The Gladiator ✦Attack on Titan✦
Reiner Braun .ᐟ Ancient Rome AU .ᐟ
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summary: It's Ancient Rome, and you are the emperor's daughter. While at The Colosseum to watch a game, a certain Gladiator catches your attention— they call him Reiner, and he has never lost in the arena. When your father plans to marry you off to a senator triple your age without your choice or say, you decide to make one last choice yourself....
Gladiator! Reiner x Female! Reader (oneshot)
a/n: someone take my laptop away from me right now I can’t stop writing AU reiner oneshots :') he's so handsome. Like I always say this is defo not historically accurate....but pls enjoy anyway.
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Stola: traditional garment of Roman women, corresponding to the toga that was worn by men.
Lanista: a man who purchased and looked after gladiators.
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The roar of the crowd hit you before the heat did. You pressed yourself closer to the stone balustrade of the imperial box, your silk stola pooling at your feet, the gold wreath your handmaiden had threaded into your hair already wilting in the brutal afternoon sun. The Colosseum breathed like a living thing around you, forty thousand Romans screaming as one, their voices crashing against the stone walls and rising into a sky the colour of hammered copper.
Your father, the Emperor, sat on the cushioned throne to your left, one ringed hand lifted in a gesture of bored indulgence. He had organised this particular set of games to celebrate the anniversary of some military victory— you had stopped paying attention during the formal announcements. Beside him, senators and patricians leaned into one another's ears, exchanging the currency of the powerful: gossip and false promises.
You weren't interested. Instead you chose to watch the sand. The gladiators entered through the Gate of Life in a column of two, and the crowd's noise shifted—a ripple of something sharper, anticipation cutting through the usual bloodlust. You had attended the games before, of course. You were expected to as the Emperor's daughter. You had learned to keep your expression composed, your hand fanning at a rate that suggested mild entertainment or divine boredom, depending on which you wished to project. But there was something about the last man through the gate.
He did not walk the way the others walked. The rest came out with their chins up, performing bravado for the mob—and you had learned, over years of attending these things, to read the difference between genuine confidence and the armoured fear that wore confidence as a mask. This one walked with his head slightly lowered and level, in the manner of a man who had stopped needing the crowd's approval some considerable time ago and had not found himself missing it. The crowd still roared for him anyway. His helmet was tucked under one arm, unbothered, as though he had made a private decision about when he would be ready and did not intend to be hurried.
You noticed the size of him first. He stood a full head above the man beside him, and it was not only height it was the breadth of him, the sheer physical scale, the kind of body that did not look assembled but forged. Shoulders that carried the width of someone who had done real work for years without stopping, chest and arms that the standard-issue bronze armour—worn and scored with the honest marks of sustained use— could barely contain. He carried a short sword and an oblong shield, the favoured style of a fighter who won on strength and precision rather than spectacle. Then you noticed everything else about him.
His hair was a pale gold, not the bright, showy gold of a man who knew he was handsome, but the natural, almost ashen blonde of someone who had simply been made that way and thought nothing of it. Thick, cropped close at the sides and slightly longer at the crown, swept back from his face in the functional way of a man unconcerned with presentation. Beneath it, the jaw was something that should not have been legal to possess…..square and heavy-boned, set with the kind of permanence that suggested it had never once been soft, dusted with several days of darker blonde stubble that sat not as style but as the simple mark of a man who had more important things to attend to. His brow was strong and drew slightly inward in its natural resting state, giving him an expression of perpetual, serious assessment. The face of a man built not for beauty but for purpose—and somehow, because of that, far more beautiful than he had any right to be.
Then he looked up. Even from this distance— thirty feet of open air and the full width of the arena floor, you felt the particular quality of those eyes. A soft hazel, the green and browns of deep water or ancient bronze. They moved over the crowd not with the performing sweep of a man seeking admiration, but with the flat, methodical attention of someone taking proper inventory of a space. They landed on the imperial box for a moment.
You did not look away. He did though, without hurry and embarrassment, in the way of a man who looks away because he has seen what he needed to see and not because he was startled into it. He put on his helmet. You felt the loss of his face as a small, specific, entirely unreasonable deprivation.
"Who is that?" you asked, leaning toward your handmaiden Mina, who stood two steps behind you. "That gladiator– the one at the back."
"His name’s Reiner, my lady," she murmured, low enough that only you could hear. "They call him the Ursus—which means ‘the Bear’. He’s fresh out of the Ludus Magnus. Twelve bouts, and twelve victories. He’s never lost."
The Bear. You looked at him settling his shield onto his forearm, rolling his neck once with the unhurried ease of long habit, and thought that yes—yes, that was exactly right. Not because he was lumbering or slow. Because of the particular quality of the danger in him. Contained—the kind of strength that did not need to announce itself.
You had seen gladiatorial combat your whole life. You knew the grammar of it— the footwork that told you more about a man's intention than his face did, the difference between a fighter who was performing and one who was solving a problem in real time. Most gladiators fought the former way, even the good ones. They understood that the crowd was the point.
Reiner fought as though the crowd did not exist. Every movement was purposeful and nothing more. When his opponent feinted right, Braun had already rotated, shield repositioned, gladius angled at the exact gap in the man's guard that the feint had opened. He was never reacting. He was always, already—there, half a second ahead, and it did not look like luck or instinct. It looked like thinking. Calm, thorough, and very fast.
There was a moment midway through the bout when his opponent landed a blow on his shield that should have rocked him— the force of it was visible even from the box, the kind of hit that sent other men stumbling, scrambling for footing. Reiner took it and did not move, not even a step. The shield arm absorbed it, and he used the man's own momentum to redirect him, turning the impact into a pivot, and suddenly the positions had reversed and his opponent was the one without ground. The crowd lost their minds. You did not, You were too busy watching his face.
For a single moment, when the pivot landed perfectly, something crossed his expression— not triumph, not satisfaction in the showy sense. Something quieter than that. The look of a man who had worked out the answer to a difficult problem and found it to be correct. Then it was gone, and the focused blankness was back, and he moved to finish the bout. It lasted nine minutes. At the end of it, Reiner had his opponent on one knee in the sand, the tip of his sword resting with studied, almost gentle precision against the man's throat. He held the position, waiting. Then he looked up— not to the crowd, not to the senators, but directly and without ceremony to your father's box.
The Emperor raised his hand, showing mercy. The crowd screamed their disapproval. Reiner removed his sword. He did not offer his opponent a hand—he had already turned away, shield returned to his side, walking back toward the Gate of Life with the same unhurried, level stride he had entered with. He did not raise his sword. He did not acknowledge the noise of the crowd of the fame of it. The crowd roared louder for his indifference than for anything else all afternoon.
You pressed your fingers against the warm stone of the balustrade and told yourself, with the practised composure of a woman who had been raised in a palace, that the heat rising in your face was the sun.
Your father's banquet was held eleven days later. The great dining room of the palace: mosaic floor depicting Neptune commanding the sea, frescoed ceiling in midnight blue that had required— your tutors had once told you — the grinding of lapis lazuli imported from the eastern provinces at extraordinary expense. High table, senators, their wives arranged in the careful hierarchy of seating. Oysters on beds of salt— roasted peacock dressed with its own tail feathers spread behind it like a war banner was served. You had attended a hundred banquets. You were, by now, very good at them. But tonight your father had done something unusual.
"A novelty," he had said, with the idle satisfaction of a man whose novelties would be praised regardless. "We shall have some of our finest gladiators present at the meal. Let Rome see that the Emperor values his champions."
Values. You had watched the men file in through the servants' entrance— not the main doors— and take positions along the far wall. Six of them, and they had been given no tunics. Only short lengths of rough cloth at the waist, leaving their shoulders, arms, and chests entirely bare. An efficient visual vocabulary: not guests. Not even servants. Objects. Living trophies, displayed beside the peacock and the silver platters and the lapis ceiling to demonstrate your father's reach. You couldn't stand it. And yet the moment you saw him, you forgot, briefly, to maintain your disapproval.
Reiner was at the far end of the row. You had told yourself, in the eleven days since the arena, that you had been dramatic about it. That distance and spectacle had done the work— that any man, seen at thirty feet in the full theatre of the Colosseum, might seem unreasonably compelling, and that proximity would resolve him into something different. Something easier to file away and cease thinking about. You had been wrong, and you understood that now immediately and completely.
Without armour, without distance, in the warm lamplight, he was simply himself, and that was considerably harder to be sensible about than the armoured version. Taller than you, which you had clocked even from the box— that his height up close, was the kind of fact that reorganised the dimensions of a room. And without bronze to cover it: the size of those shoulders, earned and real and not remotely incidental. The defined lines of his chest and torso in the soft gold light, the flat plane of his stomach, the shape of his arms when he crossed them in front of him— the veins visible even from where you sat across the room. Old scars here and there, pale against the warm tone of his skin. The marks of a life spent being very good at something very dangerous. His jaw was sharper in person, you thought, stubble heavier than at the arena, a shade darker than the pale hair above it. The strong brow set in its habitual expression, with those dark hazel eyes, the slight green of them visible now even across the room, currently directed at the floor.
Not in deference. Not the performed invisibility of a slave making himself small for his masters' comfort. It was more deliberate than that. The studied in attention of a man who had decided this room did not merit him, and had placed his attention elsewhere, somewhere it would be better used, and was simply waiting for the evening to be over. A senator's wife near you laughed too loudly, and his eyes moved— one involuntary flicker toward the sound, and that was when they found you.
A beat of complete stillness between you, across all that distance and lamplight and expensive blue ceiling. You did not look away. You held his gaze the way you had in the arena, with a directness that you were fully aware was not appropriate for an Emperor's daughter at a formal dinner, and you held it anyway, and waited. He looked away first. But not cleanly— not the efficient, unbothered way he had from the arena box. There was something in it this time. A slight tension moving through that heavy jaw. A controlled exhale, barely visible, that told you the looking-away had cost him something. That it had required effort, and that the effort had not been nothing.
You picked up your wine cup and turned to the senator on your left, who was explaining his nephew's appointment to the quaestorship, and did not hear a single word he said.
The opportunity came between the third and fourth courses. The banquet had reached its midpoint chaos— conversations overlapping, wine doing its work on senatorial dignity, slaves weaving between couches with pitchers and platters in a choreography that left plenty of room for movement if one wished to move. You rose with the excuse of relieving yourself and crossed the room.
He was still at his post. Arms crossed over his bare chest, back against the stone wall, watching the room with that flat, cataloguing attention. Up close the lamplight found everything— the line of his collarbone, the shadow of a bruise on his right shoulder, yellowing at the edges and days old. The way his arms looked when folded like that. You stopped two feet in front of him and looked up. He looked down at you.
The difference in height, at this distance, was a newly specific thing. Those amber eyes, up close, were steadier than you expected— not cold, but very settled. The eyes of someone who had a great deal of interior life and had learned to keep it quiet. "I saw you in the arena," you tell him. "You didn't raise your sword after you won– to the crowd."
"No." His voice was low. Deeper than you had anticipated, and very direct, in the way of someone who had stopped troubling themselves to ornament what they said.
He considered you and your question, properly, the way you had watched him consider everything, as though giving a thing its due before responding. "Because I didn't win it for them."
"Then who did you win it for?"
A pause. Something shifted in his expression— not much, but perceptibly. A slight softening around that serious brow, as though the question had surprised something out of him. "That's not a short answer, my lady."
"The fourth course hasn't arrived yet," you smile. "I have time."
The corner of his mouth moved. Just barely— just the shape of something warmer than the careful blankness he wore in public spaces, something that lived close to the surface and surfaced only when he briefly forgot to prevent it. It made him look, for a single unguarded moment, like someone younger than the scars. "Do you always do this?" he said. Not unkindly. Almost quiet. "Ask the things you're not supposed to ask?"
"I ask what I want to know the answer to," you say. "The two tend to coincide more often than people find comfortable."
He looked at you. The kind of frank, unhurried appraisal that no man in this room would dare offer the Emperor's daughter, and which should have felt like an imposition and instead felt like the first honest thing that had happened to you all evening. Those eyes moved over your face with the same serious attention he gave the arena floor— actually looking, not performing looking. "You're not what I expected," he said quietly, only for you to hear.
"What did you expect?" You asked.
A breath. Something in his face shifted again, just fractionally, into a territory that was more unguarded than you thought he allowed himself. "Someone easier to stop thinking about."
The warmth moved through you before you could catch it, rising to your face faster than dignity could manage. Then footsteps—a senator, rounding the far end of the table, moving vaguely toward you, not looking yet but close enough to matter. Reiner's posture changed in an instant, the subtle, controlled shift of a very large man making himself somehow quieter, more composed.
"My lady." His voice dropped, almost a warning. "You shouldn't be talking to me."
You glanced at the senator, who had paused to address a slave and was not, at this moment, looking at you. You looked back at Reiner. "I'm aware of that."
He studied you. The amber eyes careful, the jaw held very still. "And?"
"And I don't particularly care."
The senator moved away. The moment settled. Reiner looked at you for another beat— something working behind those eyes, something deliberate and private— and then, quiet and entirely involuntary, the corner of his mouth pulled upward. Not a full smile. But the shape of one, underneath the careful surface, surfacing briefly before he put it back. It transformed him. That almost-smile— it made him look like someone you could make very poor decisions about, if you were not careful.
"I'm told you haven't lost in the arena," you say, because you needed to say something that was not that.
"Does that concern you? The possibility of losing?"
He considered it the way he considered everything— seriously and without performance. "No." A pause. "Because I know what I'm capable of. And I know I'm not done yet." Not arrogance, just the flat, settled truth of a man who knew himself thoroughly, including the things that cost him. You understood the difference, and the understanding did something to your chest that you chose not to examine closely.
"Reiner, isn't it?" you ask softly, even though you knew the answer already. You were testing the weight of it in your mouth the way you had been wanting to do since the arena. "That's your name."
His jaw tightened. The almost-smile was gone. "My lady," he said—low, careful, a warning dressed as a formality. Don't.
You gave him a quiet nod and turned. Walked back across the mosaic floor, across Neptune's sea, across all that expensive lapis blue — took your seat, smiled at the senator's wife who said she had missed you, and ate the next four courses without tasting a single one of them.
Your father made the announcement at breakfast, four days later, with the same casual delivery he used for all things he had decided entirely alone and expected to be praised for.
"I've acquired the contract on the gladiator," he said, dipping bread into oil with the air of a man discussing a new horse. "The one who has been winning all these bouts. The Ursus, they call him."
The Ursus. You kept your expression exactly where it was. "The lanista was reluctant," your father continued, pleased with himself. "I paid him three times the market rate. But the crowd's reaction was remarkable—the man is clearly valuable, and I intend to display that value appropriately! He'll be quartered here at the palace until I send him to Tuscany, make him available for private matches and for the games in autumn."
"Quartered here?" you repeated, in your most neutral tone. “With…us?”
"In the lower wing. With proper supervision and training, of course." Your father waved a ring-heavy hand. "He is still a slave, whatever the crowd thinks of him."
You nodded and finished your bread, and said nothing further, and thought about the way Reiner had looked at you across the crowded arena with those careful, shifting eyes that missed nothing. Quartered here.
You saw him three days after his arrival, entirely by accident. Which meant, of course, that you had engineered it with considerable care.
Your habit of walking the upper colonnade in the late morning was well-established and above suspicion. The fact that the upper colonnade overlooked the palace's outer court— where your father had apparently instructed that his new acquisition be permitted to train daily— was a geographic coincidence you had only discovered after some careful and entirely casual questioning of the household staff.
You were reading. The scroll was open in your hands, and this was, technically, true, in the same way that it is technically true to say a ship is in the water while it is on fire. You had not read a word in twenty minutes. He was training below you, only the short training tunic, moving through sword forms alone with the same total, settled concentration you had watched from the arena box— but different at this proximity….more immediate. You could see the actual weight of each movement now, the way his body carried the work rather than performed it. The morning light cut across the planes of his face when he turned, caught the pale gold of his hair and the sheen of exertion across the broad width of his shoulders. The definition of his arms when he drove the practice blade through a form was not the kind of thing you could look at neutrally, and you had been trying.
You looked back at your scroll. He had not looked up.
The following morning you were reading in the colonnade again, the scroll open in your hands at what you were fairly certain was the same passage as yesterday. About halfway through the morning, he looked up. His gaze found you with no searching at all, as though he had known precisely where to look. Those eyes held yours for one flat, deliberate second— assessing and carrying the faint weight of someone who had filed a great deal of information away and was deciding what to do with it— and then he went back to his work. You smiled to yourself.
The senator's name was Barro, and he was fifty-three years old, your father informed you, over the morning meal, in the same tone he used when announcing new acquisitions. He had been married twice before. Both wives deceased. He controlled the grain contracts for three of the southern provinces, held six seats in the upper senate, and had expressed to your father a formal interest in the Emperor's unmarried daughter. The dowry arrangement was generous, your father noted— he asked very little, which spoke to his goodwill.
"It is a sensible match," your father said simply. "His connections in the south will be useful." He looked at you then—not unkindly, but with the particular quality of a man who has made a decision and is now informing a piece of furniture about it. "You are a woman now. This has gone on long enough. You will meet him at the feast, and then a formal date shall be set.”
You excused yourself quickly. Walked with perfect composure down the full length of the dining room, through the colonnade, and into the corridor that led to the private gardens. You made it as far as a stone bench, before your hands began to shake. Your future husband was fifty-three years old….
You sat on the edge of the bench and stared at the fresco opposite— some pastoral scene, sheep in a field, an entirely cheerful rendering of the world….and felt the future close around you like a room with no windows. You had always known this was coming. Every daughter of every powerful man in Rome knew this was coming. You had grown up watching it happen to other women, had noted the mechanics of it, had told yourself you had made your peace with it. But in reality, you had not made your peace with it.
The shaking moved from your hands to somewhere deeper, some structural place, and before you had entirely decided to you were on your feet and moving, not because you had anywhere to go but because stillness had become suddenly unbearable, and the walls of the palace were suddenly close and fragrant with wealth and absolutely, crushingly airless. You went outside.
The court outside was bright and hot at this hour, the midday sun high and merciless. You registered, peripherally, that someone was training, you could hear the sound of exertion, the rhythmic impact of a practice blade against the post— and then you were past it, moving along the lower path toward the old garden without consciously choosing to, your vision narrowed to the path immediately in front of you and the effort of keeping your breathing even.
You did not manage it. Somewhere on the lower path, with a few of the pine trees closing over you and the city noise muffled by distance and old stone, something in your chest cracked open, and what came out was not dignified. You found a mossy, stone bench at the base of one of the old pines— but you decided to not even take the bench, but the ground instead— and pressed your back to the bark and pulled your knees up and let the tears come, because there was no one here to see and you were so tired of performing composure for a life that had never once asked your permission.
You heard him before you saw him. and you recognised him just from his footsteps. Not footsteps exactly— he moved too quietly for that, for a man of his size it was almost unreasonable—but a change in the quality of the air. A particular, weighted stillness that preceded his presence the way pressure preceded a storm. You turned your face away and pressed the back of your wrist against your eyes, which was a futile exercise.
"My lady?" His voice was different here, low and careful– but something rougher in it than his usual register, something that was working not to show alarm and not quite succeeding.
A pause. "You're sitting on the ground."
Silence for a moment. Then the shift of weight, the quiet sound of something large and careful lowering itself— and his presence was suddenly at your level, close but not crowding, and when you finally turned your head he was there. Crouched on the path in his training tunic, hair tousled from exertion, jaw dark with days of stubble, those hazel eyes watching you with an expression that had none of its usual guardedness in it. Simply, openly concerned, in the way of someone who has no particular gift for concealing the things that matter to them, and has perhaps stopped trying. He looked— in the unmediated afternoon light, on the ground, in the old garden with the pine shadows moving over him— like something that had no business existing in the same world as that old senator named Barro, and that thought alone was what did it. Your eyes filled with tears again before you could stop them.
Something moved across his face. He looked, for a moment, genuinely at a loss— this man who fought for a living, confronted with a problem that fighting would not solve, the strong brow drawn in and the jaw held tight with the effort of not knowing what to do. And then he simply sat down on the path beside you. Not close enough to be improper. Close enough to be there.
"Tell me," he said simply. And you told him.
Not gracefully or in the rhetorically structured way you were trained to communicate, but haltingly, in pieces, the way things come out when you are sitting on the ground under a pine tree with your composure already in ruins. The senator, his age, and the word sensible in your father's mouth like something clean and reasonable. Reiner listened to you. He did not interrupt, did not offer comfort, did not produce the polite, deflecting sounds people made when they wanted a difficult thing to simply stop. He listened with his full, complete attention, his gaze on your face, and you felt the particular, almost foreign relief of being genuinely heard. When you finished, the garden was quiet.
"I know it is the way of things," you said, after a moment. Your voice was steadier. Wrung out, but steadier. "I have always known that. Since I was a girl."
"Knowing something is the way of things," he said gently, "doesn't make it easier to carry."
The word carry, and not accept, but carry, as though he understood it as a weight rather than a condition. You looked at him. "No," you agreed. "It doesn't."
Silence. The old fountain somewhere behind you ran its quiet commentary. "He is rather old," Reiner said, and there was something compressed in it. Something being held carefully still.
"Yes….he is.” A muscle moved in his jaw. "Reiner," you said softly.
He looked at you. Not the trained, careful look he usually had, but the real one. The one you had first seen from thirty feet above in the imperial box, the one that took nothing for granted and missed nothing. "I have spent my whole life doing what I was supposed to do," you say. "Sitting where I was placed. Smiling when I was told to. Being useful in the ways that were permitted." Your throat was tight. "I don't want– the first time I am truly chosen—I don't want it to be by a man my father sold me to." He was very still. The kind of stillness that in him was not absence but the opposite— everything present, everything attending. "I want to choose something," you said, and your voice had dropped to barely above a whisper now. "Once. Before I lose the right to."
The words settled in the quiet garden and stayed there. You watched his face— the way something moved through it like a tide he was working very hard against, the jaw set, his eyes intent, the whole of him suddenly still in the way of things that were exercising enormous and deliberate restraint. "You don't know what you're asking," he said lowly.
"I know exactly what I'm asking."
"There is no one. You know there's no one." You held his gaze. "I am not asking the gladiator. I am not asking my father's property. I am asking you. Reiner." His name in your mouth, deliberate, the way you had learned it did something to him when you used it—the slight tension it drew through that heavy jaw, the fractional shift in those hazel eyes. "I am asking you for one thing I am allowed to choose, and then I will go and marry a man I have never met, and I will be grateful, and I will be good—" your voice cracked, only slightly, "—and I will not ask you for anything else."
"Don't say that," he said. Very quietly. The roughness in it, the way it was not quite level— told you more than he had intended.
"You deserve—" He stopped. The brow drawn in, that expression that lived somewhere between severity and something far more complicated and far more honest. "This isn't— I am not what you deserve. You deserve someone who can—"
"You are the only person in this palace," you interrupt him, "who has ever spoken to me as though I were real."
The garden held its breath, and he looked at you for a long moment— that full, assessing look that took nothing for granted— and something in it shifted. Not broke, just shifted, like the way stone shifts under long and patient pressure. His gaze moved, briefly and entirely involuntarily, to your mouth, and came back up.
"Once," he said. Very quietly. Like a man conceding something enormous. Your heart knocked against your ribs so hard you were certain he could hear it. He moved slowly, without the sudden quality of something decided in haste, giving you time and space and every opportunity to change your mind, which you did not take. His hand came to your face— careful and slightly callused, the hand of someone who worked—and the touch of it against your jaw was so startling in its gentleness that you went very still.
He tilted your chin up, fractionally, and then he kissed you. It was not urgent. That was what struck you first, the absence of urgency, the way he kissed you like he had time, like the afternoon sun had stopped and the city beyond the hill had gone quiet, like there was nothing in the world except this garden and this moment and the specific, unhurried warmth of him. His mouth was soft against yours and certain, the way all his movements were certain— considered, deliberate, entirely present. You reach up, your fingers diving into the thick, pale hair of his, gripping the strands tightly. Reiner lets out a guttural groan into your mouth, his muscles locking up as the sharp sensation of your grip fuels his fire. The sound sends a jolt of heat straight to to your core, and he kissed you a little deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him with a soft sigh. The kiss transformed then, gaining heat and intensity, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that had been carefully restrained until now. His other hand came to rest on your waist, fingers splayed wide against the thin fabric of your stola, and you could feel the heat of his palm through the material.
Reiner's kisses grew more demanding, more possessive, as if he were trying to memorise the shape of your mouth, the taste of you. You responded in kind, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The sun beat down on you both through the trees, making your skin prickle with heat and sweat, the air thick with the scent of jasmine from the nearby flowers and something else. "Are you certain?" he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with desire. "Because once we start, I don't think I can stop-"
You answered by pulling him into another kiss, your tongue tangling with his as your hands roamed over the hard planes of his chest. Through his tunic, you could feel the ridges of muscle, the solid strength of him, and it made you clench with anticipation. His hands grew bolder too, sliding down to cup your ass through your dress, squeezing gently before lifting you slightly. Reiner broke the kiss long enough to look at you, his hazel eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he said, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "So fucking beautiful."
Then he was kissing you again, more desperately this time, his hands exploring your body with urgent reverence. He found the ties of your stola and loosened them with practiced ease, the fabric pooling around your feet until you stood before him in just your thin undertunic. The blazing sun kissed your bare skin as his hands mapped your curves, his calloused fingers leaving trails of fire everywhere they touched. You tugged at his tunic, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and he helped you pull it over his head. The sight of him shirtless again stole your breath– his well-defined pectorals and a stomach ridged with muscle. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin, making him gleam in the sunlight, and you couldn't resist reaching out to trace the lines of his abdomen.
Reiner's breath hitched at your touch, and then he was lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his toned waist as he pressed your back against the rough bark of the nearby tree. The friction against your bare skin was delicious, and you rolled your hips against him, feeling his hard cock through the remaining fabric, causing him to let out a low groan. He supported you easily, his hands firm against your ass as he devoured your mouth, his kisses growing more frantic, more desperate.
"Reiner," you gasped loudly, not even caring who heard you anymore. He moved his attention to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there. "Please...I need you..."
He set you down gently, turning you to face the tree as his hands pulled down your undertunic, kissing your spine gradually as his hands roamed over your body. He reached round to the front to squeeze your breasts, his calloused hand palming the newly exposed skin before pinching your nipples until they were hard pebbles begging for more attention. You whimpered and pressed yourself back against him, grinding your ass against his erection, needing more, needing everything from him.
He leads you away from the tree, towards the low, mossy stone bench. He bends you over it delicately, the cool stone a shocking contrast against your heated skin. His fingers found the hem of your undertunic, lifting it over your hips gingerly, and you heard the sharp intake of his breath as your bare ass was exposed to him. His hands caressed your cheeks, spreading them slightly, and you trembled with anticipation. When his fingers finally brushed against the wet heat between your legs, you cried out. "Please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.
"Are you sure?" he asked again, his voice thick with emotion.
"Yes," you breathed, pushing back against his hands. "Gods, yes, Reiner. I want you."
You heard the rustle of fabric as he freed his cock finally and felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your entrance. He entered you slowly, deliberately, giving you time to adjust to his size. You were wet and ready for him, but still the stretch burned slightly, a delicious pain that made you gasp. "Are you…okay?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
You could only nod, pushing back against him, taking him deeper and getting used to him inside of you. He began to move then, slowly at first, then building a steady rhythm that had you panting and moaning his name into the hot air. The stone bench scraped against your palms, the sun beat down on your back, and Reiner's thick cock filled you perfectly, hitting spots inside you that you didn't even know existed. "F-fuck, you're tight," he groaned, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts relentlessly into you. "Feels so good– so perfect."
He reached around to rub your clit as he fucked you, his movements growing more confident and demanding as he chased his high. You could feel sweat dripping down your back, could hear the slap of skin against skin, could smell the combined scent of your arousal in the hot air around you. Your orgasm built quickly, a tight coil in your belly that threatened to snap at any moment.
Just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge he pulled out gently, leaving you empty and wanting. You whined in protest, turning to face him with confusion in your eyes.
"I-I want to see you," he breathed, his voice husky with desire. "I want to see your face."
You nodded, understanding immediately what he wanted. You pushed him down onto the soft grass beneath the bench, the sun slipping through the trees to beat down on his muscular chest. His cock stood proudly, slick with your arousal and glistening in the bright light as you licked your lips. You pulled your undertunic completely off, Reiner’s eyes trailing over your body with lust as you straddled him, positioning yourself above his hard length.
Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, taking control as he filled you once again. His deep groan was music to your ears, his calloused hands rushing up to grip your hips as you began to move. The sun shone past the trees and warmed your back as you rode him, setting a pace that had both of you gasping for air. "Fuck, you're incredible," he panted, his voice strained with pleasure. "I can't last long like this– fuck." His praises fueled your desire, and he whimpered as you moved faster, bouncing harder on his thick cock. The heat and sweat intensified every sensation, made every slide of his dick against your walls feel more electric as your slick bodies were moulding together. Your breasts bounced with each movement, and Reiner's eyes were fixed onto them, his hands occasionally reaching up from his tight grip onto your hips to pinch your hardened nipples.
"Gods…yes," you moaned, feeling your orgasm surge again, stronger this time. "Just like that, Reiner."
At the encouragement Reiner began to thrust up to meet your downward movements, creating a rhythm that felt primal and raw. The grass beneath you provided a soft bed for your knees, but the rest of the world faded away. There was only the heat of the sun, the strength of his body beneath yours, the incredible fullness as he filled you again and again. "Yes," you cried out, gasping for breath. "Don't stop. P-please don't stop."
"Never," he grunted, his thrusts becoming harder and deeper. Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, waves of pleasure so intense they made your vision blur. Your pussy clenched around his cock, milking him as you cried out his name. He followed shortly soon after, chanting profanities as his thrusts became erratic, and he buried himself deep inside you, his hot cum filling you. He whispered your name in awe, his voice rough with emotion as he emptied himself deep within your still-pulsing walls.
You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing heavily in the aftermath. The sun continued to beat down, but now it felt comforting rather than oppressive. Reiner's arms wrapped around you, holding you close as your bodies slowly cooled. You sat up slowly and shakily to look at him. He looked at you with such tenderness it made your heart ache, his thumb gently wiping a tear from your cheek that you didn't even realise had fallen during it.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft. You nodded, unable to speak, instead pulling him into another kiss. This one was different than the last— slower and gentler, full of unspoken emotions. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, your bodies still tangled together in the dappled sunlight of the garden.
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