the prize tonight? Usually there's a pot. Cash, parts.....whatever."

Sasha crossed her arms. "There's a pot. Three hundred cash, winner takes all."

"Three hundred barely covers gas or the upkeep of my car," Jean said, scratching the stubble along his jaw.

"What, you want more?" Sasha raised an eyebrow.

Jean's gaze drifted to you again— specifically, to the place where your skirt ended and your thigh began. "I'm just saying, for a race like this, the prize should be worth the effort…."

Reiner, who had been quiet through this exchange, finally spoke up. "What did you have in mind?" His voice was careful, measured, like he was testing whether the floor could hold his weight before stepping onto it.

Jean looked at you, then at Sasha, and then back at you. He opened his mouth, but Sasha watched his gaze and beat him to it.

"Winner," Sasha began, shouting louder now so the people nearby could hear. "Gets to take my friend here out for a drink after the race."

The lot seemed to quiet for half a second— or maybe that was just the space between one breath and the next. Then a ripple went through the gathered crowd, and someone whistled. A few guys near the front of the spectators clapped and shoved each other. You turned to Sasha. She was already looking at you, her expression unapologetic, one eyebrow raised as if to say what? You expected me to be subtle?

"I didn't agree to that," you hissed to her, though your voice carried less protest than it probably should have.

"You didn't say no either," Sasha replied.

Jean looked at you with renewed interest, his hazel eyes bright. "I'm fine with that arrangement. Very fine." He glanced at Reiner. "What about you, big guy? You good with those terms?"

Reiner's jaw tightened— just slightly, a micro-movement that pulled the stubble along his chin taut. He looked at you, really looked this time, and his amber eyes held yours for a long, deliberate moment. Something passed through his expression— not confidence, not hesitation, but something in between. A question he was asking without words.

"Those terms work," Reiner said quietly. His gaze dropped again, but not before you'd caught the way it lingered— not on your chest or your legs, but on your face, as if he were trying to memorise something specific.

"Alright then," Sasha said, clapping her hands together. "It's settled. The winner gets the cash and the girl. Let's get this show on the road."

Reiner stayed where he was. He took one last drag of his cigarette, dropped it, and ground it out under his boot. He looked at you, and his mouth opened— hesitated— and closed again. He nodded, once, and turned towards his car.

The crowd pressed closer to the starting line. You moved to your position— a few yards ahead of the two cars, standing between the painted lines. The night air moved against your bare legs, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your thighs. You could feel the vibration of both engines through the soles of your shoes, a low, guttural thrumming that matched the pulse in your wrists.

Reiner's car was to your left. Through the open window, you could see his hands on the wheel— large, calloused and wrapped around the leather with a grip that was firm but not rigid. His eyes were on the road ahead, but his jaw was still tight, and you noticed his thumb tapping against the steering wheel in a rhythm that didn't match the engine's idle. He was nervous, or focused. Or both.

Jean's car was to your right. He leaned out of his window, one elbow resting on the frame, and looked at you with a grin that hadn't left his face since Sash's announcement. "You know," he called over the engine noise, "if you wanted to just skip the race and pick me now, I wouldn't judge you for it."

"How about you focus on the road?" You quip back.

"I am focused," he said. "On the best view in this lot."

You shook your head, but a smile pulled at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. Jean had the kind of charm that worked because it didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was— bold, slightly ridiculous, and delivered with just enough self-awareness to keep it from tipping into arrogance.

You raised the flag. It was a simple red cloth on a short pole, lightweight, but in the glow of the work lights, it caught the colour and threw it back like a signal fire. The crowd noise dimmed. The engines revved— Reiner's a deep, chest-rattling growl, Jean's a higher, sharper whine.

You held the flag above your head. Your arm stretched fully, and you felt the fabric pull taut against the pole as the breeze caught it. The hem of your skirt shifted against your thigh. You could feel every pair of eyes in the lot on you— some on the flag….but most not.

You held the moment. One breath, then two— then you brought the flag down in a sharp, clean arc.

The sound hit you before the sight did— a roar of engines at full throttle, two distinct pitches climbing and blending into a wall of noise. Tires bit into the concrete, and the cars launched forward, passing so close on either side of you that the wind from their passage tugged at your skirt and sent your hair whipping across your face. The smell of exhaust and burnt rubber flooded your senses, thick and acrid.

They were gone— two streaks of colour disappearing down the straightaway, taillights shrinking into the dark corridor formed by the warehouse walls on either side of the track. The crowd erupted behind you, people surging forward to the line, some holding up phones, others craning their necks to follow the cars' progress.

Sasha appeared beside you. "Nice drop," she said.

You lowered the flag pole to your side, your pulse still humming from the adrenaline of the start. "Where's the finish line?"

"Back here. It's a loop. They come around the east side of the mill and come back through the loading dock." She pointed toward a dark gap between two buildings about a quarter mile away. "First one back wins."

You walked with Sasha to a spot near the loading dock, where the crowd had already begun to gather. The ground here was rougher— broken concrete patched with gravel and old tar. You stood on a raised section of the loading platform, which gave you a clear view of the approach. Sasha handed you a bottle of water she'd pulled from somewhere, and you drank, watching the dark gap between the buildings.

The first engine sound reached you almost two minutes later— a distant whine that grew louder, climbing in pitch. Then a second sound, lower, heavier, running alongside it, and the two tones wove together, separating and merging as the cars navigated the turns of the loop. Headlights appeared in the gap— two sets, side by side, so close together that from this distance they looked like a single vehicle. The crowd pressed forward, and someone next to you was shouting a name— you couldn't tell which one.

The cars emerged and into the open stretch of the loading dock. Reiner's car was on the inside line, hugging the corner of the warehouse— and Jean’s car was on the outside, its matte finish catching the floodlight from the dock and throwing it back in a cold sheen. They were neck and neck— not one ahead of the other by any measurable distance. The engines screamed, and you could see the bodies of both cars shudder as they hit the uneven pavement at speed.

The finish line was another white spray-paint mark on the ground, already half-worn from previous races. Both cars crossed it at the same moment— or close enough to the same moment that no one in the crowd could say otherwise. The roar of engines continued past the line as both drivers braked, tires shrieking, the cars fishtailing slightly before coming to a stop thirty yards past the mark.

Silence.....or rather, the absence of engine noise, which in this place felt like silence. Then the crowd erupted into argument and cheers. Half the people were calling it for Jean, the other half for Reiner. A few were shouting for a replay, as if there were cameras anywhere in this lot. Sasha looked at you. "Well….that's inconvenient."

You set down the water bottle and stepped off the loading platform, walking toward the two cars. Reiner was already out of his vehicle, standing beside the open door with his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His t-shirt was damp at the collar, and his amber eyes were fixed on Jean's car as the taller man unfolded himself from the driver's seat.

Jean stood, stretched, and cracked his neck with a sharp turn of his head. He looked at Reiner, then at the finish line behind them, then at Reiner again. "That was me who won, by the way," Jean said.

"Like hell it was," Reiner replied, his voice low but firm.

"I was closer, I was before you."

"No you weren't—" 

They stood facing each other, the space between them thick with the residual heat of the engines and the challenge in their eyes. Reiner's broad frame cast a shadow over Jean in the floodlight, but Jean's height gave him an edge that kept them roughly eye to eye. Neither moved, and neither looked away.

You stopped a few paces from them. "It was a draw," you said simply.

Both men turned to look at you. The argument in the crowd continued behind you, but here, in this small triangle of space between two cooling cars, your voice carried clearly.

"A draw?" Jean repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Both cars crossed the line at the same time. Nobody was ahead, so that makes it a draw."

Reiner's brow furrowed. He looked at the finish line, then back at you. "So what happens to the prize?"

You considered for a moment. The night air was cooling against your skin, and you could feel the goosebumps again along your arms and thighs. The adrenaline from the start had settled into a low, steady hum in your veins, and the arguments and noise of the crowd had faded into background static.

"Neither of you won," you said. "But neither of you lost, either. You both raced fair, and you both crossed the line." You paused, letting the words settle. "So I guess you both get the prize."

Jean's eyebrows rose quickly and Reiner's mouth opened slightly, then closed.

"You both get to take me out," you clarified. "You both get the drink. All three of us— right now."

Silence— not from the crowd, which was still debating, but from the two men in front of you. Jean looked at Reiner, and Reiner looked at Jean. Something passed between them— not agreement, exactly, but a mutual recognition that this outcome, while unexpected, was not one either of them was willing to refuse.

Jean broke first. He let out a short laugh, ran a hand through his hair, and shook his head. "Alright. I can live with that." He looked at you, and the grin returned, slower this time, more deliberate. "You pick the bar?"

"You pick the bar," you say firmly, with a smirk on your face. "I pick the time. And the time is now."

Reiner exhaled— a long, slow breath that loosened the tension in his shoulders. "Okay, but I'm driving," he said. It wasn't a question.

Jean glanced at his own car, then at Reiner's. "Fine. But I call shotgun."

"There's no shotgun," Reiner said. "It's—uh…a two-seater."

"Two seats," Jean repeated. He looked at the car, then at Reiner, then at you. "Then I guess she sits on me."

Reiner's hand paused on the door handle. His jaw worked, the muscles in his neck tightening, and he said nothing for a long moment. Then he opened the door and folded himself into the driver's seat, his broad frame filling the space.

You looked at Jean. He shrugged, that half-smire pulling at his mouth. "What? I'm not walking."

The car's passenger seat was narrow, bucketed, and designed for one. Jean lowered himself into it first, long legs angling to fit, and you climbed in after, settling across his lap, your back against his chest, your legs stretching toward Reiner's side of the car. Your skirt rode up as you settled, the fabric bunching at your hips, and you felt Jean's breath catch behind you— a quick, sharp intake as you shifted on him and stretched your legs further over Reiner’s lap. 

Reiner started the engine. It turned over with that same deep growl, quieter now, idling. He reached for something in the door pocket— a pack of cigarettes, slightly crushed, with a lighter tucked inside. He pulled one out, lit it, and took a long drag. The tip flared orange in the dark interior, and smoke curled up toward the open window.

He passed it to you. You took it between your fingers, brought it to your lips, and inhaled. The smoke was sharp, scratching at the back of your throat— and you held it for a moment, then let it out through the window, where the night air caught it and pulled it apart.

Reiner's hand was on the wheel. His other hand was on the gearstick, and neither hand moved. But his eyes— amber, gold, and burning— dropped from the road to your legs in his lap, to the bare skin of your thighs where the skirt had ridden up, and stayed there for two full seconds before snapping back to the road. His breathing had changed, the exhales were visible in the cold air coming through the window, and they were faster, shallower.

Jean reached past you again, but instead of taking the cigarette, his hand landed on your bare stomach, just below the hem of your crop top. His fingers spread, the tips pressing into the soft skin above your hip. "You're cold," he said, and his mouth was close to your ear, his breath warm. 

Reiner's grip on the steering wheel adjusted. His thumb tapped the leather once, twice, and he said nothing. But in the glow of the dashboard, you could see the muscle in his jaw working, the stubble along his chin catching the light, and the way his chest rose and fell had lost its rhythm. His hand left the gearstick— the car was in fifth now, cruising on the straight— and it hovered, for a moment, over your legs. Then it landed, his palm settled on your shin, just above the laces of your boot, and the heat of it— the size of hand— was startling. His fingers curled around the back of your calf, and his thumb traced a small circle on your skin, slow, almost unconscious, as though his hand had moved on its own and was only now catching up to what it was doing.

Jean's hand tightened on your stomach. You could feel the tension in his fingers, the way they pressed into your skin, and behind you, his breathing had gone shallow and warm against your neck. "So," he said, and his voice had dropped, the quick wit stripped away, leaving something rawer underneath. "Where are we going for this drink?"

You took the cigarette back from between his fingers. Brought it to your lips and inhaled. The smoke sat in your lungs, and you exhaled slowly, out the window, into the cold night air that rushed past the car and pulled the smoke away in a white ribbon.

Reiner's thumb was still tracing circles on your calf. His eyes were on the road, but his hand hadn't moved, and the circles were getting slower, wider, his fingers pressing harder into the muscle of your leg. His breathing was audible now— not loud, but present, each exhale a sound in the quiet, and the flush on his neck had spread to his jaw, the skin dark beneath the stubble.

You shifted your weight, and pushed back against Jean deliberately. You felt the groan properly this time— not in his throat, but in his chest, a vibration against your spine. His hand slid from your stomach to your hip, fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt, and his mouth found the side of your neck. Not a kiss— just faint contact. His lips, dry and warm, pressed to the skin below your ear, and his breath came in a shudder that you felt in your teeth.

Reiner's hand tightened on your calf and his thumb stopped circling. The car drifted slightly, the wheels humming against the road edge, and he corrected it with a sharp tug of the wheel. His eyes were fixed forward, but his jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched visibly, and his chest was rising and falling in short, controlled bursts, like a man trying to hold something back with everything he had.

Jean's mouth found the curve of your neck again, and this time his lips parted. Not a graze this time— a deliberate, slow press of his mouth against the tendon running from your collar to your jaw. His breath came out hot and unsteady, damp against your skin, and his fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you back against him. You felt the hard ridge of him shift against your lower back through the thin layers of fabric separating you.

You didn't stop him. Your cigarette hand drifted to the open window, the ember tracing a faint orange arc in the cold air rushing past, and you let your head tilt sideways. Just slightly, just enough to bare more of your throat to him. The passenger seat's headrest pressed against the back of your skull as you let your weight sink into him.

His tongue touched your skin first— just the tip, tracing the line where your pulse beat beneath the surface. A small sound escaped your lips before you could catch it, a thin, breathy moan that the wind from the window almost stole. Almost. The car was too small, too enclosed, and Reiner heard it. His thumb, which had been resting motionless on your calf, twitched.

Jean heard it too. His mouth curved against your neck, and he pressed another kiss lower, just above the collar of your crop top, where the skin was warm and untouched. His stubble scraped a faint pink trail behind his lips. You ground your hips back into him without thinking— a slow, instinctive roll— and his breath broke into a ragged exhale against your collarbone.

You turned your head. Your nose brushed his cheek first, and then your mouth found his. The kiss started slow, his lower lip caught between yours, the taste of cigarette smoke and something minty underneath. His hand came up from your hip to the side of your face, fingers sliding into the hair behind your ear, holding you there as the kiss deepened. His tongue slid against yours— confident as you felt the vibration of a low groan in his chest through your back. The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, hungry, and you could feel him half-hard already beneath your thigh.

The car swerved. Just slightly— a tiny correction, the tires crunching over gravel at the road's edge before the wheels found tarmac again. You broke the kiss suddenly at the harsh movement and looked over at Reiner.

His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, tendons standing out like cables along his forearms. The sleeves of his shirt were almost bursting, and every muscle in those thick arms was locked rigid. His jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitching beneath his stubble— and his eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but the headlights caught nothing but empty dark asphalt stretching into blackness. He hadn't looked at you, it seemed like he was refusing to look at you.

Jean leaned forward, chin resting on your shoulder, and his voice came low and amused, almost conspiratorial. "Careful, big guy. You're going to bend the wheel."

Reiner said nothing. His grip tightened, you could hear the leather of the steering wheel creak.

"Come on." Jean's hand was still in your hair, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. He addressed Reiner but his eyes were on you, watching the way your lips were still parted, the way your chest rose and fell a little too quickly. "We both won her, didn't we? Fair and square." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "Why don't we both just enjoy it?"

Silence followed as the engine hummed. The cold air through the window raised goosebumps along your bare thighs where your skirt had ridden up, and you could feel the heat of Jean's lap beneath you, the solid bulk of his thighs under yours.

Jean tilted his head, addressing you now, his voice dropping to something softer, almost intimate despite the audience. "What do you think? Hm?" His fingers traced down the side of your neck, following the path his mouth had taken. "You want us both?"

You looked at Reiner. His profile was carved from stone, all hard planes and clenched tension, but his eyes— his eyes flicked to you for the first time, just for a half-second, and in that amber flash you saw it. Not anger— but need. Raw, unguarded, desperate need, the kind that made his hands shake on the wheel and his breathing come shallow through his nose.

"I want both of you," you say softly,your voice steadier than you expected. "Just as much as each other."

Reiner's eyes closed. His head dropped forward, forehead almost touching the wheel, and the sound that came from him was like something breaking loose— a rough exhale, almost a laugh, almost a groan. "Fuck." He said it like a surrender, like the word had been sitting in his chest for miles and he'd finally let it out.

He pulled over quickly, the car rolling to a stop on the shoulder of the dark road, gravel popping under the tires, and the engine idled. The headlights carved a pale cone into the nothing ahead— no buildings, no streetlights, just the flat black of fields beyond the road and the distant orange glow of the city behind you. Reiner killed the engine. The silence that followed was enormous, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the low whistle of wind through the cracked window.

Jean shifted beneath you, his hands sliding to your waist, thumbs pressing into the bare skin between your crop top and your skirt. "There we go." His voice was warm, easy, like he was settling a bet. He looked past you at Reiner. "She's practically on your lap already." His hand dropped to your thigh, gave it a squeeze, then lifted away— a gesture of offering. "You fuck her first, big guy. I'll watch."

Reiner's throat moved as he swallowed. He turned in the driver's seat, and his eyes found yours, and the question in them was so different from Jean's easy confidence— hesitant, almost careful, like he was asking something far bigger than what his mouth actually said. "Are you…okay with this?"

You reached for him. Your hand found the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, and you pulled him toward you. "Yes." The word was barely out before your mouth met his.

Reiner kissed nothing like Jean. Where Jean had been greedy, all tongue and teeth, Reiner was slow. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair, and his mouth moved against yours with an almost reverent attentiveness— like he was memorising the shape of your lips, the way you tasted, the exact pressure that made your breath catch. He kissed you the way he drove: controlled, precise— every movement deliberate. When his tongue finally touched yours, it was a question, not a demand, and the tenderness of it made something twist in your chest.

You shifted off Jean's lap, swinging your legs across the center console, and Reiner's hands caught your waist, lifting you onto him like you weighed nothing. His thighs were thick and hard beneath yours, and you could feel him through his jeans— hot and rigid and straining against the denim. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs tracing the curve of your hipbones, and he kissed you again, deeper this time, his head tilting to fit his mouth more fully against yours.

Behind you, Jean adjusted himself in the passenger seat. You heard the shift of fabric, the quiet rasp of his zipper, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, his hand was pressed flat against the front of his jeans, palming the thick outline of his cock through the dark denim. He caught you looking and grinned— that sharp, cocky grin— and leaned back, spreading his knees wider. "Don't mind me. Carry on."

Reiner's hand found the lever beside his seat and pulled. The driver's seat reclined with a mechanical clunk, tipping backward until he was nearly flat, and you settled against him, your knees on either side of his hips— your skirt riding up until it was bunched uselessly around your waist. You pulled your arms free of the leather jacket and shrugged it off, letting it drop into the footwell. The cold air hit your bare shoulders and then Reiner's hands were there, palms flat and warm against your skin, pulling you down against his chest. 

You reached between you, fingers working the button of his jeans, and Reiner's breath stuttered against your mouth. His hips lifted when you tugged the denim down, and you felt him— hot, thick, the head of his cock slick already. You wrapped your hand around him and his whole body went taut, a shudder running through him like a current, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks.

"Jesus— " His voice broke on the word.

You pushed your panties to the side, lifted your hips and positioned him, then sank down. The angle was tight in the cramped coupe, your head almost touching the roof, but you didn't care. The stretch of him filling you inch by inch made your mouth fall open, a low groan pulling from your throat as your hips met his. He was buried to the hilt, and you could feel him throbbing inside you, feel the way his stomach tensed and flexed against yours with every controlled breath he tried to take.

"Fuck," Reiner whispered. His eyes were shut, his head tipped back against the headrest, the tendons in his neck pulled taut as his hands trembled on your hips. "You feel— " He couldn't finish the sentence.

You rolled your hips, and the sound he made was wrecked. A groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest, his fingers tightening, his hips bucking up into you involuntarily. You set a rhythm— slow, grinding, taking him as deep as the position allowed— and each downstroke dragged a sound from him that was somewhere between a moan and a whimper, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his breath coming in sharp punches.

Jean's hand moved behind you. You felt his fingers hook the neckline of your crop top, tugging it down, and the stretchy fabric gave way, pulling beneath your breasts. The cool air hit your skin for half a second before Jean's hands replaced it— one hand cupping your breast, fingers closing around your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger while his other hand gripped the other, kneading. His palm cupped one breast, his thumb rolling your nipple, pinching it to a stiff peak, and you arched into his touch while Reiner thrust up into you. 

You reached back—blindly, one hand leaving Reiner's chest— and your fingers found Jean's cock. Hot and thick in your grip. He hissed through his teeth when you wrapped your hand around him, your thumb smearing the precum over the head, and you started to stroke him in time with your hips. Reiner beneath you, Jean in your hand, the car rocking faintly on its suspension with every movement.

Reiner's rhythm stuttered. His hands clenched on your hips, pulling you down hard, and his cock throbbed inside you— a deep, pulsing heat. "I can't—" he gasped against your mouth. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm—"

"Reiner— " His name came out of you like a plea.

He came with a sound that was almost painful— a strangled groan, his whole body arching up off the seat, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough that you'd see the bruises tomorrow. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, his cock jerking as he spilled, and his hips kept moving through it, riding each wave, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was still twitching inside you when his head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat visible along his collarbones where his shirt had pulled open.

The car smelled like sex, smoke and the leather of the seats.

Jean's hands were still on your breasts, and he gave one last squeeze before letting go, leaning back in the passenger seat. His own hand returned to his cock, pressing as his voice came rough and low. "My turn, princess. Why don't you take me for a ride?"

You lifted yourself off Reiner's lap, feeling him slip out of you, warm wetness trailing down your inner thigh. Reiner made a quiet sound at the loss, his hand reaching for you instinctively before dropping back to the seat. You climbed over the center console, the cramped space forcing you to press against Jean— and he caught you, his hands gripping your thighs as you straddled him in the passenger seat.

His mouth found yours immediately— hard, demanding, nothing like Reiner's careful attention. Jean kissed like he raced: aggressive, precise, going for the win. His tongue pushed past your lips and his teeth caught your lower lip, tugging, and his hands were already working at his zipper, shoving his jeans down his thighs just far enough. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head slick, and he gripped your hip with one hand while the other positioned himself.

You sank down onto him in one smooth motion, and the stretch made you both groan. He was bigger than you'd expected— longer than Reiner but not as thick, and the angle in the cramped passenger seat meant he hit deep, the head of his cock pressing against that spot inside you that made your thighs shake. His hips snapped up into you the moment you bottomed out, and the sound that came from your mouth was raw, half gasp, half moan, your nails digging into his shoulders through the black t-shirt.

"That's it," he growled against your ear. "Take it."

Your hands gripped the headrest behind his head, and you started to move, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm. Jean's hands gripped your ass, fingers digging into the flesh, and he started thrusting up into you. Hard. Each stroke was a punch, his hips snapping up to meet yours, and the force of it pushed you forward, your forehead almost touching the roof of the car. The sound of it— wet, slapping, obscene— filled the small space, and the windows were already starting to fog at the edges.

"Fuck, you're tight," Jean growled against your throat. His mouth found your collarbone, teeth scraping. "So fucking wet." His hips drove up into you again and you keened, your nails digging into the headrest. "Reiner did a good job getting you ready for me, didn't he?"

From the driver's seat, you heard Reiner's breath catch. You turned your head, just barely, and saw him watching. He'd turned in the reclined seat, his eyes dark and fixed on where Jean's cock disappeared into you with every thrust, and his hand was in his own lap now, palming himself through his jeans, his cock already half-hard again despite having just come.

Jean shifted beneath you. His hands moved to your waist, and in a move that shouldn't have been possible in the cramped hatchback, he twisted— pulling you with him, spinning your bodies until your back was against the passenger door and he was above you, your legs hooked over his shoulders. The gearshift dug into your hip and the window was cold against your shoulder, but you didn't care, because Jean was driving into you now, really driving, his hips snapping forward with a force that rocked the car on its suspension.

The windows were fully fogged now. The world outside had disappeared behind a layer of condensation, and the only light was the faint glow of the dashboard, casting everything in dim amber. The air inside the car was thick, humid, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, and every breath you took was warm and damp.

Jean fucked like he did everything— with a cocky, precise intensity that left no room for anything but sensation. Each thrust was angled, deliberate, his cock dragging against that spot inside you until your vision blurred and your mouth fell open and sounds were coming out of you that you couldn't control— high, broken moans, gasps that broke in half when he drove particularly deep.

"Look at you," Jean panted, his rhythm never faltering. "Taking it so well. Such a good fucking girl." His hand came up to your breast, still exposed above the bunched crop top, and he pinched your nipple, hard, and your back arched off the door.

From the driver's seat, Reiner watched. His amber eyes had cleared, and his cock was hard again— straining against his thigh, thick and flushed, his hand wrapped around it, stroking slowly. He watched Jean fuck you with an expression that was equal parts hunger and something rawer, something that flickered in the gold of his irises every time you moaned. Then his hand moved. He reached across the console, and his fingers found your clit— swollen, slick with your own wetness and the cum leaking from your cunt—and he rubbed in tight, precise circles while Jean pounded into you. The contrast made you sob — Jean's hard, punishing thrusts and Reiner's careful, attentive circles, and your thighs began to shake, the orgasm building fast and heavy in your belly.

"She likes that," Jean observed, his voice rough. He didn't slow down. If anything, he sped up, his hips pistoning into you, the car rocking. "She's clenching so fucking tight around me."

Reiner's fingers pressed harder, two fingers rubbing your clit in steady, firm circles, and your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist— not to push him away but to hold him there, to keep him exactly where he was. Your other hand gripped Jean's shoulder, nails digging crescents into his skin through the t-shirt.

"I'm—" The words dissolved. The orgasm hit you like a wave, starting at your core and radiating outward, your whole body seizing, your back arching, your mouth open in a soundless cry that broke into a moan so loud it fogged the window beside your head. Your pussy clenched around Jean's cock in rhythmic pulses and he swore, his rhythm faltering for the first time, his head dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck— fuck— " Jean's hips stuttered, and then he slammed into you, deep, one two, three more strokes, and you felt him come— pulsing inside you, his whole body rigid above you and his fingers bruising on your thigh. He groaned against your neck, long and low, and his hips kept moving, slower now, riding out the last of it.

The three of you stayed there, breathing. The car was completely steamed— every window opaque with condensation, the world outside erased, the small space a sealed pocket of heat and breath and the smell of sex. Water droplets ran down the inside of the windshield.

Jean's forehead rested against your collarbone. Reiner's fingers had gone still against your clit, his hand resting warm on your inner thigh. You could feel both of them inside and against you, their breath on your skin, the racing of their heartbeats slowing by degrees. Jean lifted his head first. He pressed a kiss to your jaw— almost gentle, a startling contrast to everything else— and pulled back, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that echoed in the small space.

"Not bad for a tiebreaker," he said. His voice was hoarse.

Reiner was still watching you from the driver's seat, his hand warm on your thigh, his amber eyes soft and dark in the dashboard glow. He didn't say anything. But his thumb traced a slow circle on your skin— the same spot, the same motion as before, when this all began— and you understood that for Reiner, that was enough.

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[lucyyx3x]

hear me out

winter olympics au where ice skater reader and hockey reiner are competing for different countries (marley vs paradis) but they end up falling in love (and get freaky)

a: Firstly thank you to whoever sent this its literally incredible yes. Secondly, this is long asff and kinda sucks as I had to cut it down a lot so oops....anyway enjoy everyone <3

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Thin Ice ✦ Attack on Titan ✦

.ᐟ Reiner Braun x F! Reader.ᐟ Modern AU .ᐟ

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Ice Hockey Captain! Reiner Braun x Figure Skater! F. Reader (oneshot)

summary: You came to Marley to win a gold medal in the Winter Olympics. You didn't expect to meet the rival team's hockey captain Reiner Braun. A figure skater, a hockey captain, and twelve days on someone else's ice, what's the worst that could happen?

wc: 11K

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Everyone talks about the Olympic Winter Games like they're a single thing. One event, one moment, one answer to four years of work.

They're not. They're a thousand small things— the smell of a foreign city through a cracked bus window, the sound of a different accent to yours, the way your legs feel after eleven hours cramped on a bus, the particular quality of cold that comes from a place that's had winter for a while. You've competed in seven countries, but you've never been to Marley.

It's older than you expected. The streets in the city centre are stone-paved and narrow, buildings pressed close on either side like they're holding each other up, and everything has the layered quality of a place that has been building on top of itself for so long it's forgotten what the bottom looks like. For the Games, the whole city has been dressed up— Olympic banners on every lamppost, the five rings reproduced on facades and bridges and shop windows, enormous screens mounted at intersections cycling through athlete profiles and event schedules and footage of last cycle's medal ceremonies. It should make it feel less serious, all that decoration, but it doesnt— if anything, it adds to the pressure. 

You look back out the window. A woman on a bicycle is navigating the gap between the bus and a parked van with an ease that suggests she's done it a thousand times. A café is just opening on a corner, a man in an apron pulling chairs off tabletops in the early morning cold. Ordinary life, carrying on underneath the Olympics, indifferent to all of it.

Twelve days. That’s all you were here for. Twelve days. 

The Marley Arena is everything promised and then some— purpose-built but old-feeling, with the particular gravitas of a venue that has hosted things that mattered. It smells when you push through the service entrance on Tuesday morning at six-fifty, like cold metal and rubber matting and the clean, specific sharpness of refrigerated ice, which is the smell that has meant home to you since you were six years old and your mother first laced up your skates.

You're moving fast and swiftly— you always move fast, it was just more efficient to you. Which is why, when you come around the corner from the warm-up room corridor, you don't see him until you've already walked into him, and by then it's too late to do anything useful about it.

The impact is total. It's like walking into a wall that wasn't there a second ago— sudden and immovable— and he catches you before you can go anywhere. Both hands, one on each arm, grip sure and immediate, but the grip is— careful, you think. For hands that size, and the speed it had to happen at, it is remarkably careful.

You look up and find a face you don't recognise— sandy-blond hair, cut short and slightly dishevelled. A jaw that's all clean angles, with two or three days of blond stubble across it. A nose that's been broken at least once, maybe even twice— and reset slightly crooked, which should read as a flaw and somehow doesn't; like his face has been revised by experience into something better than symmetry. And his eyes: a beautiful amber, almost gold. Holding the corridor light in a way that makes them look warm even here, even now, even in a moment that is mildly chaotic. "Sorry," he says. The word is low, accented— and he looks genuinely alarmed. "I didn't see you— are you hurt?"

You are not hurt, but you are, if anything, a little memorised by the amber eyes, which you recognise as an unhelpful response. "You caught me," you say. "So no."

He looks down at his hands on your arms, registers he's still holding you, and lets go with a speed that is almost comical— stepping back, a flush working across those high cheekbones. "I wasn't watching where I was going," he says.

"Neither was I," you say, which is fair. You look past him into the arena entrance, where you can see players already on the ice— dark red jerseys, a crest you don't know. Marley? You look back at him. He's still looking at you with a quality of attention that is more than the situation strictly requires. "You're with the Marley squad?"

"Captain," he says. Then, like he's remembered other words exist: "I mean— I’m the captain. Reiner. Reiner Braun."

"I know," you say, which is only marginally true— you know of him….in the way you know all the major names in the Olympics, distantly and without detail— but the way his expression shifts when you say it, that small surprised lift, makes it entirely worth saying.

"You know me, huh?" he repeats.

"You're hard to miss," you say. "You're practically the biggest person in this arena."

The flush again. He measures himself involuntarily, which involves glancing down at you— you are several significant inches shorter than him— and then back up. "I'm not— that's—" He stops. "You're just—"

"Small?" you offer, pleasantly.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"But you were thinking it."

Something moves at the corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile yet. "Maybe," he says, carefully.

You smile at him— bright and deliberate— and watch him blink, like you've done something unexpected. "I'll stay on the left side," you say. "You and your team can have the right."

"This slot is—"

"Shared, now." You tilt your head. "Unless you'd like to go find a coordinator and spend your morning in an administrative queue…."

He looks at you, contemplating. "Right side for my team it is then," he says, finally.

"Right side," you agree. You walk past him onto the ice and you feel, with complete certainty, that he watches you the entire way.

Bertholdt Hoover also from the Marley team finds you at the sides twenty minutes in. He's taller than Reiner —slightly apologetic about his height, as if he's been meaning to do something about it and hasn't got round to it— and he introduces himself with a warmth that seems entirely genuine, says his name, and then nods toward the far end of the rink where Reiner is directing a drill, and says, Have you met our captain Reiner yet? 

You tell him you ran into him, and then go back to practicing. You try not to look over at the Marley end more than three times. You are unsuccessful.

What you see, from across the ice: is a different kind of athlete to the ones you spend your life around. Figure skating is control made visible— the management of appearance, every line intentional, every error hidden inside the performance of absolute perfection. Hockey is controlled chaos, reactive and physical, and Reiner moves through it with a bluntness that shouldn't be as fluid as it is. All that size and mass, and it carries itself with a certainty that reads less like athleticism and more like instinct. Like his body knows things his brain doesn't have to think about.

He's working with one of his younger players— the kid keeps misreading the breakout positioning, and Reiner is demonstrating it at half-speed, voice too low to carry across the distance but expression clear: patient, focused, not a trace of frustration even on the third attempt. 

You come out of the step sequence three beats late, which you have not done since you were fourteen. You remind yourself that you are very focused and very professional and you look over at the Marley end only twice more after that.

The Olympic Village dining hall was built for the games and has the airy self-consciousness of something designed to impress— glass ceiling, long communal tables, food stations lining the walls like an international argument about what constitutes a proper meal. Every nation has found its corner. Your country, Paradis, is near the east windows, claimed by the captain of your countries hockey team, Jean. You had been friends with a few of the guys off the team for a few years now— Jean, Connie, Eren and Marco, all of you coming together when in close proximity at games. 

Tonight there are too many bread rolls and someone's water glass has been knocked over and Connie is explaining, at great length and with hand gestures, something that happened during the short-track relay. Eren is eating Connie's food while Connie isn't looking. Marco is listening to Connie with genuine interest, because Marco is constitutionally incapable of not listening to people. You sit down with your tray, and you try not to immediately look around the room. But you do. 

Reiner is at a table across the hall— Bert on one side and a couple of other Marley players you didn't recognise or hadn't met yet. He has his head bent over his food, and then— the way it keeps happening, this week, this specific thing that keeps connecting you two— he looks up. Directly at you, across the full width of the room, like he knew exactly where you were. The eye contact holds for three seconds, maybe even four. Long enough to be a choice. He dips his chin, that same slow, deliberate acknowledgement, and goes back to his plate.

You pick up your fork. "Who are you looking at?" Jean suddenly asks from beside you. He's watching you with that specific flat attention he uses when he's already formed an opinion and is waiting to see if you'll confirm it.

"No one," you say quickly.

He turns around. His gaze locates the Marley table without what seems like any particular searching, which suggests he already knew where it was. He turns back, and his jaw has acquired a new tension. "Braun," he mutters.

"Are you asking or stating?"

"Stating." He picks up his fork. "He's Marley's captain."

"I'm aware of who he is. He introduced himself this morning."

"Hm." He sets the fork down, then picks it up again. "He's good."

The words come out like they cost Jean something to say. "Is he?" you ask.

He finally looks at you properly. "Remeber he's competition. Marley's strong this year— their whole squad is—"

"Jean," you say, patiently. "I'm a figure skater, remember? We are in completely separate events— what does it matter?"

"That's not—" He stops. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

"Then what are you talking about?"

He's quiet for a moment. Around you, Connie has moved on to his second bread roll and his third retelling of the lane incident, and Eren has started on what appears to be Connie's dessert, and Marco has noticed and is deciding whether to say anything.

"Nothing," Jean says, finally. "Forget it."

Which is not nothing, and you both know it isn't nothing, and you let it be what it is for now. Across the room, you don't look at the Marley table again for a while. When you do, Reiner is already looking at you, and this time neither of you looks away for almost five seconds, which is a very long time when you're paying attention. 

You look down at your dessert. "Subtle," Connie says, from nowhere.

"Mind your own business," you hiss.

"I'm just saying," Connie says. 

"Connie," Jean says, in a tone that closes the subject.

Connie eats his bread roll and says nothing else. But you catch Marco smiling quietly at his plate, and you decide, on balance, that you don't mind.

Wednesday was your slot, properly yours. The ice at six AM is silver and untouched and entirely silent, and it is the purest version of itself at this hour, before the day gets hold of it. You push out onto the surface and the blades sing against the fresh ice and everything else drops away.

You run your routine, then you take it apart piece by piece, the way your coach taught you: build the thing completely, then dismantle it, find what's wrong, rebuild. By the time you reach the step sequence you've been on the ice for nearly two hours and your body has found its rhythm, the good kind of tired, warm all the way through.

You don't hear the door, and you don't hear him come in. You become aware of Reiner the way you sometimes become aware of a change in weather— not a specific sound, more like a shift in the quality of the air, a sense that the room is different than it was. You hold the line you're on, finish the sequence, and decelerate into a long glide toward the boards.

He's there. Forearms resting on the barrier, chin slightly down, watching you with the look of someone who has completely forgotten they were going somewhere. He's in a practice base layer— no jersey— which does nothing at all to obscure the fact that he is built like something that belongs in a museum. He doesn't say anything when you stop in front of him. He just looks at you, and there's a density to it, like there's more going on behind it than he's letting out.

"Wrong slot?" you ask.

"Day off for me," he says. "I was going to use the gym, but I—" He pauses. "I heard your skates from the corridor."

"And you decided to stay."

The corner of his mouth does something. "Maybe."

You lean your arms on the boards from the ice side, mirroring him, which puts you closer than you need to be and you both know it. "How long have you been standing there?"

He considers. "A while."

You look at him. "And….what do you think?" you ask. "So far."

"Honestly?" He glances at the ice behind you, at the marks your blades have left. "I don't have the words for it." He says it simply, without embarrassment. "I've watched figure skating on television and it didn't— it looks different from here. From close up."

"Different how?"

He thinks about it. "It should look harder," he says, finally. "At that speed, with those rotations— it should look like something that could go wrong. Yours doesn't. It looks like—" He pauses. "Like the ice is just doing what you tell it."

Something warms in your chest. "That's the goal," you say softly.

"I figured." He meets your eyes. "I also looked up the different jumps you do.” 

You stare at him. "You looked up the jumps I do?"

"The axel seems like the hardest," he says, matter-of-fact. "Is that the one that goes forwards on the takeoff?"

"It is." You hold his gaze. "Do you want to see it?"

Something opens in his expression— quick and genuine, before he pulls it back. "Yes," he nods eagerly.

You hold his gaze one beat longer, just because, and then push off. You build the approach over the full length of the rink, letting the speed accumulate, edges clean and precise— then pick in off the toe, rotate. You're in the air for a few seconds, and the landing is sure and clean, one unbroken line all the way through— and you hold the edge long before letting it go.

From the boards, Reiner makes a sound— something that escapes before he can do anything about it. You glide back. His expression is completely undone— the look of someone who has just seen something that's rearranged their idea of what's possible. "That's the triple axel," you say proudly.

"Wow," he says. Slightly rough before he clears his throat. "You make it look—"

"Easy?"

"Like It's nothing," he says. "Which is harder."

You're close enough now to see the detail of him properly— the gold of his eyes, the particular way the morning light catches his jaw, the slight asymmetry of his nose that you've already decided you like more than you care to admit. He's looking at you like you're the most interesting thing he's encountered in a long time, and he's not being subtle about it, and you find that you don't mind.

You don't go straight back to the village after. It's Reiner who suggests it, almost offhandedly, like he's been thinking about it for a minute and decided it was worth the risk— "there's a cool place just outside the athlete entrance, if you wanted coffee"— and you say yes before he's finished the sentence, which you think tells both of you something.

The café is small and warm, the kind of place that's been there long enough to stop trying to impress anyone. Stone walls, mismatched chairs, a woman behind the counter who recognises Reiner and greets him and then looks at you with a very specific kind of curiosity that you decide not to examine too closely. He orders for both of you— asking you first what you want, which you note— and you find a table by the window, the winter street outside grey and quiet.

You're settled into your chairs, coats still on because it takes a while for the warmth to get in, when the door opens and Connie comes through it, followed by Eren and Jean.

Connie sees you first. His face does several things in quick succession— surprise, delight, a look sideways at Jean that he probably thinks is subtle. Eren follows his gaze, registers Reiner beside you, and has the decency to at least attempt a neutral-ish expression. Jean doesn't attempt anything. He just looks at you— at Reiner— back at you— and then looks away, jaw set, and steers the other two toward the counter without a word.

You watch this happen and Reiner watches you watch it.

"They’re my teammates," you say before he could ask. "They play hockey— Jean's the captain of th—."

"I know who he is," he says, not elaborating after that. There's something in the way he says it that's neither warm nor cold— the specific flatness of someone who knows a person professionally and has filed them under ‘competitor’. You don't ask if they've spoken to each other since arriving here. It doesn't feel like your question to ask. 

Reiner glances toward the counter, where Jean is staring at the menu like it's personally wronged him, and then back at you. Something shifts in his expression — a small recalibration, the kind that happens when information doesn't quite fit the shape you'd given it. "You're friends with them?" he asks. 

"We all train at the same facility," you say. "Same rink, mostly the same hours. You end up knowing people….and obviously we compete together every four years."

"Same hometown too?"

"More or less," you tell him. "We grew up in the same area. It's a small world when you've been doing this since you were eight."

He takes this in quietly, the way he takes most things in— not rushing to respond, just letting it settle. He nods once and moves on.

You stay for a second coffee, which neither of you planned. The conversation moves the way good conversations do — without effort, without agenda, from one thing to the next like following a path you didn't know was there.

He tells you about growing up in Marley. His mother raised him alone, which he says plainly, without making it either a tragedy or a triumph, just a thing that was true. "She worked a lot," he says. "I spent a lot of time at the rink because it was warm and she didn't have to worry about me there."

You nod as he spoke. "That's how you started playing?"

"That's how I started playing." He wraps a hand around his coffee cup. "The coach at the local club let me hang around if I helped with the younger kids. I didn't have any brothers or sisters so I think I liked it, you know— having people to look after."

"You're still doing it," you say. "Just with your team now."

He considers this. "I suppose I am."

"Do you have family nearby? Still in Marley?"

"My mom." He smiles when he says it— small, automatic, the kind that happens without deciding to. "And my cousin Gabi. She's fifteen. She plays hockey too, actually— she's been playing since she could walk, she's furious that she can't compete yet at this level." He says it with such obvious, helpless fondness that something in your chest does a small quiet thing. "She's better than half the senior squad and she knows it. She's been texting me updates about my games before I've even come off the ice."

"She sounds terrifying," you laugh.

"She's absolutely terrifying," he agrees. "She's also the best person I know, probably. Don't tell her I said that, she'll be insufferable."

"Will she be watching?" you ask. "The Games?"

"She’ll be watching all of it, no doubt," he says, then he pauses. "She may have already looked you up."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? How does she know about me?” 

"I may have mentioned you," he says quietly, and the flush is back, faint and extremely gratifying, creeping across his cheekbones. "In passing…."

"In passing?" You repeat, a smug smile on your lips.  

"Once or twice."

"And what did Gabi say about me?"

He picks up his coffee. Doesn't answer immediately. "She said," he says, carefully, "that you are the best figure skater internationally, and also that I should stop being an idiot."

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile from becoming something he could tease you about. "She sounds very wise."

"Frighteningly," he says. 

"Well." You look at him over the rim of your cup. "She's not wrong."

"I know," he says. "I've seen you skate—"

"I wasn't talking about that one."

He meets your eyes. “Ah,” the flush was still there on his face. "I’m working on it," he says.

You laugh— properly, surprised by it— and he watches you do it with that particular expression of his, the one that's slightly arrested, like he's catching himself. Across the room, you don't look at Jean's table, but you're aware of it anyway, the way you're always aware of Jean when he's nearby. You hope he's all right. You think he will be, eventually. He's Jean— he'll be all right.

"Tell me more about Gabi," you say, turning back to Reiner.

And he does.

You'd only come to pass the time. Your own practice wasn't for another hour, and the Olympic Village had started to feel suffocating after spending the entire morning either training or stretching. Someone had mentioned the Marley hockey team were practising in the main arena, and with nothing better to do, you'd wandered in.

The stands were almost empty. A few coaches sat scattered around the arena, notebooks balanced on their knees, while the rest of the seats remained deserted. You settled into the second row, arms folded over the barrier in front of you as you watched them skate through drill after drill.

Hockey, you found— was oddly satisfying to watch. Fast, physical, chaotic—but there was still a rhythm to it. And then there was Reiner, and of course your gaze kept returning to him. It wasn't intentional. At least, not at first. For someone built like a brick wall, he moved with an ease that made no sense. Every turn was smooth, every stop controlled, and he wasn't the fastest skater on the ice, but somehow he never seemed late to anything—always arriving exactly where he needed to be before anyone else realised the play had changed.

He looked... comfortable, like he belonged out there.

You found yourself smiling without noticing, and then one of the drills ended. The players slowed, catching their breath while pucks were gathered from around the rink. Reiner skated towards the boards near where you were sitting, one gloved hand resting on his stick as he exhaled heavily.

Without a second thought, he hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his crimson jersey and lifted it over the lower half of his face, wiping away the sweat. Your thoughts vanished completely. The jersey rode high enough to expose his stomach, revealing the firm lines of his abdomen— every muscle tightening as he reached across his face. Broad shoulders, defined waist, skin flushed pink from exertion and a thin sheen of sweat—

Well. You hadn't expected....that. Heat instantly rushed straight into your cheeks before you could stop it. You looked away, suddenly fascinated by literally anything else— the empty seats, the scoreboard, a water bottle abandoned on the bench.

Get a fucking grip. It was just abs. Perfectly sculpted, unfairly attractive— Stop.

You pressed your lips together, willing the warmth to leave your face, and when you finally risked another glance, Reiner was already looking at you. He'd caught you. Of course he had. He gave a small laugh to himself before skating over.

"So," he called up, the corners of his mouth lifting, "you're watching me now?"

You forced your expression into something that resembled indifference. "I was bored."

"Mhm." His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, amused."You didn't look very bored."

You rolled your eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, Braun…..I just happened to end up here."

"And you just happened to keep looking over here?"

You felt your face warm all over again. "I was watching everyone." A grin spread slowly across his face— one that made you want to throw something at him. "You know," you sighed, "you've got a ridiculously high opinion of yourself."

He shrugged, entirely unbothered. "So I've been told."

You shook your head. "I was bored," you called over. "Don't get used to it." His laugh followed you across the arena. "...Arrogant idiot," you muttered under your breath.

It's a good game, even at practice pace. Marley runs a system that's different to Paradis's— tighter, more structured in the neutral zone, with a defensive discipline that's clearly been drilled to the point of instinct. Jean adapted to it within the first five minutes, which you notice because you know Jean's game, know the specific shift in his posture when he's reading something new and adjusting.

What you're mainly watching, and making no particular effort to pretend otherwise, is Reiner.

He's different in a game context than in a drill— still the same controlled authority, but there's an edge to it now, something sharper, the difference between a musician rehearsing and the same musician performing. He's on Jean's line repeatedly, and the two of them are well-matched in a way that's almost beautiful to watch and also, you suspect, intensely irritating for both of them. Jean is faster with the puck. Reiner is better without it. Jean reads the zone; Reiner reads Jean.

Though, apparently, today Jean is reading more than just the game.

Because every time Reiner comes near the boards, his eyes flick briefly toward you. He'd noticed earlier— the way Reiner skated over during the break, the way the two of you had exchanged that annoyingly familiar back-and-forth, the way you had tried and failed to hide your smile when Reiner teased you.

Jean knows you. Knows the way you pretend not to care when you very obviously do. He's seen it a hundred times before— on the ice, in training, everywhere. And watching you look at Reiner like that seems to bother him more than he'd ever admit.

Twelve minutes in, a loose puck at the boards. Jean goes for it from one side, Reiner from the other, and they arrive at exactly the same moment with the combined poor judgment of two very competitive people who are not going to yield— and Jean's elbow, coming up as he turns, catches Reiner across the bridge of the nose.

The sound is......not good.

Reiner goes back half a step, one hand coming up to his face, and even from the stands you can see the dark red starting against his skin. Jean, to his credit, looks immediately appalled.

"Braun—I didn't—"

You are already at the tunnel entrance. You're not sure when you stood up. You're not sure when you started moving. But you're on the ice in your trainers before anyone's had time to collect themselves, the cold of the surface immediately soaking through the soles, and you get to Reiner just as Bert gets to him from the other side. Jean follows quickly, pulling his helmet off as he skates to you.

"Hey, wait—"

You don't even look at him.

"Move," you say to the general situation, and people move.

Reiner has his hand over his nose, head tilted back, and his eyes find you over the top of his hand with an expression that cycles through surprised, slightly pained, and something else in very quick succession.

"I'm fine," he says, muffled.

"You're bleeding," you say. "Tilt your head forward, not back." You put a hand on his jaw and redirect him without waiting for agreement, and he goes with it, because apparently when you put a hand on his jaw he does what you tell him. "Can you breathe through it?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly is fine. Come on." You get a hand on his arm— which is, through the practice gear, about as useful as trying to steer a building, but he comes with it anyway— and you start moving him toward the tunnel. Behind you, Bert says quietly to Jean, it's all right, he's had worse, which you hear and which you can tell Jean doesn't find as comforting as Bert intends it.

The changing room corridor is empty and quiet, the sounds of the ice muffled behind the double doors. Reiner sits on the bench just inside the Marley room with his head forward and his hand still over his nose, and you go to the first aid kit on the wall— there's always a first aid kit, in your experience, in any room that borders ice— and come back with gauze and a cold pack from the small freezer unit beside it.

"Move your hand," you say.

He moves it. The bleeding isn't bad— his nose is intact, just caught across the bridge, and the blood is already slowing. You press the gauze there and he reaches up to hold it and his hand covers yours and neither of you address this.

"You didn't have to come out onto the ice," he says. His voice is slightly thick but otherwise fine.

"I know," you say. You crack the cold pack, wrap it in a second piece of gauze, and hold it out. He takes it from you with his free hand and presses it to the bridge of his nose, and you perch on the bench beside him— close, because the kit is between you and the space is small— and look at his face with the clinical attention of someone who has taken enough knocks herself to know what you’re looking at. "It's not broken," you say. "Or no more broken than it already was."

He lowers the cold pack slightly to look at you. His eyes, from this distance, are a golden honey and very direct, and his hair has gone slightly messed and there's a streak of red on his cheekbone and he is still, objectively, distractingly good-looking. "It's been broken twice," he says. "I have a high bar for what counts."

"Apparently." You reach out without thinking and push his hair back from his forehead— just clearing it from the gauze, just practical, of course— and your fingers brush his temple and neither of you move for a second.

"Thank you," he says, quietly. "For coming out."

"You would have done the same."

"I would have," he agrees. "I would have run out onto the ice in my trainers for you without thinking about it." He says it simply, like it's just a fact he's submitting. You just look at him. He's looking back at you with an open expression and the cold pack is still in his hand and you're sitting very close. You lean in, just slightly— and he also leans in, the distance between you is very small now, and his eyes are on yours and then on your mouth and then on yours again, and his free hand comes up slowly to rest at your waist—

The door opens.

Bert appears in the doorway, stops, and in the single most efficient social detonation you have witnessed in recent memory, takes in the entire situation— the bench, the proximity, Reiner's hand, your expression— and says, with genuine apologetic horror: "Oh fuck. I'm— I'm so sorry, I just wanted to check— the bleeding, I thought—" He looks at the ceiling, and then back at the door. "I'll just— I'll wait outside," Bert says, already retreating. "I'll just be— yes. Outside."

The door closes, and silence follows. 

You become aware that Reiner's hand is still on your waist, and you also become aware that you haven't moved either. You become aware that you are sitting approximately four inches apart in a changing room corridor in Marley and that the moment has shifted into something that is extremely funny if you let it be. The laugh comes before you can stop it— quiet, surprised— and Reiner looks at you, and then something in his own face gives, and the sound he makes is low and warm and real.

"He has the worst timing," Reiner chuckles.

"He looked like he wanted to die," you giggle.

He shakes his head. The hand at your waist hasn't moved. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." You look at him. He's looking at you. The moment the door interrupted is still here, you both know it's still here, sitting in the room with you alongside the first aid kit and Bert's lingering mortification. "How's the nose?"

"Fine now," he says. "I told you. High bar." He holds your gaze. "I meant what I said. Before Bert—"

"I know," you say.

"I would have come out for you," he says. "Without thinking about it."

"I know," you say again, softer.

He looks at you for a moment, and the hand at your waist shifts slightly — just a small movement, adjusting, settling — and his expression does the open thing, all of it visible. "Tonight," he says, "are you— after the ceremony preparations —"

"Yes," you say.

He blinks. "I haven't asked anything yet."

"I know." You stand up, and you let the moment reconfigure itself and go to the door. You open it to find Bert, standing in the corridor with his hands in his pockets and the expression of a man who has been sincerely suffering, straightens up immediately.

"He's fine," you tell him. "The nose is fine. The bleeding's stopped."

"Right," Bert says. "Good. That's— yes. Good." A pause. "I'm very sorry about the interruption—"

"Bert," you say, gently. "It's all right."

He looks deeply, privately relieved. "Thank you," he says. "For looking after him."

You glance back through the open door, just for a second. Reiner is watching you go with an expression you're going to be thinking about for the rest of the day.

You find Jean at the far end of the corridor, still in his gear, stick in hand, doing the thing he does when he's uncomfortable — moving, always moving, like stillness gives the feeling somewhere to settle.

"Jean."

He turns around. He has the look of someone who was hoping for more time before this conversation.

"It was an accident," he says, before you've said anything.

"Was it?"

A pause. "Yes."

You look at him. Jean looks back, and the thing about Jean is that he's a terrible liar when it matters — he can deflect and sidestep and change the subject with real skill, but when something is genuinely true and he knows it he can't quite hold the denial in his face properly. It keeps slipping.

"Jean," you say again, quieter. "Was it actually an accident?"

The silence goes on long enough to be its own answer. He looks away, and he turns his stick over in his hands once, twice, the same way he fidgets with things when he's got nowhere good to put his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he says, finally. "I want that to be clear. I didn't go in trying to—"

"But you went in harder than you needed to."

"But you went in harder than you needed to."

He doesn't deny it this time. "He's Marley's captain," he says. "We play them in three days. And you've spent every morning this week with him and I just —" He stops. His jaw tightens. "It got to me. Okay? It got to me."

"Jean." You look at him steadily. "Is this about the tournament? Or is this about something else?"

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Both," he says, eventually. Quietly. "You know it's both."

And there it is. You look at him— at the tight set of his shoulders, the way he can't quite meet your eyes— and you feel something for him that is genuine and warm and also completely beside the point right now.

"That's not fair," you say. "Taking it out on him because of how you feel. That's not fair to him and it's not fair to me."

"I know," he says. Low. "I know that."

"Apologise to him. A real one."

"I will." He finally looks at you, and his face is more open than he'd usually allow. "I'm sorry. For making it your problem."

You hold his gaze for a moment, then turn to walk away.

And stop.

Reiner is twenty feet down the corridor.

Close enough to have heard every word. He's standing completely still, cold pack at his side, eyes on you. When your gazes meet he doesn't look away or pretend he wasn't listening. He just looks at you, steady and quiet, and his expression is — soft, almost. Like something in him has settled.

You hold it for one second. Then you walk, right past him, back toward the rink.

You don't stop. You don't explain. You just go. 

Saturday. Your competition begins tomorrow morning.Now it's almost midnight and you've run through your routine in your head for the last time and you've laid out everything for tomorrow— and yet you still can't sleep.

So you go to the ice.

The Marley Arena at night is completely different. Competition lights off, just the maintenance panels, everything washed in a blue-grey dimness that makes the ice look like it goes on forever, like you could skate out onto it and not find the other end. The stands are empty and vast around you. You lace up your skates, step onto the surface, and the sound of your blades is the only sound in the building.

You skate without the pressure, without the intention. Just moving, the way you did when you were a small girl that loved the ice without complication. Long, easy sweeps across the surface, the cold in your lungs— it all felt so nostalgic to you. You've been out there maybe twenty minutes when you hear the entrance.

Reiner comes through the tunnel in a hoodie and joggers— with his skates already on his feet, and he stops at the sight of you, and you stop at the sight of him, and for a moment you just look at each other across the empty blue-lit ice, and then you both say, at exactly the same time:

"I couldn't sleep."

A beat of silence, then you both laugh. It opens up in the empty rink, fills all the space, and the whole weight of the week— the almost-sayings, the careful distances, the back-and-forth of it— suddenly feels very light. He steps onto the ice in his skates. He moves toward you with that unhurried ease, and the blue light does something to his face, makes the amber of his eyes deeper, and he is very tall in this low-lit rink. 

"We're not supposed to be here," he says, when he reaches you.

"Definitely not." You tilt your head. "But do you care?"

He looks down at you— that slight adjustment he always makes, the angle between you— and the corner of his mouth moves. "Not even a little."

"Good."

He looks around at the empty stands, the dark, still ice. "I keep thinking about how I wish I had time to show you Marley," he says. "The market. The harbour. I wanted to show you all of it it." He looks back at you. 

"There's still time," you tell him. "After the tournament….you can show me then."

He's looking at you with an open expression. "Yeah?"

"Yes," you say honestly. "I'd like that."

Something in his face settles warmly. He glances at the ice around you. "Skate with me," he says. 

You hold out your hand for him. He takes it. His palm is warm and broad, the grip certain, and you start moving together across the surface— slow, side by side— and he isn't graceful, not the way you're graceful, but he is so completely solid, and he follows your lead without tension, without second-guessing, with the same trust you watched him give his linemates all week. It's a good way to be trusted, you think. It's one of the better ways.

Reiner is quiet. You can feel his hand shift slightly in yours, a small, involuntary tightening, and you hold it. You slow down near the centre of the rink, and the ice holds you both still in the blue-grey quiet. You're close— close enough to see the grain of his stubble, the particular way the light sits in his eyes, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"Reiner?"

"Hm?"

You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes drifting to his mouth before finding his again.

"I’ve been thinking about kissing you since Bert interrupted us."

A faint flush crept across his face. "I....I—"

You smiled. "There you go again."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"Over-thinking."

A breath of a laugh escaped him. "I just don't want to—"

You didn't let him finish. One hand slid gently to the side of his face, your thumb brushing the roughness of his jaw as you leaned in and kissed him.

For the smallest moment, he went completely still. Then he kissed you back, slow yet desperately— like he'd been holding himself back for days and had finally been given permission to stop. His hand found your waist almost instinctively, drawing you closer until there wasn't any space left between you. Every movement was careful, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he rushed, yet there was a quiet certainty in the way he held you that made your heart ache.

You didn't admit to him you'd how much and how often you'd imagined kissing him since Bert had walked through that door, and you had decided reality was infinitely better.

His lips were softer than you'd expected, the kiss lingering without urgency, without anyone interrupting, without either of you laughing it off this time. It felt wonderfully, overwhelmingly right—as though something that had been suspended in mid-air for days had finally settled into place. You bring your free hand up to the front of his jacket and hold on.

When you come apart for air, neither of you goes far. His forehead drops to yours. His chest is rising and falling unsteadily, and the cold is everywhere except where he is, and where he is it is very warm. "There," you say, quietly against his mouth. "Was that so difficult?"

"You have no idea," he says, rough-voiced.

You laugh, soft in the empty rink, and he pulls back just enough to look at you when you do it — his expression open and completely undone, like he's been waiting to see you do that from up close and is making the most of it now that he has the chance.

Then he kisses you again, and this time there is nothing tentative about it. His hands frame your face and he kisses you like he means every second of it, deep and certain, and you meet him there, and the ice is cold under your skates and the rink is dark and quiet around you and it doesn't matter, none of it matters, only this: the warmth of him and the certainty of him and the feeling that this, too, like the best moments on the ice, was already decided long before either of you said anything.

When you part the second time, you're both breathing harder. You look at him— the golden eyes, unguarded; the careful, earnest face of him— and something in you is very settled and very certain.

"Come back to my room," you say to him before even thinking it through. 

He goes very still. Not hesitation, no— this is the stillness of someone who has been handed something they want so badly and need to take a moment to make sure it's real. "Yeah?" Very quiet.

"Yes," you say, and you meant it. 

He looks at you for one more moment— checking, because he checks everything, because he is careful about the things that matter most— and then something in his face settles. Simple and sure. "Okay," he says.

You skate off the ice side by side, and in the corridor you don't hold hands because this building has other people in it, but his shoulder stays against yours the whole way back— warm and solid and steady.

The Olympic Village dormitory rose ahead, its glass-fronted lobby spilling weak yellow light onto the snow-dusted walkway—it was a tall building, built to house hundreds of athletes every four years. A volunteer sat behind the desk, scrolling her phone, and didn't look up as you entered. The elevator was small and industrial, the kind that shuddered before it moved, and when the doors slid shut you were alone with him in a space barely big enough for one person, let alone two. You looked up at him to find he was already looking at you with an almost smirk on his face. It was almost funny how little restraint either of you seemed to have left.

You looking at him was apparently enough. His hand found yours first, fingers threading effortlessly between them before he gently tugged you closer— if that was possible— until your coat brushed against his. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and for a heartbeat you simply stood there, smiling at each other like idiots.

"I’m trying to behave," he admitted quietly. “Till we get back to your room.” 

“Oh, yeah?” You smile at him, tilting your head. "And how's that going for you?"

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not very well."

You laughed softly, and before the sound had even faded, you reached up, caught the front of his jacket, and kissed him. He answered instantly.

One hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you in until there wasn't an inch of space left between you, while the other cupped your jaw with effortless gentleness. The kiss deepened naturally, unhurried but impossible to pull away from, as though the two of you had been stealing moments all week and were finally alone long enough to enjoy one properly.

The elevator hummed steadily upwards, and the floors passed unnoticed.

You only broke apart when the cheerful ding announced the fourth floor. The doors parted. He dropped his hand and stepped out first, turning to check the corridor— left, right, clear — and then he waited for you to lead.

Your room was at the end of the hall. 417. The keycard beeped green and you pushed the door open and the room was exactly as you'd left it— small, institutional, the single bed with its white sheets still rumpled from your sleep, the desk lamp casting amber light over scattered energy bar wrappers and your phone charger and the garment bag hanging from the closet door with your skate dress in it for tomorrow. The narrow window showed the city beyond, streetlights smeared by snow, the distant glow of the broadcast center still lit at this hour.

The radiator ticked. The building breathed.

He stepped in behind you, and the room shrank. Not just because he was broad (though he was, shoulders nearly brushing both walls when he stood in the center) but because he took up space the way certain people did. He pulled the door shut behind him, and the click of it closing was very loud in the quiet room.

And then his hands were on you— not rough, never rough. His palms landed on your waist and turned you, guided you back until your shoulders met the door— the wood cool through your pullover— and then he was there, his broad frame caging you; his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. His eyes found yours in the warm light, and they were the colour of the medal you were hoping to win tomorrow, and they were very, very steady.

"I've been thinking about this," he said, his voice rough, scraping low in his throat. "Every second since I bumped into you in the corridor and—" He stopped, the muscle in his jaw jumped. "I need you to know that."

"I know," you say softly.

His hand came up, tilted your face toward his the way it had on the ice— fingertips under your chin, thumb brushing the corner of your jaw— and then his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like the careful, searching kiss from the rink. His stubble scraped your skin raw as he kissed you deep and slow and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that he was barely containing, and you could feel the effort of it in the way his hand trembled against your jaw, in the way his other hand gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself to something solid.

He kissed you the way he played— total commitment, nothing held back and every part of him present and accounted for. You brought your hands up to the front of his jacket and held on tighter than before, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer, and the sound he made against your mouth— low, desperate, a groan he tried to swallow— sent heat flooding through you like a wave breaking.

His hands moved over your ribs, counting them through the fabric. Down your sides, spanning the curve of your waist. Up again, slower, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts through your bra and pullover, and he pulled back just enough to look at you— really look, amber eyes dark in the low light, his lips parted, his breath coming uneven.

"You're gorgeous," he said. The words were rough, almost angry in their intensity. "So perfect—” His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing, and his hands kept moving, slow and reverent, mapping the terrain of your body like he was memorising it by feel alone.

"I've got you," you whispered soothingly. "I'm right here."

"I know." His breath shuddered out. "I know you're here—" He didn't even finish his sentence. He kissed you again instead, and his hands found the hem of your pullover and slid beneath it, and the heat of his palms against your bare stomach made you gasp into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, letting out a small groan himself. His fingers splayed wide across your lower back, pulling you away from the door, pulling you into him, and you could feel him now— hard through his track pants, the thick length of him pressed against your hip, and the reality of that, the physical evidence of how much he wanted this, made your knees soften.

He walked you backward. Three steps, four, the narrow room tilting around you until the back of your knees hit the mattress and you sat. He followed you down, one knee on the bed, then the other, his weight dipping the mattress, his body over yours — not crushing, hovering, his arms braced on either side of your shoulders, his face above yours.

"Let me—" His hand found the hem of your pullover again, and you lifted your arms. He pulled it over your head in one motion, tossed it somewhere, and then he went still.

The amber light caught your skin. Your sports bra was black, simple, the kind made for function and not this moment, and his eyes tracked over you— the defined lines of your shoulders, the curve of your waist where it dipped in above your hips— and his throat worked.

"You're beautiful," he said. Not a compliment. A statement of fact, delivered like testimony. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You felt the instant heat rushing across your cheeks. "Reiner—stop—"

"I mean it." His hand came up, fingertips tracing your collarbone, his touch feather-light. "Every time I watch you skate, I think— how does something that perfect exist? How does someone move like that? And now you're here, and you're real, and I can touch you, and I—" He stopped again, shaking his head as the stubble on his face caught the light. "I don't deserve this."

"You do," you said, and you reached for him. “Of course you do.” 

His jacket came off first. Then the hoodie beneath it, and the t-shirt beneath that, and each layer revealed more of him— the dense, slabs of muscle across his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the way his shoulders were even broader than they'd seemed in clothes. His skin was warm under your hands, flushed, and you could feel the strength coiled in him, the contained power of a body built for impact and speed, and the contrast of his gentility against your skin like he was handling something precious— made your breath come shorter.

He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. His mouth moved down your body slowly, deliberately, each kiss placed with precision, each touch of his lips a kind of worship. He unhooked your bra with one hand, and you didn't ask how he was so good at that, because his mouth found your breast and your thoughts dissolved completely.

His tongue circled your nipple gradually as his hand cupped the other breast, thumb brushing, and you arched into him with a sound that surprised you— a high, breathless moan that escaped you before you stopped yourself. Reiner pulled back to look at you, eyes dark, his lips wet.

"I want to hear you," he said roughly. "Don't hold back. Please. I want to hear you."

You swallowed. "I—"

"Please." The word cracked something open in his voice, and you nodded, and his mouth returned to your skin.

He worked his way down. Your ribs, one by one, kissed. The flat plane of your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, making you squirm. His hands hooked in the waistband of your leggings, and he looked up at you from below— broad-shouldered and golden-eyed and stubbled, his face between your hips, waiting for permission.

"Yes," you said.

He peeled the leggings down your legs, taking your underwear with them, and then you were bare on the white sheets in the amber light, and he was still mostly dressed from the waist down, and the asymmetry of it— him looking, you being looked at— made heat climb up your chest and into your face.

"You're perfect," he said again, and his voice was reverent. "Every curve, every line— you're—" He pressed a kiss to your hip bone you whimpered, and his hands tightened on your legs, and the sound he made in response was almost a growl. "Every time. Every single time you make that sound, I—"

"Come here," you said, and your voice was wrecked, coming undone from just his words.

He moved up the bed, and you reached for him, your hands finding the waistband of his track pants, pulling, and he helped— shoving them down, kicking them off, and then he was bare against you and the full length of him was pressed to your body and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest against your breasts, the heat of his skin. The thick, heavy length of him against your thigh, and the wetness at the tip that told you exactly how much he'd wanted this. You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his whole body jerked, his hips stuttering forward, a low groan tearing out of him that he muffled against your neck.

"Fuck— wait, wait—" His hand closed around your wrist, stilling you. "I'll— if you do that, I won't last. I need— can you—" He pulled back, looked at you, and something in his face was pleading. "I need to watch you first. Please."

He sat back against the headboard, his legs stretched out, his cock hard against his stomach, and he reached for you. You went to him— straddling his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your hands on his shoulders— and his hands found your waist and held you there, and his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

"Perfect," he murmured. His hand slid between your bodies, and his fingers found your entrance, already slick and sensitive— and he pressed two fingers inside you, and your head dropped forward, your forehead against his.

"Oh—" You were so tender, and the stretch of his fingers inside you sent sparks up your spine. "Oh, fuck—"

"That's it." His voice was low, rough, a rumble you could feel in his chest. "That's it. You feel so good— so good around my fingers. I want you to move, can you move for me?"

You rolled your hips, and his fingers curled inside you, finding the spot that made your vision blur, and you rode his hand— slow at first, then faster, your hips finding a rhythm, your hands gripping his shoulders. His burning eyes never left your face. He watched you like you were something sacred, something he couldn't believe was real, and his other hand came up to brush your cheek, his thumb tracking the tear that slipped out without your permission.

"You're beautiful," he said. "You're so beautiful when you come apart. Can you come for me?"

"I—" Your voice broke, your hips stuttering. "Reiner—"

"I've got you." His fingers pressed deeper, his thumb finding your clit, and he worked you with such a focused intensity. "I've got you. Come for me— I want to feel you." You came apart on his hand, your body clenching around his fingers, your spine arching, his name on your tongue like a prayer. He held you through it— one arm around your waist, his mouth on your shoulder, his whispered words of affirmation steady against your skin. "That's it— you're so good. I've got you."

When you came down, he was trembling. His whole body was tense, coiled, his cock hard and leaking against your thigh, and his eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, and you could see— could feel— how much it was costing him to hold back.

"Reiner," you said, and his name in your voice made his eyes open. "I want you, please..I need you to be inside—” 

"Yes." His voice cracked, not even letting you finish your sentence. "God yes."

He reached for his wallet out of his track pants pocket, and the condom slipped out, and his hands shook as he rolled it on, and you watched— the thick length of him, the way his stomach tensed as he touched himself, the concentration on his face; and then he was reaching for you again, pulling you back into his lap, and you rose up on your knees and positioned him against you.

You sank down onto him slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch of him was overwhelming— thick and filling you so completely that your breath caught and held and your hands gripped his shoulders hard enough to bruise. He groaned, low and broken, his head falling back against the headboard, his hands on your hips steadying you.

"Fuck— you're so— you feel—" Words failed him. His eyes found yours, and they were wet. "You're perfect. I can't — I—"

You moved. A slow roll of your hips, and his whole body shuddered, and the sound he made— guttural, raw, a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest— made you do it again. And again. You found your rhythm, riding him slow and deep, your hands braced on his shoulders, his eyes on your face, his hands on your hips guiding you but never pushing— never forcing, just holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid.

"Look at you," he breathed. "You're— you're incredible. I—"

His hands moved. Up your sides, over your ribs, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples. Down to your hips, gripping harder now, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as you rode him. His hips started to move with yours— small thrusts at first, meeting you halfway, then deeper, harder, his body pushing up into you as you came down.

"Reiner—" His name broke out of you, and his hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and his eyes— amber, gold, bright with something that looked like worship— held yours.

"I'm right here," he said breathlessly. "You're so good. I've got you."

He shifted beneath you, and suddenly the angle changed, and he was hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and your rhythm faltered, your legs shaking, your hands slipping on his shoulders. He felt it— felt you losing the rhythm— and his arms wrapped around you, and in one fluid motion he rolled you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his hips settling between your thighs.

"I've got you," he said again, and he pulled back, almost all the way out, and then thrust back in— slow, deep, a full-body stroke that dragged against every nerve ending you had. "Let me— fuck— let me take care of you."

He set the pace– slow at first, deep and grinding, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot on your lips. Each thrust was deliberate, measured, and you could feel the control in it— the way he held back from coming too soon, the way he kept his weight on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you, the way his hips snapped forward with just enough force to make you see stars without overwhelming you.

But his composure cracked. You felt it happen— felt the moment his rhythm stuttered, felt his breath catch, felt his hands fist in the sheets beside your head. His hips drove forward harder, faster, and the sound that came out of him was desperate, broken, a sob caught in his throat.

"I can't— I'm not going to—" His voice was wrecked. "I need you to come first— please, I need—" His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, and he circled it in time with his thrusts, and you were already so close, had been building since his mouth was on you, and the combination— his fingers, his cock inside you, the weight of him, the sound of his voice breaking on your name— pushed you over.

You came hard, your whole body clenching around him, your back arching off the mattress, and he followed you— two more thrusts, deep and uncontrolled, and then he groaned your name into your neck, his whole body going rigid, his hips pressed flush against yours, and you felt him pulse inside you as he came.

He collapsed, carefully though— he caught himself on his elbows, but his full weight settled against you, his chest heaving, his face buried in your neck, his stubble scraping your collarbone. His breath came in ragged gasps, hot and damp against your skin, and his arms trembled where they held his weight off you. You wrapped your arms around him. Your hands found the back of his neck, the short gold hair there, the sweat-damp skin, and you held on. His heart hammered against yours— fast, hard, the rhythm of an athlete's heart in overdrive— and slowly, slowly, it began to settle.

He turned his head, pressed a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. His eyes found yours, and they were soft now, the amber muted, the intensity banked to something warm and steady. "Please stay," you ask quietly, almost pleadingly.  

He didn't answer with words. He shifted off you, disposed of the condom, and then he was pulling you close— his broad chest against your back, his arm heavy across your waist, his stubbled cheek resting against your hair. The radiator ticked. The window showed snow falling now, soft and steady, the city lights diffusing through it. The medal on the wall caught the amber light. His breath slowed, deepened, and his arm tightened around you, and you felt the moment his body relaxed into sleep— the way his muscles unknotted, the way his breathing evened out, the way his hand on your stomach went slack and warm.

You lay there in the amber dark, his heartbeat against your spine, and thought about cities you'd never been to before this week that felt, tonight, like somewhere you could stay.

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[lucyyx3x]

A Gentleman's Pursuit ✦ Attack on Titan ✦ Bridgerton AU.ᐟ

part I. part II. part III. part IV. part V.

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summary: This season in the Royal Court of Paradis promises more than debutantes and dances...It promises a choice. Princess Y/N Reiss,  presented for the second year in a row to court at her younger sister Historia's debut ball, stands at the very centre of it all, smiling politely while the entire kingdom quietly decides who she should belong to out of her admirable suitors.

The gentleman suitors: Eren Jeager, Jean Kirstein, Armin Arlert, Connie Springer, Reiner Braun, Erwin Smith and Levi Ackerman.

a/n: Well, well, well.....due to popular demand ITS BACK. ENJOY and I shall be updating this regularly again from now on......>:)

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The Dinner

Getting ready for the dinner later on took longer than it should have, which was Sasha's fault entirely. Not because she was slow—Sasha was many things but slow was not among them, but because she had opinions, and Petra had opinions, and the two of them together in your dressing room with a diplomatic dinner to account for was the specific combination of forces that produced a very thorough evening. The dress had been agreed upon early. Navy, as Petra had said, which was the right choice. It was a deep, rich blue that was formal without being severe, the fabric a silk that moved well and caught the light in the way of something that knew its own quality. The neckline was lower than the morning dress, but you agreed it was appropriate for dinner, and the sleeves gathered at the shoulder. The pearl choker went on without debate, it was the hair that was the longer conversation.

"Up," said Petra.

"Up," agreed Sasha. "But softer than last time. Less.....formal."

"It's a formal dinner!" Petra quipped back.

"It's a family dinner with guests!" Sasha insisted. "There's a difference."

They looked at you in the mirror as though you might adjudicate. You drank your tea and said nothing, which was the correct approach. The result was pinned up with the particular precision that Petra considered the minimum acceptable, with several pieces left deliberately loose at the temples and the nape, and pinned into it—Sasha's addition, were small pearls on fine pins, scattered through the arrangement like something that had arrived there naturally. Not many, but enough for people to notice. The effect in the glass was of something both formal and effortless, the pearls catching the candlelight in small, cold points against the dark of your hair.

"You look...good," Petra said, which from Petra was considerable.

"Very good!" Sasha said, which from Sasha was accurate. You heard the commotion from the first floor landing.

It wasn't alarming, not the sharp, urgent quality of something wrong, but the particularly low rumble of several male voices in an entrance hall, the sound of the front door recently opened and guests recently arrived, the specific acoustic quality of the ground floor receiving people of consequence. Your father's voice, warm and deliberate, carrying upstairs, and someone else's — a low voice, and familiar in a way you placed after a moment. Erwin.

You finished putting on your gloves— white and reaching past the elbows, and came out of your room and moved along the upper corridor toward the top of the staircase. The entrance hall below was lit well for the evening, the candles on the wall sconces full and bright, the marble floor reflecting them back in warm, wavering doubles. Your father was standing near the foot of the stairs with the bearing of a king receiving guests he was pleased to receive. Beside him, stood two of the royal household guards and Kenny, of course, and you noticed Erwin Smith stood to your father's right.

He was dressed for dinner in a way that confirmed all previous suspicions about the nature of his wardrobe— the dark coat perfectly fitted, the white of his cravat exact, the whole of him assembled with the quiet authority of a man who understood that appearance was a form of communication and communicated accordingly. He was saying something to your father, his head turned, one hand making a measured gesture that accompanied whatever point he was making. And to the left, slightly apart from the group in the way he was always slightly apart from groups, stood Levi. He was in his formal dress again, with the military coat, the medals, the gold epaulettes catching the candlelight in small precise points. His dark hair pushed back, and his level grey eyes moved across the entrance hall with the habitual assessment of a man who was always tracking the room he was in, cataloguing it, noting every entry and exit and the position of every person within it.

You put your hand on the banister, and you were not thinking, particularly, about whether this was a good moment or a considered one. You simply moved, because the stairs were there and the hall was below and dinner was at seven, and descended down them. You were halfway down before anyone looked up, and noted Erwin looked up first.

He was mid-sentence about the eastern expansion, and then the sentence simply stopped. Not awkwardly, not with any interruption, simply the way a sentence stops when the person saying it has encountered something that requires their full attention and has decided to give it. He looked at you coming down the stairs and his expression warmed just slightly, the calculation giving way for a moment to something more simply human. His blue eyes were attentive and entirely still on you. Your father noticed Erwin had stopped talking and followed his gaze upward.

"Ah!" Rod said, with the warm satisfaction of a man whose plan was proceeding. Levi looked up at last after that. He had been looking at the far doorway, the habitual tracking of exits— and his gaze moved to the stairs in the way it moved to everything, flat and efficient and expecting nothing in particular. And then it found you, and it stopped. The tracking stopped, completely, and what replaced it was the still, level, entirely direct attention that was simply how he looked at things he was actually seeing. You reached the bottom of the stairs, a smile plastered on your face.

Your father came forward and took your hand briefly, pressed it, the warm pride of him present and uncomplicated. "You look wonderful, my darling," he said, quietly enough for you.

"Thank you, Father," you grinned. You turned to the guests. Erwin recovered first— not because he had further to come back from, but because recovery was simply something he was practised at. He smiled, the warm measured smile, and inclined his head with a grace that managed to be both formal and personal at once.

"Your Highness," he said. "Good evening." A brief pause. "You look....extraordinary."

It was delivered with Erwin's characteristic quality, the compliment that was also an observation, the warmth that was also entirely intentional, the whole thing calibrated to land at exactly the right weight. "Good evening," you nodded. "Thank you, Commander,"

You looked at Levi, and he was looking back at you with the expression that gave nothing away and had, tonight, given away something in the first moment before he had reinstated it. The grey eyes level, the set jaw, the particular stillness of a man who had decided not to say whatever his first thought had been and was standing behind that decision.

"General Ackerman," you said simply.

"Your Highness," he said. The title, flat and precise as always. A beat. "You look— " He stopped. He said nothing further. His jaw shifted once, and his eyes moved briefly away and then back, and what he settled on, finally, was, "The pearls look nice." Which was the most Levi thing he could possibly have said, and which landed, in its own entirely stripped-back way, with considerably more effect than most compliments you had ever received.

"Thank you," you almost whispered, and meant it entirely.

The dining room had been dressed for the occasion, the long table set formally, the candelabras lit, the Reiss household silver laid with the precision that you Father had most likely overseen personally and that met her standards, which were not modest. The room was warm and bright, the windows overlooking the evening garden, the last of the light outside going a deep amber behind the trees. Armin was already there.

He was standing near the window by himself, away from the other group of guests, a glass of water in his hand, looking at the garden with the absent, inward expression of someone who had been thinking about something and had not yet decided to stop. He turned when he heard someone come in, and his face changed immediately— the particular brightening of someone who is genuinely pleased to see a person rather than simply performing the pleasure.

"Your Highness," he said, and the warmth of it was real and uncomplicated. "Good evening." His eyes moved briefly over the dress, the pearls, the whole of you, with the honest appreciation of someone who notices things and doesn't hide that they notice them. "You look lovely."

"Thank you," you replied, and moved to stand beside him at the window, because with Armin it was always simply easy. "What were you thinking about?"

He looked back at the garden. "The way the light changes in the last ten minutes before dark," he said. "There's a specific quality to it. It doesn't look like any other part of the day." He glanced at you. "I've been trying to find a word for it for about a year."

"Have you found one?"

"Not yet," he said, with the rueful smile of someone who had accepted an ongoing problem and found it interesting rather than frustrating. "I'll tell you when I do."

"I'll look forward to it," you smiled, and you did. Historia appeared at your elbow, as she had somehow managed to come in from behind you, the silk of her evening dress a soft gold that suited her entirely. She smiled at Armin with the warm, easy manner she brought to people she liked, and looked at you, and then looked at the table. And then she looked at you again, and the particular brightness in her eyes that meant she was very pleased about something and was doing her best not to show it was— unmistakeable.

You looked over at the table. The seating had been arranged with the careful formality of a diplomatic dinner— name cards at each place, the household's formal china, the deliberate placement of position that your father's staff managed according to protocol and rank and the subtle choreography of who should speak to whom over the course of an evening. Your place was marked clearly. The centre of one side, as the elder princess, as was appropriate.

Erwin Smith's card was to your right, and Levi Ackerman's was to your left.

You looked at this arrangement for a moment, before you looked back at Historia. Historia was examining the floral centrepiece with an attention it did not strictly require, her expression composed and her eyes very bright.

"Historia...." you said, very quietly.

"The flowers are lovely, aren't they," she said, at the same volume. "I believe Father consulted with the head gardener personally."

"Did Father also consult with someone personally about the seating arrangements too?" you hissed.

"I really couldn't say," she almost grinned, with perfect innocence. You looked at the name cards.

"Historia!"

"I may have mentioned," she said, at barely a murmur, her eyes still on the centrepiece, "to Father's secretary. That it would be appropriate, protocol-wise, for the elder princess to be seated next to the senior royal calvary representatives." She paused. "For diplomatic reasons."

"For diplomatic reasons?" you repeated.

"It's perfectly correct seating," she said, and looked at you at last with those clear, steady eyes that were so warm and so entirely unrepentant that you couldn't hold the expression you had been attempting to hold, and your face did something that was not quite a smile and was entirely one.

"I will deal with you later," you warned her.

"I know," she said, and turned to greet Armin with the serenity of someone who had done a thing and stood behind it completely.

Dinner began at seven, as stated. Your father took the head of the table with the unhurried authority of a man in his own house, the council members and advisors filling the seats with the formal ease of people who had sat at important tables before and knew how to wear the occasion. Armin was directly across from you, which meant the table had given you, at least, a friendly face to look at. You sat down gracefully.  Erwin settled into his chair to your right with the smooth composure that was simply his natural state, and adjusted his cuffs, and smiled at you with the warm, calibrated warmth. Levi sat to your left. He sat the way you noticed he sat everywhere—the military bearing present but not stiff, the whole of him arranged with the economy of motion that was characteristic. He looked at the table, at the room, at the arrangement of people, and said nothing, because he rarely said things at the start of things. He would say something eventually, when there was something worth saying. Until then he would simply be present, which, in Levi Ackerman's case, was a considerable thing to be. You reached for your glass, and your elbow was approximately four inches from Levi's.

At the far end of the table, Historia picked up her own glass and took a sip with the serene composure of a woman who had arranged a seating plan and was now watching it unfold and finding it entirely satisfactory.

The candles burned and the dinner began. The evening opened itself up ahead of you with the particular quality of something that was going to be a very great deal, and you were, you realised, sitting squarely in the middle of it. Well, you thought, and reached for your fork with the composure of a woman who had been doing this her whole life, here we are then.

The candelabras had been lit, and the windows along the far wall looked out onto the garden in the last of the evening light, the paths gone a soft grey-blue, the sky above the wall a deep and darkening amber at the edges. It was, you thought, a very fine room to have a dinner in. It was also, currently, a very full one. The dining room was warm and full and entirely too much, and you had been seated for approximately four minutes. This was not, you told yourself, a problem. You were a princess. You had been attending formal dinners since you were old enough to sit through them without incident, and you had sat through considerably more difficult ones than this— dinners with foreign dignitaries, with people who actively disliked your father, with the entire senior court assembled and everyone watching everyone else. This was a family dinner with guests, so you were perfectly composed. You reached for your wine glass and drank rather more of it than was entirely necessary.

Erwin turned to you as the first course arrived, with the unhurried warmth of a man who had planned to do exactly this and was doing it at exactly the right moment. "Your Highness," he said, low enough for the two of you. "You look exquisite this evening."

"I could say the same about you, Commander," you reply sweetly.

"The pearls," he said, and the observation was specific, the ones in your hair, the choker at your throat—noted and stated with the particular quality of a man who had looked carefully and decided the looking was worth naming. "They suit you. Considerably."

"They were my mother's," you replied with a smile.

Something shifted in his expression. The warmth was already there — but this moved underneath it, genuine and briefly unguarded in the way of something that had not been prepared for. "Then they're in exactly the right place," he said, simply. It was a very good answer. You had learned, over the course of the last several days, that Erwin Smith was full of very good answers, and the question you kept returning to was what lived underneath them— whether the warmth was the whole of it, or whether it was the presentation of something larger and more complicated. You have not resolved this yet. You suspected it was going to take longer than a season.

"I heard you speaking earlier," you say to him. "About the eastern expansion for the calvary."

He looked at you with the slight shift that came when something he said had been genuinely received. "You were listening," he said, and the pleasure in it was real.

"I always listen," you reply simply.

"Most people at a table like this are waiting for their turn to speak," he said. "There's a difference." He picked up his wine glass, looked at it briefly, then looked back at you. "What did you think of it? Honestly."

You considered him for a moment. The question was real, not a performance of interest, not the flattering invitation toward an opinion that most men extended in order to nod at it politely. He actually wanted to know. "I think the provincial lords in the east won't accept a reduction in their land without you offering them something," you said. "Perhaps if you don't wish to spend more, you could consider expanding from the northern side instead?"

Erwin looked at you with the expression of someone who has found, unexpectedly, exactly the thing they were looking for. "Yes," he said. "I, I didn't think of that." He paused. "You know politics well."

"I follow most things that go through my father's council," you tell him. "So I learn a lot, you could say."

He was quiet for a moment. The warmth in his eyes had shifted into something more specific— the regard of a man reassessing upward, which was different from the regard of a man being charmed, and considerably more interesting. "I find," he said, carefully, "that I keep being surprised by you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," you laugh lightly.

"It is one," he said instantly. "The highest I give."

You picked up your wine glass but found it empty– so it set it back down. You began, without entirely deciding to, counting the candles in the nearest candelabra out of pure boredom. The footman finally came eventually, and your glass was refilled. You thanked him and drank rather more than was strictly considered and told yourself the warmth in your chest was the candlelight and being in between two extremely handsome men, and not the wine.

The table conversation had broadened— your father finding his preferred register, the warm expansive mode he settled into at a good dinner, drawing everyone in with the ease of a man who had been managing rooms for years. Erwin engaged with the council members with the focused ease of someone who could hold three conversations simultaneously and make each person feel they had his whole attention. Armin said something about the river survey mapping that made two senior advisors look at him with the particular expression of people unexpectedly impressed, and you caught his eye across the table and he looked quietly pleased and slightly embarrassed about it. You reached for your glass again, finishing it off. You were aware, in the warm, slightly softened way of someone on their third glass, that the evening had acquired a quality it hadn't quite had at the start— a looseness at the edges, a warmth that was pleasant and not entirely your own making. You were not, you told yourself firmly, tipsy. You were simply more comfortable than you had been twenty minutes ago.

Your glass was empty again, so you began counting the candelabra again. One. Two. Three. Four. There were twelve. You reached twelve and started again at one because there was nothing else to do while the footman made his way around the table and the council discussed road gradients and your father laughed at something Erwin said and Historia, down the table, was the picture of gracious attention as she spoke to council members. Five. Six—

"You've been counting."

You stopped. Not a whisper. Simply very quiet, and very close, and entirely for you. You turned your head slightly. Levi was looking at the table, his profile sharp in the candlelight, his expression arranged in its usual arrangement of nothing in particular. His wine glass was in his hand— barely touched, you noticed, the level in it almost unchanged from when it had been filled.

"The candles," he said, before you could formulate a response. "This is the second time you've counted them."

"I was waiting for the footman," you replied, with the slightly elevated dignity of someone whose composure was entirely intact and who found this accusation unfounded.

"Tch," he said, which was not an agreement and not a disagreement and somehow communicated both.

"My glass was empty," you argued. "I was keeping myself occupied while waiting."

"I noticed," Levi says.

You looked at your glass, which the footman had just refilled. You looked at Levi's, which was still mostly full. "You're not drinking yours?" you observed.

"I'm working," he answered roughly.

"You're at a dinner?"

"Same thing," he said.

There was, you thought, with the specific clarity that a third glass of wine occasionally produced, something extremely funny about this, and it arrived in your expression before you could entirely manage it, not a laugh, but the shape of one, brief and involuntary, pressing at the corner of your mouth. He looked at you then, just once, just briefly, from the corner of his eye. And the thing around his own mouth— barely, barely there, moved. You returned your attention to the table, decided, you were possibly slightly tipsy.

Your father's speech arrived somewhere in the middle of the main course. He set down his glass, and looked along the table with the expression of a man about to say something from the heart, and you felt the specific, anticipatory dread of someone who knew their father's expressions very well and had identified this one accurately. "I will say," he said, to the table at large, "that this season so far has been a particular pleasure. My daughters are a constant source of pride. To see them here, in this company, at this table—" He paused, with the timing of a man who understood how pauses worked. "I hope it will not be long before this table grows. Before there are more faces at it." His eyes moved to you, then Historia, and the love in them was entirely unperformed. "That is all any father could wish for."

It landed the way it always landed. Warm, and pointed, and pressing, in the specific way that love pressed when it wanted things for you whether or not you had asked it to. On that note, you reached for your wine glass and drank heavily.

Across the table, Armin's eyes found yours— the quiet, immediate sympathy of someone who had been paying attention and understood exactly what had just happened, the gentle solidarity of a person who was on your side without requiring anything in return. He held it for barely a second and then looked away with the discretion of someone who knew when a thing had been received.

To your right, Erwin lifted his glass in a smooth, warm inclination that was both a toast and a redirection, and the table followed, and the conversation moved on. To your left, Levi said nothing. He received your father's words without warmth, without redirection, without any of the social mechanisms the rest of the table had deployed. He simply sat, and looked at the table, and his face was arranged in its usual arrangement. But his jaw shifted. Once. A single small movement, controlled and brief. You were, you were almost certain, the only person at the table who had caught it.

You refilled your glass. Well— the footman refilled your glass, but you watched him do it with the focused attention of someone who had been waiting.

The dinner moved into its later courses. The council conversation turned to something about road proposals and the western territories, and the table arranged itself accordingly— most of the attention drawing forward toward your father and Erwin, who were engaged in the focused, specific exchange of two men who had clearly prepared for this and were now executing it with mutual satisfaction. Armin contributed something well-observed that made two of the senior advisors look at him with quiet reassessment, and you thought, warmly and with genuine affection, that Viscount Armin Arlert was one of the finest minds in any room he entered and that most rooms didn't deserve him.

You reached for your glass. The table was loud and warm and turned away from you, and the warmth of the wine was pleasant and the candles were doing something very nice in the silver and you were, you acknowledged privately, a little more than comfortable. You set down your fork and watched the candlelight. You began counting again, this time the candles in the nearest candelabra. One. Two. Three—

"You're doing it again."

You considered, briefly, whether to deny this. "My glass was empty again!" you protested, which was true and not the point and you knew it. You were just...bored, and maybe even slightly hopeful then when you did it, you would get Levi's attention.

"Three times now," he said accurately.

"I've just been counting the candles," you shrugged defeatedly, because the wine had made honesty feel more accessible than usual. "That's all."

"I know," he said. "You started doing it though because you were bored, right?"

You looked at him sideways. He was still looking at the table, profile sharp in the candlelight, the dark of his coat catching the light at the medals. He was not smiling. He was also, you had learned, never entirely not smiling. "Most people don't notice that I do that," you observed.

"Most people aren't paying attention," he said flatly.

"What else have you noticed, then?" you asked him. The boldness of it arrived slightly ahead of you, the wine speaking two seconds before the considered version of yourself caught up— but once it was out you found you didn't particularly want to take it back. You looked at him directly, with the specific steadiness of someone who had drunk enough to be honest but not enough to be careless, and waited.

He was quiet for a moment. The table moved around you, oblivious to what was happening between the two of you.

"You stopped eating in the third course," he said. "After your father did his speech. You picked up your glass instead and haven't eaten since." A pause. "Only drank." You looked at your glass. It was in your hand, and you set it down with a huff. "And the pearls," he said, quieter now, the words barely carrying past the distance between your chairs. "You touch them when you're nervous or concentrating. You've done it at least five times tonight."

You became immediately and specifically aware that your fingers were at the pearl choker at your throat. You had not decided to put them there. They had simply gone, in the way they apparently went, and he had apparently watched them go every single time. You lowered your hand to the table. The silence that followed had considerable weight in it. The weight of being seen, properly, specifically seen, in the small private habits that you had never told anyone about and had never expected anyone to notice— by someone who had been watching you with a thoroughness that was, in a formal dinner with ten other people, both entirely unexpected and somehow entirely characteristic. You looked at him to find he was still looking at the table. The sharp profile, the dark hair, the stillness that was not distance but simply the form his presence took.

"That's a great deal to notice," you acknowledge when you had your voice arranged.

"Told you," he replied. "Most people aren't paying attention."

You held his profile for a moment longer. The wine was warm in your chest and the candles were doing their thing in the silver and the table was loud and entirely somewhere else, and you said— with the particular clarity of someone who has had exactly the right amount of wine to say true things without dressing them: "Then, it appears you are paying me a lot of attention, General."

A beat. He turned his head, ever so slightly. Enough that his eyes were on yours, the grey of them, direct and giving nothing away and giving, as they always did, rather a lot. "Yes," he said simply, without qualification or retreat. "I suppose I am."

The words arrived in your chest and sat there.

You looked at the table. At the candelabra—you had lost count again, then at the silver and the wine and the warm ordinary fact of the room around you. His hand was on the arm of his chair. Your hand was at the edge of the tablecloth. The distance between them was perhaps three inches. Perhaps less.

You did not move your hand, and he did not move his.

Erwin said something at your right that made the council members laugh, and your father beamed, and Historia looked at nothing in particular with the serene attention of a woman who was looking at everything, and the dinner continued in its warm and ordinary way.

But the three inches remained. And not once— through the last toast your father made, through the entire final course— did either of you move away.

The morning after was gentle, which you appreciated, because the morning after required it.

You had slept — properly, deeply, the sleep of someone who had been thoroughly wrung out by an evening and had nothing left to do but surrender to it. The day was, you noticed, genuinely beautiful. The particular kind of afternoon that occasionally materialised mid-season as though in reminder of what the world was like without the machinery of the social calendar — warm and bright and unhurried, the light doing something very good to the garden, the air through the gap at the window frame carrying the smell of cut grass and something flowering.

You thought about Celeste, you beautiful cream mare who had been stabled for a quite a while, due to your lack of recent riding. "I'm going to ride," you told Sasha after you were ready.

Sasha blinked. "Now?"

"It's a beautiful morning," you said.

"But— "

"Don’t worry,” you tell her. “I’ll be back before lunch is served.”

"I'll tell Petra to— "

"I don't need anyone to come with me," you insisted. Sasha opened her mouth. "Sasha," you said pleasantly. "I'm going for a ride. Alone. On my own horse. In the middle of the morning. I am not twelve, and it is not raining, and I shall be fine—"

"I'll just fetch Petra," Sasha said, and went. You heard, from somewhere in the back of the house, Sasha's voice, and then Petra's— the measured tones of a woman beginning to assemble an argument about propriety and appropriate attendance. You sighed, putting your hand on the door and leaving the room. 

The gravel of the drive was warm under your feet and the afternoon light was exactly as good as the window had suggested and the garden smelled of summer and absolutely nothing was requiring anything of you. You did not run. You were a princess and it was the middle of the morning and the stable yard was visible from the upper windows, and you walked at the brisk, purposeful pace of someone who had somewhere to be, which was technically true. The stable boy was standing outside, and he looked up from the tack he was cleaning when you came through the gate.

"Your Highness," he said.

"My horse, Celeste," you requested. "Please."

He was fast, which you appreciated. Celeste was out and saddled and waiting within ten minutes, and you were up before he'd quite finished his inquiry about whether you required an escort, and then you were through the stable gate and onto the lane and the lane was opening into the road and the road was open and warm and entirely, completely yours.

Behind you, somewhere in the estate, Petra was discovering that you were not in it. This would produce a specific sequence of events that you were not going to think about right now. The road curved south. The afternoon light was long and gold. The trees along the verge cast moving shadows across the ground as the breeze moved through them, and Celeste's hooves were steady and familiar beneath you, and the world was exactly the right temperature, and there was no one— who was about to say anything to you that required a response.

You pressed your heels in, and the world opened up. You had been riding for perhaps twenty minutes and had thought about almost nothing, which was the point. The road curved south toward open country, the trees pulling back and the sky opening wide and blue above you, and you pressed your heels in and let Celeste find her pace, and the wind came up with it, and you felt, with a fullness that was difficult to explain, entirely yourself.

You were smiling at nothing in particular when a pheasant erupted from the hedgerow. It came from the left, sudden and loud and very close, a brown explosion of indignant wings directly at eye level, and Celeste— who was many things but entirely unflappable was not among them— went sideways, and then sharply up, you grabbed for the mane and found nothing, and then the ground arrived harshly against your back, and you were on the ground, and the world had reorganised itself significantly.

You lay still for a moment and conducted yourself. Shoulder, sore. Hip, sore. Head….not hit, which was the important one. Breathing, working, somewhat effortfully for now. You tried to move your ankle, and it objected with a sharpness that was pointed and specific and entirely unambiguous. Celeste, twenty feet away, had already returned to the grass with the practical serenity of a horse that had dealt with its crisis and moved on. The ankle was going to be a problem. You sat up slowly, assessed the distance between yourself and the horse, assessed the ankle again, and concluded that the situation had limited options– until you heard hooves on the verge track.

He came from the direction of the wood line— a big dark horse moving at an easy walk, the rider upright and unhurried, moving through the landscape with the particular quality of someone entirely at home in it. He had not seen you yet, he was simply watching the tree line attentively. He carried a rifle across the saddle. On the horse's flank, the early evidence of the morning's hunt. It was Reiner Braun. 

He saw Celeste first—your riderless horse, cropping contentedly at the verge— and his whole body stilled with the immediate, controlled alertness of an experienced rider who knows that a horse without its rider means something has happened. His eyes swept the road until they found you pathetically sitting on the ground. He was off the horse before you had fully processed that he had moved. One clean, swift motion and then he was crossing the grass toward you, and his face had entirely abandoned its careful arrangement—his amber eyes open and direct and unmanaged in the specific way of someone who had been frightened by something and was dealing with the practical consequence of it first.

"Your Highness." He crouched beside you, one knee in the grass, and his hands were already moving towards you,  careful and with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this in worse conditions than a sunny afternoon road. "Don't move yet– tell me what hurts."

"My ankle," you say to him. "I think I might have turned it when I landed. It isn't broken, I hope..."

His hands moved to your ankle regardless— large and warm through the leather of your boot, and the touch was so extraordinarily gentle that it took you a moment to reconcile it with the size of the hands doing it. He pressed, tested, turned the joint with a slowness that asked permission at every degree. His brow was slightly furrowed, his attention entirely on the task, and you watched his face while he worked and thought that this— this specific quality of focus, unhurried and thorough and caring— was one of the most quietly affecting things you had seen in some time.

"Not broken," he agreed, finally. He sat back on his heel and looked at you. "Badly turned. You'll need to stay off it properly today." He looked at your face, checking something further— the colour of you, probably, the signs of shock that he clearly knew how to read. "Anything else?"

"No," you said softly. "My horse, she was startled by a pheasant. It was very sudden."

He looked at the horse, and then back at you. Something in his expression — beneath the concern, just beneath it — softened fractionally. "You were riding alone?" he questioned.

"I was," you say. The amber eyes communicated a mild opinion about this without stating it. "I have to admit I did, sort of–escape," you tell him. "Petra was organising a guard escort and I—I didn't want all of that."

The fractional softening deepened into something that was almost the not-quite-smile. "The morning is very nice," he admits.

"It was," you said. "Until the pheasant."

He looked at you for a moment, his eyes doing their careful measuring, that habitual, patient assessment— and then, apparently having decided something, he put his hands under you and stood up. The effortlessness of it was, you noted, frankly extraordinary. He simply picked you up, your weight apparently a calculation he had made and dismissed as irrelevant— and straightened to his full height with you in his arms as though this was simply the logical next step, which to him it apparently was. You were aware, from this angle, of the sheer breadth of his chest, the solidity of the arms holding you, the particular quality of someone whose physical strength was simply a fact of them rather than a performance of it.

"My horse," he said, nodding to his horse— a large, dark stallion. "You'll ride with me. I'll lead yours."

"I ca— "

"You can't put proper weight on that ankle," he said, gently. "And you can't ride well without it." He looked at you. "It's a practical solution."

It was a practical solution, you had to admit. You looked at his horse— the large and steady, then you looked at the road home. "All right," you finally said.

He lifted you into the saddle with the same care he had used on the ankle— both hands at your waist, and the warmth of them was immediate and specific, and he set you down with a gentleness that was entirely at odds with the ease of the strength behind it. He settled the stirrups for you, checked them with the quiet thoroughness of someone for whom doing things properly was simply the standard, secured Celeste's lead to the saddle ring.

Then he swung up behind you, and the horse shifted, adjusting to the weight of you both, and Reiner settled—and you became immediately, completely aware of the arrangement. His arms came around you to take the reins. Not wrapped around you really, his arms were simply where they needed to be for the reins, and the reins required them to be on either side of you— but the effect was the same. His chest was at your back. The breadth of him enclosed you in the specific, warm, considerable way of someone very large and very present and close to you. You were aware of the rise and fall of him breathing, slow and even. Of the warmth of him through your dress, the realness of it, the way it made the afternoon feel simultaneously more and less manageable. You kept your eyes on the road ahead.

"Comfortable?" he said, close enough that his voice was low and near in your ear.

"Yes," you breathed, which was entirely true and also not quite the complete answer. He clicked his tongue and the horse moved forward, and you moved with it, and the morning opened up around you both. For a while, neither of you spoke.

The road was quiet. The horse walked steadily. Celeste followed at the end of her lead with the philosophical acceptance of a horse that had had quite enough adventure for one afternoon. The light was still warm, still golden, laying itself across the grass and the road and the tops of the hedgerows in the long unhurried way of a summer afternoon that had nowhere to be. It was a comfortable silence. The specific kind that existed between two people who had been in each other's company enough to have moved past the need to fill it— and you had been surprised, over the course of the season, how quickly that had happened with Reiner. How few words it had taken.

"How did you end up out this way?" you said, eventually.

"I come out most mornings," he said. "When the schedule allows." A pause. "I can hear myself think out here."

"Or not think," you corrected him.

A brief beat. "Or not think," he agreed. "Depending on what's needed."

"Which was it today?" you asked.

"Not thinking," he said. "Until about ten minutes ago."

You looked at the road ahead. "I'm sorry to interrupt it."

"You didn't interrupt it," he said, simply. "You improved it."

You felt the colour rise in your face before you could do anything about it. The words landed quietly in the warm air between you, and he said them the way he said things he meant— without flourish, without any particular awareness that they were affecting, simply because they were true and truth was what he had. You looked at the road ahead and were very glad he was behind you.

"That," you said, after a moment, with the composure of someone reassembling themselves in real time, "is either a very kind thing to say or a very low bar."

"Neither," he said. "It's accurate."

"You're very certain about that?"

"I'm certain about most things I say," he tells you. "I don't say things I'm not."

"No," you agreed. "You don't." You paused. "It's one of the more disarming things about you."

A brief silence. "I'm disarming?" he said, and the quality of it—the slight shift, the almost-surprised note underneath the even delivery—made you want to turn around and see his face, which you did not do, because you were on a horse and your dignity had already had quite enough of an afternoon.

"Frequently," you said.

"I've never been described that way before," he said.

"What have you been described as?" you asked.

He considered this. "Large," he said. "Mostly."

You laughed, warm and unguarded—and you felt, immediately and specifically, the response of him behind you. Not a laugh —Reiner didn't laugh easily, you had learned— but a shift, a slight loosening, the specific quality of someone who has heard something they are pleased to have caused.

"Large is accurate," you giggled, when you had recovered. "But it isn't the whole picture."

"What's the rest of it?" he asked.

You considered it. The horse moved beneath you, steady and unhurried. His arms were still on either side of you for the reins, and the warmth of him at your back was a specific and entirely present thing, and you were, you were aware, considerably more comfortable in this arrangement than was strictly explicable by the afternoon temperature.

"Careful," you said, finally. "Genuine. Quieter than people expect." You paused. "Kinder than you let on."

He said nothing for a moment. "That's—" he started.

"Accurate?" you offered.

"I was going to say very generous," he said.

"And are you often cruel to yourself?" you asked him, which was the same thing you had said to Jean at the ball, and you felt a small private amusement at the parallel, and then felt the colour return to your face because you were sitting very close to Reiner Braun on a horse and thinking about Lord Jean Kirstein, which was not a particularly well-organised morning.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"You can always ask," you said. "But I reserve the right not to answer."

He chuckled lowly, which you thought sounded like Jean for a second before you stopped yourself, and you decided firmly to stop making comparisons and pay attention to the man whose heartbeat you could feel against your back. You became, in the moment of thinking this, very specifically aware that you could feel his heartbeat against your back.

It was not slow. For a man who presented to the world with the composed, unhurried manner of someone entirely at ease, whose voice was even and whose movements were controlled and who gave very little away—his heart was not behaving in a composed and unhurried manner. It was beating, against your shoulder blade, with a speed and force that had nothing to do with the gentle walk of the horse.

You said nothing about this, but you felt the colour in your face deepen considerably. "The season," he started. "When it ends." He paused, with the careful selecting of words that was characteristic. "And the—the arrangements your father hopes for," he said. "If they don't come to anything this season. What happens then?"

You were quiet for a moment. "Another season," you said defeatedly. "Presumably. Until something happens. Or until my father forces me…but I doubt he would do that."

"And if it doesn't..happen?" he asked. 

"Then I become," you sigh, "a cautionary tale at court and Historia will feel incredibly guilty, and my father will most likely shoot himself."

He was quiet for a moment. And then—low, brief, the sound that escaped before he could manage it— he laughed. It was the same low, rumbling thing you had heard in the drawing room. Caught in the chest before it fully arrived, warm and genuine and entirely accidental. And this close, with your back against him, with the warmth and the heartbeat and the morning— you felt it as much as you heard it. The slight shake of him, the loosening, the way the careful composure came down entirely for a moment and what was underneath it was simply warm. You felt it move through you before you had prepared for it.

"You are funny, Your Highness," he said softly when he'd recovered, and he said it with the slight surprise of someone reporting an unexpected discovery.

"You sound astonished," you smile.

"I'm not," he said. "I suspected. I'm just—" A pause. "It's different, hearing it in person."

"As opposed to what?" you said.

"As to imagining it," he said, very quietly, and then appeared to register that he had said this, and the heartbeat behind you— which had been fast— went even faster.

You looked at the road, which had now become very interesting. The road required considerable attention. "Do you," you said, which was either composed or entirely the opposite, and you were not sure which. “Think about me?” 

"I—yes," he said, which from Reiner was an admission of considerable magnitude, delivered with the flat honesty of a man who had decided, somewhere in the last thirty seconds, to simply stand behind it. The estate was visible ahead now—the roofline against the afternoon sky, the garden wall, the gate with the guards at their posts. Closer than you wanted, you thought, and then thought it again more clearly and found it still true.

The horse slowed at the gate and the guards straightened. He dismounted first, the clean easy drop of it, and then turned to you. His hands came to your waist and he lifted you down with that same effortless care, setting you on the ground with the specific, attentive gentleness that he brought to everything he did for you. He kept his hands at your waist a moment while you found your footing, making sure the ankle was managed, and then released you— slowly, the way he'd held your hand, as though the releasing required the same intention as the holding.

You were standing very close to him. His coat was slightly dusty from the ride and he smelled of woodsmoke and leather and something clean— and he was looking at you with the expression that asked nothing and saw everything.

"Be careful on your ankle," he tells you.

"I'll have Petra look at it," you said.

"Don't walk on it properly," he said.

"You've said," you smiled. 

"You look like someone who might ignore it," he raises an eyebrow at you.

"I'm a princess," you insist. "I never ignore sensible advice."

He looked at you with the amber eyes, and the not-quite-smile arrived— slow and warm, the real warmth of it, there longer than usual. "Mm," he said, which was not in agreement. You looked at him. At the smile and the eyes and the whole of him standing in the afternoon light with the game on his horse and the dust on his coat and the specific, unhurried way he occupied the world.

"Good morning, Your Highness," he said, and the warmth in it was so quiet and so real that you turned before it could do anything further to your composure, and walked through the gate.

Petra was already waiting at the main door. She was not merely at the door. She was at the door in the specific way of a woman who had been at the door for some time, with the expression of someone who had composed and recomposed what she intended to say and was now deploying it.

She looked at you.  “I told you to wait," she said to you. "I was fetching an escort. Specifically. And when I returned—"

"Petra—" you started.

"—You was not here," Petra continued, as though you had not spoken. "No, you had to go out, unescorted, on a horse. In the countryside!"

"I'm here now and I’m fine," you tell her.

"I am aware of where you are now," Petra said, looking at you with the composed, dignified expression that was somehow more effective than any amount of volume. "The difficulty is where you were forty minutes ago."

"I was on a horse," you said smugly. "In the countryside, which is exactly where you said."

Petra looked at you for a long moment. "YOur’e limping" she said, noting the way you were walking. “Are you hurt?” 

"I came off Celeste," you said. "It isn't broken. Mr Braun— "

"I saw Mr Braun," Petra interrupted, with the air of someone filing information.

"He helped," you said. "It was very fortunate he was passing."

"Very fortunate," Petra said, in the tone that communicated she was making no comment about the fortunateness of it and was also making every possible comment about the fortunateness of it. She stepped aside and gestured you in with the efficiency of a woman who had decided that the doorstep was not the appropriate location for the rest of this conversation. "Come inside. Sit down. I'll look at the ankle."

You went inside.

You had barely cleared the entrance hall when footsteps came quickly down the stairs— light, familiar— and Historia appeared at the landing with the expression of someone who had heard noises and looked out of a window.

She looked at you. "Did I see," she said, "Mr Braun at our gate?"

"Yes," you sigh. "He was riding nearby when I came off Celeste and he helped."

Historia looked at him for a moment longer. Then she looked at you, at the state of your dress and the ankle and the colour that you were fairly certain had not fully left your face— with the specific, clear-eyed expression of someone who was assembling a picture from its component parts and finding the picture very interesting.

"How fortunate," she said, which was exactly what Petra had said and delivered with exactly the same quality of not-quite-neutrality.

"Don't start," you groaned.

"I wasn't going to say anything!" 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁

[lucyyx3x]

hello my love i wondering if you were going to continue the bridgerton series 🥺🥺

i think it’s one of my favorite aot things i’ve ever read

if not, that’s okay! i’m just curious🩷🩷

love you pooks

OMG ILYSM <3 ty for the lovely message 🥲

And honestly the reason was bc I thought it kinda sucked and I couldn't decide who to pick as I loved them all :( I've acc got the next chapter ready to be published if that's what the people want.....👀....i suppose I could continue it.....🙏👀

BUT YOU GUYS NEED TO PICK I CANT

[lucyyx3x]

hello I love you please don't go bald

keep writing Reiner stuff this is amazing

This is amazing ty to whoever sent this in I love u too!! <3. I'm not bald yet so fingers crossed it stays that way 😞

also...while we're all here....on the topic of reiner...😃

I've written a reiner one shot from a request someone sent in and it's 15 FUCKING K WORDS bc I kept adding more stuff I thought of AND I got carried away with it😣 like would yall read something that long or nah should I shorten it into two parts? 🥲 or just shorten it/cut it down completely....

yall fucking with a long ahh one shot!!!

Fuck yeah

Nuh uh two parts pls

girl shorten that shit

Voting ended onJul 18

ok thanks i love u all <3

[lucyyx3x]

I Missed You ✦ Attack on Titan✦

.ᐟ Post Rumbling! Reiner Braun x F! Reader .ᐟ

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Reiner Braun x F! Reader (oneshot!)

summary: Five months ago, you walked away from Reiner. The Rumbling left him hollow, and no matter how much you loved him, you couldn't force him to let you in. But when he turns up on your doorstep bruised and beaten with nowhere else to go, you decide to open the door one last time.....

a/n: SOMEONE TAKE MY LAPTOP AWAY I CANT STOP WRITING SAD NEEDY REINER SMUT AAA... :') (also I promise I'm getting through all my requests they will be out soon... :O) anyway enjoy >:)

wc: 8.3K

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You are not expecting anyone at this time. It is late— gone past ten— and you are sitting at the table with a book you have read the same page of four times without retaining a word, and then the knock comes and you go still.

Nobody knocks on your door at this hour. Not anymore. The people who used to have reason to are gone or scattered or simply no longer part of the version of your life that exists after everything that happened. You have built something small and manageable here in the months since, and it is fine. It is enough….well, you tell yourself that regularly. You set the book down and go to the door, opening the door gently.

It was Reiner.

He fills the doorframe the way he always has— broad through the chest and shoulders, tall enough that he has to carry himself a little carefully in small spaces. His blonde hair is pushed back carelessly, and his jaw is dark with stubble and there is the scar on his cheekbone that you used to press your thumb to when he slept, in the early days, before you understood what it meant to love someone who was determined to destroy himself slowly.

He has a split lip, and a bruise along his jaw that is going to look much worse tomorrow. His knuckles are raw and his jacket is torn at the shoulder and he is looking at you like a man who has been walking for a long time and has run out of anywhere else to go.

Five months. You hadn't seen him in five months. You stare at him across the threshold and feel every single one of them. "I know," he says quietly before you can speak. "I know I don't have the right to be here. I just— I didn't know where else to go."

His voice is wrecked. Low and rough and honest in the way Reiner is only ever honest when he has nothing left to protect himself with.

You should send him away— you know that. You made a decision five months ago and it was the right decision, it was the only decision you could make with what you had, and opening this door is going to cost you something.

You open the door wider. "Come in," you say. "Sit down."

He sits at your kitchen table and you get the medical kit and you do not talk about it yet, because there is blood on his knuckles and a bruise on his jaw that needs ice and some things have to happen in the right order.

"Marleyans?" you ask, tilting his chin up.

"A few of them." His eyes come to yours. "I'm fine really—"

"You have a split lip and a bruise the size of my hand on your jaw..."

"I've had worse."

"I know you have." You say it evenly, holding his gaze for just a moment before you look back at the cut. "But that's not the reassurance you think it is."

He is quiet while you work. This close he is warm— solid and familiar in a way that your body recognises before your head can intervene, the way he sits very still when you are tending to him like staying still is the only thing he can give you right now. You used to tend to him like this and then kiss whatever you'd just cleaned, lightly, before moving on— you do not do that now. You keep your hands steady and your expression neutral and you focus on the work.

His eyes don't leave your face, you feel them the whole time. "How long have you been back in Marley?” you ask.

"Six weeks."

You pause, just briefly. "Six weeks?"

"I kept—" He stops. "I didn't know how to come here. I didn't know if you'd want to see me again."

You cap the antiseptic and set it down and look at him properly for the first time since you opened the door. He looks tired in a way that goes deeper than tonight. He looks like someone who has been tired for a very long time and has stopped trying to hide it.

He is still, even like this, the most attractive person you have ever been in a room with. You hate that, and it has never once made anything easier. "Why did you come tonight?" you ask. You pull your chair out and sit across from him, hands folded on the table. 

"Because I couldn't not anymore." He says it simply. "I've been telling myself to stay away. That it was what you needed, after— after everything. That I'd already done enough damage and showing up here would just be doing more." His jaw tightens. "But I've been going out of my mind. And tonight I got into a fight because some piece of shit on the street said something about Eldians and I didn't walk away fast enough, and when it was over I was standing on the corner and the only thought I had was you." He looks at the table. "It's always you. It's been you for years and— I don't know how to make that stop."

The rain starts against the window. Soft, at first before it was slowly pouring. "You’re the one who shut me out," you remind him. Not angry— you did your anger, in the first weeks after. What's left is quieter and more honest than anger. "After the Rumbling. After everything we— you just shut the door. You wouldn't let me me in, and I had to leave."

"I know."

"I was right there, Reiner. Every day I was right there and you looked through me—"

"I know." His voice drops. "I know. And I have no excuse for it that's worth anything. I was— I was in a bad place, a very bad place. And you deserved better than what I could give you and I thought— I thought if I let you in you'd see how bad it was and it would—" He presses his mouth together. "I thought I was protecting you."

"I didn't need protecting. I needed you."

The words land. You watch them land— watch something in his face open up and flinch and stay open anyway. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry." He looks at you and it is the most undefended you have ever seen him, and you have seen him very undefended. "I shut you out and I lost you and I have spent five months understanding what that means and being unable to fix it."

"I want to come back," he says. His voice is low and very serious. "I know I don't deserve to ask that. I know I broke something and I know it's not as simple as just— wanting to. But I need you to know that I want to. That I would do it differently. That I'm not going to—" He stops and tries again. "I'm not going to shut you out again, leave you alone by yourself again. I can't promise I'll always be easy to be with. You know me well enough to know I can't promise that."

You look at him across the table.

"I've missed you every day," he continues. "Every single fucking day. I missed you when we were still together and I was pushing you away after The Rumbling and I missed you after and I— please." The word costs him something. You can see it. "Please. I know it's not fair to ask, but I'm asking anyway."

His hands are on the table between you, big and still and scarred, the knuckles freshly cleaned. You used to hold those hands. You used to trace the old scars and he would watch you do it like the fact of your interest in him was something he had not yet fully processed. You reach across the table and cover them with yours, and he goes very still.

"I didn't stop," you say quietly. "Loving you, and trust me I tried. I thought it would be simpler, after, if I could just— turn it off. But it doesn't work like that and I should know better by now."

"No," he agrees. His voice is barely above a whisper. "It doesn't."

"If we do this again—"

"I know," he says. "I know. You don't have to say it. I know what it would mean and I know what I would owe you and I'm not asking you to trust me before I've earned it back." His hands turn under yours, carefully, and close around them. "I'm just asking for the chance to earn it."

You look at him. At the bruise on his jaw and the lines of tiredness around his eyes and the scar on his cheekbone and the entirety of him sitting in your kitchen at half past ten asking you for one more chance with his whole heart on the table.

Reiner Braun, who is difficult and damaged and brave in ways that break your heart and who has loved you, as well as he is capable of loving anything— which is completely, even when it comes out wrong.

"Okay," you say. He blinks, like he wasn't certain he'd heard right. "Okay," you say again. "We’ll try again."

He is around the table before you have fully processed that he's moved— he pulls you up from the chair and his arms go around you and he holds on, face pressed to the top of your head, and the sound he makes is quiet and devastated and relieved all at once.

"Thank you," he says into your hair. "Thank you."

"Stop thanking me," you say softly, muffled against his chest.

"Give me a minute."

You give him a minute. You stand in the middle of your small kitchen with your arms around him and his around you and the rain at the window, and you let him hold on because he needs to and because— if you are being honest— you need it too.

When he pulls back it is only far enough to look at you. His hands come up to your face, both of them, cradling it with a carefulness that has always undone you— this man who is so large and has seen so much violence being so extraordinarily careful with you.

"Can I—" he starts.

"Yes," you interrupt him.

He kissed you slowly. Not the way he used to kiss you— not the hungry, immediate thing you remembered from before, the way he'd crowd you against the wall the second he got through the door. This was different. His lips touched yours with a kind of deliberateness, like he was relearning the shape of your mouth, the pressure, the angle. Like he was trying to be thorough. To do it right. To make up for five months in one kiss, which wasn't possible, and which he seemed determined to attempt anyway.

His hands stayed in your hair and at your jaw, and his fingers tightened when you opened your mouth against his. He made a sound— not a word, something smaller, something that vibrated in his throat and broke against your lip — and his mouth pressed harder, and then softer again, and then he tilted his head and kissed you deeper, his tongue sliding against yours with a slowness that made your knees threaten to give.

He was attentive. That was the word for it— he was always attentive when he was paying proper attention— completely, nothing held back, like you were the only thing in the room. Like the kitchen, the counter, none of it existed. Like the five months apart didn't exist. Like the only thing that had ever existed was the place where your mouth met his. You pulled back enough to breathe, and his mouth followed yours, not wanting to let go, and his fingers curled tighter in your hair. His forehead pressed against yours. His breath came ragged and warm against your lips, and you could feel the tremor in his hands— the fine, involuntary shaking of someone holding themselves very still.

"I'm sorry," he said. The words were barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I should have— I should have come back sooner. I should have—" His jaw worked, and he winced, the bruise pulling, and you watched the pain flicker across his face and settle into something else. "I thought about you every day, I missed you so much. And I told myself I'd come back when I— when I was better, when I had something to offer you, and then I just—" He exhaled. "I got the shit kicked out of me and I came here. Because you're the only person I—"

His voice broke. Not dramatically, not the way it did in movies, just a small fracture, a hairline crack in the low steady tone of it, and his thumbs stroked across your cheekbones; his eyes were wet, and he blinked and the wetness didn't fall. You kissed him this time. You put your hands flat against his chest— felt the warmth of him through the shirt, the firm rise of his ribs beneath your palms, and the way his breath hitched when you pressed— and you kissed him, and he made that sound again, the one in his throat, and his hands slid from your face down to your waist and pulled you closer.

His body was warm. Solid. You could feel the muscle of his chest against yours, the hard plane of his stomach, the thickness of his thighs when your hip pressed against his. He was big— he'd always been big, broad through the shoulders and thick through the arms, the kind of large that made doorways look narrow — and you could feel every bruise he was carrying in the way he held himself, the careful way he shifted his weight, the way his breath caught when you leaned into him and pressed against his ribs.

"Careful," you murmured against his mouth.

"I don't care," he said lowly.

"You'll hurt yourself even more—"

"I don't care." His hands were at the small of your back, pulling you in, and his mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, kissing along the bone with the same slow attention, and then to your neck, and his breath was hot against the skin there— his lips soft, and your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and held on.

You walked backward. His hands guided you, steady on your hips, and your lower back hit the edge of the kitchen counter. His hands found the hem of your shirt, and his fingers slid beneath it— rough, careful, his knuckles grazing the skin of your stomach— and you sucked in a breath, and his hands stilled.

"Is this— can I—"

"Yes."

His palms flattened against your waist. Warm, wide, calloused. They moved up your sides slowly, tracing the curve of your ribs, and his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts through your bra, and his breath came unsteady against your mouth. You reached up and unbuttoned the first button of his shirt, then the second, then the third, and he helped you, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders first— it landed on the floor behind him with the heavy thud— and then pulling the shirt over his head with one hand, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs.

You notice the bruises forming across his ribs, they mapped his left side in dark blooming colours— deep purple over the ninth and tenth ribs, fading to green at the edges, tender to the touch. You pressed your fingers to them now, light, barely touching, and his stomach tightened under your hand and his jaw clenched and he didn't pull away.

"Don't," Reiner said. "Don't be careful– it's okay, I don't want you to be careful with me."

"But you're hurt."

"I don't care." His forehead dropped to yours. "I don't care. Please. I just— I need—"

His voice shook. His hands shook. The tremor had moved from his fingers into his arms, into the tight line of his shoulders, and when you looked at him you could see it— the five months, the silence, whatever fight he'd lost or won earlier, all of it pressing up against the surface of him like water against a dam.

You pulled your shirt over your head. Reached behind you and unclasped your bra, letting it fall. His eyes opened, and his gaze dropped to your chest— his throat moving, and his hands came up to cover your breasts with a slowness that made your breath catch. His thumbs swept over your nipples, once, twice, and they hardened under his touch, and he watched them— his lips parting, his breath shallow.

"God," he said. "God, I missed— I missed you so much."

His hands slid down your waist, over your hips, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants as he knelt. The movement was slow— he favoured his right side, the bruised ribs pulling— and when he was on his knees in front of you he looked up, and his amber eyes were dark, and his hands were steady on your hips, and he pressed his mouth to your stomach.

You put your hands in his hair. His head tilted, and his mouth moved across your skin— your stomach, your hip bone, the soft skin below your navel— and his fingers worked the button of your trousers open, and he pulled them down over your hips with your underwear. You stepped out of them, and the tile was cold under your bare feet, and Reiner was kneeling in front of you in your kitchen with his bruised face and his mouth on your skin.

He pressed his lips to the crease of your thigh. Then the other side, and his hands held your hips, his thumbs tracing the bones, and his mouth moved higher, and his breath was hot and damp against you, and your fingers tightened in his hair.

"Let me," he said. "Please. Let me—"

You nodded, unable to form words as he kissed you. His mouth, open and warm and soft, against the most sensitive part of you, and the sound you made was involuntary— a sharp intake of breath, your hips tilting forward, your fingers clenching in his hair. He groaned against you, a low rumble that you felt more than heard, and his tongue moved, slow and thorough, tracing the shape of you with the same attention he'd given your mouth.

He was desperate, that was the best word for it. His hands gripped your hips and his mouth worked against you and he made sounds— small, broken sounds, groans and whimpers that vibrated through you— and his tongue circled your clit with a steady, patient rhythm that built heat in your stomach and made your thighs tremble. "Reiner—" Your voice was thin, almost reathless.

He pulled back, just enough, and his face was flushed and his lips were wet— his eyes glazed and he looked up at you like you were something holy. "Tell me," he said, his voice strained. "Tell me what you need."

"You. Just keep—"

His mouth returned. His tongue moved faster, and his hand slid from your hip, and his fingers traced along your entrance, and you were wet, embarrassingly wet, had been wet since he first put his hands on your face, and his fingers slid through the slickness and he made a sound against you like it hurt.

"You're so —" His voice cracked. "You're so wet. Fuck. I did that. I—"

"Reiner. Please."

His finger pressed into you. Slow, careful, and you felt your body clench around him, and his breath came out ragged against your thigh, and he watched your face as his finger slid deeper. He watched you the way he always watched you— with that total, consuming attention, reading every detail, the way your mouth opened, the way your eyebrows drew together, the way your hips rocked forward to take more of him.

A second finger. He added it slowly, stretching you, and his thumb found your clit and circled it, and his mouth returned, his tongue moving in time with his hand, and the pleasure built in waves that made your knees weak. Your back arched against the counter— the edge of it pressing into your lower back as your head tipped back, and Reiner's fingers moved inside you with a steady, patient rhythm that made your whole body tighten.

"I missed this," he said against you, his voice low and rough. "I missed the way you sound. The way you feel. I missed— God, I missed you. I missed you so much. I'm sorry. I'm—" His fingers curved. Pressed against the spot inside you that made your breath catch, and his tongue moved faster, and your hips bucked, and his free hand gripped your thigh and held you steady, and you came against his mouth with a sound that filled the kitchen— a cry, broken and raw, your body clenching around his fingers, your hands tight in his hair.

He didn't stop. His fingers slowed, his tongue softened, and he worked you through it with a gentleness that made your eyes sting, and when you finally pushed his head back— too sensitive, shaking— he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh and looked up at you, and his face was wrecked. Flushed, wet, his eyes dark and his lips swollen, and he was breathing hard, and his hand was trembling against your hip.

"Come here," you say quietly.

He stood. Slowly, his ribs pulling, and you reached for his trousers. You pushed them down over his hips along with the underwear, and his cock was hard— thick, flushed, the head dark and wet— and it pressed against his stomach when his trousers dropped.

You wrapped your hand around him. He groaned— a raw, open sound— and his hips jerked forward, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his hands gripped the counter on either side of you. "Fuck," he said. "Fuck. I can't— I'm not going to last."

"Then don't," you challenge him. 

"I want— I want to be inside you. Please. Let me—"

He reached down, lifting you up so you were sat on the counter. His hand wrapped around yours, around himself, and he guided the head of his cock against your entrance, and you were slick, swollen and the touch of him there made you both inhale sharply. He pushed forward, slowly. His thickness stretched you, and he slid inside inch by inch, and his breath came in short, punched-out gasps against your neck.

"Oh God," he said. "Oh fuck. Oh— you feel—"

He bottomed out. His hips pressed against yours, his cock fully inside you, and he held still, trembling, his face buried in your neck, his hands gripping the counter so hard his knuckles went white. You could feel him pulsing inside you, feel the tension in his body, the effort it took him not to move.

"You okay?" you asked him softly.

"Don't move. Don't— just — give me a second. If you move, I'm going to—"

You didn't move, instead you held him. Your arms around his shoulders, your hands on the warm skin of his back, feeling the muscle and the damage beneath it, the bruise along his ribs raised and hot under your fingers. His breath slowed, and his body relaxed, fractionally, against yours.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry. I just— it's been so long, and you feel so good, and I—"

"Reiner— just shut up and move."

He pulled back. Slow, dragging, and you felt every inch of him, and then he thrust forward, and the sound he made was something between a groan and a sob, and his hands moved from the counter to your hips, and he set a rhythm— slow, deep, grinding, his hips rolling against yours in a way that pressed him against every part of you.

The kitchen filled with the sounds of it. His breathing, ragged and broken, the wet slide of his cock inside you, the small, helpless noises you made with every thrust— whimpers, groans, words that didn't finish. His mouth found your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, kissing and biting and sucking, and his hands moved up your body to cup your breasts, and his thumbs rolled your nipples, and your head fell back and your hips met his.

He looked at you, and his amber eyes were wet, his face flushed, his jaw clenched against the bruise, and he fucked you with a desperation that made your chest ache. Not hard— he was too careful for that, too aware of his own body, too afraid of breaking something— but deep, and thorough, and relentless, like he was trying to reach something inside you that only he could find.

"I'm close," he said. His voice broke. "I'm— where do you want me to—"

"Inside," you gasp out.

His rhythm stuttered. His eyes widened. "Are you—"

"Inside. I want you to come inside me."

"Fuck." His forehead dropped to yours. His hips snapped forward, harder, and you gasped, and his hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, and he circled it with the same steady attention he'd given everything else. "Come with me. Please. I want to feel you. I need to feel you. Please—"

The pleasure built. Fast, overwhelming, and his cock hitting deep inside you with his fingers working your clit and his breath hot against your mouth. You came first— your body clenching around him, your back arching, a cry tearing from your throat— and he followed, his hips slamming forward, his cock buried deep, and he came inside you with a sound that was almost a sob, his whole body shaking, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

He held you afterward. His forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his cock softening inside you. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of your breathing as his hands moved up your body, slow, trembling, and cupped your face again, and he kissed you— soft, gentle, a ghost of the first kiss.

"I'm not leaving again," he said. The words were quiet. Barely there. "I'm not— I won't. I'm done."

You squeezed his hand, and this time, he held on.

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[lucyyx3x]

✦ Attack on Titan✦ .ᐟ Reiner Braun x F! Reader .ᐟ (oneshot)

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

summary: Your boyfriend, Reiner, is just so needy for you while you're trying to sleep...

a/n: This is basically all smut no plot lol..but needy Reiner is just…ugh…..anyway enjoy <3

wc: 3.5k

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The evening light filtered through the curtains in slanted gold, catching dust motes above the bed. You lay on your side, Reiner pressed along your back, his arm heavy across your waist. He was warm— always warm, the kind of heat that radiated from muscle and bone. His chest filled the entire length of your back, his thighs bracketing yours. The bed creaked when he shifted, the old springs protesting the weight of him.

His breath hit the nape of your neck in uneven bursts. You counted three quick exhales, then a pause, then two more. His fingers tightened on your hip, released, then tightened again. The cotton of your shirt bunched under his tight grip.

"You're fidgeting a lot," you tell him.

His chest expanded against your spine. "I know."

You didn't move. His stubble scraped against your shoulder when he turned his face into you, the coarse hair catching on fabric. His hips pressed forward, not subtle about it at all. The hard line of him through his sweatpants pushed against the curve of your ass, and he made a sound— low, caught in his throat and swallowed halfway. His fingers dug into your hip hard enough that you felt the pressure in the bone.

"Reiner."

"I know, I know." His voice came out rougher than usual. He pressed his face harder against your shoulder, and you felt the bridge of his nose flatten against you—that big, slightly crooked nose. "I just—"

He didn't finish. His hips moved again, a slow grind, and this time the sound he made was closer to a whimper. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him— and the sheer mass of him swallowed you. His forearm was as thick as your calf, and his hand could wrap entirely around your wrist with fingers to spare.

You turned in his arms. It took effort— as he didn't want to let you shift, his grip adjusting and reluctant. But you got onto your other side to face him, and the look on his face made you pause.

His amber eyes were dark, the gold burned down to something raw. His jaw was clenched, the muscles in his cheeks jumping. The stubble along his jawline and chin was denser than usual— he'd skipped shaving for two days, and it showed, the hair coarse and copper-blond in the fading light. His lips were parted, and his breathing came shallow and quick.

"Hey," you whisper, reaching up and pushing the short, almost golden hair off his forehead. The strands were coarse, warm against your fingers. "Look at me."

He did. His pupils were blown wide, the amber reduced to a thin ring. His hand came up and gripped your wrist— not hard enough to hurt, but firm. He pressed your palm flat against his chest— and underneath, his heart hammered against his ribs like something trying to escape.

"Please," he whimpered.

The word hung there. His hips twitched forward again, and you felt him— hard, thick, straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. His abs tightened under your palm, the defined ridges of muscle flexing as he moved. "Please what?" You kept your voice even and controlled. You watched the way his jaw clenched tighter at the tone.

"I need—" He swallowed. His throat worked, the tendons standing out. "Anything— please. Anything you want."

You traced your hand down his chest, slow, following the line between his pecs. His skin was hot, smooth over the dense muscle. You felt his heartbeat shift under your fingers as you moved lower, past the ridges of his abs, stopping just above the waistband of his sweatpants. His stomach sucked in under your touch, his breath catching audibly.

"You're being needy tonight, hmm?" You tease.

His face flushed. The colour started at his neck and climbed up through his jaw, darkening the skin above his stubble. "I can't help it."

"I didn't say stop." You pressed your palm flat against his lower stomach, and the muscle jumped. "I just said you're being needy."

He exhaled— shaky, broken. His free hand gripped the sheets beside his hip, knuckles white— the tendons in his forearm standing out like cables. "I'm always needy when it comes to you—"

"Hm, good boy."

The sound he made at the praise you gave him was involuntary. A choked groan, caught behind his teeth. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and when he opened them, they were glassy. His hips rolled forward, seeking friction against your thigh— and the hard length of him dragged against you through two layers of fabric.

You shifted, pushing him onto his back. He went easily— too easily, for someone his size. He could have resisted, could have held his ground, but he dropped flat against the mattress like his strings had been cut. His arms fell open at his sides, palms up. His chest rose and fell fast, the thick slabs of his pecs heaving. The evening light caught the definition of his body— the broad sweep of his shoulders, the cut of his obliques, the way his sweatpants tented obscenely.

You straddled his thighs, sitting just above his knees. The weight of him between your legs, the solid mass of his quads under you. You put both hands flat on his chest and felt the shudder run through him.

"Look at you," you murmured. Your thumbs traced the curve of his pecs, finding the flat discs of his nipples, and you pressed down, just slightly.

His back arched. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard. "Please—"

"Hands down."

He released you immediately. His arms dropped back to the mattress, fingers curling into the sheets. His jaw worked, the stubble rasping as he ground his teeth.

You leaned forward, your weight settling on his body. Your mouth found the hollow of his throat, and you felt his pulse slam against your lips. You kissed there once, then dragged your tongue lower. His chest was smooth except for the fine trail of hair below his navel, lighter than the stubble on his face. You followed that trail with your tongue, licking a slow line down the center of his body.

His abs clenched under your mouth. Each ridge of muscle tightened as you passed over it. His breathing turned to ragged gasps, and his hands twisted in the sheets so hard you heard the fabric strain.

"Good boy," you mutter against his stomach— the words vibrating against his skin. "Staying so still for me."

A whine escaped him— high and thin, nothing like the deep voice he usually carried. His hips bucked up, pressing his cock against your chest through the sweatpants. You felt the heat of him, the damp spot where he'd been leaking.

"Please," Reiner said again. "Please, I need you, I need—"

You lifted your head. His face was flushed dark, his amber eyes wet— his lips were parted, and he looked destroyed already, and you'd barely touched him.

"What do you need?" You sat up, hands resting on his chest. "Tell me."

His throat worked. "I want you to—" He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "Sit on my face. Please. I want you to use me. I want—please, I want to make you feel good, I need to taste you—"

"You want me to sit on your face?" The flush on his neck darkened at your words. He nodded, fast and desperate. His hands stayed fisted in the sheets, obedient, even as his whole body trembled with the effort of staying still. "Ask properly, then."

His voice cracked. "Please sit on my face. Please, I need it—"

You shifted forward on your knees, moving up his body. He watched you with those wide amber eyes, his breathing shallow and fast. You positioned yourself over his chest first, letting him feel your weight settle on his sternum. His hands came up instinctively— then stopped. He looked at you, waiting for your permission.

"Go ahead," you said. "Hold me."

His hands found your hips instantly. His grip was careful, controlled— fingers spanning wide across your skin. You could feel the strength in his hands, the way he was deliberately holding back, keeping his touch gentle despite the tension in his arms.

You moved forward, knees bracketing his head. His face was beneath you now—those eyes looking up at you, the crooked bridge of his nose, the stubble darkening his jaw. His mouth was open, his breath hot against your inner thighs.

"Closer," he whispered. "Please, closer."

You lowered yourself slowly. His nose pressed against you first— that big nose, the bump of cartilage creating friction exactly where you needed it. The bridge of his nose pressed between your folds, and you rocked forward, just slightly.

His eyes rolled back and his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you down against his face. His mouth opened against you, tongue reaching, and the wet heat of him combined with the pressure of his nose against your clit almost sent you over the edge.

You braced your hands on the headboard above him. The wood was cool under your palms, and you rolled your hips, slow as possible— and felt his nose slide against you, the bump pressing into your clit with each movement. His tongue worked against you, broad strokes, desperate and uncoordinated.

A sound escaped you— low and involuntary as your thighs tightened around his head, and you felt him groan against you, the vibration travelling through your core. His hips bucked up into empty air, his cock straining against his sweatpants, grinding against nothing.

"Good boy," you breathed, your voice came out rougher than you intended. "That's ah— so good, Reiner."

He made a muffled sound against you, his hands pulling you down harder. His tongue pressed deeper, and his nose pushed against you with each roll of your hips. The friction was building something in your lower stomach, tight and hot — so you moved faster, chasing it as the headboard creaked under your grip.

His breathing was ragged against you, desperate. You felt his jaw working, the stubble scraping against your inner thighs, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass —gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling you against his face like he needed it more than air.

"Fu—" You lost the word as your rhythm stuttered. "Right there, don't stop—" Your thighs shook as the tension in your stomach coiled tighter, tighter, and then broke. You came with a gasp, your hips grinding down against his face. The waves rolled through you, and you felt him groaning against you, his fingers digging into your ass, his body arching up off the bed. He was practically shaking. You felt the tremors running through his massive frame, every muscle locked tight as he worked you through it.

You stayed there for a long moment, slumped against the headboard as your breath came ragged. Below you, Reiner was panting, his face wet, his amber eyes fixed on you with something raw and hungry.

You lifted yourself off him. His hands stayed raised, reaching after you for a moment before dropping to the mattress. His chest heaved and his cock was straining against his sweatpants, a dark wet spot spreading across the fabric.

You crawled down his body, dragging yourself over his chest, his stomach. Your knees settled on either side of his hips, and you sat back, feeling the hard length of him press against you through the layer of fabric.

His hips jerked up. "Please—please, I need to be inside you, please—"

You reached down and pushed his sweatpants over his hips. He lifted to help you, and his cock sprang free— thick, flushed dark, and the head slick. It laid almost against his stomach, the length of it reaching past his navel. He was close already, you could tell —just from having his face fucked by you.

You wrapped your hand around him. He was hot, pulsing against your palm— you gave him one slow stroke, and his whole body seized. "Fuck—don't—don't tease, please, I can't—"

"You can." You shifted your hips, positioning him. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and you felt him throb. "And you will."

You sank down. Slow— agonisingly slow. You took him inch by inch, feeling the stretch, the fullness building as you lowered yourself. His hands flew to your hips before you took his wrists in your hands. "No," you tell him. His forearms were massive, the muscles flexed as you u pushed his arms up above his head, pressing his hands into the pillow. "Keep them here."

His fingers curled into the pillowcase. His arms stayed where you put them, even when you released him. His chest heaved, the muscles in his shoulders straining with the effort of staying still.

You took him deeper. The thickness of him stretched you, the pressure building as you sank down. You watched his face— his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out. His breath came in short, desperate bursts.

"Look at me."

His eyes opened, and his pupils were huge, the amber nearly gone. His lips were parted, and you could see the way his jaw trembled.

You started to move. Slow, rolling thrusts, taking him deep and then lifting until just the head remained inside. The friction was maddening— the drag of him against your walls, the way he filled you completely each time you sank down. You braced your hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound under your palms.

"Please," he whined. His hips twitched up, fighting for more friction. You pressed down harder, pinning him to the mattress with your weight. "Please, faster—please—"

"What do you need?"

"You. More. Please." Each word came out broken. His arms shook above his head, the muscles in his biceps standing out. "Please, I need to come, I need—"

"Not yet."

The sound he made was broken— a whine, high and desperate. His head pressed back into the pillow, his neck arching, the stubble along his jaw catching the light.

You kept your pace slow. Each thrust was deliberate, controlled, and you purposely squeezed around him, and his back arched off the bed— a groan tearing from his throat. His whole body shuddered. "I can't—I'm going to—please, please let me come, please—"

"Not yet." You rolled your hips, taking him to the hilt. His thighs were trembling beneath you, the massive muscles quivering. "You come when I say."

He sobbed. The sound was raw, torn from somewhere deep. His arms stayed above his head, fingers white-knuckled in the pillow. His hips jerked up, and you felt him throb inside you— close, so close.

"Please—" His voice was barely audible. "Please, can I come inside you? Please, I need to—I need to fill you, please—" The desperation in his voice. The way his whole body shook, the massive frame trembling— the wetness on his lashes.

You rolled your hips again and you felt him pulse inside you, felt the way his stomach tightened. "Come for me, Rei—."

His whole body seized before you had even finished your sentence. His back arched off the bed, his chest pressing against yours. His hands stayed above his head, fingers tearing at the pillow. He came with a broken sound— half groan, half sob— and you felt him spill inside you, hot and thick. His hips jerked up into you, grinding deep, and his cock throbbed with each pulse.

You rode him through it, slow and steady, feeling him fill you. His body shook with each wave, his breath coming in ragged gasps— and his eyes were open but unfocused, fixed on your face with something raw and helpless.

When he stilled, you lowered yourself against his chest. His arms finally came down, wrapping around you, pulling you close. His hands were shaking— and you felt his heart pounding against your cheek, fast and hard.

"Good boy," you murmured against his skin. "You did so well."

His arms tightened. His breath caught. He pressed his face into your hair, his crooked nose flattening against the top of your head. You felt his chest expand, slowly, as his breathing evened out. The evening light had shifted, the gold deepening to amber. You lay there, wrapped in his arms, feeling the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he held you like you were something precious.

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[lucyyx3x]

One Night Only : Encore ✦ Attack on Titan✦

.ᐟ Rockstar! Reiner Braun x Reader.ᐟ Modern AU .ᐟ

part I. part II.

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Rockstar! Reiner Braun x F! Reader (oneshot)

summary: You end up going on tour with The Scouts, as the Reiner Braun's...girlfriend...? Groupie...? You weren't sure.

a/n: I wasn’t going to write a part 2 but when I saw the love I got from the first post I just had TO. I wrote this when I was ovulating if u can't tell.....anyway enjoy <3

wc: 10K

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A week does not usually feel that long— except when it is the longest week of your life, despite containing nothing dramatic other than work shifts and laundry and fifteen separate phone calls with the Reiner Braun that lasted longer than either of you probably should have allowed. You've replayed the rooftop moment more times than you're going to admit to. You've replayed the room after— the card game and Connie's badly hidden laughs too. And you've replayed the question, the quiet one, the one that arrived between hands of cards like it was nothing: would you like to come on tour with me?

You'd said yes before you'd fully processed what you were saying yes to. And then a week later, you'd understand that what you had said yes to: which was a duffel bag packed at six in the morning, standing on the pavement outside Sasha's flat with Mikasa already there, both of them looking at you with expressions that range from barely contained to fully unhinged.

"Okay," Sasha says, looking between you and your bag and the street, where a coach-sized tour bus is apparently due to appear within the hour. "I just want to say, for the record, before this happens— we are technically…..groupies."

"We're not groupies," you sigh.

"We are getting on a tour bus with a band because some of them like us more than friends. That is the literal definition of groupie."

"It's slightly more complicated than that—"

"Is it, though?" Sasha tilts her head. "Walk me through the complications, then."

You don't have an answer so you don't offer one, and Sasha takes your silence as the confirmation it is and looks extremely pleased with herself. "I'm not denying it," you say eventually. "I'm just saying we don't have to say it out loud."

"I had to," Sasha says. "It needed to exist in the air before the bus got here. Now it's been acknowledged and we can move forward as the groupies we are with our heads held high."

Mikasa, beside her, says nothing, but the corner of her mouth is doing something that isn't quite a smile, and when you catch her eye she looks away toward the end of the street like she's checking for the bus, which she absolutely is not, because the bus is not due for another forty minutes and you all know it.

The three of you wait on the pavement with your bags. The morning is grey and ordinary in a way that feels wrong, somehow, for the size of the thing that's about to happen— you'd half expected something more cinematic, weather that understood the assignment, and instead you get an overcast Tuesday and a quiet street and the distant sound of cars two roads over.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Reiner: will be 15 min 

Then, twenty seconds later:

Reiner: I told them to hurry up

Then, ten seconds after that:

Reiner: are you nervous?

You look at the message. You are, in fact, very nervous, in the specific way that has nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with the fact that you are about to spend an unspecified number of weeks in close quarters with someone you've known for eight days who has somehow already rearranged your entire brain.

You: a little…

Reiner: don't be :)

Reiner: i'll be right there with you

You smile at your phone in a way that Sasha clocks immediately. "That's him messaging you, isn't it," she says. Not a question, as she already knew the answer. 

"Maybe."

"You've got the biggest smile on your face."

"I have not—"

"You have! I'm watching it happen in real time."

The bus arrives twelve minutes later— not fifteen, which you understand now means Reiner genuinely did tell them to hurry— and it is enormous in a way that photographs of tour buses don't communicate, a long dark vehicle with tinted windows and a low engine rumble that you feel slightly in your chest, not unlike a bass line.

The door hisses open, and Connie is the first one off, taking the steps two at a time with the energy of someone who has never once in his life walked down a set of stairs at a normal pace. "Hey! You made it!" He says it like there was a real chance you wouldn't, like the morning had been genuinely uncertain, and he grabs Sasha's bag out of her hands before she can object. "I'm taking this, you're not allowed to carry your own stuff— that's a tour bus rule."

"Is it actually a rule?" Sasha asked, already walking with him toward the bus.

"It's my rule…..I just made it."

Mikasa follows more slowly, with her bag still firmly in her own possession, and at the top of the steps she pauses— because Eren is standing just inside the door with his arms crossed and an expression that is doing its level best to look unbothered and is not quite succeeding.

And then there's Reiner.

He's at the bottom of the steps, not on them, like he's been standing there long enough that the others got out ahead of him, and when he sees you something happens to his whole face, like a held breath finally being let go. He's in a soft grey t-shirt and his hair is slightly mussed like he hasn't been near a mirror, and he looks, somehow— even better than you remembered, which you'd have said was not possible eight days ago.

"Hi," he says softly.

"Hi," you say.

He doesn't say anything else. He just takes your bag from your shoulder— gently, without making a thing of it— and then, with his free hand, reaches for yours, and you let him take it. "You still feeling nervous?" he asks quietly, as you climb the stairs.

"A little bit."

"Don't be." His thumb moves once against the side of your hand. "I've got you, okay?"

You believe him. This is, you think, possibly the single most concerning development of the entire week— not the kissing or the sex, not even the tour bus and the concept of going on tour with your favourite band— but the fact that when Reiner Braun says I've got you in that low quiet voice, you believe him completely, without reservation. 

The bus is, on the inside, somehow even bigger than it looks from outside.

There's a front lounge with two long couches facing each other across a low table, a kitchenette behind that, a wall of bunks further back, separated by a sliding, metal door— there was twelve of them, stacked in pairs and curtained— and then a back lounge that Connie informs you, with great seriousness, is ‘the good one’ which apparently means it has a slightly better television and is therefore the site of ongoing low-level territorial disputes.

"It's not actually better," Jean says from the front lounge, not looking up from his phone. "The screen's the same size."

"It's the principle," Connie says.

"What principle?"

"The principle of having the better one."

Jean shakes his head and goes back to his phone. He's in soft clothes with no guitar in sight, and looks considerably more relaxed than the version of him you watched on stage a week ago— the public-facing intensity dialled down to something closer to ordinary tiredness.

Armin is at the small kitchen table with a notebook and a set of headphones around his neck, and he looks up when you come in and gives you a genuinely warm smile. "Hey! Good to see you guys again." He says it like he means it, which he probably does, because Armin seems constitutionally incapable of insincerity. "We've got about six hours till the first stop. There's coffee if you want it— it's actually decent, Eren's very particular about it."

"I'm not particular," Eren sighs from somewhere near the back.

"You made Levi return a coffee machine."

"It was a bad machine."

Levi, who has materialised near the front of the bus with a tablet in hand and the expression of a man who is perpetually three steps ahead of everyone else's logistics, doesn't look up. "Ok, so the bunks," he booms out to the room generally. "Everyone's assigned, and I’m not moving anyone around. I'm not doing this again."

"Who am I next to?" Sasha asks immediately.

"Connie."

"Yes," Connie hisses, with such open delight that Sasha actually laughs. 

"Mikasa," Levi continues, checking the tablet, "you're across from Eren—” He shifts around to point to you. “And you're—"

"With me," Reiner says, before Levi can finish his sentence, and there's something in his voice that's different from the easy efficiency of everyone else's logistics.

Levi looks at his tablet, before he looks back at Reiner. There's a pause that you suspect is entirely theatrical, Levi extracting maximum value from a moment he's clearly enjoying. "That's not what I have written down—"

"Levi–” Reiner starts. 

"I have you in a bunk by yourself. Per the original plan."

"The original plan didn't—" Reiner stops, before starting again with his voice lower. "Can you just—"

"I'm messing with you," Levi says, even though his face stayed neutral and he was already walking away, done with the conversation. "Obviously you're together. Just don't be disgusting about it where I have to witness it."

"We weren't going to be," Reiner says to Levi's retreating back, with an edge of genuine annoyance that's the first thing you've seen from him all morning that isn't soft.

"You absolutely were," Levi calls back, without turning around, "I've met you."

Reiner looks at you. There's a faint colour at the back of his neck that you find disproportionately endearing, given everything. "Sorry," he says quietly, just to you. "I should have asked you first. We don't have to share, if you wanted to—"

"No," you say, maybe too quickly. “I want to.”

He looks at you for a second, like he's checking, like he needs to actually hear it land before he believes it. Then something in his shoulders drops, visibly, the tension going out of them. "Okay," he says. "Good. That's—" He stops himself before finishing the sentence, but you can guess what he was going to say, and the fact that he doesn't finish it is somehow more affecting than if he had.

The bunk is small, in the way all tour bus bunks are presumably small, but it's built for someone Reiner's size, which means it's actually a little more generous by the standards of the form— a proper mattress, a small reading light, a curtain that pulls across for privacy, a little shelf with exactly four things on it: a phone charger, a battered paperback you don't recognise the title of, a guitar pick that's clearly not his (you're pretty sure bass players don't use picks the same way), and, you notice with a feeling you're not going to examine too closely, a printed photo of the band from what looks like their very first show, all five of them younger and grinning in a room that's barely bigger than this bunk. It felt intimate, being in his space and personal belongings— like you didn't have an A3 poster of him at home above your bed…. 

"You all look so young," you observe, pointing to the photo.

"Levi took it. It was our first real gig. Before anyone knew who we were." He says it with a kind of fondness that's different from how he talks about the band normally— not pride exactly, something more tender than that. "I keep it because it reminds me what it actually felt like, before it was a job— playing because I loved people listening to my music."

"Does it still feel like that? When you're up there?"

He's quiet for a second, considering the question properly rather than reaching for an easy answer. "Sometimes," he says. "Not always. But there are moments." He looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. "Last week, when I was performing in front of you— that moment felt like it again. I felt like I was back at my first gig again."

You don't say anything. You don't need to. He lays down on the bunk, which means his head is nearly at the low ceiling, and pulls you down beside him, and you fit there in a way that shouldn't work given the size difference and somehow does, his arm settling around you like it's already memorised the shape of the gesture.

"I missed you," he says quietly into your hair. 

"It was only a week."

"I know how long it was." His voice is muffled slightly, his face turned toward you. "I counted the days."

You laughed softly at this. "Reiner—"

"It’s true." He pulls back enough to look at you properly, and his expression is doing the thing it's been doing since he first laid eyes on you— open, unguarded and slightly helpless about it, like he's still adjusting to a version of himself that says things like this out loud. "I called you twice a day—I'm aware that's a lot and I’m sorry."

"I liked it."

"I know you said you liked it, but I'm also aware it's a lot." He says this like a confession, like he's owning up to a character flaw, and there's something so genuinely earnest about it that you can't help laughing against his shoulder.

"I'm not complaining at all," you tell him. 

"I know. I'm complaining on your behalf, preemptively." He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, slow and careful. "In case future-you wants to."

"I can promise you, future-me is not going to complain about you calling too much."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually."

He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding whether to believe it, and then he kisses you— gentle and unhurried, the kind of kiss that has nowhere particular to be— his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face the way it had on the roof, like that's simply where his hand goes now when he kisses you, like the geography of it has already been settled.

Outside the bunks you hear Connie's voice rising in volume about something to do with the card game continuing from last week, and Sasha's delighted cackle in response, and underneath all of it the low hum of the bus engine and six hours of road ahead of you, and you think, with a clarity that surprises you: this is good. This is really, genuinely good.

By the third day, a pattern has established itself.

Mornings are usually slow— the bus rolling through whatever stretch of country lies between yesterday's city and tonight's, everyone surfacing from their bunks at different hours, Armin first because he barely seems to need sleep, Connie last because he sleeps like he's been specifically trained to, with total commitment. Sasha is somewhere in the middle, usually appearing exactly when coffee becomes available— as if she can smell it from inside the bunk.

You've fallen into the rhythm of it faster than you expected— the small kitchenette, the front lounge where everyone congregates by midday, the particular choreography of five band members and a manager and now three additional people sharing a confined space without it becoming claustrophobic. It helps that everyone is, in their own specific way, easy to be around. Connie is endlessly entertaining and entirely without edge. Armin is quietly brilliant and generous with his attention. Jean has a dry, cutting humour that takes a day or two to warm up to and then becomes one of your favourite things about the bus. Eren is intense and a little prickly but softens, very visibly, whenever Mikasa is in the room, which is a transformation neither of them is acknowledging out loud.  And of course, Reiner.

Reiner is, you've discovered, a genuinely different person depending on who he's talking to, and you've started cataloguing the differences with the same thoroughness you once applied to fan videos, except now you get to watch it live, close up, and in real time.

With Connie, he's patient in a way that occasionally tips into exasperation— he has a habit of touching Reiner's bass without asking, which is apparently the single fastest way to get a reaction out of him. "Connie." Reiner's voice practically growls from the back lounge, that has a specific flat quality you've learned means don't.

"I'm just looking—"

"Don't touch the strings."

"I'm not touching the—"

"You're touching the strings right now."

"Okay, okay." A pause. "Can I touch it if I ask first?"

"No."

"What if I ask nicely?"

"No, Connie."

This goes on, in various forms, multiple times a day, and it never seems to actually bother either of them— it's clearly a long-running bit, the kind of friction that's been worn smooth by years of repetition, and Reiner's irritation always resolves into something fond within about thirty seconds. With Jean, there's a different texture— more verbal sparring, more genuine disagreement, usually about music. With Eren, the dynamic is quieter — fewer words, more of a working shorthand, two people who've spent three years building something together and don't need to explain themselves to each other anymore. With Levi, Reiner is— careful. Deferential in a way he isn't with anyone else, which surprises you until Armin explains, quietly, one afternoon, that Levi essentially built the band's career out of nothing, that he'd believed in them back when believing in them required actual sacrifice, and that Reiner in particular has a long memory for who showed up for him before it mattered.

And with you—

With you, there is no version of irritation. You watch for it, partly out of curiosity and partly because you don't quite trust that it doesn't exist somewhere, and you don't find it. He's patient with you about things he isn't patient about with anyone else— touching his bass twice without any of the flat don't tone he uses on Connie, listening to you talk through something half-formed without rushing you toward the point. When you're tired he notices before you've said anything. When you're quiet he asks, gently, if you're okay, and waits for a real answer rather than accepting the first deflection.

"You're never annoyed at me," you tell him on day four, lying on the bunk with your head on his chest and his fingers moving slowly through your hair.

"Should I be?"

"I don't know. Everyone gets annoyed at everyone, eventually. It's a small bus."

He's quiet for a moment, considering this with the seriousness he gives most things. "I don't think I have it in me," he says finally. "Not with you. I've tried to imagine it and I can't."

"That's not realistic, though."

"Probably not." He doesn't sound concerned about this. "Ask me again in a month."

"I will."

"I won't be annoyed then either," he says, and you can hear, even without looking at his face, that he means it completely, and you decide not to argue with him about something that's clearly not up for negotiation.

He teaches you bass on the sixth day, in the back lounge, while Connie and Sasha have commandeered the front for what has become a daily and increasingly competitive gaming tournament.

"You don't have to learn it properly," he says, settling the bass into your hands with the careful attention of someone handling something important. "I just want to show you the bridge of Glass Jaw. Since you like it."

"You don't have to teach me your own song."

"I want to." He settles behind you, his hands coming around to position yours on the neck, his chest warm and hard against your back. "Here— your first finger goes there."

You try to play, but it sounds wrong, flat and clumsy— nothing like the searching low run you've listened to a hundred times.

"That sounds terrible," you huff.

"It's your first try."

You frown. "You make it sound so easy…"

"I've had three years of making it easy." He chuckles as his hand adjusts your fingers, patient and unhurried. "Try again. Slower."

You try again. Marginally better. You're concentrating hard enough that you don't notice he's stopped watching your hands until you feel it— the quality of his attention shifting, moving up from your fingers to somewhere else entirely. You're wearing a tank top, your shoulders bare, your cleavage and neck visible, and his gaze has apparently found them and decided to stay there.

"Reiner—"

"You're doing well," he says, which is not a response to anything you said.

"You're not watching my hands anymore!"

"I can hear your hands." His voice has dropped slightly. "Keep going."

You try the progression again. You almost have it this time, the turn in the second bar actually landing somewhere close to right, and you're about to say something about it when his mouth presses to your shoulder. Slow, deliberate— and just stays there.

Your fingers slip completely off the strings. "That's cheating," you huff.

He doesn't move. His lips are warm against your skin and his hands have stopped pretending to be about bass positioning. "I'm not doing anything," he whispers, against your shoulder.

"You're doing something."

"Mm." He presses another one, slightly higher, and you feel it travel up the side of your neck in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with music theory. The bass is becoming irrelevant at significant speed. You turn your head. He's right there, close, and the lesson is clearly over in any meaningful sense, and you're about to say something that will almost certainly make the lesson over when you both hear it—

Footsteps, the heavy tread of someone coming down the corridor from the front lounge.

You both go still, and Reiner straightens. You look at the bass as the footsteps get closer and Jean appears in the doorway, one hand on the frame, taking in the scene— you, the bass, Reiner approximately six inches further back than he was two seconds ago, both of you doing an impression of people who were doing nothing.

Jean looks at the both of you. "Right," he says, and turns around and goes back the way he came.

A beat of silence. "Okay," Reiner says. "Maybe we'll take a break for a bit?"

"You started this."

"And I'll finish it later," he says low against your ear, and you decide that bass lessons are going to become a regular occurrence on this bus regardless of how good you actually get at it. 

The first cigarette happens that same evening, a natural extension of the bass lesson in the way that most things with Reiner have become natural extensions of whatever came before. The bus is stopped for the night behind a venue somewhere, and he's sitting on the back steps with one lit, and you come out to sit beside him and he holds it out without asking— you take it, because you're warm from the lesson and the evening and him— and the nicotine on an almost-empty stomach does something immediate and pleasant to the back of your skull.

You hand it back and your fingers brush his.

It soon becomes a thing. Every night after that, without discussion, without it ever being formally established as a ritual— the show ends, the bus moves, and at some point the two of you end up outside, a wall or a kerb or a loading bay step, one cigarette and sometimes two, the night air cool at your shoulders and his warmth solid against your side. You're not sure, by the second week, whether you're smoking because you want the cigarette or because the cigarette is the reason to be outside alone with him in the dark…..and honestly the distinction has stopped mattering. The nicotine does its slow warm thing through your chest. His shoulder presses against yours, and your fingers brush together and then at some point you stop handing it back; and he takes it from your mouth directly, looking at you the whole time like you're the most interesting thing by some considerable distance, and then the cigarette gets crushed aside and his lips find yours and you end up against whatever wall happens to be available….which sometimes includes the tour bus.

You are, across the days and an assortment of loading bays, becoming genuinely unable to keep your hands off each other, which Sasha has noted and threatened to bring up at an inappropriate moment. You're saving that problem for later, and later can wait.

The shows, when they come, are different from the front-row version of watching him. You watch from the wings now, or from the sound desk, but you're always close enough to see things the front row never sees— the way Reiner checks his tuning obsessively before every set, the small ritual you noticed he has of touching the strings once, lightly, before the lights come up, the way he and Eren exchange one look before the first song that seems to communicate something neither of them would explain if you asked.

And he looks for you now. Every show since you've been there. Not the searching four-second glance from last week’s concert— but something steadier, something that finds you almost immediately and returns to you throughout the set like he's checking, like you being there is something he needs constant confirmation of.

During the beginning of Glass Jaw, every night, without fail, he looks for you, and you've started positioning yourself so he can find you easily, just off to the side where the stage lights catch you faintly, and every night when he finds you there's a specific shift in his playing— nothing anyone else would notice, you don't think, but you've watched him enough now to know the difference between Reiner playing an intro he's played two hundred times and Reiner playing while looking at someone he's still slightly in disbelief is actually there.

Sasha notices it too, standing beside you at a show in the second week.

"He's not subtle about it," she shouts into your ear over the loud music.

"I know."

"Like, genuinely. The whole crowd could probably tell, if they were paying close attention. I’ve already seen fans already posting online about this mystery girl seen with Reiner—"

"I don't think he cares if they can tell or if they find out," you say hopefully. 

"No," Sasha agrees, watching him find you again during the second chorus. "I don't think he does."

The low throb of a bass guitar cut through the silence of the tour bus like a slow breath exhaled in the dark. You'd been lying in your bunk when the sound first reached you— not a full song, not yet, just fragments. A chord progression that climbed and fell, then climbed again, as if searching for something it hadn't found yet. Then his voice, low and rough at the edges, humming a melody that had no words. Or maybe it had words, but he was singing them so quietly they dissolved before they could reach you.

You turned your head on the pillow. The curtain of your bunk was half-drawn, and through the gap you could see the narrow corridor that ran the length of the bus, just being seperated by the door that slid was open. At the far end, the lounge area glowed faintly— a single overhead light dimmed to its lowest setting, casting everything in amber. You could see the back of Reiner's head, the broad set of his shoulders hunched forward over the bass balanced on his thigh. He sat on the worn leather couch, one foot propped on the edge of the low table, his knee bouncing slightly as he played.

You listened. The melody shifted, found its footing, and the humming became something more— a phrase, repeated, then refined. He paused, and you heard the scratch of a pen on paper, the rustle of a notebook page being turned. Then the bass again, the chords rearranged into something that made your chest tighten.

You swung your legs out of the bunk quietly, bare feet meeting the cold flooring. The bus was still, except for the soft wheeze of sleep coming from behind the other curtained bunks— Sasha in the one across from yours, Mikasa two down, and the rest of the band scattered in the other bunks. You moved down the corridor in bare feet, your oversized t-shirt— stolen from Reiner's suitcase earlier that day— hanging to mid-thigh. You didn't knock or announce yourself, instead you just rounded the corner of the lounge and stood there, leaning your shoulder against the wall, your arms folded loosely across your chest.

He didn't notice you right away. His head was bent over the notebook balanced on the cushion, and his lips moved silently as he read back what he'd written. Then his fingers found the strings again, and he played the progression from the top— a sequence that opened with something bright and searching before settling into a warm, resolved chord that hung in the air like a held breath.

Before he finished it, Reiner looked up. His eyes— heavy-lidded from the lateness of the hour— found you in the doorway, and the shift in his face was immediate and unguarded. The furrow between his brows smoothed, and the set of his jaw softened. His mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile but was warmer than one, a kind of unconscious loosening, as if just seeing you let him put something down he'd been carrying.

"Hey," he said, his voice kept low, aware of the thin walls and the sleeping people behind them. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No." You pushed off the wall and moved toward him, shutting the latch metal door that separates the lounge from the bunks. "I was already up."

He watched you cross the small space— three steps, maybe four—and when you reached the couch, he set the bass aside, leaning it carefully against the armrest before opening his arms. You settled onto his lap sideways, your legs draped over his thigh, your back against the armrest, and his hand came to rest on your bare knee, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the skin there.

"You writing a new song?" you ask. 

"I'm trying to." He glanced at the open notebook on the cushion beside him, and you caught the scratch of crossed-out lines, words written and abandoned and rewritten. "It's not quite there yet." You leaned forward and picked up the notebook. He let you take it, his hand dropping to your hip, steadying you. You read the lyrics scrawled in his handwriting—blocky, uneven letters that leaned too far to the right:

You said one night only, like it was a warning

But one night only keeps becoming one night more

You closed the notebook. Your throat had gone tight. You set it on the table and turned back to him, and his eyes were on your face, reading you the way he read a room before a show— carefully and thoroughly.

"Is that—" You stopped. "About me?"

"Course it's about you." His thumb resumed its circle on your hip, pressing through the cotton of his stolen t-shirt. "Who else would I be writing about at two in the morning?"

You didn't answer. Instead, you leaned in and kissed him— softly, carefully, your lips pressing against his with the kind of deliberate gentleness that comes from wanting to be quiet. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly like cigarettes, and his hand on your hip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric— pulling you closer by increments. When you pulled back, his eyes were still closed. They opened slowly, and the look in them was the one you'd come to recognise over the past three weeks on tour—that almost startled expression, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real and here and sitting on his lap.

"You're beautiful," he said. The words came out low and plain, no performance in them, none of that rockstar charm you expected from him. Just a statement of fact, the way someone might note the weather. "You know that? I look at you sometimes and I just—" He stopped, shaking his head as he laughed, barely audible. "I forget what I was going to say."

You smiled. Your fingers found the collar of his worn t-shirt and you straightened it, a small, unnecessary gesture. "Thank you for writing that."

"Thank you for being here." His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton. "I mean it. This tour— has been the best one yet for me. I play better when you're in the room, I write better when you're here, I sleep better when you're in the bunk with me. I didn't know that was a thing I needed, and then you showed up, and now I can't remember what it was like before."

Your hand stilled on his collar. You looked at him— the strong line of his jaw, the shadow along his throat where he hadn't shaved, the way the dim amber light caught his eye. His face was open in a way that his face never was onstage or in interviews— this was the face he only showed you, and seeing it made something inside you shift and settle, like a key finding its lock.

You kissed him again. Deeper this time, your hand sliding from his collar to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. He responded in kind, his mouth opening against yours, his tongue finding yours in a slow, unhurried rhythm that matched the circles his thumb was drawing on your lower back. His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, his fingers curling around the back of your neck, and he held you there, kissing you with the same focus he brought to the bass— present and attentive.

You shifted on his lap, turning to face him, your knees straddling his thighs. The t-shirt rode up, and you felt the worn denim of his jeans against your bare skin. He groaned softly against your mouth— a sound barely louder than a breath— and his hands slid down to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips.

"We can't," he murmured against your lips. "Everyone's—"

"I know." You pressed your forehead to his. Your breath came faster now, and you could feel the heat building between your bodies, the way his thighs tensed beneath yours. "We'll be quiet."

He pulled back enough to look at you. His eyes were darker now, the amber light catching the dilation of his pupils. His tongue touched his lower lip— a habit you'd noticed—and his hands tightened on your waist. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He exhaled. His hands slid lower, fingers curling under the hem of the t-shirt, and he pushed the fabric up slowly, his palms dragging against your skin, until the shirt bunched at your waist. He looked down at you—the plain cotton underwear, the soft plane of your stomach, the way your breath was making your ribs expand and contract— and his jaw tightened.

"Beautiful," he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

You leaned forward, letting your lust take over you as your lips find the shell of his ear, and whisper, "I want you to taste me."

Reiner's fingers dug into your hips. A sharp inhale, but he kept it controlled. Then he shifted, lifting you off his lap with an ease that made your stomach flip, and set you on the couch. He stood, and for a moment he just looked at you—flushed, breathing hard and sitting on the worn leather in his oversized t-shirt with your knees pressed together— before he knelt on the floor in front of you.

His hands found your knees. He parted them gently, firmly, and settled between your legs, his palms warm on your inner thighs. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips— rough patches on the pads of his fingers and the side of his thumb —and the texture of them against your skin made you shiver.

He leaned in. His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh, just above your knee, and you felt the warmth of his breath, the slight drag of his stubble. He kissed a slow path upward—another kiss, and another, each one a little higher, each one lingering a beat longer than the last. When he reached the crease where your thigh met your hip, he paused, his nose brushing the cotton of your underwear, and you heard him inhale.

Your hand flew to your mouth. You bit down on the side of your index finger, your teeth pressing into the skin. He glanced up at you, and the corner of his mouth twitched— that fucking almost-smile— and then he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down, slow, the fabric sliding over your thighs and off. He tucked them into his back pocket without looking, his eyes never leaving you. "Lean back," he said, barely audible.

You did. The leather was cool against your back, and you let your head fall against the cushion, your hands gripping the armrest above you. Reiner's palms pressed your thighs wider, and he leaned in, and the first touch of his mouth was—soft. Unbearably soft. Just his lips, pressing against you, a kiss that was almost chaste except for the heat of it, the wetness, the way his breath came warm and steady against you.

The first touch of his mouth was— soft. Unbearably soft. Just his lips, pressing against you, a kiss that was almost chaste except for the heat of it, the wetness, the way his breath came warm and steady against your cunt. Your stomach tightened— and he lingered there, mouth closed, letting you feel only the pressure of his lips and the slow exhale of his breath, and the gentleness of it was worse than anything rough—he knew that, you realised. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Then his tongue. A single, slow stroke, upward, parting you, and your teeth sank harder into the knuckle of your index finger— the taste of copper bloomed faintly against your molars where you'd bitten the inside of your cheek earlier. He tasted you with the same focus he brought to everything— so attentive, reading your body. His tongue mapped the terrain of you in slow, deliberate passes, learning which angles made your breath hitch and which made your thighs twitch against his palms. When he found the place that made your breath stutter—a specific, devastating spot just to the left of center— and he stayed there. Then backing off to trace a wider path before returning, always returning, like a phrase he kept revisiting until he found the exact right variation.

You bit your lip. The sound that wanted to escape was trapped behind your teeth, and it came out as a thin, strangled breath, barely audible above the hum of the bus. Reiner's hands tightened on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, and you felt him shift closer, his shoulders pressing firmer against the backs of your legs, spreading you wider. Then his mouth sealed over you and he sucked— gently at first, a careful pull, then harder, his tongue working in tight, relentless circles against that spot he'd claimed. The wet sound of it was obscene in the small space, slick and rhythmic, and you clenched your jaw so hard your molars ached.

Your hand flew from the armrest to his hair. Your fingers tangled in the short strands, the bristle of it rough against your palms, and you held on, your hips tilting toward his mouth without meaning to. He made a sound against you— a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through the swollen flesh of your cunt and radiated up through your pelvis— and his grip on your thighs shifted. One hand slid beneath you, palm cupping your ass, fingers digging into the curve of flesh as he tilted you up toward his mouth. The angle changed. His tongue pressed deeper, the flat of it dragging over you in a long, slow stroke before narrowing to a point, flicking rapidly against your clit in a way that made your vision blur at the edges.

His hand beneath you squeezed, pulling you closer, fingers dimpling the flesh of your ass hard enough to leave marks, and his mouth returned to that place, his tongue working in a rhythm that built and built, steady as a bassline. Then his hand shifted. The one that had been gripping your thigh released, and his fingers slid through the wetness he'd spread and pressed into you.

Two fingers slid in with an ease that made your face burn, and he curled them immediately, finding the spot inside you with the same unerring accuracy he'd found everything else. The calluses on his fingertips— built up from years of pressing strings against metal— dragged against that spot as he stroked, and the texture of it was unlike anything you'd felt before, rough and precise and devastating. He worked his fingers in time with his tongue, a syncopated rhythm that built complexity with every measure, his tongue circling your clit as his fingers curled and pressed and pulled. Your legs shook against his shoulders. Your hand in his hair yanked harder, pulling him closer, and the sound he made in response— a low, rumbling groan that vibrated through your cunt and into the base of your skull— made your eyes roll back.

You were going to scream. You could feel it building in your chest, pressure behind your ribs, and you bit down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, copper sharp on your tongue.  Your thighs began to tremble. The pressure was coiling low in your belly, tightening with every stroke, and you could feel yourself unraveling—your breath coming in short, silent gasps, your toes curling against the leather, your hand in his hair gripping hard enough to hurt. He didn't stop. He didn't slow down. If anything, he pressed closer, his mouth working you with a dedication that made your vision blur at the edges.

"Reiner—" The word came out as a whisper, barely a breath. "I'm—"

He hummed again. That vibration. And it tipped you over.

Your orgasm hit like a chord struck hard and let to ring— your whole body went taut, your thighs clamping around his head, your hand pressing flat against your own mouth to trap the sound that wanted to tear free. Your hips bucked against his face, and he held you steady, his mouth never leaving you, his tongue working you through every pulse until the trembling slowed and your body went loose. He pulled back slowly. His lips were swollen, glistening, and his eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand— a gesture that was somehow both practical and unbearably intimate—and looked up at you.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice rough.

You nodded. You couldn't speak yet. Your breath was still coming in shallow pulls, and your hand was shaking when you reached for him. He understood. He stood, and you pulled him down to the couch, pushing him back against the cushions. He went willingly, his back against the armrest, his legs stretched out on the leather. You crawled over him, your knees on either side of his hips, and kissed him. You tasted yourself on his mouth, along with the faint hint of cigarettes— and the intimacy of it made something twist in your chest.

Your hands found the hem of his t-shirt. You pulled it up, and he lifted his arms, letting you strip it off him. In the dim light, his chest was broad and toned. nd you couldn't help but lean to kiss his chest, and his hand came to the back of your head, holding you there.

Your fingers found his belt. The buckle clinked, and you both froze, looking toward the corridor— but silence followed, the steady wheeze of sleep from the bunks. You exhaled and continued, working the buckle open, the button, then the zipper. He lifted his hips, and you pulled his jeans and boxers down just far enough— his cock, hard and flushed, springing free. He was thick, the head dark and slick, and the sight of him made your mouth water.

You shifted off his lap, turning around so your back was to him, and settled over him again, your knees straddling his thighs. You reached between your legs and positioned him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you felt him twitch in your hand, a pulse of heat against you.

"Slow," he murmured, his hands finding your hips, steadying you. "I–won’t last long."

You sank down. The first inch made you gasp— your teeth catching your lower lip, your hands gripping his knees. He was thick, and the stretch was a slow, full ache that radiated outward, but you took another inch, and another, your body opening around him, and behind you, you heard his breath—sharp, but controlled, his fingers digging into your hips. "Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—Christ."

You bottomed out. Your weight settled against him, and you sat there for a moment, adjusting, feeling him deep inside you— the fullness of it, the pressure, the way your body throbbed around him in the aftershocks of your first orgasm. His hand came around your front, pressing flat against your lower belly as his thumb found your clit, resting there, not moving.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

You nodded breathlessly. You lifted your hips, slow, and the drag of him inside you— thick and hot and friction-perfect— made your breath stutter. You sank back down, and the impact sent a jolt through you, your walls clenching around him— he groaned, low and quiet, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade.

You set a rhythm. Slow, deliberate, each thrust a controlled rise and fall that let you feel every inch of him. The wet sounds of your body against his were quite loud in the quiet of the bus— the soft, slick noise of penetration, the creak of the leather couch, the harsh, controlled rhythm of your breathing; but you didn't care about being quiet anymore. You bit your lip, your eyes squeezed shut, and you moved faster, chasing the sensation that was building again, tighter this time, sharper.

His thumb began to move. Slow circles on your clit, timed to your rhythm, and the double sensation— his cock inside you, his thumb outside— made your thighs shake. You dropped your head, your hair falling forward, and you braced your hands on his knees, riding him harder.

"Reiner—" You couldn't help it. The name slipped out, barely a whisper, and his hips snapped up to meet yours, driving deeper. The sound that escaped you was a whimper, bitten off, swallowed.

"Shh." His hand left your hip and came up to cover your mouth. His palm pressed against your lips, and the gesture— rough and tender at once— made something crack open inside you. You moaned against his hand, muffled, and he groaned in response, his hips bucking up into you. The angle shifted as he adjusted his stance, planting his feet more firmly on the floor. He was hitting something now— a place deep inside that made your vision white out at the edges, a blinding point of pleasure that obliterated everything else. You moved faster, desperate, chasing it, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his thighs through his jeans. The pressure on your clit was unbearable, his thumb working you relentlessly as he thrust up into you. Your breath came in short, sharp bursts through your nose, your body trembling on the edge, so close, the tension winding tighter and tighter with every stroke.

The sound of the door sliding open was distinct, a sharp mechanical snap that cut through the wet, heavy sounds of sex like a knife.

Your eyes flew open, panic flooding your system, freezing your blood even as your body continued to move on autopilot. The dim amber light of the lounge spilled into the corridor, silhouetting the figure standing there. It was Jean. He was shirtless, his pale skin catching the warm light, the defined lines of his chest and stomach on full display. He wore only a pair of loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the drawstring loose, the fabric thin enough to show the shadow of his hip bones. He held a water bottle, his hand frozen in mid-air, his eyes wide as they adjusted to the scene on the couch.

"Shit," Jean breathed, the word loud in the sudden stillness. "Sorry— fuck, my bad guys."

He didn't leave though. His eyes were locked on the point where your bodies joined, taking in the flush of your skin, the sheen of sweat, the way Reiner's large hand was clamped over your mouth. You tried to stop moving, to scramble off Reiner's lap and cover yourself, but Reiner's grip on your waist was iron. His fingers dug into your flesh, holding you in place, keeping you impaled on him. He didn't stop when Jean stood there, if anything— the interruption seemed to pour gasoline on the fire of his arousal. He thrust up into you, harder than before, a deliberate, deep stroke that forced a muffled cry from your throat against his palm. The wet sound of his cock sliding into your pussy was unmistakable, and Jean's eyes tracked the movement with a fixation that made your stomach flip.

Reiner turned his head, looking at his bandmate over your shoulder. A slow, arrogant smirk spread across his face, his eyes challenging. He didn't miss a beat, his hips continuing to roll, grinding his cock into you while Jean stood there, exposed and awkward. The muscles in Reiner's arms flexed as he held you steady, the tendons in his neck taut, his whole body radiating a cocky, territorial energy.

"Like what you see, Jean?" Reiner's voice was a rough rasp, laced with cocky amusement. He punctuated the question with a sharp thrust that made your whole body jolt, your breasts bouncing with the force of it. You stared at Jean, your face burning with a mix of humiliation and a dark, twisted arousal. Jean gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. His gaze flicked up to Reiner's face, then back down to your trembling body, lingering on the way your thighs were spread wide across Reiner's lap, the way your pussy was stretched around his cock. The grey sweatpants were doing a poor job of concealing his reaction; you could see the outline of his dick thickening, lengthening as he watched you being fucked. The fabric tented obscenely, the head of his cock pressing against the thin grey cotton. He was getting hard right there in the doorway, and he wasn't hiding it well.

"Reiner," you tried to say his name, to tell him to stop, to push him away, but it came out as a muffled, garbled sound against his hand. The shock of his boldness, the sheer audacity of continuing while being watched, short-circuited your shame. The pleasure was too intense, the friction too perfect— and your body betrayed you, clenching around him, your hips instinctively grinding down to take him deeper. The thought of Jean watching, of the Jean Kirstein getting hard because of you, because of this, sent a bolt of heat straight to your core, and you hated how good it felt.

Jean seemed to realise he was staring at something private, something that was spiraling out of his control now. He shifted his weight, the fabric of his sweatpants rustling, and turned around quickly, facing the corridor wall. "I'm... I'm just gonna go," he muttered, his voice tight and strained. But even with his back turned, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. The tent in his sweatpants was still visible from the side, the hard length of his cock straining against the grey fabric. He didn't move immediately, his feet rooted to the spot, as if his body was at war with his mind.

But the image was burned into your mind— the way his eyes had widened, the way he had hardened, and the thrill of being caught. Reiner felt your reaction, the way your pussy fluttered and squeezed around him at the sight of Jean. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your back, his chest pressing flush against you. "Fuck," Reiner growled, his rhythm turning frantic. He abandoned the slow, teasing circles on your clit and pressed down hard, rubbing the sensitive nub in time with his jagged thrusts. "You like that, huh? You like him watching?" His voice was a dark, breathless thing in your ear. 

You shook your head, denying it, but your body screamed yes. The tension that had been building snapped, rushing through you like a dam breaking— and your vision blurred, white spots dancing across your eyes as the orgasm tore through you. You cried out against his hand, a long, muffled wail, your thighs shaking violently, your inner walls rippling and contracting around his pistoning cock. The pleasure crashed over you in waves, each thrust prolonging it, his thumb grinding your clit through the aftershocks until you were sobbing against his palm, overstimulated and wrecked.

Reiner didn't stop. He rode out your climax, chasing his own. "I'm gonna come," he gritted out, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "Gonna fill you up." His thrusts grew erratic, losing their rhythm, his hips snapping up with a desperate, animal urgency. You felt his cock thicken inside you, the pulse of it against your swollen walls.

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His hips jerked erratically, and you felt the hot, thick spurts of his release painting your insides. He held you there, impaled on him, his hand still tight over your mouth as he emptied himself, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. His body shuddered, his grip on your waist bruising, and he let out a low, satisfied groan that vibrated through your whole body.

The bus was silent, save for the heavy sound of your breathing and the distant thud of Jean's retreating footsteps fading down the hall. Reiner slowly removed his hand from your mouth, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. You slumped against him, boneless and spent, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The reality of what just happened— the boldness, the audience, the sheer intensity of it— settled over you, leaving you breathless and shocked, your skin tingling in the aftermath. Reiner pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his smirk still in place. "Should've seen his face," he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. 

The next city is Stohess, and it rains the entire day. You spend most of it in the back lounge with Reiner, who has reclaimed a notebook and is filling pages with the particular focus you've come to recognise— head bent, one hand moving steadily, occasionally pausing to play something quiet on the backup bass and then immediately crossing it out, dissatisfied. 

Sound check that evening runs long, the venue's monitor system fighting Armin's keyboard rig for reasons nobody can immediately diagnose, and you end up sitting on a flight case near the side of the stage watching the five of them work through it— Levi pacing with his arms crossed, occasionally saying something short and clipped that makes everyone move faster, Armin patiently re-patching cables, Jean increasingly impatient, Connie testing the kit every ninety seconds whether anyone asks him to or not.

Reiner finds you between attempts, crossing the stage with his bass still on, and crouches down in front of where you're sitting so you're eye level.

"This is taking forever," he says. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologise for sound check."

"I know. I still feel like I should." He looks at you for a moment, and something in his expression shifts softer. "You look tired."

"I'm fine," you assure him.

"You don't have to stay for the whole thing— you could go back to the bus."

"I want to watch."

He studies you for a second longer, like he's deciding whether to believe you, and then nods, apparently satisfied, and reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that has nothing to do with the chaos happening twenty feet away. "Okay," he says quietly. "I'll be quick."

A voice suddenly cuts in from behind him. "So, uh..." Jean says, strolling over. "Are you gonna let me join in next time, or what?" You nearly choke, and Reiner closes his eyes in annoyance. For one brief second, Jean looks far too pleased with himself. "What?" he says innocently. "I'm just asking. Last night I had a much better view than I was expecting."

"Jean—"

"I'm saying I saw enough that I think I deserve some sort of reward,” Jean grins. Reiner slowly stands, staring at him with the exhausted patience of a man who has tolerated far too much for far too long.

"You are never touching her. She’s mine, I hope you know that." 

Jean puts a hand dramatically against his chest. "Wow. Harsh." 

"Not harsh enough,” Reiner practically growls. You, meanwhile, have completely forgotten how to form a coherent thought. There was something about the way Reiner said it, the way he had called you his— sent an unexpected warmth flooding through your chest. Hearing Reiner say it so matter-of-factly, as though it was the most obvious fact in the world that nobody else would ever get that close to you, made your heart do something embarrassingly dramatic. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying— and failing— not to smile.

Still laughing to himself, Jean lifts both hands in surrender and begins backing away. Then Reiner reaches out and squeezes your knee once before heading back toward the centre of the stage.

The show that night is good— they're all good, you've come to understand, in the way that professionals who care are simply, reliably good— but there's a moment you won’t forget. Reiner takes the opening verse on bass alone on one of their songs, stepping forward to the edge of the stage in a way he doesn't usually do, finding you immediately in the wings where you're standing with Sasha and Mikasa.

He doesn't look away for the entire verse.

It's not subtle. Sasha was right about that— there's nothing careful or hidden about the way he looks at you now, in front of a few thousand people, in front of the rest of the band, in front of Levi who is undoubtedly clocking it from somewhere near the soundboard with his arms crossed and an expression you can't see from here but can absolutely imagine. Reiner plays the verse looking directly at you— and when the chorus comes in and the rest of the band joins, he finally looks away, but not before something passes between you that feels less like a performance and more like a promise.

"He's going to get a reputation," Sasha murmurs, beside you, "for being completely obsessed with his new girlfriend."

You don't correct the word. You're not sure, this far in, that you'd want to. Mikasa, on your other side, says nothing, but you notice she's not looking at the stage anymore either— she's looking at Eren, who has apparently chosen this exact moment to glance toward the wings as well, toward her specifically, with an expression that's trying very hard to look like it's about the song and is not succeeding even slightly.

"This entire band," Sasha says, observing both of these things happening simultaneously, "has a serious problem with subtlety."

The lights go dark after the last song and the crowd becomes something animal— twenty thousand people chanting, stamping, the sound of it rolling through the venue in waves that you feel in your sternum from the wings. Someone near the front has started a rhythmic clap that the rest of the floor picks up within seconds, and the noise builds and builds until it's less a crowd and more a single living thing demanding something back.

Reiner comes off stage first, slightly damp from the set, and walks straight to you— not to Levi, not to the water station, to you— and kisses your temple once, brief but certain, before turning back to the stage. You watch him pull the band together in the wings, one hand on Eren's shoulder, saying something low that makes Jean nod and Connie immediately light up and reach for his sticks. Armin is already turning back toward the keys. The whole thing takes about thirty seconds.

The band walks back out, and the crowd absolutely loses its mind.

Reiner walks to the mic and waits, patiently, for the noise to settle— and it does, because he has the kind of stillness that makes rooms go quiet, always has, and twenty thousand people are apparently not immune to it. He looks out at the crowd for a moment. Then he says it:

"This one's new. We haven't played it before."

Sasha grabs your arm with both hands. "It's dedicated to someone who came into my life very recently. And….very unexpectedly. She told me it would be one night only." The crowd makes a noise as you felt your heart stop.

"But she was wrong," he says, and looks back at the wings, at you, and begins to play. “This song’s called One Night Only!” 

Sasha, beside you, grabs your arm with both hands while screaming. You don't look at her. You look at him, at the stage, at Reiner playing One Night Only for the first time in front of twenty thousand people, still looking toward the wings every few bars like he needs to confirm you're still there, and you think about a rooftop three weeks ago and some words said between two people who both knew what it meant.

It seems like one night only, became one night more.

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[lucyyx3x]

݁ ⟡ ݁ . I'm in the process of writing a part two for rockstar reiner and I wanna know is there anything anyone would like to see in it or certain scenes etc, (I'm here for the fan service fr). I even thought maybe.....another band member gets involved.....👀....what we thinkin >:)

[lucyyx3x]

Night Shift ✦ Attack on Titan ✦

Football Captain! Reiner Braun x Reader .ᐟ College AU .ᐟ         

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                 [ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Football Captain! Reiner Braun x Radio Host! F. Reader (oneshot) 

summary: Ever since freshman year of college, football captain Reiner Braun has tried to steal your pencil at every chance he gets. But when your identity as the anonymous college radio's host of Night Shift is accidentally revealed, he discovers the voice he's been listening to has been yours all along.

a/n: Everyone say a huge fucking thank you to my moot @wgwingguns for suggesting this amazing storyline, you have been SPOILT WITH THIS ONE thats all I'm gonna say. And I hope I brought your vision to life @wgwingguns <3 Enjoy everyone and let me know what ya think :) <3

wc: 9.5K

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You had exactly one rule when it came to Reiner Braun: never let him see you flustered.

It was a rule you broke at least twice a week, usually in the same fifteen-square-foot radius— the back corner of Professor Hange's 11 a.m. lecture hall, where the seats were bolted in crooked rows and the radiator clanked loudly against the wall. You'd been sitting in that corner since the first week of freshman year, back when Reiner Braun was just a tall, quiet blond kid in a practice jersey who'd stolen a pencil and never given it back. Three years later, he still hadn't given it back. He'd just expanded his operation and used it as an excuse to talk to you by trying to steal more.

He'd changed a lot since that first week, and none of it made things easier for you. The softer roundness he'd shown up with freshman year had given way, over three years of playing football and off-season lifting, to something broader and more solid— shoulders that filled out a doorway, forearms that did unfair things to the sleeves of his practice shirts….a jaw that had sharpened into something he'd started shading with a day or two of stubble whenever the season got busy enough that shaving fell down on his priority list. He kept his hair cropped short and blonde and a little messy, like he ran a hand through it more than he meant to, which he did. You'd had three years to get used to the way he looked, and somehow you had not gotten used to it— instead, it made any feelings you already had for Reiner Braun intensify even more than you thought possible.

"You're doing that thing again," Mikasa said without looking up from her notes.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're doing the thing where you put your hand over your pencil like it's going to get up and walk away on its own. But we all know why you're doing it."

You did, in fact, have your hand flat over your pencil, pinning it to the desk like evidence at a crime scene. Across the aisle and one row back, Reiner was leaning sideways in his seat with his chin propped on his fist— watching you with this small, dumb, happy look on his face that he clearly thought was subtle and was not even a little subtle. He had his own pencil, you noticed, that sat behind his ear, untouched, a prop in a play only he knew the script to.

"He's not even being subtle," Annie mumbled from beside you, flipping a page. "He's staring at you like you're gonna be on the final."

"I'm aware," you huff lightly. 

"All this over a pencil?"

"It's not about the pencil, Annie."

"What's it about, then?"

It was about the fact that Reiner Braun had figured out, sometime around freshman year, that stealing your pencil during lectures was the single most effective way to make you actually talk to him, and he had weaponized that knowledge with the devotion of a man pursuing a doctorate in it. It was about the warmth that climbed up the back of your neck every time his fingers brushed yours doing it, like he was testing how long he could touch your hand before you'd notice he wasn't actually trying that hard to take the pencil at all. It was about the fact that Reiner Braun— captain of the football team, six-foot-something of quiet muscle that half the underclassmen were low-key terrified of, turned into a nervous, grinning disaster the second he was within arm's reach of you— and had for three straight years, and somehow you were still pretending you hadn't noticed.

"It's the principle of it," you said carefully to Annie instead.

Mikasa made a small sound that might have been a laugh. Up front, Professor Hange was drawing something on the whiteboard that looked aggressively like a cell membrane having an exorcism— and the lecture rolled on, and you kept writing your notes with your hand curled protectively around your pencil, like a dragon guarding the world's least impressive treasure.

It lasted only about four minutes. Then Reiner's hand slid across the gap between your desks, broad and warm, with a casualness that bordered on insulting, like he wasn't about to commit grand larceny in broad daylight. His fingers grazed the back of your hand, and you yanked the pencil back on instinct, and he had the audacity to look wounded about it.

"You're getting fast," he murmured, voice pitched low just for you.

"You're getting predictable."

"Predictable's a strong word….I prefer consistent."

"You prefer annoying, more like."

"That's also accurate." He was grinning now, that low rumble of amusement doing something unfair to your stomach every single time. "C'mon. I'll give it back this time, promise."

"You will never give it back."

"I'm due for a comeback season."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling, though."

You found that you were smiling. You stopped immediately, which only made him laugh, quiet and pleased with himself. "Eyes front, Braun," Mikasa said, not even looking up or glancing over, and he sat back with his ears a little pink and did not, in fact, keep his eyes front for very long.

The lecture let out into the kind of overcast afternoon that made the whole quad look like it was lit for a moody photo shoot, everyone filtering out in the loose, gravity-defying way college students moved between obligations— half-asleep, half-late, and fully convinced they had more time than they did. You fell into step automatically with Mikasa and Annie, the three of you peeling off toward the library, when Reiner caught up with an easy, loping stride that ate the distance like it cost him nothing.

"Hey." He fell into step beside you, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, and he looked— for a guy who could bench press a small car— weirdly nervous. "Mind if I walk with you guys?"

"We’re going to the library," you tell him, aiming for a stern tone.

"I know. I have eyes." He nodded toward the brick building ahead. "I'm headed that way too— it’s a free country, you know."

"Don’t you have practice in twenty minutes?" You remind him. 

"I have exactly enough time to walk you there and sprint to the field after. I've done the math."

"You have definitely not done the math right…."

"Hey! I’m good at Math." Behind you, Annie muttered something to Mikasa that sounded suspiciously like here we go, and Mikasa hummed in quiet agreement, and you decided very firmly not to think about what that meant.

"Fine. But you're not getting a pencil from me."

"Wasn't gonna take a pencil anyway."

"You're always gonna try and steal my pencil, Reiner."

"Well today, I'm doing something different." He said it lightly, but there was a beat— small, the kind you'd have missed if you hadn't spent three years cataloguing every inflection in his voice— where his easy rhythm caught. "You doing anything Friday?"

The question landed low in your chest and sat there, warm and unfamiliar. "Why?"

"My frat house is doing a thing. It’s basically a bonfire, with too much beer probably, Connie's gonna try to do the fire pit with lighter fluid." He shrugged, but his eyes were steady on you, waiting. "Thought you and the girls might wanna come. Don’t worry its not really a frat thing. It’s for….everyone."

You hesitate for a moment. "I'll think about it."

"That's a yes?"

"That's a maybe."

"I'll take it." He was grinning again, full and unguarded, and it made him look younger than twenty-one, like the years since orientation had sanded down whatever armor he'd shown up with. "Gotta go before Coach Erwin makes me run laps. See you Friday."

"I didn't say yes."

"But you didn't say no." He was already jogging backward, hands still in his pockets. “Bye for now.” He'd already turned, jogging properly now toward the field, and you watched him go, jaw tight, refusing to let yourself smile the way you wanted to. You didn't like how easily he did this to you— jogging off with that grin, leaving your pulse doing something stupid and your feet rooted to the library steps like you'd forgotten how they worked. Three years of practice and you still hadn't figured out how to make it stop mattering this much.

The campus 'radio station' lived in a cramped, beige-walled room on the third floor of the student union, up a stairwell that smelled of burnt coffee and old books. You'd had the key since sophomore year, ever since you’d personally asked the school admissions counselor for them, after projecting your idea to her of a late night campus radio for students of the college. There was just something so thrilling and exciting to you about a closed door, a microphone, your spotify playlist and a voice that came with no face attached— everyone knew you, but they could never put your face to it. 

The radio show was called Night Shift— it was at ten to midnight every Thursday and sometimes Tuesdays, and consisted mostly of music from your Spotify playlist, campus gossip and a call-in segment where you took anonymous questions and answered them with whatever mix of dry humour and honesty felt right that week. It shouldn't have built the following it had. But two years in, half of campus had a thing about it, texting each other mid-show— did you listen to Night Shift last night— all orbiting around a persona nobody could put a face to. You ran your voice through a light modulator, just enough distance to keep it from sounding obviously like you, and built the whole thing around being braver on air than you ever managed in person— braver than you were most Tuesdays with your hand clamped over a pencil.

You knew, vaguely, that Reiner listened. His friend Jean had let it slip once— the dude's obsessed with that radio show, wouldn't shut up about it during practice the other day— and you'd filed that away somewhere you weren't ready to poke at too hard.

By the time you climbed the stairs, it was almost 10pm. You placed your headphones around your neck, set up your laptop and opened up your Spotify and live streaming. The cramped little room was lit gold by the one desk lamp that didn't flicker, and just then just the dim, blue light of your laptop as you plugged in your mic— then, you took a deep breath as you clicked the GO LIVE button highlighted in red on your screen. 

“Good evening, everyone,” You said clearly into your microphone, your voice turning into something that sounded nothing like you. Instantly over a hundred people around campus were listening as you smiled to yourself. “Welcome to the Night Shift. How about we get started with easy listening tonight?” 

Friday's bonfire came quicker than you'd hoped, and you decided to go— against your better judgment, and it turned into something you weren't prepared for at all.

The frat's backyard had been strung with mismatched lights, and the fire pit was already the subject of one intervention after Connie tried to make the fire bigger by pouring it with more lighter fluid, which resulted in someone having to put it out quickly before it set the nearby logs off. The whole sprawling evening had the loud, overlapping warmth of two friend groups that had quietly become one a long time ago without anybody officially deciding it— somebody had a speaker going, and somebody else had brought enough red cups to supply a small country.

You told yourself you'd have one drink. Maybe two. It had been a long week— a midterm you'd barely survived, an all-nighter at the station prepping the show next week, and the low, constant hum of anxiety that came from being one accidental slip away from blowing your own cover. Your friend and roommate, Sasha, handed you the first cup with the solemn instruction to trust the process. You should not have trusted the process.

Your other roommates had turned up too— Historia laughing at something Ymir murmured too quiet for anyone else to catch, and Reiner’s fratmates Jean and Eren were somehow arguing about whether birds counted as dinosaurs, you had lost count about how many drinks you had somewhere after the fourth cup, and the fire had gone soft and warm and a little too bright at the edges, and you were laughing at something Connie said that was probably not that funny.

Reiner found you around then, the way he always found you at these things, settling onto the log beside you with a careful amount of space between you that you promptly closed by leaning your shoulder into his arm. Up close like that, firelight catching along his jaw, the short stubble he hadn't bothered shaving off in a few days, the solid warmth of him under his t-shirt— you had the distinct, drunken thought that it was extremely unfair of him to look this good right now.

"Whoa—hey." He caught you gently before you tipped further, hand steady at your shoulder. "You good?"

"I'm great," you slur slightly, with the particular conviction of someone who was not great. "I'm fantastic, Reiner…...Did you know your eyes are like— really gold? Like, they're so beautiful."

Reiner's ears went pink so fast it was almost funny. "Okay," he said, half a laugh and half genuine concern. "How much have you had?"

"A normal amount…."

"That's not a number—"

"Numbers are for people who aren't having fun." You poked his chest, which took considerably more coordination than you expected, and did, in your defense, feel a little bit like poking a wall. "You're very solid. Like a wall— a gold wall!"

"I'm gonna get you some water." He was already standing, one hand braced lightly at your back to make sure you didn't fall sideways off the log. "Stay here a sec, okay? Don't move."

"I'm not gonna move, Reiner, I'm sitting down—"

He was gone and back in under a minute, crouching in front of you with a water bottle and an expression that had gone from amused to quietly focused, the same look you imagined he wore calling plays on the field. "Here. Drink this— all of it, not just a sip."

You drank it, mostly because refusing felt like more effort than it was worth, and the world tilted a little less once you'd finished it— though not by much.

"I think I need to sit down," you mumble. 

"You are sitting down."

"I need to sit down more."

"Okay." He huffed, but it was fond and a little exasperated, and crouched down properly in front of you, checking your eyes the way you imagined he checked a teammate's after a bad hit. "You wanna head inside? Or shall I try and take you home?"

"Hm, don't wanna go home like this,” you mutter. “Mikasa's gonna lecture me."

"She's not wrong to," Reiner said gently, a small smile escaping. "But you don't have to go home. C'mon." He got an arm carefully around you, giving you every chance to pull away if you wanted to— but you didn't, and he half-walked, half-carried you across the yard and in through the back door of the house, away from the noise and the fire and the several people who definitely watched him do it with varying degrees of interest.

The house upstairs was quieter, the bass from the yard muffled through the floor. Reiner's room turned out to be at the end of the hall, surprisingly tidy for a guy who lived with Connie Springer— he had a neatly made bed, a shelf of textbooks and, you noted with some delight in your compromised state, a corkboard with a printout of the campus radio schedule pinned to it.

"You have the radio schedule on your wall," you say delightedly, poking at it. "That's so— that's so cute, Reiner."

"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing as he looked everywhere but at you. "It's a good radio show."

He got you to sit on the edge of his bed, put another glass of water into your hands, and hovered close enough to catch you if you swayed but far enough to give you room— the same instinct he'd never once dropped in three years of trying to steal pencils from you.

"You're being so nice," you told him, squinting up at him like he was a puzzle you were trying to solve. "You're always so nice. Why are you so nice to me?"

Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, gone before you could name it. "Because I like you," he said, quiet, like it slipped out before he could stop it, and then immediately looked mortified. "Like—uh—as a friend. Obviously. You're my….friend."

"Obviously," you agreed, entirely too pleased with yourself, and did not clock how fast his face had gone bright red.

"Okay, whatever. Now, go to bed. You're sleeping here tonight, it's not safe walking back to the house like this, and I am not letting you take a cab alone at midnight." He was already pulling back the comforter, almost businesslike now, the flustered moment tucked away somewhere you couldn't reach. "I'll take the couch downstairs."

“Hmm–” You push your face into his pillow, engulfing yourself in his scent. "Your bed smells like you."

"That's— yeah, that tracks." He huffed a laugh, helping you get your shoes off with the careful, practical efficiency of someone who'd clearly done this for a teammate before, nothing about it awkward except for how hard he was working not to look anywhere but your feet. "Lie down. I'm gonna leave the door cracked slightly open and a water bottle right here, okay? And my phone number's already in yours, so if you need anything, just call— I'll keep my phone on."

"You're not gonna stay in here with me?" You pouted at him. 

He paused at that, something soft and pained crossing his face, like it cost him something to say no. "No," he said gently. "Not when you've had too much to drink. I want you to actually remember saying yes to things, whenever or if you ever say yes to them. That's— that matters to me."

You didn't have anything drunk-clever to say back to that. You just looked at him, and he looked, for a second, like he might say something else, and then didn't. "Text me if you're gonna throw up," he said sfotly. "I mean that. Don't be embarrassed, just text me."

"Reiner."

"Yeah?"

"You're a really good guy." Your eyes were already sliding shut, feeling too heavy to keep open.  "Somebody's gonna be really lucky."

He went very still in the doorway. "Yeah," he said, so quiet you almost missed it. "Hope so."

You were asleep before you heard him leave.

You woke up the next morning with a headache, someone else's hoodie draped over you, three glasses of water lined up on the nightstand like a silent apology, and a note in surprisingly careful handwriting: Went to grab breakfast stuff. Bathroom's down the hall, extra toothbrush under the sink (still in the package, I promise). Take your time — R.

You sat there for a long moment, mortified and warm in equal measure, replaying fragments of the night before— his hand steady at your back, his ears going pink, the careful way he'd said I like you and then panicked and walked it back. You weren't drunk enough to have imagined that part— well, you were fairly sure of it, anyway.

Downstairs, the common room was a warzone of red cups and Connie was asleep sideways on the couch with only one shoe on— and Reiner was in the kitchen in sweatpants and yesterday's shirt, forearms flexing faintly as he worked a spatula through what appeared to be a genuinely large amount of scrambled eggs, humming something under his breath that you were fairly sure was your outro music from Night Shift.

You did not mention that you recognised it. You filed it away with everything else you weren't ready to look at directly yet, along with the very inconvenient thought that Reiner Braun standing barefoot in a kitchen making you breakfast, hair still messy from sleep, was doing something to you that a normal hangover really should not have allowed room for.

He glanced up, and something in his shoulders eased when he saw you upright and functional. "Hey. How's your head?"

"Surviving. Barely." You sat carefully at the counter, squinting your eyes. "Thank you. For last night— you didn't have to do all that."

"Course I did." He said it simply, plating the eggs like it was the easiest thing in the world, not looking at you directly, which was its own kind of answer. "Wasn't gonna let you go home like that. Or let anyone else be the one looking after you." He caught himself on the last part, ears going pink again, and busied himself with the pan a little too intently. "Anyway. Eat something. You'll feel better."

You ate the eggs he made, which were better than they had any right to be, and didn't ask him about the corkboard, or the radio schedule pinned to it. 

Weeks passed the way they always did mid-semester— exams looming, the team grinding through their schedule, the pencil thing still going, exactly the way it had for three years, except you noticed yourself waiting for it a little more now; watching for that half-second pause where his eyes asked permission even while his hand was already moving. You never once told him no in a way you actually meant.

"You two should just date already," Jean said one afternoon at lunch when you were sitting with them, and Reiner had gone to use the restroom— Jean had said it with the bluntness of someone who'd run entirely out of patience. "He's basically in love with you, dude. Marco owes me twenty bucks if you guys start dating and I would like to collect it before graduation."

"We’re not gonna date," you insist, but you were ignoring the way your face went warm.

"Sure you won’t," Jean didn't even look up from his tray. Beside him, Marco just smiled and said nothing, which was somehow worse than if he'd agreed out loud.

The homecoming game fell on a bright, but cold Saturday, the whole stadium a mess of school colours and the specific chaos that came with the entire campus deciding, all at once, that this was the game that mattered most. You went with your friends and roommates of course— Mikasa, Annie, Sasha, Historia, and Ymir, all of you crammed into the student section with a shared bag of popcorn and Historia's homemade sign that said GO! in glitter letters and had already started shedding on everyone within a three-foot radius.

"He's definitely gonna look for you," Sasha said in a matter-of-fact way, around a mouthful of popcorn. "He always looks for you before kickoff. It's kind of his whole ‘thing’."

"He does not have a thing."

"He has a thing," Mikasa said, not looking up from the game program.

"I hate all of you."

Down on the field, the team was running warmups, and you spotted Bertholdt first— impossible not to, he was tallest guy out there by a head— jogging beside Jean, who was already yelling something at Eren, with Connie and Marco walking behind, enticing the crowd for cheers. And then you spotted Reiner, pads on, helmet under one arm, jogging the sideline with the captain's easy authority he carried onto the field and almost nowhere else, and you watched him do exactly what Sasha said he'd do— scan the student section, slow and deliberate, until he found your section, found you, and then broke into a grin so wide you could see it from twenty rows up.

You lifted a hand to wave. He lifted his helmet in return, a small, private salute that had absolutely nothing subtle about it, and beside you Sasha made a sound like a kettle reaching boil.

"Oh my god," she squealed. "I knew he was gonna do it."

The game itself was close and stressful in the specific way football games always were— a fumble in the second quarter that had the whole stadium groaning in unison, a targeting call against the other team that got Jean absolutely feral on the sideline, Bertholdt hauling in a catch in the third quarter that you were fairly sure saved the entire game. Reiner played the way he always played, steady and controlled and quietly ferocious— the kind of player who made the loud, flashy stuff look unnecessary because he simply didn't need it.

With eleven seconds left on the clock, down by four, Reiner took the snap on a broken play, shrugged off a guy like he weighed nothing, and put the ball exactly where it needed to be— and that sent the entire stadium into a single, deafening roar. You were screaming, and you weren't even sure when you'd started screaming. Historia's glitter sign disintegrated entirely in the chaos, and Sasha had both arms around you, and somewhere below, on the field, Reiner had ripped his helmet off and was being mobbed by the rest of the team, grinning so hard it looked like it hurt.

You found him afterward outside the locker room tunnel, hair damp from a quick shower, a hoodie thrown on over his practice shirt, cheeks still flushed from the game and the cold. He spotted you before you'd even fully made your way through the crowd of parents, girlfriends and little kids in oversized jerseys, and the grin he broke into made your stomach do something complicated.

"Hey." He jogged the last few steps, and up close, freshly showered, still buzzing off the win, he looked so painfully good— jaw shadowed, hair pushed back and still a little wet, the kind of easy, wrecked, happy that only came after a game like that— that you momentarily forgot what you'd come over to say.

"You were incredible," you managed finally. "That throw at the end—"

"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck, that same nervous tell he'd had since freshman year, entirely at odds with the guy who'd just thrown a game-winning touchdown pass in front of hundreds of people. "I had some help."

"Bert caught it—"

"I mean before that." He dug into the pocket of his hoodie, a little sheepish, a little like he was about to admit something he'd been sitting on for a while, and pulled out a pencil— worn down, the eraser mostly gone, a familiar, dusty pink colour wrapped around it that you recognised with a sudden, dizzy jolt.

"Is that—"

"Freshman year," he said. "The one I stole during the first week of Hange's class. I never gave it back." He turned it over in his fingers, almost bashful about it. "I've had it in my locker for three years. Every game, I put it in my sock before we go out. Kind of a lucky charm thing, I guess....Fuck, it sounds stupid saying it out loud—"

"You've carried my pencil into every football game for three years?" You couldn't help the smile escaping across your face. 

Reiner huffed out a laugh. "When you say it like that it sounds worse—"

"No, it's—" You didn't have a good end to that sentence, your chest too full for words to line up properly. "That's not stupid, Reiner."

"Yeah?" He looked up at you, something hopeful and unguarded in his face, still catching his breath a little from the run over, from the game, and from whatever this was. "I mean it, though. I looked for you before kickoff 'cause I always look for you before kickoff. Feels like the game doesn't really start until I know where you are."

You didn't have anything to say to that either, not one that wouldn't give away more than you were ready for yet, so you just reached out and closed your hand gently over his, over the pencil. "Keep it," you said quietly, pushing the pencil in his hand back towards him. "Looks like it's working."

"Yeah," Reiner said, a little breathless, a little dazed, looking at you like you'd just handed him something far bigger than a pencil. "Yeah, I think it is."

You walked back to the dorms with Mikasa and the others a while later, only half-listening to Sasha recapping the game play-by-play, because your mind had stayed behind somewhere near the locker room tunnel, replaying the way Reiner had looked at you when he said feels like the game doesn't really start until I know where you are. You'd spent three years telling yourself the pencil thing was just Reiner being Reiner, and it was getting harder to keep believing that. You liked him— more than you were ready to admit out loud, and you caught yourself smiling at nothing the whole walk home and didn't bother trying to stop it.

Thursday came around again, and you climbed the station stairs with the usual pre-show buzz— two hours where you got to put the week down and just talk, the way you never quite managed to with Reiner within ten feet of you scattering your thoughts. The show went the way it always went: some of your Spotify music, a rant about the dining hall's new menu that had half of campus in open revolt, a long answer to an anonymous text about a crush that hit closer to home than you meant it to. You talked, without totally meaning to, about the ache of being known in pieces, wondering if someone would ever get the whole picture without you having to hand it over all at once.

You didn't notice the camera light flashing.

The stream was audio-only by default— the one rule that kept the whole thing anonymous— but the new app you had installed a few days ago had a video feed built in, off unless you hit a specific panel, and somewhere in the scramble of queuing a song your mouse lagged and caught it— and the little red light you always checked slipped past you for exactly four minutes.

You had no idea. You sat there under the desk lamp, mid-laugh at your own joke replying to an anonymous message sent in— completely unaware that for four minutes, the feed hadn't been audio-only at all.

Across town, Reiner had the radio stream for Night Shift up on the common room TV, same as every Thursday, low volume, the room a little quieter than usual the way it always got. Reiner was sprawled on the couch with the pencil resting on the arm beside him— a habit now, ever since the homecoming game— feet on the coffee table, half-scrolling his phone, half not, the voice of Night Shift doing its usual thing of making a room full of loud, tired guys go still. Connie was stacking cans on the kitchen counter for reasons no one had asked about, Jean and Eren fighting about a video game. Bertholdt sat in the armchair, quiet, watching Reiner more than the TV, which was also per usual.

The picture flickered across the screen. No one else in the room didn't seem clock it— the audio kept going, you mid-sentence, warm and a little wry— but for four unbroken minutes the black square where the video should've been resolved into a small lamp-lit room. A cluttered desk. Headphones slipping off one ear.

A face. Your face.

Reiner glanced up out of habit, the kind of glance you give something you're not really watching but just listening to. Then he went completely still.

"Reiner?" Bertholdt sat forward when he saw Reiner pause. "You good?"

Reiner didn't answer right away. His phone slid out of his hand and he didn't even notice, eyes locked on the screen, and when the feed cut back to black he just kept staring at the spot where it had been.

"Dude," Jean said, turning around from Eren to look at Reiner. "You look like you saw a ghost."

"That's her," Reiner said, voice low, cracking a little. "Fuck. That's— that's her."

"Who?"

He dragged both hands down his face, breathing like he'd run somewhere, the pencil still sitting on the couch arm beside him like it had been waiting for this too. "It's her. This whole time. I made her eggs. Fuck—I've had her pencil in my locker for three years. I looked for her in the stands before every single game like some kind of idiot and had no idea I was already—" He cut himself off, shaking his head slowly, something disbelieving and soft spreading across his face. "I've liked her since freshman year. And I've been listening to Night Shift for two years without knowing it was the same person. It's always been the same person." Reiner was rambling to himself, unable to grasp the reality of it.

"Okay, breathe," Bertholdt said, hand landing steady on his shoulder, same as he'd done a hundred times. "You don't have to do anything about it this second."

"No, I do.” Reiner exhaled slowly, and under the shock something softer was already settling in, something almost giddy, almost scared. "I just— I gotta tell her. Not like some big scene. I just want to talk to her."

You didn't find out until the show ended. Headphones off, halfway through shutting down your laptop, your phone lit up against the desk— one buzz, then five, then it wouldn't stop.

did anyone else just see that oh my god the radio host is literally in my bio class???

You scrolled with your pulse roaring, the realisation arriving in pieces— the small light on your laptop. Four minutes, somebody said, before the feed cut back to black.

Four minutes was all it took for your identity to have been leaked. Your hands weren't steady packing up your bag— and you didn't check your phone again on the walk back to your dorm, too scared of what you'd find, and let yourself into the house on autopilot— luckily it was quiet, mostly empty as Sasha was off god knows where, and Historia at a late study session with Ymir, Mikasa and Annie still at the library. You went up to your room, sat on the edge of your dorm room bed with your knees pulled to your chest, and tried to figure out whether you were more scared of everyone knowing, or of one specific person finding out.

You didn't have to wonder long. A knock at your door— not the front door, yours, which meant somebody had let themselves in, so it had to be someone you knew well. "It's me," Reiner said through the door, quiet, uncertain in a way his voice rarely was. "Can I come in? You can say no. I just— I didn't wanna text this."

You stared at the door a second, then you got up and opened it. He looked more nervous than you'd ever seen him— hoodie on and hands shoved deep in the pocket, shoulders hunched, doing everything he could to look smaller than he was, the same thing he always did around you and had never once managed all the way. His eyes found yours and softened immediately.

"Hey," he said gently.

"Hey." Your voice came out smaller than you meant. "So, I guess you know, then."

"Yes." No triumph in it, nothing smug, just something raw and a little wrecked. "TV was on at the house. It flashed up…."

You wrapped your arms around yourself. "I really didn't want anyone finding out like this."

"I figured." He stayed in the doorway, not pushing in. "I just wanna talk— but I can go, if that's easier—"

"No," you interrupted him, and stepped back to let him in. “Come in.” 

He shut the door gently and stood a careful distance away, giving you room, the same instinct he'd never once dropped— not stealing a pencil, not carrying you up a flight of stairs, not looking for you in a crowded stand, not now.

"I'm not here to make it weird," he said. "Or make you feel like you got caught doing something you shouldnt be. I know how much you probably wanted to keep this yours. So if you want me to pretend I didn't see anything, I will. For real."

You were surprised at this. "You'd actually do that?"

"If that's what you wanted." He shrugged, like it wasn't even a hard call, even though his hands were shaking a little where they were still shoved in his pocket. "But I'm kind of hoping you don't need that. 'Cause I've got stuff I've been wanting to say for a really long time, and I'm bad at saying it, so— I'm gonna try, and it's probably gonna come out wrong. So….bear with me."

Your breath caught. "Reiner—"

"I've liked you since the first week of freshman year," he said, quiet, halting, nothing smooth about it at all. "You let me steal a pencil from you and didn't make it weird that I was too nervous to actually talk to you, and I thought, okay, that's it, I'm done for. I never said anything because I didn't know how, and because every time I got near you I'd just— freeze, basically, and the only thing I could think to do was try and steal your pencils so I'd have an excuse to touch your hand for two seconds. That's the whole plan I had for three years."

A helpless laugh escaped him, ears going pink all over again. "And then this radio stream just happened, and Jean wouldn't shut up about the show so I started listening, and then I kept listening 'cause the host made a room full of loud idiots go quiet every week, and I loved that. I loved the version of you brave enough to say real stuff into a mic, and I loved the version of you that guards a pencil from me, and the version of you that poked my chest at a bonfire while drunk and told me my eyes were beautiful—"

"Oh my god, I actually said that out loud?" You gasp. 

"You said a lot of things out loud." He was smiling now, soft, a little wrecked. "It turns out none of those things were done by two different people. It was all just you."

Your eyes had gone hot, and you didn't trust your voice enough to answer right away, so you just stood there and let him see it— no jokes left to hide behind, nothing anonymous about it anymore. You were both quiet for a moment.  "I'm not gonna tell anyone," he added quickly, misreading your silence. "If you want it kept quiet I'll never bring it up outside this room, I swear—"

"Reiner." Your voice finally came, thick. "That's not why I'm not saying anything."

"No?"

"I've liked you for three years," you said, and it all came out fast now, unsteady, like something finally let off a leash. "I let you try to steal my pencil every single class because I liked your hand near mine, and I let myself pretend I didn't know that's what it was about, because it felt safer than saying it out loud. I built a whole radio persona around being honest because I couldn't say any of it to your actual face, and everything I ever said on that show that sounded like it was about somebody— it was you. I just didn't know how to tell you without giving up the one place I got to be brave."

Reiner's whole face cracked open— the careful, held-together thing he'd been doing all night finally giving way to something bright and disbelieving, and for a second he looked young, all his composure gone, just a guy standing in a doorway realising the thing he wanted most had been six feet away from him for three years. He closed the last of the distance slow, like he still didn't fully trust this was real, and reached up to cup your face in both hands, careful, the same way he did everything— the same way he'd tucked a comforter around you weeks ago and walked out of his own room to sleep on a couch rather than take anything you weren't fully awake to give, the same way he'd carried a chewed-up pencil into every game for three years rather than admit out loud what it meant. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs as his thumb brushed across your bottom lip. The touch was hesitant, questioning, but you answered by leaning into it, parting your lips slightly. "Can I kiss you?" His voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," you said quickly. "God, yes."

He kissed you slow, unhurried, a little shaky at first like he genuinely couldn't believe he was allowed, and then steadier, like he finally had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it. Reiner's mouth was warm and insistent, tasting faintly of mint and something uniquely him. His other hand found your waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your shirt as he pulled you flush against him— you could feel the hard planes of his chest through his hoodie, the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching your own frantic rhythm.

When you broke apart, gasping for air, his eyes were wide with disbelief. "I can't believe this is happening," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. "I've wanted—God, I've wanted this for so long." You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him back for another kiss. This one was deeper, more desperate— your tongues tangling together, slick and hungry, as months of suppressed longing flooded to the surface. Reiner backed you toward your bed, his hands roaming your body with reverent urgency. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your neck, your chest. "You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with awe. "Can I—?" His fingers hovered at the hem of your t-shirt.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you grabbed his hand and pressed it flat against your breast, arching into his touch, and his eyes darkened instantly. "Reiner," you moaned, "stop looking and start touching."

He obeyed, lifting your shirt up in one smooth motion. His breath hitched when he saw you weren't wearing a bra, your breasts on full display for him. "Fuck," he breathed, his thumbs circling your nipples as you gasped softly. "You're perfect." Your hands tangled in his hair as he lowered his head, taking one peaked nipple into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made your knees weak, and you fell back onto your bed, pulling him with you— the mattress springs groaned beneath your combined weight as you whimpered beneath him.

Reiner settled between your thighs, his hips pressing against yours. Even through your jeans, you could feel how hard he was, how badly he wanted this— but he was taking his time, his mouth worshiping your breasts, his hands mapping every curve of your body.

"Please," you gasped, bucking against him. "Reiner, I need—"

"What do you need?" He lifted his head, his lips swollen from all the kisses, his pupils blown wide with desire. "Tell me."

You grabbed his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "I want you to fuck me. Now." Something wild flashed in his eyes. He fumbled with your jeans, his fingers clumsy with urgency. You helped him, lifting your hips as he dragged the denim down your legs. His gaze fixed on the damp patch spreading across your panties.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured, hooking his fingers in the waistband. "So wet for me."

The fabric pooled on the floor, and then his hands were on your thighs, spreading you open. He paused, just looking— his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. "I want to taste you—"

"Next time," you promised him, reaching for his belt buckle. "Right now, I just want you inside me."

Your fingers shook as you undid his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free in front of you, thick and flushed, already beading with pre-cum at the tip. Reiner hissed when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking from base to tip as your mouth opened slightly in awe.

"I’ve got—condom," he choked out, fumbling to get his wallet out of his jeans pocket on the floor.

You watched him rip it open with his teeth and roll it on, your thighs trembling with anticipation and pure lust for him. When he positioned himself at your entrance, you grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down to you for another kiss. He pushed inside slowly, giving you time to adjust—but you were beyond being patient anymore, you had nothing to lose; but a lot to gain. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper until he was fully seated, his balls pressed against your ass. Reiner groaned into your mouth, his whole body trembling as his hands snaked around you.

"Fuck, Reiner," you moaned against his lips.

He started thrusting, slowly at first—testing it out, and then faster, harder. Your bedframe slammed against the dorm wall with each movement, the rhythmic creaking mixing with your moans and his harsh breathing and whimpers. Reiner's hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he drove into you again and again. "You feel so good," he panted, his face buried in your neck. "So wet—fuck, I'm not going to last."

"Come for me," you gasped, nails digging into his back.

His rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming erratic before you felt him swell inside you, his entire body tensing as he found his release. A deep groan ripped from his throat as he came, his hips jerking against yours. When he finally collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress— you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close to your chest. Your breaths mingled in the humid air between you, the weight of Reiner's body a comforting pressure against your chest. 

His heartbeat thrummed against yours, a steady rhythm gradually slowing from its frantic pace. You traced patterns on his back through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, feeling the damp heat of his skin beneath. He pulled out with a slow wince, peeling off the used condom to throw away in your bin next to your bed.

"Stay for a bit," You say to him, pulling him back towards you. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Reiner murmured back, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Reiner pushed himself up on his elbows, his eyes dark with renewed desire. He studied your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "I want….want to fuck you again," he said, his voice low, “If you’ll let me.” He nodded toward your desk, piled high with textbooks, notes, and empty coffee mugs from late-night study sessions. "How about...over there, on the desk?" 

A thrill shot through you at the suggestion, and you nodded eagerly at him, unable to use your words. Reiner was quick to help you sit up, his hands lingering on your waist before he stood up.

He reached for your hand, pulling you from the bed— and your legs felt shaky as you followed him to the desk. The wood surface was cool against your palms when he bent you over it, the position forcing your breasts to press against scattered papers and textbook covers. The sharp edges of a spiral notebook dug into your ribs, but you barely registered the discomfort with Reiner looming behind you.

Reiner's hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he positioned himself behind you. You heard the tear of foil as he opened another condom, which made you wonder how many he actually had stored in his wallet….."Ready?" he asked, his voice strained as you were torn away from your thoughts. 

You pushed back against him in response, whimpering and turning around to pout at him— and that was all the encouragement he needed. He entered you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. The angle was deeper than before, hitting spots inside you that made your toes curl against your worn carpet. His movements started slow, experimental, as if testing how this new position felt for both of you. But soon his control snapped, and his hips were snapping forward, driving into you with increasing force. Each thrust pushed you harder against the desk, and the accumulated objects on its surface began to rattle. A coffee mug slid precariously close to the edge, a stack of textbooks shifted, and pencils rolled across the wood.

The sounds of your coupling filled the small room— skin slapping against skin, your breathy moans, Reiner's grunts and groans of exertion, and the constant percussive accompaniment of academic disruption. The contrast between the intellectual setting and the raw, animalistic act sent electricity through your veins. Reiner's hands moved from your hips to your shoulders, using the leverage to drive even deeper— and you braced yourself against the desk, your fingers scrabbling for purchase among loose papers.

After several minutes of this punishing rhythm, Reiner suddenly stilled. "Fuck—I need to see you," he panted, withdrawing slowly. He helped you turn around, lifting you effortlessly to sit on the edge of the desk. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he entered you again, this time face to face. The new position allowed you to see every flicker of emotion crossing his features— the furrow of concentration between his brows, the parting of his lips, the intensity in his amber eyes.

You pressed your foreheads together, sharing breath as he began to move again. The angle was different now, more intimate somehow— each thrust still rocking the desk, but now you could feel his chest against yours, could watch the emotions play across his face. "I love you," he whispered against your lips, the words barely audible but impossibly clear in the charged space between you. His movements didn't falter, the confession seeming to fuel rather than distract from his passion.

Your heart swelled, a wave of emotion so powerful it nearly overwhelmed the physical sensations you were feeling. "I love you too," you breathed back, pulling him into a desperate kiss as he continued to fuck you with increasing urgency. It was true— you did love Reiner, and you had for a long time.

Just as you were lost in the moment—lost in him—the door suddenly swung open with a bang.

"Hey–fuck! Fuck—sorry!" Sasha's voice cut through the room like a siren. She stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as she took in the scene: you on the desk, legs wrapped around Reiner’s waist as he was buried deep inside you.

But before you could even process the shock of being discovered, Sasha slammed the door shut with another bang. The sound echoed in the small room, followed by the distinct click of the lock.

You expected Reiner to stop, to pull away, to be embarrassed by what happened— but instead, he only gripped you tighter, his hips never ceasing their rhythm. If anything, the interruption seemed to spur him on, his thrusts becoming even more forceful, more desperate.

"Let her listen," Reiner growled lowly against your neck, his teeth scraping your sensitive skin. "Let everyone hear how long I've wanted to do this."

The knowledge that Sasha stood just outside the door, that anyone could be listening, sent a fresh wave of arousal through your body. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. "Reiner," you gasped against his shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. "Move to the floor."

He didn't hesitate, with one arm wrapped securely around your waist, Reiner lifted you effortlessly from the desk. His cock remained buried inside you as he carried you across the room, each step causing delicious friction. The rough texture of the dorm carpet pressed into your back as he laid you down, settling between your legs without breaking their connection.

You pushed against his chest, surprising both of you with the force of your movement. "Lie back," you demanded, your voice husky with desire. “I want to be on top.” His golden amber eyes darkened with understanding as he complied, rolling onto his back and taking you with him— and the shift in position left you straddling his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you. You looked down at him, down at the the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the muscle working in his jaw as he fought for control. His shirt was still on, stretched tight across his broad chest, but you wanted more.

With deliberate movements, you reached for the hem of his shirt. "Take this off."

Reiner needed no further encouragement. He sat up just enough to grab the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head, and your breath caught in your throat at the sight—broad shoulders, the ridges of his abdomen, thick biceps flexing as he supported himself back down onto the floor. His skin was flushed with exertion, a thin sheen of sweat making his muscles gleam in the dim lighting. You placed your palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. The blonde coarse hair scattered across his pecs tickled your skin as you began to move, rising and falling on his cock in a steady rhythm— each downward motion drove him deeper, the angle hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your toes curl.

Reiner's hands found your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. He tried to guide your movements, to set the pace, but you were having none of it— you grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head against the carpet. "Let me," you commanded, leaning forward until your breasts brushed against his chest. The new position changed the angle again, and you both moaned at the sensation. "Let me— take care of you."

His eyes burned with something darker than mere lust— trust, surrender and desire all mixed together. He relaxed his grip on your hips, letting you set the pace entirely as you began to move in earnest, rolling your hips in circles before rising and falling in a rhythm that had you both panting. The carpet burned against your knees with each movement, but you barely registered the discomfort. All that mattered was the man beneath you, the way his body responded to yours, the sounds he made when you shifted your angle just right— the way you have secretly been earning for him for years. You watched his face intently, committing every expression to memory— the way his brows drew together in concentration, how his lips parted on a silent gasp, the flutter of his eyelids when you clenched around him.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice strained. "You're going to make me—"

"Good," you cut him off again, increasing your pace. The coil of tension in your lower belly tightened with each thrust. His hips began to jerk upward, meeting your movements with desperate urgency. The control you'd maintained began to slip as your own orgasm approached. You released his wrists, bracing your hands against his chest instead. His fingers immediately returned to your hips, holding on tight as you rode him harder. The pressure built until it was almost unbearable—white-hot pleasure spreading through your veins, making your thighs tremble and your vision blur. You came with a cry that was half his name, half incoherent pleasure, your pussy clenching around his cock in rhythmic waves.

Reiner followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, his back arching off the carpet as he emptied himself into the condom. You could feel the pulse of his release, the way his cock throbbed inside you as he rode out his orgasm. A surge of pride washed through you at the sight— at how completely you'd undone him, how thoroughly you'd taken control. 

For several long moments, you remained joined, both of you breathing heavily in the aftermath. Finally, you shifted to move off him, but Reiner's arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place. "Stay there," he murmured, his voice rough from exertion. "Just for a minute."

You collapsed against his chest, your cheek pressed against the hard muscle of his pectoral. His heart hammered against your ear, gradually slowing to a more normal rhythm. One of his hands moved up your back, stroking your hair gently, while the other continued to hold you close. "Are you okay?" he asked after a moment, his voice softer now, gentler than you'd ever heard it. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

You shook your head against his chest. "No—I'm perfect."

"I'm sorry if I got carried away," he continued, his fingers combing through the tangled strands of your hair. "When Sasha walked in, I—"

You pushed yourself up enough to look at him, propping your chin on his chest. His amber eyes were soft in the dim light, the earlier intensity replaced with something warmer, more tender. "Don't apologise," you said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "I liked it."

A small smile touched his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirmed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his mouth. "But next time, maybe we should lock the door first."

Reiner laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Deal." He wrapped both arms around you then, rolling you both onto your sides so you were facing each other on the carpet. Somewhere on the bed your phone kept buzzing, cataloguing a slow campus-wide meltdown that would take days to fully die down. Tomorrow would bring questions, probably a lot of them, and a version of yourself you'd have to get used to sharing with people who weren't used to seeing it. But right now, with Reiner's arms around you and his heartbeat slow and steady under your palm, none of that felt like it mattered nearly as much as this.

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[lucyyx3x]

Come Find Me When It's Over ✦ Attack on Titan ✦ .ᐟ Reiner Braun x Reader.ᐟ

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Reiner Braun x F! Reader (oneshot)

summary: After finally confessing your feelings and reconnecting with each other the night before, Reiner goes into battle fighting like a man with everything to lose— because for the first time in years, he does.

a/n: this is basically just a part two to Come Back To Me. But I'm sorry forgive me IK I should be doing other requests but….I just needed to write some Reiner angst...>:)

wc: 2.6K

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The sky over the sea was on fire. Not literally— well, not yet— but it felt that way, all that red-gold light bleeding across the horizon while the ocean itself seemed to boil under the weight of what Eren had become. Nothing had prepared you for the founding titan: a skeletal horror taller than mountains, dragging the corpse of the world behind it in a wall of grinding, screaming flesh. You clung to your ODM gear, half-deaf from the roar of it, and tried not to think about how close you'd come to losing everything before you'd even gotten the chance to fight for it.

Last night. The thought slipped in sideways, useless and aching, in the middle of a battlefield that had no room for softness. Last night you'd been in his arms in the dim moonlight of the woods, both of you shaking, saying all the things four years of silence had swallowed. Last night he'd held your face like it was the only steady thing left in his world and told you he loved you like the words had been sitting in his chest since training days, waiting for permission to exist.

Last night, for a few stolen hours, the war hadn't existed— but today, it had you both back inside its teeth.

"Left side!" Jean's voice cracked across the wind, hoarse from shouting orders since dawn. He came arcing past you on his gear, blade flashing, Connie close behind him. "Watch it, they're diving again!"

You didn't need the warning. You'd already seen them— the grotesque titans, stomping around and crushing everything with a horrifying, casual efficiency. One of them had taken out half of Onyankopon's flight crew twenty minutes ago. You'd watched it happen and hadn't had time to grieve before the next wave hit.

"Where's Reiner?" you shouted back, because some old animal part of your brain needed to know, needed him accounted for, even here, even now.

"He's holding the flank near the cliffs!" Connie called, breathless, ducking a burst of falling debris. "He's not letting anything through— I've never seen him fight like this!"

You didn't have time to ask what that meant. The ground lurched beneath the distant battle— Eren's monstrous form colliding with something, sending a shockwave rippling out across the water that nearly knocked you from the sky— and in the chaos of it, your line snapped taut against a piece of falling debris and tore clean out of your grip.

For one gut-dropping second, you were falling. You twisted instinctively, trying to find something, anything to fire a fresh hook into— and for a moment you thought you'd made it, thought you'd caught the edge of a collapsed support beam jutting up from the wreckage below. Instead your leg slammed into it at a sickening angle, the impact wrenching a scream out of you that tore raw and involuntary from your throat, pain exploding up through your shin in a white-hot burst that stole the air from your lungs. You spun off the beam and kept falling, the world a blur of red sky and gray wreckage, your own scream still ringing in your ears even as your vision started to gray out at the edges.

Please, not like this, you thought, wild and furious and half-delirious with pain. Not after last night. Not after finally getting him back.

Something enormous slammed into the air beside you. You didn't fully register what had happened until you were already caught— swept out of your fall by a huge, steaming hand while the world spun sickeningly around you. Wind roared past, and somewhere below, you heard the horrific crunch of one of the titans falling over, taken out mid-way by whatever had just saved you.

The Armored Titan. No…..Reiner.

He'd left his position on the cliffs— abandoned the flank he'd been holding, the one Connie said he wasn't letting anything through— because he'd seen you in danger. He'd crossed half a battlefield in the seconds between your leg shattering and your body hitting the ground, and now his fist was cradling you against his chest, plated fingers curved with a gentleness that had no business belonging to something built for war.

Your leg throbbed in vicious, nauseating waves, bad enough that you could feel yourself starting to shake from it, pain and adrenaline tangled together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. You must have made some sound— a loud whimper or a sob, you honestly couldn't tell— because the hand around you went very, very still, and when he lowered you to the ground the movement was slower than before, achingly careful, like he already knew something was badly wrong.

He ripped out of the nape violently— steam bursting outward, flesh peeling back in ragged sheets far too fast, far too recklessly— until Reiner hit the ground on his knees in front of you, gasping. His eyes were the worst of it— bloodshot and strained, fine red lines bursting outward from the corners like something inside him had torn from the force of coming out too fast, dark hollows beneath them from exhaustion that went bone-deep. Sweat beaded along his hairline, damp blond strands sticking to his forehead. 

"I saw you falling," he said, voice cracking, hands hovering over you as he moved forward like he was afraid to make it worse by touching you at all. "God, I saw you fall and I didn't— where, tell me, baby, where does it hurt—"

Even through the haze of pain, something in you fluttered helplessly at the name he called you— baby, so soft and instinctive on his tongue like it had always belonged there. It was almost embarrassing, how weak it made you, how something so small could still cut straight through agony and land warm in your chest. "My leg," you managed finally, teeth gritted against another wave of it. "I hit something on the way down, I think it's— oh god, Reiner, I think it's broken—"

"Okay." His hands finally landed, achingly gentle, mapping down from your knee with a care that made your breath hitch even through the pain. "It’s ok, baby— don't move, let me look, don't move—"

His fingers found the break a moment later, and even through the thick layer of your trousers you both felt it— the wrongness of it, bone shifted somewhere it shouldn't be, your whole body flinching hard enough that a fresh sob tore out of you before you could stop it.

"I've got you," he said immediately, voice rough with something that wasn't quite steady. "I've got you, I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry—I know it hurts, I've got you."

"You shouldn't have—" you started, breathless, even as his hands kept moving over you, checking for other injuries with a frantic thoroughness that told you exactly how badly your scream had shaken him. "Your position, Reiner, they needed you holding that flank—"

"I don't care." His hands found your face then, cradling your jaw, thumbs sweeping gently over your cheekbones like he needed the physical proof that you were still here, still breathing, still his to protect. His eyes swept over you, frantic, cataloguing every scrape and the awkward, wrong angle of your leg like he was terrified he'd find something worse he'd missed. "I saw you falling and I didn't think. I couldn't— I wasn't going to lose you. Not again."

"I'm okay," you said, voice cracking despite yourself, covering one of his hands with your own even as your leg throbbed in vicious counterpoint. "I'm okay, Reiner— please, look at me, I'll be okay. It's just my leg."

He didn't look okay. He looked wrecked— pale beneath the blood and dirt, hands trembling where they held your face, breathing like he'd run the length of the battlefield twice over instead of crossing it in a single Titan stride. Whatever calm, controlled version of himself he usually managed to project even in the worst of fights had cracked wide open, and underneath it was just a terrified man who'd nearly watched the person he loved die in front of him— and who was now kneeling over you with a broken leg with his hands shaking too badly to do much more than hover.

"I seen a lot of people die today," he said, his voice hoarse. "I've heard people screaming. But I heard yours…..something in me just—" His jaw worked, and for a moment he couldn't finish the sentence at all. "I couldn't lose you, baby— not when I finally have you again."

He checks over your leg, his movements slow and deliberate like he was terrified of causing you more pain than you were already in. "This is going to hurt," he warned quietly, "but I need to splint it…..or moving you is going to make it so much worse."

"Do it," you said, even as your voice shook.

He did— using a splintered length of wood and strips torn from the bottom of his own shirt, hands gentle even as his jaw stayed clenched tight with concentration, murmuring low apologies every time you flinched or hissed through your teeth. By the time he finished, you were both breathing hard, you from the pain and him from the sheer effort of holding himself together through it.

He pulled you carefully into his lap once the leg was secured, mindful of the splint, arms wrapping around you like he needed the physical proof that you were solid and warm and alive despite everything. His heart hammered under your ear. His whole body was shaking, faint but constant, adrenaline and terror finally catching up to him now that the immediate danger had passed. "You scared me," he admitted against your hair, voice raw.

"I'm here," you said softly, pressing closer despite the dull, insistent throb of your leg. "I'm here, Reiner. I'm not going anywhere."

"You almost weren't." His voice cracked on it, raw and unguarded in a way you'd rarely heard from him even in your most private moments together. “I thought I was going to lose you the same day I finally got you back, and after finally telling you last night, after—" He exhaled, shaky, forehead dropping to rest against your temple. "I don't think I could survive that again. Losing you now would feel like a death sentence."

You pulled back just enough to look at him properly— really look, past the blood and the exhaustion and the terror still written plain across his face— and something in your chest ached at what you found there. This was the same face you'd fallen for all those years ago, guarded and careful and always holding some part of himself back, except now there was nothing held back at all. He'd given you all of it— last night, and now, kneeling over your broken leg in the middle of a battlefield with the sky on fire behind him, he was giving you all of it again.

"I love you," you said, quiet but certain, the words easier now than they'd ever been before last night cracked something open between you. "I loved you before, and I loved you every day you were gone, and I love you now— and that's not going to change. Nothing will change it.” 

His breath left him in a ragged, broken exhale, like the words had physically undone something in his chest. He kissed you then— not desperate this time, not the frantic collision of relief you'd shared the night before, but slow, aching, deliberate, like he was trying to pour the many years and one terrifying near-loss into a single unhurried motion. You kissed him back the same way, hands fisting gently in his ruined shirt, and for a few long seconds the battle behind you simply ceased to matter.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours, both of you breathing unsteadily. Behind you, the ocean roared. Somewhere out past the cliffs, Eren's monstrous form collided with something else, sending another shockwave rolling across the water, a distant reminder that the world hadn't stopped just because the two of you had found a single quiet moment inside it. Reiner's arms tightened around you at the sound, instinctive and protective.

"I have to go back out there," he said, voice rough with reluctance. "They need the flank held. I can't just leave you here undefended, either— let me get you somewhere safer first."

"I know," you said. "You should go. But yes…. Maybe get me out of the open first."

He gathered you up with exquisite care, mindful of the splint, cradling you against his chest as he picked his way toward a half-collapsed outcropping of rock further from the fighting— enough cover to keep you hidden, close enough that he could find you again. He set you down as gently as he'd carried you, checking the splint one final time with hands that lingered.

"Come find me after," you say softly, catching his hand before he could pull away. "Whatever happens out there. Please…come and find me."

"I will." He caught your hand fully, pressed his lips to your knuckles with a tenderness that made your throat tight. "I promise you, baby, I will. I'm not letting this— letting you—go, not for anything. Not even this."

"Then go," you said, voice shaking but fond, "and come find me when it's over."

Something fierce and warm moved behind his eyes— grief and hope tangled together the way they always seemed to be with him, two things that had never quite learned how to exist separately in his chest. He kissed you once more, brief and firm, like a promise sealed rather than broken, and then he was rising, moving away. "I love you," he said, one last time, backing towards where the fighting still raged. "However this ends— I love you. That's not changing, not ever."

Then his hand came up fast, teeth sinking into the meat of his skin with a violence that made you flinch— blood welling dark against him, and then the world went white.

Lightning cracked down where he'd been moments before, blinding, splitting the air with a sound like the sky itself tearing open. You threw an arm over your eyes on instinct, the heat of it washing over you in a wave, and when the light finally receded the huge Armored Titan was rising from the wreckage of his own transformation— armor plating reforming in jagged, glowing seams before hardening into place, steam rolling off him in thick white sheets that stank of scorched flesh. He was already moving before he'd fully finished forming, already turning back toward the cliffs. You watched him go, watched him throw himself back into the fire for people who needed him, for a world that had never once been kind to him, and you let yourself believe that this time, he'd come back.

That this time, you'd both get to keep what you'd found.

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[lucyyx3x]

hello my loveee

i was thinking about rockstar reiner!! maybe he falls for someone in his band, or someone that’s come to every one of his shows 👀👀

it can be smutty if you want it

i love the way you write!

MWAH 💋

a: Firstly thank you to my amazing talented show-stopping moot for suggesting this. Secondly, fuck yes this is everything. Thirdly, this is giving one direction backstage 2014 fanfic. anyway enjoy everyone <3

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One Night Only ✦Attack on Titan✦

.ᐟ Rockstar! Reiner Braun x Reader.ᐟ Modern AU .ᐟ

part I. part II.

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[ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Rockstar! Reiner Braun x F! Reader (oneshot)

summary: You and your best friends are heading to Trost Arena to see your favourite band, The Scouts, playing for one night only. Reiner has always been your favourite from the group— so what happens when he invites you backstage after the show...?

wc: 7.3K

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The queue outside the Trost Arena stretches halfway around the block, and Sasha has been talking since you left the car two hours ago. This is not a complaint however, Sasha talking is the natural state of the universe, and tonight specifically, with the arena lit up ahead of you and the crowd thickening around you and the specific electric charge in the air that only exists outside venues on sold-out nights, her commentary is actually helping. It's keeping you in your body. It's keeping you from standing in the middle of a pavement in Trost thinking about the fact that the Reiner Braun is currently somewhere inside that building, probably doing soundcheck, and you are going to be in the front row in approximately ninety minutes. You are keeping that thought at a manageable distance so you don't freak out.

"Okay, but The Scouts’s hoodie that guy is wearing," Sasha says, pointing with zero subtlety at a man twenty feet ahead of you in the queue, "is the original issue. Look at the font on the back! He has been a fan since the beginning for sure."

"We've been fans since the beginning too," you remind her.

"And we are front row!" Sasha says excitedly, with the reverence of someone stating a divine fact. "We are front row, centre! Which of course, elevates us significantly." She turns to look at you fully, walking slightly sideways, unbothered by the logistical challenge of this. "Are you okay? You've gone quiet."

"I'm always quiet compared to you."

"You've gone quieter than usual." She studies you with the accuracy of someone who has been your best friend for long enough to read the levels. "Is it because you're excited to see the love of your life?"

"You mean Reiner Braun?" You smirk. 

"You mean your favourite person on earth who you've been down bad for since the first album came out—"

"I am not down bad—"

"—and he is going to be standing approximately one metre from your face tonight, and you have to remain a normal person about it."

You look at her. "Yes, fine," you say, after a moment. "It's that."

She nods, satisfied with the honesty. "You're going to be fine. You always look fine even when you're not fine. It's one of your skills."

"That's.....comforting…?"

"It's a compliment. Some of us—" she gestures at herself, "—are very transparent. You have an advantage." She links her arm through yours. "Also he's only going to be on a stage. It's not like you're going to meet him."

"Right," you roll your eyes.

"You're just going to watch the show and enjoy it like a normal person….and maybe cry a little."

"Sasha…."

"I'm definitely going to cry at some point.” 

"Can we just—" You look ahead at the queue, at the arena entrance getting closer, at the night settling dark and clear over the city. "Can we just go to the concert and enjoy ourselves?"

She squeezes your arm. "We're going to the concert, don't worry."

On your other side, Mikasa has been quiet for most of the walk from the car, which is either Mikasa's version of pre-show focus or performing not-caring with her whole body.

Here is what you know about The Scouts. You know more than you'd tell most people, and you know less than Sasha, and you've made peace with both of those facts. They came out of nowhere three years ago in the way bands come out of nowhere— which is to say they came out of years of not-nowhere, years of small rooms and building something deliberately in a basement before the rest of the world caught up to it. The sound is rock, real and structural, guitars and drums that you feel in your chest before your brain has processed them, but it moves, it has something underneath it— a dark atmospheric layer, electronic, pressurised, like deep water. Reviewers have been reaching for words since the first record and usually land on visceral and relentless and, occasionally, when they're paying proper attention— unexpectedly tender. You’ve listened to both albums, front to back, more times than you could honestly quantify. You had already been to three concerts before tonight, but always at the back— but this time, you were front row. 

There were five members in The Scouts:

Eren Jeager, lead vocals. The face of the band in the way frontmen tend to be— not because he courts it, from everything you can tell, but because he has the kind of stage presence that's simply difficult to look away from. Dark long hair, sharp jaw, eyes that are intense in photographs and apparently more so in person…..if the accounts are accurate. He delivers songs like confrontations, like he's been carrying them since before he knew what to do with them and the stage is the only appropriate release. He looks, in press photos, like something has permanently annoyed him. On stage, apparently, this translates as electricity.

Jean Kirstein, lead guitarist. Tall, sharp-featured, with the loose-limbed confidence of someone who has been good at something long enough to stop needing to perform it. His guitar work is technically excellent in a way that sounds effortless and is visibly not, and he has a stage presence that's different from Eren's— more self-aware, more deliberate, which has its own appeal. He and Eren have a documented history of arguing about everything, constantly, and their music sounds exactly like the product of that, which is to say: full of friction.

Armin Arlert, on the keyboard. Slight, blonde and pleasant-faced in a way that press photographs don't fully capture because what photographs miss is the precision behind it— the quality of his attention, the sense that he's listening to everything slightly more carefully than anyone else in the room. He builds the atmosphere, the layer underneath everything that makes the songs feel like weather. In interviews he talks about music theory with a passion that has generated a devoted subset of fans who show up specifically for him.

Connie Springer on drums. Shaved head, built for what he does, with a smile that appears rarely in official press but completely transforms his face when it does. He plays like the kit is the only appropriate container for a very large personal energy, which tracks with everything you've ever read about him. He is documented as funny in the genuine, quick-witted way rather than the trying-to-be-funny way, which is infinitely preferable.

And then there is Reiner Braun who plays bass, and you're going to have to be honest about this— he might be the hottest man you have ever seen in your life. 

He plays the bass the way certain people carry things they've had a long time— like it's continuous with him, like the instrument is an extension of something rather than a separate object. He's built in a way that photographs gesture at and don't fully communicate: broad through the shoulders, tall, a physical presence that reorganises whatever space he's in without announcing itself. Blonde hair kept shorter at the sides, and a jaw that has generated more online discussion than is technically warranted, and you know this because you've read more of it than you're prepared to admit in full. His eyes shift between photographs— pale hazel in some and a darker amber in others, steadier in all of them than feels manageable.

He doesn't move much on stage, but he doesn't need to. While the rest of the band fills the space around him—Eren covering the full stage width, Jean leaning into the heavy passages, Connie a full-body event behind the kit— Reiner plants and plays, and somehow the stage seems organised around where he is. He looks, at all times, like he is doing exactly what he is supposed to be doing and nothing in the world would move him from it.

And now you were front row.

Dead centre. The three of you at the barrier with the stage close enough to see the setlist sheets taped to the floor, the cable runs and all the monitors set up. Sasha has both hands on the barrier and is doing a breathing exercise, while Mikasa is standing with her arms folded, looking at the stage with an expression of composed interest that she is maintaining through what appears to be genuine effort.

The arena fills behind you. Almost twenty thousand people, a sold-out Tuesday, The Scouts playing for one night only in Trost. Everyone had the particular density of an indoor crowd that you feel in the air pressure before you can see it. Someone behind you is singing the chorus of one of their songs Glass Jaw quietly to themselves, and the girl to your left has a setlist prediction written on her wrist in marker.

The house lights drop, and the collective noise of twenty thousand people changes quality. Louder and denser, charged in a way that has a physical reaction that you feel in the sternum. Sasha's hand finds your arm in the dark and grips it.

Then the bass starts. Just the bass, just Reiner, in the dark before the stage lights come up, and the sound of it goes through the floor and through the soles of your shoes and up through your entire body before your ears have caught up with it, and this—this— is why you came, this is why front row, this specific frequency in this specific part of your chest, and you close your eyes for three seconds and just feel it.

The stage lights ignite suddenly, and all five of them were already in position on stage, no countdown, no announcement. Just suddenly there, the way they always do it: Eren at the mic with one hand around the stand, his dark hair loose, the other hand in a fist at his side. Jean with his guitar up and his chin forward, a checkered shirt tied loosely around his waist as he points a finger out into the crowd. Armin was bent slightly over the keys in blue light, and Connie was behind the kit with a red bandana wrapped around his head and his sticks raised in the air.

And Reiner. Your brain processes him last, the way you always savour the best bit for last— and also the slight delay of something your nervous system needs a moment to prepare for. He's slightly back from centre, his bass hanging low, one hand on the neck of it, and there he is....in all his glory.

You have watched videos of their concerts plenty of times. You have watched more footage than you're going to tell anyone about. You have looked at press photographs and live shots and the one behind-the-scenes video the band's channel posted eighteen months ago where he's in the background adjusting his amp and says four words to Armin and walks out of frame, and you have thought about all of this more than is reasonable and none of it— none of it — has prepared you for the reality of Reiner Braun standing twenty feet away from your body and being real.

He's bigger than the videos communicate. The stage lights catch his jaw with the rough stubble and his wide shoulders draped with a dark leather jacket he has pushed up to the sleeves, and his hair has been spiked up with gel. You are standing at the barrier with both hands on the cold metal gripping it and you are in actual, genuine shock and Sasha was saying something at your ear, but you can't hear it. The show has started.

The concert lasts two hours. Eren is exactly what his stage reputation suggests— confrontational in the best possible way, the songs delivered like he's been carrying them since birth and is finally putting them down where they belong. Jean plays with the confidence of someone who has made peace with being this good at something and just lets it happen. Armin builds the atmospheric layer under everything, hands moving across the keys with a precision that looks calm and isn't. Connie is an event in himself: playing with his whole body, every hit landing like a personal victory against the drums.

You watch all of this in awe. You also watch Reiner, the way you've been watching him for two years through screens and magazines and now here, ten songs in, here's stood in front of you. Playing the way he plays in every video— grounded with the bass slung low. You watched the specific way his slender fingers move rapidly on the strings with a certainty that doesn't need to announce itself.

The next song is Glass Jaw, which was your favourite, and it starts with bass alone, which is just four bars long. Just Reiner and the intro and the crowd holding its collective breath, and you know this intro— you know where the bass line turns in the second bar and drops in the third, you know it in your body from two years of listening— and you're watching his hands and you're already feeling the turn coming before it happens, a huge grin on your face.

Then he looks up from his bass. Not a scan of the crowd or a general audience-acknowledgement glance. He looks up from his strings and his gaze moves across the front row and stops….directly on you.

Four seconds was how long it lasted (you recount them later with Sasha, reconstructing it with the thoroughness of a documentary team). But four full seconds of the Reiner Braun at one metre's distance, looking at you, and you looking back, and his expression giving away very little— but his eyes doing something else, something that doesn't have a name, something that seems register in his head.

He looks back down at his strings, and the bass line turns exactly where you knew it would. Sasha's mouth finds your ear as she grips onto you. "Did he just—"

"Yes!"

"He looked at you—"

"I know!"

"I'm just—"

"I know," you say giddily. "I know."

She subsides, physically vibrating with everything she's not saying. On your other side, Mikasa puts her hand briefly on your shoulder— one deliberate touch, nothing said.

He looks again during their performance of Over The Wall.

The bridge, specifically, you love. The part where the bass line does the low searching run that sounds like something trying to locate itself— you have listened to that run more times than is explainable— and he looks up mid-bridge and finds you without sweeping the row first, directly, like he knew where you were. Five seconds this time, and the crowd is singing the words back and the sound is enormous and inside all of that there are five seconds of looking that don't need explaining and can't be explained anyway.

You don't look away, even when he looks back at his strings and finishes the song. Your hands are steady on the barrier; but the rest of you is less steady, in ways you're not going to examine right now because the show is still happening and you need to be a person who is watching a concert rather than a person who is quietly dismantled at the front of an arena.

He looks again briefly towards the end of the song, but you try very hard not to notice this time– instead choosing to intently stare at Eren singing his heart out near you. 

Before you know it they are doing the final bow, and then the arena’s lights come on again. The crowd becoming twenty thousand individuals again, remembering themselves— the floor tide moving toward exits. The three of you still at the barrier, coming back slowly from whatever the last two hours have been.

"That," Sasha says, to no one but also everyone, "was the best show I've ever been to!"

"Yes," you agree.

"Connie Springer is—" She shakes her head. "Ugh—I need a minute."

"Take your minute."

Mikasa is adjusting her jacket and looking at the middle distance with the expression she wears when she's felt something significant and is deciding what to do with it. Her composure is otherwise perfect, which you respect enormously. You're about to say something about finding the exit when you see him.

Not a band member or security. A man coming along the barrier from stage left, moving with the particular walk of someone who knows exactly where they're going and has approximately zero interest in small talk. He's not tall— but more....compact, dark hair pushed back, grey eyes that manage to look faintly irritated at a distance— and he has a laminated lanyard around his neck and a headset and an expression that suggests he's done this particular task many times and has feelings about it.

He stops in front of you, looking at you specifically.

"You." He has a low, flat voice, efficient, the voice of someone who has edited everything unnecessary out. "What's your name?"

You tell him nervously. He nods once, like you've confirmed something. "I’m Levi. I manage The Scouts." He doesn't offer a hand. "You need to come with me."

You stare at him. "Sorry?"

"Backstage." He says it with the patience of someone rationing patience carefully. "You've been requested."

The three seconds that follow contain a very large amount of processing. "Requested?" you repeat.

"Yes."

"By—who—"

"By someone in the band," he says, with the flatness of someone who considers this sufficient information and is being generous even with that. His grey eyes move briefly to Sasha and Mikasa and back to you. "Your friends can come too, but hurry up."

Sasha makes a sound. Mikasa puts her hand on Sasha's arm and says, to Levi, with the composure of someone who is handling this for the group: "Yes. We're coming."

Levi turns and walks. It is clearly expected that you'll follow, and you do, the three of you falling into step behind him with the slightly surreal quality of people walking through a door they hadn't known existed sixty seconds ago. Backstage is a warm corridor, then another corridor, then a door with the bands name written on it.

Levi holds the door open with the air of someone who is not a doorman but is making a singular exception, and you walk through it and arrive in the room where The Scouts are, and your nervous system does something very complicated. It's a big room— a long couch, coffee table, catering that's been well-attended, a whiteboard with the setlist in three colours of marker and a sound system playing something low and not-theirs. The ambient smell of a show that's just finished: sweat and the particular air of people who've spent everything on a stage and are coming back from it.

Four of the five of them are here.

Eren Jeager is on the couch and you know it's him and your brain does the brief, jarring recalibration of a person you've only seen in images becoming three-dimensional and real, and he is— in person, he is exactly what the stage reputation suggests and also more complicated. He's sitting with one leg crossed over the other and he's looking at his phone, but there's a quality to him even at rest, a contained energy, a sense that the stillness is chosen rather than natural. He looks at the three of you the way he looks at most things, you imagine— directly, without particular warmth or its absence, just the full weight of his attention for a moment. His eyes land on Mikasa and stay there for a beat longer than they stay anywhere else, and something in his expression shifts slightly, and he looks back at his phone, and then— almost against his will, it seems— looks up again.

Jean Kirstein is at the catering table eating with the focus of someone who has just performed for two hours and has remembered that eating is a thing. He's taller up close than you'd expected, and he glances up when you come in and does a rapid assessment— you can actually see it happen in his face, his eyes taking in the three of you and forming conclusions— and then looks back at his food. Armin is in the corner on his phone, texting fast, but he looks up when you come in and his face does the thing that his press photos don't fully capture. He smiles at you. "Hi. Sorry— come in, it's fine!"

And Connie— Connie is behind the couch, drink in hand, mid-story to Eren who's clearly not listening, and he sees you and his whole face does the thing, that smile, the full one, the one from the good photos that changes everything about his face. "Hey! What’s up!" He says it like you're people he knows, like there's nothing unusual about any of this. He comes around the couch with the easy energy of someone for whom most situations are manageable. "I'm Connie."

"We know," Sasha says, and it comes out very even, which you know costs her considerably.

The smile again. "Right, obviously—sorry. Do you want anything? We got food, drinks— Levi, are they allowed to—"

"Don't ask me questions," Levi says, from his position near the door, where he has stationed himself with his arms crossed and the expression of a man supervising a situation he has mild feelings about.

"That's a yes," Connie tells you, conspiratorially.

Sasha laughs, and you watch her shoulders drop about an inch.

"Levi," Jean says, without looking up from his plate of food, "how long are—"

"Until Reiner's done," Levi interrupts him.

You don't react to that. You are a person standing in a room backstage being a normal person and you don't react to that. "Reiner will be back in a minute. He usually does this after every show," Connie explains, apparently reading your face with more accuracy than you'd intended. "Needs like ten minutes or so? He'll be out soon." He offers this with the total unselfconsciousness of someone who considers this context rather than information. "You were front row, right? Centre?"

"Yes."

"What did you think?" And he asks it with the genuine interest of someone who actually wants to know— not performing the question, but wanting the answer— and you tell him, and he listens to all of it, and you're in the middle of saying something when the far door opens.

When it opens you don't look immediately, leaving it a few seconds then you look. He was still wearing his leather jacket from the show and his hair is slightly damp and flattened at the temples from the constant lights on stage. He has a water bottle and he moves through the door with the quiet, unhurried quality he has in every piece of footage, that way of covering distance without announcing it. He scans the room, registering Connie, Jean, Armin, Eren— and then his gaze finds you. And he stops.

He stays in the doorway for one moment that you feel in your chest, before he then crosses the room. He doesn't stop to speak to anyone. He moves directly, with a gentleness to it that surprises you— nothing demanding about it, nothing of the rockstar arrival you'd half-expected— and he comes to stand in front of you and he's big, bigger even than the first sight of him on stage prepared you for.

"Hi," he says. His voice is lower in person, almost quieter. 

Every prepared version of this moment exits your body immediately. "Hi," you say.

He looks at you, his eyes trailing down your body before he looks back at your face. He was not doing it quickly however— it was like he was savouring the way you looked, engraving it into his head.  "I'm Reiner."

"I know." And then, because the sincerity of his introducing himself deserves sincerity back: "I'm—" and you say your name softly.

He nods slightly, like he's settling it somewhere. The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile— just the idea of a smile, the moment before it. "I saw you in the front row," he says.

"And then you sent your manager to get me," you tell him, which is not the most sophisticated thing you've ever said but is factually accurate.

"I did." He doesn't qualify it, doesn't wrap it in anything. Just: yes, that's what happened. "I hope that's okay— I wanted to find you after. I wasn't sure how to do it without being—" He pauses, choosing his words. "Strange."

"Sending your manager is slightly strange…." you smile.

Something shifts in his expression, that warmth again, the thing underneath the control. "Levi offered."

"I didn't offer," Levi says, from across the room.

"He was going to walk past you anyway," Reiner says, not looking away from you. You are aware in your peripheral vision that Sasha has found a position near Connie and is performing total absorption in whatever he's saying and is absolutely watching this. You are aware that your heart rate is doing something you'd prefer it not to do.

"I couldn't stop looking at you," he says honestly, and he says it the way he says things— plainly, like he's decided to be honest and the only thing left is to do it. "During the show. I usually don't even look up that much but I when I saw you...." He looks at you with the level steadiness that is the most affecting thing about him in footage and in person is approximately six times more affecting. "You knew the bass line at the beginning of Glass Jaw, I could see you waiting for it."

Something warm moves through your chest. "It's my favourite bit, and I've listened to it a lot."

"I know. I could tell." He looks at you for a moment in that unhurried, gentle way. Like being looked at by someone who is paying the right kind of attention. Something happens in his expression. That small shift again, the one from the doorway. "You know, I almost didn't go forward with that song."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought it went too far. The bass line in it and the lyrics—I thought it was too much. Too heavy." His jaw tightens slightly. “I almost pulled it back."

"What stopped you?"

"Armin." A beat. "He told me that the heavy part of it was the point." He looks at you. "He was right, of course."

"He usually is…. from what I can tell."

The corner of his mouth curls. "Yeah," he says. "He usually is."

You stand in the room with Reiner Braun and talk— about the show, about the songs and the production choices on the second album that you've had opinions about for two years and which he listens to with a focus that makes you feel, peculiarly, like you're being taken seriously rather than tolerated. He asks questions and listens to the answers in full, not waiting for his turn to speak. He doesn't perform attention— he just pays it, quietly and completely, and it's the most disarming thing, because you'd prepared for the physical reality of him and you hadn't prepared for this part of him.

At some point Connie produces a deck of cards from somewhere and a game establishes itself at the coffee table— Connie, Sasha, Jean, and eventually Armin, who turns out to be a deeply strategic card player behind his pleasant face. Eren drifts toward the table, looks at the game, looks at Mikasa sitting across it, and sits down with the air of someone who has decided this is convenient rather than chosen.

Reiner watches the table briefly and then looks back at you. "Do you smoke?" he asks.

The question is so matter-of-fact that it takes a second before you shrug. "Sometimes."

He's quiet for a moment, considering. "There's a fire escape at the end of the corridor. Goes to the roof of the arena." He looks at you carefully. "I was going to go up. If you wanted to come…."

You look at him, then at the room, warm and crowded and loud with Connie's ongoing card commentary. This is the thing about being a fan for long enough....you know the difference between the version of a person you've constructed from videos and interviews, and the version of that person in real life. They're not always close or the same as each other. Sometimes the real version is meaner than you expected, or different in ways that matter. But Reiner Braun, in person, with his warm attention and his quiet voice and the way he'd spoken so gently to you after the show; he is different in ways you hadn't anticipated and didn't know to want, and you've known him for forty minutes and something about the air around him feels, ridiculously, familiar.

"Okay," you say.

The fire escape is cold after the heat of the room.

Metal, industrial stairs, the kind that clang slightly with each step. You go up two flights in the near-dark—the city throwing enough ambient light to see by— and Reiner pushes open the door at the top and holds it for you, and you step out onto the roof of the Trost Arena and the city opens up around you.

It's a clear night. Cold, properly cold, the kind that's almost welcome after an arena full of twenty thousand people. The city spreads out below in all directions, lit orange and white, and the noise of it is present but distant, a layer below the quiet of being this high up.

Reiner comes to stand beside you at the edge of the roof. Not close, but not far. He produces a cigarette, lights it with an unhurried efficiency, and doesn't offer you one because you'd said sometimes and he'd apparently taken that as never. He stands with his forearms resting on the low wall at the roof's edge and looks out at the city, and you stand beside him and look out too.

It's easy, is the thing. It shouldn't be easy— this is a person you've known for an hour, in circumstances that don't make easy a reasonable expectation— but there's a quality to being near him that isn't difficult. Like his stillness is something you can inhabit too.

"Do you always come up to rooftops?" you ask, after a while.

"After shows, sometimes." He takes a slow drag of the cigarette before he exhales. "The room gets loud with all of us in it."

"You seem like you find loud things tiring."

He looks at you sideways. "Most loud things are," he says, and it's the frankest thing he's said, and it lands with a warmth that isn't quite a joke and isn't quite not.

Below you the arena is in the process of emptying— you can see the flow of people from up here, the small lit shapes of them moving away into the city in all directions, dispersing the way crowds do after concerts, carrying something with them that they'll keep for a while. "I've been to three of your shows," you say quietly. “Before this one tonight."

He turns to look at you more fully. "Which ones?"

"The Sina Forum, first album tour. Then twice here in Trost.”

He's quiet for a moment, thinking back. "The Sina Forum show was a Thursday, right? About a year ago?”

You look at him. "You remember that?"

"I always remember the shows that felt good." He looks back at the city. "That one did. It was a small room, for the stage we were at then, but it felt—" He pauses. "Like everyone there was there on purpose. Like no one had wandered in."

"I was there on purpose," you say with a small grin.

He looks at you again, and in the ambient light of the city his expression is the open version, the one you caught in the doorway of the room. "I know," he says, quietly.

You look at each other in the cold air at the top of the building and you are aware— with the particular clarity that sometimes comes after concerts, that open, stripped-back feeling of having been inside something loud and coming out the other side, that this is one of those moments that has a quality to it. Not coincidental, exactly. Just: you and him, and forty minutes of something that has accumulated into this rooftop and this specific silence.

"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.

"Yes."

"Why invite me backstage? There were twenty thousand people tonight."

He's quiet for a moment— not avoiding, but thinking. He taps ash over the edge of the wall and looks at his hands. Then looks at you with the full, level attention that you have decided is the most affecting thing about him, more than the jaw or the shoulder width or any of the physical details you'd catalogued from footage.

"I've been performing for over four years," he says, "and people always look at the performance you put on, or they look at the idea of the band they've built in their heads, and those are all fine, those are all normal—" He stops. "But you looked at the me and my music. You looked at the me like I was the only thing that mattered, not— the band or the image of me people see." He holds your gaze. "I don't know how else to explain it. You looked like you were hearing my music.”

Something in your chest does something complicated. "I was," you tell him. "I always have been. Since I first heard your music I've felt such a deep connection to it.”

"I know." He says it again, that quiet certainty, I know, like your being heard has been apparent to him from the start. He drops the cigarette and grinds it under his boot and then doesn't move away from where he's standing, close to you, his forearms still on the wall. The cold has gotten colder, and you're not moving either.

"Reiner," you say.

"Yeah."

"This is all…..very strange."

"Yes," he agrees, without defensiveness, without performing casual. "It is."

"I've been—" You look at the city. Look back at him. He's watching you with an expression that is patient and warm and underneath it something that isn't quite patient, something that would do almost anything you asked, and you've known him for one hour and you can see that and it's terrifying and it isn't. "I've listened to your music and been a fan for two years now—”

"I know."

"I feel like I know you. Which is— I know that's not true really—"

"No," he says, and his voice is very gentle. "I feel it too, the connection.” He says it simply, the way he says everything that costs him something— plainly, because he's already decided to be honest and the only thing left is to say it. "I know that's crazy as we just met, but I know what this is and isn't. But when you came backstage to me tonight, I knew I was—" He exhales. "I don't usually….This isn't something I usually do.”

"Its okay.” you assure him, which is the thing between the two of you tonight, this strange mutual knowing that has no reasonable explanation.

He turns to face you more fully. The city is lit and cold and below you somewhere Sasha is beating Connie at cards and Mikasa is trying not to look at Eren and the arena is emptying, and up here Reiner Braun is looking at you like you're a song he's been trying to write toward for a long time.

You think about being eighteen and hearing one of their songs for the first time through borrowed earbuds and not knowing yet what it would matter. You think about two years and three shows before tonight. And finally, you think: fuck it.

You close the distance between you both quickly. He doesn't move for one breath— complete stillness, until he relaxes and his hand comes up to the side of your face, warm, careful, and he kisses you back with a gentleness that shouldn't surprise you and does anyway, that shouldn't undo two years of careful fan-appropriate distance in approximately four seconds and does that too. His other hand finds your waist and settles there like it's been there before, like this is familiar in the way the music has always been familiar, like something already known coming clear at last.

He pulls back, just far enough. His hand is still warm at your jaw.

"Hi," he says again quietly, which is what he said in the room backstage half an hour ago, and you understand now that it was always going toward this, that the whole night has been one long sentence arriving at this word.

"Hi," you say.

Below you, the city. Above you, the clear cold dark. His hand at your face, warm enough to feel through the cold, and the expression on his face, looking at you like you're something he'd do anything to keep in the room. The cold is still freezing but his hands are warm and he's looking at you with an expression that is completely unguarded, the most unguarded thing you've seen on his face all night, and underneath it something that reads— clearly, without interpretation— like he would do anything you asked. Like you could ask for anything and he would find a way to give it to you, and he's known you for an hour, and it should be terrifying but it isn't.

"One night only," you say to him, because it's true. Because it should be said and acknowledged.

"I know," he says.

"You're on tour."

"I know."

"I don't— I'm not saying this to—"

"I know," he says, and moves his thumb slightly against your cheekbone, and looks at you like one night is what's available and he intends to be entirely present for it. "I know what this is."

You look at him. "Okay," you say.

"Okay," he says.

The city lights below glittered like scattered diamonds on black velvet as you stood on the rooftop of the arena, the wind whipping strands of hair across your face, but you barely felt the cold. All you could feel was Reiner's thumb stroking your cheekbone, his other hand burning through the thin fabric of your shirt where it rested at your waist.

One night. That's what this was. One night with the rockstar you'd worshipped from afar since you were eighteen, watching him from crowds just like the one that had filled the arena below hours ago. Now here you were, alone with him on this rooftop, his band and your friends oblivious inside.

His eyes—those intense dark eyes you'd seen in a thousand magazine spreads and on screens—were fixed on yours. "You're shivering," he murmured, though it wasn't entirely from the cold.

Before you could respond, his lips crashed against yours again. There was nothing tentative about it this time—no gentle testing, no slow build. It was desperate, hungry, like he'd been waiting years for this kiss despite having only met you less than two hours ago. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with practiced confidence that made your knees weak.

You tangled your fingers in his blonde hair, slightly damp from sweat despite the cool air. The rooftop door was still propped open, allowing muffled sounds from inside to drift out—faint laughter and the distant thrum of someone testing equipment. Anyone could walk out at any moment— and that thought should have terrified you, but instead it sent a thrill straight to your core.

Reiner's hands roamed your body with growing urgency. One slid up your back beneath your shirt, his calloused fingertips, rough from years of plucking bass strings—scraping deliciously against your skin. The other hand moved from your waist to cup your breast through your bra, his thumb circling your nipple through the thin lace fabric until it pebbled into a tight point.

"God," he breathed against your mouth, "I've been thinking about this."

You pulled back slightly, breathless. “We only met—"

"—an hour ago, I know." His eyes were dark with need. "But the minute saw you in the front row I couldn't look away. The way you moved, bouncing around….had my thoughts going crazy. I told Levi I had to meet you."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. His lips found yours again, softer this time but no less intense. His hand slipped from your breast down to the waistband of your jeans— fingers toying with the button. "Is this okay?" he asked, his voice rough with need.

You nodded, unable to form words. This was actually happening. The Reiner Braun—famous, talented, devastatingly handsome rockstar Reiner Braun from The Scouts—was about to undress you on a rooftop.

The button popped open, his knuckles brushing against your stomach as his fingers dipped lower, tracing the lace edge of your panties. You gasped as his thumb found your clit through the fabric, circling slowly, teasingly.

"So wet already," he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck. "Have you been like this all night? Getting wet while watching me on stage?”

You could only moan in response, your head falling back as he continued his maddeningly slow circles against you. His other hand worked your jeans down over your hips, the cold air hitting your exposed skin for a moment before his warm palm covered you again.

"Let me feel you properly," he whispered, and then his fingers were sliding beneath your lace panties, parting your folds gently. You cried out as one long finger entered you, then another as his thumb returned to your clit, and the combination made your knees buckle beneath you.

Reiner caught you with his free arm, holding you against him as his fingers began to move inside you. That article you read online was right— bassist's hands knew exactly what they were doing down there. His fingers curled upward, finding that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes. The rhythm was perfect, building gradually until you were moaning and panting against his shoulder.

"Please," you managed to gasp out, "I need..."

"What do you need?" His voice was low, husky. "Tell me, please….”

You looked up at him, at the desperate hunger in his eyes that mirrored your own. "I want to ride you."

Something wild flashed in his expression. He quickly shed his leather jacket, laying it on the concrete ground before unbuckling his jeans. His cock sprang free, thick and already hard, glistening with precum. You stared for a moment— this was really happening, you were really about to—

"Like this?” He asked, lying back on his jacket and guiding you gently over him. The cold concrete bit into your knees through the leather, but you barely noticed— all you could focus on was the heat radiating from his body, the way his hands gripped your hips hard as you positioned yourself above him.

You sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect fullness that made you both moan loudly as you sank down fully. For a moment you just sat there, adjusting and feeling the incredible sensation of being completely filled by him.

Then you began to move. At first it was slow, experimental circles that had his fingers digging into your hips as he whimpered beneath you. But soon you found a rhythm, rising and falling in a steady cadence that matched the distant bass thrum still audible from inside. The cold air kissed your exposed skin, but inside you were burning— every nerve ending alight with pleasure.

Reiner watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his hands guiding your movements. "God, look at you," he breathed. "So fucking beautiful."

You leaned forward so your chest was against his, changing the angle— and cried out as he hit somewhere deeper inside you. His hand reached in between you and his thumb found your clit again, rubbing in time with your movements. The pressure built rapidly, a tight coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter.

"I'm close," you panted, your movements becoming more frantic. "Reiner, I’m—"

"F-fuck—me too," he gritted out, his hips rising desperately to meet yours. "Fuck, where do you want me to—"

"Inside," you begged, cutting him off. "Please, come inside me…"

His eyes widened, his grip tightening almost painfully on your hips as he continued drilling into you. “Fuck—are you sure? Because if you say that again—"

"Inside," you repeated. "I want to feel you come inside me."

That was all it took. With a guttural groan, he thrust up into you one last time, his body going rigid as he came. The feeling of him pulsing inside you triggered your own orgasm, waves of pleasure crashing over you so intensely you saw sparks of white. You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing heavily. For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the distant city noises below. His arms came around you, holding you close despite the cold.

"Wow," you finally managed to say against his chest.

He chuckled weakly, his fingers stroking your hair. "Yeah. Wow."

The backstage room is exactly as you left it. Sasha and Connie locked in what appears to be a deeply personal card game, Armin advising from the sideline, Jean on the couch with a plate of food that Mikasa was also picking from, and Eren was asleep with the commitment of someone who has decided the evening is over.

Nobody looks up when you walk in, and Levi, from his corner, does not move his eyes from his phone. "You two were gone a while," he says.

"We know," Reiner replies.

You both find two empty seats on the sofa. Connie glances up, clocks the both of you, and looks back at his cards with a smile he doesn't quite manage to contain. Sasha finds your eyes across the table and communicates approximately thirty things without moving her face.

You give her nothing as Reiner sits beside you, very close, and picks up the spare cards from the deck at the edge of the table. He turns it over once in his hands to look at them before placing them close to his chest.

"So...how do you feel," he says quietly, "about tour buses?"

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