hi
while this account does have siren's son related content i have switched to using @darlin-collins for any other new S'S posts(upon on your approval), as well as other ASMR role play audios so if that's your cup of tea, have a look!
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
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h

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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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AnasAbdin
cherry valley forever
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@darlin-choatic
hi
while this account does have siren's son related content i have switched to using @darlin-collins for any other new S'S posts(upon on your approval), as well as other ASMR role play audios so if that's your cup of tea, have a look!

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kyleâs always been the pretty boy. the one birds fawn over at the pub, and in the cereal aisle at the shop, and on the midnight train after the captain bullies him into going home and getting some well-deserved rest. old ladies coo at him, waitresses draw hearts on his cheques, his own teammates tease him, for fuckâs sake.
âmaybe if kyle bats his eyelashes at âem, we can slip past before they notice us.â
âthe only way youâre cominâ out with us tonight is if you were a fuckinâ bag over your head. i never get laid when youâre around.â
âprice might fall for those eyes, but i wonât. paperwork on my desk by noon, garrick.â
even when he was young, his maâs girlfriends would laugh about how much trouble heâd cause, all the hearts he was bound to break, when he grew up. he still remembers how his sisters made fun of him come prom season, when he couldnât decide which of the dozen invitations he received to accept.
kyleâs always been the pretty boy â until an untimely explosion melts the entire right side of his face into something unrecognizable and, in his eyes, horrific. gone is that heart-stopping grin, his silken skin, and quarter-deep dimples. no more of the cheesy winks he loved to throw around, what with his lack of an eyelid.
no-oneâs swooning over him anymore. rather than the blood rushing to a handsome someoneâs cheeks when he says hello, it drains from their face completely. no-one will look him in the eye nowadays. the pretty single mum down the street who he once had lunch with now goes out of her way to cross the road when she spots him, shielding her childrenâsâ eyes like the mere sight of him might traumatize them. the grandmas who used to compliment his warm eyes and soft curls stare at him blatantly, piteously, whisper behind their hands when he passes but wonât dare to address him directly. his favorite bartender turns his flirtations to johnny, who, uncharacteristically, doesnât even have the heart to poke fun at him for it.
but he should be grateful, right? he couldâve died. heâs lucky to even be here. to be walking, talking, his limbs in tact, heart still beating. it could be worse.
thatâs what he tells himself every time a toddler wails at the sight of him standing behind them in line at the coffee shop. whenever price gives him that look, full of worry and self-loathing. it could be worse, he tells himself, the first time he sees his mother after the explosion, and she gasps like she canât recognize her own goddamned son. but he should be grateful.
he damn near throttles laswell when she suggests that he check out a local support group, saying that he needs to talk to someone since he clearly isnât going to talk to them. talk about what, he wonders. it isnât as though thereâs anything that can be done about it. itâs beyond fixing, the doctors said so themselves. talking about it will only make him out to be some shallow, self-obsessed little prick, who obviously cares more for his vanity than his life.
he knows what he is. he certainly doesnât need anyone to point it out.
the flier collects dust on his kitchen counter, gets lost in all of his junk mail and get-well-soon cards, damned to oblivion. he forgets about it â for a while at least, until his oldest sister forces her way into his flat and starts cleaning, claiming that their mother would have his head if she saw what a mess heâs made. she tacks it to the fridge, where kyle has no choice but to see it.
âwhat harm could it do, ky? youâve been hiding from us for months â weâre worried about you.â
thatâs what finally convinces him. not because he thinks he needs it, or believes itâll do him any good, or even because he wants to soothe their spirits. simply because he wants them off his back, wants to be allowed to wallow in his misery, in peace, just for a little while longer.
so, he goes. he surrounds himself with a bunch of war-torn veterans, with stories so gruesome that even his stomach churns, he sits alone and speaks to no-one, doesnât look anyone in the eye, and he listens.
he listens to them talk about their dead friends, their battles won, and their loves lost, about their journeys back to health, and their wisdom hard-earned.
one man â pushing eighty and missing both legs â says something that sticks with him.
âyou can be mad, you can curse god, you can spend the rest of your life thinkinâ âwhat ifâ, but it ainât gonna change shit. you either grow a pair and get over it, or you donât â if you canât make peace with that, youâre better off dead.â
yeah, maybe.
he goes again the following tuesday, and the next, until itâs become a regular part of his routine. he sits alone, still, he doesnât talk much, to anyone, but they come to expect him. they recognize him. they smile when he walks in. no one flinches at the sight of him, no oneâs pitying him, no oneâs demanding answers heâs not ready to give. they accept him without expecting anything tangible in return, sans his company.
it doesnât necessarily make him feel better, it doesnât make him hate the man in the mirror any less, but it gets him out of his flat. it gives him something to tell the team about when they check up on him on sunday nights.
then, about two months into his newfound routine, he spots you, sat on the opposite end of the room, holding space like itâs been yours all along.
the last time your paths crossed was in boot-camp. a lifetime ago, it feels like. before the 141, before the incident. he was somebody else back then. and so, it seems, were you.
he remembers you as an over-eager, overly-confident recruit, like he, himself, was. youâre older now, battle-weary, weathered by war, grief, and the world itself. you sip your coffee through a straw because your hands tremble too fiercely to hold a mug. an angry, red scar cuts your face in two.
you arenât new around here, that much is made clear by the way they greet you, with hugs and well-wishes. how longâs it been, he wonders, since you got out?
sammy, who runs the group, goes down the line one-by-one, like she always does, asking all the right questions. elijah saw his grandbabies this weekend. codyâs been cleared for active duty â heâll return to the front lines next month, for better or for worse. oliviaâs met somebody, she thinks sheâs found the one. kyle listens, but pays especially close attention when it gets to be your turn.
âhow was your trip?â sammy asks, and you laugh, albeit nervously.
âweird.â you admit, profoundly. âfirst vacation iâve ever taken in my whole fuckinâ life, yâknow? i tried to enjoy it, butâ my friends wanna go swimming with dolphins, and tan on the beach, and, whole time, iâm thinkinâ that iâve got no goddamn business flouncing around in a bathing suit, looking the way i do. i just couldnât wait for it to be over, honestly.â
and, fuck, he gets it. he knows. itâs the very thing heâs been grappling with for the past year. nobody likes to talk about that part, the doubt, the insecurity. but you do, honest and unapologetic, and he wonders if this is what making peace with it looks like.
and then, sammy looks to him. âanything youâd like to share with us today, kyle?â
usually, heâd wave her off. offer her a tight-lipped smile and shake his head. he almost does, if only out of sheer habit. but he catches your gaze from across the circle. your eyes brighten with recognition, and the hard set of your brow softens. you smile at him, a little crookedly, as if youâre eighteen again, unburdened, naive as to what awaits you.
you might as well have grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him around, the way that smile knocks loose all of the things heâs allowed to fester in his heart. for the first time since he started attending the meetings, kyleâs honest. not only with this motley community he has infiltrated, but with himself.
âi had to take all the mirrors outta my flat. couldnât stand the sight of myself.â
âi always wanted kids, but nowâ now, iâm scared theyâd think me the fuckinâ boogeyman.â
âi dunno who i am anymore.â
his lungs feel tight, his palms slick with sweat, cheeks warm with an awful, feverish sortâve heat, but he feels lighter than he has since his brothers dragged him from the wreckage. the old man from that first meeting, colby, lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
no one scoffs at him, or calls him petty, or reminds him of how lucky he is. sammy smiles, soft and empathetic. âsometimes, the man who comes back from the war isnât the same man that left for it. itâs okay to mourn him, kyle.â
youâre waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk outside, stiff with an indefinite, inescapable ache, but smiling still, when itâs time to leave. he hesitates only momentarily when you open your arms for a hug â heâs careful, weary of whatever injuries you mightâve sustained on the field, but you grab him tight, like you know how desperately he needs it.
âsâgood to see you, garrick. sâbeen a long time.â
âfuck, has it.â he laughs, and it sounds foreign in his own ears, before sobering. âitâs good to see you too. really. i didnât know you were âŠâ
âyeah,â you help him out before he can start floundering. he isnât the smooth-talker he once was. âa couple years ago, now. sâa long story. one iâm much too sober to tell today.â
âanother time then,â he offers, wryly. he understands. he doesnât like to talk about it either. talking about requires thinking about it, which isnât good for anyone involved.
you soften, and he watches the scar on your face stretch as your lips pull down. itâs been years, but he still thinks you lovely. âyou havenât been out long, have you?â
ânot long enough, no.â
âhm.â you nod, like you understand, but you donât say youâre sorry, or tell him that itâll get better. he appreciates that more than you know. âfateâs a funny thing, ainât it? whatâre the odds,â
âitâs a small fuckinâ world,â he murmurs, and your laugh thaws the ice in his chest. âyou live close by?â
âjust a couple oâ blocks, not too bad.â
âi could walk with you, if you want. or we couldââ he stops, swallows hard, trying valiantly to find his nerve. it used to be so easy for him to ask a sweet someone out, he hardly even had to work for it. hell, heâd flirted with you plenty, back in the day. âwe could go get that drink,â
itâs soft, uncertain, timid in a way that kyle garrick is not. you simply stare at him for a moment, as if considering him, your gaze painfully soft, before, finally, âiâd like that.â
âyeah?â he murmurs, hopeful.
you laugh, but it isnât mocking, or cruel. itâs mirthful, almost flattered.
âlead the way, pretty boy.â
in a perfect world, johnny would be the first to retire. he would be the first to find someone, fall head-over-heels in love, and throw all of his hard work and dedication away in favor of a quiet life by the ocean. it would be tough, at first, it would take years for him to truly shake the weight of the war from his bones, but he would do it. he would rather be a good husband, a father, than just another tragedy in an endless string of them. he would marry you as soon as his retirement papers cleared. he would give you a home full of laughter, and children, three at the very least, maybe a dog. he would be at every ballet recital and sports game, every parent-teacher conference and award ceremony. he would grow old with you, dance with you in the kitchen even at the ripe age of sixty-something, would complain about his creaking back right up until the bitter-sweet end. john mactavish would make a fine husband, given the chance.
kyle would be the next to jump ship. one day, he would see himself in the mirror, and heâd realize that he doesnât recognize the man he has become. the years have taken their toll on him, heâs tired, heâs scared, heâs angry. his youth will have passed him by, and heâll have forgotten to enjoy it. all the time he shouldâve spent falling in love, and planning for the future, and making stupid decisions so he would have them to laugh about one day, was spent on the front lines, fighting somebody elseâs war. heâll decide that he wants no part in any of it, not anymore, and heâd turn his papers in the following morning. he meets you after, somewhere casual, maybe heâd spill his coffee all over you in his rush to get somewhere that, in retrospect, was entirely unimportant. heâll buy you dinner to make up for it, and then again the next week, just in case his debt hasnât been settled, and again, every friday for the next several years. heâll marry you sometime in between, something small and intimate, with his brothers in arms as your witnesses, maybe heâll finally give his mama the grandbaby sheâs been begging for his whole life. kyle garrick would choose to be a better man, given the chance.
simon wouldnât retire by choice. not in any world, not even a perfect one. but, eventually, itâs bound to catch up with him. even the worldâs most capable soldier is vulnerable to his own damn humanity. heâd be forced to return to manchester, sooner or later, older, meaner, sore all over, all of the time. heâd buy a bike, a passion project, just something to keep his hands busy, lest he goes mad in his empty house, nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. it wouldnât be enough, in the end. it canât chase away the skeletons in his closet or tell him that itâs okay to be scared of the dark, even at his grown age, so he would do what any half-sane man would, and adopt a dog. a retired military mutt, just like him, whoâs greying at the snout and growls at little kids when they pass by on their bicycles. heâd meet you at a dog park on a sunday afternoon, would remember your face but not your name. not until you chase him down in the street some weeks later, at least, and claim that his boy got your girl pregnant. heâd pay the vet bills, and he would help you find good homes for the puppies, and then, heâd stick around still, because he, like any stray, is desperate for a place to call home. youâd let him stay so long as got his boy neutered. he wouldnât give you kids, wouldnât burden you with his last name, but heâd damn sure love you. simon riley would learn to be happy, given the chance.
john wouldnât retire until heâs already halfway to too late. the kids are nine and twelve already, old enough to resent him, and youâve gotten used to having the bed to yourself, setting the table for three instead of four, brushing your friendsâ comments off when they bring up how strong you are, doing it all on your own. your worrisome heart would sink every time the doorbell rang unexpectedly, or when he went too long without contact, fearing for the worst. it would not be some big, sudden revelation on his end. heâd notice in fragments. no, he doesnât know his kidsâ teachersâ names, and, no, he didnât know that your son was diagnosed with asthma last summer. he canât remember the last time the two of you celebrated an anniversary, or went out for dinner, or talked about anything that mattered. he wouldnât make a big show of it, wouldnât even tell you that he was considering it, but youâd wake up one morning, expecting him to be long gone, and heâd be stood at the stove, burning eggs, and he would never leave you again. heâd do what he could to make up for lost time. heâd schedule date nights for the two of you, without prompting, heâd take your boy fishing sunday mornings, share all that hard-earned wisdom over soggy sandwiches and plop his boonie hat on the kidâs head to keep him from burning in the summer sun, heâd sit on his daughterâs bedroom floor with a tiara on his head, sipping shitty tea from plastic cups, and heâd thank god. john price would right his wrongs, given the chance.
but this isnât a perfect world.
john mactavish dies at twenty-seven, shot in the head by a man who shouldâve died two years prior. you bury him before you get to marry him. your daughterâs born three months later â sheâll never meet her father, but she has his eyes, and his smile, and you know he wouldâve loved her. he always wanted to be father.
kyle garrick spends the rest of his life fighting for a cause he doesnât know if he believes in. your paths donât cross in that little coffee shop, because heâs on the other side of the world, getting shot at, while you go about your life none the wiser. he dies at thirty-six on an operation no-oneâs allowed to talk about, desperate and alone.
simon riley kills himself a month after his sergeantâs untimely demise â not like anyone can prove it. itâs impossible to claim that he walked into the line of fire intending to be shot down. what exactly was going through his mind, no one knows for certain. in your late twenties, you adopt an old military mutt, whoâs greying at the muzzle and growls at your neighborâs kids.
john price signs the divorce papers when you send them, because he knows itâs unfair of him to keep you tethered to him. he watches your children grow from afar, through the pictures you send and the quiet, solemn voicemails you leave. you never stop loving him, but you canât wait around for him forever. you three are the only ones left to attend his funeral, when the time comes. youâre the only one with something kind to say.
Gaz bought himself a lava lamp after he hit twenty because he'd wanted one since he was a kid, and realised that he is a grown man who could buy himself one.
Years later and it's a hit with anyone he brings him to screw. One woman referred to it as mood lighting, a guy once kept getting distracted by it because he could see it over Kyle's shoulder.
It's truly his favourite thing he owns, and it's fun to watch on the nights he can't catch any sleep.
Hear me out. Aot college au Floch forster x frat!Eren Yeagers younger sister reader

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reiner sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door.
he always has.
even now, half-awake, his body is angled like a shield. broad shoulders tense beneath the thin cotton of his short, blond hair falling into his eyes in soft, uneven strands. his face looks difference in the dark, less guarded, more worn. lines at the corner of his eyes that only show when he's tired. a mouth that always seem set like he's bracing for something.
he hasn't slept yet.
you can tell by the way his breathing stays shallow, controlled, like rest is something he has to earn.
you shift closer, careful not to startle him. the mattress dips slightly. your hand rests against his arm, solid and warm, muscle relaxed only because he knows it's you.
"reiner," you whisper.
your voice is quiet, still heavy with sleep, soft in the way it only ever is at night. not asking. just there.
"i'm awake," he murmurs.
his voice is low, rough around the edges, like he hasn't used it much today. there's a steadiness to itâpracticed, almostâbut underneath, it sounds tired. honest.
you don't rush him. you never do.
minutes pass. your thumb traces slow, absent lines over his skin. outside, something hums in the distanceâa car, streetlight, life continuing without asking anything of him.
"i don't think i deserve this," he says at last.
the words fall flat between you, not dramatic, not rehearsed. like he's been holding them in his chest for a long time and finally ran out of room.
you breathe in. his scent. him.
"deserve what?" you ask softly, even though your heart already knows.
he swallows. you can feel it under your hand.
"you," he says. then, quieter, "this. the house. the quiet." a pause, long enough to ache. "peace."
you move closer until your chest presses lightly to his back, until the warmth between you feels shared. your forehead rests against the space between his shoulder blades, where his breath rises and falls.
"this isn't something you took," you tell him. your voice is gentle, steady, the way it always is when he starts to drift too far inward. "you didn't steal it. you built it."
he lets out a breath that sounds almost unsteady.
"some days," he says, "it feels like i'm pretending. like i'm waiting for someone to realize i don't belong here."
you slide your hand into his, threading your fingers together slowly, deliberately.
"you come home," you say. "you take off your boots at the door. you sleep facing the hallway because you think it keeps me safe." your thumb presses lightly against his knuckles. "you belong."
that's when he finally turns.
careful, like he's afraid of breaking something fragile, reiner rolls onto his side to face you. up close, you can see the exhaustion etched into his featuresâthe shadows under his eyes, the way his brows knit together even now. his eyes search your face like he's looking for permission.
"i'm tired," he admits.
"i know," you whisper.
you lift your hand to his face, brushing your thumb beneath his eye. his lashes flutter, and when he closes them, it's like something inside him finally loosens. he leans into your touch, just slightlyâa quiet surrender.
you rest your forehead against his.
"you can rest," you tell him. "im here."
reiner exhales, slow and shaky, and this time, his breath deepens. his arm slips around your waist, protective even in his sleep, pulling you closer like it's instinct.
the door stays shut. the house stays still.
and for tonight, reiner lets himself believe he's allowed to be safe.
To Bleed a Thorne // masterlist
Last updated May 27 2026
Visit my page for the most recent version of my masterlist!
This story is 18+ due to explicit content, mature content, and dark themes.
When your mom and uncle vanish the night before your twelfth birthday, you descend to the Underground's darkest corners searching for answers. What you find binds you in the web of a spider and reveals a truth you can reach only by spilling blood.Â
What once had you seeking answers now has you seeking forgiveness, torn between the man you were sent to betray by Erwin Smith and the one you learned to love.
Through every mission and every loss, the slowburn continues.
Because this time, youâre not fighting for vengeance.Â
Youâre fighting for someone worth bleeding for.
| Levi Ackerman x female oc reader | 18+ | canon-compliant âą slowburn âą angst âą smut âą mystery âą dark âą psychological |
Chapters
âplease let me know if any links stop working
Read To Bleed a Thorne on AO3
Chapter 1 (prologue) - Where the Thorne Took Root
Chapter 2 - The Last Tradition
Chapter 3 - Fury Ignited
Chapter 4 - If Youâre Looking for Ghosts
Chapter 5 - The Pit
Chapter 6 - No Regrets
Chapter 7 - The Spider
Chapter 8 - Fracture
Chapter 9 - The Wrong Move?
Chapter 10 - Ash and Ember
Chapter 11 - Erosion
Chapter 12 - A New Task
Chapter 13 - The Year Changes
Chapter 14 - Fifteen Matches
Chapter 15 - Aftermath
Chapter 16 - His Thorn
Chapter 17 - Eclipse
Chapter 18 - Where the Line Blurs
Chapter 19 - Chess
Chapter 20 - Sheath
Chapter 21 - Hinge
Chapters 22+ are in the works!
âââââââââââââââââââââââ
authorâs note
i hope you all enjoy my story :) itâs gonna be a long one so buckle up for the journey ahead of us. i intend not to brush past any character development, so there will be some stretches in the beginning without our husband levi. however, once he comes back into the story, the slow burn is going to burn agonizingly slow and baby that angst is gonna huuurt. consider this your official forewarning.
all writing featured in my masterlist is created and written solely by me. i alone own all original characters, plots, and ideas featured in my writing. under no circumstance is anyone allowed to copy, steal, and/or use my original characters, plots, and/or ideas without my permission.
much love,
arrose đ«¶
ââ§Â°đČÖŒđą heaven is a place on earth
wc: 9.1k (please trust the process) - this is a mini 5 part series i combined into one that i treasure so dearly - there are dividers between each section if you don't want to read it in one go - this is a slight rework from an old blog / my ao3
contains: nsfw content (mdni), fempov, piv (unprotected), creampie, mentions of getting reader pregnant, oral (receiving & giving), fingering, multiple orgasms, age gap (unspecified), slow burn before the smut but i think the smut is worth it & i am biased because the last part is my absolute fave, also this is very soft and fluffy, simon in love love because he deserves some gentleness <3
Older Knight! Simon who is no longer in his prime, though the many years of training still remain with him. The muscle memory of fighting for decades, forever ingrained into him, into who he is, he's still not sure who he would be without it. Yet, the King had decided it was time for him to finally lay down his shield and surrender the sword that had served him and the kingdom so faithfully.
Simon longs to argue on it, plead his case. He can still manage, he's a powerful fighter, he could still best most of the younger foolish knights, even with the aches that now linger in his bones in a way they never used to.
And he almost does protest, nearly drops to his knees to beg, but the King speaks once more before he has the chance. Muttering something about a parting gift that leaves Simon even more speechless. The words all blur together the moment the King mentions your name.
cough
why dont we reblog anymore
cmon people this is TUMBLR
REBLOG SHIT
Itâs Thursday!

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duplicity ᯠjean kirstein
CHAPTER FIVE: abnormal
ch. 4 // ch. 6 // table of contents
âź â âword count: 1,826
âËê©ïœĄ summary: the gate in trost has been breached
âËê©ïœĄ contains: jean kirstein x fem!warrior!reader, reader is bertholdt's sister, canon-compliant, canon-typical violence
âËê©ïœĄ a/n: short chapter today, but i'm rewriting ch. 3 of surge right now so here's this partial rewrite as well
"Out of the frying pan and into the fire, cadets!" a Garrison officer hollers at your fellow freshly-graduated cadets cowering the crowded room, "Time to put your training to work!"
Bertholdt had breached the gate in Trost around twenty minutes earlier. Just as you all had planned, causing the entirety of the interior to immediately erupt into chaos.
lover, you should've come over
àŒ*Â·Ë summary: you were drinking your regrets away at your favorite bar in marley, something you'd made a habit of doing ever since you left the island. unbeknownst to you, the man you left behind alongside the island has just walked through the front doors.
àŒ*Â·Ë contains: jean kirstein x fem!warrior!reader, canon-verse, drinking, angst lots of angst, pre-season 4 marley, hurt + no comfort??
àŒ*Â·Ë a/n: for the best effect, play the song once it's prompted while you read. i started writing a longer jean x warrior!reader series on wattpad, and i'm too impatient to build plot before releasing this beaut so i'm posting it on here as a sort of oneshot. let me know if you want some more of these!! i have a ton ;). not beta read!!
duplicity by @/verajuana on wattpad for full series!!
Three empty glasses sit in front of you, remnants of the dark liquor in the bottom rim of each one. You tilt your head back as you shoot down your fourth, the liquid traveling down your throat burning slightly less than the ones that came before. This has become your new norm: drinking away your regrets whenever you are able.
You don't care for what happens to you--not after what happened. Not after what you did. The memory leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Regret twinges in your stomach. Your heart feels wrung out like a soaked towel.
"Another," you say slowly, watching through hazy vision as the bartender looks at you with a confused expression, hints of concern peppered through his eyes, "Uh, whiskey. Please." You clarify, running a hand over your face. Damn, you were starting to get warm.
I drew the cover for my friend's batman fanbook.
People refuse to believe ghost when he tells them he's dating you. Because...well...ghost is weird.
He wears a mask around base all the time, seems to communicate solely in grunts when he's not making a disturbing joke, and ignores social cues like a text from an angry ex.
The team genuinely refuses to believe that the guy who hums lullabies while sniping and acts like a creature only recently introduced to humans is dating...you.
You, the steaming hot mechanic who contracts on base. You're the kind of catch anyone in their right mind would be taking a chance for at least once, as evidence by the fact you've been flirted with by everyone in the 141 before.
They only believe it when ghost has to go sign some papers for trashing another vehicle during training, and you just so happen be the mechanic available for once.
"Another one, si? C'mon baby, you promised to calm down..." you tease, only taking a moment to offer the guys a sweet smile before looking back at ghost with hearts in your eyes "what was it this time? Hm?"
Ghost only smiles all dopey when you roll up his mask to plant a peck on his lips, grunting "got a stiffy thinkin' of you....also saw a spider. Little distracted. Would've bled out thinkin' aboot yer lips."
You snort, press a firmer kiss to his lips and pat him on the hip "love you too, si. Since you're here, I packed extra lunch, it's in my area."
Ghost robotically walks off, a bit alien and a bit like a zombie with his mask still rolled up. Not smiling, but...not exactly frowning like usual.
You watch him walk off with an absolutely smitten expression of your own, and only notice gaz standing next to you when he asks, "the hell do you see in him?"
You sigh, thinking of the time ghost once jumped into a frozen river and spent a night in medical because someone said he had a fish facr.
Finally, you admit "he makes me laugh."
Ever since you started working on base as a secretary, no one's been that...fond of you.
Namely because you seem intent on being a homewrecker whenever you talk to ghost or soap.
Everyone knows the two are married, obvious by the rings they were around base and the multiple recruits who've caught them...sharing some marital enjoyment in storage closets. Despite that, you still flirt with ghost and soap whenever possible, blatant to anyone around.
A sweet "morning, gorgeous." to ghost as you pass him in the halls, giving his bicep a quick squeeze, or a "i like the new cologne, johnny."
New showing them the respect they deserve, practically undressing them with your eyes. Of course, only when one of them alone. No one says anything until gaz finds you and soap sharing an obviously heated kiss behind the shooting range.
Gaz...he would never let soap break ghosts heart like that.
So he confronts you, pulls you aside when you get in the next morning and hisses "the hell do you think you're doing, kissing soap like that?"
Gaz isn't sure what he expects but it's certainly not for you to scoff and say "what? You mean i can't kiss my husbands anymore?"
"....ghost and soap are married." Gaz offers weakly, suddenly confused.
"yeah, also married to me" you say pointedly, holding up your hand with a clear wedding band. Then, you pull out your phone, grumbling "I can't believe those dumbasses didn't tell you."
Which is how gaz gets to see lovely photos of you, soap, and ghost all in the same house. Some professional pieces, but most candid.
Gaz asks you to send him some of what you've lovingly dubbed the "sleepy soldiers" genre of soap or ghost passed out in the strangest places....definitely not for blackmail or anything.

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crawl home ê reiner braun x reader
a/n: spent way too long writing this bc i love reiner
words: 9.3k
cw: lowkey bff!jean, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy reader, soldier!reader, pre-timeskip friends/lovers, betrayal, forgiveness, reiner is pathetic, angsty, kinda serving friends to enemies to lovers, SMUT!!, oral (f!reader recieving), pinv sex, breeding, MDNI !!
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Reiner was taller now, even if it was hard to believe. Maybe not as tall as Bertholdt was, but taller. Not only that, but while he maintained some of the more prominent muscles in his figure, it was noticeable how much weight he had lost. His hair was slightly longer - maybe he didn't keep up with cutting it as much as before. But to be fair, the change wasn't necessarily drastic. Not like the amount of facial hair he let grow out, which was completely ridiculous but so on brand for him.
But what did you care?
Your gaze lingered on him a moment longer, practically having to force yourself to look away from the man you swore was dead to you. But he wasn't, was he? He was standing right there, talking to Connie and Jean like nothing happened. As if the night prior Jean didn't literally punch him. Did they all just forgive him suddenly? Traitors.
You sighed. Maybe you were being dramatic.
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REINER BRAUN. ê±â
breakfast in bed. â for the big tiddy girls. â reiner pounding you. â eating you out in the hot tub. â breeding. â just the tip. â groping your ass. â fingering. â front seat. â eaterrr!
EREN JEAGER. ê±â
grind on that d. â rough thrusts. â leash. â car sex. â âtill your legs shakinâ. â campus fling. â grind pretty on him, â beefy bod. â pussy eater. â date idea. â pizza. â manbun eren.
ARMIN ARLERT. ê±â
mirror sex. â punishment. â in public. â suckin your tits while you ride him. â good boys get treats. â politely breeding you. â dry humping. â jerking him off. â step on him. â blinkies.
CONNIE SPRINGER. ê±â
bounce on that dick. â autopounds. â cocky with cuffs. â the shit he sends you. â playing video games. â makinâ you finish with a toy. â dominican connie. â grinding on each other.