#aot au

[straberry-frog]

Erwin and Levi au 4’th season

[lucyyx3x]

Lab Partner ✦ Attack on Titan ✦

Football Captain! Reiner Braun x Reader .ᐟ University AU .ᐟ         

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                  [ NSFW warning .ᐟ 18+ ]

Football Captain! Reiner Braun x F. Reader (oneshot) 

summary: When you get football captain Reiner Braun as your lab partner at university, you expect four weeks of awkward small talk. What you don’t expect is for those four weeks to turn into something neither of you saw coming...

a/n: Reiner as a football captain in a college AU.... That's it. I cant stop writing them. Enjoy everyone and let me know what ya think :) <3

wc: 9.5K

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Professor Hange had a system for pairing students that involved a jar, folded slips of paper, and what she described as the beautiful chaos of randomness— which was academic language for I couldn't be bothered assigning partners and everyone in the room knew it.

"The universe decides!" she announced, shaking the jar with the enthusiasm of someone who'd had too much coffee before a nine AM lecture, her goggles pushed up on her forehead from whatever she'd been doing before this. "Not me. Not who sits next to who. The universe!"

You were three rows from the front of Lab 104 with your notebook open to a blank page, because you were a psychology student doing a compulsory natural science elective and you'd been told bacteria growth was the simplest to understand, and so far Professor Hange had been talking for forty minutes and you still weren't entirely sure what the project was.

"Partners will be read out," Hange continued, fishing in the jar. "Four weeks you will have to work with your partner. Bacteria cultures— you grow them, you watch them, you log the data, you write it up. Simple and beautiful! Like life." She peered at the first slip. "Okay. First pair—"

You wrote bacteria cultures in your notebook and underlined it.

"Reiner Braun," Hange read, "and—" she squinted at the second slip and looked up, scanning the room, "—you. Third row."

You looked up. At the very back of the lecture theatre— where the university’s football team had apparently claimed the last two rows as their territory some years ago— a broad-shouldered blonde looked up from his notebook.

He wore the university's red and white varsity jacket over a dark shirt, and even sitting down the size of him was the first thing you registered, the kind of build that made the seat around him look like it had been shrunk. His eyes found yours for a fraction of a second. Then, almost immediately, he looked away. Not dismissively…..more like he'd realised he'd been caught looking.

You looked back down at your notebook. When Hange dismissed everyone to meet their partners, the room erupted into conversation.

You were pretending to reread your notes when someone stopped beside your desk. The chair next to yours scraped carefully against the floor, and you looked up.

Up close, Reiner Braun somehow seemed even bigger. His shoulders nearly brushed yours despite leaving what was probably more than enough space between the chairs. He lowered himself into the seat cautiously, almost testing whether it would survive his weight, before resting both hands on the desk.

There was something oddly gentle about the way he moved.

"Hey." His voice was lower than you'd expected. "I'm Reiner."

"I know." The words escaped before you thought about them. "Hange announced it to the entire room."

"...Right." His ears pinkened almost instantly as a tiny laugh escaped him through his nose. "I'm not—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not very good at meeting people."

That surprised you. Not because he seemed arrogant, but because you'd assumed someone who captained the university football team spent half their life talking to strangers. Instead he was looking determinedly somewhere around your shoulder, like making eye contact required conscious effort.

You found yourself studying him while he wasn't looking, to his strong jaw where a few day's worth of blond stubble catching the fluorescent light. You looked down to notice he had long fingers with calloused knuckles— and when he finally glanced over, his eyes caught yours so suddenly you forgot to look away.

"So..." you began. "You're the football captain?"

"...Yeah."

"How do you give motivational speeches if saying hello nearly killed you?"

For a second he simply stared, then one corner of his mouth twitched. "That's different."

"How?"

"I know them." His smile widened just enough to soften every sharp edge of his face. "It's easier when you already know people."

"You'll know me in four weeks," you said. "We're growing bacteria together…..that's pretty intimate."

Slowly and reluctantly a small smile appeared, and it rearranged his face so completely that you had to physically not react to it, then he laughed. Short and real and slightly surprised at itself. You exchanged numbers, and you told yourself it was just for the project.

You told Sasha about it that evening. Sasha was your roommate, your best friend, and possibly the most energetic person you’d ever met— which in a first year hall was a genuinely competitive category. She was cross-legged on her bed working through what appeared to be her fifth snack of the day when you came in and dropped your bag.

"How was the science thing?" she mumbled through a face full of cereal.

"I got paired with the football captain," you groaned.

She stopped chewing. "Reiner Braun?"

"You know him?"

"Everyone knows him," she said. "He's like, the only reason our college ever wins those stupid football tournaments. Was he huge up close?"

"I guess?" 

Sasha made a sound that communicated volumes, and then went back to eating. You lay on your bed and looked at the ceiling and told yourself that the fact that you'd thought about the way he'd smiled three distinct times since leaving the lecture hall was completely normal. Your phone suddenly buzzed next to you. 

Reiner: this is reiner from bio :) hange sent the project brief, did you get it?

You: hey, yeah I got it. also i assumed this was reiner from bio. I don't actually know any other reiners….

A minute passed before the typing bubble appeared.

Reiner: fair

A few seconds later:

Reiner: we need to get everything set up by thursday. you free wednesday afternoon?

You: lecture until 3. after that?

Reiner: practice finishes at 4. labs at 4:30?

You: Sounds good.

You: See you then, Braun.

His only reply was a thumbs-up, and for some reason, that made you smile.

"What are you smiling at on your phone?" Sasha calls from the other side of the room.

"Good night, Sasha."

The Wednesday lab session was meant to be an hour. It lasted three. You grabbed a table by the window that overlooked the courtyard, where the oak had gone deep red and was dropping leaves onto the stone path below. Reiner arrived four minutes after you, slightly out of breath, still in a training kit— dark joggers, a hoodie, and his hair damp at the temples. He sat down, said "sorry, overran" and looked like he meant it.

"You could have showered," you remind him.

"Didn't want to be late," he said, and opened the project brief. You then watched him read it, all of it. Every bullet point, every footnote, the supplementary guidance at the bottom that nobody else was going to read. He read it the way he apparently did everything— fully, without skimming, like he'd decided this was the task and so he was going to do the task. 

Not because the project was complicated— Hange had meant it when she said it was simple. Bacteria cultures on agar plates from the biology prep room, check them every two days, log the growth rate, write up the pattern. As Reiner read through the brief he said, very seriously: "So we're basically just watching things happen slowly and writing it down."

"That's also what therapy is," you tell him.

He looked up. "Are you going to make everything about psychology?" 

"It's what I'm paying twenty thousand a year to learn," you remind him. "So probably yes."

"Fair enough," he said, and went back to the brief with the heavy, methodical focus you'd already noticed. In the prep room he sanitised his hands without being asked, checked each label twice, followed every step in order with eased practice.

"You've done this before?" you questioned him.

He shook his head. "No."

You snorted slightly. "Well, you look like you have."

"My roommate Bertholdt's a biology major." Something about the way he said it made you smile. "I’ve seen him do things like this before. He gets annoyed when people cut corners."

"So you've absorbed his habits?"

"I guess….?" He shrugged, almost sheepishly. "I've always figured if someone knows more than me, I should probably pay attention."

It was such an uncomplicated answer that it caught you off guard. By the time the cultures had been sealed, labelled and tucked away in the storage fridge, the conversation had drifted somewhere beyond bacteria.

"So," you said as the two of you settled back down at one of the tables, "tell me about football."

He blinked. "You actually want to know?"

"I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

For a second he looked genuinely surprised. Then, almost cautiously, he started talking. At first it was the basics, The sort of explanation he'd probably given dozens of people who'd asked out of politeness.

But somewhere along the way, he forgot to keep it simple. "Every play's basically a hypothesis," he said, leaning forward so he was closer to you without seeming to realise he was doing it. "You think something's going to happen, then you've got maybe two seconds to figure out if you were wrong or not."

"So football's just……one big science experiment?"

"...Pretty much."

There was something different about him now. The hesitancy between you two had melted away without either of you noticing. His voice carried more confidence, his hands moved as he spoke, and every now and then he'd catch himself rambling, stop abruptly, apologise, and you'd immediately tell him to keep going. You found yourself liking this version of him— mainly because it felt like the version he only showed people once he'd decided they were worth talking to.

At some point the project notes were pushed aside. By the time you looked up again, the evening light beyond the windows had faded into darkness.

Reiner checked his watch and sighed. "I should….uh— probably go."

"What time you got practice tomorrow?"

"Six."

You stared at him. "In the morning?" He nodded as you scoffed. "That's inhumane."

"It's football."

"You all need help."

A laugh escaped him— soft, genuine, completely unforced, and you were beginning to realise it was your favourite sound.

The two of you left together, the cold evening air meeting you the moment the library doors slid open. Students wandered across campus in little groups, bundled up against the autumn chill, while the lamps lining the paths cast warm pools of light across the pavement. For a moment you both lingered at the top of the steps.

"This was..." Reiner rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the words. "...really nice." The slight surprise in his voice made you wonder how many study sessions he'd expected to spend sitting in awkward silence. 

"We should do it again next week," you smile at him. 

He nodded almost immediately. "Yeah." A pause. "I'd like that."

"So would I."

You split off in opposite directions, and you'd barely reached the end of the path before your phone vibrated.

Reiner: get home safe :) 

You looked down at the message longer than you probably should have.

You: You too, Braun.

The texts didn't stop. They started project-adjacent and became, without either of you addressing the transition, just talking about anything and everything. He sent you a photo of the campus at sunrise one morning— the athletics field, all mist and early light— captioned simply thought you'd like this :). You did like it. You told him so and didn't examine what it meant that he'd thought of you specifically at six AM standing on a foggy football field.

He was funnier over text, maybe even flirty sometimes. The shyness that showed up in person was mostly absent in messages, and what came through instead was dry and self-aware and occasionally sharp enough that you laughed out loud in your room or blush at things he said. He asked good questions. Not conversational-filler questions— real ones, the kind that meant he'd been listening and was curious about the answer.

You were, you admitted to yourself somewhere around the end of week two, starting to like him. Not just as a lab partner, not just as someone interesting to talk to— not even as a friend. It was that specific, inconvenient kind of liking where you caught yourself thinking about him in the gaps of your day and not minding that you were.

You hadn't done anything about it. You were biding your time, which was a thing you did— watching, waiting, making sure you had the full picture before you moved. What you had so far was a man who sent you sunrise photos and went pink when you complimented him and was building towards something he didn't quite have the words for yet.

The second lab session was quieter than the first.

He'd arrived looking like the week had been heavy on him— not visibly, not to most people, but you'd been paying attention long enough now to read the specific stillness of him when something was sitting on him versus the comfortable stillness of someone who was fine.

Halfway through logging the culture data he put his pen down.

You glance sideways at him. "......You alright?"

"Yeah," he sighed. Then: "No. Not really."

"Okay," you said carefully. “Well….what’s up?” 

He looked at the table. "I get these— periods," he said, carefully. "Where everything feels wrong even when nothing's technically wrong. Like I'm not good enough no matter what I do. How well we played, how well training went, what grades I got— it doesn't matter. I’m still the worst person in the room." He paused. "I've had depression since I was about sixteen. It's managed. I have a therapist. But sometimes it comes back around for a while and I can't— I can't make myself believe that I'm doing okay."

You didn't say anything for a moment. You let it settle. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you with my problems," he stampers. "I just—"

"Reiner," you interrupt him firmly. "It doesn't bother me." You looked at him steadily. "You just told me something you're struggling with. That's not a bother to me at all. That's just— being honest with someone."

Reiner exhaled. "I don't do that very often," he admits.

"I know," you said. "I've noticed."

"What else have you noticed?" he said, and it came out slightly differently than a casual question— like he actually wanted to know, like the answer mattered to him.

"That you hold yourself to a standard nobody set for you," you reply. "That you're the hardest person on yourself. That you're genuinely kind and you think it makes you look soft and it doesn't." You held his gaze. "And that you're funnier than you let most people see."

The silence, followed by a slight chuckle from Reiner. "I don't know what to do with you," he admits quietly. Not a complaint….but maybe something else.

"You don't have to do anything with me," you smile. "Just let me be your friend."

He looked at you for a long moment with the amber eyes soft and a little undone. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

Hange gave you an A-minus on the project and wrote in the margin: excellent pattern recognition, strong analysis. 

P.S. you two should get coffee and I say that as a scientist who has observed compelling evidence…..

You showed Reiner the paper. He read the margin note and went pink immediately, which was by now one of your favourite things he did.

"She's extremely unprofessional," he groans.

"Hmm, but she's accurate.” 

He looked at you. "Yeah," he said. "She is."

"So," you said.

"So," he repeats.

"Coffee?"

The slow smile. The reluctant, real one. "Coffee," he said.

Coffee was at the small place on the edge of campus that had mismatched chairs and good pastries and was never too loud to talk. You sat across from him at a table by the window and he wrapped both hands around his mug the way large people did with small cups and you thought, not for the first time: he is genuinely very attractive and this is becoming a more pressing problem by the day.

"Can I ask you something?" you blurt out.

"You always ask before you ask things," he said. "Just ask."

"Do you like it?" you ask. "The captain thing. The whole—" you gestured, "—being the face of the team and basically the university as well."

He considered it honestly, the way he considered most things. "I like that it matters to them," he said. "I like that when I say something before a game it changes how they go out there. That part's real." He looked at the coffee. "The rest of it— the recognition, the social stuff, everyone knowing your name— I could live without that."

"What do you actually want?" you asked him. "After all this."

He looked up. "Something quiet," he said, simply. "I want something that's just mine. Not—" He paused. "Not performing for people all the time."

"Then build that.”

"It's not—"

"I know it's not simple," you admit. "But you're already describing a life you actually want. That's already the first step done.”

He looked at you with the expression he sometimes had— slightly undone, like you'd said the thing he'd been thinking and hadn't expected to hear from outside his own head. "How do you do that?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Say exactly the right thing.” 

"Psychology degree," you smile. "And I've been paying attention to you specifically."

The pink flush appeared across his cheeks. "Specifically?" He repeated.

He took another sip of his coffee, clearly deciding that was safer than looking at you. You smiled to yourself. There was something about watching Reiner get flustered that you'd discovered you enjoyed far too much.

The conversation moved on eventually, drifting through easier things. Classes. The ridiculous price of coffee on campus. Reiner told you about an upcoming practice, and you asked enough questions that he eventually started explaining the differences between the offensive and defensive formations again, drawing little diagrams on the paper napkin between you.

You pretended to understand……mostly. By the time you left the café, the afternoon had slipped towards evening. You walked together for a while, neither of you in any particular hurry to split off. There was something easy about being beside him now.

A month ago, he'd barely been able to introduce himself without looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him. You were starting to wonder when, exactly, you'd stopped thinking of him as your lab partner. You reached the path where you normally went separate ways.

"Hey," Reiner said.

You turned. "Yeah?"

He had his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. For a moment he looked like he was debating whether or not to say whatever had just occurred to him.

Then he glanced at you.

"We've got a game Saturday." His gaze dropped briefly to the pavement. "It's a home game."

There was another pause. You waited. "And..." He cleared his throat. "If you're free, you could come."

You raised an eyebrow. "Could?"

He looked faintly embarrassed. "I mean— if you want to."

"Are you asking me to come?"

"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I think I'm asking."

You smiled. "Then yes."

His head lifted. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'd like to see you play."

The smile that appeared on his face was immediate, but not the shy little smile he'd been giving you since you'd met. This one was broad and almost boyish, lighting up his whole face before he seemed to realise how obvious his reaction was. "Okay."

"You sound surprised?"

"I'm not." He laughed quietly. "I just wasn't sure you'd actually want to come."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "You don't exactly strike me as a ‘football’ person."

"I'm not…"

"Then why come?"

You looked at him. "Because you asked me."

That stopped him— and for a second, he simply stared at you, the colour returning to his cheeks. "Oh."

You smiled as you turned to start walking away. "See you Saturday, Braun."

"Yeah." He watched you walk away for several seconds before finally turning in the opposite direction.You didn't make it more than halfway across campus before your phone buzzed, and you pulled it out to see who it was. 

Reiner: btw

Reiner: the game starts at 1 :)

You smiled.

You: I'll remember.

Three dots appeared.

Reiner: wear something warm

You: Is that your professional football advice?

Reiner: yes

You: very helpful.

You spent the rest of the week looking forward to Saturday far more than you were willing to admit. You'd told yourself all week that you were only going because Reiner had asked you to. It wasn't a date— It wasn't anything. It was a home game, and you were going to sit in the stands, watch your friend play, and then go home.

That was the sensible interpretation, but it was also becoming increasingly difficult to believe. You forced Sasha to come with you, the two of you joining the stream of students making their way through the gates. The entire campus seemed to have turned red and white for the afternoon. Flags hung from the railings, people wore Warriors jerseys over their coats, and music thumped through the speakers above the entrance as the crowd filtered into the stands. You found seats roughly halfway up, with a good view of the field, and you were still taking your coat off when the teams came out. Your eyes found Reiner straight away, and for a moment, you forgot that you'd seen him before.

You'd spent the last month sitting across from him in labs and cafés, watching him push his blonde hair back when he was concentrating, watching his hands move over pages of notes, watching that reluctant smile appear whenever you managed to make him laugh.

You'd seen him in hoodies, his varsity jacket— you'd seen him looking tired and half-asleep at eight in the morning, but none of those things had prepared you for him in a football uniform.

The red Warriors jersey stretched across his shoulders and chest, the white number standing out against the fabric. His arms were bare from the elbows down, thick with muscle, and dark athletic tape wrapped around his wrists. The uniform trousers only made the size of his legs more obvious, built from years of training rather than anything remotely subtle. His helmet was tucked beneath one arm as he jogged onto the field, and his expression had already changed.

He looked serious, focused and completely at ease, and you stared straight at him. Beside you, Sasha settled into her seat and followed your line of sight and let out a small giggle, but you didn't look at her. Your attention was already fixed on Reiner.

He jogged towards the rest of the team, exchanging a few words with one of the other players before putting his helmet on. He adjusted the chin strap, rolled his shoulders once, then pulled his gloves tighter around his hands. You'd spent weeks getting to know him as the quiet guy who sometimes struggled to meet your eyes, and now you were sitting in a crowded stadium watching that same man prepare to play football in front of hundreds of people. And, unfortunately, he looked incredibly fucking hot doing it. The whistle blew, and the game began.

You'd listened to enough of Reiner's explanations that you could actually follow what was happening now. You understood the formations and the basics, but understanding the game didn't make watching him any less distracting. If anything, it made it worse.

Because now you understood what you were looking at.

Reiner wasn't simply big, but he was powerful. The first time he collided with an opposing player, the sound carried through the stadium, and he drove forward with enough force to send the other player stumbling backwards, arms wrapping around him as Reiner forced him off his line before throwing him aside. You actually leaned forward, your eyes following him.

He was fast, too, that was the part you hadn't expected. For someone built like him, he moved with startling speed, covering the field in long, powerful strides. His jersey sleeves pulled tight around his upper arms whenever he moved, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath the gloves and tape. Sweat had already begun to darken the hair at his temples despite the cold, and every time he pulled his helmet off during a break, his blonde hair was flattened messily against his forehead.

You were beginning to understand why people came to these games, as It probably wasn't entirely about the sport....at least, it wasn't for you anymore. By the end of the first quarter, you were invested enough to understand why the crowd kept reacting before you did. A cheer would go up and you'd immediately look for Reiner, following him through the mass of red jerseys until you found him again.

At one point, he came off the field and pulled his helmet off. His hair was damp and messy, pushed back with one hand as he bent forward, resting his palms against his thighs while he caught his breath. His chest rose and fell beneath the jersey, and his jaw was tight with concentration. You had to consciously remind yourself to look somewhere else, but you failed.

The game became more physical as the second quarter progressed. Tackles came harder. Players collided in violent bursts, helmets knocking together, bodies crashing into the turf. Reiner seemed almost impossible to move.

Then, halfway through the second quarter, Reiner looked up and your eyes met briefly. He was still wearing his helmet, so you couldn't see all of his expression, but you saw his eyes soften, and the corner of his mouth lifted. You smiled before you could stop yourself. 

The stadium erupted when the Warriors won the game, and you were standing before you realised it. Your hands were clapping with everyone else's, your heart pounding, your eyes fixed on Reiner as he pushed himself upright after the final touchdown. You stood with the rest of the crowd, applauding as Reiner was surrounded by his teammates, laughing now, helmet tucked beneath his arm.

He looked happy, really happy, and you couldn't stop smiling. You stayed until the crowd began to thin, eventually making your way towards the exit with Sasha beside you, and you'd barely stepped outside when your phone buzzed.

You already knew who it was.

Reiner: you still here?

You smiled.

You: yeah, but just leaving now

Reiner: oh okay

Reiner: i wanted to say thank you

You: for what?

Reiner: coming

You looked back towards the stadium behind you.

You: you played really well, Braun.

Reiner: you actually watched?

You: I was there, wasn't I?

You: I even understand what a touchdown is now.

Reiner: wow

Reiner: i'm impressed

You smiled at the screen.

You: seriously, though. You were really good.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Reiner: that means a lot coming from you :)

You tucked your phone into your coat pocket, but before you could put it away, Sasha spoke beside you. "I'm going out with Mikasa tonight." 

You looked over. "Oh?"

"Yeah. We're grabbing food and then probably going back to her place." She shrugged. "You coming?"

You thought about it for a second. "I think I'll stay in."

Sasha gave you a look but didn't comment, already turning her attention back to her phone as your own phone buzzed again.

Reiner: what you doing tonight?

You looked at the message for a moment.

You: actually, my roommate's going out with a friend

You: so I'll have the room to myself

Three dots appeared. Disappeared, then appeared again.

Reiner: oh

You: I was thinking...

You hesitated before typing the next message.

You: If you don't have anything planned, you could come over?

The reply came so quickly you almost laughed.

Reiner: yes

Reiner: i'd like that

You: you don't have to say yes just because I asked lol

Reiner: i'm not

You: You have a winning game to celebrate thou

Reiner: i know

You: and your teammates will probably be going out

Reiner: probably

You: ......

You: so you're sure you'd rather come to my dorm?

Reiner: yes

Reiner: definitely

You smiled.

You: You don't want to go celebrate with everyone?

Reiner: i already celebrated

Reiner: we won

Reiner: now i want to see you

You stared at the screen and your heart gave an annoyingly enthusiastic little beat.

You: you just saw me lol

Reiner: i know

Reiner: but that was like

Reiner: across a stadium

Reiner: doesn't count

You laughed softly.

You: You're needy huh

Reiner: maybe

Reiner: is that bad?

You smiled.

You: No :)

Reiner: good

Reiner: because i'd rather hang out with you

You read that twice.

You: okay then, Braun. come over

Reiner: okay :)

Reiner: what are we doing?

You: I don't know. Watching a movie?

Reiner: your choice

You smiled down at the screen.

You: What time?

Reiner: whenever you want

You: Seven?

Reiner: seven works

A second later:

Reiner: see you at seven?

You smiled.

You: See you at seven.

Reiner: okay

Reiner: looking forward to it

You locked your phone and slipped it into your pocket, trying unsuccessfully to hide the smile that had settled across your face.

He showed up a little after seven in the red varsity jacket he'd worn to the game, thrown over a dark shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the shower he'd taken after the final whistle. When you opened the door, you had to remind yourself that this was supposed to be a normal evening between two friends and not an opportunity to stand there staring at him like you'd forgotten how people worked.

"Hi," he said, giving you that small, slightly shy smile you'd become embarrassingly fond of.

"Hi. Come in."

He stepped inside, glancing around your dorm room before looking back at you. "You weren't joking about the movie?"

"I never joke,” you try to say in your most serious tone. 

"You absolutely do."

"Okay, sometimes."

He laughed under his breath as he took off his jacket, and you caught yourself watching the movement of his shoulders beneath his shirt before forcing your attention elsewhere. "I brought snacks," he said, holding up a bag.

You frown at him. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

You smiled. "Well, that's very thoughtful."

"I can be thoughtful."

"I've noticed."

He gave you a look at that, the faint pink already appearing at the back of his neck. "Are you going to make me regret coming?"

"Hm, not yet."

You settled on the floor in front of your bed with a pile of snacks between you, your laptop balanced against a couple of books so you could both see the screen. Reiner seemed perfectly content sitting on the floor, his back resting against the side of your bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. You selected a film neither of you had seen before, and for the first twenty minutes you actually watched it...mostly.

You were increasingly aware of the fact that Reiner was sitting close enough that your knees occasionally brushed when either of you moved. Every time it happened, you told yourself not to make anything of it, and eventually he reached into the popcorn bowl at the exact same time you did. Your fingers bumped.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You don't have to apologise every time you touch me," you tell him.

He paused. His expression had gone slightly blank, as though his brain had suddenly stopped processing the film entirely. "I—" He cleared his throat. "Right."

You smiled and took a piece of popcorn. Outside the window the campus was doing its Saturday evening thing— voices from somewhere, music from another building, the ordinary ambient noise of a university that didn't stop. In here it was warm and still and you were aware, in the specific way you'd been aware for weeks now, of exactly how close he was sitting.

He looked up at that— caught somewhere between embarrassed and something warmer— and you smiled at him and watched the pink happen and thought: I really do like him, even though it is extremely inconvenient….but I don't care—

"Can I say something?" he said suddenly, making you jump. 

"You can always say something," you said.

He looked at his hands. Then at the wall. Then, because there was nowhere else to look, at you. "When I told you," he said, carefully. "About the depression, you know the not-feeling-good-enough thing." He exhaled. "I don't tell people that. I've told Bertholdt, my therapist, and that's basically it." He paused. "I told you after knowing you for three weeks."

"I remember," you nod.

"I've been thinking about why," he said. "And I think it's because you made me feel—" He searched for the right word. "Safe. You just said okay and waited and it didn't push me for an answer. You didn't look at me differently afterward." He looked at you steadily. "Nobody does that. People either make it weird or they get uncomfortable or they tell me I seem fine, which is the worst one." He shook his head slightly. "You just— you just kept talking to me the same way, and gave me a new perspective." He was quiet for a moment. "I think that was when I knew."

"Knew what?" you asked gently.

He looked at you with the amber eyes direct and warm and not managing anything, nothing held back. "That I liked you," he said. "Properly. Not just— not just she's interesting or she's hot or whatever…..not that you're not hot— obviously you are......Anyway, what I'm trying to say is.....I actually like you— a lot. In the way that's been getting harder to ignore for about three weeks."

The room was very quiet. You looked at him. You'd been waiting for this— had known it was coming, had felt it building in every text and every time you met up and every time his eyes found yours across a room— and now that it was here you felt not the anxiety of a situation unresolved but the simple, warm certainty of one that had been decided for a while and was only now being said out loud.

"Reiner," you whisper. "I like you too."

Something shifted in his face. "And then you told me about your depression and struggles," you said, "That only made me feel it more. I thought— that's someone who is trying very hard even though it scares him. And I think that's one of the bravest things a person can do." You held his gaze. The pink was everywhere now. He looked like he was working out whether the thing he wanted to do was allowed— so you saved him waiting and leaned across the space between you and kissed him.

One second of stillness— the specific stillness of someone whose brain had caught up faster than his body— and then his hand came to your face, warm and careful, and he kissed you back slowly and deliberately, the way he did most things when they mattered to him, like he was paying full attention, like he wanted to get it right. When you pulled back his hand stayed where it was, his thumb against your cheekbone, his eyes still closed for a moment. Then they opened— golden, warm and slightly dazed.

"Was that okay?" you said, your voice slightly strained. 

The smile came— all at once, the real unguarded one that changed everything about his face, and he laughed, short and disbelieving. "Yeah," he said. "That was— yeah." His hand moved from your cheek to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and the gentleness of it, the specific care of it, made you understand that this was just how he was going to be with you. Careful and attentive….the same way he was careful with everything that mattered to him. "You know….you could do that again," Reiner said quietly, almost careful— like he was testing whether the offer would hold. "If you wanted to..."

So you did.

You kissed him again, harder this time, and the sound he made against your mouth— a low, punched-out thing, barely audible— sent a jolt through you that landed low in your stomach. His hands found your waist, and the size of them registered now, the span of his fingers across your sides, the way his thumbs pressed into the curve above your hips as he pulled you closer. You let yourself be pulled and the shift in position put you half in his lap, one knee on either side of his thigh, and the new angle changed everything— the kiss turning messy, hungry, open-mouthed, four weeks of stolen glances in lab and deliberate seat-choices finally breaking loose.

He was so responsive. Every noise you made, every shift of your hips, he matched it, met it, gave back more. His mouth was warm and insistent against yours, his stubble rough on your chin, and when you nipped his lower lip he groaned— not loud, not performative, just a raw sound dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest, and his hands tightened on your waist. You could feel the tension in his arms, the way his biceps flexed under the sleeves where your forearms rested. His hands roamed your back, your sides, gripping the fabric of your oversized t-shirt in fistfuls, pulling it taut against you like he was afraid you'd disappear.

You ground yourself down against him. Not deliberately— not at first. Just the instinct of your body seeking friction, the way your hips had started moving on their own, chasing the pressure between your legs. But the moment you did it, the moment the seam of your leggings dragged against the hardness straining against his jeans, he gasped, and the kiss broke. His forehead dropped to yours, and his breathing went ragged— short, sharp pulls of air through his mouth, his chest heaving against yours.

"You have no idea," Reiner breathed, and his voice was wrecked already, low and scraped raw. "What you do to me—"

"Then show me," you said, and rolled your hips again. “Show me what I do—”

The friction you were causing was devastating. You could feel him— hot and rigid through the layers of denim and cotton, the length of him pressing against your core, and the angle was just right, just enough pressure on your clit to make sparks shoot up your spine. You rocked against him, slow and deliberate, and his hands flew to your thighs, gripping hard enough that you knew there'd be marks tomorrow. His head tipped back, throat exposed, and you watched the muscles in his neck work as he swallowed, as he tried to hold himself together.

"Fuck," he said it reverently like a prayer as you kissed down his neck. The skin there was hot, salty on your tongue, and you could smell him properly now— not just the soap but the musk underneath, the warm skin scent that was uniquely his. You dragged your teeth along the tendon running from his ear to his shoulder, and his hips bucked up into yours, grinding his cock against you through the layers, and the friction made you gasp against his throat.

Reiner kissed down your neck, mouth hot and open on your skin, and you arched into him, rocking, grinding, the heat building between your legs until your head swam with it. The wetness had soaked through your leggings, you could feel it, the fabric clinging to you— and every roll of your hips spread it slicker, made the friction smoother and hotter and more maddening.

"Reiner," you moaned, and his eyes snapped up to yours— blown wide, the amber darkened to something almost brown, the gold flecks swallowed by the expanded black of his pupils. His lips were parted, wet from your kisses, and his chest was heaving under his shirt the fabric stretched tight across his pecs. "I want you to fuck me."

He stilled. His hands stopped moving on your thighs. His whole body went rigid underneath you— not pulling away, not exactly, but freezing in that way he did when something mattered too much, when the stakes were too high for him to trust himself to move correctly. His throat bobbed. His eyes searched yours, and you watched him cycle through something— want and fear and something softer underneath, something that looked a lot like devotion.

"Are you— are you sure?" he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. The hesitation, the care in his voice even now, even with his cock straining against his jeans and your wetness soaking through both your layers, undid something in you. This was just who he was— the captain of the football team, the guy who could bench three hundred pounds, asking if you were sure. Like your certainty mattered more than his need, like he needed permission to want what he so obviously wanted.

So you answered him. You sat back on his thighs and pulled your shirt over your head in one clean motion, letting the fabric drop somewhere behind you, and your breasts fell free in front of his face.

He went completely silent. Not a word, not even a breath. His gaze dropped— immediate, involuntary, the kind of reflexive response that couldn't be faked— and fixed on your chest. His mouth stayed open, lips still parted from the kiss, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed hard— his hands had been resting on your thighs, and they lifted now, hovering in the air between you, trembling slightly. Not shaking— trembling. A fine, barely-visible vibration in his thick fingers, like the rest of him was holding so still that the suppressed energy had nowhere to go but into his hands.

He touched you like he was afraid to break something. Fingertips first, barely grazing, the pads of his thumbs tracing the curve of the underside of your breast so lightly it raised goosebumps across your skin. His breath came out in a shaky rush, and his eyes flicked up to yours— checking, still checking, even now— and you nodded, and that was all he needed.

The sound that came out of him was deep and guttural, something from the base of his chest, and his hands came up fully, cupping both of your breasts, and the shock of it— the warmth and pressure of his wide palms against your skin, the way his fingers splayed and squeezed— punched a moan out of you. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, back and forth, and the friction of his calluses against the sensitive peaks sent sparks straight down your stomach, straight between your legs, and you grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself.

"Fuck" he muttered, and his voice sounded nothing like it usually did— nothing like the steady, measured tone he usually had This was raw, wrecked, and then he leaned in, and his mouth found your skin.

He was all need. His mouth was hot and wet on your breast, tongue circling your nipple before his lips closed around it and sucked, and your head fell back, your spine arching, pushing yourself into his mouth. His other hand squeezed and kneaded your other breast, thumb rolling the nipple, and the dual sensation— his mouth on one side, his hand on the other— made your hips grind down into him involuntarily, chasing the friction, the pressure, anything.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration traveling through your chest, and his free hand slid to your lower back, pressing you down against him, and you felt how hard he was— fully, impossibly hard, the thick length of his cock straining against his jeans and pressing into the junction of your thighs. You rocked against him, the seam of your leggings and the denim of his jeans both soaked through with the evidence of how badly you both wanted this, and the friction on your clit was maddening— almost enough, not quite enough, building and building without cresting.

"Reiner," you said again, and your voice came out wrecked too, breathy and uneven. "I need—"

"I know," he said against your breast, and his voice was shaking. "I know, I just— let me—"

His hands moved to your leggings, fingers hooking into the waistband, and you lifted your hips so he could pull them down. He peeled them off you with a reverence that was almost absurd— sliding the fabric down your thighs like he was unwrapping something precious, bending down so he could press his lips to the inside of your knee as it was revealed, and the tenderness of it made your chest ache.

You reached down and unbuttoned his jeans, and his breath hitched as your fingers brushed the waistband of his boxers, as you hooked your thumbs into both and pulled them down over his hips. His cock sprang free— thick, flushed, the head slick with precum— and you wrapped your hand around him, just to feel the weight of him in your palm, and his hips jerked up, a strangled sound leaving his throat.

"Wait, wait—" His hand closed around your wrist, gentle but firm. "If you do that, I'm gonna—"

You let go and smiled at him. The look on his face— flushed, wild-eyed, fighting for control— was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. "Lie back on the bed," you instructed him, and you got up to push him gently back onto the bed, and he went swiftly. His back hit the mattress, his head settling on your pillow, and he looked up at you with those golden eyes, dark and wanting, as you swung one leg over him and settled your thighs on either side of his hips. His cock pressed against your stomach, hot and hard, and you could feel the wetness between your legs, slick and ready.

You reached down and positioned him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you watched his face as you sank down. Slowly, you took him, and the stretch of him was intense— thick and insistent, filling you gradually, and you had to pause halfway, adjusting, breathing through the fullness. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard, but not guiding— just holding. Like he didn't trust himself to do anything else, like if he moved, if he thrust up into you the way his body clearly wanted to, he'd lose whatever fragile control he was clinging to.

His head fell back against the pillow, and a low, shaky moan escaped him— the sound of a man being undone. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief, and his fingers dug into your hips hard enough that you knew there'd be bruises tomorrow.

"Oh god," he breathed, and his voice cracked. "You feel— you feel so—"

You sank the rest of the way down, taking him fully, and you both moaned at the same time— your voices tangling together in the dorm room, mixing with the background noise of the film still playing on your laptop and the distant sound of someone's music two floors down. You rocked. Slow at first, just small movements of your hips, grinding your clit against his pelvis on each downstroke, feeling the way he filled you, the way his cock pressed against every nerve ending inside you. His hands slid from your hips to your thighs, then up your sides, then back down, like he couldn't decide where to put them, like he wanted to touch all of you at once. His thumbs traced the curve of your waist, the line of your ribs, the underside of your breasts where they swayed with each movement of your hips.

"Reiner," you moaned, and you didn't even know what you wanted to say— just his name, just the sound of it, just the way it felt in your mouth.

"I'm here," he said, and his voice was strangled, desperate. "I'm right here." His hands settled on your hips again, steadying you, and you picked up the pace.

You rode him harder, faster, lifting your hips and dropping back down, and the sound of it— the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the dorm bed, the desperate noises spilling from both your mouth — filled the small room. His hips started meeting yours, thrusting up into you each time you sank down, and the added force drove him deeper, hitting something inside you that made your vision blur.

He was whining. There was no other word for it— the sounds coming out of him were high and broken and desperate, nothing like the controlled, confident voice he used everywhere else. Each time you dropped your hips, he gasped. Each time you ground down against him, he moaned. Each time you clenched around him, he whined— a thin, reedy sound that cracked in the middle, that made something possessive flare up in your chest.

"You sound so good," you told him, breathless, and his face twisted— something between pleasure and overwhelm, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth falling open. you rolled your hips, slow and deliberate, clenching around him, and the sound that came out of him was almost a sob.

"Please," he said, and his voice was wrecked, barely above a whisper. "Please, I'm— I'm not gonna last, you feel too good, I—"

You leaned down and kissed him, swallowing his sounds, and his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest. The new angle pressed your clit against his pelvis, and you ground against him as you rode, chasing the friction, the coil tightening in your stomach. His mouth was everywhere— your lips, your jaw, your neck, your shoulder— pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to whatever skin he could reach, murmuring things that were barely words anymore, just sounds, just need.

"Come for me," you said against his ear, and you felt him shudder underneath you, his whole body going taut.

His hands gripped your hips, hard, holding you down against him as his hips snapped up— once, twice — and he came with a broken groan of your name, his cock pulsing inside you, hot and thick. The feeling of him filling you, the knowledge that you'd undone him this completely, pushed you over the edge— your orgasm crashing through you in waves, clenching around him, and you were loud, you knew you were loud, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

The dorm room was quiet afterward except for the sound of your breathing— ragged, slowing, syncing up. His arms stayed around you, loose now, his hands tracing lazy patterns on your back. His cock softened inside you, and when you finally shifted to lift yourself off him, he made a small sound of protest, his arms tightening briefly before letting go.

You collapsed beside him on the narrow bed, and he immediately turned toward you, one large hand coming up to brush the hair from your face. His eyes were that familiar amber again— the gold flecks returned, the dark blown-pupil look fading— and the smile on his face was the unguarded one, the real one.

His thumb traced your cheekbone. "That was—"

"Yeah," you mumbled. "Yeah, it was."

He laughed, the same short, disbelieving laugh from before, and pulled you closer against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, still racing, and the warmth of him, the solid weight of his arm across your waist, the way his chin settled on top of your head— it all felt like something settling into place. Something that had been waiting to fit.

"Stay," you tell him, which was not a question.

His arms tightened around you. "Yeah," he said, quiet, certain. "I'm not going anywhere."

Neither of you seemed particularly interested anymore in remembering that the movie was still playing on your laptop. 

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[wistful-scribe]

Considering this series of posts

I have been considering for a while to make a series of short stories involving these ideas.

This is my AO3

Ideas that are on the top of my to write:

- Connie and Ymir having a heart to heart about Connie's mother, with Ymir giving him what closure, comfort and advice she can

- Ymir and Historia spending time with their foster children

- Ymir (the queen of making sure the whole room knows you have a thing for someone) giving Eren a much needed kick in the butt to actually get somewhere with Mikasa

-Hanji telling Ymir about the happenings of Ilse's Notebook

And perhaps more. If I ever the motivation and time to actually write it.

[redelliavalentinos]

Not my cleanest scribble... I'm thinking no leash, but there's still a "D" ring on his collar for Mike to pull on. For when he wants attention.

[needmorerice]

Tales from Shiganshina City: The Intern

[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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[rosebudstv]

i do not draw often but park ranger hange has been rotting in my head for awhile so i had to make them real

text inspired by the shit my dad will randomly start talking about during dinner

version without text and hange in a place... i like putting them in places

[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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