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its me the ice skater reader x hockey captain reiner anon and im back with another idea
hear me out
reader and reiner are costars in some big movie and everyoneâs raving about their chemistry. they deny it during in interviews but behind the scenes theyre absolutely in love and fucking <3
a: whoever is sending these requests in you are POPPING OFF, so thank you <3....anyway hope you all enjoy this one <3
summary: You and Reiner Braun are cast as the leads in a highly anticipated period romance, Forever Yours. But as the main characters Edmund and Clara fall in love on screen, you and Reiner find yourselves doing the same behind the scenes....
âSoâŚ..what was it actually like working with each other?â
The question makes you laugh before you can stop yourself. It is a small, instinctive sound, and Reiner glances sideways at you with that familiar expression he has developed over the past few months, the one that sits somewhere between amusement and mild embarrassment whenever somebody mentions the two of you in the same sentence.
You are sitting together on a cream-coloured sofa in one of the grand suites of a London hotel, surrounded by the sort of carefully arranged luxury that seems to follow you everywhere now. There are flowers on the table, glasses of water positioned neatly in front of you, a bowl of fruit nobody has touched, and three cameras pointed in your direction. Somewhere just outside the frame, a publicist is watching the interview with the strained concentration of somebody who has already spent the morning reminding you both not to say anything that could accidentally become tomorrow's headline.
The film has been finished for weeks, and Forever Yours is due to premiere next month. But somehow, despite everything you have done to avoid it, the question has finally arrived.
âWhat was it like working together?â the interviewer repeats, smiling. âBecause everyone seems to think you two have incredible chemistry.â
You glance at Reiner to find he was looking at you already.
There is a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouthâ it was barely there, but you know that smile. You have seen it when you've caught him watching you from across a room. You have seen it when you have made him laugh unexpectedly; and now, under the bright studio lights, he looks down at his hands for a moment before shifting slightly in his seat.
His knee brushes yours and neither of you make an effort to move. âI think she should answer that,â he says confidently.
The interviewer laughs. âWhy her?â
Reiner turns his head towards you, and there is that little smirk again. âBecause she talks more than I do.â
âThat is absolutely not true.â You gasp theatrically. âYou barely stop talking when you're comfortable.â The second the words leave your mouth, you realise what you've said, outloud, in front of all the cameras.
Reiner looks at you, and the interviewer looks between you as you smile innocently. âWhat I meant wasââ
âYou've known me too long,â Reiner says, quietly enough that it feels almost separate from the interview.
Something warm moves through your chest as the interviewer laughs again. âSoâŚ.would you say you two became quite close?â
You glance at Reiner to find he was looking down, smilingâ and suddenly you remember the first morning you met him.
The Scottish Highlands had looked almost unreal when you first arrived. You had seen photographs of the estate before agreeing to the film, of course, but photographs hadn't prepared you for the sheer scale of it. It had been raining when you arrived at the manor before seven in the morning, raining while the production trucks were unloading equipment, and still raining while the costume department hurried across the gravel with enormous plastic coverings pulled over everything.
The manor itself was beautiful in a way that made you understand immediately why the director, Armin Arlert, had fought so hard to film here. It sat among rolling green hills, its grey stone exterior softened by ivy and moss, with enormous windows, crooked chimneys and a long gravel driveway that disappeared into a cluster of trees at the edge of the estate. Inside, everything was dark wood and faded paintings and enormous fireplaces, the sort of place that seemed to have absorbed centuries of whispered conversations and family arguments.
It was perfect for the film. Forever Yours was supposed to be a sweeping period romance, all forbidden glances, family rivalries, ballroom dances and declarations of love beneath dramatic skies. You played the leading role, Clara, the intelligent but stubborn daughter of a wealthy family, while Reiner Braun had been cast as the other lead, Edmund, the charming son of the family your character had been raised to despise.
And you had known who Reiner Braun was long before you ever met him, and before you even knew he had been cast for the movie. Everyone did. He had been acting for years, and there was something about him that made people remember him. He had the kind of face directors loved, all strong lines and warm amber eyes, with a broad, imposing build that made him look particularly convincing in certain roles. You had seen him in interviews before, had watched a few of his films, had occasionally caught yourself thinking that he was unfairly handsome in a way that seemed almost irritating. You had never imagined actually working with him.
Then, on your first morning, you walked into the manor with a paper cup of coffee warming your hands, glanced down the long corridor and saw him.
He was standing near one of the enormous windows with his agent, who was holding a thick script covered in yellow sticky notes. Reiner was already dressed as Edmund, his dark waistcoat fitted neatly over a white shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms, with a long charcoal coat hanging open around him. His blonde hair had been ruffled up flawlessly and his stubble had been sharpened around the edges of his faceâ and for one brief, ridiculous moment your brain supplied the thought that the costume department had probably made a mistake by making him look that good.
Then he looked up, and his eyes found yours immediately. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the moment. He smiled, you smiled back, and then someone from the production team called your name and you continued down the corridor, but there was something about the way he had looked at you that stayed in your mind for the next hour.
Not staring, not openlyâ just a quiet, curious glance that lingered for half a second before he looked away. Your agent, Sasha, appeared beside you almost immediately, carrying a coffee too and looking as though she had been awake since yesterday.
âSoâŚ..I assume you've met Reiner,â she whispered unnecessarily.
You looked at her. âYes I have.â
Sasha's mouth twitched. â....Heâs hot isn't he?â
You ignored her, mostly because Reiner had glanced over again.
Your first scene together was in the library.
It should have been easy. Clara was supposed to be reading beside the fireplace when Edmund entered unexpectedly, the two of you exchanging a handful of polite but hostile lines before he crossed the room and left again. Armin had explained the scene several times that morning, walking you through the emotional beats and reminding you that neither character was supposed to admit how interested they were in one another yet.
You were perfectly prepared until Reiner walked into the room, and for one strange second, the entire scene seemed to become something else. His expression changed the instant he saw you, his shoulders relaxing slightly as his eyes settled on yours, and you had the oddest sensation that he had forgotten the camera and other people was there. You knew, rationally, that he hadn't. Reiner had been acting for years; he was far too experienced to genuinely lose himself during a simple scene.
But there was something incredibly convincing about the way he looked at you. And suddenly he was Edmund. His eyes travelled over you with controlled surprise, the faintest tightening around his mouth suggesting that seeing Clara had affected him far more deeply than he wanted her to know. You delivered your first line, almost stuttering a few times due to nerves. Was he making you nervous?Â
He answered with his line, and you replied. He crossed the room, and there was a moment when he had to pass close to you, and he did so carefully. There was no unnecessary touch, no attempt to manufacture intimacy where the scene didn't call for it, his hand brushed the back of the chair beside you rather than your waistâ and when he stopped beside you, he gave you enough space to move naturally. It was respectful, and somehow that made the chemistry more obvious between the characters.
The whole scene lasted perhaps two to three minutes. When Armin called cut, he didn't immediately say anything. He just looked at the monitor, then at the two of you, and slowly smiled. Reiner immediately stepped away and became himself again, and he looked at you. âYou okay?â
You smiled. âYeah.â
His ears went slightly pink. âYou nearly laughed.â
âI know,â You giggle. âYou were staring at me funny.â
He smiled before looking down. âI was trying to remember my line.â
âYou remembered it then, I assumed?â
âEventually.â
You laughed at that, and something changed between you. Not dramaticallyâ there was no sudden declaration, no cinematic moment, just an ease that hadn't been there before. By the third take of the scene, Armin had stopped giving you notes. By the fifth, the crew had started watching the monitor with an unusual amount of interest. And by lunch, Sasha had raised an eyebrow at you over her sandwich. âYou two are definitely going to fall in love.â
âWe've filmed one scene together.â You laughed. âWeâve only just properly met today.âÂ
âExactly! You're already too powerful together.â
You rolled your eyes, but when you looked across the dining room, Reiner was sitting with two of the other actors, listening to a conversation while absentmindedly stirring his coffee. As though he could feel you looking, he glanced up, and your eyes met for possibly the hundredth time today.
It was nothing though. You told yourself it was nothing.Â
You discovered very quickly that you actually liked him. Not just the version of Reiner that appeared in interviews or photographs, but the real person who existed in between scenes.
He was funny, much funnier than you had expected. He had a dry, understated sense of humour that often caught you off guard, and whenever you laughed at something he said, he would look strangely pleased with himself before attempting to hide it. He was also terrible at accepting compliments. When you finally told him he looked good in costume, he nearly walked into a door.
You were standing in the corridor outside wardrobe when he came out wearing the full Edmund costume, and you looked him up and down. âThat looks good,â you nodded at him.
He glanced down at himself. âThe coatâŚ?â
âNo.â You laughed. âThe whole thing.â
He looked at you. âOh.â
You smiled. âWas that a difficult compliment to receive?â
âNo.â
âYour face says otherwise.â
He rubbed the back of his neck. âYou uhâŚ..look good too.â
âThank you.â
Another pause, and he looked increasingly uncomfortable. He laughed quietly. âCan we talk about something else?â
You laughed with him. And from then on, you started doing it deliberately, not because you wanted to embarrass him, exactlyâ mostly because you liked seeing him smile.
You liked the way his whole face changed when he laughed, the slight crinkle that appeared beside his eyes, the way he sometimes ducked his head afterwards as though he were embarrassed by how much he had enjoyed himself. He was so much less intimidating once you knew him, that the famous actor everyone seemed to regard with a certain amount of awe was, in private, a man who could become completely flustered because you had complimented his shirt.
And you liked making him flustered, but not cruelly. Never that.
There was simply something irresistible about watching Reiner Braun, who could walk onto a film set in front of thirty people and become Edmund without hesitation, suddenly lose his train of thought because you had smiled at him in a particular way. Sometimes you caught him looking at you during breaks, and the instant your eyes met, his gaze would dart somewhere else. Other times, he would be halfway through telling you a story and forget what he was saying because you were laughing, his mouth curving into a helpless smile before he shook his head and continued. Once, while you were sitting together beneath a covered walkway waiting for the rain to stop, you had reached across and brushed a tiny piece of lint from the shoulder of his coat. It was nothing, barely even a touch, but Reiner had gone completely still beneath your fingers.
You had noticed. He had noticed that you had noticed, but neither of you had mentioned it. That was how things worked between you. Everything happened in the spaces between what was said.
By the time the fifth week had arrived, you had developed a rhythm together that felt almost suspiciously natural. You knew when he wanted coffee without asking. He knew when you needed five minutes alone before a difficult scene. You stole pieces of fruit from his breakfast plate. He stole your scripts whenever you left them unattended, claiming he was checking your notes when really he just liked watching you search for them.
You had become good friends first, and that was what made everything so dangerous, because you genuinely began to like him a lot more than a good friend.Â
You liked sitting beside him in the back of the production van while the rain streaked across the windows. You liked listening to him talk about films he loved. You liked the quiet way he spoke when there were only the two of you around, without the polished confidence he used in interviews. You liked that he listened properly when you spoke, never looking at his phone or glancing around the room, his attention settling entirely on you as though whatever you were saying deserved to be heard. And somewhere between the coffee he started leaving beside your chair and the messages that had gradually become part of your evenings, you had stopped being able to pretend your feelings were harmless.
The worst part was that you didn't think he was pretending either. If anything, the more he seemed to care about you, the more careful he became. He never touched you unnecessarily, never flirted with you in front of the crew and never used your growing closeness as an excuse to cross a line.
During rehearsals, he always asked before placing his hands on you. During close up and intimate scenes, he followed the choreography precisely and stepped away the instant Armin called cut. If you were uncomfortable, he noticed before you said anything, and if you ever seemed tired, he quietly found some way to make things easier. It was almost maddening, especially down to the true fact being you wouldn't mind at all if he touched you.
Because the more respectful he was, the more you trusted him. And the more you trusted him, the harder it became to ignore how badly you wanted to kiss him when the cameras weren't rolling.
The invitation came on a Thursday evening.
Filming had finished earlier than expected because the rain had become too heavy for the exterior scenes, and by seven o'clock the manor had begun to empty, crew members disappearing into cars or retreating to their accommodation with the exhausted relief of people who had been working since before sunrise. The corridors, usually full of footsteps and voices and the constant clatter of equipment, had fallen strangely quiet, and the enormous house seemed to settle into itself once everyone had gone.
You were halfway towards your trailer outside when you saw Reiner standing beneath the awning outside his. He had changed out of Edmund's costume and was wearing a dark hoodie with the sleeves pushed carelessly up his forearms, loose trousers and socks without shoes, as though he had already decided he wasn't going anywhere else that evening. His hair was slightly damp, probably from the rain, and there was something about seeing him like thatâ without the polished costume, without the makeup, without the carefully constructed appearance of Edmundâ that made him look strangely more handsome.
Or perhaps it was simply because you knew him now.
You knew the little crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating. You knew that he roughed his hair up whenever he was nervous. You knew that he rubbed the back of his neck when somebody complimented him. You knew that he smiled with his whole face when he genuinely found something funny, and that his laugh was quieter than you would have expected from somebody with his size and presence. You knew himâ and that was precisely the problem.
He looked up when you approached, and for a second, his expression changed in that small, almost imperceptible way you had learned to recognise. His shoulders straightened, and his mouth curved before lifting the glass up that was in his hand. âCare to join me for a drink?â
You looked at it, then at him. âYou're inviting me into your trailer for alcohol?â
His mouth twitched. â......Sounds worse when you say it like that.â
The words were light, almost joking, but his eyes had dropped towards your mouth, only for a second before he looked away.
Your stomach tightened, and you knew you should just go back to your trailer for the night. Instead, you smiled. âAll right.â
His expression brightened almost immediately, and he stepped aside to let you in.
His trailer was warm and softly lit, with only a couple of lamps switched on and the rain tapping steadily against the windows. His script was spread across the small table, pages covered in handwritten notes, and his coat had been thrown over the back of one of the chairs. There was a faint smell of whiskey and whatever cologne he had worn that morning, and beneath it all the clean, warm scent of rain still clinging to his clothes.
You sat opposite him, and for the first few minutes, you talked about work and shared some whiskey. You complained about the next day's call time, which was offensively early considering the amount of rain Scotland had apparently decided to provide. Reiner told you his agent, Bertholdt had sent him an email at half past eleven the previous night and somehow expected him to read it before breakfast. You told him Sasha had done the same thing.
âMaybe they're secretly the same person,â you suggested with a smile.
Reiner looked genuinely thoughtful. âThat would explain a lot.â
At some point, as you reached for your glass your eyes wandered over the table, and you paused. Half-buried beneath a few loose pages of Reiner's script was a magazine, and you recognised the cover immediately.
It was you.
A glossy photograph of you stared back from beneath the script, your name printed in bold lettering across the top, the sort of magazine you'd seen in shop windows and airport kiosks for the past few weeks. You remembered the shoot clearlyâ the dress, the ridiculous number of lights, the three hours spent having your hair adjusted between photographs. Your eyebrows lifted. âIs thatââ
Reiner's hand moved with surprising speed, and he snatched the magazine from beneath the script and flipped it face-down. âNo.â
You blinked, and a laugh escaped you before you could stop it. âI didn't even finish the question.â
âI know.â
âYou're hiding it.â
âI'm not hiding anything.â
âYou very obviously just hid something.â
His cheeks had begun to a red colour, and he suddenly became extremely interested in rearranging the pages of his script. You leaned forward, trying to glimpse the cover again. âIs that a magazine with me on it?â
âNo.â
âReiner.â
He sighed, finally looking at you. âMaybe.â
Your smile widened. âMaybe?â
The conversation wandered eventually, it always did with himâ that was one of the things you liked most. You could start talking about a costume fitting and somehow end up discussing the first film you remembered seeing at the cinema, then childhood holidays, then the places you wanted to visit, then whether you thought you would ever stop feeling strange when people recognised you in public. There was no effort involved, no awkward pauses that needed filling, no sense that either of you was waiting for the other person to finish speaking so you could get your turn.
Reiner just listened to you. Really listened. His attention stayed on you, his eyes following your face while you spoke, and every now and then he would smile at something you said in that quiet way he had, as though he liked hearing you talk even when you were rambling. Eventually, you realised you had been talking for several minutes about something completely insignificant. You stopped. âSorry-â
âFor what?â
âI've been talking forever.â
âI don't mind.â
âYou'll tell me if you do?â
âI would.â
You smiled as he looked down at his glass, and for a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, If anything, it felt more intimate than the conversation had. You watched him absently turn the glass between his fingers. Then he said, quietly, âWe're filming the big kiss scene tomorrow."
Your heart gave one hard, unmistakable beat. You swallowed. âI know.â
âIt feels strange.â
âWhat does?â
He looked up. âThe fact that we've been doing all of thisââhe gestured vaguely, meaning the entire film, the weeks of rehearsals and glances and almost-touchesââand they haven't kissed yet.â
You smiled. âClara and Edmund?â
âYeah.â
You looked down at your drink. âI suppose they're taking their time.â
âApparently so.â
You glanced back at him and his expression was unreadable for a moment, then his eyes moved towards your mouth. It was such a small movement that, if you hadn't spent the last five weeks learning every little expression he madeâ you might have missed it.
You didn't.
Reiner's gaze lingered there for a moment before slowly returning to your eyes, and something about the hesitation in his expression made your stomach twist. He wasn't looking at you with the confidence he sometimes had when he was Edmund, wasn't wearing that effortless expression that made him seem completely at ease in front of a camera. This was Reiner, and suddenly you could see exactly how nervous he was.
His fingers shifted around the glass in his hand as he swallowed loudly.
You wondered if he could hear your heartbeatâhe probably couldâ it seemed loud enough to fill the entire trailer, but neither of you said anything for a while. The rain had become the only sound, pattering steadily against the windows and roof, occasionally rattling against the side of the trailer when the wind picked up. Somewhere outside, a distant car door slammed, followed by muffled footsteps crossing the gravel, but inside the little room everything felt strangely still.
You looked at his mouth without thinking, and you know you shouldn't have, as the thought arrived immediately. Don't do it, don't think about it.
He had a beautiful mouth, which you thought was a ridiculous thing to notice, especially now, but you had noticed it before. You had noticed it during rehearsals, during long conversations when he was explaining something and his expression became animated. You had noticed it when he smiled at you, when he laughed, when he bit back a grin because you had said something embarrassing.
You had wondered what it would feel like far too many times. And now he was only a few feet away from you, looking at you as though he might be wondering the same thing. Your fingers tightened around your glass.
You should leave now. You knew you should. You could smile, say goodnight, walk back to your trailer and climb into bed, and tomorrow everything could continue exactly as it had before.
You could go back to being friends, noâ co-workers. You could go back to pretending that the strange electricity between you whenever he stood too close was simply good chemistry between two actors. You could go back to watching him flirt with nobody and blush whenever you teased him, and you could convince yourself that you hadn't spent the last few weeks wanting to kiss him. You could do that. You absolutely couldâ but you just didn't want to.
Reiner set his glass down, and the quiet click of it against the table sounded absurdly loud. He looked at you again. âYou're staring at me.â The words he uttered were gentle and quiet.
You felt your cheeks warm. â.....So are you.â
A tiny smile appeared. âYeah.â
You weren't expecting him to admit it, and it made you laugh softly. He looked down, almost embarrassed, and you could see the faint flush spreading across his cheeks. It made him even more attractiveâŚ.. which was very unfair for your current situation. He was already far too handsome for your peace of mind, and now he had to sit there looking shy and slightly flustered because he'd been caught staring at you.
You shook your head, trying to stop your lips from curving upwards, but Reiner caught it. âWhat?â
âNothing.â
âYou're smiling.â
You looked at him. âIts just becauseâŚ..because you're cute when you're nervous.â
He immediately looked away, but for a moment his smile widened, and everything felt easy again. The teasing, the laughter, the quiet comfort that had settled so naturally between you over the past few weeks; it was all still there, only somehow softer now that you were both so close together, neither of you pretending quite as hard as you had been before. Reiner's smile lingered as he looked at you, and you could see the faint colour that had risen into his cheeks, the way his eyes kept returning to yours as though he was trying to work out whether you were about to say something or simply enjoying the silence.
You found yourself smiling too. You should have looked away, but instead you held his gaze.
The room seemed to grow quieter around you. Reiner's smile faded gradually, not because he was unhappy, but because he was suddenly looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach turn over. His eyes moved slowly across your face, taking in your expression, lingering for a moment on your eyes before drifting down to your mouth. There it was againâ that tiny hesitation.
That question neither of you seemed capable of putting into words. You could have broken the moment. You could have laughed, said something ridiculous, reached for your glass and changed the subject.
Instead, you stayed exactly where you were.
Reiner took a small step closer towards you, and your heart gave a hard, nervous beat. He stopped just in front of youâ his hand lifting up, but he didn't touch you immediately, instead his fingers hovered near your cheek for a second, and you could see the uncertainty in his face, the last little piece of restraint holding him back.
You leaned towards him, and that was all the permission he needed. His fingertips brushed your cheek, his touch was warm and gentle, almost unbearably careful, and you let your eyes close for a moment as you leaned into his palm. When you opened them again, he was watching you. âIs thisâŚ.okay?â he asked.
You nodded. âYeah.â
His thumb moved slowly across your cheek, and then he kissed you. He leaned in slowly enough that you could have stopped him, but you met him halfway, and the moment your mouths touched, the weeks of restrained attraction seemed to collapse into something neither of you could quite control.
Reiner's hand settled at your waist, and you felt his fingers tighten slightly against the fabric of your clothes as you kissed him back, and when you reached up to touch the side of his neck, he drew you closer.
The kiss deepened almost immediately. You had spent so long imagining what it would feel like that the reality almost startled you. Reiner was warm and solid against you, his mouth soft but increasingly insistent, and there was something wonderfully hesitant beneath the intensity, as though even now he was still trying to make sure he wasn't moving too quickly.
You answered by pulling him closer. His breath caught and you felt a small smile against your lips. âDon't,â you whispered, pulling away slightly even though you were smiling too.
He looked down at you through heavy lidded eyes. âDon't what?â
âLook so....pleased with yourself.â
âI can't help it.â
âHm, well you're very smug for someone who was blushing five minutes ago.â
He laughed softly, the sound disappearing between you as he kissed you again. It was stupid. You were kissing the man you'd spent the last five weeks trying not to fall for, and somehow you were laughing quietly between kisses like this was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe that was what frightened you. It felt natural. Too natural.
Reiner's hand moved from your waist to the small of your back, drawing you closer until there was barely any space between you. His other hand remained against your cheek, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, and when you kissed him again, you felt the slight tremor in his fingers.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and warm, his lips slightly swollen and parted from kissing you so hard. This time you initiated another kiss, bringing him closer to you againâ but this one was slower, lingering, and somehow more intimate than the kiss before itâ and you let your fingers slide into his hair, feeling him inhale sharply when you did, and his arm tightened around you instinctively. For several seconds, you forgot everything.
You forgot the film, where you were, you forgot that Clara and Edmund were supposed to share their first kiss in front of an entire crew tomorrow morning. There was no Edmund here, no Clara. There was just Reiner and you.Â
You liked him a lot more than you thought you did. The thought had come suddenly, almost painfully clearly. Not just because he was handsome, although he was. God, he was handsome....
But you liked everything about himâ his face, his smile, his ridiculous wide shoulders, the warmth of his hands, the way his hair went messy and ruffled when he had been working on set all day. You liked watching him move through a room, liked the quiet confidence that appeared whenever he was doing something he knew how to do, liked the contrast between that confidence and the shy, slightly awkward man who appeared whenever you teased him.
But it wasn't only that. You liked him. No, you loved himâ and you couldn't keep denying it. He melted into the kiss, his lips parting slightly as he returned your kiss with a gentleness that made your chest ache. His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as if memorising their shape. The stubble on his chin scraped softly against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.
When you pulled back slightly, his amber eyes were searching yours, pupils dilated in the dim light of his trailer. "Are you sure this is okay?" he whispered, his voice rougher than usual. His fingers tightened just slightly against your temples, not enough to hurt, but enough to show his own barely contained need.
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and leaned in to kiss him again. This time there was no hesitation. His mouth moved against yours with growing confidence, one hand sliding from your face down to the small of your back, pressing you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You could feel his heart hammering against your ribs, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.
Reiner broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. "I've wanted to do that for weeks," he admitted, his breath warm against your lips. "Every time youâ"
You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he opened for you. The taste of him was intoxicatingâ whiskey and mint hitting your senses as you explored each others mouths. His hands roamed your back, mapping the curve of your spine through the thin fabric of your shirt. When his fingers brushed the bare skin above your waistband, you gasped into his mouth. "Sorry," he pulled back immediately, his hands hovering just above your skin. "Should I stopâ?"
"Don't you dare stop," you breathed, catching his wrist and pressing his palm flat against your side. His skin was warm and calloused from years of stunts and training, the roughness a delicious contrast to your own softness.
Reiner's eyes darkened as he watched you, his thumb stroking circles on your side. "You're sure?" he asked again, even as his other hand began to explore the curve of your hip.
Instead of answering, you reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one smooth motion. The air in the trailer was cool against your bare skin, but the heat in Reiner's gaze was enough to warm you from the inside out. He stared at you as if you were something precious, something to be cherished.
"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands returned to your body, tracing the lines of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. When his thumb brushed over your nipple, you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. He took his time, learning every inch of your exposed skin with his hands and then his mouthâ his kisses trailed from your jaw down your neck, teeth scraping gently against your pulse point. You tangled your fingers in his blonde hair, holding him close as he explored the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"Reiner," you gasped as his mouth closed around your nipple, his tongue swirling in patterns that made your toes curl. His broad shoulders blocked out the rest of the world as he lavished attention on your breasts, switching sides with a thoroughness that spoke of his attention to detail in everything he did.
His hands moved lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. He looked up at you, his golden amber eyes questioning even as his thumbs stroked the skin just above your zipper. "Can I�"
You nodded, helping him slide the denim down your legs as he pushed you back to sit on the narrow sofa of the trailer. His knuckles brushed against your core through the thin fabric of your underwear, and you bit back a whimper. Reiner noticed, of course he noticed, his eyes darkening with concern and desire. "Too much?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
You shook your head, reaching for his hand and guiding it back to where you needed him. "More," you breathed.
His fingers traced the outline of your lips through your panties, the pressure light enough to drive you mad. "....Like this?" he murmured, his eyes fixed on your face as he watched your reactions.
"Inside," you managed to moan out, your voice trembling with need. "Please, Reiner."
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your underwear, slowly peeling the fabric down your legs. His gaze never left yours as his hand wandered down between your thighs, his expression one of utter reverence. When his fingers finally brushed against your bare folds, you cried out, your back arching off the narrow couch. You were wet, had been wet since the kiss, and his fingertip slid through the slickness with a slow drag that made you grip his shoulders. He found your clit with a precision that suggested he was paying very close attention, and the first slow circle he traced there pulled a sound from your throat that you hadn't intended to make.
"Like that?" he asked, his lips against your temple.
"Yes. Like that."
He maintained the rhythm, slow, tight circles with just enough pressure to build heat without rushing. His other hand cupped the back of your head, holding you against him, and you could feel his own arousal straining against his trousers, the hard length of him pressed against your thigh. He was letting you set the pace, matching his touch to the rhythm of your hips, and the attentiveness of it, the way he read your body the way he read a scene, was unraveling you.
When his finger slipped lower and pressed into you, your breath broke. He went slowly, the single digit sliding in to the first knuckle, then further, and he groaned against your neck as he felt how wet you were.
"Easy," he murmured, his free hand stroking your hip. "I've got you." He circled your entrance with one finger, gathering your wetness before slowly, carefully pressing inside. You tensed at the intrusion, your body clamping down around him.
Immediately, he stilled. "Is it too fast?" he asked, his thumb stroking your clit in gentle circles. "Tell me what you need."
You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to relax around him. "Move," you whispered. "Please, move with me."
He began to thrust slowly, his finger curling inside you to find that spot that made your vision white out at the edges. When he added a second finger, stretching you carefully, you moaned his name, your hips rising to meet his hand. His thumb continued its work on your clit, building a tension deep in your belly that threatened to overwhelm you.
"Oh fuckâReiner," you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "I needâ"
"What do you need?" he asked, his voice strained with his own desire. "Tell me."
"You," you breathed. "I need you."
He withdrew his fingers slowly, making you whimper at the loss. His hands went to his own jeans, fumbling with the button before sliding the denim down his muscular thighs. Your breath caught at the sight of himâ hard and already leaking with need. He paused, his hand wrapped around his base as he looked down at you. "Are you sure?" he asked one last time, his amber eyes searching yours in the dim light. "Once we do thisâŚ..everything changes betweenâ"
You reached for him, pulling him down over you. "Everything's already changed," you whispered against his lips. "Now make love to me, Reiner."
He positioned himself at your entrance, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. When he finally pushed inside, it was with excruciating slowness, giving you time to adjust to his size. You gasped at the stretch, your nails scoring his back as he filled you completely.
"Fuckâ is thisâŚ.okay?" he asked, his voice strained as he held still above you, his muscles shaking with restraint.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Yes," you moaned. "Please, move."
He began to thrust slowly, each movement deliberate and careful as if he was afraid of breaking you. His amber eyes never left yours, watching every flicker of pleasure that crossed your face. When your hips began to rise to meet hisâ his control finally snapped, and his thrusts became deeper, harder, his mouth finding yours in a desperate kiss as he chased his release.
Your orgasm built slowly, starting as a low hum deep in your belly before spreading through your entire body. When it finally crashed over you, you cried out his name, your body clamping down around him as waves of pleasure washed through you. Reiner followed you over the edge with a soft whine before he let out a deep groan, his body shuddering against yours as he filled you with his release.
He collapsed against you, his weight a welcome pressure as you both struggled to catch your breath. After a long moment, he rolled to the side, pulling you into his arms. His fingers traced patterns on your skin as your breathing slowly returned to normalâ it was perfect.....then reality came crashing back.
You pulled away, and Reiner sat up immediately. His hands loosened around you, and his expression changed the moment he saw yours. âWhat is it?â
You swallowed. âWe can't do this.â
He didn't move. âCan't what?â
You looked at him, your heart was now racing again. âI can't do this.â
His eyes searched your face. â.....You don't want to?â
The question hurt, and you shook your head immediately. âNo. That's not it.â
âThen what is it?â
You glanced towards the door, the answer was obvious. You were actors. Co-stars. Co-workers. This movie was a job, and you crossed a line you shouldn't have with him. Worse, you had crossed it before your characters had even kissed. You were supposed to stand opposite him beneath the cameras tomorrow morning and pretend that Clara's first kiss with Edmund was the beginning of something neither character understood yet. How were you supposed to do that now? How were you supposed to look at him on camera and pretend you didn't know exactly how his mouth felt against yours? Or how his body felt against yours?Â
You stop up, grabbing your jeans and panties as you begin to pull them back on. âI shouldn't have done thatâ we shouldn't have done that.â
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, very quietly, he said, âI wanted to.â
You closed your eyes, as that was the problem. You wanted him too as well, far more than you should. You opened your eyes again to look at him. âI know.â
His expression softened as you pulled on your discarded top, and reached for the door. You hated yourself for doing thisâ every part of you wanted to turn around, go back to him and forget about professionalism altogether.
But you couldn't. Not when you cared about him this much. Not when you were terrified that if you let yourself have this, you wouldn't know how to stop. You had worked so hard to get where you were now as an actress, you couldn't risk this. âI'm sorry,â you whisper.Â
Reiner shook his head. âNoâŚ..don't apologiseââ
You looked at him one last time. He was still sitting where you'd left him, his hair slightly messy, his expression gentle, his cheeks still pink from fucking you. He looked unbearably good. You almost laughed at the absurdity of itâ of all the people you could have fallen for, of all the people you could have kissed and slept withâ it had to be your co-star.
You opened the door, and stepped outside without looking back again.
The next morning, you become very good at avoiding Reiner. It starts before you even arrive on set.
You sit in the back of the set instead of beside him at the front, pretending to be completely absorbed in your phone. You take the long way around the courtyard so you won't have to pass his trailer. You linger by wardrobe when you have no reason to be there. You accept a coffee you don't particularly want simply because the assistant offering it is standing in the opposite direction from where Reiner is.
It is ridiculous, and you know it is ridiculous.
But every time you think about looking at him, you remember last night, and the memory sends a rush of warmth through you that makes maintaining a perfectly professional expression feel considerably more difficult than it should. During breakfast, you sit beside Sasha and become so intensely interested in whatever she is telling you about a scheduling change that you don't even notice Reiner walking into the room until her eyes flick briefly over your shoulder and the corner of her mouth curves.
You don't turn around, but you can feel him there anyway. It is stupid how aware you are of him now. You can tell when he enters a room without looking. You recognise his footsteps in the corridor. You know the quiet sound of his laugh, the way his voice changes when he's tired, the little pause he takes before answering a question when he's trying to choose his words carefully.
And now you know what he sounds like when there is nobody else around. The thought hits you so suddenly that you nearly choke on your coffee. Because you don't just remember just his casual voice anymoreâ you remember the way it had sounded last night, lower and rougher than usual, broken occasionally by quiet groans and murmured words meant only for you, and the memory is enough to send an embarrassing rush through you before you can stop it. You put your cup down a little too quickly.
Sasha stops mid-sentence. âYou okay?â
You clear your throat, refusing to look anywhere except at her. âFine.â You are absolutely not fine. She studies you as you stare very intently at the table.
Because the truth is, you can still feel the weight of his gaze somewhere behind you. And you know, with horrible certainty, that he is looking for you. You finally catch him once in the reflection of a window, and he is standing halfway down the corridor, script in one hand, watching you. The moment your eyes meet in the glass, he looks away.
âAnyway,â you say to Sasha far too brightly, âwhat were you saying?â
She gives you a long look. âYou're avoiding him.â
You laugh but it comes out wrong. âWhat? No, I'm not.â
âYou've been staring at him since he walked in.â
âActually no, I wasntâŚ..I was looking for something,â you scoff.Â
Sasha doesn't look convinced. âDid something happen?â She asks, lowering her voice.Â
You stare at the dark surface of your drink. âNo.â One of her eyebrows raises as you take a sip. âNothing happened.â
Its a terrible lie. Because something happenedâ well, quite a lot happened, actually. Somewhere between the rain against the windows and the hours slipping quietly past, the line you had been so determined not to cross disappeared completely. You had slept with him, and, rather inconveniently, you can't remember ever having a better night than last night.
The memory alone is enough to make your stomach flip, because it isn't just the fact that you finally gave in to something you'd been wanting for weeks; it's everything surrounding it that keeps coming back to youâ the way he'd looked at you during it like the only thing in the world, the quiet tenderness of him, the warmth of being so close to him, and the deeply inconvenient realisation that you hadn't regretted it for even a second.
If anything, you regretted leaving his trailer. You regretted not staying. You regretted having to get dressed, walk back to your own trailer and pretend that you hadn't spent time tangled up with the man you've been desperately trying not to fall for. And now you have to spend the entire day around him while pretending that nothing happened, despite knowing exactly what happened and remembering far too much of it.
And worseâ today is the day you film Clara and Edmund's first kiss.
Armin gathers you both in the library shortly after nine. The room has been rearranged for the scene, the furniture pushed back and the curtains drawn against the pale morning light. A fire burns in the grate, throwing warm flickering light across the wooden floor, and the camera has been positioned so close towards your face you're sure it'll pick up every small emotion you show. You stand opposite Reiner, and you can immediately tell he's tired.
There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair is slightly messier than usual. He keeps his script folded in one hand, though you notice he isn't looking at it. He is looking at you. You glance away as Armin begins explaining the scene.
âOk so in this scene, Edmund finally stops pretending,â Armin says. âThis is the moment where he tells Clara that he doesn't care about their families anymore. He has spent the entire film trying to convince himself that what he feels for her isn't real, and now he's done.â
You nod and Reiner does too. âYou've both been fighting this for weeks,â Armin continues. âSo don't make it pretty. Make it honest.â
Your stomach twists because you know exactly what he means. You look down at the pages in your hands before you hand them over to start filming, even though you aren't really reading them anymore. The words blur together beneath your gaze, because all you can think about is that you're having to stand opposite Reiner beneath a camera and pretend that the kiss between Clara and Edmund is the first time either of them has ever crossed that particular line.
Except it won't be. Not anymore.
You look up and Reiner is already watching you. There is something almost unbearably gentle in his expression.
His thumb keeps moving over the edge of the script in his hand, rubbing absently against the paper before he hands it over to Bertholt, and your heart gives an uncomfortable little flutter. Armin is still talking about the scene, and you try to listen. You really do. But then Reiner's eyes meet yours again, and suddenly the entire room seems to fall away.
âAnd don't make it too polished, of course,â Armin continues. âEdmund's finally saying the things he's been too afraid to say about his feelings.â
Reiner nods, and something about that makes your chest tighten. Because you know him well enough now to recognise the irony. Armin turns away to speak to the camera crew. Reiner looks at you, and he gives you the smallest smile. You can't help returning itâ and for a second, it feels like last night again. Then Armin calls for quiet to start filming.
You take your position and a deep breath. Armin shouts "And...action!" and then the cameras begin to roll, and Reiner becomes Edmund, or at least, he's supposed to. He walks towards you slowly, his expression troubled, his eyes fixed on yours.
You look up from your book, saying your line. âEdmund? What are you doing here?â
He stops. You know your lines, and he knows his lines. At least, he is supposed to. But when he looks at youâ you forget that you are supposed to be Clara, because there is something in his eyes that you recognise. It is the same look he had given you last night, the same softness. The same almost painful longing that had made it so difficult to walk away from him.
âClara.â His voice is quiet. âYou must believe me when I say that I have tried.â
Heâs saying the right lines, you know what comes next, what he was meant to say. But then he hesitates, just slightly, like he'd forgotten the next lineâ which you knew was close to impossible for a successful actor like him.Â
His eyes remain fixed on yours. âI've tried to tell myself that this is stupid.â
Your heart skips. That isn't the next line.
He takes a slow step towards you. âI've tried to convince myself that I only feel this way because I'm around you so often.â Another step towards you. âThat if I left, if I went somewhere else, if I stopped seeing you everydayâŚâ He gives a faint, almost embarrassed smile. ââŚperhaps I'd finally stop looking for you.â
Your stomach twists, and behind the camera, nobody moves, Armin doesn't yell cut even though Reiner was going completely off script, which encourges Reiner to continue. âBut I don't.â His voice has softened. âI look for you anyway.....I look for you when I arrive in the morning. I look for you when I walk into a room. When something happens, you're the first person I want to tell.â
You know none of this is in the script. Everyone in the room probably knows it, and yet it sounds so perfectly like Edmund that you can't tell where the character ends and the man standing in front of you begins.
He takes another step. âI tried to make myself stop noticing you, but I couldn't.â His eyes meet yours again. âI tried to stop remembering things about you. Your favourite movies, your favourite booksâ the way you take your coffee, the way you always say you're not cold when you're clearly freezing.â You almost smile. âI tried not to notice when you were tired, I tried not to worry when you were upset.â He shakes his head. âAnd I tried, most of all, not to care when you smiled at meâŚ..But I did, every timeâ fuck, I cared so much.â
His gaze moves over your face. Reiner looks almost embarrassed by how much he has said, but he doesn't stop. âI'd find myself thinking about seeing you before I'd even gone to sleep.â He takes another step. âAnd I'd wake up thinking about youâŚ..I'd tell myself it was only because I was simply getting too caught up in the part.â He gives a quiet laugh. âBut then Iâd find myself still wanting to be near you even when we weren't togetherâŚ..and I'd go back to my room and think about something you'd said, or something you'd doneâ and I'd realise I missed you.â
You can barely breathe as Reiner swallows. âI know I shouldn't say this, especially now.â His voice is almost a whisper now. âBut I don't know how much longer I can pretend that I don't feel it. I think about you too much. I think about you when I shouldn't.â His voice cracks slightly. âAnd I don't know how to make myself stop.â
He takes the final step towards you, and you can see every little detail of his face now. The slight flush across his cheeks, the way his breathing has become uneven with the nervous movement of his fingers at his side. He looked completely exposed in front of you right now. âAll I know isâŚsomewhere along the wayâŚâ He exhales. âYou became the person I wanted beside me. The person I wanted to tell everything toâ the person I wanted a life with.â
You stop breathing. You find yourself thinking of his hands around your waist and his mouth against yours, and had thought that was the most intimate thing the two of you could shareâ but you were wrongâ because this moment felt like the most intimate thing. Last night, you knew he wanted you, but right now, you know now he loves you. And the realisation is almost too much, and a tear slips free before you can stop it. You feel it travel slowly down your cheek as Reiner sees it, and his expression changes immediately.
The nervousness in his face deepens into something painfully tender, his eyes dropping to the tear before returning to yours, as though he has suddenly become worried that he has said too much.
âI know I should probably stop talking,â he continues quietly, his voice barely carrying across the room. âButâŚ.I just need to say thisâ I love you.â The words are so quiet that they almost disappear into the room, but he looks at youâ really looks at you. âI love you.â He says it again, softer, and that was enough for you.
You don't let him say another word as your hand catches the front of his coat, your fingers curling into the fabric as you pull him towards you, and your other hand comes up to his face. âIâ I love you too,â you say, your voice cracking slightly.Â
He freezes. Then the tension seems to leave his entire body at once, his shoulders dropping as a breath he must have been holding escapes him, and the most beautiful, disbelieving smile spreads slowly across his face. âYouâyou do?â
You smile through the tears gathering in your eyes. âI do.â
His eyes soften. He looks almost overwhelmed by the words, and for a second he simply holds your gaze, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rests against his cheek. âI love you,â he whispers again, as though saying it now is easier. âAnd I'm forever yours.â
You smile, tears still clinging to your lashes. âI am too.â
The happiness that crosses his face is almost enough to undo you. He looks so relieved, so genuinely happy, that you suddenly want to kiss him before he can say anything else. He opens his mouth, probably about to speak againâ but you don't let him.
You kiss him. Hard. There is no hesitation, no carefully choreographed movement, no delicate first-kiss tenderness that you were meant to execute in this scene. You kiss him differently than you did last night, this was like you have been holding your breath since the first day you met him and have finally been given permission to breathe. Reiner freezes for the smallest fraction of a second, perhaps from the shock of it, but then he soon kisses you back with equal intensity, his mouth moving against yours as though he has forgotten entirely where he is. His hands find your waist almost instinctively, pulling you against him as your mouth moves against his. You can feel the slight tremble in his hands, you can feel him smile for half a second against your lips, almost disbelievingly, before he kisses you again.
Your fingers slide into his hair as his hand rises to the back of your neck, And the tear that had fallen down your cheek is still there when he brushes his thumb across your face, catching it without breaking the kiss for more than a breath.
When you finally separate, it is only because you need air, but your forehead remains against his, your eyes closed for a second as you try to remember where you areâ because somehow you have completely forgotten the cameras, the crew, the enormous library set surrounding you, and the fact that there are at least twenty people who have just watched you kiss Reiner as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Thenâ
âAnd cut!â Armin's voice cuts through the room.
Neither of you moves. You are still holding Reiner's hair, his hands still resting around your waist, and for another second or two you simply stay there, breathing against one another. There is laughter from somewhere behind the cameras when you finally pull back., your eyes meeting Reiner's. His cheeks are flushed, his hair slightly dishevelled from your fingers, and there is an almost helpless expression on his face, as though he has only just remembered that you are not alone.
You look towards the cameras, and the entire crew is staring. Not subtly, either. One of the lighting technicians has his arms folded across his chest, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappear beneath his hairline. Someone else is trying very hard not to smile. The sound technician is looking between you and Reiner with an expression of complete shock, while one of the makeup artists is wiping her tear-filled eyes. Armin, meanwhile, looks absolutely thrilled.
âThat,â Armin says slowly, âwas fucking brilliant.â Your face immediately heats and Reiner looks down. Armin points towards the monitor. âI mean it. That was the best take we've done.â He turns towards the camera operator. âDid you get all of that?â The operator nods. âGood.â Armin looks back at you. âBecause we're keeping itâ it was perfect.â
You blink. âReally?â
âAbsolutely.â He gestures vaguely towards the two of you. âI don't know what would've happened after I called cut, but I definitely want to see what would happen.â A few people laugh, and your face burns even hotter.
Reiner rubs the back of his neck, visibly flustered. âSorry.â
Armin laughs. âDon't apologise! I'm the director. You're supposed to make me believe you two are in love.â He glances towards the monitor again with a raised eyebrow. âAnd, apparently, you have succeeded.â
That gets another round of laughter from the crew as you look at Reiner. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then that little smile of his appears, and you smile back. And somehow, despite the embarrassment, despite the fact that half the crew now knows there is something between you, you don't regret it. Not even slightly.
âSoâŚ. would you say you two became quite close?â
The question pulls you back into the present, and you glance towards Reiner. He is still sitting comfortably beside you, one arm resting casually along the back, and the corner of his mouth is still lifted while his eyes stay on you.
The interviewer smiles as you look back at them. âWellâŚ..â You glance at Reiner again out of the corner of your eye. âLet's just say we spent a lot of time together."
There is a beat of silence before the interviewer laughs. Reiner looks down, trying and failing to hide his smile. The interviewer raises an eyebrow. âA lot of time?â
You nod innocently. âLots of it.â
Beside you, Reiner finally laughs. And the look he gives you says that, unlike everyone watching the interview, the two of you know exactly what that answer means.
The argument had started over nothingâ the way most arguments do, but only the ones that cut the deepest. You had made an offhand comment about him cancelling dinner again, something light, something that was supposed to be a joke, and Reiner had gone very still. He was leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set, his golden eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder like he couldn't quite bring himself to look at you directly.
"I just forgot," he said flatly. "It won't happen again."
"It's not about forgetting," you told him. "It's the third time this month, Reiner. You've been so distant lately and I don't understand why."
"I'm not distantâ"
"You barely talk to me anymore."
Something shifted in his expression at thatâ a brief, painful flicker that he smoothed over before you could name it. "I've just been busy."
"You haven't been busy." Your voice was quieter now, which was somehow worse than if you'd raised it. "You've been right here and it still feels like you're somewhere else. I live with you, I know youâ I notice."
"Then maybe you should stop noticing so much." That landed wrong and he knew it the second it left his mouthâ you saw it in the way his shoulders drew up, the way his throat worked. He didn't take it back, thoughâ as Reiner never quite knew how to take things back gracefully.
"Is that what you want?" you asked. "You want me to stop noticing?"
"I wantâ" He cut himself off. "I don't know what I want."
"Then tell me what's wrongâ just talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Reinerâ"
"I said there's nothing!" His voice came out sharper than he intended and he exhaled hard through his nose, looking away. The kitchen felt very small suddenly and the distance between you felt very large.
You watched him for a long momentâ the rigid set of his back, the way he wouldn't look at you, the tension running through him like something tightly coiled. You knew this version of him. You'd seen it settle over him gradually over the past few weeks, like a tide coming in so slowly you hadn't noticed until the water was already at your knees.
"You've been pulling away from me," you whisper. "And I keep telling myself you need time, that I should give you space, but it's been weeks, Reiner, and it's getting worse not better." He didn't answer. "If I've done something, just tell me. If you're unhappy, tell meâ"
"I'm notâ" He stopped again, dragging a hand over his face. "I'm not unhappy."
"Then what are you?" The silence stretched long enough that you thought he wasn't going to answer. He was staring at the floor, his broad shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, which was almost absurd given the sheer size of him. Reiner had always taken up so much physical spaceâ and watching him try to disappear into himself was like watching something quietly break. "Reiner," you said softly. "Please."
"I just thinkâ" He stopped, taking a deep, controlled breath. "I keep thinking you're going to leave."
The words fell into the room like something heavy dropped from a great height. You went very still. "What?"Â
He finally looked at you. His jaw was clenched tight and he looked, somehow, both completely certain of what he'd just said and absolutely terrified to have said it. "I keep thinking at some point you're going to realise this was a mistake," he said, and his voice was steady in the awful careful way of someone trying very hard to keep it that way. "That I was a mistake. And I think I've been trying to make it easierâ for both of usâ when you leave me. So it doesn't hurt as much when it happens."
You stared at him. "That's why you've been pulling away," you said slowly, the realisation hitting you. "You've been pulling away because you think I'm going to leave, so you'reâ what? Getting a head start?"
He looked away again. That was answer enough for you. "Reiner." You didn't know whether you wanted to cry or shake him. "Why would I leave?"
"Because you know what I did. You know who I amâ who I was." He said it simply, quietly, like a fact being stated rather than a confession being madeâ and that was somehow the most painful part of it. He wasn't asking for absolution, he wasn't even asking you to argue with him. He had simply decided this was true and had been quietly building the distance between you as a kind of preemptive grief. "You know everything, you know all of it and you stay anyway and I don'tâ I can't make sense of that. I can't make sense of someone like you choosing someone like me, and the longer this goes on the more I think you must just not have realised how stupid it is yet."
He said it like it was nothing. Like it was just an ordinary sentence. And then something in his face cracked open and he pressed his mouth into a hard line, looking up at the ceiling and you realised with a slow, lurching jolt that he was trying not to cry.
You had barely ever seen Reiner cry, maybe the one time many years ago. But you had never seen his face do what it was doing nowâ that careful terrible effort of keeping himself together, his chin tilted up, his throat working, his eyes glassy in a way he clearly thought you couldn't see from across the room.
You crossed the kitchen in four steps.
He heard you coming and turned slightly awayâ a reflex, that old instinct toward self-protectionâ but he didn't move fast enough, or maybe some quieter part of him didn't want to. You slid your arms around him from behind, pressing your face between his shoulder blades, and felt the full-body flinch that moved through him, the sharp intake of breath.
"Don't leave me," he whispered, his voice strained. "Please," he added, quieter, and you felt itâ the way his voice fractured on that single word, the way his ribs expanded with a breath that shook on the way out. His hands found your arms where they wrapped around him and he gripped them hard. Not pushing you away, but holding you there.
"I'm not going anywhere," you said into his back. You pressed closer to him, if that was even possible. âAnd I need you to listen to me, Reiner, because I need you to actually hear this and not just let it pass through you. You are not something I stumbled into by accident. You are not a mistake I haven't caught up with yet. I know what you did. I know all of it. I have known all of it for a long time and I am still here, and I am not here out of pity and I am not here because I haven't thought it through. I'm here because you are the person I want to be here with. You are the person I love."
His grip on your arms tightened. "I don't think Iâll ever understand that," he said roughly.Â
"You don't have to understand it. You just have to believe it." You turned your face to press your cheek against his spine. You could feel the tension still running through him, but underneath it something had begun to easeâ barely, incrementally, the way a fist slowly opens. "But when you pull away from me, Reiner, when you put all that distance between usâ it doesn't protect me. It justâŚ.hurts. It just makes me feel like I'm already losing you."
He turned then, and you let him, loosening your hold enough to let him move. He turned to face you and he lookedâ exhausted, you thought, worn all the way through. Up close his eyes were wet and he wasn't quite looking at you, his gaze somewhere just below your face, his jaw working like he was searching for something to say and coming up empty.
You brought your hand up to his face. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. "You are allowed to be loved," you said quietly. "Even now. You are allowed to have this."
He made a sound that wasn't quite a word. Low and broken and pressed out from somewhere deep in his chest, like something that had been held there under pressure for a very long time finally finding a way out. His forehead dropped to yours and you felt the tremor that moved through himâ not the shaking of a man falling apart, but of a man who has been holding himself entirely rigid for months and has forgotten that he doesn't always have to.
"I'm scared," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "Every day. I'm scared you'll wake up andâ and youâll see it. See the real me."
"I see the real you," you told him. "I see all of it. And I'm still hereâ and I will still be here tomorrow. I love youâ I love you everyday, even the days you make it difficult, even the days you're somewhere I can't reach. I love you and I am not going anywhere."
Something in his expression cracked open, soft and unguarded, and he closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them again he was looking at you like you were the only solid thing in the room.
"I love you too," he whispered quietly. "I don'tâ I don't understand why you're still here with me, but I love you. More than I know what to do with."
You smiled at that, small and helpless, and he made a low sound and pulled you back up to himâ one hand cradling the back of your head, tilting your face toward hisâ and kissed you slowly and carefully, the way he always did when he was trying to say something he didn't have words for. You felt his exhale against your mouth, felt his hand tighten gently in your hair. It wasn't desperate and it wasn't rushed; it was just him, quiet and certain, saying the only thing left to say.
                [ NSFW warning .á 18+ ]
summary: When you get football captain Reiner Braun as your lab partner at university, you expect four weeks of awkward small talk. What you donât 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
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 randomnessâ 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 culturesâ 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 pairâ"
You wrote bacteria cultures in your notebook and underlined it.
"Reiner Braun," Hange read, "andâ" she squinted at the second slip and looked up, scanning the room, "âyou. Third row."
You looked up. At the very back of the lecture theatreâ where the universityâs football team had apparently claimed the last two rows as their territory some years agoâ 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 dismissivelyâŚ..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 notâ" 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 knucklesâ 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 togetherâŚ..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 youâd ever metâ 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?"Â
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.Â
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 reinersâŚ.
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 kitâ 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 everythingâ fully, without skimming, like he'd decided this was the task and so he was going to do the task.Â
Not because the project was complicatedâ 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?"Â
"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. "Iâve seen him do things like this before. He gets annoyed when people cut corners."
"So you've absorbed his habits?"
"I guessâŚ.?" 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 justâŚâŚone 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 himâ 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 shouldâŚ.uhâ 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 himâ 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.Â
"We should do it again next week," you smile at him.Â
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 :)Â
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 morningâ the athletics field, all mist and early lightâ 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 questionsâ 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 toâ 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 didâ 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 himâ 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. âWellâŚ.whatâs up?âÂ
He looked at the table. "I get theseâ 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 gotâ it doesn't matter. Iâm 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'tâ 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 justâ"
"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 justâ 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 questionâ 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 complaintâŚ.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.Â
P.S. you two should get coffee and I say that as a scientist who has observed compelling evidenceâŚ..
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.âÂ
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 wholeâ" you gestured, "âbeing 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 itâ the recognition, the social stuff, everyone knowing your nameâ 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. Notâ" He paused. "Not performing for people all the time."
"Then build that.â
"It's notâ"
"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.â
He looked at you with the expression he sometimes hadâ 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.âÂ
"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 understandâŚâŚmostly. By the time you left the cafĂŠ, 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 meanâ 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 âfootballâ person."
"I'm notâŚ"
"Then why come?"
You looked at him. "Because you asked me."
That stopped himâ 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.Â
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 dateâ 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 cafĂŠs, 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 jacketâ 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.Â
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."Â
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,â you try to say in your most serious tone.Â
"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. "Iâ" He cleared his throat. "Right."
You smiled and took a piece of popcorn. Outside the window the campus was doing its Saturday evening thingâ 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 thatâ caught somewhere between embarrassed and something warmerâ and you smiled at him and watched the pink happen and thought: I really do like him, even though it is extremely inconvenientâŚ.but I don't careâ
"Can I say something?" he said suddenly, making you jump.Â
"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 feelâ" 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 justâ 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 justâ not just she's interesting or she's hot or whateverâŚ..not that you're not hotâ obviously you are......Anyway, what I'm trying to say is.....I actually like youâ 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 thisâ 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 roomâ 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 thoughtâ 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 allowedâ so you saved him waiting and leaned across the space between you and kissed him.
One second of stillnessâ the specific stillness of someone whose brain had caught up faster than his bodyâ 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 openedâ golden, warm and slightly dazed.
"Was that okay?" you said, your voice slightly strained.Â
The smile cameâ all at once, the real unguarded one that changed everything about his face, and he laughed, short and disbelieving. "Yeah," he said. "That wasâ 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 attentiveâŚ.the same way he was careful with everything that mattered to him. "You knowâŚ.you could do that again," Reiner said quietly, almost carefulâ 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 mouthâ a low, punched-out thing, barely audibleâ 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 everythingâ 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 groanedâ 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 deliberatelyâ 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 raggedâ 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 meâ"
"Then show me," you said, and rolled your hips again. âShow me what I doââ
The friction you were causing was devastating. You could feel himâ 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 nowâ 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 youâ 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 yoursâ 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 youâ 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 somethingâ want and fear and something softer underneath, something that looked a lot like devotion.
"Are youâ 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 wasâ 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 droppedâ immediate, involuntary, the kind of reflexive response that couldn't be fakedâ and fixed on your chest. His mouth stayed open, lips still parted from the kiss, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed hardâ his hands had been resting on your thighs, and they lifted now, hovering in the air between you, trembling slightly. Not shakingâ 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 yoursâ checking, still checking, even nowâ 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 itâ the warmth and pressure of his wide palms against your skin, the way his fingers splayed and squeezedâ 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 didâ 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 sensationâ his mouth on one side, his hand on the otherâ 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 wasâ 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 maddeningâ 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 needâ"
"I know," he said against your breast, and his voice was shaking. "I know, I justâ let meâ"
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 absurdâ 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 freeâ thick, flushed, the head slick with precumâ 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, waitâ" His hand closed around your wrist, gentle but firm. "If you do that, I'm gonnaâ"
You let go and smiled at him. The look on his faceâ flushed, wild-eyed, fighting for controlâ 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 intenseâ 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 guidingâ 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 himâ 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 feelâ you feel soâ"
You sank the rest of the way down, taking him fully, and you both moaned at the same timeâ 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 sayâ 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 itâ the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the dorm bed, the desperate noises spilling from both your mouth â 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 itâ 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 whinedâ 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 twistedâ 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'mâ I'm not gonna last, you feel too good, Iâ"
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 everywhereâ your lips, your jaw, your neck, your shoulderâ 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 upâ once, twice â 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 edgeâ 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 breathingâ 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 againâ the gold flecks returned, the dark blown-pupil look fadingâ and the smile on his face was the unguarded one, the real one.
His thumb traced your cheekbone. "That wasâ"
"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 headâ 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.Â
summary: After another nightmare drags Reiner back to the rumbling, he wakes up terrified that he's lost you. But safe in your arms, he finds comfort in the one person who reminds him that some things are worth holding onto.
a/n: I have received some of the nicest and sweetest messages ever recently from people complimenting my writing and it makes me so happy I'm so glad people enjoy it :') thank u to everyone who reads my stuff I love u all very much :) anyway hope u all enjoy this one >:)
You knew about Reinerâs nightmares the way you knew everything about him.
Not because he'd sat you down and explained them. Not because he found it easy to talk about what lived in the darker parts of himâ he didn't, and you'd known that from the beginning, and you'd never pushed. You knew them the way you knew the rest of him: through time, through sleeping beside him long enough to learn the difference between the breathing that meant he was actually resting and the other kind. The shallow and quick kind, the kind that meant something was building.
Tonight you'd fallen asleep tucked against his side, warm, bare and completely at ease. He'd had his arm around you and his lips against your hair and everything had been exactly right. Until you woke to the sound of him. Low and strainedâ the compressed version of something much larger trying to be contained. You were sitting up before you'd finished waking, hand already reaching for him.
"Reiner." Your palm flat against his chest, his cheek, anywhere. "Heyâ wake up. I'm right here."
He came out of it all at onceâ gasping, lurching upright, hands going out instinctively and finding nothing. Chest heaving, eyes wide and somewhere else entirely. "Reiner." You got your hands to his face immediately, both palms cupping his jaw, tilting him toward you. "Look at meâhey. It's me."
His eyes found yours. The breath went out of him in a rush and he grabbed youâ both arms, pulling you hard against his chest, face dropping straight into your neck. No words, just that. Just the desperate, bone-deep grip of someone who'd been somewhere terrible and needed the physical proof that you were real and in front of him.
You held him just as hard. Hands on his back, your face in his hair. "I've got you," you said softly. "I'm here. You're okay."
He was shaking. Not a lotâ just enough to feel it under your hands, that fine tremor that his body couldn't quite suppress. You held on and didn't say anything else because you knew him, knew that what he needed right now wasn't words but thisâ the warmth of you, solid and real and not going anywhere.
Slowly, the shaking stopped. And slowly, the grip on you eased from desperate into something that was still very close but less like he was afraid you might disappear. "Hey," you said quietly. "Come on."
You lay back down together and he went with you, curling around you from behind, both arms around your waist, face pressed into the back of your neck. Closer than he needed to be, but you didn't say a word about it.Â
"Sleep," you said, and his arms tightened once. "I'm not going anywhere."
His lips pressed to the back of your neck, and then he was still.
When you woke the second time the room was full of proper morning lightâ and his arm was still around you, but differently. Loosely now, the grip of someone who was fine rather than someone who was holding on. You shifted and he stirred instantly, and when you turned over to face him he was already looking at you.
He looked better, that was the first thing you noticed. The nightmare had receded and left him justâ himself in the morning. Tired around the edges, yes, but present. Here. His eyes warm on yours in the way they always were first thing, the way that still sometimes caught you off guard even now. "Hey," you said quietly.
"Hi," he said, his voice was rough with sleep and something else.
You studied his face. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah," he said. And then, quieter: "Yeah. I am."
He didn't say anything else for a moment. His hand moved to your faceâ thumb tracing your cheekbone slowly, like he was mapping something he needed to confirm was still there. You let him, and you watched his expression while he did it and saw the thing moving through him that hadn't fully resolved yet.
âWhat was your nightmare about?â you asked gently.
He was quiet for long enough that you thought he might not. Then: "I lost you," he said simply. "In the dream, it was during the Rumbling." His thumb stilled against your cheek. "I couldn't find you. I looked and I couldn'tâ you weren't anywhere. I knew what it meant."
The room was very quiet. "Reiner," you whispered softly.
"I know it wasn't real," he said. "I know that. But it feltâ" He stopped. His hand was still on your face, holding it carefully, like he couldn't quite stop touching you. "It felt real enough."
You put your hand over his where it rested against your cheek. "I'm here," you assure him. "I was here the whole time. You didn't lose me."
"I know," he said. His eyes moved over your faceâ slowly, thoroughly, like he was checking every part of you. "I justâ" He exhaled. "I needed to look at you this morning. When I woke up. I needed to see that it was just a bad dream."
Something in his expression shifted at his words, then it softened. The last of the nightmare finally released its grip and left just himâ just Reiner, in the morning light, looking at you like you were the best thing he'd ever woken up next to.
"I'm always going to be here," you promise him.Â
He looked at you for a long moment. His hand moved from your cheek into your hair, slow and deliberate, and the way he was looking at you had changedâ warmer now, the fear gone, something else entirely in its place.
"I don't know what I'd do," he said, quietly. "If anything ever happenedâ"
"Don't," you said, soft but certain. "Nothing happened, or will ever happen. I'm right here.â You moved closer, your hand going to his jaw. "I love you," you said, right into his eyes, no distance, nothing between you. "So much. And I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."
The laugh that came out of him was short and slightly broken at the edges, but realâ the kind that arrived when something had been wound too tight and finally loosened. He pressed his forehead to yours.
"Good," he said roughly. "That's good."
Reiner kissed you then. Not soft, not gentleâ but more desperate, his mouth crashing against yours with a force that drove your head back into the pillow. His hand in your hair tightened, tilting your head, and his tongue swept into your mouth with a hunger that tasted of relief and need. He kissed you like he was trying to consume you, like he could crawl inside your skin and never leave, and the sound he made against your lips was a broken groan that vibrated through your chest.
You kissed him back. Your hands found his face, his jaw, the rough stubble scraping against your palms. He was shakingâ fine, invisible tremors running through his massive frame, his muscles taut beneath his skin. His mouth moved to your cheek, your temple, the bridge of your nose. He kissed the corner of your eye, the line of your jaw, the spot below your ear that made your breath catch.
"I love you," he said between kisses, the words pressed into your skin like brands. "I love you, I love you, I love youâ" A quiet chant, repeated against your eyelids and your forehead and the point of your chin. His voice cracked on the third repetition, and his arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him.
You felt the heat of him everywhere. The hard press of his chest, the ridge of his abs, the solid weight of his thighs against yours. His cock was half-hard against your hip, thick and warm, and the involuntary roll of his hips pressed it more firmly against your skin. He shuddered, his breath catching, and his face buried in the curve of your neck.
"Sorry," he mumbled against your throat.
"Don't apologise." You pulled back, your hand on his jaw, tilting his face up. His eyes were dark, the amber nearly consumed by black, and his lips were swollen from kissing. "Don't apologise for wanting me."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. "I always want you. It'sâ it's always going to be you. You're all I think about."
You kissed him. Slower this time, deliberate, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he opened for you. You swallowed the sound he madeâ a whimper, high and needy, completely at odds with the sheer size of him. His hand on your waist flexed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and his hips rolled again, a slow grind that pressed the growing length of him against you.
You shifted. Your leg hooked over his hip, opening yourself to him, and the movement pressed your core against the hot length of him. You were already wetâ had been since he'd looked at you with that shattered expression and told you about his bad dream, since you'd felt the trembling in his hands, since you'd realised that this enormous, powerful man was terrified of losing you. The slick heat of you slid against his cock, and he groaned into your mouth, his hips stuttering.
"Please," he breathed. The word was ragged, pulled from somewhere deep. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, and his jaw was clenched so hard you could see the tendon standing out. "Can Iâ"
"Yes." You said it against his lips. "Yes, Reiner."
His breath shuddered out of him. His hand moved from your waist to your hip, gripping, and he shifted his weight. The broad head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and you felt your body yield, the slick folds parting for him. He pushed forwardâ slow, agonizingly slow, his arm shaking with the effort of restraintâ and the first inch of him stretched you open.
Your breath caught. He was thickâ always thick, always enough to make your body sting with the stretch of it â and he entered you inch by inch, his jaw working, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave marks. The heat of him filled you, pressed deep, and when he was fully seated inside you, his hips flush against yours, he let out a sound that was half-groan, half-whine.
"Fuck," he breathed. His voice was wrecked. "You feelâ God, you feel so gooâ" He couldn't finish the sentence. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss was sloppy and wet, his tongue tangling with yours as his hips began to move. The rhythm was slowâ lazy, unhurried, the kind of pace that spoke of morning and tangled sheets and nowhere else to be. Each thrust was deep and deliberate, and you felt every inch of him as he pulled back and sank in again.
The wet sound of him moving inside you was obscene in the quiet room. You could feel your own arousal coating him, slicking the way, and each thrust sent a pulse of heat through your core. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your nails digging into the dense muscle, and his name fell from your lips like a prayer.
"Reinerâ" Your voice broke on the second syllable. His cock hit that spot inside you, the one that made your vision blur, and your back arched off the mattress. "Right there, don't stopâ"
"I won't," he gasped. "I won't, I've got you, Iâoh, fuckâ" His hips stuttered, the rhythm faltering, and his face buried in your neck. You felt his teeth graze your pulse point, not biting, just pressing, and the vibration of his groan traveled through your skin. "You're so perfect. You're soâ I don't deserveâ"
"You do." You said it firmly, but breathless, your hand in his hair pulling his head up so you could look at him. His eyes were wet, the golden fire inside them blazing, and his face was flushed red from his cheeks to his chest. "You deserve this. You deserve me. Reiner, look at meâ"
He opened his eyes. The connection was electric, his gaze holding yours as his hips rolled, slow and deep, and you could see everything in his face. The fear, the worshipâ the desperate, consuming need. He looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.
"I love you," you said, and the words came out clear, steady, even as your body trembled around him. "I love you, Reiner. I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere."
He made a soundâ a broken, wounded noiseâ and his mouth crashed into yours. His hips picked up pace, still slow but harder now, each thrust driving deeper, and the coil of heat in your belly tightened. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pressing your joined hands into the mattress beside your head. The weight of him was overwhelmingâ all that muscle, all that heat, all that desperate tenderness focused entirely on you. His breathing was ragged against your mouth, each exhale a groan or a whimper or a fragment of your name. The headboard tapped against the wall with each thrust, a soft, rhythmic sound that punctuated the wet slide of his cock inside you.
"Tell me," he gasped. His forehead was pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut, and his hips ground against yours in a slow circle that made your breath catch. "Tell me againâ please."
"I love you." You breathed it against his lips. "I love you, I love you, I love youâ"
His rhythm faltered. His hand tightened on yours, and his whole body went rigid, the muscles of his abdomen clenching against yours. A groan tore from his throat, low and guttural, and you felt him pulse inside youâ hot, thick, and filling you. His hips jerked, stuttering through the aftershocks, and his face pressed into the pillow beside your head.
You held him. Your arms wrapped around his broad back, your palms flat against the sweat-slick skin, and you could feel the tremors running through him. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving, and his weight settled onto you like a collapse.
Reiner was still inside you. You could feel the softening of him, the warmth of his release, and the intimacy of it made your chest ache. He hadn't finished youâ but that wasn't the point of this. This wasn't about finishing. This was about connection, about reassurance, about the desperate need to be inside someone, to be held, to know that they were real and present and staying.
His mouth moved against your neck. "You didn'tâ"
"Shh." You stroked his hair, your fingers carding through the short blonde strands. "It's okay. That's not what this was about." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, the amber soft and hazy, and his expression was something you couldn't nameâ raw, open, stripped of every defense. He looked at you like you were sacred.
"Let meâ" He shifted, his hand sliding between your bodies, and his fingers found your heat. You were soakedâ slick with your own arousal and his releaseâ and his touch was gentle, reverent. His fingers circled your clit with a slow, practiced pressure, and you gasped, your hips tilting toward his hand. "That's it," he murmured. His voice was hoarse, wrecked, and his eyes never left your face. "Let me take care of you."
His fingers moved with a patience that contradicted everything about his size, his strength, the raw power coiled in his frame. He touched you like you were something precious, something to be handled with care, and the tenderness in his touch made your breath come faster than any rough handling could. You felt the coil tightening, building, and your hands gripped his shoulders. "Reinerâ"
"I've got you." His lips pressed to your forehead. "I've got you. Come for me, beautiful."
The words undid you. The tension snapped, and your body arched, a cry tearing from your throat as the pleasure crashed through you. His fingers worked you through it, slowing as the aftershocks faded, and his other hand cupped your face, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone.
You collapsed back into the mattress, your breathing ragged, and he gathered you against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, his chin resting on the top of your head, and you could feel his heartbeatâ fast, strong, but gradually slowing.
Silence settled over the room. The gray light had brightened, pale gold now, the sun climbing somewhere behind the clouds. The sheets were tangled around your legs, damp with sweat and other things, and the air smelled of sex, sweat and Reinerâ that specific scent of his skin, clean musk and something almost like cedar.
You lay against his chest, your cheek pressed to his pec as his hand traced idle patterns on your back, his fingertips dragging lightly over your spine, and his breathing had evened out into something slow and deep.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice was still rough, but the edge of panic was gone. Replaced by something softer, something that sounded like contentment if contentment could be heard.
"Mm?" You didn't lift your head. Your hand was splayed on his stomach, feeling the rise and fall of it, the ridges of muscle beneath warm skin.
He shifted, his lips pressing to your hair, and his arms tightened around you. "Stay here. Stay in bed." You made a questioning sound, your brow furrowing against his chest. "Let me make you breakfast." His voice was earnest, almost eager, and his hand moved to cup the back of your head. "Justâ stay here. Keep the bed warm. I'll bring it to you."
You lifted your head to look at him. His face was soft, the hard angles smoothed by morning and satiation, and his eyes were a warm gold. He looked at you with an expression that was almost shy, like he was asking for permission rather than offering.
"You don't have to," you tell him.
"I want to." His thumb traced the line of your jaw. "Let me do this for you."
You studied him. The sincerity in his face, the way his hand cradled your head, the slight tension in his shoulders that said this mattered to him in a way that went beyond breakfast. This was how he lovedâ with service, with attention, with the constant, quiet effort of making sure you were cared for.
"Okay," you nod, a smile pulling at your lips. "Okay, breakfast in bed. But you have to actually cook, not just burn things."
Reiner huffed out a laughâ the first real laugh of the morning, and the sound of it made something loosen in your chest. "I make excellent eggs."
"You make acceptable eggs."
"My eggs are great." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose, then a third to your chin. Each one was deliberate, placed with care, and his lips lingered on your skin. "I'll make you the best eggs you've ever had."
You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder, and he pulled you closer for a moment, his arms wrapping around you in a full embrace. His chest expanded with a deep breath, and when he exhaled, the tension that had been in his body since he woke was finally, fully gone.
He pressed one more kiss to your mouthâ soft, lingering, his lips moving gently against yours â and then he was pulling away. The mattress shifted as he sat up, and you watched the play of muscle in his back as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The morning light caught the lines of his torso, the shadows delineating each cut of muscle, and he stretched his arms overhead with a groan.
Reiner stood, and all of him was on displayâ wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the V of his hips, the curve of his glutes. He glanced back over his shoulder, caught you looking, and a grin spread across his faceâ slow, genuine, a little bit smug. "Enjoying the view?"
"Always," you said, and you meant it.
His grin softened into something smaller, something private, and he shook his head. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the chair in the corner and pulled them on, the waistband sitting low on his hips, and then he was padding barefoot toward the bedroom door. He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looked back at you. The gray light caught the gold of his eyes, and his expression was open in a way that made your breath catch.
"I love you," he said. The words were simple, unadorned, and they carried the weight of everything he couldn't articulateâ the fear and the need and the desperate, consuming gratitude of someone who couldn't believe his luck.
"I love you too," you said. "Now go make me those excellent eggs."
He laughedâ a real one, warm and full â and disappeared through the door. You heard his footsteps on the hardwood, heavy and sure, and then the sound of the kitchen: cabinets opening, the clatter of a pan, the hiss of the stove igniting.
You settled back into the pillows, pulling the sheets up to your chest. The bed was still warm from his body, the sheets still carrying his scent, and you pressed your face into the pillow he'd used. It smelled like himâ clean sweat and something underneath that was just Reiner.
The radiator clicked. The sounds of cooking drifted from the kitchenâ the sizzle of butter in a pan, the crack of eggs, the low hum of a song he was singing to himself, the melody indistinct but the tone warm. You closed your eyes, your body loose and sated, and you smiled into the pillow. He was making you breakfast. He'd had a nightmare about you leaving, and you'd told him you were staying, and he'd made love to you like you were the only thing keeping him alive, and now he was in the kitchen making eggs and humming to himself.
This was the life you'd chosen. This man, this bed, this morning. All of it.
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No special Reiner short story for his special day? đ đ
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
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 peaceâ you.
The ceramic cup had long gone cold in your hands. You turned it between your fingers, feeling the intricate glaze workâ 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 kingâ your kingâ 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 onâ
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 ownâ settling stones, wind through the courtyard, the distant clatter from the kitchens where the night cook prepared morning provisionsâ 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.
Torchlightâ 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 voicesâ 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 torchesâ five, eight, twelve, more behind themâ 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 youâ 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 anywhereâ 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 himâ 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 nameâ maybe one of the guardsâ 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 eyesâ 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 agoâ 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 armorâ the breastplate, the mail beneathâ 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'reâ"
"I'm here." His voice was hoarse, scraped raw, and it vibrated through his chest into yours. "I'm here. I'mâ"
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'reâ 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 hadâ"
"We broke them." His hand covered yours, fingers curling around your wrist. "It's done. The rebellion is crushed."
"That's not what Iâ" 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 boyâ Falco, Reiner's squire, barely fifteen, with a face soft with youthâ 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 mayâ the king sustained injuries during the final engagement. A sword cut to the left side, below the ribs. Another to the right shoulder. Butâ"
"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 instinctâ 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 hurtâ"
"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'dâ" 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 offâ 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 placesâ 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 clenchâ just for a momentâ 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 youâ 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 youâ 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 chambersâ 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 needâ"
"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 shiftedâ 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 Sashaâ court protocol dictated the royal chambers never go coldâ 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 rememberedâ 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 feetâ mud-stained, the toes red with coldâ 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 eyesâ 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 coldâfrom 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 uglyâ 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 efficientlyâ 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 itâ 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 groanedâ a low, broken sound in the back of his throatâ 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 handsâ too hot, feverishâa 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 thinkâ"
"Don't." His voice was rough. "I thought I'd die without seeing you again." His hand tightened on your back. "Without touching you. Withoutâ"
You kissed him again. Harder this time, less careful, your fingers tangling in his matted hair. He responded with a hunger that stole your breathâ 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 himâ 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 manageâ"
"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 himâ 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 Majestiesâ"
"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 footstepsâ 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 silenceâ 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 himâ 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 deliberateâ 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 handâ 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 backâ 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 torsoâ 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 himâ half groan, half sighâ 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 tubâa 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 youâ your wet hands, the soap suds running down your forearms, the water lapping at your breastsâ 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 thereâ 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 sternumâ purple, finger-widthâ 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 filthyâ sweat and blood and grimeâ 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 laterâ 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 eyesâ 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 beforeâ 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 thighâ 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 woundsâ"
"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 featuresâ the part of him that was a king, a man who led armies, who took what he wanted when he wanted itâ 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 expressionâ 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 himâ the muscles in his arms bunching, his ribs twisting, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teethâ 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. "Hereâ 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 youâ"
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 thighsâ 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 himâ 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 buckedâ 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 madeâ half groan, half gaspâ 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 strandsânot 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 throatâ 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.
"Godsâ" 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 movedâslow, 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 againâ 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 buckedâ just once, a reflexive thrust that drove him even deeperâ and his face contorted, pain and pleasure warring across his features. You pressed your hand harder against his chest, pinning him.
"I told youâ"
"I know." He was breathing through his teeth, every muscle in his body rigid. "I know. I'm sorry. Iâ"
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 youâ 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 overâ 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 movedâ 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 backâ carefully, wincingâ 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 himâ 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 laughedâ a real laugh, the first one you had uttered in three weeksâ 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.
I see your hockey player reiner and i raise you boxer/mma fighter reiner with some hurt/comfort?đ
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
summary: Your friend Jean ropes you into helping out at an illegal boxing match for one night. You expect blood and bad decisionsâ not Reiner, a boxer who somehow manages to knock you off your feet outside the ring....
That was the exact phrase he used, standing outside the venue at nine-thirty on a Friday night while you looked at the buildingâ a former warehouse you believe, the kind of place cities forgot about until someone found a use for themâ 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 doingâ which you always do anywayâ and I'll owe you one."
"You already owe me one," you kindly remind him.
"I'll owe you another one then."Â
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,â 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 âthe money side of thingsâ 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 wasâ 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 gravityâ and then, lastly, the man on the far side of the ring.
He was alone, which was the first thing you noticedâ 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 wasâ well, you needed a moment to just look at him, honestly. The width of him, the depth of himâ 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 distanceâ 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. Justâ 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 nameâs 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 expressionâ 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. Heâs 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 readâ 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. Youâre 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 wanderâ they came back to your face and stayed there, which you noted. "You do this often then? Walk cards at illegal boxing matches?â
"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. "Donât have many people around to support me in the first place."
You held that, a quiet sadness filling your chest at Reinerâs 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 shouldâ "
"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.Â
"Only if you're still standing," you smirk.Â
Something in his face shiftedâ 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. Erenâ 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 wellâ 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 beganâ 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 spotâ 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 whenâ 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.Â
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. Â
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 shiftedâ 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 tableâ some practical part of you always thought to grab thingsâ and you pressed it to the cut without asking permission as he went very still. "Let me see."
"It's fine-"
"Well it obviously isnât." You held the pressure, careful. "Tip your head back, slightly."
He tilted his head back. You were very close to him nowâ 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 eyeâ the one that was still fully open and not swollenâ 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 cutâ still seeping at the edges, not closing, but you knew it wasn't going to yet. "You came here to win tonight, right?"
"Yeahâ"
"Then act like it." Your eyes were on him, solid but steady. He looked at you.Â
"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 Iâd like to." That landedâ 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 himâ 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.Â
"Don't get too excited. You also have a very bad eye."
"Right." His mouth moved again.Â
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 roomâ since eye contact across twenty-five feet of warehouse floor, since he'd said your name back to you quietly like he was keeping itâ arrived at a point where it required some kind of action and you looked at it honestly and thought: fine, weâre doing this then.Â
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 deliberatenessâ 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 faceâ 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 immediatelyâ 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 shotsâ he was too good not to, too fast not to get something offâ 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 stubbornnessâ the same thing sometimesâ 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 menâ if he'd had anyâ 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 smileâ 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 modeâ 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-shirtâ too-small, worn soft, pulled across those shoulders in a way that didn't do much to make him less overwhelmingâ 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. â...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. âWhen 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 nightâ 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 himâ " 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 toâŚ.come to yours?" he says, almost stuttering. âFor tea?âÂ
"Yeah,â you confirm. âIt'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."
âOhâfuck yes, Reiner.âÂ
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 rimâ his amber-gold eyes steady, that same unhurried attention from the venueâ 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 mouthâ 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. "Reinerâ"
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 againâ that same broken, desperate soundâ 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'reâ fuck, you're soâ"
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 freeâ 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 audibleâ 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.
"Fuckâ pleaseâ" His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your skin. "Please, I needâ"
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. âLook at me while you fuck meââ
He lifted his head instantly, his amber-gold eyeâ the one not swollen shutâ 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 groanedâ a low, shuddering sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chestâ 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 soâ" 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 painedâ 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, fâfuck."
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.
"Iâyesâfuck, yes, pleaseâ" He was babbling, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your lower belly, his hips jerking up to meet yours. "Please, please, I needâ"
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 himâ 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'tâI can'tâ"
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 twistedâ 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 fastâ 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 Iâ" His voice was rough, scraped raw. He pulled back enough to look at you, his amber-gold eye searching your face. "Can Iâcan I take it from here? I needâ" He swallowed.Â
âYes,â 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.Â
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 tenderâ 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, Iâ" 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 shiftedâ still careful, still measured, but deeper now, more urgent, the gentleness fraying at the edges.
"I'mâ" His voice was breaking apart. "I'm close. I'm so close, I can'tâ"
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, Iâ" His jaw twitched. "I needâI'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. "Youâre so goodâ"
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 youâhot, thick, pulsingâand 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 youâ 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 Reinerâs 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 pulsesâ chasing something you hadn't reached. His eye widened.
"You didn'tâ" He stopped. His throat worked, and when he pulled out, the wet sound of it was obsceneâ 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 youâ"
You shook your head at him quickly. âItâs okayââÂ
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 youâ really lookâ 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'reâfuck, 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.
"Goodâ 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 needâ I need you to."
He dove back in and his tongue found a rhythmâ 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 mouthâconvulsing, 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 youâ bright and suddenâ 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 itâ 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. "Heyâ 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 flinchedâ 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 shelfâ 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 pullsâ 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 himâ 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 faceâ 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 sofaâ"
"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 lightâ 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'tâ" 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 immediatelyâ 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 slowâ 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.
I AM IN SHOCKâŚ.THIS IS AMAZING I AM IN AWE!!! Huge thank you to my amazing moot ILYSM YOU SMASHED THIS <3 INCREDIBLE artwork AHHH Iâm fangirling SO hard rnđ¤
summary: You're the flag girl at an illegal underground street race, where the winner walks away with the cash, bragging rights, and one drink with you. Competing racers Reiner and Jean are determined to claim all three, but by the end of the night, they discover some prizes are better when they're shared....
a/n: Guys I have no excuse for this other than I want Reiner and Jean at the SAME DAMN TIME OKAY?? Anyway....enjoy >:)
Coupe â a small, passenger car with a sloping rear roofline, and typically two doors; prioritising sleek styling and sporty performance over interior space.
The night air carried the bite of spent gasoline and cooling gravel, a mixture that had become as familiar to you as the perfume you wear. You stood beside Sasha's battered car, tugging at the hem of your skirtâ a gesture that accomplished nothing. The black fabric was designed to ride high on your thighs, and it did so with enthusiasm, leaving the long line of your legs exposed beneath the amber glow of a nearby caged work light. Sasha had picked the outfit out for youâ specifically for tonight.Â
"You look like trouble," Sasha said proudly, leaning against her car with her arms crossed. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and she wore her usual uniform of oversized denim jacket and scuffed boots. She looked at you the way a painter looks at a finished canvasâ with satisfaction and a touch of pride. "Good trouble. The kind that makes people do stupid things with their cars."
You smoothed a hand down your hip, feeling the fabric stretch tighter across your curves. The top Sasha had lent you a top that was cut low enough that you'd been aware of your own breathing all eveningâ every inhale shifted the neckline a fraction lower, and you'd caught multiple people staring openly since you'd arrived at the warehouse district. You'd learned to move through that kind of attention the way a ship cuts through water: without stopping, without acknowledging it.
The lot behind the old textile mill in your town had been converted into a staging area. Cars were parked in uneven rowsâ some stripped to bare metal, others repainted in vivid colours that caught the light like oil on water. The smell of rubber fuel hung thick, mixing with the distant clatter of a portable generator someone had set up behind a stack of pallets. People milled between the vehicles, their faces half-lit by the occasional headlight beam sweeping across the lot like a searchlight.
Sasha walked ahead of you, weaving between a group of spectators who had gathered near the starting lineâ two painted lines of white stretched across the cracked concrete. Sasha knew everyone here it seemed. She stopped to clap shoulders with a guy in a grease-stained hoodie, exchanged a word with a woman carrying a keg of beer, and gestured for you to follow.
You followed, your heels clicking against the uneven ground. You'd chosen the shoes carefullyâ high enough to make your calves flex with each step, but not so high that you couldn't run if things went sideways. Underground and illegal races had a way of going sideways. You'd learned that the hard way last summer, when a race had ended unexpectedly because the cops showed up and you had to run in 6 inch heels.
Sasha stopped beside two cars parked side by side at the starting line. One was a deep midnight blue, sleek and low, with a matte finish that swallowed light. The other was a stripped-down coupe in gunmetal grey, its body panels slightly mismatched where replacement parts had been bolted on. Both had the look of cars that had been rebuilt from the inside outâ engines swapped, suspensions tightened, every unnecessary ounce stripped away to create maximum speed.
A man leaned against the bonnet of the grey coupe, one boot crossed over the other, a cigarette between his lips. He was broad. Not just tallâ but wide. His shoulders strained the seams of a grey shirt with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, forearms thick and corded with vein lines that caught the work light. He had shortish blonde hair, not quite buzzed but close, and stubble that was more than a shadow but less than a beard. His eyes caught the light from the work lamp nearby, and for a moment, they looked almost goldenâ like honey held up to a flame. And his handsâ you noticed, were large and dusted with the kind of grease that no amount of washing fully removes. They were fixed on Sasha as she approached, then landed on you, and stayed.
His lips parted around the cigarette in his mouth and smoke curled from the corner. His gaze droppedâ slow, almost involuntaryâ down the length of your body, and something shifted in the set of his jaw, a subtle tightening, as though he'd bitten down on the cigarette harder than he meant to. His nose was slightly large, crooked at the bridge, the kind of feature that should have thrown off the symmetry of his face but instead gave it a roughness, an asymmetry that drew the eye.
"That's Reiner," Sasha said, gesturing as you were broken from your thoughts. "Don't let the size of him fool youâ he's gentle as a lambâ mostly."
Reiner straightened up from the bonnet, pushing off it with one hand. He was taller than you'd expected. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, exhaled smoke to the side, and gave you a nod that was almost shyâ his chin dipping, the amber eyes cutting away for half a second before finding their way back to you. His hand came up in a half-wave that he seemed to think better of and turned into adjusting the cuff of his sleeve instead.
"Hey," he said. His voice was lower than the rumble of his car idle, the kind of voice that made you lean in.
Before you could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air from the other car. The driver's door of the midnight blue one was open, and a pair of legs in dark jeans stretched out of it, crossed at the ankle. The man attached to them unfolded himself from the seatâ tall, lean, but muscular in a way that was visible in the cut of his shoulders and the line of his arms beneath a fitted black t-shirt. His hair was an ashy light brown, cut into a short mullet that was longer at the back, and his jaw carried a fine scatter of stubbleâ less than Reiner's, more like he'd forgotten to shave for two days rather than committed to it. His eyes were hazel, bright under the lights, and they found you with an immediacy that was almost aggressive, like a wolf spotting prey across a field.
"And that's Jean," Sasha says. "Don't engage him in conversation unless you want to get annoyed as fuck."
Jean leaned against the open door of the car, arms folded, head tilted to one side. His mouth pulled into a grin that was all teeth and challenge. "Who's this, then?" He pushed off the door and walked toward you, stopping close enough that you could smell his cologneâ something sharp and layered over petrol and cigarette smoke. His hazel eyes moved over you with a frankness that had no shame in it, tracking from your boots to the bare skin of your thighs to the neckline of your crop top with the precision of someone cataloguing details they intended to use later.
Sasha waved a hand between you and them. "Boys please. I'd like you to meet my best girl. She's flagging the race tonight." Sasha said proudly. "She's starting you both off."
"She's starting me off, is she?" Jean said, and his grin widened. "Iâd like that."
Before Sasha could reply, you spoke before you could think about it. "You'll have to do better than that, Jean. If that's your opening line, I'm already disappointed."
Jean's eyebrows went up. The grin didn't falterâ if anything it sharpened. He looked at Sasha, then back at you. "Oh, she's got teeth. I like that." He turned to Reiner. "What do you reckon, big guy?"
Reiner was still standing where he'd been, cigarette between two fingers now, smoke trailing upward past his face. His amber eyes hadn't left you, and at Jean's words, something flickered across his expressionâ not annoyance, exactly, but something adjacent. He took a drag, held it, and exhaled through his nose. "I reckon you should shut up and let her breathe."
"Breathing's not what I had in mind."
"Clearly."
The exchange was quick, clipped, the kind of back-and-forth that came from familiarity. You watched Reiner's hand tighten around the cigarette, the knuckles of his broad fingers shifting. Jean noticed it too, and the grin on his face shifted into something more private, more satisfied.
Sasha groans next to you. "Boys, please play nice."
"Always," Jean said, without looking at her. His eyes were still on you.
Reiner glanced at Sasha, then back at you, and something in his posture softenedâ his shoulders dropping a fraction, his weight shifting onto his back foot. He looked, for a moment, like a man trying to decide whether to speak or stay quiet, and choosing the latter. He brought the cigarette to his lips again. The cherry flared, illuminating the crooked bridge of his nose and the gold in his eyes.
You reached into the inside pocket of your leather jacket and pulled out your own pack of cigarettes. The pack was slightly crushedâ you'd been sitting on it earlierâ and you tapped one free and placed it between your lips. You patted the jacket pockets, and found nothing else. You checked again, more thoroughly this time, pulling the zipper down and reaching into the inner lining. No lighter, fuck. You must've left it in Sasha's car....
You looked up to find Reiner was watching youâ had been watching you the whole time, the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, the ember still glowing. He'd tracked the entire sequence: and something moved behind his eyes, a quiet recognition, and without a word he straightened up and stepped toward you.
He was closeâ close enough that the heat coming off his chest met the cold air between you. He didn't say anything, instead he lifted his cigarette to his mouth, took a slow drag that filled his cheeks and sent smoke drifting past his crooked nose, and then he pulled it free and held it out to youâ the lit end angled toward the tip of your unlit cigarette, his hand steady, his fingers large enough that the cigarette looked small between them.
You leaned in. Your lips closed around the filter, and you tilted your head, bringing the tip of your cigarette to his. The ember touched and you inhaled, and the drag caughtâ heat blooming at the end of your cigarette as smoke pulled through the paper and into your mouth. His eyes were on you the entire timeâ not on the cigarette, not on the process of lighting it, but on your mouth. On the way your lips wrapped around the filter, on the hollowing of your cheeks as you drew. His jaw was tight, the muscle in his cheek flexing, and his breathingâ you noticed, because the night was cold enough to see itâ had gone shallow, the plumes of vapour thin and quick.
Jean was watching from three feet away. His arms were still folded, but the posture had changedâ tighter, more locked, his fingers gripping his own biceps. His hazel eyes moved between your face and Reiner's hand with an intensity that stripped the humour from his expression. The grin was gone, and in its place was something rawer, something he was working to keep off his face and not entirely succeeding.
You pulled back, cigarette lit, and exhaled smoke upward into the cold air. "Thanks," you said, looking up at Reiner through the haze.
He nodded. His throat movedâ a swallow, visible, deliberate. "Anytime," he said, and his voice was rougher than it had been a moment ago.
Jean cleared his throat, loudly. "So," Jean said, turning to Sasha while his eyes kept sliding back to you. "What's the prize tonight? Usually there's a pot. Cash, parts.....whatever."
Sasha crossed her arms. "There's a pot. Three hundred cash, winner takes all."
"Three hundred barely covers gas or the upkeep of my car," Jean said, scratching the stubble along his jaw.
"What, you want more?" Sasha raised an eyebrow.
Jean's gaze drifted to you againâ specifically, to the place where your skirt ended and your thigh began. "I'm just saying, for a race like this, the prize should be worth the effortâŚ."
Reiner, who had been quiet through this exchange, finally spoke up. "What did you have in mind?" His voice was careful, measured, like he was testing whether the floor could hold his weight before stepping onto it.
Jean looked at you, then at Sasha, and then back at you. He opened his mouth, but Sasha watched his gaze and beat him to it.
"Winner," Sasha began, shouting louder now so the people nearby could hear. "Gets to take my friend here out for a drink after the race."
The lot seemed to quiet for half a secondâ or maybe that was just the space between one breath and the next. Then a ripple went through the gathered crowd, and someone whistled. A few guys near the front of the spectators clapped and shoved each other. You turned to Sasha. She was already looking at you, her expression unapologetic, one eyebrow raised as if to say what? You expected me to be subtle?
"I didn't agree to that," you hissed to her, though your voice carried less protest than it probably should have.
"You didn't say no either," Sasha replied.
Jean looked at you with renewed interest, his hazel eyes bright. "I'm fine with that arrangement. Very fine." He glanced at Reiner. "What about you, big guy? You good with those terms?"
Reiner's jaw tightenedâ just slightly, a micro-movement that pulled the stubble along his chin taut. He looked at you, really looked this time, and his amber eyes held yours for a long, deliberate moment. Something passed through his expressionâ not confidence, not hesitation, but something in between. A question he was asking without words.
"Those terms work," Reiner said quietly. His gaze dropped again, but not before you'd caught the way it lingeredâ not on your chest or your legs, but on your face, as if he were trying to memorise something specific.
"Alright then," Sasha said, clapping her hands together. "It's settled. The winner gets the cash and the girl. Let's get this show on the road."
Reiner stayed where he was. He took one last drag of his cigarette, dropped it, and ground it out under his boot. He looked at you, and his mouth openedâ hesitatedâ and closed again. He nodded, once, and turned towards his car.
The crowd pressed closer to the starting line. You moved to your positionâ a few yards ahead of the two cars, standing between the painted lines. The night air moved against your bare legs, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your thighs. You could feel the vibration of both engines through the soles of your shoes, a low, guttural thrumming that matched the pulse in your wrists.
Reiner's car was to your left. Through the open window, you could see his hands on the wheelâ large, calloused and wrapped around the leather with a grip that was firm but not rigid. His eyes were on the road ahead, but his jaw was still tight, and you noticed his thumb tapping against the steering wheel in a rhythm that didn't match the engine's idle. He was nervous, or focused. Or both.
Jean's car was to your right. He leaned out of his window, one elbow resting on the frame, and looked at you with a grin that hadn't left his face since Sash's announcement. "You know," he called over the engine noise, "if you wanted to just skip the race and pick me now, I wouldn't judge you for it."
"How about you focus on the road?" You quip back.
"I am focused," he said. "On the best view in this lot."
You shook your head, but a smile pulled at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. Jean had the kind of charm that worked because it didn't pretend to be anything other than what it wasâ bold, slightly ridiculous, and delivered with just enough self-awareness to keep it from tipping into arrogance.
You raised the flag. It was a simple red cloth on a short pole, lightweight, but in the glow of the work lights, it caught the colour and threw it back like a signal fire. The crowd noise dimmed. The engines revvedâ Reiner's a deep, chest-rattling growl, Jean's a higher, sharper whine.
You held the flag above your head. Your arm stretched fully, and you felt the fabric pull taut against the pole as the breeze caught it. The hem of your skirt shifted against your thigh. You could feel every pair of eyes in the lot on youâ some on the flagâŚ.but most not.
You held the moment. One breath, then twoâ then you brought the flag down in a sharp, clean arc.
The sound hit you before the sight didâ a roar of engines at full throttle, two distinct pitches climbing and blending into a wall of noise. Tires bit into the concrete, and the cars launched forward, passing so close on either side of you that the wind from their passage tugged at your skirt and sent your hair whipping across your face. The smell of exhaust and burnt rubber flooded your senses, thick and acrid.
They were goneâ two streaks of colour disappearing down the straightaway, taillights shrinking into the dark corridor formed by the warehouse walls on either side of the track. The crowd erupted behind you, people surging forward to the line, some holding up phones, others craning their necks to follow the cars' progress.
Sasha appeared beside you. "Nice drop," she said.
You lowered the flag pole to your side, your pulse still humming from the adrenaline of the start. "Where's the finish line?"
"Back here. It's a loop. They come around the east side of the mill and come back through the loading dock." She pointed toward a dark gap between two buildings about a quarter mile away. "First one back wins."
You walked with Sasha to a spot near the loading dock, where the crowd had already begun to gather. The ground here was rougherâ broken concrete patched with gravel and old tar. You stood on a raised section of the loading platform, which gave you a clear view of the approach. Sasha handed you a bottle of water she'd pulled from somewhere, and you drank, watching the dark gap between the buildings.
The first engine sound reached you almost two minutes laterâ a distant whine that grew louder, climbing in pitch. Then a second sound, lower, heavier, running alongside it, and the two tones wove together, separating and merging as the cars navigated the turns of the loop. Headlights appeared in the gapâ two sets, side by side, so close together that from this distance they looked like a single vehicle. The crowd pressed forward, and someone next to you was shouting a nameâ you couldn't tell which one.
The cars emerged and into the open stretch of the loading dock. Reiner's car was on the inside line, hugging the corner of the warehouseâ and Jeanâs car was on the outside, its matte finish catching the floodlight from the dock and throwing it back in a cold sheen. They were neck and neckâ not one ahead of the other by any measurable distance. The engines screamed, and you could see the bodies of both cars shudder as they hit the uneven pavement at speed.
The finish line was another white spray-paint mark on the ground, already half-worn from previous races. Both cars crossed it at the same momentâ or close enough to the same moment that no one in the crowd could say otherwise. The roar of engines continued past the line as both drivers braked, tires shrieking, the cars fishtailing slightly before coming to a stop thirty yards past the mark.
Silence.....or rather, the absence of engine noise, which in this place felt like silence. Then the crowd erupted into argument and cheers. Half the people were calling it for Jean, the other half for Reiner. A few were shouting for a replay, as if there were cameras anywhere in this lot. Sasha looked at you. "WellâŚ.that's inconvenient."
You set down the water bottle and stepped off the loading platform, walking toward the two cars. Reiner was already out of his vehicle, standing beside the open door with his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His t-shirt was damp at the collar, and his amber eyes were fixed on Jean's car as the taller man unfolded himself from the driver's seat.
Jean stood, stretched, and cracked his neck with a sharp turn of his head. He looked at Reiner, then at the finish line behind them, then at Reiner again. "That was me who won, by the way," Jean said.
"Like hell it was," Reiner replied, his voice low but firm.
"I was closer, I was before you."
"No you weren'tâ"Â
They stood facing each other, the space between them thick with the residual heat of the engines and the challenge in their eyes. Reiner's broad frame cast a shadow over Jean in the floodlight, but Jean's height gave him an edge that kept them roughly eye to eye. Neither moved, and neither looked away.
You stopped a few paces from them. "It was a draw," you said simply.
Both men turned to look at you. The argument in the crowd continued behind you, but here, in this small triangle of space between two cooling cars, your voice carried clearly.
"A draw?" Jean repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Both cars crossed the line at the same time. Nobody was ahead, so that makes it a draw."
Reiner's brow furrowed. He looked at the finish line, then back at you. "So what happens to the prize?"
You considered for a moment. The night air was cooling against your skin, and you could feel the goosebumps again along your arms and thighs. The adrenaline from the start had settled into a low, steady hum in your veins, and the arguments and noise of the crowd had faded into background static.
"Neither of you won," you said. "But neither of you lost, either. You both raced fair, and you both crossed the line." You paused, letting the words settle. "So I guess you both get the prize."
Jean's eyebrows rose quickly and Reiner's mouth opened slightly, then closed.
"You both get to take me out," you clarified. "You both get the drink. All three of usâ right now."
Silenceâ not from the crowd, which was still debating, but from the two men in front of you. Jean looked at Reiner, and Reiner looked at Jean. Something passed between themâ not agreement, exactly, but a mutual recognition that this outcome, while unexpected, was not one either of them was willing to refuse.
Jean broke first. He let out a short laugh, ran a hand through his hair, and shook his head. "Alright. I can live with that." He looked at you, and the grin returned, slower this time, more deliberate. "You pick the bar?"
"You pick the bar," you say firmly, with a smirk on your face. "I pick the time. And the time is now."
Reiner exhaledâ a long, slow breath that loosened the tension in his shoulders. "Okay, but I'm driving," he said. It wasn't a question.
Jean glanced at his own car, then at Reiner's. "Fine. But I call shotgun."
"There's no shotgun," Reiner said. "It'sâuhâŚa two-seater."
"Two seats," Jean repeated. He looked at the car, then at Reiner, then at you. "Then I guess she sits on me."
Reiner's hand paused on the door handle. His jaw worked, the muscles in his neck tightening, and he said nothing for a long moment. Then he opened the door and folded himself into the driver's seat, his broad frame filling the space.
You looked at Jean. He shrugged, that half-smire pulling at his mouth. "What? I'm not walking."
The car's passenger seat was narrow, bucketed, and designed for one. Jean lowered himself into it first, long legs angling to fit, and you climbed in after, settling across his lap, your back against his chest, your legs stretching toward Reiner's side of the car. Your skirt rode up as you settled, the fabric bunching at your hips, and you felt Jean's breath catch behind youâ a quick, sharp intake as you shifted on him and stretched your legs further over Reinerâs lap.Â
Reiner started the engine. It turned over with that same deep growl, quieter now, idling. He reached for something in the door pocketâ a pack of cigarettes, slightly crushed, with a lighter tucked inside. He pulled one out, lit it, and took a long drag. The tip flared orange in the dark interior, and smoke curled up toward the open window.
He passed it to you. You took it between your fingers, brought it to your lips, and inhaled. The smoke was sharp, scratching at the back of your throatâ and you held it for a moment, then let it out through the window, where the night air caught it and pulled it apart.
Reiner's hand was on the wheel. His other hand was on the gearstick, and neither hand moved. But his eyesâ amber, gold, and burningâ dropped from the road to your legs in his lap, to the bare skin of your thighs where the skirt had ridden up, and stayed there for two full seconds before snapping back to the road. His breathing had changed, the exhales were visible in the cold air coming through the window, and they were faster, shallower.
Jean reached past you again, but instead of taking the cigarette, his hand landed on your bare stomach, just below the hem of your crop top. His fingers spread, the tips pressing into the soft skin above your hip. "You're cold," he said, and his mouth was close to your ear, his breath warm.Â
Reiner's grip on the steering wheel adjusted. His thumb tapped the leather once, twice, and he said nothing. But in the glow of the dashboard, you could see the muscle in his jaw working, the stubble along his chin catching the light, and the way his chest rose and fell had lost its rhythm. His hand left the gearstickâ the car was in fifth now, cruising on the straightâ and it hovered, for a moment, over your legs. Then it landed, his palm settled on your shin, just above the laces of your boot, and the heat of itâ the size of handâ was startling. His fingers curled around the back of your calf, and his thumb traced a small circle on your skin, slow, almost unconscious, as though his hand had moved on its own and was only now catching up to what it was doing.
Jean's hand tightened on your stomach. You could feel the tension in his fingers, the way they pressed into your skin, and behind you, his breathing had gone shallow and warm against your neck. "So," he said, and his voice had dropped, the quick wit stripped away, leaving something rawer underneath. "Where are we going for this drink?"
You took the cigarette back from between his fingers. Brought it to your lips and inhaled. The smoke sat in your lungs, and you exhaled slowly, out the window, into the cold night air that rushed past the car and pulled the smoke away in a white ribbon.
Reiner's thumb was still tracing circles on your calf. His eyes were on the road, but his hand hadn't moved, and the circles were getting slower, wider, his fingers pressing harder into the muscle of your leg. His breathing was audible nowâ not loud, but present, each exhale a sound in the quiet, and the flush on his neck had spread to his jaw, the skin dark beneath the stubble.
You shifted your weight, and pushed back against Jean deliberately. You felt the groan properly this timeâ not in his throat, but in his chest, a vibration against your spine. His hand slid from your stomach to your hip, fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt, and his mouth found the side of your neck. Not a kissâ just faint contact. His lips, dry and warm, pressed to the skin below your ear, and his breath came in a shudder that you felt in your teeth.
Reiner's hand tightened on your calf and his thumb stopped circling. The car drifted slightly, the wheels humming against the road edge, and he corrected it with a sharp tug of the wheel. His eyes were fixed forward, but his jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched visibly, and his chest was rising and falling in short, controlled bursts, like a man trying to hold something back with everything he had.
Jean's mouth found the curve of your neck again, and this time his lips parted. Not a graze this timeâ a deliberate, slow press of his mouth against the tendon running from your collar to your jaw. His breath came out hot and unsteady, damp against your skin, and his fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you back against him. You felt the hard ridge of him shift against your lower back through the thin layers of fabric separating you.
You didn't stop him. Your cigarette hand drifted to the open window, the ember tracing a faint orange arc in the cold air rushing past, and you let your head tilt sideways. Just slightly, just enough to bare more of your throat to him. The passenger seat's headrest pressed against the back of your skull as you let your weight sink into him.
His tongue touched your skin firstâ just the tip, tracing the line where your pulse beat beneath the surface. A small sound escaped your lips before you could catch it, a thin, breathy moan that the wind from the window almost stole. Almost. The car was too small, too enclosed, and Reiner heard it. His thumb, which had been resting motionless on your calf, twitched.
Jean heard it too. His mouth curved against your neck, and he pressed another kiss lower, just above the collar of your crop top, where the skin was warm and untouched. His stubble scraped a faint pink trail behind his lips. You ground your hips back into him without thinkingâ a slow, instinctive rollâ and his breath broke into a ragged exhale against your collarbone.
You turned your head. Your nose brushed his cheek first, and then your mouth found his. The kiss started slow, his lower lip caught between yours, the taste of cigarette smoke and something minty underneath. His hand came up from your hip to the side of your face, fingers sliding into the hair behind your ear, holding you there as the kiss deepened. His tongue slid against yoursâ confident as you felt the vibration of a low groan in his chest through your back. The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, hungry, and you could feel him half-hard already beneath your thigh.
The car swerved. Just slightlyâ a tiny correction, the tires crunching over gravel at the road's edge before the wheels found tarmac again. You broke the kiss suddenly at the harsh movement and looked over at Reiner.
His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, tendons standing out like cables along his forearms. The sleeves of his shirt were almost bursting, and every muscle in those thick arms was locked rigid. His jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitching beneath his stubbleâ and his eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but the headlights caught nothing but empty dark asphalt stretching into blackness. He hadn't looked at you, it seemed like he was refusing to look at you.
Jean leaned forward, chin resting on your shoulder, and his voice came low and amused, almost conspiratorial. "Careful, big guy. You're going to bend the wheel."
Reiner said nothing. His grip tightened, you could hear the leather of the steering wheel creak.
"Come on." Jean's hand was still in your hair, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. He addressed Reiner but his eyes were on you, watching the way your lips were still parted, the way your chest rose and fell a little too quickly. "We both won her, didn't we? Fair and square." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "Why don't we both just enjoy it?"
Silence followed as the engine hummed. The cold air through the window raised goosebumps along your bare thighs where your skirt had ridden up, and you could feel the heat of Jean's lap beneath you, the solid bulk of his thighs under yours.
Jean tilted his head, addressing you now, his voice dropping to something softer, almost intimate despite the audience. "What do you think? Hm?" His fingers traced down the side of your neck, following the path his mouth had taken. "You want us both?"
You looked at Reiner. His profile was carved from stone, all hard planes and clenched tension, but his eyesâ his eyes flicked to you for the first time, just for a half-second, and in that amber flash you saw it. Not angerâ but need. Raw, unguarded, desperate need, the kind that made his hands shake on the wheel and his breathing come shallow through his nose.
"I want both of you," you say softly,your voice steadier than you expected. "Just as much as each other."
Reiner's eyes closed. His head dropped forward, forehead almost touching the wheel, and the sound that came from him was like something breaking looseâ a rough exhale, almost a laugh, almost a groan. "Fuck." He said it like a surrender, like the word had been sitting in his chest for miles and he'd finally let it out.
He pulled over quickly, the car rolling to a stop on the shoulder of the dark road, gravel popping under the tires, and the engine idled. The headlights carved a pale cone into the nothing aheadâ no buildings, no streetlights, just the flat black of fields beyond the road and the distant orange glow of the city behind you. Reiner killed the engine. The silence that followed was enormous, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the low whistle of wind through the cracked window.
Jean shifted beneath you, his hands sliding to your waist, thumbs pressing into the bare skin between your crop top and your skirt. "There we go." His voice was warm, easy, like he was settling a bet. He looked past you at Reiner. "She's practically on your lap already." His hand dropped to your thigh, gave it a squeeze, then lifted awayâ a gesture of offering. "You fuck her first, big guy. I'll watch."
Reiner's throat moved as he swallowed. He turned in the driver's seat, and his eyes found yours, and the question in them was so different from Jean's easy confidenceâ hesitant, almost careful, like he was asking something far bigger than what his mouth actually said. "Are youâŚokay with this?"
You reached for him. Your hand found the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, and you pulled him toward you. "Yes." The word was barely out before your mouth met his.
Reiner kissed nothing like Jean. Where Jean had been greedy, all tongue and teeth, Reiner was slow. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair, and his mouth moved against yours with an almost reverent attentivenessâ like he was memorising the shape of your lips, the way you tasted, the exact pressure that made your breath catch. He kissed you the way he drove: controlled, preciseâ every movement deliberate. When his tongue finally touched yours, it was a question, not a demand, and the tenderness of it made something twist in your chest.
You shifted off Jean's lap, swinging your legs across the center console, and Reiner's hands caught your waist, lifting you onto him like you weighed nothing. His thighs were thick and hard beneath yours, and you could feel him through his jeansâ hot and rigid and straining against the denim. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs tracing the curve of your hipbones, and he kissed you again, deeper this time, his head tilting to fit his mouth more fully against yours.
Behind you, Jean adjusted himself in the passenger seat. You heard the shift of fabric, the quiet rasp of his zipper, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, his hand was pressed flat against the front of his jeans, palming the thick outline of his cock through the dark denim. He caught you looking and grinnedâ that sharp, cocky grinâ and leaned back, spreading his knees wider. "Don't mind me. Carry on."
Reiner's hand found the lever beside his seat and pulled. The driver's seat reclined with a mechanical clunk, tipping backward until he was nearly flat, and you settled against him, your knees on either side of his hipsâ your skirt riding up until it was bunched uselessly around your waist. You pulled your arms free of the leather jacket and shrugged it off, letting it drop into the footwell. The cold air hit your bare shoulders and then Reiner's hands were there, palms flat and warm against your skin, pulling you down against his chest.Â
You reached between you, fingers working the button of his jeans, and Reiner's breath stuttered against your mouth. His hips lifted when you tugged the denim down, and you felt himâ hot, thick, the head of his cock slick already. You wrapped your hand around him and his whole body went taut, a shudder running through him like a current, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks.
"Jesusâ " His voice broke on the word.
You pushed your panties to the side, lifted your hips and positioned him, then sank down. The angle was tight in the cramped coupe, your head almost touching the roof, but you didn't care. The stretch of him filling you inch by inch made your mouth fall open, a low groan pulling from your throat as your hips met his. He was buried to the hilt, and you could feel him throbbing inside you, feel the way his stomach tensed and flexed against yours with every controlled breath he tried to take.
"Fuck," Reiner whispered. His eyes were shut, his head tipped back against the headrest, the tendons in his neck pulled taut as his hands trembled on your hips. "You feelâ " He couldn't finish the sentence.
You rolled your hips, and the sound he made was wrecked. A groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest, his fingers tightening, his hips bucking up into you involuntarily. You set a rhythmâ slow, grinding, taking him as deep as the position allowedâ and each downstroke dragged a sound from him that was somewhere between a moan and a whimper, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his breath coming in sharp punches.
Jean's hand moved behind you. You felt his fingers hook the neckline of your crop top, tugging it down, and the stretchy fabric gave way, pulling beneath your breasts. The cool air hit your skin for half a second before Jean's hands replaced itâ one hand cupping your breast, fingers closing around your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger while his other hand gripped the other, kneading. His palm cupped one breast, his thumb rolling your nipple, pinching it to a stiff peak, and you arched into his touch while Reiner thrust up into you.Â
You reached backâblindly, one hand leaving Reiner's chestâ and your fingers found Jean's cock. Hot and thick in your grip. He hissed through his teeth when you wrapped your hand around him, your thumb smearing the precum over the head, and you started to stroke him in time with your hips. Reiner beneath you, Jean in your hand, the car rocking faintly on its suspension with every movement.
Reiner's rhythm stuttered. His hands clenched on your hips, pulling you down hard, and his cock throbbed inside youâ a deep, pulsing heat. "I can'tâ" he gasped against your mouth. "I'm gonnaâfuck, I'mâ"
"Reinerâ " His name came out of you like a plea.
He came with a sound that was almost painfulâ a strangled groan, his whole body arching up off the seat, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough that you'd see the bruises tomorrow. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, his cock jerking as he spilled, and his hips kept moving through it, riding each wave, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was still twitching inside you when his head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat visible along his collarbones where his shirt had pulled open.
The car smelled like sex, smoke and the leather of the seats.
Jean's hands were still on your breasts, and he gave one last squeeze before letting go, leaning back in the passenger seat. His own hand returned to his cock, pressing as his voice came rough and low. "My turn, princess. Why don't you take me for a ride?"
You lifted yourself off Reiner's lap, feeling him slip out of you, warm wetness trailing down your inner thigh. Reiner made a quiet sound at the loss, his hand reaching for you instinctively before dropping back to the seat. You climbed over the center console, the cramped space forcing you to press against Jeanâ and he caught you, his hands gripping your thighs as you straddled him in the passenger seat.
His mouth found yours immediatelyâ hard, demanding, nothing like Reiner's careful attention. Jean kissed like he raced: aggressive, precise, going for the win. His tongue pushed past your lips and his teeth caught your lower lip, tugging, and his hands were already working at his zipper, shoving his jeans down his thighs just far enough. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head slick, and he gripped your hip with one hand while the other positioned himself.
You sank down onto him in one smooth motion, and the stretch made you both groan. He was bigger than you'd expectedâ longer than Reiner but not as thick, and the angle in the cramped passenger seat meant he hit deep, the head of his cock pressing against that spot inside you that made your thighs shake. His hips snapped up into you the moment you bottomed out, and the sound that came from your mouth was raw, half gasp, half moan, your nails digging into his shoulders through the black t-shirt.
"That's it," he growled against your ear. "Take it."
Your hands gripped the headrest behind his head, and you started to move, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm. Jean's hands gripped your ass, fingers digging into the flesh, and he started thrusting up into you. Hard. Each stroke was a punch, his hips snapping up to meet yours, and the force of it pushed you forward, your forehead almost touching the roof of the car. The sound of itâ wet, slapping, obsceneâ filled the small space, and the windows were already starting to fog at the edges.
"Fuck, you're tight," Jean growled against your throat. His mouth found your collarbone, teeth scraping. "So fucking wet." His hips drove up into you again and you keened, your nails digging into the headrest. "Reiner did a good job getting you ready for me, didn't he?"
From the driver's seat, you heard Reiner's breath catch. You turned your head, just barely, and saw him watching. He'd turned in the reclined seat, his eyes dark and fixed on where Jean's cock disappeared into you with every thrust, and his hand was in his own lap now, palming himself through his jeans, his cock already half-hard again despite having just come.
Jean shifted beneath you. His hands moved to your waist, and in a move that shouldn't have been possible in the cramped hatchback, he twistedâ pulling you with him, spinning your bodies until your back was against the passenger door and he was above you, your legs hooked over his shoulders. The gearshift dug into your hip and the window was cold against your shoulder, but you didn't care, because Jean was driving into you now, really driving, his hips snapping forward with a force that rocked the car on its suspension.
The windows were fully fogged now. The world outside had disappeared behind a layer of condensation, and the only light was the faint glow of the dashboard, casting everything in dim amber. The air inside the car was thick, humid, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, and every breath you took was warm and damp.
Jean fucked like he did everythingâ with a cocky, precise intensity that left no room for anything but sensation. Each thrust was angled, deliberate, his cock dragging against that spot inside you until your vision blurred and your mouth fell open and sounds were coming out of you that you couldn't controlâ high, broken moans, gasps that broke in half when he drove particularly deep.
"Look at you," Jean panted, his rhythm never faltering. "Taking it so well. Such a good fucking girl." His hand came up to your breast, still exposed above the bunched crop top, and he pinched your nipple, hard, and your back arched off the door.
From the driver's seat, Reiner watched. His amber eyes had cleared, and his cock was hard againâ straining against his thigh, thick and flushed, his hand wrapped around it, stroking slowly. He watched Jean fuck you with an expression that was equal parts hunger and something rawer, something that flickered in the gold of his irises every time you moaned. Then his hand moved. He reached across the console, and his fingers found your clitâ swollen, slick with your own wetness and the cum leaking from your cuntâand he rubbed in tight, precise circles while Jean pounded into you. The contrast made you sob â Jean's hard, punishing thrusts and Reiner's careful, attentive circles, and your thighs began to shake, the orgasm building fast and heavy in your belly.
"She likes that," Jean observed, his voice rough. He didn't slow down. If anything, he sped up, his hips pistoning into you, the car rocking. "She's clenching so fucking tight around me."
Reiner's fingers pressed harder, two fingers rubbing your clit in steady, firm circles, and your hand shot out, grabbing his wristâ not to push him away but to hold him there, to keep him exactly where he was. Your other hand gripped Jean's shoulder, nails digging crescents into his skin through the t-shirt.
"I'mâ" The words dissolved. The orgasm hit you like a wave, starting at your core and radiating outward, your whole body seizing, your back arching, your mouth open in a soundless cry that broke into a moan so loud it fogged the window beside your head. Your pussy clenched around Jean's cock in rhythmic pulses and he swore, his rhythm faltering for the first time, his head dropping to your shoulder.
"Fuckâ fuckâ " Jean's hips stuttered, and then he slammed into you, deep, one two, three more strokes, and you felt him comeâ pulsing inside you, his whole body rigid above you and his fingers bruising on your thigh. He groaned against your neck, long and low, and his hips kept moving, slower now, riding out the last of it.
The three of you stayed there, breathing. The car was completely steamedâ every window opaque with condensation, the world outside erased, the small space a sealed pocket of heat and breath and the smell of sex. Water droplets ran down the inside of the windshield.
Jean's forehead rested against your collarbone. Reiner's fingers had gone still against your clit, his hand resting warm on your inner thigh. You could feel both of them inside and against you, their breath on your skin, the racing of their heartbeats slowing by degrees. Jean lifted his head first. He pressed a kiss to your jawâ almost gentle, a startling contrast to everything elseâ and pulled back, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that echoed in the small space.
"Not bad for a tiebreaker," he said. His voice was hoarse.
Reiner was still watching you from the driver's seat, his hand warm on your thigh, his amber eyes soft and dark in the dashboard glow. He didn't say anything. But his thumb traced a slow circle on your skinâ the same spot, the same motion as before, when this all beganâ and you understood that for Reiner, that was enough.
winter olympics au where ice skater reader and hockey reiner are competing for different countries (marley vs paradis) but they end up falling in love (and get freaky)
a: Firstly thank you to whoever sent this its literally incredible yes. Secondly, this is long asff and kinda sucks as I had to cut it down a lot so oops....anyway enjoy everyone <3
summary: You came to Marley to win a gold medal in the Winter Olympics. You didn't expect to meet the rival team's hockey captain Reiner Braun. A figure skater, a hockey captain, and twelve days on someone else's ice, what's the worst that could happen?
Everyone talks about the Olympic Winter Games like they're a single thing. One event, one moment, one answer to four years of work.
They're not. They're a thousand small thingsâ the smell of a foreign city through a cracked bus window, the sound of a different accent to yours, the way your legs feel after eleven hours cramped on a bus, the particular quality of cold that comes from a place that's had winter for a while. You've competed in seven countries, but you've never been to Marley.
It's older than you expected. The streets in the city centre are stone-paved and narrow, buildings pressed close on either side like they're holding each other up, and everything has the layered quality of a place that has been building on top of itself for so long it's forgotten what the bottom looks like. For the Games, the whole city has been dressed upâ Olympic banners on every lamppost, the five rings reproduced on facades and bridges and shop windows, enormous screens mounted at intersections cycling through athlete profiles and event schedules and footage of last cycle's medal ceremonies. It should make it feel less serious, all that decoration, but it doesntâ if anything, it adds to the pressure.Â
You look back out the window. A woman on a bicycle is navigating the gap between the bus and a parked van with an ease that suggests she's done it a thousand times. A cafĂŠ is just opening on a corner, a man in an apron pulling chairs off tabletops in the early morning cold. Ordinary life, carrying on underneath the Olympics, indifferent to all of it.
Twelve days. Thatâs all you were here for. Twelve days.Â
The Marley Arena is everything promised and then someâ purpose-built but old-feeling, with the particular gravitas of a venue that has hosted things that mattered. It smells when you push through the service entrance on Tuesday morning at six-fifty, like cold metal and rubber matting and the clean, specific sharpness of refrigerated ice, which is the smell that has meant home to you since you were six years old and your mother first laced up your skates.
You're moving fast and swiftlyâ you always move fast, it was just more efficient to you. Which is why, when you come around the corner from the warm-up room corridor, you don't see him until you've already walked into him, and by then it's too late to do anything useful about it.
The impact is total. It's like walking into a wall that wasn't there a second agoâ sudden and immovableâ and he catches you before you can go anywhere. Both hands, one on each arm, grip sure and immediate, but the grip isâ careful, you think. For hands that size, and the speed it had to happen at, it is remarkably careful.
You look up and find a face you don't recogniseâ sandy-blond hair, cut short and slightly dishevelled. A jaw that's all clean angles, with two or three days of blond stubble across it. A nose that's been broken at least once, maybe even twiceâ and reset slightly crooked, which should read as a flaw and somehow doesn't; like his face has been revised by experience into something better than symmetry. And his eyes: a beautiful amber, almost gold. Holding the corridor light in a way that makes them look warm even here, even now, even in a moment that is mildly chaotic. "Sorry," he says. The word is low, accentedâ and he looks genuinely alarmed. "I didn't see youâ are you hurt?"
You are not hurt, but you are, if anything, a little memorised by the amber eyes, which you recognise as an unhelpful response. "You caught me," you say. "So no."
He looks down at his hands on your arms, registers he's still holding you, and lets go with a speed that is almost comicalâ stepping back, a flush working across those high cheekbones. "I wasn't watching where I was going," he says.
"Neither was I," you say, which is fair. You look past him into the arena entrance, where you can see players already on the iceâ dark red jerseys, a crest you don't know. Marley? You look back at him. He's still looking at you with a quality of attention that is more than the situation strictly requires. "You're with the Marley squad?"
"Captain," he says. Then, like he's remembered other words exist: "I meanâ Iâm the captain. Reiner. Reiner Braun."
"I know," you say, which is only marginally trueâ you know of himâŚ.in the way you know all the major names in the Olympics, distantly and without detailâ but the way his expression shifts when you say it, that small surprised lift, makes it entirely worth saying.
"You know me, huh?" he repeats.
"You're hard to miss," you say. "You're practically the biggest person in this arena."
The flush again. He measures himself involuntarily, which involves glancing down at youâ you are several significant inches shorter than himâ and then back up. "I'm notâ that'sâ" He stops. "You're justâ"
"Small?" you offer, pleasantly.
"I wasn't going to say that."
"But you were thinking it."
Something moves at the corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile yet. "Maybe," he says, carefully.
You smile at himâ bright and deliberateâ and watch him blink, like you've done something unexpected. "I'll stay on the left side," you say. "You and your team can have the right."
"This slot isâ"
"Shared, now." You tilt your head. "Unless you'd like to go find a coordinator and spend your morning in an administrative queueâŚ."
He looks at you, contemplating. "Right side for my team it is then," he says, finally.
"Right side," you agree. You walk past him onto the ice and you feel, with complete certainty, that he watches you the entire way.
Bertholdt Hoover also from the Marley team finds you at the sides twenty minutes in. He's taller than Reiner âslightly apologetic about his height, as if he's been meaning to do something about it and hasn't got round to itâ and he introduces himself with a warmth that seems entirely genuine, says his name, and then nods toward the far end of the rink where Reiner is directing a drill, and says, Have you met our captain Reiner yet?Â
You tell him you ran into him, and then go back to practicing. You try not to look over at the Marley end more than three times. You are unsuccessful.
What you see, from across the ice: is a different kind of athlete to the ones you spend your life around. Figure skating is control made visibleâ the management of appearance, every line intentional, every error hidden inside the performance of absolute perfection. Hockey is controlled chaos, reactive and physical, and Reiner moves through it with a bluntness that shouldn't be as fluid as it is. All that size and mass, and it carries itself with a certainty that reads less like athleticism and more like instinct. Like his body knows things his brain doesn't have to think about.
He's working with one of his younger playersâ the kid keeps misreading the breakout positioning, and Reiner is demonstrating it at half-speed, voice too low to carry across the distance but expression clear: patient, focused, not a trace of frustration even on the third attempt.Â
You come out of the step sequence three beats late, which you have not done since you were fourteen. You remind yourself that you are very focused and very professional and you look over at the Marley end only twice more after that.
The Olympic Village dining hall was built for the games and has the airy self-consciousness of something designed to impressâ glass ceiling, long communal tables, food stations lining the walls like an international argument about what constitutes a proper meal. Every nation has found its corner. Your country, Paradis, is near the east windows, claimed by the captain of your countries hockey team, Jean. You had been friends with a few of the guys off the team for a few years nowâ Jean, Connie, Eren and Marco, all of you coming together when in close proximity at games.Â
Tonight there are too many bread rolls and someone's water glass has been knocked over and Connie is explaining, at great length and with hand gestures, something that happened during the short-track relay. Eren is eating Connie's food while Connie isn't looking. Marco is listening to Connie with genuine interest, because Marco is constitutionally incapable of not listening to people. You sit down with your tray, and you try not to immediately look around the room. But you do.Â
Reiner is at a table across the hallâ Bert on one side and a couple of other Marley players you didn't recognise or hadn't met yet. He has his head bent over his food, and thenâ the way it keeps happening, this week, this specific thing that keeps connecting you twoâ he looks up. Directly at you, across the full width of the room, like he knew exactly where you were. The eye contact holds for three seconds, maybe even four. Long enough to be a choice. He dips his chin, that same slow, deliberate acknowledgement, and goes back to his plate.
You pick up your fork. "Who are you looking at?" Jean suddenly asks from beside you. He's watching you with that specific flat attention he uses when he's already formed an opinion and is waiting to see if you'll confirm it.
"No one," you say quickly.
He turns around. His gaze locates the Marley table without what seems like any particular searching, which suggests he already knew where it was. He turns back, and his jaw has acquired a new tension. "Braun," he mutters.
"Are you asking or stating?"
"Stating." He picks up his fork. "He's Marley's captain."
"I'm aware of who he is. He introduced himself this morning."
"Hm." He sets the fork down, then picks it up again. "He's good."
The words come out like they cost Jean something to say. "Is he?" you ask.
He finally looks at you properly. "Remeber he's competition. Marley's strong this yearâ their whole squad isâ"
"Jean," you say, patiently. "I'm a figure skater, remember? We are in completely separate eventsâ what does it matter?"
"That's notâ" He stops. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."
"Then what are you talking about?"
He's quiet for a moment. Around you, Connie has moved on to his second bread roll and his third retelling of the lane incident, and Eren has started on what appears to be Connie's dessert, and Marco has noticed and is deciding whether to say anything.
"Nothing," Jean says, finally. "Forget it."
Which is not nothing, and you both know it isn't nothing, and you let it be what it is for now. Across the room, you don't look at the Marley table again for a while. When you do, Reiner is already looking at you, and this time neither of you looks away for almost five seconds, which is a very long time when you're paying attention.Â
You look down at your dessert. "Subtle," Connie says, from nowhere.
"Mind your own business," you hiss.
"I'm just saying," Connie says.Â
"Connie," Jean says, in a tone that closes the subject.
Connie eats his bread roll and says nothing else. But you catch Marco smiling quietly at his plate, and you decide, on balance, that you don't mind.
Wednesday was your slot, properly yours. The ice at six AM is silver and untouched and entirely silent, and it is the purest version of itself at this hour, before the day gets hold of it. You push out onto the surface and the blades sing against the fresh ice and everything else drops away.
You run your routine, then you take it apart piece by piece, the way your coach taught you: build the thing completely, then dismantle it, find what's wrong, rebuild. By the time you reach the step sequence you've been on the ice for nearly two hours and your body has found its rhythm, the good kind of tired, warm all the way through.
You don't hear the door, and you don't hear him come in. You become aware of Reiner the way you sometimes become aware of a change in weatherâ not a specific sound, more like a shift in the quality of the air, a sense that the room is different than it was. You hold the line you're on, finish the sequence, and decelerate into a long glide toward the boards.
He's there. Forearms resting on the barrier, chin slightly down, watching you with the look of someone who has completely forgotten they were going somewhere. He's in a practice base layerâ no jerseyâ which does nothing at all to obscure the fact that he is built like something that belongs in a museum. He doesn't say anything when you stop in front of him. He just looks at you, and there's a density to it, like there's more going on behind it than he's letting out.
"Wrong slot?" you ask.
"Day off for me," he says. "I was going to use the gym, but Iâ" He pauses. "I heard your skates from the corridor."
"And you decided to stay."
The corner of his mouth does something. "Maybe."
You lean your arms on the boards from the ice side, mirroring him, which puts you closer than you need to be and you both know it. "How long have you been standing there?"
He considers. "A while."
You look at him. "AndâŚ.what do you think?" you ask. "So far."
"Honestly?" He glances at the ice behind you, at the marks your blades have left. "I don't have the words for it." He says it simply, without embarrassment. "I've watched figure skating on television and it didn'tâ it looks different from here. From close up."
"Different how?"
He thinks about it. "It should look harder," he says, finally. "At that speed, with those rotationsâ it should look like something that could go wrong. Yours doesn't. It looks likeâ" He pauses. "Like the ice is just doing what you tell it."
Something warms in your chest. "That's the goal," you say softly.
"I figured." He meets your eyes. "I also looked up the different jumps you do.âÂ
You stare at him. "You looked up the jumps I do?"
"The axel seems like the hardest," he says, matter-of-fact. "Is that the one that goes forwards on the takeoff?"
"It is." You hold his gaze. "Do you want to see it?"
Something opens in his expressionâ quick and genuine, before he pulls it back. "Yes," he nods eagerly.
You hold his gaze one beat longer, just because, and then push off. You build the approach over the full length of the rink, letting the speed accumulate, edges clean and preciseâ then pick in off the toe, rotate. You're in the air for a few seconds, and the landing is sure and clean, one unbroken line all the way throughâ and you hold the edge long before letting it go.
From the boards, Reiner makes a soundâ something that escapes before he can do anything about it. You glide back. His expression is completely undoneâ the look of someone who has just seen something that's rearranged their idea of what's possible. "That's the triple axel," you say proudly.
"Wow," he says. Slightly rough before he clears his throat. "You make it lookâ"
"Easy?"
"Like It's nothing," he says. "Which is harder."
You're close enough now to see the detail of him properlyâ the gold of his eyes, the particular way the morning light catches his jaw, the slight asymmetry of his nose that you've already decided you like more than you care to admit. He's looking at you like you're the most interesting thing he's encountered in a long time, and he's not being subtle about it, and you find that you don't mind.
You don't go straight back to the village after. It's Reiner who suggests it, almost offhandedly, like he's been thinking about it for a minute and decided it was worth the riskâ "there's a cool place just outside the athlete entrance, if you wanted coffee"â and you say yes before he's finished the sentence, which you think tells both of you something.
The cafĂŠ is small and warm, the kind of place that's been there long enough to stop trying to impress anyone. Stone walls, mismatched chairs, a woman behind the counter who recognises Reiner and greets him and then looks at you with a very specific kind of curiosity that you decide not to examine too closely. He orders for both of youâ asking you first what you want, which you noteâ and you find a table by the window, the winter street outside grey and quiet.
You're settled into your chairs, coats still on because it takes a while for the warmth to get in, when the door opens and Connie comes through it, followed by Eren and Jean.
Connie sees you first. His face does several things in quick successionâ surprise, delight, a look sideways at Jean that he probably thinks is subtle. Eren follows his gaze, registers Reiner beside you, and has the decency to at least attempt a neutral-ish expression. Jean doesn't attempt anything. He just looks at youâ at Reinerâ back at youâ and then looks away, jaw set, and steers the other two toward the counter without a word.
You watch this happen and Reiner watches you watch it.
"Theyâre my teammates," you say before he could ask. "They play hockeyâ Jean's the captain of thâ."
"I know who he is," he says, not elaborating after that. There's something in the way he says it that's neither warm nor coldâ the specific flatness of someone who knows a person professionally and has filed them under âcompetitorâ. You don't ask if they've spoken to each other since arriving here. It doesn't feel like your question to ask.Â
Reiner glances toward the counter, where Jean is staring at the menu like it's personally wronged him, and then back at you. Something shifts in his expression â a small recalibration, the kind that happens when information doesn't quite fit the shape you'd given it. "You're friends with them?" he asks.Â
"We all train at the same facility," you say. "Same rink, mostly the same hours. You end up knowing peopleâŚ.and obviously we compete together every four years."
"Same hometown too?"
"More or less," you tell him. "We grew up in the same area. It's a small world when you've been doing this since you were eight."
He takes this in quietly, the way he takes most things inâ not rushing to respond, just letting it settle. He nods once and moves on.
You stay for a second coffee, which neither of you planned. The conversation moves the way good conversations do â without effort, without agenda, from one thing to the next like following a path you didn't know was there.
He tells you about growing up in Marley. His mother raised him alone, which he says plainly, without making it either a tragedy or a triumph, just a thing that was true. "She worked a lot," he says. "I spent a lot of time at the rink because it was warm and she didn't have to worry about me there."
You nod as he spoke. "That's how you started playing?"
"That's how I started playing." He wraps a hand around his coffee cup. "The coach at the local club let me hang around if I helped with the younger kids. I didn't have any brothers or sisters so I think I liked it, you knowâ having people to look after."
"You're still doing it," you say. "Just with your team now."
He considers this. "I suppose I am."
"Do you have family nearby? Still in Marley?"
"My mom." He smiles when he says itâ small, automatic, the kind that happens without deciding to. "And my cousin Gabi. She's fifteen. She plays hockey too, actuallyâ she's been playing since she could walk, she's furious that she can't compete yet at this level." He says it with such obvious, helpless fondness that something in your chest does a small quiet thing. "She's better than half the senior squad and she knows it. She's been texting me updates about my games before I've even come off the ice."
"She sounds terrifying," you laugh.
"She's absolutely terrifying," he agrees. "She's also the best person I know, probably. Don't tell her I said that, she'll be insufferable."
"Will she be watching?" you ask. "The Games?"
"Sheâll be watching all of it, no doubt," he says, then he pauses. "She may have already looked you up."
You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? How does she know about me?âÂ
"I may have mentioned you," he says quietly, and the flush is back, faint and extremely gratifying, creeping across his cheekbones. "In passingâŚ."
"In passing?" You repeat, a smug smile on your lips. Â
"Once or twice."
"And what did Gabi say about me?"
He picks up his coffee. Doesn't answer immediately. "She said," he says, carefully, "that you are the best figure skater internationally, and also that I should stop being an idiot."
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile from becoming something he could tease you about. "She sounds very wise."
"Frighteningly," he says.Â
"Well." You look at him over the rim of your cup. "She's not wrong."
"I know," he says. "I've seen you skateâ"
"I wasn't talking about that one."
He meets your eyes. âAh,â the flush was still there on his face. "Iâm working on it," he says.
You laughâ properly, surprised by itâ and he watches you do it with that particular expression of his, the one that's slightly arrested, like he's catching himself. Across the room, you don't look at Jean's table, but you're aware of it anyway, the way you're always aware of Jean when he's nearby. You hope he's all right. You think he will be, eventually. He's Jeanâ he'll be all right.
"Tell me more about Gabi," you say, turning back to Reiner.
And he does.
You'd only come to pass the time. Your own practice wasn't for another hour, and the Olympic Village had started to feel suffocating after spending the entire morning either training or stretching. Someone had mentioned the Marley hockey team were practising in the main arena, and with nothing better to do, you'd wandered in.
The stands were almost empty. A few coaches sat scattered around the arena, notebooks balanced on their knees, while the rest of the seats remained deserted. You settled into the second row, arms folded over the barrier in front of you as you watched them skate through drill after drill.
Hockey, you foundâ was oddly satisfying to watch. Fast, physical, chaoticâbut there was still a rhythm to it. And then there was Reiner, and of course your gaze kept returning to him. It wasn't intentional. At least, not at first. For someone built like a brick wall, he moved with an ease that made no sense. Every turn was smooth, every stop controlled, and he wasn't the fastest skater on the ice, but somehow he never seemed late to anythingâalways arriving exactly where he needed to be before anyone else realised the play had changed.
He looked... comfortable, like he belonged out there.
You found yourself smiling without noticing, and then one of the drills ended. The players slowed, catching their breath while pucks were gathered from around the rink. Reiner skated towards the boards near where you were sitting, one gloved hand resting on his stick as he exhaled heavily.
Without a second thought, he hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his crimson jersey and lifted it over the lower half of his face, wiping away the sweat. Your thoughts vanished completely. The jersey rode high enough to expose his stomach, revealing the firm lines of his abdomenâ every muscle tightening as he reached across his face. Broad shoulders, defined waist, skin flushed pink from exertion and a thin sheen of sweatâ
Well. You hadn't expected....that. Heat instantly rushed straight into your cheeks before you could stop it. You looked away, suddenly fascinated by literally anything elseâ the empty seats, the scoreboard, a water bottle abandoned on the bench.
Get a fucking grip. It was just abs. Perfectly sculpted, unfairly attractiveâ Stop.
You pressed your lips together, willing the warmth to leave your face, and when you finally risked another glance, Reiner was already looking at you. He'd caught you. Of course he had. He gave a small laugh to himself before skating over.
"So," he called up, the corners of his mouth lifting, "you're watching me now?"
You forced your expression into something that resembled indifference. "I was bored."
"Mhm." His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, amused."You didn't look very bored."
You rolled your eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, BraunâŚ..I just happened to end up here."
"And you just happened to keep looking over here?"
You felt your face warm all over again. "I was watching everyone." A grin spread slowly across his faceâ one that made you want to throw something at him. "You know," you sighed, "you've got a ridiculously high opinion of yourself."
He shrugged, entirely unbothered. "So I've been told."
You shook your head. "I was bored," you called over. "Don't get used to it." His laugh followed you across the arena. "...Arrogant idiot," you muttered under your breath.
It's a good game, even at practice pace. Marley runs a system that's different to Paradis'sâ tighter, more structured in the neutral zone, with a defensive discipline that's clearly been drilled to the point of instinct. Jean adapted to it within the first five minutes, which you notice because you know Jean's game, know the specific shift in his posture when he's reading something new and adjusting.
What you're mainly watching, and making no particular effort to pretend otherwise, is Reiner.
He's different in a game context than in a drillâ still the same controlled authority, but there's an edge to it now, something sharper, the difference between a musician rehearsing and the same musician performing. He's on Jean's line repeatedly, and the two of them are well-matched in a way that's almost beautiful to watch and also, you suspect, intensely irritating for both of them. Jean is faster with the puck. Reiner is better without it. Jean reads the zone; Reiner reads Jean.
Though, apparently, today Jean is reading more than just the game.
Because every time Reiner comes near the boards, his eyes flick briefly toward you. He'd noticed earlierâ the way Reiner skated over during the break, the way the two of you had exchanged that annoyingly familiar back-and-forth, the way you had tried and failed to hide your smile when Reiner teased you.
Jean knows you. Knows the way you pretend not to care when you very obviously do. He's seen it a hundred times beforeâ on the ice, in training, everywhere. And watching you look at Reiner like that seems to bother him more than he'd ever admit.
Twelve minutes in, a loose puck at the boards. Jean goes for it from one side, Reiner from the other, and they arrive at exactly the same moment with the combined poor judgment of two very competitive people who are not going to yieldâ and Jean's elbow, coming up as he turns, catches Reiner across the bridge of the nose.
The sound is......not good.
Reiner goes back half a step, one hand coming up to his face, and even from the stands you can see the dark red starting against his skin. Jean, to his credit, looks immediately appalled.
"BraunâI didn'tâ"
You are already at the tunnel entrance. You're not sure when you stood up. You're not sure when you started moving. But you're on the ice in your trainers before anyone's had time to collect themselves, the cold of the surface immediately soaking through the soles, and you get to Reiner just as Bert gets to him from the other side. Jean follows quickly, pulling his helmet off as he skates to you.
"Hey, waitâ"
You don't even look at him.
"Move," you say to the general situation, and people move.
Reiner has his hand over his nose, head tilted back, and his eyes find you over the top of his hand with an expression that cycles through surprised, slightly pained, and something else in very quick succession.
"I'm fine," he says, muffled.
"You're bleeding," you say. "Tilt your head forward, not back." You put a hand on his jaw and redirect him without waiting for agreement, and he goes with it, because apparently when you put a hand on his jaw he does what you tell him. "Can you breathe through it?"
"Mostly."
"Mostly is fine. Come on." You get a hand on his armâ which is, through the practice gear, about as useful as trying to steer a building, but he comes with it anywayâ and you start moving him toward the tunnel. Behind you, Bert says quietly to Jean, it's all right, he's had worse, which you hear and which you can tell Jean doesn't find as comforting as Bert intends it.
The changing room corridor is empty and quiet, the sounds of the ice muffled behind the double doors. Reiner sits on the bench just inside the Marley room with his head forward and his hand still over his nose, and you go to the first aid kit on the wallâ there's always a first aid kit, in your experience, in any room that borders iceâ and come back with gauze and a cold pack from the small freezer unit beside it.
"Move your hand," you say.
He moves it. The bleeding isn't badâ his nose is intact, just caught across the bridge, and the blood is already slowing. You press the gauze there and he reaches up to hold it and his hand covers yours and neither of you address this.
"You didn't have to come out onto the ice," he says. His voice is slightly thick but otherwise fine.
"I know," you say. You crack the cold pack, wrap it in a second piece of gauze, and hold it out. He takes it from you with his free hand and presses it to the bridge of his nose, and you perch on the bench beside himâ close, because the kit is between you and the space is smallâ and look at his face with the clinical attention of someone who has taken enough knocks herself to know what youâre looking at. "It's not broken," you say. "Or no more broken than it already was."
He lowers the cold pack slightly to look at you. His eyes, from this distance, are a golden honey and very direct, and his hair has gone slightly messed and there's a streak of red on his cheekbone and he is still, objectively, distractingly good-looking. "It's been broken twice," he says. "I have a high bar for what counts."
"Apparently." You reach out without thinking and push his hair back from his foreheadâ just clearing it from the gauze, just practical, of courseâ and your fingers brush his temple and neither of you move for a second.
"Thank you," he says, quietly. "For coming out."
"You would have done the same."
"I would have," he agrees. "I would have run out onto the ice in my trainers for you without thinking about it." He says it simply, like it's just a fact he's submitting. You just look at him. He's looking back at you with an open expression and the cold pack is still in his hand and you're sitting very close. You lean in, just slightlyâ and he also leans in, the distance between you is very small now, and his eyes are on yours and then on your mouth and then on yours again, and his free hand comes up slowly to rest at your waistâ
The door opens.
Bert appears in the doorway, stops, and in the single most efficient social detonation you have witnessed in recent memory, takes in the entire situationâ the bench, the proximity, Reiner's hand, your expressionâ and says, with genuine apologetic horror: "Oh fuck. I'mâ I'm so sorry, I just wanted to checkâ the bleeding, I thoughtâ" He looks at the ceiling, and then back at the door. "I'll justâ I'll wait outside," Bert says, already retreating. "I'll just beâ yes. Outside."
The door closes, and silence follows.Â
You become aware that Reiner's hand is still on your waist, and you also become aware that you haven't moved either. You become aware that you are sitting approximately four inches apart in a changing room corridor in Marley and that the moment has shifted into something that is extremely funny if you let it be. The laugh comes before you can stop itâ quiet, surprisedâ and Reiner looks at you, and then something in his own face gives, and the sound he makes is low and warm and real.
"He has the worst timing," Reiner chuckles.
"He looked like he wanted to die," you giggle.
He shakes his head. The hand at your waist hasn't moved. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." You look at him. He's looking at you. The moment the door interrupted is still here, you both know it's still here, sitting in the room with you alongside the first aid kit and Bert's lingering mortification. "How's the nose?"
"Fine now," he says. "I told you. High bar." He holds your gaze. "I meant what I said. Before Bertâ"
"I know," you say.
"I would have come out for you," he says. "Without thinking about it."
"I know," you say again, softer.
He looks at you for a moment, and the hand at your waist shifts slightly â just a small movement, adjusting, settling â and his expression does the open thing, all of it visible. "Tonight," he says, "are youâ after the ceremony preparations â"
"Yes," you say.
He blinks. "I haven't asked anything yet."
"I know." You stand up, and you let the moment reconfigure itself and go to the door. You open it to find Bert, standing in the corridor with his hands in his pockets and the expression of a man who has been sincerely suffering, straightens up immediately.
"He's fine," you tell him. "The nose is fine. The bleeding's stopped."
"Right," Bert says. "Good. That'sâ yes. Good." A pause. "I'm very sorry about the interruptionâ"
"Bert," you say, gently. "It's all right."
He looks deeply, privately relieved. "Thank you," he says. "For looking after him."
You glance back through the open door, just for a second. Reiner is watching you go with an expression you're going to be thinking about for the rest of the day.
You find Jean at the far end of the corridor, still in his gear, stick in hand, doing the thing he does when he's uncomfortable â moving, always moving, like stillness gives the feeling somewhere to settle.
"Jean."
He turns around. He has the look of someone who was hoping for more time before this conversation.
"It was an accident," he says, before you've said anything.
"Was it?"
A pause. "Yes."
You look at him. Jean looks back, and the thing about Jean is that he's a terrible liar when it matters â he can deflect and sidestep and change the subject with real skill, but when something is genuinely true and he knows it he can't quite hold the denial in his face properly. It keeps slipping.
"Jean," you say again, quieter. "Was it actually an accident?"
The silence goes on long enough to be its own answer. He looks away, and he turns his stick over in his hands once, twice, the same way he fidgets with things when he's got nowhere good to put his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he says, finally. "I want that to be clear. I didn't go in trying toâ"
"But you went in harder than you needed to."
"But you went in harder than you needed to."
He doesn't deny it this time. "He's Marley's captain," he says. "We play them in three days. And you've spent every morning this week with him and I just â" He stops. His jaw tightens. "It got to me. Okay? It got to me."
"Jean." You look at him steadily. "Is this about the tournament? Or is this about something else?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Both," he says, eventually. Quietly. "You know it's both."
And there it is. You look at himâ at the tight set of his shoulders, the way he can't quite meet your eyesâ and you feel something for him that is genuine and warm and also completely beside the point right now.
"That's not fair," you say. "Taking it out on him because of how you feel. That's not fair to him and it's not fair to me."
"I know," he says. Low. "I know that."
"Apologise to him. A real one."
"I will." He finally looks at you, and his face is more open than he'd usually allow. "I'm sorry. For making it your problem."
You hold his gaze for a moment, then turn to walk away.
And stop.
Reiner is twenty feet down the corridor.
Close enough to have heard every word. He's standing completely still, cold pack at his side, eyes on you. When your gazes meet he doesn't look away or pretend he wasn't listening. He just looks at you, steady and quiet, and his expression is â soft, almost. Like something in him has settled.
You hold it for one second. Then you walk, right past him, back toward the rink.
You don't stop. You don't explain. You just go.Â
Saturday. Your competition begins tomorrow morning.Now it's almost midnight and you've run through your routine in your head for the last time and you've laid out everything for tomorrowâ and yet you still can't sleep.
So you go to the ice.
The Marley Arena at night is completely different. Competition lights off, just the maintenance panels, everything washed in a blue-grey dimness that makes the ice look like it goes on forever, like you could skate out onto it and not find the other end. The stands are empty and vast around you. You lace up your skates, step onto the surface, and the sound of your blades is the only sound in the building.
You skate without the pressure, without the intention. Just moving, the way you did when you were a small girl that loved the ice without complication. Long, easy sweeps across the surface, the cold in your lungsâ it all felt so nostalgic to you. You've been out there maybe twenty minutes when you hear the entrance.
Reiner comes through the tunnel in a hoodie and joggersâ with his skates already on his feet, and he stops at the sight of you, and you stop at the sight of him, and for a moment you just look at each other across the empty blue-lit ice, and then you both say, at exactly the same time:
"I couldn't sleep."
A beat of silence, then you both laugh. It opens up in the empty rink, fills all the space, and the whole weight of the weekâ the almost-sayings, the careful distances, the back-and-forth of itâ suddenly feels very light. He steps onto the ice in his skates. He moves toward you with that unhurried ease, and the blue light does something to his face, makes the amber of his eyes deeper, and he is very tall in this low-lit rink.Â
"We're not supposed to be here," he says, when he reaches you.
"Definitely not." You tilt your head. "But do you care?"
He looks down at youâ that slight adjustment he always makes, the angle between youâ and the corner of his mouth moves. "Not even a little."
"Good."
He looks around at the empty stands, the dark, still ice. "I keep thinking about how I wish I had time to show you Marley," he says. "The market. The harbour. I wanted to show you all of it it." He looks back at you.Â
"There's still time," you tell him. "After the tournamentâŚ.you can show me then."
He's looking at you with an open expression. "Yeah?"
"Yes," you say honestly. "I'd like that."
Something in his face settles warmly. He glances at the ice around you. "Skate with me," he says.Â
You hold out your hand for him. He takes it. His palm is warm and broad, the grip certain, and you start moving together across the surfaceâ slow, side by sideâ and he isn't graceful, not the way you're graceful, but he is so completely solid, and he follows your lead without tension, without second-guessing, with the same trust you watched him give his linemates all week. It's a good way to be trusted, you think. It's one of the better ways.
Reiner is quiet. You can feel his hand shift slightly in yours, a small, involuntary tightening, and you hold it. You slow down near the centre of the rink, and the ice holds you both still in the blue-grey quiet. You're closeâ close enough to see the grain of his stubble, the particular way the light sits in his eyes, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"Reiner?"
"Hm?"
You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes drifting to his mouth before finding his again.
"Iâve been thinking about kissing you since Bert interrupted us."
A faint flush crept across his face. "I....Iâ"
You smiled. "There you go again."
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"Over-thinking."
A breath of a laugh escaped him. "I just don't want toâ"
You didn't let him finish. One hand slid gently to the side of his face, your thumb brushing the roughness of his jaw as you leaned in and kissed him.
For the smallest moment, he went completely still. Then he kissed you back, slow yet desperatelyâ like he'd been holding himself back for days and had finally been given permission to stop. His hand found your waist almost instinctively, drawing you closer until there wasn't any space left between you. Every movement was careful, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he rushed, yet there was a quiet certainty in the way he held you that made your heart ache.
You didn't admit to him you'd how much and how often you'd imagined kissing him since Bert had walked through that door, and you had decided reality was infinitely better.
His lips were softer than you'd expected, the kiss lingering without urgency, without anyone interrupting, without either of you laughing it off this time. It felt wonderfully, overwhelmingly rightâas though something that had been suspended in mid-air for days had finally settled into place. You bring your free hand up to the front of his jacket and hold on.
When you come apart for air, neither of you goes far. His forehead drops to yours. His chest is rising and falling unsteadily, and the cold is everywhere except where he is, and where he is it is very warm. "There," you say, quietly against his mouth. "Was that so difficult?"
"You have no idea," he says, rough-voiced.
You laugh, soft in the empty rink, and he pulls back just enough to look at you when you do it â his expression open and completely undone, like he's been waiting to see you do that from up close and is making the most of it now that he has the chance.
Then he kisses you again, and this time there is nothing tentative about it. His hands frame your face and he kisses you like he means every second of it, deep and certain, and you meet him there, and the ice is cold under your skates and the rink is dark and quiet around you and it doesn't matter, none of it matters, only this: the warmth of him and the certainty of him and the feeling that this, too, like the best moments on the ice, was already decided long before either of you said anything.
When you part the second time, you're both breathing harder. You look at himâ the golden eyes, unguarded; the careful, earnest face of himâ and something in you is very settled and very certain.
"Come back to my room," you say to him before even thinking it through.Â
He goes very still. Not hesitation, noâ this is the stillness of someone who has been handed something they want so badly and need to take a moment to make sure it's real. "Yeah?" Very quiet.
"Yes," you say, and you meant it.Â
He looks at you for one more momentâ checking, because he checks everything, because he is careful about the things that matter mostâ and then something in his face settles. Simple and sure. "Okay," he says.
You skate off the ice side by side, and in the corridor you don't hold hands because this building has other people in it, but his shoulder stays against yours the whole way backâ warm and solid and steady.
The Olympic Village dormitory rose ahead, its glass-fronted lobby spilling weak yellow light onto the snow-dusted walkwayâit was a tall building, built to house hundreds of athletes every four years. A volunteer sat behind the desk, scrolling her phone, and didn't look up as you entered. The elevator was small and industrial, the kind that shuddered before it moved, and when the doors slid shut you were alone with him in a space barely big enough for one person, let alone two. You looked up at him to find he was already looking at you with an almost smirk on his face. It was almost funny how little restraint either of you seemed to have left.
You looking at him was apparently enough. His hand found yours first, fingers threading effortlessly between them before he gently tugged you closerâ if that was possibleâ until your coat brushed against his. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and for a heartbeat you simply stood there, smiling at each other like idiots.
"Iâm trying to behave," he admitted quietly. âTill we get back to your room.âÂ
âOh, yeah?â You smile at him, tilting your head. "And how's that going for you?"
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not very well."
You laughed softly, and before the sound had even faded, you reached up, caught the front of his jacket, and kissed him. He answered instantly.
One hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you in until there wasn't an inch of space left between you, while the other cupped your jaw with effortless gentleness. The kiss deepened naturally, unhurried but impossible to pull away from, as though the two of you had been stealing moments all week and were finally alone long enough to enjoy one properly.
The elevator hummed steadily upwards, and the floors passed unnoticed.
You only broke apart when the cheerful ding announced the fourth floor. The doors parted. He dropped his hand and stepped out first, turning to check the corridorâ left, right, clear â and then he waited for you to lead.
Your room was at the end of the hall. 417. The keycard beeped green and you pushed the door open and the room was exactly as you'd left itâ small, institutional, the single bed with its white sheets still rumpled from your sleep, the desk lamp casting amber light over scattered energy bar wrappers and your phone charger and the garment bag hanging from the closet door with your skate dress in it for tomorrow. The narrow window showed the city beyond, streetlights smeared by snow, the distant glow of the broadcast center still lit at this hour.
The radiator ticked. The building breathed.
He stepped in behind you, and the room shrank. Not just because he was broad (though he was, shoulders nearly brushing both walls when he stood in the center) but because he took up space the way certain people did. He pulled the door shut behind him, and the click of it closing was very loud in the quiet room.
And then his hands were on youâ not rough, never rough. His palms landed on your waist and turned you, guided you back until your shoulders met the doorâ the wood cool through your pulloverâ and then he was there, his broad frame caging you; his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. His eyes found yours in the warm light, and they were the colour of the medal you were hoping to win tomorrow, and they were very, very steady.
"I've been thinking about this," he said, his voice rough, scraping low in his throat. "Every second since I bumped into you in the corridor andâ" He stopped, the muscle in his jaw jumped. "I need you to know that."
"I know," you say softly.
His hand came up, tilted your face toward his the way it had on the iceâ fingertips under your chin, thumb brushing the corner of your jawâ and then his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like the careful, searching kiss from the rink. His stubble scraped your skin raw as he kissed you deep and slow and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that he was barely containing, and you could feel the effort of it in the way his hand trembled against your jaw, in the way his other hand gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself to something solid.
He kissed you the way he playedâ total commitment, nothing held back and every part of him present and accounted for. You brought your hands up to the front of his jacket and held on tighter than before, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer, and the sound he made against your mouthâ low, desperate, a groan he tried to swallowâ sent heat flooding through you like a wave breaking.
His hands moved over your ribs, counting them through the fabric. Down your sides, spanning the curve of your waist. Up again, slower, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts through your bra and pullover, and he pulled back just enough to look at youâ really look, amber eyes dark in the low light, his lips parted, his breath coming uneven.
"You're gorgeous," he said. The words were rough, almost angry in their intensity. "So perfectââ His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing, and his hands kept moving, slow and reverent, mapping the terrain of your body like he was memorising it by feel alone.
"I've got you," you whispered soothingly. "I'm right here."
"I know." His breath shuddered out. "I know you're hereâ" He didn't even finish his sentence. He kissed you again instead, and his hands found the hem of your pullover and slid beneath it, and the heat of his palms against your bare stomach made you gasp into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, letting out a small groan himself. His fingers splayed wide across your lower back, pulling you away from the door, pulling you into him, and you could feel him nowâ hard through his track pants, the thick length of him pressed against your hip, and the reality of that, the physical evidence of how much he wanted this, made your knees soften.
He walked you backward. Three steps, four, the narrow room tilting around you until the back of your knees hit the mattress and you sat. He followed you down, one knee on the bed, then the other, his weight dipping the mattress, his body over yours â not crushing, hovering, his arms braced on either side of your shoulders, his face above yours.
"Let meâ" His hand found the hem of your pullover again, and you lifted your arms. He pulled it over your head in one motion, tossed it somewhere, and then he went still.
The amber light caught your skin. Your sports bra was black, simple, the kind made for function and not this moment, and his eyes tracked over youâ the defined lines of your shoulders, the curve of your waist where it dipped in above your hipsâ and his throat worked.
"You're beautiful," he said. Not a compliment. A statement of fact, delivered like testimony. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
You felt the instant heat rushing across your cheeks. "Reinerâstopâ"
"I mean it." His hand came up, fingertips tracing your collarbone, his touch feather-light. "Every time I watch you skate, I thinkâ how does something that perfect exist? How does someone move like that? And now you're here, and you're real, and I can touch you, and Iâ" He stopped again, shaking his head as the stubble on his face caught the light. "I don't deserve this."
"You do," you said, and you reached for him. âOf course you do.âÂ
His jacket came off first. Then the hoodie beneath it, and the t-shirt beneath that, and each layer revealed more of himâ the dense, slabs of muscle across his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the way his shoulders were even broader than they'd seemed in clothes. His skin was warm under your hands, flushed, and you could feel the strength coiled in him, the contained power of a body built for impact and speed, and the contrast of his gentility against your skin like he was handling something preciousâ made your breath come shorter.
He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. His mouth moved down your body slowly, deliberately, each kiss placed with precision, each touch of his lips a kind of worship. He unhooked your bra with one hand, and you didn't ask how he was so good at that, because his mouth found your breast and your thoughts dissolved completely.
His tongue circled your nipple gradually as his hand cupped the other breast, thumb brushing, and you arched into him with a sound that surprised youâ a high, breathless moan that escaped you before you stopped yourself. Reiner pulled back to look at you, eyes dark, his lips wet.
"I want to hear you," he said roughly. "Don't hold back. Please. I want to hear you."
You swallowed. "Iâ"
"Please." The word cracked something open in his voice, and you nodded, and his mouth returned to your skin.
He worked his way down. Your ribs, one by one, kissed. The flat plane of your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, making you squirm. His hands hooked in the waistband of your leggings, and he looked up at you from belowâ broad-shouldered and golden-eyed and stubbled, his face between your hips, waiting for permission.
"Yes," you said.
He peeled the leggings down your legs, taking your underwear with them, and then you were bare on the white sheets in the amber light, and he was still mostly dressed from the waist down, and the asymmetry of itâ him looking, you being looked atâ made heat climb up your chest and into your face.
"You're perfect," he said again, and his voice was reverent. "Every curve, every lineâ you'reâ" He pressed a kiss to your hip bone you whimpered, and his hands tightened on your legs, and the sound he made in response was almost a growl. "Every time. Every single time you make that sound, Iâ"
"Come here," you said, and your voice was wrecked, coming undone from just his words.
He moved up the bed, and you reached for him, your hands finding the waistband of his track pants, pulling, and he helpedâ shoving them down, kicking them off, and then he was bare against you and the full length of him was pressed to your body and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest against your breasts, the heat of his skin. The thick, heavy length of him against your thigh, and the wetness at the tip that told you exactly how much he'd wanted this. You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his whole body jerked, his hips stuttering forward, a low groan tearing out of him that he muffled against your neck.
"Fuckâ wait, waitâ" His hand closed around your wrist, stilling you. "I'llâ if you do that, I won't last. I needâ can youâ" He pulled back, looked at you, and something in his face was pleading. "I need to watch you first. Please."
He sat back against the headboard, his legs stretched out, his cock hard against his stomach, and he reached for you. You went to himâ straddling his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your hands on his shouldersâ and his hands found your waist and held you there, and his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize every detail.
"Perfect," he murmured. His hand slid between your bodies, and his fingers found your entrance, already slick and sensitiveâ and he pressed two fingers inside you, and your head dropped forward, your forehead against his.
"Ohâ" You were so tender, and the stretch of his fingers inside you sent sparks up your spine. "Oh, fuckâ"
"That's it." His voice was low, rough, a rumble you could feel in his chest. "That's it. You feel so goodâ so good around my fingers. I want you to move, can you move for me?"
You rolled your hips, and his fingers curled inside you, finding the spot that made your vision blur, and you rode his handâ slow at first, then faster, your hips finding a rhythm, your hands gripping his shoulders. His burning eyes never left your face. He watched you like you were something sacred, something he couldn't believe was real, and his other hand came up to brush your cheek, his thumb tracking the tear that slipped out without your permission.
"You're beautiful," he said. "You're so beautiful when you come apart. Can you come for me?"
"Iâ" Your voice broke, your hips stuttering. "Reinerâ"
"I've got you." His fingers pressed deeper, his thumb finding your clit, and he worked you with such a focused intensity. "I've got you. Come for meâ I want to feel you." You came apart on his hand, your body clenching around his fingers, your spine arching, his name on your tongue like a prayer. He held you through itâ one arm around your waist, his mouth on your shoulder, his whispered words of affirmation steady against your skin. "That's itâ you're so good. I've got you."
When you came down, he was trembling. His whole body was tense, coiled, his cock hard and leaking against your thigh, and his eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, and you could seeâ could feelâ how much it was costing him to hold back.
"Reiner," you said, and his name in your voice made his eyes open. "I want you, please..I need you to be insideââÂ
"Yes." His voice cracked, not even letting you finish your sentence. "God yes."
He reached for his wallet out of his track pants pocket, and the condom slipped out, and his hands shook as he rolled it on, and you watchedâ the thick length of him, the way his stomach tensed as he touched himself, the concentration on his face; and then he was reaching for you again, pulling you back into his lap, and you rose up on your knees and positioned him against you.
You sank down onto him slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch of him was overwhelmingâ thick and filling you so completely that your breath caught and held and your hands gripped his shoulders hard enough to bruise. He groaned, low and broken, his head falling back against the headboard, his hands on your hips steadying you.
"Fuckâ you're soâ you feelâ" Words failed him. His eyes found yours, and they were wet. "You're perfect. I can't â Iâ"
You moved. A slow roll of your hips, and his whole body shuddered, and the sound he madeâ guttural, raw, a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chestâ made you do it again. And again. You found your rhythm, riding him slow and deep, your hands braced on his shoulders, his eyes on your face, his hands on your hips guiding you but never pushingâ never forcing, just holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid.
"Look at you," he breathed. "You'reâ you're incredible. Iâ"
His hands moved. Up your sides, over your ribs, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples. Down to your hips, gripping harder now, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as you rode him. His hips started to move with yoursâ small thrusts at first, meeting you halfway, then deeper, harder, his body pushing up into you as you came down.
"Reinerâ" His name broke out of you, and his hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and his eyesâ amber, gold, bright with something that looked like worshipâ held yours.
"I'm right here," he said breathlessly. "You're so good. I've got you."
He shifted beneath you, and suddenly the angle changed, and he was hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and your rhythm faltered, your legs shaking, your hands slipping on his shoulders. He felt itâ felt you losing the rhythmâ and his arms wrapped around you, and in one fluid motion he rolled you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his hips settling between your thighs.
"I've got you," he said again, and he pulled back, almost all the way out, and then thrust back inâ slow, deep, a full-body stroke that dragged against every nerve ending you had. "Let meâ fuckâ let me take care of you."
He set the paceâ slow at first, deep and grinding, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot on your lips. Each thrust was deliberate, measured, and you could feel the control in itâ the way he held back from coming too soon, the way he kept his weight on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you, the way his hips snapped forward with just enough force to make you see stars without overwhelming you.
But his composure cracked. You felt it happenâ felt the moment his rhythm stuttered, felt his breath catch, felt his hands fist in the sheets beside your head. His hips drove forward harder, faster, and the sound that came out of him was desperate, broken, a sob caught in his throat.
"I can'tâ I'm not going toâ" His voice was wrecked. "I need you to come firstâ please, I needâ" His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, and he circled it in time with his thrusts, and you were already so close, had been building since his mouth was on you, and the combinationâ his fingers, his cock inside you, the weight of him, the sound of his voice breaking on your nameâ pushed you over.
You came hard, your whole body clenching around him, your back arching off the mattress, and he followed youâ two more thrusts, deep and uncontrolled, and then he groaned your name into your neck, his whole body going rigid, his hips pressed flush against yours, and you felt him pulse inside you as he came.
He collapsed, carefully thoughâ he caught himself on his elbows, but his full weight settled against you, his chest heaving, his face buried in your neck, his stubble scraping your collarbone. His breath came in ragged gasps, hot and damp against your skin, and his arms trembled where they held his weight off you. You wrapped your arms around him. Your hands found the back of his neck, the short gold hair there, the sweat-damp skin, and you held on. His heart hammered against yoursâ fast, hard, the rhythm of an athlete's heart in overdriveâ and slowly, slowly, it began to settle.
He turned his head, pressed a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. His eyes found yours, and they were soft now, the amber muted, the intensity banked to something warm and steady. "Please stay," you ask quietly, almost pleadingly. Â
He didn't answer with words. He shifted off you, disposed of the condom, and then he was pulling you closeâ his broad chest against your back, his arm heavy across your waist, his stubbled cheek resting against your hair. The radiator ticked. The window showed snow falling now, soft and steady, the city lights diffusing through it. The medal on the wall caught the amber light. His breath slowed, deepened, and his arm tightened around you, and you felt the moment his body relaxed into sleepâ the way his muscles unknotted, the way his breathing evened out, the way his hand on your stomach went slack and warm.
You lay there in the amber dark, his heartbeat against your spine, and thought about cities you'd never been to before this week that felt, tonight, like somewhere you could stay.
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summary: This season in the Royal Court of Paradis promises more than debutantes and dances...It promises a choice. Princess Y/N Reiss, presented for the second year in a row to court at her younger sister Historia's debut ball, stands at the very centre of it all, smiling politely while the entire kingdom quietly decides who she should belong to out of her admirable suitors.
The gentleman suitors: Eren Jeager, Jean Kirstein, Armin Arlert, Connie Springer, Reiner Braun, Erwin Smith and Levi Ackerman.
a/n: Well, well, well.....due to popular demand ITS BACK. ENJOY and I shall be updating this regularly again from now on......>:)
Getting ready for the dinner later on took longer than it should have, which was Sasha's fault entirely. Not because she was slowâSasha was many things but slow was not among them, but because she had opinions, and Petra had opinions, and the two of them together in your dressing room with a diplomatic dinner to account for was the specific combination of forces that produced a very thorough evening. The dress had been agreed upon early. Navy, as Petra had said, which was the right choice. It was a deep, rich blue that was formal without being severe, the fabric a silk that moved well and caught the light in the way of something that knew its own quality. The neckline was lower than the morning dress, but you agreed it was appropriate for dinner, and the sleeves gathered at the shoulder. The pearl choker went on without debate, it was the hair that was the longer conversation.
"Up," said Petra.
"Up," agreed Sasha. "But softer than last time. Less.....formal."
"It's a formal dinner!" Petra quipped back.
"It's a family dinner with guests!" Sasha insisted. "There's a difference."
They looked at you in the mirror as though you might adjudicate. You drank your tea and said nothing, which was the correct approach. The result was pinned up with the particular precision that Petra considered the minimum acceptable, with several pieces left deliberately loose at the temples and the nape, and pinned into itâSasha's addition, were small pearls on fine pins, scattered through the arrangement like something that had arrived there naturally. Not many, but enough for people to notice. The effect in the glass was of something both formal and effortless, the pearls catching the candlelight in small, cold points against the dark of your hair.
"You look...good," Petra said, which from Petra was considerable.
"Very good!" Sasha said, which from Sasha was accurate. You heard the commotion from the first floor landing.
It wasn't alarming, not the sharp, urgent quality of something wrong, but the particularly low rumble of several male voices in an entrance hall, the sound of the front door recently opened and guests recently arrived, the specific acoustic quality of the ground floor receiving people of consequence. Your father's voice, warm and deliberate, carrying upstairs, and someone else's â a low voice, and familiar in a way you placed after a moment. Erwin.
You finished putting on your glovesâ white and reaching past the elbows, and came out of your room and moved along the upper corridor toward the top of the staircase. The entrance hall below was lit well for the evening, the candles on the wall sconces full and bright, the marble floor reflecting them back in warm, wavering doubles. Your father was standing near the foot of the stairs with the bearing of a king receiving guests he was pleased to receive. Beside him, stood two of the royal household guards and Kenny, of course, and you noticed Erwin Smith stood to your father's right.
He was dressed for dinner in a way that confirmed all previous suspicions about the nature of his wardrobeâ the dark coat perfectly fitted, the white of his cravat exact, the whole of him assembled with the quiet authority of a man who understood that appearance was a form of communication and communicated accordingly. He was saying something to your father, his head turned, one hand making a measured gesture that accompanied whatever point he was making. And to the left, slightly apart from the group in the way he was always slightly apart from groups, stood Levi. He was in his formal dress again, with the military coat, the medals, the gold epaulettes catching the candlelight in small precise points. His dark hair pushed back, and his level grey eyes moved across the entrance hall with the habitual assessment of a man who was always tracking the room he was in, cataloguing it, noting every entry and exit and the position of every person within it.
You put your hand on the banister, and you were not thinking, particularly, about whether this was a good moment or a considered one. You simply moved, because the stairs were there and the hall was below and dinner was at seven, and descended down them. You were halfway down before anyone looked up, and noted Erwin looked up first.
He was mid-sentence about the eastern expansion, and then the sentence simply stopped. Not awkwardly, not with any interruption, simply the way a sentence stops when the person saying it has encountered something that requires their full attention and has decided to give it. He looked at you coming down the stairs and his expression warmed just slightly, the calculation giving way for a moment to something more simply human. His blue eyes were attentive and entirely still on you. Your father noticed Erwin had stopped talking and followed his gaze upward.
"Ah!" Rod said, with the warm satisfaction of a man whose plan was proceeding. Levi looked up at last after that. He had been looking at the far doorway, the habitual tracking of exitsâ and his gaze moved to the stairs in the way it moved to everything, flat and efficient and expecting nothing in particular. And then it found you, and it stopped. The tracking stopped, completely, and what replaced it was the still, level, entirely direct attention that was simply how he looked at things he was actually seeing. You reached the bottom of the stairs, a smile plastered on your face.
Your father came forward and took your hand briefly, pressed it, the warm pride of him present and uncomplicated. "You look wonderful, my darling," he said, quietly enough for you.
"Thank you, Father," you grinned. You turned to the guests. Erwin recovered firstâ not because he had further to come back from, but because recovery was simply something he was practised at. He smiled, the warm measured smile, and inclined his head with a grace that managed to be both formal and personal at once.
"Your Highness," he said. "Good evening." A brief pause. "You look....extraordinary."
It was delivered with Erwin's characteristic quality, the compliment that was also an observation, the warmth that was also entirely intentional, the whole thing calibrated to land at exactly the right weight. "Good evening," you nodded. "Thank you, Commander,"
You looked at Levi, and he was looking back at you with the expression that gave nothing away and had, tonight, given away something in the first moment before he had reinstated it. The grey eyes level, the set jaw, the particular stillness of a man who had decided not to say whatever his first thought had been and was standing behind that decision.
"General Ackerman," you said simply.
"Your Highness," he said. The title, flat and precise as always. A beat. "You lookâ " He stopped. He said nothing further. His jaw shifted once, and his eyes moved briefly away and then back, and what he settled on, finally, was, "The pearls look nice." Which was the most Levi thing he could possibly have said, and which landed, in its own entirely stripped-back way, with considerably more effect than most compliments you had ever received.
"Thank you," you almost whispered, and meant it entirely.
The dining room had been dressed for the occasion, the long table set formally, the candelabras lit, the Reiss household silver laid with the precision that you Father had most likely overseen personally and that met her standards, which were not modest. The room was warm and bright, the windows overlooking the evening garden, the last of the light outside going a deep amber behind the trees. Armin was already there.
He was standing near the window by himself, away from the other group of guests, a glass of water in his hand, looking at the garden with the absent, inward expression of someone who had been thinking about something and had not yet decided to stop. He turned when he heard someone come in, and his face changed immediatelyâ the particular brightening of someone who is genuinely pleased to see a person rather than simply performing the pleasure.
"Your Highness," he said, and the warmth of it was real and uncomplicated. "Good evening." His eyes moved briefly over the dress, the pearls, the whole of you, with the honest appreciation of someone who notices things and doesn't hide that they notice them. "You look lovely."
"Thank you," you replied, and moved to stand beside him at the window, because with Armin it was always simply easy. "What were you thinking about?"
He looked back at the garden. "The way the light changes in the last ten minutes before dark," he said. "There's a specific quality to it. It doesn't look like any other part of the day." He glanced at you. "I've been trying to find a word for it for about a year."
"Have you found one?"
"Not yet," he said, with the rueful smile of someone who had accepted an ongoing problem and found it interesting rather than frustrating. "I'll tell you when I do."
"I'll look forward to it," you smiled, and you did. Historia appeared at your elbow, as she had somehow managed to come in from behind you, the silk of her evening dress a soft gold that suited her entirely. She smiled at Armin with the warm, easy manner she brought to people she liked, and looked at you, and then looked at the table. And then she looked at you again, and the particular brightness in her eyes that meant she was very pleased about something and was doing her best not to show it wasâ unmistakeable.
You looked over at the table. The seating had been arranged with the careful formality of a diplomatic dinnerâ name cards at each place, the household's formal china, the deliberate placement of position that your father's staff managed according to protocol and rank and the subtle choreography of who should speak to whom over the course of an evening. Your place was marked clearly. The centre of one side, as the elder princess, as was appropriate.
Erwin Smith's card was to your right, and Levi Ackerman's was to your left.
You looked at this arrangement for a moment, before you looked back at Historia. Historia was examining the floral centrepiece with an attention it did not strictly require, her expression composed and her eyes very bright.
"Historia...." you said, very quietly.
"The flowers are lovely, aren't they," she said, at the same volume. "I believe Father consulted with the head gardener personally."
"Did Father also consult with someone personally about the seating arrangements too?" you hissed.
"I really couldn't say," she almost grinned, with perfect innocence. You looked at the name cards.
"Historia!"
"I may have mentioned," she said, at barely a murmur, her eyes still on the centrepiece, "to Father's secretary. That it would be appropriate, protocol-wise, for the elder princess to be seated next to the senior royal calvary representatives." She paused. "For diplomatic reasons."
"For diplomatic reasons?" you repeated.
"It's perfectly correct seating," she said, and looked at you at last with those clear, steady eyes that were so warm and so entirely unrepentant that you couldn't hold the expression you had been attempting to hold, and your face did something that was not quite a smile and was entirely one.
"I will deal with you later," you warned her.
"I know," she said, and turned to greet Armin with the serenity of someone who had done a thing and stood behind it completely.
Dinner began at seven, as stated. Your father took the head of the table with the unhurried authority of a man in his own house, the council members and advisors filling the seats with the formal ease of people who had sat at important tables before and knew how to wear the occasion. Armin was directly across from you, which meant the table had given you, at least, a friendly face to look at. You sat down gracefully. Erwin settled into his chair to your right with the smooth composure that was simply his natural state, and adjusted his cuffs, and smiled at you with the warm, calibrated warmth. Levi sat to your left. He sat the way you noticed he sat everywhereâthe military bearing present but not stiff, the whole of him arranged with the economy of motion that was characteristic. He looked at the table, at the room, at the arrangement of people, and said nothing, because he rarely said things at the start of things. He would say something eventually, when there was something worth saying. Until then he would simply be present, which, in Levi Ackerman's case, was a considerable thing to be. You reached for your glass, and your elbow was approximately four inches from Levi's.
At the far end of the table, Historia picked up her own glass and took a sip with the serene composure of a woman who had arranged a seating plan and was now watching it unfold and finding it entirely satisfactory.
The candles burned and the dinner began. The evening opened itself up ahead of you with the particular quality of something that was going to be a very great deal, and you were, you realised, sitting squarely in the middle of it. Well, you thought, and reached for your fork with the composure of a woman who had been doing this her whole life, here we are then.
The candelabras had been lit, and the windows along the far wall looked out onto the garden in the last of the evening light, the paths gone a soft grey-blue, the sky above the wall a deep and darkening amber at the edges. It was, you thought, a very fine room to have a dinner in. It was also, currently, a very full one. The dining room was warm and full and entirely too much, and you had been seated for approximately four minutes. This was not, you told yourself, a problem. You were a princess. You had been attending formal dinners since you were old enough to sit through them without incident, and you had sat through considerably more difficult ones than thisâ dinners with foreign dignitaries, with people who actively disliked your father, with the entire senior court assembled and everyone watching everyone else. This was a family dinner with guests, so you were perfectly composed. You reached for your wine glass and drank rather more of it than was entirely necessary.
Erwin turned to you as the first course arrived, with the unhurried warmth of a man who had planned to do exactly this and was doing it at exactly the right moment. "Your Highness," he said, low enough for the two of you. "You look exquisite this evening."
"I could say the same about you, Commander," you reply sweetly.
"The pearls," he said, and the observation was specific, the ones in your hair, the choker at your throatânoted and stated with the particular quality of a man who had looked carefully and decided the looking was worth naming. "They suit you. Considerably."
"They were my mother's," you replied with a smile.
Something shifted in his expression. The warmth was already there â but this moved underneath it, genuine and briefly unguarded in the way of something that had not been prepared for. "Then they're in exactly the right place," he said, simply. It was a very good answer. You had learned, over the course of the last several days, that Erwin Smith was full of very good answers, and the question you kept returning to was what lived underneath themâ whether the warmth was the whole of it, or whether it was the presentation of something larger and more complicated. You have not resolved this yet. You suspected it was going to take longer than a season.
"I heard you speaking earlier," you say to him. "About the eastern expansion for the calvary."
He looked at you with the slight shift that came when something he said had been genuinely received. "You were listening," he said, and the pleasure in it was real.
"I always listen," you reply simply.
"Most people at a table like this are waiting for their turn to speak," he said. "There's a difference." He picked up his wine glass, looked at it briefly, then looked back at you. "What did you think of it? Honestly."
You considered him for a moment. The question was real, not a performance of interest, not the flattering invitation toward an opinion that most men extended in order to nod at it politely. He actually wanted to know. "I think the provincial lords in the east won't accept a reduction in their land without you offering them something," you said. "Perhaps if you don't wish to spend more, you could consider expanding from the northern side instead?"
Erwin looked at you with the expression of someone who has found, unexpectedly, exactly the thing they were looking for. "Yes," he said. "I, I didn't think of that." He paused. "You know politics well."
"I follow most things that go through my father's council," you tell him. "So I learn a lot, you could say."
He was quiet for a moment. The warmth in his eyes had shifted into something more specificâ the regard of a man reassessing upward, which was different from the regard of a man being charmed, and considerably more interesting. "I find," he said, carefully, "that I keep being surprised by you."
"I'll take that as a compliment," you laugh lightly.
"It is one," he said instantly. "The highest I give."
You picked up your wine glass but found it emptyâ so it set it back down. You began, without entirely deciding to, counting the candles in the nearest candelabra out of pure boredom. The footman finally came eventually, and your glass was refilled. You thanked him and drank rather more than was strictly considered and told yourself the warmth in your chest was the candlelight and being in between two extremely handsome men, and not the wine.
The table conversation had broadenedâ your father finding his preferred register, the warm expansive mode he settled into at a good dinner, drawing everyone in with the ease of a man who had been managing rooms for years. Erwin engaged with the council members with the focused ease of someone who could hold three conversations simultaneously and make each person feel they had his whole attention. Armin said something about the river survey mapping that made two senior advisors look at him with the particular expression of people unexpectedly impressed, and you caught his eye across the table and he looked quietly pleased and slightly embarrassed about it. You reached for your glass again, finishing it off. You were aware, in the warm, slightly softened way of someone on their third glass, that the evening had acquired a quality it hadn't quite had at the startâ a looseness at the edges, a warmth that was pleasant and not entirely your own making. You were not, you told yourself firmly, tipsy. You were simply more comfortable than you had been twenty minutes ago.
Your glass was empty again, so you began counting the candelabra again. One. Two. Three. Four. There were twelve. You reached twelve and started again at one because there was nothing else to do while the footman made his way around the table and the council discussed road gradients and your father laughed at something Erwin said and Historia, down the table, was the picture of gracious attention as she spoke to council members. Five. Sixâ
"You've been counting."
You stopped. Not a whisper. Simply very quiet, and very close, and entirely for you. You turned your head slightly. Levi was looking at the table, his profile sharp in the candlelight, his expression arranged in its usual arrangement of nothing in particular. His wine glass was in his handâ barely touched, you noticed, the level in it almost unchanged from when it had been filled.
"The candles," he said, before you could formulate a response. "This is the second time you've counted them."
"I was waiting for the footman," you replied, with the slightly elevated dignity of someone whose composure was entirely intact and who found this accusation unfounded.
"Tch," he said, which was not an agreement and not a disagreement and somehow communicated both.
"My glass was empty," you argued. "I was keeping myself occupied while waiting."
"I noticed," Levi says.
You looked at your glass, which the footman had just refilled. You looked at Levi's, which was still mostly full. "You're not drinking yours?" you observed.
"I'm working," he answered roughly.
"You're at a dinner?"
"Same thing," he said.
There was, you thought, with the specific clarity that a third glass of wine occasionally produced, something extremely funny about this, and it arrived in your expression before you could entirely manage it, not a laugh, but the shape of one, brief and involuntary, pressing at the corner of your mouth. He looked at you then, just once, just briefly, from the corner of his eye. And the thing around his own mouthâ barely, barely there, moved. You returned your attention to the table, decided, you were possibly slightly tipsy.
Your father's speech arrived somewhere in the middle of the main course. He set down his glass, and looked along the table with the expression of a man about to say something from the heart, and you felt the specific, anticipatory dread of someone who knew their father's expressions very well and had identified this one accurately. "I will say," he said, to the table at large, "that this season so far has been a particular pleasure. My daughters are a constant source of pride. To see them here, in this company, at this tableâ" He paused, with the timing of a man who understood how pauses worked. "I hope it will not be long before this table grows. Before there are more faces at it." His eyes moved to you, then Historia, and the love in them was entirely unperformed. "That is all any father could wish for."
It landed the way it always landed. Warm, and pointed, and pressing, in the specific way that love pressed when it wanted things for you whether or not you had asked it to. On that note, you reached for your wine glass and drank heavily.
Across the table, Armin's eyes found yoursâ the quiet, immediate sympathy of someone who had been paying attention and understood exactly what had just happened, the gentle solidarity of a person who was on your side without requiring anything in return. He held it for barely a second and then looked away with the discretion of someone who knew when a thing had been received.
To your right, Erwin lifted his glass in a smooth, warm inclination that was both a toast and a redirection, and the table followed, and the conversation moved on. To your left, Levi said nothing. He received your father's words without warmth, without redirection, without any of the social mechanisms the rest of the table had deployed. He simply sat, and looked at the table, and his face was arranged in its usual arrangement. But his jaw shifted. Once. A single small movement, controlled and brief. You were, you were almost certain, the only person at the table who had caught it.
You refilled your glass. Wellâ the footman refilled your glass, but you watched him do it with the focused attention of someone who had been waiting.
The dinner moved into its later courses. The council conversation turned to something about road proposals and the western territories, and the table arranged itself accordinglyâ most of the attention drawing forward toward your father and Erwin, who were engaged in the focused, specific exchange of two men who had clearly prepared for this and were now executing it with mutual satisfaction. Armin contributed something well-observed that made two of the senior advisors look at him with quiet reassessment, and you thought, warmly and with genuine affection, that Viscount Armin Arlert was one of the finest minds in any room he entered and that most rooms didn't deserve him.
You reached for your glass. The table was loud and warm and turned away from you, and the warmth of the wine was pleasant and the candles were doing something very nice in the silver and you were, you acknowledged privately, a little more than comfortable. You set down your fork and watched the candlelight. You began counting again, this time the candles in the nearest candelabra. One. Two. Threeâ
"You're doing it again."
You considered, briefly, whether to deny this. "My glass was empty again!" you protested, which was true and not the point and you knew it. You were just...bored, and maybe even slightly hopeful then when you did it, you would get Levi's attention.
"Three times now," he said accurately.
"I've just been counting the candles," you shrugged defeatedly, because the wine had made honesty feel more accessible than usual. "That's all."
"I know," he said. "You started doing it though because you were bored, right?"
You looked at him sideways. He was still looking at the table, profile sharp in the candlelight, the dark of his coat catching the light at the medals. He was not smiling. He was also, you had learned, never entirely not smiling. "Most people don't notice that I do that," you observed.
"Most people aren't paying attention," he said flatly.
"What else have you noticed, then?" you asked him. The boldness of it arrived slightly ahead of you, the wine speaking two seconds before the considered version of yourself caught upâ but once it was out you found you didn't particularly want to take it back. You looked at him directly, with the specific steadiness of someone who had drunk enough to be honest but not enough to be careless, and waited.
He was quiet for a moment. The table moved around you, oblivious to what was happening between the two of you.
"You stopped eating in the third course," he said. "After your father did his speech. You picked up your glass instead and haven't eaten since." A pause. "Only drank." You looked at your glass. It was in your hand, and you set it down with a huff. "And the pearls," he said, quieter now, the words barely carrying past the distance between your chairs. "You touch them when you're nervous or concentrating. You've done it at least five times tonight."
You became immediately and specifically aware that your fingers were at the pearl choker at your throat. You had not decided to put them there. They had simply gone, in the way they apparently went, and he had apparently watched them go every single time. You lowered your hand to the table. The silence that followed had considerable weight in it. The weight of being seen, properly, specifically seen, in the small private habits that you had never told anyone about and had never expected anyone to noticeâ by someone who had been watching you with a thoroughness that was, in a formal dinner with ten other people, both entirely unexpected and somehow entirely characteristic. You looked at him to find he was still looking at the table. The sharp profile, the dark hair, the stillness that was not distance but simply the form his presence took.
"That's a great deal to notice," you acknowledge when you had your voice arranged.
"Told you," he replied. "Most people aren't paying attention."
You held his profile for a moment longer. The wine was warm in your chest and the candles were doing their thing in the silver and the table was loud and entirely somewhere else, and you saidâ with the particular clarity of someone who has had exactly the right amount of wine to say true things without dressing them: "Then, it appears you are paying me a lot of attention, General."
A beat. He turned his head, ever so slightly. Enough that his eyes were on yours, the grey of them, direct and giving nothing away and giving, as they always did, rather a lot. "Yes," he said simply, without qualification or retreat. "I suppose I am."
The words arrived in your chest and sat there.
You looked at the table. At the candelabraâyou had lost count again, then at the silver and the wine and the warm ordinary fact of the room around you. His hand was on the arm of his chair. Your hand was at the edge of the tablecloth. The distance between them was perhaps three inches. Perhaps less.
You did not move your hand, and he did not move his.
Erwin said something at your right that made the council members laugh, and your father beamed, and Historia looked at nothing in particular with the serene attention of a woman who was looking at everything, and the dinner continued in its warm and ordinary way.
But the three inches remained. And not onceâ through the last toast your father made, through the entire final courseâ did either of you move away.
The morning after was gentle, which you appreciated, because the morning after required it.
You had slept â properly, deeply, the sleep of someone who had been thoroughly wrung out by an evening and had nothing left to do but surrender to it. The day was, you noticed, genuinely beautiful. The particular kind of afternoon that occasionally materialised mid-season as though in reminder of what the world was like without the machinery of the social calendar â warm and bright and unhurried, the light doing something very good to the garden, the air through the gap at the window frame carrying the smell of cut grass and something flowering.
You thought about Celeste, you beautiful cream mare who had been stabled for a quite a while, due to your lack of recent riding. "I'm going to ride," you told Sasha after you were ready.
Sasha blinked. "Now?"
"It's a beautiful morning," you said.
"Butâ "
"Donât worry,â you tell her. âIâll be back before lunch is served.â
"I'll tell Petra toâ "
"I don't need anyone to come with me," you insisted. Sasha opened her mouth. "Sasha," you said pleasantly. "I'm going for a ride. Alone. On my own horse. In the middle of the morning. I am not twelve, and it is not raining, and I shall be fineâ"
"I'll just fetch Petra," Sasha said, and went. You heard, from somewhere in the back of the house, Sasha's voice, and then Petra'sâ the measured tones of a woman beginning to assemble an argument about propriety and appropriate attendance. You sighed, putting your hand on the door and leaving the room.Â
The gravel of the drive was warm under your feet and the afternoon light was exactly as good as the window had suggested and the garden smelled of summer and absolutely nothing was requiring anything of you. You did not run. You were a princess and it was the middle of the morning and the stable yard was visible from the upper windows, and you walked at the brisk, purposeful pace of someone who had somewhere to be, which was technically true. The stable boy was standing outside, and he looked up from the tack he was cleaning when you came through the gate.
"Your Highness," he said.
"My horse, Celeste," you requested. "Please."
He was fast, which you appreciated. Celeste was out and saddled and waiting within ten minutes, and you were up before he'd quite finished his inquiry about whether you required an escort, and then you were through the stable gate and onto the lane and the lane was opening into the road and the road was open and warm and entirely, completely yours.
Behind you, somewhere in the estate, Petra was discovering that you were not in it. This would produce a specific sequence of events that you were not going to think about right now. The road curved south. The afternoon light was long and gold. The trees along the verge cast moving shadows across the ground as the breeze moved through them, and Celeste's hooves were steady and familiar beneath you, and the world was exactly the right temperature, and there was no oneâ who was about to say anything to you that required a response.
You pressed your heels in, and the world opened up. You had been riding for perhaps twenty minutes and had thought about almost nothing, which was the point. The road curved south toward open country, the trees pulling back and the sky opening wide and blue above you, and you pressed your heels in and let Celeste find her pace, and the wind came up with it, and you felt, with a fullness that was difficult to explain, entirely yourself.
You were smiling at nothing in particular when a pheasant erupted from the hedgerow. It came from the left, sudden and loud and very close, a brown explosion of indignant wings directly at eye level, and Celesteâ who was many things but entirely unflappable was not among themâ went sideways, and then sharply up, you grabbed for the mane and found nothing, and then the ground arrived harshly against your back, and you were on the ground, and the world had reorganised itself significantly.
You lay still for a moment and conducted yourself. Shoulder, sore. Hip, sore. HeadâŚ.not hit, which was the important one. Breathing, working, somewhat effortfully for now. You tried to move your ankle, and it objected with a sharpness that was pointed and specific and entirely unambiguous. Celeste, twenty feet away, had already returned to the grass with the practical serenity of a horse that had dealt with its crisis and moved on. The ankle was going to be a problem. You sat up slowly, assessed the distance between yourself and the horse, assessed the ankle again, and concluded that the situation had limited optionsâ until you heard hooves on the verge track.
He came from the direction of the wood lineâ a big dark horse moving at an easy walk, the rider upright and unhurried, moving through the landscape with the particular quality of someone entirely at home in it. He had not seen you yet, he was simply watching the tree line attentively. He carried a rifle across the saddle. On the horse's flank, the early evidence of the morning's hunt. It was Reiner Braun.Â
He saw Celeste firstâyour riderless horse, cropping contentedly at the vergeâ and his whole body stilled with the immediate, controlled alertness of an experienced rider who knows that a horse without its rider means something has happened. His eyes swept the road until they found you pathetically sitting on the ground. He was off the horse before you had fully processed that he had moved. One clean, swift motion and then he was crossing the grass toward you, and his face had entirely abandoned its careful arrangementâhis amber eyes open and direct and unmanaged in the specific way of someone who had been frightened by something and was dealing with the practical consequence of it first.
"Your Highness." He crouched beside you, one knee in the grass, and his hands were already moving towards you, careful and with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this in worse conditions than a sunny afternoon road. "Don't move yetâ tell me what hurts."
"My ankle," you say to him. "I think I might have turned it when I landed. It isn't broken, I hope..."
His hands moved to your ankle regardlessâ large and warm through the leather of your boot, and the touch was so extraordinarily gentle that it took you a moment to reconcile it with the size of the hands doing it. He pressed, tested, turned the joint with a slowness that asked permission at every degree. His brow was slightly furrowed, his attention entirely on the task, and you watched his face while he worked and thought that thisâ this specific quality of focus, unhurried and thorough and caringâ was one of the most quietly affecting things you had seen in some time.
"Not broken," he agreed, finally. He sat back on his heel and looked at you. "Badly turned. You'll need to stay off it properly today." He looked at your face, checking something furtherâ the colour of you, probably, the signs of shock that he clearly knew how to read. "Anything else?"
"No," you said softly. "My horse, she was startled by a pheasant. It was very sudden."
He looked at the horse, and then back at you. Something in his expression â beneath the concern, just beneath it â softened fractionally. "You were riding alone?" he questioned.
"I was," you say. The amber eyes communicated a mild opinion about this without stating it. "I have to admit I did, sort ofâescape," you tell him. "Petra was organising a guard escort and IâI didn't want all of that."
The fractional softening deepened into something that was almost the not-quite-smile. "The morning is very nice," he admits.
"It was," you said. "Until the pheasant."
He looked at you for a moment, his eyes doing their careful measuring, that habitual, patient assessmentâ and then, apparently having decided something, he put his hands under you and stood up. The effortlessness of it was, you noted, frankly extraordinary. He simply picked you up, your weight apparently a calculation he had made and dismissed as irrelevantâ and straightened to his full height with you in his arms as though this was simply the logical next step, which to him it apparently was. You were aware, from this angle, of the sheer breadth of his chest, the solidity of the arms holding you, the particular quality of someone whose physical strength was simply a fact of them rather than a performance of it.
"My horse," he said, nodding to his horseâ a large, dark stallion. "You'll ride with me. I'll lead yours."
"I caâ "
"You can't put proper weight on that ankle," he said, gently. "And you can't ride well without it." He looked at you. "It's a practical solution."
It was a practical solution, you had to admit. You looked at his horseâ the large and steady, then you looked at the road home. "All right," you finally said.
He lifted you into the saddle with the same care he had used on the ankleâ both hands at your waist, and the warmth of them was immediate and specific, and he set you down with a gentleness that was entirely at odds with the ease of the strength behind it. He settled the stirrups for you, checked them with the quiet thoroughness of someone for whom doing things properly was simply the standard, secured Celeste's lead to the saddle ring.
Then he swung up behind you, and the horse shifted, adjusting to the weight of you both, and Reiner settledâand you became immediately, completely aware of the arrangement. His arms came around you to take the reins. Not wrapped around you really, his arms were simply where they needed to be for the reins, and the reins required them to be on either side of youâ but the effect was the same. His chest was at your back. The breadth of him enclosed you in the specific, warm, considerable way of someone very large and very present and close to you. You were aware of the rise and fall of him breathing, slow and even. Of the warmth of him through your dress, the realness of it, the way it made the afternoon feel simultaneously more and less manageable. You kept your eyes on the road ahead.
"Comfortable?" he said, close enough that his voice was low and near in your ear.
"Yes," you breathed, which was entirely true and also not quite the complete answer. He clicked his tongue and the horse moved forward, and you moved with it, and the morning opened up around you both. For a while, neither of you spoke.
The road was quiet. The horse walked steadily. Celeste followed at the end of her lead with the philosophical acceptance of a horse that had had quite enough adventure for one afternoon. The light was still warm, still golden, laying itself across the grass and the road and the tops of the hedgerows in the long unhurried way of a summer afternoon that had nowhere to be. It was a comfortable silence. The specific kind that existed between two people who had been in each other's company enough to have moved past the need to fill itâ and you had been surprised, over the course of the season, how quickly that had happened with Reiner. How few words it had taken.
"How did you end up out this way?" you said, eventually.
"I come out most mornings," he said. "When the schedule allows." A pause. "I can hear myself think out here."
"Or not think," you corrected him.
A brief beat. "Or not think," he agreed. "Depending on what's needed."
"Which was it today?" you asked.
"Not thinking," he said. "Until about ten minutes ago."
You looked at the road ahead. "I'm sorry to interrupt it."
"You didn't interrupt it," he said, simply. "You improved it."
You felt the colour rise in your face before you could do anything about it. The words landed quietly in the warm air between you, and he said them the way he said things he meantâ without flourish, without any particular awareness that they were affecting, simply because they were true and truth was what he had. You looked at the road ahead and were very glad he was behind you.
"That," you said, after a moment, with the composure of someone reassembling themselves in real time, "is either a very kind thing to say or a very low bar."
"Neither," he said. "It's accurate."
"You're very certain about that?"
"I'm certain about most things I say," he tells you. "I don't say things I'm not."
"No," you agreed. "You don't." You paused. "It's one of the more disarming things about you."
A brief silence. "I'm disarming?" he said, and the quality of itâthe slight shift, the almost-surprised note underneath the even deliveryâmade you want to turn around and see his face, which you did not do, because you were on a horse and your dignity had already had quite enough of an afternoon.
"Frequently," you said.
"I've never been described that way before," he said.
"What have you been described as?" you asked.
He considered this. "Large," he said. "Mostly."
You laughed, warm and unguardedâand you felt, immediately and specifically, the response of him behind you. Not a laugh âReiner didn't laugh easily, you had learnedâ but a shift, a slight loosening, the specific quality of someone who has heard something they are pleased to have caused.
"Large is accurate," you giggled, when you had recovered. "But it isn't the whole picture."
"What's the rest of it?" he asked.
You considered it. The horse moved beneath you, steady and unhurried. His arms were still on either side of you for the reins, and the warmth of him at your back was a specific and entirely present thing, and you were, you were aware, considerably more comfortable in this arrangement than was strictly explicable by the afternoon temperature.
"Careful," you said, finally. "Genuine. Quieter than people expect." You paused. "Kinder than you let on."
He said nothing for a moment. "That'sâ" he started.
"Accurate?" you offered.
"I was going to say very generous," he said.
"And are you often cruel to yourself?" you asked him, which was the same thing you had said to Jean at the ball, and you felt a small private amusement at the parallel, and then felt the colour return to your face because you were sitting very close to Reiner Braun on a horse and thinking about Lord Jean Kirstein, which was not a particularly well-organised morning.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"You can always ask," you said. "But I reserve the right not to answer."
He chuckled lowly, which you thought sounded like Jean for a second before you stopped yourself, and you decided firmly to stop making comparisons and pay attention to the man whose heartbeat you could feel against your back. You became, in the moment of thinking this, very specifically aware that you could feel his heartbeat against your back.
It was not slow. For a man who presented to the world with the composed, unhurried manner of someone entirely at ease, whose voice was even and whose movements were controlled and who gave very little awayâhis heart was not behaving in a composed and unhurried manner. It was beating, against your shoulder blade, with a speed and force that had nothing to do with the gentle walk of the horse.
You said nothing about this, but you felt the colour in your face deepen considerably. "The season," he started. "When it ends." He paused, with the careful selecting of words that was characteristic. "And theâthe arrangements your father hopes for," he said. "If they don't come to anything this season. What happens then?"
You were quiet for a moment. "Another season," you said defeatedly. "Presumably. Until something happens. Or until my father forces meâŚbut I doubt he would do that."
"And if it doesn't..happen?" he asked.Â
"Then I become," you sigh, "a cautionary tale at court and Historia will feel incredibly guilty, and my father will most likely shoot himself."
He was quiet for a moment. And thenâlow, brief, the sound that escaped before he could manage itâ he laughed. It was the same low, rumbling thing you had heard in the drawing room. Caught in the chest before it fully arrived, warm and genuine and entirely accidental. And this close, with your back against him, with the warmth and the heartbeat and the morningâ you felt it as much as you heard it. The slight shake of him, the loosening, the way the careful composure came down entirely for a moment and what was underneath it was simply warm. You felt it move through you before you had prepared for it.
"You are funny, Your Highness," he said softly when he'd recovered, and he said it with the slight surprise of someone reporting an unexpected discovery.
"You sound astonished," you smile.
"I'm not," he said. "I suspected. I'm justâ" A pause. "It's different, hearing it in person."
"As opposed to what?" you said.
"As to imagining it," he said, very quietly, and then appeared to register that he had said this, and the heartbeat behind youâ which had been fastâ went even faster.
You looked at the road, which had now become very interesting. The road required considerable attention. "Do you," you said, which was either composed or entirely the opposite, and you were not sure which. âThink about me?âÂ
"Iâyes," he said, which from Reiner was an admission of considerable magnitude, delivered with the flat honesty of a man who had decided, somewhere in the last thirty seconds, to simply stand behind it. The estate was visible ahead nowâthe roofline against the afternoon sky, the garden wall, the gate with the guards at their posts. Closer than you wanted, you thought, and then thought it again more clearly and found it still true.
The horse slowed at the gate and the guards straightened. He dismounted first, the clean easy drop of it, and then turned to you. His hands came to your waist and he lifted you down with that same effortless care, setting you on the ground with the specific, attentive gentleness that he brought to everything he did for you. He kept his hands at your waist a moment while you found your footing, making sure the ankle was managed, and then released youâ slowly, the way he'd held your hand, as though the releasing required the same intention as the holding.
You were standing very close to him. His coat was slightly dusty from the ride and he smelled of woodsmoke and leather and something cleanâ and he was looking at you with the expression that asked nothing and saw everything.
"Be careful on your ankle," he tells you.
"I'll have Petra look at it," you said.
"Don't walk on it properly," he said.
"You've said," you smiled.Â
"You look like someone who might ignore it," he raises an eyebrow at you.
"I'm a princess," you insist. "I never ignore sensible advice."
He looked at you with the amber eyes, and the not-quite-smile arrivedâ slow and warm, the real warmth of it, there longer than usual. "Mm," he said, which was not in agreement. You looked at him. At the smile and the eyes and the whole of him standing in the afternoon light with the game on his horse and the dust on his coat and the specific, unhurried way he occupied the world.
"Good morning, Your Highness," he said, and the warmth in it was so quiet and so real that you turned before it could do anything further to your composure, and walked through the gate.
Petra was already waiting at the main door. She was not merely at the door. She was at the door in the specific way of a woman who had been at the door for some time, with the expression of someone who had composed and recomposed what she intended to say and was now deploying it.
She looked at you. âI told you to wait," she said to you. "I was fetching an escort. Specifically. And when I returnedâ"
"Petraâ" you started.
"âYou was not here," Petra continued, as though you had not spoken. "No, you had to go out, unescorted, on a horse. In the countryside!"
"I'm here now and Iâm fine," you tell her.
"I am aware of where you are now," Petra said, looking at you with the composed, dignified expression that was somehow more effective than any amount of volume. "The difficulty is where you were forty minutes ago."
"I was on a horse," you said smugly. "In the countryside, which is exactly where you said."
Petra looked at you for a long moment. "YOurâe limping" she said, noting the way you were walking. âAre you hurt?âÂ
"I came off Celeste," you said. "It isn't broken. Mr Braunâ "
"I saw Mr Braun," Petra interrupted, with the air of someone filing information.
"He helped," you said. "It was very fortunate he was passing."
"Very fortunate," Petra said, in the tone that communicated she was making no comment about the fortunateness of it and was also making every possible comment about the fortunateness of it. She stepped aside and gestured you in with the efficiency of a woman who had decided that the doorstep was not the appropriate location for the rest of this conversation. "Come inside. Sit down. I'll look at the ankle."
You went inside.
You had barely cleared the entrance hall when footsteps came quickly down the stairsâ light, familiarâ and Historia appeared at the landing with the expression of someone who had heard noises and looked out of a window.
She looked at you. "Did I see," she said, "Mr Braun at our gate?"
"Yes," you sigh. "He was riding nearby when I came off Celeste and he helped."
Historia looked at him for a moment longer. Then she looked at you, at the state of your dress and the ankle and the colour that you were fairly certain had not fully left your faceâ with the specific, clear-eyed expression of someone who was assembling a picture from its component parts and finding the picture very interesting.
"How fortunate," she said, which was exactly what Petra had said and delivered with exactly the same quality of not-quite-neutrality.
hello my love i wondering if you were going to continue the bridgerton series đĽşđĽş
i think itâs one of my favorite aot things iâve ever read
if not, thatâs okay! iâm just curiousđŠˇđŠˇ
love you pooks
OMG ILYSM <3 ty for the lovely message đĽ˛
And honestly the reason was bc I thought it kinda sucked and I couldn't decide who to pick as I loved them all :( I've acc got the next chapter ready to be published if that's what the people want.....đ....i suppose I could continue it.....đđ
This is amazing ty to whoever sent this in I love u too!! <3. I'm not bald yet so fingers crossed it stays that way đ
also...while we're all here....on the topic of reiner...đ
I've written a reiner one shot from a request someone sent in and it's 15 FUCKING K WORDS bc I kept adding more stuff I thought of AND I got carried away with itđŁ like would yall read something that long or nah should I shorten it into two parts? 𼲠or just shorten it/cut it down completely....
summary: Five months ago, you walked away from Reiner. The Rumbling left him hollow, and no matter how much you loved him, you couldn't force him to let you in. But when he turns up on your doorstep bruised and beaten with nowhere else to go, you decide to open the door one last time.....
a/n: SOMEONE TAKE MY LAPTOP AWAY I CANT STOP WRITING SAD NEEDY REINER SMUT AAA... :') (also I promise I'm getting through all my requests they will be out soon... :O) anyway enjoy >:)
You are not expecting anyone at this time. It is lateâ gone past tenâ and you are sitting at the table with a book you have read the same page of four times without retaining a word, and then the knock comes and you go still.
Nobody knocks on your door at this hour. Not anymore. The people who used to have reason to are gone or scattered or simply no longer part of the version of your life that exists after everything that happened. You have built something small and manageable here in the months since, and it is fine. It is enoughâŚ.well, you tell yourself that regularly. You set the book down and go to the door, opening the door gently.
It was Reiner.
He fills the doorframe the way he always hasâ broad through the chest and shoulders, tall enough that he has to carry himself a little carefully in small spaces. His blonde hair is pushed back carelessly, and his jaw is dark with stubble and there is the scar on his cheekbone that you used to press your thumb to when he slept, in the early days, before you understood what it meant to love someone who was determined to destroy himself slowly.
He has a split lip, and a bruise along his jaw that is going to look much worse tomorrow. His knuckles are raw and his jacket is torn at the shoulder and he is looking at you like a man who has been walking for a long time and has run out of anywhere else to go.
Five months. You hadn't seen him in five months. You stare at him across the threshold and feel every single one of them. "I know," he says quietly before you can speak. "I know I don't have the right to be here. I justâ I didn't know where else to go."
His voice is wrecked. Low and rough and honest in the way Reiner is only ever honest when he has nothing left to protect himself with.
You should send him awayâ you know that. You made a decision five months ago and it was the right decision, it was the only decision you could make with what you had, and opening this door is going to cost you something.
You open the door wider. "Come in," you say. "Sit down."
He sits at your kitchen table and you get the medical kit and you do not talk about it yet, because there is blood on his knuckles and a bruise on his jaw that needs ice and some things have to happen in the right order.
"Marleyans?" you ask, tilting his chin up.
"A few of them." His eyes come to yours. "I'm fine reallyâ"
"You have a split lip and a bruise the size of my hand on your jaw..."
"I've had worse."
"I know you have." You say it evenly, holding his gaze for just a moment before you look back at the cut. "But that's not the reassurance you think it is."
He is quiet while you work. This close he is warmâ solid and familiar in a way that your body recognises before your head can intervene, the way he sits very still when you are tending to him like staying still is the only thing he can give you right now. You used to tend to him like this and then kiss whatever you'd just cleaned, lightly, before moving onâ you do not do that now. You keep your hands steady and your expression neutral and you focus on the work.
His eyes don't leave your face, you feel them the whole time. "How long have you been back in Marley?â you ask.
"Six weeks."
You pause, just briefly. "Six weeks?"
"I keptâ" He stops. "I didn't know how to come here. I didn't know if you'd want to see me again."
You cap the antiseptic and set it down and look at him properly for the first time since you opened the door. He looks tired in a way that goes deeper than tonight. He looks like someone who has been tired for a very long time and has stopped trying to hide it.
He is still, even like this, the most attractive person you have ever been in a room with. You hate that, and it has never once made anything easier. "Why did you come tonight?" you ask. You pull your chair out and sit across from him, hands folded on the table.Â
"Because I couldn't not anymore." He says it simply. "I've been telling myself to stay away. That it was what you needed, afterâ after everything. That I'd already done enough damage and showing up here would just be doing more." His jaw tightens. "But I've been going out of my mind. And tonight I got into a fight because some piece of shit on the street said something about Eldians and I didn't walk away fast enough, and when it was over I was standing on the corner and the only thought I had was you." He looks at the table. "It's always you. It's been you for years andâ I don't know how to make that stop."
The rain starts against the window. Soft, at first before it was slowly pouring. "Youâre the one who shut me out," you remind him. Not angryâ you did your anger, in the first weeks after. What's left is quieter and more honest than anger. "After the Rumbling. After everything weâ you just shut the door. You wouldn't let me me in, and I had to leave."
"I know."
"I was right there, Reiner. Every day I was right there and you looked through meâ"
"I know." His voice drops. "I know. And I have no excuse for it that's worth anything. I wasâ I was in a bad place, a very bad place. And you deserved better than what I could give you and I thoughtâ I thought if I let you in you'd see how bad it was and it wouldâ" He presses his mouth together. "I thought I was protecting you."
"I didn't need protecting. I needed you."
The words land. You watch them landâ watch something in his face open up and flinch and stay open anyway. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry." He looks at you and it is the most undefended you have ever seen him, and you have seen him very undefended. "I shut you out and I lost you and I have spent five months understanding what that means and being unable to fix it."
"I want to come back," he says. His voice is low and very serious. "I know I don't deserve to ask that. I know I broke something and I know it's not as simple as justâ wanting to. But I need you to know that I want to. That I would do it differently. That I'm not going toâ" He stops and tries again. "I'm not going to shut you out again, leave you alone by yourself again. I can't promise I'll always be easy to be with. You know me well enough to know I can't promise that."
You look at him across the table.
"I've missed you every day," he continues. "Every single fucking day. I missed you when we were still together and I was pushing you away after The Rumbling and I missed you after and Iâ please." The word costs him something. You can see it. "Please. I know it's not fair to ask, but I'm asking anyway."
His hands are on the table between you, big and still and scarred, the knuckles freshly cleaned. You used to hold those hands. You used to trace the old scars and he would watch you do it like the fact of your interest in him was something he had not yet fully processed. You reach across the table and cover them with yours, and he goes very still.
"I didn't stop," you say quietly. "Loving you, and trust me I tried. I thought it would be simpler, after, if I could justâ turn it off. But it doesn't work like that and I should know better by now."
"No," he agrees. His voice is barely above a whisper. "It doesn't."
"If we do this againâ"
"I know," he says. "I know. You don't have to say it. I know what it would mean and I know what I would owe you and I'm not asking you to trust me before I've earned it back." His hands turn under yours, carefully, and close around them. "I'm just asking for the chance to earn it."
You look at him. At the bruise on his jaw and the lines of tiredness around his eyes and the scar on his cheekbone and the entirety of him sitting in your kitchen at half past ten asking you for one more chance with his whole heart on the table.
Reiner Braun, who is difficult and damaged and brave in ways that break your heart and who has loved you, as well as he is capable of loving anythingâ which is completely, even when it comes out wrong.
"Okay," you say. He blinks, like he wasn't certain he'd heard right. "Okay," you say again. "Weâll try again."
He is around the table before you have fully processed that he's movedâ he pulls you up from the chair and his arms go around you and he holds on, face pressed to the top of your head, and the sound he makes is quiet and devastated and relieved all at once.
"Thank you," he says into your hair. "Thank you."
"Stop thanking me," you say softly, muffled against his chest.
"Give me a minute."
You give him a minute. You stand in the middle of your small kitchen with your arms around him and his around you and the rain at the window, and you let him hold on because he needs to and becauseâ if you are being honestâ you need it too.
When he pulls back it is only far enough to look at you. His hands come up to your face, both of them, cradling it with a carefulness that has always undone youâ this man who is so large and has seen so much violence being so extraordinarily careful with you.
"Can Iâ" he starts.
"Yes," you interrupt him.
He kissed you slowly. Not the way he used to kiss youâ not the hungry, immediate thing you remembered from before, the way he'd crowd you against the wall the second he got through the door. This was different. His lips touched yours with a kind of deliberateness, like he was relearning the shape of your mouth, the pressure, the angle. Like he was trying to be thorough. To do it right. To make up for five months in one kiss, which wasn't possible, and which he seemed determined to attempt anyway.
His hands stayed in your hair and at your jaw, and his fingers tightened when you opened your mouth against his. He made a soundâ not a word, something smaller, something that vibrated in his throat and broke against your lip â and his mouth pressed harder, and then softer again, and then he tilted his head and kissed you deeper, his tongue sliding against yours with a slowness that made your knees threaten to give.
He was attentive. That was the word for itâ he was always attentive when he was paying proper attentionâ completely, nothing held back, like you were the only thing in the room. Like the kitchen, the counter, none of it existed. Like the five months apart didn't exist. Like the only thing that had ever existed was the place where your mouth met his. You pulled back enough to breathe, and his mouth followed yours, not wanting to let go, and his fingers curled tighter in your hair. His forehead pressed against yours. His breath came ragged and warm against your lips, and you could feel the tremor in his handsâ the fine, involuntary shaking of someone holding themselves very still.
"I'm sorry," he said. The words were barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I should haveâ I should have come back sooner. I should haveâ" His jaw worked, and he winced, the bruise pulling, and you watched the pain flicker across his face and settle into something else. "I thought about you every day, I missed you so much. And I told myself I'd come back when Iâ when I was better, when I had something to offer you, and then I justâ" He exhaled. "I got the shit kicked out of me and I came here. Because you're the only person Iâ"
His voice broke. Not dramatically, not the way it did in movies, just a small fracture, a hairline crack in the low steady tone of it, and his thumbs stroked across your cheekbones; his eyes were wet, and he blinked and the wetness didn't fall. You kissed him this time. You put your hands flat against his chestâ felt the warmth of him through the shirt, the firm rise of his ribs beneath your palms, and the way his breath hitched when you pressedâ and you kissed him, and he made that sound again, the one in his throat, and his hands slid from your face down to your waist and pulled you closer.
His body was warm. Solid. You could feel the muscle of his chest against yours, the hard plane of his stomach, the thickness of his thighs when your hip pressed against his. He was bigâ he'd always been big, broad through the shoulders and thick through the arms, the kind of large that made doorways look narrow â and you could feel every bruise he was carrying in the way he held himself, the careful way he shifted his weight, the way his breath caught when you leaned into him and pressed against his ribs.
"Careful," you murmured against his mouth.
"I don't care," he said lowly.
"You'll hurt yourself even moreâ"
"I don't care." His hands were at the small of your back, pulling you in, and his mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, kissing along the bone with the same slow attention, and then to your neck, and his breath was hot against the skin thereâ his lips soft, and your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and held on.
You walked backward. His hands guided you, steady on your hips, and your lower back hit the edge of the kitchen counter. His hands found the hem of your shirt, and his fingers slid beneath itâ rough, careful, his knuckles grazing the skin of your stomachâ and you sucked in a breath, and his hands stilled.
"Is thisâ can Iâ"
"Yes."
His palms flattened against your waist. Warm, wide, calloused. They moved up your sides slowly, tracing the curve of your ribs, and his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts through your bra, and his breath came unsteady against your mouth. You reached up and unbuttoned the first button of his shirt, then the second, then the third, and he helped you, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders firstâ it landed on the floor behind him with the heavy thudâ and then pulling the shirt over his head with one hand, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs.
You notice the bruises forming across his ribs, they mapped his left side in dark blooming coloursâ deep purple over the ninth and tenth ribs, fading to green at the edges, tender to the touch. You pressed your fingers to them now, light, barely touching, and his stomach tightened under your hand and his jaw clenched and he didn't pull away.
"Don't," Reiner said. "Don't be carefulâ it's okay, I don't want you to be careful with me."
"But you're hurt."
"I don't care." His forehead dropped to yours. "I don't care. Please. I justâ I needâ"
His voice shook. His hands shook. The tremor had moved from his fingers into his arms, into the tight line of his shoulders, and when you looked at him you could see itâ the five months, the silence, whatever fight he'd lost or won earlier, all of it pressing up against the surface of him like water against a dam.
You pulled your shirt over your head. Reached behind you and unclasped your bra, letting it fall. His eyes opened, and his gaze dropped to your chestâ his throat moving, and his hands came up to cover your breasts with a slowness that made your breath catch. His thumbs swept over your nipples, once, twice, and they hardened under his touch, and he watched themâ his lips parting, his breath shallow.
"God," he said. "God, I missedâ I missed you so much."
His hands slid down your waist, over your hips, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants as he knelt. The movement was slowâ he favoured his right side, the bruised ribs pullingâ and when he was on his knees in front of you he looked up, and his amber eyes were dark, and his hands were steady on your hips, and he pressed his mouth to your stomach.
You put your hands in his hair. His head tilted, and his mouth moved across your skinâ your stomach, your hip bone, the soft skin below your navelâ and his fingers worked the button of your trousers open, and he pulled them down over your hips with your underwear. You stepped out of them, and the tile was cold under your bare feet, and Reiner was kneeling in front of you in your kitchen with his bruised face and his mouth on your skin.
He pressed his lips to the crease of your thigh. Then the other side, and his hands held your hips, his thumbs tracing the bones, and his mouth moved higher, and his breath was hot and damp against you, and your fingers tightened in his hair.
"Let me," he said. "Please. Let meâ"
You nodded, unable to form words as he kissed you. His mouth, open and warm and soft, against the most sensitive part of you, and the sound you made was involuntaryâ a sharp intake of breath, your hips tilting forward, your fingers clenching in his hair. He groaned against you, a low rumble that you felt more than heard, and his tongue moved, slow and thorough, tracing the shape of you with the same attention he'd given your mouth.
He was desperate, that was the best word for it. His hands gripped your hips and his mouth worked against you and he made soundsâ small, broken sounds, groans and whimpers that vibrated through youâ and his tongue circled your clit with a steady, patient rhythm that built heat in your stomach and made your thighs tremble. "Reinerâ" Your voice was thin, almost reathless.
He pulled back, just enough, and his face was flushed and his lips were wetâ his eyes glazed and he looked up at you like you were something holy. "Tell me," he said, his voice strained. "Tell me what you need."
"You. Just keepâ"
His mouth returned. His tongue moved faster, and his hand slid from your hip, and his fingers traced along your entrance, and you were wet, embarrassingly wet, had been wet since he first put his hands on your face, and his fingers slid through the slickness and he made a sound against you like it hurt.
"You're so â" His voice cracked. "You're so wet. Fuck. I did that. Iâ"
"Reiner. Please."
His finger pressed into you. Slow, careful, and you felt your body clench around him, and his breath came out ragged against your thigh, and he watched your face as his finger slid deeper. He watched you the way he always watched youâ with that total, consuming attention, reading every detail, the way your mouth opened, the way your eyebrows drew together, the way your hips rocked forward to take more of him.
A second finger. He added it slowly, stretching you, and his thumb found your clit and circled it, and his mouth returned, his tongue moving in time with his hand, and the pleasure built in waves that made your knees weak. Your back arched against the counterâ the edge of it pressing into your lower back as your head tipped back, and Reiner's fingers moved inside you with a steady, patient rhythm that made your whole body tighten.
"I missed this," he said against you, his voice low and rough. "I missed the way you sound. The way you feel. I missedâ God, I missed you. I missed you so much. I'm sorry. I'mâ" His fingers curved. Pressed against the spot inside you that made your breath catch, and his tongue moved faster, and your hips bucked, and his free hand gripped your thigh and held you steady, and you came against his mouth with a sound that filled the kitchenâ a cry, broken and raw, your body clenching around his fingers, your hands tight in his hair.
He didn't stop. His fingers slowed, his tongue softened, and he worked you through it with a gentleness that made your eyes sting, and when you finally pushed his head backâ too sensitive, shakingâ he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh and looked up at you, and his face was wrecked. Flushed, wet, his eyes dark and his lips swollen, and he was breathing hard, and his hand was trembling against your hip.
"Come here," you say quietly.
He stood. Slowly, his ribs pulling, and you reached for his trousers. You pushed them down over his hips along with the underwear, and his cock was hardâ thick, flushed, the head dark and wetâ and it pressed against his stomach when his trousers dropped.
You wrapped your hand around him. He groanedâ a raw, open soundâ and his hips jerked forward, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his hands gripped the counter on either side of you. "Fuck," he said. "Fuck. I can'tâ I'm not going to last."
"Then don't," you challenge him.Â
"I wantâ I want to be inside you. Please. Let meâ"
He reached down, lifting you up so you were sat on the counter. His hand wrapped around yours, around himself, and he guided the head of his cock against your entrance, and you were slick, swollen and the touch of him there made you both inhale sharply. He pushed forward, slowly. His thickness stretched you, and he slid inside inch by inch, and his breath came in short, punched-out gasps against your neck.
"Oh God," he said. "Oh fuck. Ohâ you feelâ"
He bottomed out. His hips pressed against yours, his cock fully inside you, and he held still, trembling, his face buried in your neck, his hands gripping the counter so hard his knuckles went white. You could feel him pulsing inside you, feel the tension in his body, the effort it took him not to move.
"You okay?" you asked him softly.
"Don't move. Don'tâ just â give me a second. If you move, I'm going toâ"
You didn't move, instead you held him. Your arms around his shoulders, your hands on the warm skin of his back, feeling the muscle and the damage beneath it, the bruise along his ribs raised and hot under your fingers. His breath slowed, and his body relaxed, fractionally, against yours.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry. I justâ it's been so long, and you feel so good, and Iâ"
"Reinerâ just shut up and move."
He pulled back. Slow, dragging, and you felt every inch of him, and then he thrust forward, and the sound he made was something between a groan and a sob, and his hands moved from the counter to your hips, and he set a rhythmâ slow, deep, grinding, his hips rolling against yours in a way that pressed him against every part of you.
The kitchen filled with the sounds of it. His breathing, ragged and broken, the wet slide of his cock inside you, the small, helpless noises you made with every thrustâ whimpers, groans, words that didn't finish. His mouth found your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, kissing and biting and sucking, and his hands moved up your body to cup your breasts, and his thumbs rolled your nipples, and your head fell back and your hips met his.
He looked at you, and his amber eyes were wet, his face flushed, his jaw clenched against the bruise, and he fucked you with a desperation that made your chest ache. Not hardâ he was too careful for that, too aware of his own body, too afraid of breaking somethingâ but deep, and thorough, and relentless, like he was trying to reach something inside you that only he could find.
"I'm close," he said. His voice broke. "I'mâ where do you want me toâ"
"Inside," you gasp out.
His rhythm stuttered. His eyes widened. "Are youâ"
"Inside. I want you to come inside me."
"Fuck." His forehead dropped to yours. His hips snapped forward, harder, and you gasped, and his hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, and he circled it with the same steady attention he'd given everything else. "Come with me. Please. I want to feel you. I need to feel you. Pleaseâ"
The pleasure built. Fast, overwhelming, and his cock hitting deep inside you with his fingers working your clit and his breath hot against your mouth. You came firstâ your body clenching around him, your back arching, a cry tearing from your throatâ and he followed, his hips slamming forward, his cock buried deep, and he came inside you with a sound that was almost a sob, his whole body shaking, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.
He held you afterward. His forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his cock softening inside you. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of your breathing as his hands moved up your body, slow, trembling, and cupped your face again, and he kissed youâ soft, gentle, a ghost of the first kiss.
"I'm not leaving again," he said. The words were quiet. Barely there. "I'm notâ I won't. I'm done."
The evening light filtered through the curtains in slanted gold, catching dust motes above the bed. You lay on your side, Reiner pressed along your back, his arm heavy across your waist. He was warmâ always warm, the kind of heat that radiated from muscle and bone. His chest filled the entire length of your back, his thighs bracketing yours. The bed creaked when he shifted, the old springs protesting the weight of him.
His breath hit the nape of your neck in uneven bursts. You counted three quick exhales, then a pause, then two more. His fingers tightened on your hip, released, then tightened again. The cotton of your shirt bunched under his tight grip.
"You're fidgeting a lot," you tell him.
His chest expanded against your spine. "I know."
You didn't move. His stubble scraped against your shoulder when he turned his face into you, the coarse hair catching on fabric. His hips pressed forward, not subtle about it at all. The hard line of him through his sweatpants pushed against the curve of your ass, and he made a soundâ low, caught in his throat and swallowed halfway. His fingers dug into your hip hard enough that you felt the pressure in the bone.
"Reiner."
"I know, I know." His voice came out rougher than usual. He pressed his face harder against your shoulder, and you felt the bridge of his nose flatten against youâthat big, slightly crooked nose. "I justâ"
He didn't finish. His hips moved again, a slow grind, and this time the sound he made was closer to a whimper. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against himâ and the sheer mass of him swallowed you. His forearm was as thick as your calf, and his hand could wrap entirely around your wrist with fingers to spare.
You turned in his arms. It took effortâ as he didn't want to let you shift, his grip adjusting and reluctant. But you got onto your other side to face him, and the look on his face made you pause.
His amber eyes were dark, the gold burned down to something raw. His jaw was clenched, the muscles in his cheeks jumping. The stubble along his jawline and chin was denser than usualâ he'd skipped shaving for two days, and it showed, the hair coarse and copper-blond in the fading light. His lips were parted, and his breathing came shallow and quick.
"Hey," you whisper, reaching up and pushing the short, almost golden hair off his forehead. The strands were coarse, warm against your fingers. "Look at me."
He did. His pupils were blown wide, the amber reduced to a thin ring. His hand came up and gripped your wristâ not hard enough to hurt, but firm. He pressed your palm flat against his chestâ and underneath, his heart hammered against his ribs like something trying to escape.
"Please," he whimpered.
The word hung there. His hips twitched forward again, and you felt himâ hard, thick, straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. His abs tightened under your palm, the defined ridges of muscle flexing as he moved. "Please what?" You kept your voice even and controlled. You watched the way his jaw clenched tighter at the tone.
"I needâ" He swallowed. His throat worked, the tendons standing out. "Anythingâ please. Anything you want."
You traced your hand down his chest, slow, following the line between his pecs. His skin was hot, smooth over the dense muscle. You felt his heartbeat shift under your fingers as you moved lower, past the ridges of his abs, stopping just above the waistband of his sweatpants. His stomach sucked in under your touch, his breath catching audibly.
"You're being needy tonight, hmm?" You tease.
His face flushed. The colour started at his neck and climbed up through his jaw, darkening the skin above his stubble. "I can't help it."
"I didn't say stop." You pressed your palm flat against his lower stomach, and the muscle jumped. "I just said you're being needy."
He exhaledâ shaky, broken. His free hand gripped the sheets beside his hip, knuckles whiteâ the tendons in his forearm standing out like cables. "I'm always needy when it comes to youâ"
"Hm, good boy."
The sound he made at the praise you gave him was involuntary. A choked groan, caught behind his teeth. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and when he opened them, they were glassy. His hips rolled forward, seeking friction against your thighâ and the hard length of him dragged against you through two layers of fabric.
You shifted, pushing him onto his back. He went easilyâ too easily, for someone his size. He could have resisted, could have held his ground, but he dropped flat against the mattress like his strings had been cut. His arms fell open at his sides, palms up. His chest rose and fell fast, the thick slabs of his pecs heaving. The evening light caught the definition of his bodyâ the broad sweep of his shoulders, the cut of his obliques, the way his sweatpants tented obscenely.
You straddled his thighs, sitting just above his knees. The weight of him between your legs, the solid mass of his quads under you. You put both hands flat on his chest and felt the shudder run through him.
"Look at you," you murmured. Your thumbs traced the curve of his pecs, finding the flat discs of his nipples, and you pressed down, just slightly.
His back arched. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard. "Pleaseâ"
"Hands down."
He released you immediately. His arms dropped back to the mattress, fingers curling into the sheets. His jaw worked, the stubble rasping as he ground his teeth.
You leaned forward, your weight settling on his body. Your mouth found the hollow of his throat, and you felt his pulse slam against your lips. You kissed there once, then dragged your tongue lower. His chest was smooth except for the fine trail of hair below his navel, lighter than the stubble on his face. You followed that trail with your tongue, licking a slow line down the center of his body.
His abs clenched under your mouth. Each ridge of muscle tightened as you passed over it. His breathing turned to ragged gasps, and his hands twisted in the sheets so hard you heard the fabric strain.
"Good boy," you mutter against his stomachâ the words vibrating against his skin. "Staying so still for me."
A whine escaped himâ high and thin, nothing like the deep voice he usually carried. His hips bucked up, pressing his cock against your chest through the sweatpants. You felt the heat of him, the damp spot where he'd been leaking.
"Please," Reiner said again. "Please, I need you, I needâ"
You lifted your head. His face was flushed dark, his amber eyes wetâ his lips were parted, and he looked destroyed already, and you'd barely touched him.
"What do you need?" You sat up, hands resting on his chest. "Tell me."
His throat worked. "I want you toâ" He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "Sit on my face. Please. I want you to use me. I wantâplease, I want to make you feel good, I need to taste youâ"
"You want me to sit on your face?" The flush on his neck darkened at your words. He nodded, fast and desperate. His hands stayed fisted in the sheets, obedient, even as his whole body trembled with the effort of staying still. "Ask properly, then."
His voice cracked. "Please sit on my face. Please, I need itâ"
You shifted forward on your knees, moving up his body. He watched you with those wide amber eyes, his breathing shallow and fast. You positioned yourself over his chest first, letting him feel your weight settle on his sternum. His hands came up instinctivelyâ then stopped. He looked at you, waiting for your permission.
"Go ahead," you said. "Hold me."
His hands found your hips instantly. His grip was careful, controlledâ fingers spanning wide across your skin. You could feel the strength in his hands, the way he was deliberately holding back, keeping his touch gentle despite the tension in his arms.
You moved forward, knees bracketing his head. His face was beneath you nowâthose eyes looking up at you, the crooked bridge of his nose, the stubble darkening his jaw. His mouth was open, his breath hot against your inner thighs.
"Closer," he whispered. "Please, closer."
You lowered yourself slowly. His nose pressed against you firstâ that big nose, the bump of cartilage creating friction exactly where you needed it. The bridge of his nose pressed between your folds, and you rocked forward, just slightly.
His eyes rolled back and his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you down against his face. His mouth opened against you, tongue reaching, and the wet heat of him combined with the pressure of his nose against your clit almost sent you over the edge.
You braced your hands on the headboard above him. The wood was cool under your palms, and you rolled your hips, slow as possibleâ and felt his nose slide against you, the bump pressing into your clit with each movement. His tongue worked against you, broad strokes, desperate and uncoordinated.
A sound escaped youâ low and involuntary as your thighs tightened around his head, and you felt him groan against you, the vibration travelling through your core. His hips bucked up into empty air, his cock straining against his sweatpants, grinding against nothing.
"Good boy," you breathed, your voice came out rougher than you intended. "That's ahâ so good, Reiner."
He made a muffled sound against you, his hands pulling you down harder. His tongue pressed deeper, and his nose pushed against you with each roll of your hips. The friction was building something in your lower stomach, tight and hot â so you moved faster, chasing it as the headboard creaked under your grip.
His breathing was ragged against you, desperate. You felt his jaw working, the stubble scraping against your inner thighs, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass âgripping hard enough to bruise, pulling you against his face like he needed it more than air.
"Fuâ" You lost the word as your rhythm stuttered. "Right there, don't stopâ" Your thighs shook as the tension in your stomach coiled tighter, tighter, and then broke. You came with a gasp, your hips grinding down against his face. The waves rolled through you, and you felt him groaning against you, his fingers digging into your ass, his body arching up off the bed. He was practically shaking. You felt the tremors running through his massive frame, every muscle locked tight as he worked you through it.
You stayed there for a long moment, slumped against the headboard as your breath came ragged. Below you, Reiner was panting, his face wet, his amber eyes fixed on you with something raw and hungry.
You lifted yourself off him. His hands stayed raised, reaching after you for a moment before dropping to the mattress. His chest heaved and his cock was straining against his sweatpants, a dark wet spot spreading across the fabric.
You crawled down his body, dragging yourself over his chest, his stomach. Your knees settled on either side of his hips, and you sat back, feeling the hard length of him press against you through the layer of fabric.
His hips jerked up. "Pleaseâplease, I need to be inside you, pleaseâ"
You reached down and pushed his sweatpants over his hips. He lifted to help you, and his cock sprang freeâ thick, flushed dark, and the head slick. It laid almost against his stomach, the length of it reaching past his navel. He was close already, you could tell âjust from having his face fucked by you.
You wrapped your hand around him. He was hot, pulsing against your palmâ you gave him one slow stroke, and his whole body seized. "Fuckâdon'tâdon't tease, please, I can'tâ"
"You can." You shifted your hips, positioning him. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and you felt him throb. "And you will."
You sank down. Slowâ agonisingly slow. You took him inch by inch, feeling the stretch, the fullness building as you lowered yourself. His hands flew to your hips before you took his wrists in your hands. "No," you tell him. His forearms were massive, the muscles flexed as you u pushed his arms up above his head, pressing his hands into the pillow. "Keep them here."
His fingers curled into the pillowcase. His arms stayed where you put them, even when you released him. His chest heaved, the muscles in his shoulders straining with the effort of staying still.
You took him deeper. The thickness of him stretched you, the pressure building as you sank down. You watched his faceâ his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out. His breath came in short, desperate bursts.
"Look at me."
His eyes opened, and his pupils were huge, the amber nearly gone. His lips were parted, and you could see the way his jaw trembled.
You started to move. Slow, rolling thrusts, taking him deep and then lifting until just the head remained inside. The friction was maddeningâ the drag of him against your walls, the way he filled you completely each time you sank down. You braced your hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound under your palms.
"Please," he whined. His hips twitched up, fighting for more friction. You pressed down harder, pinning him to the mattress with your weight. "Please, fasterâpleaseâ"
"What do you need?"
"You. More. Please." Each word came out broken. His arms shook above his head, the muscles in his biceps standing out. "Please, I need to come, I needâ"
"Not yet."
The sound he made was brokenâ a whine, high and desperate. His head pressed back into the pillow, his neck arching, the stubble along his jaw catching the light.
You kept your pace slow. Each thrust was deliberate, controlled, and you purposely squeezed around him, and his back arched off the bedâ a groan tearing from his throat. His whole body shuddered. "I can'tâI'm going toâplease, please let me come, pleaseâ"
"Not yet." You rolled your hips, taking him to the hilt. His thighs were trembling beneath you, the massive muscles quivering. "You come when I say."
He sobbed. The sound was raw, torn from somewhere deep. His arms stayed above his head, fingers white-knuckled in the pillow. His hips jerked up, and you felt him throb inside youâ close, so close.
"Pleaseâ" His voice was barely audible. "Please, can I come inside you? Please, I need toâI need to fill you, pleaseâ" The desperation in his voice. The way his whole body shook, the massive frame tremblingâ the wetness on his lashes.
You rolled your hips again and you felt him pulse inside you, felt the way his stomach tightened. "Come for me, Reiâ."
His whole body seized before you had even finished your sentence. His back arched off the bed, his chest pressing against yours. His hands stayed above his head, fingers tearing at the pillow. He came with a broken soundâ half groan, half sobâ and you felt him spill inside you, hot and thick. His hips jerked up into you, grinding deep, and his cock throbbed with each pulse.
You rode him through it, slow and steady, feeling him fill you. His body shook with each wave, his breath coming in ragged gaspsâ and his eyes were open but unfocused, fixed on your face with something raw and helpless.
When he stilled, you lowered yourself against his chest. His arms finally came down, wrapping around you, pulling you close. His hands were shakingâ and you felt his heart pounding against your cheek, fast and hard.
"Good boy," you murmured against his skin. "You did so well."
His arms tightened. His breath caught. He pressed his face into your hair, his crooked nose flattening against the top of your head. You felt his chest expand, slowly, as his breathing evened out. The evening light had shifted, the gold deepening to amber. You lay there, wrapped in his arms, feeling the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he held you like you were something precious.
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summary: You end up going on tour with The Scouts, as the Reiner Braun's...girlfriend...? Groupie...? You weren't sure.
a/n: I wasnât going to write a part 2 but when I saw the love I got from the first post I just had TO. I wrote this when I was ovulating if u can't tell.....anyway enjoy <3
A week does not usually feel that longâ except when it is the longest week of your life, despite containing nothing dramatic other than work shifts and laundry and fifteen separate phone calls with the Reiner Braun that lasted longer than either of you probably should have allowed. You've replayed the rooftop moment more times than you're going to admit to. You've replayed the room afterâ the card game and Connie's badly hidden laughs too. And you've replayed the question, the quiet one, the one that arrived between hands of cards like it was nothing: would you like to come on tour with me?
You'd said yes before you'd fully processed what you were saying yes to. And then a week later, you'd understand that what you had said yes to: which was a duffel bag packed at six in the morning, standing on the pavement outside Sasha's flat with Mikasa already there, both of them looking at you with expressions that range from barely contained to fully unhinged.
"Okay," Sasha says, looking between you and your bag and the street, where a coach-sized tour bus is apparently due to appear within the hour. "I just want to say, for the record, before this happensâ we are technicallyâŚ..groupies."
"We're not groupies," you sigh.
"We are getting on a tour bus with a band because some of them like us more than friends. That is the literal definition of groupie."
"It's slightly more complicated than thatâ"
"Is it, though?" Sasha tilts her head. "Walk me through the complications, then."
You don't have an answer so you don't offer one, and Sasha takes your silence as the confirmation it is and looks extremely pleased with herself. "I'm not denying it," you say eventually. "I'm just saying we don't have to say it out loud."
"I had to," Sasha says. "It needed to exist in the air before the bus got here. Now it's been acknowledged and we can move forward as the groupies we are with our heads held high."
Mikasa, beside her, says nothing, but the corner of her mouth is doing something that isn't quite a smile, and when you catch her eye she looks away toward the end of the street like she's checking for the bus, which she absolutely is not, because the bus is not due for another forty minutes and you all know it.
The three of you wait on the pavement with your bags. The morning is grey and ordinary in a way that feels wrong, somehow, for the size of the thing that's about to happenâ you'd half expected something more cinematic, weather that understood the assignment, and instead you get an overcast Tuesday and a quiet street and the distant sound of cars two roads over.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket.
Reiner: will be 15 minÂ
Then, twenty seconds later:
Reiner: I told them to hurry up
Then, ten seconds after that:
Reiner: are you nervous?
You look at the message. You are, in fact, very nervous, in the specific way that has nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with the fact that you are about to spend an unspecified number of weeks in close quarters with someone you've known for eight days who has somehow already rearranged your entire brain.
You: a littleâŚ
Reiner: don't be :)
Reiner: i'll be right there with you
You smile at your phone in a way that Sasha clocks immediately. "That's him messaging you, isn't it," she says. Not a question, as she already knew the answer.Â
"Maybe."
"You've got the biggest smile on your face."
"I have notâ"
"You have! I'm watching it happen in real time."
The bus arrives twelve minutes laterâ not fifteen, which you understand now means Reiner genuinely did tell them to hurryâ and it is enormous in a way that photographs of tour buses don't communicate, a long dark vehicle with tinted windows and a low engine rumble that you feel slightly in your chest, not unlike a bass line.
The door hisses open, and Connie is the first one off, taking the steps two at a time with the energy of someone who has never once in his life walked down a set of stairs at a normal pace. "Hey! You made it!" He says it like there was a real chance you wouldn't, like the morning had been genuinely uncertain, and he grabs Sasha's bag out of her hands before she can object. "I'm taking this, you're not allowed to carry your own stuffâ that's a tour bus rule."
"Is it actually a rule?" Sasha asked, already walking with him toward the bus.
"It's my ruleâŚ..I just made it."
Mikasa follows more slowly, with her bag still firmly in her own possession, and at the top of the steps she pausesâ because Eren is standing just inside the door with his arms crossed and an expression that is doing its level best to look unbothered and is not quite succeeding.
And then there's Reiner.
He's at the bottom of the steps, not on them, like he's been standing there long enough that the others got out ahead of him, and when he sees you something happens to his whole face, like a held breath finally being let go. He's in a soft grey t-shirt and his hair is slightly mussed like he hasn't been near a mirror, and he looks, somehowâ even better than you remembered, which you'd have said was not possible eight days ago.
"Hi," he says softly.
"Hi," you say.
He doesn't say anything else. He just takes your bag from your shoulderâ gently, without making a thing of itâ and then, with his free hand, reaches for yours, and you let him take it. "You still feeling nervous?" he asks quietly, as you climb the stairs.
"A little bit."
"Don't be." His thumb moves once against the side of your hand. "I've got you, okay?"
You believe him. This is, you think, possibly the single most concerning development of the entire weekâ not the kissing or the sex, not even the tour bus and the concept of going on tour with your favourite bandâ but the fact that when Reiner Braun says I've got you in that low quiet voice, you believe him completely, without reservation.Â
The bus is, on the inside, somehow even bigger than it looks from outside.
There's a front lounge with two long couches facing each other across a low table, a kitchenette behind that, a wall of bunks further back, separated by a sliding, metal doorâ there was twelve of them, stacked in pairs and curtainedâ and then a back lounge that Connie informs you, with great seriousness, is âthe good oneâ which apparently means it has a slightly better television and is therefore the site of ongoing low-level territorial disputes.
"It's not actually better," Jean says from the front lounge, not looking up from his phone. "The screen's the same size."
"It's the principle," Connie says.
"What principle?"
"The principle of having the better one."
Jean shakes his head and goes back to his phone. He's in soft clothes with no guitar in sight, and looks considerably more relaxed than the version of him you watched on stage a week agoâ the public-facing intensity dialled down to something closer to ordinary tiredness.
Armin is at the small kitchen table with a notebook and a set of headphones around his neck, and he looks up when you come in and gives you a genuinely warm smile. "Hey! Good to see you guys again." He says it like he means it, which he probably does, because Armin seems constitutionally incapable of insincerity. "We've got about six hours till the first stop. There's coffee if you want itâ it's actually decent, Eren's very particular about it."
"I'm not particular," Eren sighs from somewhere near the back.
"You made Levi return a coffee machine."
"It was a bad machine."
Levi, who has materialised near the front of the bus with a tablet in hand and the expression of a man who is perpetually three steps ahead of everyone else's logistics, doesn't look up. "Ok, so the bunks," he booms out to the room generally. "Everyone's assigned, and Iâm not moving anyone around. I'm not doing this again."
"Who am I next to?" Sasha asks immediately.
"Connie."
"Yes," Connie hisses, with such open delight that Sasha actually laughs.Â
"Mikasa," Levi continues, checking the tablet, "you're across from Erenââ He shifts around to point to you. âAnd you'reâ"
"With me," Reiner says, before Levi can finish his sentence, and there's something in his voice that's different from the easy efficiency of everyone else's logistics.
Levi looks at his tablet, before he looks back at Reiner. There's a pause that you suspect is entirely theatrical, Levi extracting maximum value from a moment he's clearly enjoying. "That's not what I have written downâ"
"Leviââ Reiner starts.Â
"I have you in a bunk by yourself. Per the original plan."
"The original plan didn'tâ" Reiner stops, before starting again with his voice lower. "Can you justâ"
"I'm messing with you," Levi says, even though his face stayed neutral and he was already walking away, done with the conversation. "Obviously you're together. Just don't be disgusting about it where I have to witness it."
"We weren't going to be," Reiner says to Levi's retreating back, with an edge of genuine annoyance that's the first thing you've seen from him all morning that isn't soft.
"You absolutely were," Levi calls back, without turning around, "I've met you."
Reiner looks at you. There's a faint colour at the back of his neck that you find disproportionately endearing, given everything. "Sorry," he says quietly, just to you. "I should have asked you first. We don't have to share, if you wanted toâ"
"No," you say, maybe too quickly. âI want to.â
He looks at you for a second, like he's checking, like he needs to actually hear it land before he believes it. Then something in his shoulders drops, visibly, the tension going out of them. "Okay," he says. "Good. That'sâ" He stops himself before finishing the sentence, but you can guess what he was going to say, and the fact that he doesn't finish it is somehow more affecting than if he had.
The bunk is small, in the way all tour bus bunks are presumably small, but it's built for someone Reiner's size, which means it's actually a little more generous by the standards of the formâ a proper mattress, a small reading light, a curtain that pulls across for privacy, a little shelf with exactly four things on it: a phone charger, a battered paperback you don't recognise the title of, a guitar pick that's clearly not his (you're pretty sure bass players don't use picks the same way), and, you notice with a feeling you're not going to examine too closely, a printed photo of the band from what looks like their very first show, all five of them younger and grinning in a room that's barely bigger than this bunk. It felt intimate, being in his space and personal belongingsâ like you didn't have an A3 poster of him at home above your bedâŚ.Â
"You all look so young," you observe, pointing to the photo.
"Levi took it. It was our first real gig. Before anyone knew who we were." He says it with a kind of fondness that's different from how he talks about the band normallyâ not pride exactly, something more tender than that. "I keep it because it reminds me what it actually felt like, before it was a jobâ playing because I loved people listening to my music."
"Does it still feel like that? When you're up there?"
He's quiet for a second, considering the question properly rather than reaching for an easy answer. "Sometimes," he says. "Not always. But there are moments." He looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. "Last week, when I was performing in front of youâ that moment felt like it again. I felt like I was back at my first gig again."
You don't say anything. You don't need to. He lays down on the bunk, which means his head is nearly at the low ceiling, and pulls you down beside him, and you fit there in a way that shouldn't work given the size difference and somehow does, his arm settling around you like it's already memorised the shape of the gesture.
"I missed you," he says quietly into your hair.Â
"It was only a week."
"I know how long it was." His voice is muffled slightly, his face turned toward you. "I counted the days."
You laughed softly at this. "Reinerâ"
"Itâs true." He pulls back enough to look at you properly, and his expression is doing the thing it's been doing since he first laid eyes on youâ open, unguarded and slightly helpless about it, like he's still adjusting to a version of himself that says things like this out loud. "I called you twice a dayâI'm aware that's a lot and Iâm sorry."
"I liked it."
"I know you said you liked it, but I'm also aware it's a lot." He says this like a confession, like he's owning up to a character flaw, and there's something so genuinely earnest about it that you can't help laughing against his shoulder.
"I'm not complaining at all," you tell him.Â
"I know. I'm complaining on your behalf, preemptively." He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, slow and careful. "In case future-you wants to."
"I can promise you, future-me is not going to complain about you calling too much."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually."
He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding whether to believe it, and then he kisses youâ gentle and unhurried, the kind of kiss that has nowhere particular to beâ his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face the way it had on the roof, like that's simply where his hand goes now when he kisses you, like the geography of it has already been settled.
Outside the bunks you hear Connie's voice rising in volume about something to do with the card game continuing from last week, and Sasha's delighted cackle in response, and underneath all of it the low hum of the bus engine and six hours of road ahead of you, and you think, with a clarity that surprises you: this is good. This is really, genuinely good.
By the third day, a pattern has established itself.
Mornings are usually slowâ the bus rolling through whatever stretch of country lies between yesterday's city and tonight's, everyone surfacing from their bunks at different hours, Armin first because he barely seems to need sleep, Connie last because he sleeps like he's been specifically trained to, with total commitment. Sasha is somewhere in the middle, usually appearing exactly when coffee becomes availableâ as if she can smell it from inside the bunk.
You've fallen into the rhythm of it faster than you expectedâ the small kitchenette, the front lounge where everyone congregates by midday, the particular choreography of five band members and a manager and now three additional people sharing a confined space without it becoming claustrophobic. It helps that everyone is, in their own specific way, easy to be around. Connie is endlessly entertaining and entirely without edge. Armin is quietly brilliant and generous with his attention. Jean has a dry, cutting humour that takes a day or two to warm up to and then becomes one of your favourite things about the bus. Eren is intense and a little prickly but softens, very visibly, whenever Mikasa is in the room, which is a transformation neither of them is acknowledging out loud. And of course, Reiner.
Reiner is, you've discovered, a genuinely different person depending on who he's talking to, and you've started cataloguing the differences with the same thoroughness you once applied to fan videos, except now you get to watch it live, close up, and in real time.
With Connie, he's patient in a way that occasionally tips into exasperationâ he has a habit of touching Reiner's bass without asking, which is apparently the single fastest way to get a reaction out of him. "Connie." Reiner's voice practically growls from the back lounge, that has a specific flat quality you've learned means don't.
"I'm just lookingâ"
"Don't touch the strings."
"I'm not touching theâ"
"You're touching the strings right now."
"Okay, okay." A pause. "Can I touch it if I ask first?"
"No."
"What if I ask nicely?"
"No, Connie."
This goes on, in various forms, multiple times a day, and it never seems to actually bother either of themâ it's clearly a long-running bit, the kind of friction that's been worn smooth by years of repetition, and Reiner's irritation always resolves into something fond within about thirty seconds. With Jean, there's a different textureâ more verbal sparring, more genuine disagreement, usually about music. With Eren, the dynamic is quieter â fewer words, more of a working shorthand, two people who've spent three years building something together and don't need to explain themselves to each other anymore. With Levi, Reiner isâ careful. Deferential in a way he isn't with anyone else, which surprises you until Armin explains, quietly, one afternoon, that Levi essentially built the band's career out of nothing, that he'd believed in them back when believing in them required actual sacrifice, and that Reiner in particular has a long memory for who showed up for him before it mattered.
And with youâ
With you, there is no version of irritation. You watch for it, partly out of curiosity and partly because you don't quite trust that it doesn't exist somewhere, and you don't find it. He's patient with you about things he isn't patient about with anyone elseâ touching his bass twice without any of the flat don't tone he uses on Connie, listening to you talk through something half-formed without rushing you toward the point. When you're tired he notices before you've said anything. When you're quiet he asks, gently, if you're okay, and waits for a real answer rather than accepting the first deflection.
"You're never annoyed at me," you tell him on day four, lying on the bunk with your head on his chest and his fingers moving slowly through your hair.
"Should I be?"
"I don't know. Everyone gets annoyed at everyone, eventually. It's a small bus."
He's quiet for a moment, considering this with the seriousness he gives most things. "I don't think I have it in me," he says finally. "Not with you. I've tried to imagine it and I can't."
"That's not realistic, though."
"Probably not." He doesn't sound concerned about this. "Ask me again in a month."
"I will."
"I won't be annoyed then either," he says, and you can hear, even without looking at his face, that he means it completely, and you decide not to argue with him about something that's clearly not up for negotiation.
He teaches you bass on the sixth day, in the back lounge, while Connie and Sasha have commandeered the front for what has become a daily and increasingly competitive gaming tournament.
"You don't have to learn it properly," he says, settling the bass into your hands with the careful attention of someone handling something important. "I just want to show you the bridge of Glass Jaw. Since you like it."
"You don't have to teach me your own song."
"I want to." He settles behind you, his hands coming around to position yours on the neck, his chest warm and hard against your back. "Hereâ your first finger goes there."
You try to play, but it sounds wrong, flat and clumsyâ nothing like the searching low run you've listened to a hundred times.
"That sounds terrible," you huff.
"It's your first try."
You frown. "You make it sound so easyâŚ"
"I've had three years of making it easy." He chuckles as his hand adjusts your fingers, patient and unhurried. "Try again. Slower."
You try again. Marginally better. You're concentrating hard enough that you don't notice he's stopped watching your hands until you feel itâ the quality of his attention shifting, moving up from your fingers to somewhere else entirely. You're wearing a tank top, your shoulders bare, your cleavage and neck visible, and his gaze has apparently found them and decided to stay there.
"Reinerâ"
"You're doing well," he says, which is not a response to anything you said.
"You're not watching my hands anymore!"
"I can hear your hands." His voice has dropped slightly. "Keep going."
You try the progression again. You almost have it this time, the turn in the second bar actually landing somewhere close to right, and you're about to say something about it when his mouth presses to your shoulder. Slow, deliberateâ and just stays there.
Your fingers slip completely off the strings. "That's cheating," you huff.
He doesn't move. His lips are warm against your skin and his hands have stopped pretending to be about bass positioning. "I'm not doing anything," he whispers, against your shoulder.
"You're doing something."
"Mm." He presses another one, slightly higher, and you feel it travel up the side of your neck in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with music theory. The bass is becoming irrelevant at significant speed. You turn your head. He's right there, close, and the lesson is clearly over in any meaningful sense, and you're about to say something that will almost certainly make the lesson over when you both hear itâ
Footsteps, the heavy tread of someone coming down the corridor from the front lounge.
You both go still, and Reiner straightens. You look at the bass as the footsteps get closer and Jean appears in the doorway, one hand on the frame, taking in the sceneâ you, the bass, Reiner approximately six inches further back than he was two seconds ago, both of you doing an impression of people who were doing nothing.
Jean looks at the both of you. "Right," he says, and turns around and goes back the way he came.
A beat of silence. "Okay," Reiner says. "Maybe we'll take a break for a bit?"
"You started this."
"And I'll finish it later," he says low against your ear, and you decide that bass lessons are going to become a regular occurrence on this bus regardless of how good you actually get at it.Â
The first cigarette happens that same evening, a natural extension of the bass lesson in the way that most things with Reiner have become natural extensions of whatever came before. The bus is stopped for the night behind a venue somewhere, and he's sitting on the back steps with one lit, and you come out to sit beside him and he holds it out without askingâ you take it, because you're warm from the lesson and the evening and himâ and the nicotine on an almost-empty stomach does something immediate and pleasant to the back of your skull.
You hand it back and your fingers brush his.
It soon becomes a thing. Every night after that, without discussion, without it ever being formally established as a ritualâ the show ends, the bus moves, and at some point the two of you end up outside, a wall or a kerb or a loading bay step, one cigarette and sometimes two, the night air cool at your shoulders and his warmth solid against your side. You're not sure, by the second week, whether you're smoking because you want the cigarette or because the cigarette is the reason to be outside alone with him in the darkâŚ..and honestly the distinction has stopped mattering. The nicotine does its slow warm thing through your chest. His shoulder presses against yours, and your fingers brush together and then at some point you stop handing it back; and he takes it from your mouth directly, looking at you the whole time like you're the most interesting thing by some considerable distance, and then the cigarette gets crushed aside and his lips find yours and you end up against whatever wall happens to be availableâŚ.which sometimes includes the tour bus.
You are, across the days and an assortment of loading bays, becoming genuinely unable to keep your hands off each other, which Sasha has noted and threatened to bring up at an inappropriate moment. You're saving that problem for later, and later can wait.
The shows, when they come, are different from the front-row version of watching him. You watch from the wings now, or from the sound desk, but you're always close enough to see things the front row never seesâ the way Reiner checks his tuning obsessively before every set, the small ritual you noticed he has of touching the strings once, lightly, before the lights come up, the way he and Eren exchange one look before the first song that seems to communicate something neither of them would explain if you asked.
And he looks for you now. Every show since you've been there. Not the searching four-second glance from last weekâs concertâ but something steadier, something that finds you almost immediately and returns to you throughout the set like he's checking, like you being there is something he needs constant confirmation of.
During the beginning of Glass Jaw, every night, without fail, he looks for you, and you've started positioning yourself so he can find you easily, just off to the side where the stage lights catch you faintly, and every night when he finds you there's a specific shift in his playingâ nothing anyone else would notice, you don't think, but you've watched him enough now to know the difference between Reiner playing an intro he's played two hundred times and Reiner playing while looking at someone he's still slightly in disbelief is actually there.
Sasha notices it too, standing beside you at a show in the second week.
"He's not subtle about it," she shouts into your ear over the loud music.
"I know."
"Like, genuinely. The whole crowd could probably tell, if they were paying close attention. Iâve already seen fans already posting online about this mystery girl seen with Reinerâ"
"I don't think he cares if they can tell or if they find out," you say hopefully.Â
"No," Sasha agrees, watching him find you again during the second chorus. "I don't think he does."
The low throb of a bass guitar cut through the silence of the tour bus like a slow breath exhaled in the dark. You'd been lying in your bunk when the sound first reached youâ not a full song, not yet, just fragments. A chord progression that climbed and fell, then climbed again, as if searching for something it hadn't found yet. Then his voice, low and rough at the edges, humming a melody that had no words. Or maybe it had words, but he was singing them so quietly they dissolved before they could reach you.
You turned your head on the pillow. The curtain of your bunk was half-drawn, and through the gap you could see the narrow corridor that ran the length of the bus, just being seperated by the door that slid was open. At the far end, the lounge area glowed faintlyâ a single overhead light dimmed to its lowest setting, casting everything in amber. You could see the back of Reiner's head, the broad set of his shoulders hunched forward over the bass balanced on his thigh. He sat on the worn leather couch, one foot propped on the edge of the low table, his knee bouncing slightly as he played.
You listened. The melody shifted, found its footing, and the humming became something moreâ a phrase, repeated, then refined. He paused, and you heard the scratch of a pen on paper, the rustle of a notebook page being turned. Then the bass again, the chords rearranged into something that made your chest tighten.
You swung your legs out of the bunk quietly, bare feet meeting the cold flooring. The bus was still, except for the soft wheeze of sleep coming from behind the other curtained bunksâ Sasha in the one across from yours, Mikasa two down, and the rest of the band scattered in the other bunks. You moved down the corridor in bare feet, your oversized t-shirtâ stolen from Reiner's suitcase earlier that dayâ hanging to mid-thigh. You didn't knock or announce yourself, instead you just rounded the corner of the lounge and stood there, leaning your shoulder against the wall, your arms folded loosely across your chest.
He didn't notice you right away. His head was bent over the notebook balanced on the cushion, and his lips moved silently as he read back what he'd written. Then his fingers found the strings again, and he played the progression from the topâ a sequence that opened with something bright and searching before settling into a warm, resolved chord that hung in the air like a held breath.
Before he finished it, Reiner looked up. His eyesâ heavy-lidded from the lateness of the hourâ found you in the doorway, and the shift in his face was immediate and unguarded. The furrow between his brows smoothed, and the set of his jaw softened. His mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile but was warmer than one, a kind of unconscious loosening, as if just seeing you let him put something down he'd been carrying.
"Hey," he said, his voice kept low, aware of the thin walls and the sleeping people behind them. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No." You pushed off the wall and moved toward him, shutting the latch metal door that separates the lounge from the bunks. "I was already up."
He watched you cross the small spaceâ three steps, maybe fourâand when you reached the couch, he set the bass aside, leaning it carefully against the armrest before opening his arms. You settled onto his lap sideways, your legs draped over his thigh, your back against the armrest, and his hand came to rest on your bare knee, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the skin there.
"You writing a new song?" you ask.Â
"I'm trying to." He glanced at the open notebook on the cushion beside him, and you caught the scratch of crossed-out lines, words written and abandoned and rewritten. "It's not quite there yet." You leaned forward and picked up the notebook. He let you take it, his hand dropping to your hip, steadying you. You read the lyrics scrawled in his handwritingâblocky, uneven letters that leaned too far to the right:
You said one night only, like it was a warning
But one night only keeps becoming one night more
You closed the notebook. Your throat had gone tight. You set it on the table and turned back to him, and his eyes were on your face, reading you the way he read a room before a showâ carefully and thoroughly.
"Is thatâ" You stopped. "About me?"
"Course it's about you." His thumb resumed its circle on your hip, pressing through the cotton of his stolen t-shirt. "Who else would I be writing about at two in the morning?"
You didn't answer. Instead, you leaned in and kissed himâ softly, carefully, your lips pressing against his with the kind of deliberate gentleness that comes from wanting to be quiet. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly like cigarettes, and his hand on your hip tightened, fingers curling into the fabricâ pulling you closer by increments. When you pulled back, his eyes were still closed. They opened slowly, and the look in them was the one you'd come to recognise over the past three weeks on tourâthat almost startled expression, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real and here and sitting on his lap.
"You're beautiful," he said. The words came out low and plain, no performance in them, none of that rockstar charm you expected from him. Just a statement of fact, the way someone might note the weather. "You know that? I look at you sometimes and I justâ" He stopped, shaking his head as he laughed, barely audible. "I forget what I was going to say."
You smiled. Your fingers found the collar of his worn t-shirt and you straightened it, a small, unnecessary gesture. "Thank you for writing that."
"Thank you for being here." His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton. "I mean it. This tourâ has been the best one yet for me. I play better when you're in the room, I write better when you're here, I sleep better when you're in the bunk with me. I didn't know that was a thing I needed, and then you showed up, and now I can't remember what it was like before."
Your hand stilled on his collar. You looked at himâ the strong line of his jaw, the shadow along his throat where he hadn't shaved, the way the dim amber light caught his eye. His face was open in a way that his face never was onstage or in interviewsâ this was the face he only showed you, and seeing it made something inside you shift and settle, like a key finding its lock.
You kissed him again. Deeper this time, your hand sliding from his collar to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. He responded in kind, his mouth opening against yours, his tongue finding yours in a slow, unhurried rhythm that matched the circles his thumb was drawing on your lower back. His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, his fingers curling around the back of your neck, and he held you there, kissing you with the same focus he brought to the bassâ present and attentive.
You shifted on his lap, turning to face him, your knees straddling his thighs. The t-shirt rode up, and you felt the worn denim of his jeans against your bare skin. He groaned softly against your mouthâ a sound barely louder than a breathâ and his hands slid down to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips.
"We can't," he murmured against your lips. "Everyone'sâ"
"I know." You pressed your forehead to his. Your breath came faster now, and you could feel the heat building between your bodies, the way his thighs tensed beneath yours. "We'll be quiet."
He pulled back enough to look at you. His eyes were darker now, the amber light catching the dilation of his pupils. His tongue touched his lower lipâ a habit you'd noticedâand his hands tightened on your waist. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He exhaled. His hands slid lower, fingers curling under the hem of the t-shirt, and he pushed the fabric up slowly, his palms dragging against your skin, until the shirt bunched at your waist. He looked down at youâthe plain cotton underwear, the soft plane of your stomach, the way your breath was making your ribs expand and contractâ and his jaw tightened.
"Beautiful," he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself.
You leaned forward, letting your lust take over you as your lips find the shell of his ear, and whisper, "I want you to taste me."
Reiner's fingers dug into your hips. A sharp inhale, but he kept it controlled. Then he shifted, lifting you off his lap with an ease that made your stomach flip, and set you on the couch. He stood, and for a moment he just looked at youâflushed, breathing hard and sitting on the worn leather in his oversized t-shirt with your knees pressed togetherâ before he knelt on the floor in front of you.
His hands found your knees. He parted them gently, firmly, and settled between your legs, his palms warm on your inner thighs. You could feel the calluses on his fingertipsâ rough patches on the pads of his fingers and the side of his thumb âand the texture of them against your skin made you shiver.
He leaned in. His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh, just above your knee, and you felt the warmth of his breath, the slight drag of his stubble. He kissed a slow path upwardâanother kiss, and another, each one a little higher, each one lingering a beat longer than the last. When he reached the crease where your thigh met your hip, he paused, his nose brushing the cotton of your underwear, and you heard him inhale.
Your hand flew to your mouth. You bit down on the side of your index finger, your teeth pressing into the skin. He glanced up at you, and the corner of his mouth twitchedâ that fucking almost-smileâ and then he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down, slow, the fabric sliding over your thighs and off. He tucked them into his back pocket without looking, his eyes never leaving you. "Lean back," he said, barely audible.
You did. The leather was cool against your back, and you let your head fall against the cushion, your hands gripping the armrest above you. Reiner's palms pressed your thighs wider, and he leaned in, and the first touch of his mouth wasâsoft. Unbearably soft. Just his lips, pressing against you, a kiss that was almost chaste except for the heat of it, the wetness, the way his breath came warm and steady against you.
The first touch of his mouth wasâ soft. Unbearably soft. Just his lips, pressing against you, a kiss that was almost chaste except for the heat of it, the wetness, the way his breath came warm and steady against your cunt. Your stomach tightenedâ and he lingered there, mouth closed, letting you feel only the pressure of his lips and the slow exhale of his breath, and the gentleness of it was worse than anything roughâhe knew that, you realised. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Then his tongue. A single, slow stroke, upward, parting you, and your teeth sank harder into the knuckle of your index fingerâ the taste of copper bloomed faintly against your molars where you'd bitten the inside of your cheek earlier. He tasted you with the same focus he brought to everythingâ so attentive, reading your body. His tongue mapped the terrain of you in slow, deliberate passes, learning which angles made your breath hitch and which made your thighs twitch against his palms. When he found the place that made your breath stutterâa specific, devastating spot just to the left of centerâ and he stayed there. Then backing off to trace a wider path before returning, always returning, like a phrase he kept revisiting until he found the exact right variation.
You bit your lip. The sound that wanted to escape was trapped behind your teeth, and it came out as a thin, strangled breath, barely audible above the hum of the bus. Reiner's hands tightened on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, and you felt him shift closer, his shoulders pressing firmer against the backs of your legs, spreading you wider. Then his mouth sealed over you and he suckedâ gently at first, a careful pull, then harder, his tongue working in tight, relentless circles against that spot he'd claimed. The wet sound of it was obscene in the small space, slick and rhythmic, and you clenched your jaw so hard your molars ached.
Your hand flew from the armrest to his hair. Your fingers tangled in the short strands, the bristle of it rough against your palms, and you held on, your hips tilting toward his mouth without meaning to. He made a sound against youâ a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through the swollen flesh of your cunt and radiated up through your pelvisâ and his grip on your thighs shifted. One hand slid beneath you, palm cupping your ass, fingers digging into the curve of flesh as he tilted you up toward his mouth. The angle changed. His tongue pressed deeper, the flat of it dragging over you in a long, slow stroke before narrowing to a point, flicking rapidly against your clit in a way that made your vision blur at the edges.
His hand beneath you squeezed, pulling you closer, fingers dimpling the flesh of your ass hard enough to leave marks, and his mouth returned to that place, his tongue working in a rhythm that built and built, steady as a bassline. Then his hand shifted. The one that had been gripping your thigh released, and his fingers slid through the wetness he'd spread and pressed into you.
Two fingers slid in with an ease that made your face burn, and he curled them immediately, finding the spot inside you with the same unerring accuracy he'd found everything else. The calluses on his fingertipsâ built up from years of pressing strings against metalâ dragged against that spot as he stroked, and the texture of it was unlike anything you'd felt before, rough and precise and devastating. He worked his fingers in time with his tongue, a syncopated rhythm that built complexity with every measure, his tongue circling your clit as his fingers curled and pressed and pulled. Your legs shook against his shoulders. Your hand in his hair yanked harder, pulling him closer, and the sound he made in responseâ a low, rumbling groan that vibrated through your cunt and into the base of your skullâ made your eyes roll back.
You were going to scream. You could feel it building in your chest, pressure behind your ribs, and you bit down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, copper sharp on your tongue. Your thighs began to tremble. The pressure was coiling low in your belly, tightening with every stroke, and you could feel yourself unravelingâyour breath coming in short, silent gasps, your toes curling against the leather, your hand in his hair gripping hard enough to hurt. He didn't stop. He didn't slow down. If anything, he pressed closer, his mouth working you with a dedication that made your vision blur at the edges.
"Reinerâ" The word came out as a whisper, barely a breath. "I'mâ"
He hummed again. That vibration. And it tipped you over.
Your orgasm hit like a chord struck hard and let to ringâ your whole body went taut, your thighs clamping around his head, your hand pressing flat against your own mouth to trap the sound that wanted to tear free. Your hips bucked against his face, and he held you steady, his mouth never leaving you, his tongue working you through every pulse until the trembling slowed and your body went loose. He pulled back slowly. His lips were swollen, glistening, and his eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. He wiped his mouth with the back of his handâ a gesture that was somehow both practical and unbearably intimateâand looked up at you.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice rough.
You nodded. You couldn't speak yet. Your breath was still coming in shallow pulls, and your hand was shaking when you reached for him. He understood. He stood, and you pulled him down to the couch, pushing him back against the cushions. He went willingly, his back against the armrest, his legs stretched out on the leather. You crawled over him, your knees on either side of his hips, and kissed him. You tasted yourself on his mouth, along with the faint hint of cigarettesâ and the intimacy of it made something twist in your chest.
Your hands found the hem of his t-shirt. You pulled it up, and he lifted his arms, letting you strip it off him. In the dim light, his chest was broad and toned. nd you couldn't help but lean to kiss his chest, and his hand came to the back of your head, holding you there.
Your fingers found his belt. The buckle clinked, and you both froze, looking toward the corridorâ but silence followed, the steady wheeze of sleep from the bunks. You exhaled and continued, working the buckle open, the button, then the zipper. He lifted his hips, and you pulled his jeans and boxers down just far enoughâ his cock, hard and flushed, springing free. He was thick, the head dark and slick, and the sight of him made your mouth water.
You shifted off his lap, turning around so your back was to him, and settled over him again, your knees straddling his thighs. You reached between your legs and positioned him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you felt him twitch in your hand, a pulse of heat against you.
"Slow," he murmured, his hands finding your hips, steadying you. "Iâwonât last long."
You sank down. The first inch made you gaspâ your teeth catching your lower lip, your hands gripping his knees. He was thick, and the stretch was a slow, full ache that radiated outward, but you took another inch, and another, your body opening around him, and behind you, you heard his breathâsharp, but controlled, his fingers digging into your hips. "Fuck," he breathed. "You feelâChrist."
You bottomed out. Your weight settled against him, and you sat there for a moment, adjusting, feeling him deep inside youâ the fullness of it, the pressure, the way your body throbbed around him in the aftershocks of your first orgasm. His hand came around your front, pressing flat against your lower belly as his thumb found your clit, resting there, not moving.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.
You nodded breathlessly. You lifted your hips, slow, and the drag of him inside youâ thick and hot and friction-perfectâ made your breath stutter. You sank back down, and the impact sent a jolt through you, your walls clenching around himâ he groaned, low and quiet, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade.
You set a rhythm. Slow, deliberate, each thrust a controlled rise and fall that let you feel every inch of him. The wet sounds of your body against his were quite loud in the quiet of the busâ the soft, slick noise of penetration, the creak of the leather couch, the harsh, controlled rhythm of your breathing; but you didn't care about being quiet anymore. You bit your lip, your eyes squeezed shut, and you moved faster, chasing the sensation that was building again, tighter this time, sharper.
His thumb began to move. Slow circles on your clit, timed to your rhythm, and the double sensationâ his cock inside you, his thumb outsideâ made your thighs shake. You dropped your head, your hair falling forward, and you braced your hands on his knees, riding him harder.
"Reinerâ" You couldn't help it. The name slipped out, barely a whisper, and his hips snapped up to meet yours, driving deeper. The sound that escaped you was a whimper, bitten off, swallowed.
"Shh." His hand left your hip and came up to cover your mouth. His palm pressed against your lips, and the gestureâ rough and tender at onceâ made something crack open inside you. You moaned against his hand, muffled, and he groaned in response, his hips bucking up into you. The angle shifted as he adjusted his stance, planting his feet more firmly on the floor. He was hitting something nowâ a place deep inside that made your vision white out at the edges, a blinding point of pleasure that obliterated everything else. You moved faster, desperate, chasing it, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his thighs through his jeans. The pressure on your clit was unbearable, his thumb working you relentlessly as he thrust up into you. Your breath came in short, sharp bursts through your nose, your body trembling on the edge, so close, the tension winding tighter and tighter with every stroke.
The sound of the door sliding open was distinct, a sharp mechanical snap that cut through the wet, heavy sounds of sex like a knife.
Your eyes flew open, panic flooding your system, freezing your blood even as your body continued to move on autopilot. The dim amber light of the lounge spilled into the corridor, silhouetting the figure standing there. It was Jean. He was shirtless, his pale skin catching the warm light, the defined lines of his chest and stomach on full display. He wore only a pair of loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the drawstring loose, the fabric thin enough to show the shadow of his hip bones. He held a water bottle, his hand frozen in mid-air, his eyes wide as they adjusted to the scene on the couch.
"Shit," Jean breathed, the word loud in the sudden stillness. "Sorryâ fuck, my bad guys."
He didn't leave though. His eyes were locked on the point where your bodies joined, taking in the flush of your skin, the sheen of sweat, the way Reiner's large hand was clamped over your mouth. You tried to stop moving, to scramble off Reiner's lap and cover yourself, but Reiner's grip on your waist was iron. His fingers dug into your flesh, holding you in place, keeping you impaled on him. He didn't stop when Jean stood there, if anythingâ the interruption seemed to pour gasoline on the fire of his arousal. He thrust up into you, harder than before, a deliberate, deep stroke that forced a muffled cry from your throat against his palm. The wet sound of his cock sliding into your pussy was unmistakable, and Jean's eyes tracked the movement with a fixation that made your stomach flip.
Reiner turned his head, looking at his bandmate over your shoulder. A slow, arrogant smirk spread across his face, his eyes challenging. He didn't miss a beat, his hips continuing to roll, grinding his cock into you while Jean stood there, exposed and awkward. The muscles in Reiner's arms flexed as he held you steady, the tendons in his neck taut, his whole body radiating a cocky, territorial energy.
"Like what you see, Jean?" Reiner's voice was a rough rasp, laced with cocky amusement. He punctuated the question with a sharp thrust that made your whole body jolt, your breasts bouncing with the force of it. You stared at Jean, your face burning with a mix of humiliation and a dark, twisted arousal. Jean gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. His gaze flicked up to Reiner's face, then back down to your trembling body, lingering on the way your thighs were spread wide across Reiner's lap, the way your pussy was stretched around his cock. The grey sweatpants were doing a poor job of concealing his reaction; you could see the outline of his dick thickening, lengthening as he watched you being fucked. The fabric tented obscenely, the head of his cock pressing against the thin grey cotton. He was getting hard right there in the doorway, and he wasn't hiding it well.
"Reiner," you tried to say his name, to tell him to stop, to push him away, but it came out as a muffled, garbled sound against his hand. The shock of his boldness, the sheer audacity of continuing while being watched, short-circuited your shame. The pleasure was too intense, the friction too perfectâ and your body betrayed you, clenching around him, your hips instinctively grinding down to take him deeper. The thought of Jean watching, of the Jean Kirstein getting hard because of you, because of this, sent a bolt of heat straight to your core, and you hated how good it felt.
Jean seemed to realise he was staring at something private, something that was spiraling out of his control now. He shifted his weight, the fabric of his sweatpants rustling, and turned around quickly, facing the corridor wall. "I'm... I'm just gonna go," he muttered, his voice tight and strained. But even with his back turned, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. The tent in his sweatpants was still visible from the side, the hard length of his cock straining against the grey fabric. He didn't move immediately, his feet rooted to the spot, as if his body was at war with his mind.
But the image was burned into your mindâ the way his eyes had widened, the way he had hardened, and the thrill of being caught. Reiner felt your reaction, the way your pussy fluttered and squeezed around him at the sight of Jean. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your back, his chest pressing flush against you. "Fuck," Reiner growled, his rhythm turning frantic. He abandoned the slow, teasing circles on your clit and pressed down hard, rubbing the sensitive nub in time with his jagged thrusts. "You like that, huh? You like him watching?" His voice was a dark, breathless thing in your ear.Â
You shook your head, denying it, but your body screamed yes. The tension that had been building snapped, rushing through you like a dam breakingâ and your vision blurred, white spots dancing across your eyes as the orgasm tore through you. You cried out against his hand, a long, muffled wail, your thighs shaking violently, your inner walls rippling and contracting around his pistoning cock. The pleasure crashed over you in waves, each thrust prolonging it, his thumb grinding your clit through the aftershocks until you were sobbing against his palm, overstimulated and wrecked.
Reiner didn't stop. He rode out your climax, chasing his own. "I'm gonna come," he gritted out, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "Gonna fill you up." His thrusts grew erratic, losing their rhythm, his hips snapping up with a desperate, animal urgency. You felt his cock thicken inside you, the pulse of it against your swollen walls.
With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His hips jerked erratically, and you felt the hot, thick spurts of his release painting your insides. He held you there, impaled on him, his hand still tight over your mouth as he emptied himself, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. His body shuddered, his grip on your waist bruising, and he let out a low, satisfied groan that vibrated through your whole body.
The bus was silent, save for the heavy sound of your breathing and the distant thud of Jean's retreating footsteps fading down the hall. Reiner slowly removed his hand from your mouth, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. You slumped against him, boneless and spent, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The reality of what just happenedâ the boldness, the audience, the sheer intensity of itâ settled over you, leaving you breathless and shocked, your skin tingling in the aftermath. Reiner pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his smirk still in place. "Should've seen his face," he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.Â
The next city is Stohess, and it rains the entire day. You spend most of it in the back lounge with Reiner, who has reclaimed a notebook and is filling pages with the particular focus you've come to recogniseâ head bent, one hand moving steadily, occasionally pausing to play something quiet on the backup bass and then immediately crossing it out, dissatisfied.Â
Sound check that evening runs long, the venue's monitor system fighting Armin's keyboard rig for reasons nobody can immediately diagnose, and you end up sitting on a flight case near the side of the stage watching the five of them work through itâ Levi pacing with his arms crossed, occasionally saying something short and clipped that makes everyone move faster, Armin patiently re-patching cables, Jean increasingly impatient, Connie testing the kit every ninety seconds whether anyone asks him to or not.
Reiner finds you between attempts, crossing the stage with his bass still on, and crouches down in front of where you're sitting so you're eye level.
"This is taking forever," he says. "Sorry."
"You don't have to apologise for sound check."
"I know. I still feel like I should." He looks at you for a moment, and something in his expression shifts softer. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," you assure him.
"You don't have to stay for the whole thingâ you could go back to the bus."
"I want to watch."
He studies you for a second longer, like he's deciding whether to believe you, and then nods, apparently satisfied, and reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that has nothing to do with the chaos happening twenty feet away. "Okay," he says quietly. "I'll be quick."
A voice suddenly cuts in from behind him. "So, uh..." Jean says, strolling over. "Are you gonna let me join in next time, or what?" You nearly choke, and Reiner closes his eyes in annoyance. For one brief second, Jean looks far too pleased with himself. "What?" he says innocently. "I'm just asking. Last night I had a much better view than I was expecting."
"Jeanâ"
"I'm saying I saw enough that I think I deserve some sort of reward,â Jean grins. Reiner slowly stands, staring at him with the exhausted patience of a man who has tolerated far too much for far too long.
"You are never touching her. Sheâs mine, I hope you know that."Â
Jean puts a hand dramatically against his chest. "Wow. Harsh."Â
"Not harsh enough,â Reiner practically growls. You, meanwhile, have completely forgotten how to form a coherent thought. There was something about the way Reiner said it, the way he had called you hisâ sent an unexpected warmth flooding through your chest. Hearing Reiner say it so matter-of-factly, as though it was the most obvious fact in the world that nobody else would ever get that close to you, made your heart do something embarrassingly dramatic. You bit the inside of your cheek, tryingâ and failingâ not to smile.
Still laughing to himself, Jean lifts both hands in surrender and begins backing away. Then Reiner reaches out and squeezes your knee once before heading back toward the centre of the stage.
The show that night is goodâ they're all good, you've come to understand, in the way that professionals who care are simply, reliably goodâ but there's a moment you wonât forget. Reiner takes the opening verse on bass alone on one of their songs, stepping forward to the edge of the stage in a way he doesn't usually do, finding you immediately in the wings where you're standing with Sasha and Mikasa.
He doesn't look away for the entire verse.
It's not subtle. Sasha was right about thatâ there's nothing careful or hidden about the way he looks at you now, in front of a few thousand people, in front of the rest of the band, in front of Levi who is undoubtedly clocking it from somewhere near the soundboard with his arms crossed and an expression you can't see from here but can absolutely imagine. Reiner plays the verse looking directly at youâ and when the chorus comes in and the rest of the band joins, he finally looks away, but not before something passes between you that feels less like a performance and more like a promise.
"He's going to get a reputation," Sasha murmurs, beside you, "for being completely obsessed with his new girlfriend."
You don't correct the word. You're not sure, this far in, that you'd want to. Mikasa, on your other side, says nothing, but you notice she's not looking at the stage anymore eitherâ she's looking at Eren, who has apparently chosen this exact moment to glance toward the wings as well, toward her specifically, with an expression that's trying very hard to look like it's about the song and is not succeeding even slightly.
"This entire band," Sasha says, observing both of these things happening simultaneously, "has a serious problem with subtlety."
The lights go dark after the last song and the crowd becomes something animalâ twenty thousand people chanting, stamping, the sound of it rolling through the venue in waves that you feel in your sternum from the wings. Someone near the front has started a rhythmic clap that the rest of the floor picks up within seconds, and the noise builds and builds until it's less a crowd and more a single living thing demanding something back.
Reiner comes off stage first, slightly damp from the set, and walks straight to youâ not to Levi, not to the water station, to youâ and kisses your temple once, brief but certain, before turning back to the stage. You watch him pull the band together in the wings, one hand on Eren's shoulder, saying something low that makes Jean nod and Connie immediately light up and reach for his sticks. Armin is already turning back toward the keys. The whole thing takes about thirty seconds.
The band walks back out, and the crowd absolutely loses its mind.
Reiner walks to the mic and waits, patiently, for the noise to settleâ and it does, because he has the kind of stillness that makes rooms go quiet, always has, and twenty thousand people are apparently not immune to it. He looks out at the crowd for a moment. Then he says it:
"This one's new. We haven't played it before."
Sasha grabs your arm with both hands. "It's dedicated to someone who came into my life very recently. AndâŚ.very unexpectedly. She told me it would be one night only." The crowd makes a noise as you felt your heart stop.
"But she was wrong," he says, and looks back at the wings, at you, and begins to play. âThis songâs called One Night Only!âÂ
Sasha, beside you, grabs your arm with both hands while screaming. You don't look at her. You look at him, at the stage, at Reiner playing One Night Only for the first time in front of twenty thousand people, still looking toward the wings every few bars like he needs to confirm you're still there, and you think about a rooftop three weeks ago and some words said between two people who both knew what it meant.
It seems like one night only, became one night more.
Ý âĄ Ý . I'm in the process of writing a part two for rockstar reiner and I wanna know is there anything anyone would like to see in it or certain scenes etc, (I'm here for the fan service fr). I even thought maybe.....another band member gets involved.....đ....what we thinkin >:)
