WGWingGuns

A week does not usually feel that long— except when it is the longest week of your life, despite containing nothing dramatic other than work shifts and laundry and fifteen separate phone calls with the Reiner Braun that lasted longer than either of you probably should have allowed. You've replayed the rooftop moment more times than you're going to admit to. You've replayed the room after— the card game and Connie's badly hidden laughs too. And you've replayed the question, the quiet one, the one that arrived between hands of cards like it was nothing: would you like to come on tour with me?

You'd said yes before you'd fully processed what you were saying yes to. And then a week later, you'd understand that what you had said yes to: which was a duffel bag packed at six in the morning, standing on the pavement outside Sasha's flat with Mikasa already there, both of them looking at you with expressions that range from barely contained to fully unhinged.

"Okay," Sasha says, looking between you and your bag and the street, where a coach-sized tour bus is apparently due to appear within the hour. "I just want to say, for the record, before this happens— we are technically…..groupies."

"We're not groupies," you sigh.

"We are getting on a tour bus with a band because some of them like us more than friends. That is the literal definition of groupie."

"It's slightly more complicated than that—"

"Is it, though?" Sasha tilts her head. "Walk me through the complications, then."

You don't have an answer so you don't offer one, and Sasha takes your silence as the confirmation it is and looks extremely pleased with herself. "I'm not denying it," you say eventually. "I'm just saying we don't have to say it out loud."

"I had to," Sasha says. "It needed to exist in the air before the bus got here. Now it's been acknowledged and we can move forward as the groupies we are with our heads held high."

Mikasa, beside her, says nothing, but the corner of her mouth is doing something that isn't quite a smile, and when you catch her eye she looks away toward the end of the street like she's checking for the bus, which she absolutely is not, because the bus is not due for another forty minutes and you all know it.

The three of you wait on the pavement with your bags. The morning is grey and ordinary in a way that feels wrong, somehow, for the size of the thing that's about to happen— you'd half expected something more cinematic, weather that understood the assignment, and instead you get an overcast Tuesday and a quiet street and the distant sound of cars two roads over.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Reiner: will be 15 min 

Then, twenty seconds later:

Reiner: I told them to hurry up

Then, ten seconds after that:

Reiner: are you nervous?

You look at the message. You are, in fact, very nervous, in the specific way that has nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with the fact that you are about to spend an unspecified number of weeks in close quarters with someone you've known for eight days who has somehow already rearranged your entire brain.

You: a little…

Reiner: don't be :)

Reiner: i'll be right there with you

You smile at your phone in a way that Sasha clocks immediately. "That's him messaging you, isn't it," she says. Not a question, as she already knew the answer. 

"Maybe."

"You've got the biggest smile on your face."

"I have not—"

"You have! I'm watching it happen in real time."

The bus arrives twelve minutes later— not fifteen, which you understand now means Reiner genuinely did tell them to hurry— and it is enormous in a way that photographs of tour buses don't communicate, a long dark vehicle with tinted windows and a low engine rumble that you feel slightly in your chest, not unlike a bass line.

The door hisses open, and Connie is the first one off, taking the steps two at a time with the energy of someone who has never once in his life walked down a set of stairs at a normal pace. "Hey! You made it!" He says it like there was a real chance you wouldn't, like the morning had been genuinely uncertain, and he grabs Sasha's bag out of her hands before she can object. "I'm taking this, you're not allowed to carry your own stuff— that's a tour bus rule."

"Is it actually a rule?" Sasha asked, already walking with him toward the bus.

"It's my rule…..I just made it."

Mikasa follows more slowly, with her bag still firmly in her own possession, and at the top of the steps she pauses— because Eren is standing just inside the door with his arms crossed and an expression that is doing its level best to look unbothered and is not quite succeeding.

And then there's Reiner.

He's at the bottom of the steps, not on them, like he's been standing there long enough that the others got out ahead of him, and when he sees you something happens to his whole face, like a held breath finally being let go. He's in a soft grey t-shirt and his hair is slightly mussed like he hasn't been near a mirror, and he looks, somehow— even better than you remembered, which you'd have said was not possible eight days ago.

"Hi," he says softly.

"Hi," you say.

He doesn't say anything else. He just takes your bag from your shoulder— gently, without making a thing of it— and then, with his free hand, reaches for yours, and you let him take it. "You still feeling nervous?" he asks quietly, as you climb the stairs.

"A little bit."

"Don't be." His thumb moves once against the side of your hand. "I've got you, okay?"

You believe him. This is, you think, possibly the single most concerning development of the entire week— not the kissing or the sex, not even the tour bus and the concept of going on tour with your favourite band— but the fact that when Reiner Braun says I've got you in that low quiet voice, you believe him completely, without reservation. 

The bus is, on the inside, somehow even bigger than it looks from outside.

There's a front lounge with two long couches facing each other across a low table, a kitchenette behind that, a wall of bunks further back, separated by a sliding, metal door— there was twelve of them, stacked in pairs and curtained— and then a back lounge that Connie informs you, with great seriousness, is ‘the good one’ which apparently means it has a slightly better television and is therefore the site of ongoing low-level territorial disputes.

"It's not actually better," Jean says from the front lounge, not looking up from his phone. "The screen's the same size."

"It's the principle," Connie says.

"What principle?"

"The principle of having the better one."

Jean shakes his head and goes back to his phone. He's in soft clothes with no guitar in sight, and looks considerably more relaxed than the version of him you watched on stage a week ago— the public-facing intensity dialled down to something closer to ordinary tiredness.

Armin is at the small kitchen table with a notebook and a set of headphones around his neck, and he looks up when you come in and gives you a genuinely warm smile. "Hey! Good to see you guys again." He says it like he means it, which he probably does, because Armin seems constitutionally incapable of insincerity. "We've got about six hours till the first stop. There's coffee if you want it— it's actually decent, Eren's very particular about it."

"I'm not particular," Eren sighs from somewhere near the back.

"You made Levi return a coffee machine."

"It was a bad machine."

Levi, who has materialised near the front of the bus with a tablet in hand and the expression of a man who is perpetually three steps ahead of everyone else's logistics, doesn't look up. "Ok, so the bunks," he booms out to the room generally. "Everyone's assigned, and I’m not moving anyone around. I'm not doing this again."

"Who am I next to?" Sasha asks immediately.

"Connie."

"Yes," Connie hisses, with such open delight that Sasha actually laughs. 

"Mikasa," Levi continues, checking the tablet, "you're across from Eren—” He shifts around to point to you. “And you're—"

"With me," Reiner says, before Levi can finish his sentence, and there's something in his voice that's different from the easy efficiency of everyone else's logistics.

Levi looks at his tablet, before he looks back at Reiner. There's a pause that you suspect is entirely theatrical, Levi extracting maximum value from a moment he's clearly enjoying. "That's not what I have written down—"

"Levi–” Reiner starts. 

"I have you in a bunk by yourself. Per the original plan."

"The original plan didn't—" Reiner stops, before starting again with his voice lower. "Can you just—"

"I'm messing with you," Levi says, even though his face stayed neutral and he was already walking away, done with the conversation. "Obviously you're together. Just don't be disgusting about it where I have to witness it."

"We weren't going to be," Reiner says to Levi's retreating back, with an edge of genuine annoyance that's the first thing you've seen from him all morning that isn't soft.

"You absolutely were," Levi calls back, without turning around, "I've met you."

Reiner looks at you. There's a faint colour at the back of his neck that you find disproportionately endearing, given everything. "Sorry," he says quietly, just to you. "I should have asked you first. We don't have to share, if you wanted to—"

"No," you say, maybe too quickly. “I want to.”

He looks at you for a second, like he's checking, like he needs to actually hear it land before he believes it. Then something in his shoulders drops, visibly, the tension going out of them. "Okay," he says. "Good. That's—" He stops himself before finishing the sentence, but you can guess what he was going to say, and the fact that he doesn't finish it is somehow more affecting than if he had.

The bunk is small, in the way all tour bus bunks are presumably small, but it's built for someone Reiner's size, which means it's actually a little more generous by the standards of the form— a proper mattress, a small reading light, a curtain that pulls across for privacy, a little shelf with exactly four things on it: a phone charger, a battered paperback you don't recognise the title of, a guitar pick that's clearly not his (you're pretty sure bass players don't use picks the same way), and, you notice with a feeling you're not going to examine too closely, a printed photo of the band from what looks like their very first show, all five of them younger and grinning in a room that's barely bigger than this bunk. It felt intimate, being in his space and personal belongings— like you didn't have an A3 poster of him at home above your bed…. 

"You all look so young," you observe, pointing to the photo.

"Levi took it. It was our first real gig. Before anyone knew who we were." He says it with a kind of fondness that's different from how he talks about the band normally— not pride exactly, something more tender than that. "I keep it because it reminds me what it actually felt like, before it was a job— playing because I loved people listening to my music."

"Does it still feel like that? When you're up there?"

He's quiet for a second, considering the question properly rather than reaching for an easy answer. "Sometimes," he says. "Not always. But there are moments." He looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. "Last week, when I was performing in front of you— that moment felt like it again. I felt like I was back at my first gig again."

You don't say anything. You don't need to. He lays down on the bunk, which means his head is nearly at the low ceiling, and pulls you down beside him, and you fit there in a way that shouldn't work given the size difference and somehow does, his arm settling around you like it's already memorised the shape of the gesture.

"I missed you," he says quietly into your hair. 

"It was only a week."

"I know how long it was." His voice is muffled slightly, his face turned toward you. "I counted the days."

You laughed softly at this. "Reiner—"

"It’s true." He pulls back enough to look at you properly, and his expression is doing the thing it's been doing since he first laid eyes on you— open, unguarded and slightly helpless about it, like he's still adjusting to a version of himself that says things like this out loud. "I called you twice a day—I'm aware that's a lot and I’m sorry."

"I liked it."

"I know you said you liked it, but I'm also aware it's a lot." He says this like a confession, like he's owning up to a character flaw, and there's something so genuinely earnest about it that you can't help laughing against his shoulder.

"I'm not complaining at all," you tell him. 

"I know. I'm complaining on your behalf, preemptively." He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, slow and careful. "In case future-you wants to."

"I can promise you, future-me is not going to complain about you calling too much."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually."

He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding whether to believe it, and then he kisses you— gentle and unhurried, the kind of kiss that has nowhere particular to be— his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face the way it had on the roof, like that's simply where his hand goes now when he kisses you, like the geography of it has already been settled.

Outside the bunks you hear Connie's voice rising in volume about something to do with the card game continuing from last week, and Sasha's delighted cackle in response, and underneath all of it the low hum of the bus engine and six hours of road ahead of you, and you think, with a clarity that surprises you: this is good. This is really, genuinely good.

By the third day, a pattern has established itself.

Mornings are usually slow— the bus rolling through whatever stretch of country lies between yesterday's city and tonight's, everyone surfacing from their bunks at different hours, Armin first because he barely seems to need sleep, Connie last because he sleeps like he's been specifically trained to, with total commitment. Sasha is somewhere in the middle, usually appearing exactly when coffee becomes available— as if she can smell it from inside the bunk.

You've fallen into the rhythm of it faster than you expected— the small kitchenette, the front lounge where everyone congregates by midday, the particular choreography of five band members and a manager and now three additional people sharing a confined space without it becoming claustrophobic. It helps that everyone is, in their own specific way, easy to be around. Connie is endlessly entertaining and entirely without edge. Armin is quietly brilliant and generous with his attention. Jean has a dry, cutting humour that takes a day or two to warm up to and then becomes one of your favourite things about the bus. Eren is intense and a little prickly but softens, very visibly, whenever Mikasa is in the room, which is a transformation neither of them is acknowledging out loud.  And of course, Reiner.

Reiner is, you've discovered, a genuinely different person depending on who he's talking to, and you've started cataloguing the differences with the same thoroughness you once applied to fan videos, except now you get to watch it live, close up, and in real time.

With Connie, he's patient in a way that occasionally tips into exasperation— he has a habit of touching Reiner's bass without asking, which is apparently the single fastest way to get a reaction out of him. "Connie." Reiner's voice practically growls from the back lounge, that has a specific flat quality you've learned means don't.

"I'm just looking—"

"Don't touch the strings."

"I'm not touching the—"

"You're touching the strings right now."

"Okay, okay." A pause. "Can I touch it if I ask first?"

"No."

"What if I ask nicely?"

"No, Connie."

This goes on, in various forms, multiple times a day, and it never seems to actually bother either of them— it's clearly a long-running bit, the kind of friction that's been worn smooth by years of repetition, and Reiner's irritation always resolves into something fond within about thirty seconds. With Jean, there's a different texture— more verbal sparring, more genuine disagreement, usually about music. With Eren, the dynamic is quieter — fewer words, more of a working shorthand, two people who've spent three years building something together and don't need to explain themselves to each other anymore. With Levi, Reiner is— careful. Deferential in a way he isn't with anyone else, which surprises you until Armin explains, quietly, one afternoon, that Levi essentially built the band's career out of nothing, that he'd believed in them back when believing in them required actual sacrifice, and that Reiner in particular has a long memory for who showed up for him before it mattered.

And with you—

With you, there is no version of irritation. You watch for it, partly out of curiosity and partly because you don't quite trust that it doesn't exist somewhere, and you don't find it. He's patient with you about things he isn't patient about with anyone else— touching his bass twice without any of the flat don't tone he uses on Connie, listening to you talk through something half-formed without rushing you toward the point. When you're tired he notices before you've said anything. When you're quiet he asks, gently, if you're okay, and waits for a real answer rather than accepting the first deflection.

"You're never annoyed at me," you tell him on day four, lying on the bunk with your head on his chest and his fingers moving slowly through your hair.

"Should I be?"

"I don't know. Everyone gets annoyed at everyone, eventually. It's a small bus."

He's quiet for a moment, considering this with the seriousness he gives most things. "I don't think I have it in me," he says finally. "Not with you. I've tried to imagine it and I can't."

"That's not realistic, though."

"Probably not." He doesn't sound concerned about this. "Ask me again in a month."

"I will."

"I won't be annoyed then either," he says, and you can hear, even without looking at his face, that he means it completely, and you decide not to argue with him about something that's clearly not up for negotiation.

He teaches you bass on the sixth day, in the back lounge, while Connie and Sasha have commandeered the front for what has become a daily and increasingly competitive gaming tournament.

"You don't have to learn it properly," he says, settling the bass into your hands with the careful attention of someone handling something important. "I just want to show you the bridge of Glass Jaw. Since you like it."

"You don't have to teach me your own song."

"I want to." He settles behind you, his hands coming around to position yours on the neck, his chest warm and hard against your back. "Here— your first finger goes there."

You try to play, but it sounds wrong, flat and clumsy— nothing like the searching low run you've listened to a hundred times.

"That sounds terrible," you huff.

"It's your first try."

You frown. "You make it sound so easy…"

"I've had three years of making it easy." He chuckles as his hand adjusts your fingers, patient and unhurried. "Try again. Slower."

You try again. Marginally better. You're concentrating hard enough that you don't notice he's stopped watching your hands until you feel it— the quality of his attention shifting, moving up from your fingers to somewhere else entirely. You're wearing a tank top, your shoulders bare, your cleavage and neck visible, and his gaze has apparently found them and decided to stay there.

"Reiner—"

"You're doing well," he says, which is not a response to anything you said.

"You're not watching my hands anymore!"

"I can hear your hands." His voice has dropped slightly. "Keep going."

You try the progression again. You almost have it this time, the turn in the second bar actually landing somewhere close to right, and you're about to say something about it when his mouth presses to your shoulder. Slow, deliberate— and just stays there.

Your fingers slip completely off the strings. "That's cheating," you huff.

He doesn't move. His lips are warm against your skin and his hands have stopped pretending to be about bass positioning. "I'm not doing anything," he whispers, against your shoulder.

"You're doing something."

"Mm." He presses another one, slightly higher, and you feel it travel up the side of your neck in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with music theory. The bass is becoming irrelevant at significant speed. You turn your head. He's right there, close, and the lesson is clearly over in any meaningful sense, and you're about to say something that will almost certainly make the lesson over when you both hear it—

Footsteps, the heavy tread of someone coming down the corridor from the front lounge.

You both go still, and Reiner straightens. You look at the bass as the footsteps get closer and Jean appears in the doorway, one hand on the frame, taking in the scene— you, the bass, Reiner approximately six inches further back than he was two seconds ago, both of you doing an impression of people who were doing nothing.

Jean looks at the both of you. "Right," he says, and turns around and goes back the way he came.

A beat of silence. "Okay," Reiner says. "Maybe we'll take a break for a bit?"

"You started this."

"And I'll finish it later," he says low against your ear, and you decide that bass lessons are going to become a regular occurrence on this bus regardless of how good you actually get at it. 

The first cigarette happens that same evening, a natural extension of the bass lesson in the way that most things with Reiner have become natural extensions of whatever came before. The bus is stopped for the night behind a venue somewhere, and he's sitting on the back steps with one lit, and you come out to sit beside him and he holds it out without asking— you take it, because you're warm from the lesson and the evening and him— and the nicotine on an almost-empty stomach does something immediate and pleasant to the back of your skull.

You hand it back and your fingers brush his.

It soon becomes a thing. Every night after that, without discussion, without it ever being formally established as a ritual— the show ends, the bus moves, and at some point the two of you end up outside, a wall or a kerb or a loading bay step, one cigarette and sometimes two, the night air cool at your shoulders and his warmth solid against your side. You're not sure, by the second week, whether you're smoking because you want the cigarette or because the cigarette is the reason to be outside alone with him in the dark…..and honestly the distinction has stopped mattering. The nicotine does its slow warm thing through your chest. His shoulder presses against yours, and your fingers brush together and then at some point you stop handing it back; and he takes it from your mouth directly, looking at you the whole time like you're the most interesting thing by some considerable distance, and then the cigarette gets crushed aside and his lips find yours and you end up against whatever wall happens to be available….which sometimes includes the tour bus.

You are, across the days and an assortment of loading bays, becoming genuinely unable to keep your hands off each other, which Sasha has noted and threatened to bring up at an inappropriate moment. You're saving that problem for later, and later can wait.

The shows, when they come, are different from the front-row version of watching him. You watch from the wings now, or from the sound desk, but you're always close enough to see things the front row never sees— the way Reiner checks his tuning obsessively before every set, the small ritual you noticed he has of touching the strings once, lightly, before the lights come up, the way he and Eren exchange one look before the first song that seems to communicate something neither of them would explain if you asked.

And he looks for you now. Every show since you've been there. Not the searching four-second glance from last week’s concert— but something steadier, something that finds you almost immediately and returns to you throughout the set like he's checking, like you being there is something he needs constant confirmation of.

During the beginning of Glass Jaw, every night, without fail, he looks for you, and you've started positioning yourself so he can find you easily, just off to the side where the stage lights catch you faintly, and every night when he finds you there's a specific shift in his playing— nothing anyone else would notice, you don't think, but you've watched him enough now to know the difference between Reiner playing an intro he's played two hundred times and Reiner playing while looking at someone he's still slightly in disbelief is actually there.

Sasha notices it too, standing beside you at a show in the second week.

"He's not subtle about it," she shouts into your ear over the loud music.

"I know."

"Like, genuinely. The whole crowd could probably tell, if they were paying close attention. I’ve already seen fans already posting online about this mystery girl seen with Reiner—"

"I don't think he cares if they can tell or if they find out," you say hopefully. 

"No," Sasha agrees, watching him find you again during the second chorus. "I don't think he does."

The low throb of a bass guitar cut through the silence of the tour bus like a slow breath exhaled in the dark. You'd been lying in your bunk when the sound first reached you— not a full song, not yet, just fragments. A chord progression that climbed and fell, then climbed again, as if searching for something it hadn't found yet. Then his voice, low and rough at the edges, humming a melody that had no words. Or maybe it had words, but he was singing them so quietly they dissolved before they could reach you.

You turned your head on the pillow. The curtain of your bunk was half-drawn, and through the gap you could see the narrow corridor that ran the length of the bus, just being seperated by the door that slid was open. At the far end, the lounge area glowed faintly— a single overhead light dimmed to its lowest setting, casting everything in amber. You could see the back of Reiner's head, the broad set of his shoulders hunched forward over the bass balanced on his thigh. He sat on the worn leather couch, one foot propped on the edge of the low table, his knee bouncing slightly as he played.

You listened. The melody shifted, found its footing, and the humming became something more— a phrase, repeated, then refined. He paused, and you heard the scratch of a pen on paper, the rustle of a notebook page being turned. Then the bass again, the chords rearranged into something that made your chest tighten.

You swung your legs out of the bunk quietly, bare feet meeting the cold flooring. The bus was still, except for the soft wheeze of sleep coming from behind the other curtained bunks— Sasha in the one across from yours, Mikasa two down, and the rest of the band scattered in the other bunks. You moved down the corridor in bare feet, your oversized t-shirt— stolen from Reiner's suitcase earlier that day— hanging to mid-thigh. You didn't knock or announce yourself, instead you just rounded the corner of the lounge and stood there, leaning your shoulder against the wall, your arms folded loosely across your chest.

He didn't notice you right away. His head was bent over the notebook balanced on the cushion, and his lips moved silently as he read back what he'd written. Then his fingers found the strings again, and he played the progression from the top— a sequence that opened with something bright and searching before settling into a warm, resolved chord that hung in the air like a held breath.

Before he finished it, Reiner looked up. His eyes— heavy-lidded from the lateness of the hour— found you in the doorway, and the shift in his face was immediate and unguarded. The furrow between his brows smoothed, and the set of his jaw softened. His mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile but was warmer than one, a kind of unconscious loosening, as if just seeing you let him put something down he'd been carrying.

"Hey," he said, his voice kept low, aware of the thin walls and the sleeping people behind them. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No." You pushed off the wall and moved toward him, shutting the latch metal door that separates the lounge from the bunks. "I was already up."

He watched you cross the small space— three steps, maybe four—and when you reached the couch, he set the bass aside, leaning it carefully against the armrest before opening his arms. You settled onto his lap sideways, your legs draped over his thigh, your back against the armrest, and his hand came to rest on your bare knee, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the skin there.

"You writing a new song?" you ask. 

"I'm trying to." He glanced at the open notebook on the cushion beside him, and you caught the scratch of crossed-out lines, words written and abandoned and rewritten. "It's not quite there yet." You leaned forward and picked up the notebook. He let you take it, his hand dropping to your hip, steadying you. You read the lyrics scrawled in his handwriting—blocky, uneven letters that leaned too far to the right:

You said one night only, like it was a warning

But one night only keeps becoming one night more

You closed the notebook. Your throat had gone tight. You set it on the table and turned back to him, and his eyes were on your face, reading you the way he read a room before a show— carefully and thoroughly.

"Is that—" You stopped. "About me?"

"Course it's about you." His thumb resumed its circle on your hip, pressing through the cotton of his stolen t-shirt. "Who else would I be writing about at two in the morning?"

You didn't answer. Instead, you leaned in and kissed him— softly, carefully, your lips pressing against his with the kind of deliberate gentleness that comes from wanting to be quiet. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly like cigarettes, and his hand on your hip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric— pulling you closer by increments. When you pulled back, his eyes were still closed. They opened slowly, and the look in them was the one you'd come to recognise over the past three weeks on tour—that almost startled expression, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real and here and sitting on his lap.

"You're beautiful," he said. The words came out low and plain, no performance in them, none of that rockstar charm you expected from him. Just a statement of fact, the way someone might note the weather. "You know that? I look at you sometimes and I just—" He stopped, shaking his head as he laughed, barely audible. "I forget what I was going to say."

You smiled. Your fingers found the collar of his worn t-shirt and you straightened it, a small, unnecessary gesture. "Thank you for writing that."

"Thank you for being here." His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton. "I mean it. This tour— has been the best one yet for me. I play better when you're in the room, I write better when you're here, I sleep better when you're in the bunk with me. I didn't know that was a thing I needed, and then you showed up, and now I can't remember what it was like before."

Your hand stilled on his collar. You looked at him— the strong line of his jaw, the shadow along his throat where he hadn't shaved, the way the dim amber light caught his eye. His face was open in a way that his face never was onstage or in interviews— this was the face he only showed you, and seeing it made something inside you shift and settle, like a key finding its lock.

You kissed him again. Deeper this time, your hand sliding from his collar to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. He responded in kind, his mouth opening against yours, his tongue finding yours in a slow, unhurried rhythm that matched the circles his thumb was drawing on your lower back. His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, his fingers curling around the back of your neck, and he held you there, kissing you with the same focus he brought to the bass— present and attentive.

You shifted on his lap, turning to face him, your knees straddling his thighs. The t-shirt rode up, and you felt the worn denim of his jeans against your bare skin. He groaned softly against your mouth— a sound barely louder than a breath— and his hands slid down to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips.

"We can't," he murmured against your lips. "Everyone's—"

"I know." You pressed your forehead to his. Your breath came faster now, and you could feel the heat building between your bodies, the way his thighs tensed beneath yours. "We'll be quiet."

He pulled back enough to look at you. His eyes were darker now, the amber light catching the dilation of his pupils. His tongue touched his lower lip— a habit you'd noticed—and his hands tightened on your waist. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He exhaled. His hands slid lower, fingers curling under the hem of the t-shirt, and he pushed the fabric up slowly, his palms dragging against your skin, until the shirt bunched at your waist. He looked down at you—the plain cotton underwear, the soft plane of your stomach, the way your breath was making your ribs expand and contract— and his jaw tightened.

"Beautiful," he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

You leaned forward, letting your lust take over you as your lips find the shell of his ear, and whisper, "I want you to taste me."

Reiner's fingers dug into your hips. A sharp inhale, but he kept it controlled. Then he shifted, lifting you off his lap with an ease that made your stomach flip, and set you on the couch. He stood, and for a moment he just looked at you—flushed, breathing hard and sitting on the worn leather in his oversized t-shirt with your knees pressed together— before he knelt on the floor in front of you.

His hands found your knees. He parted them gently, firmly, and settled between your legs, his palms warm on your inner thighs. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips— rough patches on the pads of his fingers and the side of his thumb —and the texture of them against your skin made you shiver.

He leaned in. His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh, just above your knee, and you felt the warmth of his breath, the slight drag of his stubble. He kissed a slow path upward—another kiss, and another, each one a little higher, each one lingering a beat longer than the last. When he reached the crease where your thigh met your hip, he paused, his nose brushing the cotton of your underwear, and you heard him inhale.

Your hand flew to your mouth. You bit down on the side of your index finger, your teeth pressing into the skin. He glanced up at you, and the corner of his mouth twitched— that fucking almost-smile— and then he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down, slow, the fabric sliding over your thighs and off. He tucked them into his back pocket without looking, his eyes never leaving you. "Lean back," he said, barely audible.

You did. The leather was cool against your back, and you let your head fall against the cushion, your hands gripping the armrest above you. Reiner's palms pressed your thighs wider, and he leaned in, and the first touch of his mouth was—soft. Unbearably soft. Just his lips, pressing against you, a kiss that was almost chaste except for the heat of it, the wetness, the way his breath came warm and steady against you.

The first touch of his mouth was— soft. Unbearably soft. Just his lips, pressing against you, a kiss that was almost chaste except for the heat of it, the wetness, the way his breath came warm and steady against your cunt. Your stomach tightened— and he lingered there, mouth closed, letting you feel only the pressure of his lips and the slow exhale of his breath, and the gentleness of it was worse than anything rough—he knew that, you realised. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Then his tongue. A single, slow stroke, upward, parting you, and your teeth sank harder into the knuckle of your index finger— the taste of copper bloomed faintly against your molars where you'd bitten the inside of your cheek earlier. He tasted you with the same focus he brought to everything— so attentive, reading your body. His tongue mapped the terrain of you in slow, deliberate passes, learning which angles made your breath hitch and which made your thighs twitch against his palms. When he found the place that made your breath stutter—a specific, devastating spot just to the left of center— and he stayed there. Then backing off to trace a wider path before returning, always returning, like a phrase he kept revisiting until he found the exact right variation.

You bit your lip. The sound that wanted to escape was trapped behind your teeth, and it came out as a thin, strangled breath, barely audible above the hum of the bus. Reiner's hands tightened on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, and you felt him shift closer, his shoulders pressing firmer against the backs of your legs, spreading you wider. Then his mouth sealed over you and he sucked— gently at first, a careful pull, then harder, his tongue working in tight, relentless circles against that spot he'd claimed. The wet sound of it was obscene in the small space, slick and rhythmic, and you clenched your jaw so hard your molars ached.

Your hand flew from the armrest to his hair. Your fingers tangled in the short strands, the bristle of it rough against your palms, and you held on, your hips tilting toward his mouth without meaning to. He made a sound against you— a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through the swollen flesh of your cunt and radiated up through your pelvis— and his grip on your thighs shifted. One hand slid beneath you, palm cupping your ass, fingers digging into the curve of flesh as he tilted you up toward his mouth. The angle changed. His tongue pressed deeper, the flat of it dragging over you in a long, slow stroke before narrowing to a point, flicking rapidly against your clit in a way that made your vision blur at the edges.

His hand beneath you squeezed, pulling you closer, fingers dimpling the flesh of your ass hard enough to leave marks, and his mouth returned to that place, his tongue working in a rhythm that built and built, steady as a bassline. Then his hand shifted. The one that had been gripping your thigh released, and his fingers slid through the wetness he'd spread and pressed into you.

Two fingers slid in with an ease that made your face burn, and he curled them immediately, finding the spot inside you with the same unerring accuracy he'd found everything else. The calluses on his fingertips— built up from years of pressing strings against metal— dragged against that spot as he stroked, and the texture of it was unlike anything you'd felt before, rough and precise and devastating. He worked his fingers in time with his tongue, a syncopated rhythm that built complexity with every measure, his tongue circling your clit as his fingers curled and pressed and pulled. Your legs shook against his shoulders. Your hand in his hair yanked harder, pulling him closer, and the sound he made in response— a low, rumbling groan that vibrated through your cunt and into the base of your skull— made your eyes roll back.

You were going to scream. You could feel it building in your chest, pressure behind your ribs, and you bit down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, copper sharp on your tongue.  Your thighs began to tremble. The pressure was coiling low in your belly, tightening with every stroke, and you could feel yourself unraveling—your breath coming in short, silent gasps, your toes curling against the leather, your hand in his hair gripping hard enough to hurt. He didn't stop. He didn't slow down. If anything, he pressed closer, his mouth working you with a dedication that made your vision blur at the edges.

"Reiner—" The word came out as a whisper, barely a breath. "I'm—"

He hummed again. That vibration. And it tipped you over.

Your orgasm hit like a chord struck hard and let to ring— your whole body went taut, your thighs clamping around his head, your hand pressing flat against your own mouth to trap the sound that wanted to tear free. Your hips bucked against his face, and he held you steady, his mouth never leaving you, his tongue working you through every pulse until the trembling slowed and your body went loose. He pulled back slowly. His lips were swollen, glistening, and his eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand— a gesture that was somehow both practical and unbearably intimate—and looked up at you.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice rough.

You nodded. You couldn't speak yet. Your breath was still coming in shallow pulls, and your hand was shaking when you reached for him. He understood. He stood, and you pulled him down to the couch, pushing him back against the cushions. He went willingly, his back against the armrest, his legs stretched out on the leather. You crawled over him, your knees on either side of his hips, and kissed him. You tasted yourself on his mouth, along with the faint hint of cigarettes— and the intimacy of it made something twist in your chest.

Your hands found the hem of his t-shirt. You pulled it up, and he lifted his arms, letting you strip it off him. In the dim light, his chest was broad and toned. nd you couldn't help but lean to kiss his chest, and his hand came to the back of your head, holding you there.

Your fingers found his belt. The buckle clinked, and you both froze, looking toward the corridor— but silence followed, the steady wheeze of sleep from the bunks. You exhaled and continued, working the buckle open, the button, then the zipper. He lifted his hips, and you pulled his jeans and boxers down just far enough— his cock, hard and flushed, springing free. He was thick, the head dark and slick, and the sight of him made your mouth water.

You shifted off his lap, turning around so your back was to him, and settled over him again, your knees straddling his thighs. You reached between your legs and positioned him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you felt him twitch in your hand, a pulse of heat against you.

"Slow," he murmured, his hands finding your hips, steadying you. "I–won’t last long."

You sank down. The first inch made you gasp— your teeth catching your lower lip, your hands gripping his knees. He was thick, and the stretch was a slow, full ache that radiated outward, but you took another inch, and another, your body opening around him, and behind you, you heard his breath—sharp, but controlled, his fingers digging into your hips. "Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—Christ."

You bottomed out. Your weight settled against him, and you sat there for a moment, adjusting, feeling him deep inside you— the fullness of it, the pressure, the way your body throbbed around him in the aftershocks of your first orgasm. His hand came around your front, pressing flat against your lower belly as his thumb found your clit, resting there, not moving.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

You nodded breathlessly. You lifted your hips, slow, and the drag of him inside you— thick and hot and friction-perfect— made your breath stutter. You sank back down, and the impact sent a jolt through you, your walls clenching around him— he groaned, low and quiet, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade.

You set a rhythm. Slow, deliberate, each thrust a controlled rise and fall that let you feel every inch of him. The wet sounds of your body against his were quite loud in the quiet of the bus— the soft, slick noise of penetration, the creak of the leather couch, the harsh, controlled rhythm of your breathing; but you didn't care about being quiet anymore. You bit your lip, your eyes squeezed shut, and you moved faster, chasing the sensation that was building again, tighter this time, sharper.

His thumb began to move. Slow circles on your clit, timed to your rhythm, and the double sensation— his cock inside you, his thumb outside— made your thighs shake. You dropped your head, your hair falling forward, and you braced your hands on his knees, riding him harder.

"Reiner—" You couldn't help it. The name slipped out, barely a whisper, and his hips snapped up to meet yours, driving deeper. The sound that escaped you was a whimper, bitten off, swallowed.

"Shh." His hand left your hip and came up to cover your mouth. His palm pressed against your lips, and the gesture— rough and tender at once— made something crack open inside you. You moaned against his hand, muffled, and he groaned in response, his hips bucking up into you. The angle shifted as he adjusted his stance, planting his feet more firmly on the floor. He was hitting something now— a place deep inside that made your vision white out at the edges, a blinding point of pleasure that obliterated everything else. You moved faster, desperate, chasing it, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his thighs through his jeans. The pressure on your clit was unbearable, his thumb working you relentlessly as he thrust up into you. Your breath came in short, sharp bursts through your nose, your body trembling on the edge, so close, the tension winding tighter and tighter with every stroke.

The sound of the door sliding open was distinct, a sharp mechanical snap that cut through the wet, heavy sounds of sex like a knife.

Your eyes flew open, panic flooding your system, freezing your blood even as your body continued to move on autopilot. The dim amber light of the lounge spilled into the corridor, silhouetting the figure standing there. It was Jean. He was shirtless, his pale skin catching the warm light, the defined lines of his chest and stomach on full display. He wore only a pair of loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the drawstring loose, the fabric thin enough to show the shadow of his hip bones. He held a water bottle, his hand frozen in mid-air, his eyes wide as they adjusted to the scene on the couch.

"Shit," Jean breathed, the word loud in the sudden stillness. "Sorry— fuck, my bad guys."

He didn't leave though. His eyes were locked on the point where your bodies joined, taking in the flush of your skin, the sheen of sweat, the way Reiner's large hand was clamped over your mouth. You tried to stop moving, to scramble off Reiner's lap and cover yourself, but Reiner's grip on your waist was iron. His fingers dug into your flesh, holding you in place, keeping you impaled on him. He didn't stop when Jean stood there, if anything— the interruption seemed to pour gasoline on the fire of his arousal. He thrust up into you, harder than before, a deliberate, deep stroke that forced a muffled cry from your throat against his palm. The wet sound of his cock sliding into your pussy was unmistakable, and Jean's eyes tracked the movement with a fixation that made your stomach flip.

Reiner turned his head, looking at his bandmate over your shoulder. A slow, arrogant smirk spread across his face, his eyes challenging. He didn't miss a beat, his hips continuing to roll, grinding his cock into you while Jean stood there, exposed and awkward. The muscles in Reiner's arms flexed as he held you steady, the tendons in his neck taut, his whole body radiating a cocky, territorial energy.

"Like what you see, Jean?" Reiner's voice was a rough rasp, laced with cocky amusement. He punctuated the question with a sharp thrust that made your whole body jolt, your breasts bouncing with the force of it. You stared at Jean, your face burning with a mix of humiliation and a dark, twisted arousal. Jean gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. His gaze flicked up to Reiner's face, then back down to your trembling body, lingering on the way your thighs were spread wide across Reiner's lap, the way your pussy was stretched around his cock. The grey sweatpants were doing a poor job of concealing his reaction; you could see the outline of his dick thickening, lengthening as he watched you being fucked. The fabric tented obscenely, the head of his cock pressing against the thin grey cotton. He was getting hard right there in the doorway, and he wasn't hiding it well.

"Reiner," you tried to say his name, to tell him to stop, to push him away, but it came out as a muffled, garbled sound against his hand. The shock of his boldness, the sheer audacity of continuing while being watched, short-circuited your shame. The pleasure was too intense, the friction too perfect— and your body betrayed you, clenching around him, your hips instinctively grinding down to take him deeper. The thought of Jean watching, of the Jean Kirstein getting hard because of you, because of this, sent a bolt of heat straight to your core, and you hated how good it felt.

Jean seemed to realise he was staring at something private, something that was spiraling out of his control now. He shifted his weight, the fabric of his sweatpants rustling, and turned around quickly, facing the corridor wall. "I'm... I'm just gonna go," he muttered, his voice tight and strained. But even with his back turned, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. The tent in his sweatpants was still visible from the side, the hard length of his cock straining against the grey fabric. He didn't move immediately, his feet rooted to the spot, as if his body was at war with his mind.

But the image was burned into your mind— the way his eyes had widened, the way he had hardened, and the thrill of being caught. Reiner felt your reaction, the way your pussy fluttered and squeezed around him at the sight of Jean. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your back, his chest pressing flush against you. "Fuck," Reiner growled, his rhythm turning frantic. He abandoned the slow, teasing circles on your clit and pressed down hard, rubbing the sensitive nub in time with his jagged thrusts. "You like that, huh? You like him watching?" His voice was a dark, breathless thing in your ear. 

You shook your head, denying it, but your body screamed yes. The tension that had been building snapped, rushing through you like a dam breaking— and your vision blurred, white spots dancing across your eyes as the orgasm tore through you. You cried out against his hand, a long, muffled wail, your thighs shaking violently, your inner walls rippling and contracting around his pistoning cock. The pleasure crashed over you in waves, each thrust prolonging it, his thumb grinding your clit through the aftershocks until you were sobbing against his palm, overstimulated and wrecked.

Reiner didn't stop. He rode out your climax, chasing his own. "I'm gonna come," he gritted out, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "Gonna fill you up." His thrusts grew erratic, losing their rhythm, his hips snapping up with a desperate, animal urgency. You felt his cock thicken inside you, the pulse of it against your swollen walls.

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His hips jerked erratically, and you felt the hot, thick spurts of his release painting your insides. He held you there, impaled on him, his hand still tight over your mouth as he emptied himself, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. His body shuddered, his grip on your waist bruising, and he let out a low, satisfied groan that vibrated through your whole body.

The bus was silent, save for the heavy sound of your breathing and the distant thud of Jean's retreating footsteps fading down the hall. Reiner slowly removed his hand from your mouth, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. You slumped against him, boneless and spent, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The reality of what just happened— the boldness, the audience, the sheer intensity of it— settled over you, leaving you breathless and shocked, your skin tingling in the aftermath. Reiner pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his smirk still in place. "Should've seen his face," he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. 

The next city is Stohess, and it rains the entire day. You spend most of it in the back lounge with Reiner, who has reclaimed a notebook and is filling pages with the particular focus you've come to recognise— head bent, one hand moving steadily, occasionally pausing to play something quiet on the backup bass and then immediately crossing it out, dissatisfied. 

Sound check that evening runs long, the venue's monitor system fighting Armin's keyboard rig for reasons nobody can immediately diagnose, and you end up sitting on a flight case near the side of the stage watching the five of them work through it— Levi pacing with his arms crossed, occasionally saying something short and clipped that makes everyone move faster, Armin patiently re-patching cables, Jean increasingly impatient, Connie testing the kit every ninety seconds whether anyone asks him to or not.

Reiner finds you between attempts, crossing the stage with his bass still on, and crouches down in front of where you're sitting so you're eye level.

"This is taking forever," he says. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologise for sound check."

"I know. I still feel like I should." He looks at you for a moment, and something in his expression shifts softer. "You look tired."

"I'm fine," you assure him.

"You don't have to stay for the whole thing— you could go back to the bus."

"I want to watch."

He studies you for a second longer, like he's deciding whether to believe you, and then nods, apparently satisfied, and reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that has nothing to do with the chaos happening twenty feet away. "Okay," he says quietly. "I'll be quick."

A voice suddenly cuts in from behind him. "So, uh..." Jean says, strolling over. "Are you gonna let me join in next time, or what?" You nearly choke, and Reiner closes his eyes in annoyance. For one brief second, Jean looks far too pleased with himself. "What?" he says innocently. "I'm just asking. Last night I had a much better view than I was expecting."

"Jean—"

"I'm saying I saw enough that I think I deserve some sort of reward,” Jean grins. Reiner slowly stands, staring at him with the exhausted patience of a man who has tolerated far too much for far too long.

"You are never touching her. She’s mine, I hope you know that." 

Jean puts a hand dramatically against his chest. "Wow. Harsh." 

"Not harsh enough,” Reiner practically growls. You, meanwhile, have completely forgotten how to form a coherent thought. There was something about the way Reiner said it, the way he had called you his— sent an unexpected warmth flooding through your chest. Hearing Reiner say it so matter-of-factly, as though it was the most obvious fact in the world that nobody else would ever get that close to you, made your heart do something embarrassingly dramatic. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying— and failing— not to smile.

Still laughing to himself, Jean lifts both hands in surrender and begins backing away. Then Reiner reaches out and squeezes your knee once before heading back toward the centre of the stage.

The show that night is good— they're all good, you've come to understand, in the way that professionals who care are simply, reliably good— but there's a moment you won’t forget. Reiner takes the opening verse on bass alone on one of their songs, stepping forward to the edge of the stage in a way he doesn't usually do, finding you immediately in the wings where you're standing with Sasha and Mikasa.

He doesn't look away for the entire verse.

It's not subtle. Sasha was right about that— there's nothing careful or hidden about the way he looks at you now, in front of a few thousand people, in front of the rest of the band, in front of Levi who is undoubtedly clocking it from somewhere near the soundboard with his arms crossed and an expression you can't see from here but can absolutely imagine. Reiner plays the verse looking directly at you— and when the chorus comes in and the rest of the band joins, he finally looks away, but not before something passes between you that feels less like a performance and more like a promise.

"He's going to get a reputation," Sasha murmurs, beside you, "for being completely obsessed with his new girlfriend."

You don't correct the word. You're not sure, this far in, that you'd want to. Mikasa, on your other side, says nothing, but you notice she's not looking at the stage anymore either— she's looking at Eren, who has apparently chosen this exact moment to glance toward the wings as well, toward her specifically, with an expression that's trying very hard to look like it's about the song and is not succeeding even slightly.

"This entire band," Sasha says, observing both of these things happening simultaneously, "has a serious problem with subtlety."

The lights go dark after the last song and the crowd becomes something animal— twenty thousand people chanting, stamping, the sound of it rolling through the venue in waves that you feel in your sternum from the wings. Someone near the front has started a rhythmic clap that the rest of the floor picks up within seconds, and the noise builds and builds until it's less a crowd and more a single living thing demanding something back.

Reiner comes off stage first, slightly damp from the set, and walks straight to you— not to Levi, not to the water station, to you— and kisses your temple once, brief but certain, before turning back to the stage. You watch him pull the band together in the wings, one hand on Eren's shoulder, saying something low that makes Jean nod and Connie immediately light up and reach for his sticks. Armin is already turning back toward the keys. The whole thing takes about thirty seconds.

The band walks back out, and the crowd absolutely loses its mind.

Reiner walks to the mic and waits, patiently, for the noise to settle— and it does, because he has the kind of stillness that makes rooms go quiet, always has, and twenty thousand people are apparently not immune to it. He looks out at the crowd for a moment. Then he says it:

"This one's new. We haven't played it before."

Sasha grabs your arm with both hands. "It's dedicated to someone who came into my life very recently. And….very unexpectedly. She told me it would be one night only." The crowd makes a noise as you felt your heart stop.

"But she was wrong," he says, and looks back at the wings, at you, and begins to play. “This song’s called One Night Only!” 

Sasha, beside you, grabs your arm with both hands while screaming. You don't look at her. You look at him, at the stage, at Reiner playing One Night Only for the first time in front of twenty thousand people, still looking toward the wings every few bars like he needs to confirm you're still there, and you think about a rooftop three weeks ago and some words said between two people who both knew what it meant.

It seems like one night only, became one night more.

You had exactly one rule when it came to Reiner Braun: never let him see you flustered.

It was a rule you broke at least twice a week, usually in the same fifteen-square-foot radius— the back corner of Professor Hange's 11 a.m. lecture hall, where the seats were bolted in crooked rows and the radiator clanked loudly against the wall. You'd been sitting in that corner since the first week of freshman year, back when Reiner Braun was just a tall, quiet blond kid in a practice jersey who'd stolen a pencil and never given it back. Three years later, he still hadn't given it back. He'd just expanded his operation and used it as an excuse to talk to you by trying to steal more.

He'd changed a lot since that first week, and none of it made things easier for you. The softer roundness he'd shown up with freshman year had given way, over three years of playing football and off-season lifting, to something broader and more solid— shoulders that filled out a doorway, forearms that did unfair things to the sleeves of his practice shirts….a jaw that had sharpened into something he'd started shading with a day or two of stubble whenever the season got busy enough that shaving fell down on his priority list. He kept his hair cropped short and blonde and a little messy, like he ran a hand through it more than he meant to, which he did. You'd had three years to get used to the way he looked, and somehow you had not gotten used to it— instead, it made any feelings you already had for Reiner Braun intensify even more than you thought possible.

"You're doing that thing again," Mikasa said without looking up from her notes.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're doing the thing where you put your hand over your pencil like it's going to get up and walk away on its own. But we all know why you're doing it."

You did, in fact, have your hand flat over your pencil, pinning it to the desk like evidence at a crime scene. Across the aisle and one row back, Reiner was leaning sideways in his seat with his chin propped on his fist— watching you with this small, dumb, happy look on his face that he clearly thought was subtle and was not even a little subtle. He had his own pencil, you noticed, that sat behind his ear, untouched, a prop in a play only he knew the script to.

"He's not even being subtle," Annie mumbled from beside you, flipping a page. "He's staring at you like you're gonna be on the final."

"I'm aware," you huff lightly. 

"All this over a pencil?"

"It's not about the pencil, Annie."

"What's it about, then?"

It was about the fact that Reiner Braun had figured out, sometime around freshman year, that stealing your pencil during lectures was the single most effective way to make you actually talk to him, and he had weaponized that knowledge with the devotion of a man pursuing a doctorate in it. It was about the warmth that climbed up the back of your neck every time his fingers brushed yours doing it, like he was testing how long he could touch your hand before you'd notice he wasn't actually trying that hard to take the pencil at all. It was about the fact that Reiner Braun— captain of the football team, six-foot-something of quiet muscle that half the underclassmen were low-key terrified of, turned into a nervous, grinning disaster the second he was within arm's reach of you— and had for three straight years, and somehow you were still pretending you hadn't noticed.

"It's the principle of it," you said carefully to Annie instead.

Mikasa made a small sound that might have been a laugh. Up front, Professor Hange was drawing something on the whiteboard that looked aggressively like a cell membrane having an exorcism— and the lecture rolled on, and you kept writing your notes with your hand curled protectively around your pencil, like a dragon guarding the world's least impressive treasure.

It lasted only about four minutes. Then Reiner's hand slid across the gap between your desks, broad and warm, with a casualness that bordered on insulting, like he wasn't about to commit grand larceny in broad daylight. His fingers grazed the back of your hand, and you yanked the pencil back on instinct, and he had the audacity to look wounded about it.

"You're getting fast," he murmured, voice pitched low just for you.

"You're getting predictable."

"Predictable's a strong word….I prefer consistent."

"You prefer annoying, more like."

"That's also accurate." He was grinning now, that low rumble of amusement doing something unfair to your stomach every single time. "C'mon. I'll give it back this time, promise."

"You will never give it back."

"I'm due for a comeback season."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling, though."

You found that you were smiling. You stopped immediately, which only made him laugh, quiet and pleased with himself. "Eyes front, Braun," Mikasa said, not even looking up or glancing over, and he sat back with his ears a little pink and did not, in fact, keep his eyes front for very long.

The lecture let out into the kind of overcast afternoon that made the whole quad look like it was lit for a moody photo shoot, everyone filtering out in the loose, gravity-defying way college students moved between obligations— half-asleep, half-late, and fully convinced they had more time than they did. You fell into step automatically with Mikasa and Annie, the three of you peeling off toward the library, when Reiner caught up with an easy, loping stride that ate the distance like it cost him nothing.

"Hey." He fell into step beside you, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, and he looked— for a guy who could bench press a small car— weirdly nervous. "Mind if I walk with you guys?"

"We’re going to the library," you tell him, aiming for a stern tone.

"I know. I have eyes." He nodded toward the brick building ahead. "I'm headed that way too— it’s a free country, you know."

"Don’t you have practice in twenty minutes?" You remind him. 

"I have exactly enough time to walk you there and sprint to the field after. I've done the math."

"You have definitely not done the math right…."

"Hey! I’m good at Math." Behind you, Annie muttered something to Mikasa that sounded suspiciously like here we go, and Mikasa hummed in quiet agreement, and you decided very firmly not to think about what that meant.

"Fine. But you're not getting a pencil from me."

"Wasn't gonna take a pencil anyway."

"You're always gonna try and steal my pencil, Reiner."

"Well today, I'm doing something different." He said it lightly, but there was a beat— small, the kind you'd have missed if you hadn't spent three years cataloguing every inflection in his voice— where his easy rhythm caught. "You doing anything Friday?"

The question landed low in your chest and sat there, warm and unfamiliar. "Why?"

"My frat house is doing a thing. It’s basically a bonfire, with too much beer probably, Connie's gonna try to do the fire pit with lighter fluid." He shrugged, but his eyes were steady on you, waiting. "Thought you and the girls might wanna come. Don’t worry its not really a frat thing. It’s for….everyone."

You hesitate for a moment. "I'll think about it."

"That's a yes?"

"That's a maybe."

"I'll take it." He was grinning again, full and unguarded, and it made him look younger than twenty-one, like the years since orientation had sanded down whatever armor he'd shown up with. "Gotta go before Coach Erwin makes me run laps. See you Friday."

"I didn't say yes."

"But you didn't say no." He was already jogging backward, hands still in his pockets. “Bye for now.” He'd already turned, jogging properly now toward the field, and you watched him go, jaw tight, refusing to let yourself smile the way you wanted to. You didn't like how easily he did this to you— jogging off with that grin, leaving your pulse doing something stupid and your feet rooted to the library steps like you'd forgotten how they worked. Three years of practice and you still hadn't figured out how to make it stop mattering this much.

The campus 'radio station' lived in a cramped, beige-walled room on the third floor of the student union, up a stairwell that smelled of burnt coffee and old books. You'd had the key since sophomore year, ever since you’d personally asked the school admissions counselor for them, after projecting your idea to her of a late night campus radio for students of the college. There was just something so thrilling and exciting to you about a closed door, a microphone, your spotify playlist and a voice that came with no face attached— everyone knew you, but they could never put your face to it. 

The radio show was called Night Shift— it was at ten to midnight every Thursday and sometimes Tuesdays, and consisted mostly of music from your Spotify playlist, campus gossip and a call-in segment where you took anonymous questions and answered them with whatever mix of dry humour and honesty felt right that week. It shouldn't have built the following it had. But two years in, half of campus had a thing about it, texting each other mid-show— did you listen to Night Shift last night— all orbiting around a persona nobody could put a face to. You ran your voice through a light modulator, just enough distance to keep it from sounding obviously like you, and built the whole thing around being braver on air than you ever managed in person— braver than you were most Tuesdays with your hand clamped over a pencil.

You knew, vaguely, that Reiner listened. His friend Jean had let it slip once— the dude's obsessed with that radio show, wouldn't shut up about it during practice the other day— and you'd filed that away somewhere you weren't ready to poke at too hard.

By the time you climbed the stairs, it was almost 10pm. You placed your headphones around your neck, set up your laptop and opened up your Spotify and live streaming. The cramped little room was lit gold by the one desk lamp that didn't flicker, and just then just the dim, blue light of your laptop as you plugged in your mic— then, you took a deep breath as you clicked the GO LIVE button highlighted in red on your screen. 

“Good evening, everyone,” You said clearly into your microphone, your voice turning into something that sounded nothing like you. Instantly over a hundred people around campus were listening as you smiled to yourself. “Welcome to the Night Shift. How about we get started with easy listening tonight?” 

Friday's bonfire came quicker than you'd hoped, and you decided to go— against your better judgment, and it turned into something you weren't prepared for at all.

The frat's backyard had been strung with mismatched lights, and the fire pit was already the subject of one intervention after Connie tried to make the fire bigger by pouring it with more lighter fluid, which resulted in someone having to put it out quickly before it set the nearby logs off. The whole sprawling evening had the loud, overlapping warmth of two friend groups that had quietly become one a long time ago without anybody officially deciding it— somebody had a speaker going, and somebody else had brought enough red cups to supply a small country.

You told yourself you'd have one drink. Maybe two. It had been a long week— a midterm you'd barely survived, an all-nighter at the station prepping the show next week, and the low, constant hum of anxiety that came from being one accidental slip away from blowing your own cover. Your friend and roommate, Sasha, handed you the first cup with the solemn instruction to trust the process. You should not have trusted the process.

Your other roommates had turned up too— Historia laughing at something Ymir murmured too quiet for anyone else to catch, and Reiner’s fratmates Jean and Eren were somehow arguing about whether birds counted as dinosaurs, you had lost count about how many drinks you had somewhere after the fourth cup, and the fire had gone soft and warm and a little too bright at the edges, and you were laughing at something Connie said that was probably not that funny.

Reiner found you around then, the way he always found you at these things, settling onto the log beside you with a careful amount of space between you that you promptly closed by leaning your shoulder into his arm. Up close like that, firelight catching along his jaw, the short stubble he hadn't bothered shaving off in a few days, the solid warmth of him under his t-shirt— you had the distinct, drunken thought that it was extremely unfair of him to look this good right now.

"Whoa—hey." He caught you gently before you tipped further, hand steady at your shoulder. "You good?"

"I'm great," you slur slightly, with the particular conviction of someone who was not great. "I'm fantastic, Reiner…...Did you know your eyes are like— really gold? Like, they're so beautiful."

Reiner's ears went pink so fast it was almost funny. "Okay," he said, half a laugh and half genuine concern. "How much have you had?"

"A normal amount…."

"That's not a number—"

"Numbers are for people who aren't having fun." You poked his chest, which took considerably more coordination than you expected, and did, in your defense, feel a little bit like poking a wall. "You're very solid. Like a wall— a gold wall!"

"I'm gonna get you some water." He was already standing, one hand braced lightly at your back to make sure you didn't fall sideways off the log. "Stay here a sec, okay? Don't move."

"I'm not gonna move, Reiner, I'm sitting down—"

He was gone and back in under a minute, crouching in front of you with a water bottle and an expression that had gone from amused to quietly focused, the same look you imagined he wore calling plays on the field. "Here. Drink this— all of it, not just a sip."

You drank it, mostly because refusing felt like more effort than it was worth, and the world tilted a little less once you'd finished it— though not by much.

"I think I need to sit down," you mumble. 

"You are sitting down."

"I need to sit down more."

"Okay." He huffed, but it was fond and a little exasperated, and crouched down properly in front of you, checking your eyes the way you imagined he checked a teammate's after a bad hit. "You wanna head inside? Or shall I try and take you home?"

"Hm, don't wanna go home like this,” you mutter. “Mikasa's gonna lecture me."

"She's not wrong to," Reiner said gently, a small smile escaping. "But you don't have to go home. C'mon." He got an arm carefully around you, giving you every chance to pull away if you wanted to— but you didn't, and he half-walked, half-carried you across the yard and in through the back door of the house, away from the noise and the fire and the several people who definitely watched him do it with varying degrees of interest.

The house upstairs was quieter, the bass from the yard muffled through the floor. Reiner's room turned out to be at the end of the hall, surprisingly tidy for a guy who lived with Connie Springer— he had a neatly made bed, a shelf of textbooks and, you noted with some delight in your compromised state, a corkboard with a printout of the campus radio schedule pinned to it.

"You have the radio schedule on your wall," you say delightedly, poking at it. "That's so— that's so cute, Reiner."

"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing as he looked everywhere but at you. "It's a good radio show."

He got you to sit on the edge of his bed, put another glass of water into your hands, and hovered close enough to catch you if you swayed but far enough to give you room— the same instinct he'd never once dropped in three years of trying to steal pencils from you.

"You're being so nice," you told him, squinting up at him like he was a puzzle you were trying to solve. "You're always so nice. Why are you so nice to me?"

Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, gone before you could name it. "Because I like you," he said, quiet, like it slipped out before he could stop it, and then immediately looked mortified. "Like—uh—as a friend. Obviously. You're my….friend."

"Obviously," you agreed, entirely too pleased with yourself, and did not clock how fast his face had gone bright red.

"Okay, whatever. Now, go to bed. You're sleeping here tonight, it's not safe walking back to the house like this, and I am not letting you take a cab alone at midnight." He was already pulling back the comforter, almost businesslike now, the flustered moment tucked away somewhere you couldn't reach. "I'll take the couch downstairs."

“Hmm–” You push your face into his pillow, engulfing yourself in his scent. "Your bed smells like you."

"That's— yeah, that tracks." He huffed a laugh, helping you get your shoes off with the careful, practical efficiency of someone who'd clearly done this for a teammate before, nothing about it awkward except for how hard he was working not to look anywhere but your feet. "Lie down. I'm gonna leave the door cracked slightly open and a water bottle right here, okay? And my phone number's already in yours, so if you need anything, just call— I'll keep my phone on."

"You're not gonna stay in here with me?" You pouted at him. 

He paused at that, something soft and pained crossing his face, like it cost him something to say no. "No," he said gently. "Not when you've had too much to drink. I want you to actually remember saying yes to things, whenever or if you ever say yes to them. That's— that matters to me."

You didn't have anything drunk-clever to say back to that. You just looked at him, and he looked, for a second, like he might say something else, and then didn't. "Text me if you're gonna throw up," he said sfotly. "I mean that. Don't be embarrassed, just text me."

"Reiner."

"Yeah?"

"You're a really good guy." Your eyes were already sliding shut, feeling too heavy to keep open.  "Somebody's gonna be really lucky."

He went very still in the doorway. "Yeah," he said, so quiet you almost missed it. "Hope so."

You were asleep before you heard him leave.

You woke up the next morning with a headache, someone else's hoodie draped over you, three glasses of water lined up on the nightstand like a silent apology, and a note in surprisingly careful handwriting: Went to grab breakfast stuff. Bathroom's down the hall, extra toothbrush under the sink (still in the package, I promise). Take your time — R.

You sat there for a long moment, mortified and warm in equal measure, replaying fragments of the night before— his hand steady at your back, his ears going pink, the careful way he'd said I like you and then panicked and walked it back. You weren't drunk enough to have imagined that part— well, you were fairly sure of it, anyway.

Downstairs, the common room was a warzone of red cups and Connie was asleep sideways on the couch with only one shoe on— and Reiner was in the kitchen in sweatpants and yesterday's shirt, forearms flexing faintly as he worked a spatula through what appeared to be a genuinely large amount of scrambled eggs, humming something under his breath that you were fairly sure was your outro music from Night Shift.

You did not mention that you recognised it. You filed it away with everything else you weren't ready to look at directly yet, along with the very inconvenient thought that Reiner Braun standing barefoot in a kitchen making you breakfast, hair still messy from sleep, was doing something to you that a normal hangover really should not have allowed room for.

He glanced up, and something in his shoulders eased when he saw you upright and functional. "Hey. How's your head?"

"Surviving. Barely." You sat carefully at the counter, squinting your eyes. "Thank you. For last night— you didn't have to do all that."

"Course I did." He said it simply, plating the eggs like it was the easiest thing in the world, not looking at you directly, which was its own kind of answer. "Wasn't gonna let you go home like that. Or let anyone else be the one looking after you." He caught himself on the last part, ears going pink again, and busied himself with the pan a little too intently. "Anyway. Eat something. You'll feel better."

You ate the eggs he made, which were better than they had any right to be, and didn't ask him about the corkboard, or the radio schedule pinned to it. 

Weeks passed the way they always did mid-semester— exams looming, the team grinding through their schedule, the pencil thing still going, exactly the way it had for three years, except you noticed yourself waiting for it a little more now; watching for that half-second pause where his eyes asked permission even while his hand was already moving. You never once told him no in a way you actually meant.

"You two should just date already," Jean said one afternoon at lunch when you were sitting with them, and Reiner had gone to use the restroom— Jean had said it with the bluntness of someone who'd run entirely out of patience. "He's basically in love with you, dude. Marco owes me twenty bucks if you guys start dating and I would like to collect it before graduation."

"We’re not gonna date," you insist, but you were ignoring the way your face went warm.

"Sure you won’t," Jean didn't even look up from his tray. Beside him, Marco just smiled and said nothing, which was somehow worse than if he'd agreed out loud.

The homecoming game fell on a bright, but cold Saturday, the whole stadium a mess of school colours and the specific chaos that came with the entire campus deciding, all at once, that this was the game that mattered most. You went with your friends and roommates of course— Mikasa, Annie, Sasha, Historia, and Ymir, all of you crammed into the student section with a shared bag of popcorn and Historia's homemade sign that said GO! in glitter letters and had already started shedding on everyone within a three-foot radius.

"He's definitely gonna look for you," Sasha said in a matter-of-fact way, around a mouthful of popcorn. "He always looks for you before kickoff. It's kind of his whole ‘thing’."

"He does not have a thing."

"He has a thing," Mikasa said, not looking up from the game program.

"I hate all of you."

Down on the field, the team was running warmups, and you spotted Bertholdt first— impossible not to, he was tallest guy out there by a head— jogging beside Jean, who was already yelling something at Eren, with Connie and Marco walking behind, enticing the crowd for cheers. And then you spotted Reiner, pads on, helmet under one arm, jogging the sideline with the captain's easy authority he carried onto the field and almost nowhere else, and you watched him do exactly what Sasha said he'd do— scan the student section, slow and deliberate, until he found your section, found you, and then broke into a grin so wide you could see it from twenty rows up.

You lifted a hand to wave. He lifted his helmet in return, a small, private salute that had absolutely nothing subtle about it, and beside you Sasha made a sound like a kettle reaching boil.

"Oh my god," she squealed. "I knew he was gonna do it."

The game itself was close and stressful in the specific way football games always were— a fumble in the second quarter that had the whole stadium groaning in unison, a targeting call against the other team that got Jean absolutely feral on the sideline, Bertholdt hauling in a catch in the third quarter that you were fairly sure saved the entire game. Reiner played the way he always played, steady and controlled and quietly ferocious— the kind of player who made the loud, flashy stuff look unnecessary because he simply didn't need it.

With eleven seconds left on the clock, down by four, Reiner took the snap on a broken play, shrugged off a guy like he weighed nothing, and put the ball exactly where it needed to be— and that sent the entire stadium into a single, deafening roar. You were screaming, and you weren't even sure when you'd started screaming. Historia's glitter sign disintegrated entirely in the chaos, and Sasha had both arms around you, and somewhere below, on the field, Reiner had ripped his helmet off and was being mobbed by the rest of the team, grinning so hard it looked like it hurt.

You found him afterward outside the locker room tunnel, hair damp from a quick shower, a hoodie thrown on over his practice shirt, cheeks still flushed from the game and the cold. He spotted you before you'd even fully made your way through the crowd of parents, girlfriends and little kids in oversized jerseys, and the grin he broke into made your stomach do something complicated.

"Hey." He jogged the last few steps, and up close, freshly showered, still buzzing off the win, he looked so painfully good— jaw shadowed, hair pushed back and still a little wet, the kind of easy, wrecked, happy that only came after a game like that— that you momentarily forgot what you'd come over to say.

"You were incredible," you managed finally. "That throw at the end—"

"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck, that same nervous tell he'd had since freshman year, entirely at odds with the guy who'd just thrown a game-winning touchdown pass in front of hundreds of people. "I had some help."

"Bert caught it—"

"I mean before that." He dug into the pocket of his hoodie, a little sheepish, a little like he was about to admit something he'd been sitting on for a while, and pulled out a pencil— worn down, the eraser mostly gone, a familiar, dusty pink colour wrapped around it that you recognised with a sudden, dizzy jolt.

"Is that—"

"Freshman year," he said. "The one I stole during the first week of Hange's class. I never gave it back." He turned it over in his fingers, almost bashful about it. "I've had it in my locker for three years. Every game, I put it in my sock before we go out. Kind of a lucky charm thing, I guess....Fuck, it sounds stupid saying it out loud—"

"You've carried my pencil into every football game for three years?" You couldn't help the smile escaping across your face. 

Reiner huffed out a laugh. "When you say it like that it sounds worse—"

"No, it's—" You didn't have a good end to that sentence, your chest too full for words to line up properly. "That's not stupid, Reiner."

"Yeah?" He looked up at you, something hopeful and unguarded in his face, still catching his breath a little from the run over, from the game, and from whatever this was. "I mean it, though. I looked for you before kickoff 'cause I always look for you before kickoff. Feels like the game doesn't really start until I know where you are."

You didn't have anything to say to that either, not one that wouldn't give away more than you were ready for yet, so you just reached out and closed your hand gently over his, over the pencil. "Keep it," you said quietly, pushing the pencil in his hand back towards him. "Looks like it's working."

"Yeah," Reiner said, a little breathless, a little dazed, looking at you like you'd just handed him something far bigger than a pencil. "Yeah, I think it is."

You walked back to the dorms with Mikasa and the others a while later, only half-listening to Sasha recapping the game play-by-play, because your mind had stayed behind somewhere near the locker room tunnel, replaying the way Reiner had looked at you when he said feels like the game doesn't really start until I know where you are. You'd spent three years telling yourself the pencil thing was just Reiner being Reiner, and it was getting harder to keep believing that. You liked him— more than you were ready to admit out loud, and you caught yourself smiling at nothing the whole walk home and didn't bother trying to stop it.

Thursday came around again, and you climbed the station stairs with the usual pre-show buzz— two hours where you got to put the week down and just talk, the way you never quite managed to with Reiner within ten feet of you scattering your thoughts. The show went the way it always went: some of your Spotify music, a rant about the dining hall's new menu that had half of campus in open revolt, a long answer to an anonymous text about a crush that hit closer to home than you meant it to. You talked, without totally meaning to, about the ache of being known in pieces, wondering if someone would ever get the whole picture without you having to hand it over all at once.

You didn't notice the camera light flashing.

The stream was audio-only by default— the one rule that kept the whole thing anonymous— but the new app you had installed a few days ago had a video feed built in, off unless you hit a specific panel, and somewhere in the scramble of queuing a song your mouse lagged and caught it— and the little red light you always checked slipped past you for exactly four minutes.

You had no idea. You sat there under the desk lamp, mid-laugh at your own joke replying to an anonymous message sent in— completely unaware that for four minutes, the feed hadn't been audio-only at all.

Across town, Reiner had the radio stream for Night Shift up on the common room TV, same as every Thursday, low volume, the room a little quieter than usual the way it always got. Reiner was sprawled on the couch with the pencil resting on the arm beside him— a habit now, ever since the homecoming game— feet on the coffee table, half-scrolling his phone, half not, the voice of Night Shift doing its usual thing of making a room full of loud, tired guys go still. Connie was stacking cans on the kitchen counter for reasons no one had asked about, Jean and Eren fighting about a video game. Bertholdt sat in the armchair, quiet, watching Reiner more than the TV, which was also per usual.

The picture flickered across the screen. No one else in the room didn't clock it — the audio kept going, you mid-sentence, warm and a little wry — but for four unbroken minutes the black square where the video should've been resolved into a small lamp-lit room. A cluttered desk. Headphones slipping off one ear.

A face. Your face.

Reiner glanced up out of habit, the kind of glance you give something you're not really watching but just listening to. Then he went completely still.

"Reiner?" Bertholdt sat forward when he saw Reiner pause. "You good?"

Reiner didn't answer right away. His phone slid out of his hand and he didn't even notice, eyes locked on the screen, and when the feed cut back to black he just kept staring at the spot where it had been.

"Dude," Jean said, turning around from Eren to look at Reiner. "You look like you saw a ghost."

"That's her," Reiner said, voice low, cracking a little. "Fuck. That's— that's her."

"Who?"

He dragged both hands down his face, breathing like he'd run somewhere, the pencil still sitting on the couch arm beside him like it had been waiting for this too. "It's her. This whole time. I made her eggs. Fuck—I've had her pencil in my locker for three years. I looked for her in the stands before every single game like some kind of idiot and had no idea I was already—" He cut himself off, shaking his head slowly, something disbelieving and soft spreading across his face. "I've liked her since freshman year. And I've been listening to Night Shift for two years without knowing it was the same person. It's always been the same person." Reiner was rambling to himself, unable to grasp the reality of it.

"Okay, breathe," Bertholdt said, hand landing steady on his shoulder, same as he'd done a hundred times. "You don't have to do anything about it this second."

"No, I do.” Reiner exhaled slowly, and under the shock something softer was already settling in, something almost giddy, almost scared. "I just— I gotta tell her. Not like some big scene. I just want to talk to her."

You didn't find out until the show ended. Headphones off, halfway through shutting down your laptop, your phone lit up against the desk— one buzz, then five, then it wouldn't stop.

did anyone else just see that oh my god the radio host is literally in my bio class???

You scrolled with your pulse roaring, the realisation arriving in pieces— the small light on your laptop. Four minutes, somebody said, before the feed cut back to black.

Four minutes was all it took for your identity to have been leaked. Your hands weren't steady packing up your bag— and you didn't check your phone again on the walk back to your dorm, too scared of what you'd find, and let yourself into the house on autopilot— luckily it was quiet, mostly empty as Sasha was off god knows where, and Historia at a late study session with Ymir, Mikasa and Annie still at the library. You went up to your room, sat on the edge of your dorm room bed with your knees pulled to your chest, and tried to figure out whether you were more scared of everyone knowing, or of one specific person finding out.

You didn't have to wonder long. A knock at your door— not the front door, yours, which meant somebody had let themselves in, so it had to be someone you knew well. "It's me," Reiner said through the door, quiet, uncertain in a way his voice rarely was. "Can I come in? You can say no. I just— I didn't wanna text this."

You stared at the door a second, then you got up and opened it. He looked more nervous than you'd ever seen him— hoodie on and hands shoved deep in the pocket, shoulders hunched, doing everything he could to look smaller than he was, the same thing he always did around you and had never once managed all the way. His eyes found yours and softened immediately.

"Hey," he said gently.

"Hey." Your voice came out smaller than you meant. "So, I guess you know, then."

"Yes." No triumph in it, nothing smug, just something raw and a little wrecked. "TV was on at the house. It flashed up…."

You wrapped your arms around yourself. "I really didn't want anyone finding out like this."

"I figured." He stayed in the doorway, not pushing in. "I just wanna talk— but I can go, if that's easier—"

"No," you interrupted him, and stepped back to let him in. “Come in.” 

He shut the door gently and stood a careful distance away, giving you room, the same instinct he'd never once dropped— not stealing a pencil, not carrying you up a flight of stairs, not looking for you in a crowded stand, not now.

"I'm not here to make it weird," he said. "Or make you feel like you got caught doing something you shouldnt be. I know how much you probably wanted to keep this yours. So if you want me to pretend I didn't see anything, I will. For real."

You were surprised at this. "You'd actually do that?"

"If that's what you wanted." He shrugged, like it wasn't even a hard call, even though his hands were shaking a little where they were still shoved in his pocket. "But I'm kind of hoping you don't need that. 'Cause I've got stuff I've been wanting to say for a really long time, and I'm bad at saying it, so— I'm gonna try, and it's probably gonna come out wrong. So….bear with me."

Your breath caught. "Reiner—"

"I've liked you since the first week of freshman year," he said, quiet, halting, nothing smooth about it at all. "You let me steal a pencil from you and didn't make it weird that I was too nervous to actually talk to you, and I thought, okay, that's it, I'm done for. I never said anything because I didn't know how, and because every time I got near you I'd just— freeze, basically, and the only thing I could think to do was try and steal your pencils so I'd have an excuse to touch your hand for two seconds. That's the whole plan I had for three years."

A helpless laugh escaped him, ears going pink all over again. "And then this radio stream just happened, and Jean wouldn't shut up about the show so I started listening, and then I kept listening 'cause the host made a room full of loud idiots go quiet every week, and I loved that. I loved the version of you brave enough to say real stuff into a mic, and I loved the version of you that guards a pencil from me, and the version of you that poked my chest at a bonfire while drunk and told me my eyes were beautiful—"

"Oh my god, I actually said that out loud?" You gasp. 

"You said a lot of things out loud." He was smiling now, soft, a little wrecked. "It turns out none of those things were done by two different people. It was all just you."

Your eyes had gone hot, and you didn't trust your voice enough to answer right away, so you just stood there and let him see it— no jokes left to hide behind, nothing anonymous about it anymore. You were both quiet for a moment.  "I'm not gonna tell anyone," he added quickly, misreading your silence. "If you want it kept quiet I'll never bring it up outside this room, I swear—"

"Reiner." Your voice finally came, thick. "That's not why I'm not saying anything."

"No?"

"I've liked you for three years," you said, and it all came out fast now, unsteady, like something finally let off a leash. "I let you try to steal my pencil every single class because I liked your hand near mine, and I let myself pretend I didn't know that's what it was about, because it felt safer than saying it out loud. I built a whole radio persona around being honest because I couldn't say any of it to your actual face, and everything I ever said on that show that sounded like it was about somebody— it was you. I just didn't know how to tell you without giving up the one place I got to be brave."

Reiner's whole face cracked open— the careful, held-together thing he'd been doing all night finally giving way to something bright and disbelieving, and for a second he looked young, all his composure gone, just a guy standing in a doorway realizing the thing he wanted most had been six feet away from him for three years. He closed the last of the distance slow, like he still didn't fully trust this was real, and reached up to cup your face in both hands, careful, the same way he did everything— the same way he'd tucked a comforter around you weeks ago and walked out of his own room to sleep on a couch rather than take anything you weren't fully awake to give, the same way he'd carried a chewed-up pencil into every game for three years rather than admit out loud what it meant. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs as his thumb brushed across your bottom lip. The touch was hesitant, questioning, but you answered by leaning into it, parting your lips slightly. "Can I kiss you?" His voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," you said quickly. "God, yes."

He kissed you slow, unhurried, a little shaky at first like he genuinely couldn't believe he was allowed, and then steadier, like he finally had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it. Reiner's mouth was warm and insistent, tasting faintly of mint and something uniquely him. His other hand found your waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your shirt as he pulled you flush against him— you could feel the hard planes of his chest through his hoodie, the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching your own frantic rhythm.

When you broke apart, gasping for air, his eyes were wide with disbelief. "I can't believe this is happening," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. "I've wanted—God, I've wanted this for so long." You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him back for another kiss. This one was deeper, more desperate— your tongues tangling together, slick and hungry, as months of suppressed longing flooded to the surface. Reiner backed you toward your bed, his hands roaming your body with reverent urgency. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your neck, your chest. "You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with awe. "Can I—?" His fingers hovered at the hem of your t-shirt.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you grabbed his hand and pressed it flat against your breast, arching into his touch, and his eyes darkened instantly. "Reiner," you moaned, "stop looking and start touching."

He obeyed, lifting your shirt up in one smooth motion. His breath hitched when he saw you weren't wearing a bra, your breasts on full display for him. "Fuck," he breathed, his thumbs circling your nipples as you gasped softly. "You're perfect." Your hands tangled in his hair as he lowered his head, taking one peaked nipple into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made your knees weak, and you fell back onto your bed, pulling him with you— the mattress springs groaned beneath your combined weight as you whimpered beneath him.

Reiner settled between your thighs, his hips pressing against yours. Even through your jeans, you could feel how hard he was, how badly he wanted this— but he was taking his time, his mouth worshiping your breasts, his hands mapping every curve of your body.

"Please," you gasped, bucking against him. "Reiner, I need—"

"What do you need?" He lifted his head, his lips swollen from all the kisses, his pupils blown wide with desire. "Tell me."

You grabbed his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "I want you to fuck me. Now." Something wild flashed in his eyes. He fumbled with your jeans, his fingers clumsy with urgency. You helped him, lifting your hips as he dragged the denim down your legs. His gaze fixed on the damp patch spreading across your panties.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured, hooking his fingers in the waistband. "So wet for me."

The fabric pooled on the floor, and then his hands were on your thighs, spreading you open. He paused, just looking— his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. "I want to taste you—"

"Next time," you promised him, reaching for his belt buckle. "Right now, I just want you inside me."

Your fingers shook as you undid his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free in front of you, thick and flushed, already beading with pre-cum at the tip. Reiner hissed when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking from base to tip as your mouth opened slightly in awe.

"I’ve got—condom," he choked out, fumbling to get his wallet out of his jeans pocket on the floor.

You watched him rip it open with his teeth and roll it on, your thighs trembling with anticipation and pure lust for him. When he positioned himself at your entrance, you grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down to you for another kiss. He pushed inside slowly, giving you time to adjust—but you were beyond being patient anymore, you had nothing to lose; but a lot to gain. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper until he was fully seated, his balls pressed against your ass. Reiner groaned into your mouth, his whole body trembling as his hands snaked around you.

"Fuck, Reiner," you moaned against his lips.

He started thrusting, slowly at first—testing it out, and then faster, harder. Your bedframe slammed against the dorm wall with each movement, the rhythmic creaking mixing with your moans and his harsh breathing and whimpers. Reiner's hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he drove into you again and again. "You feel so good," he panted, his face buried in your neck. "So wet—fuck, I'm not going to last."

"Come for me," you gasped, nails digging into his back.

His rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming erratic before you felt him swell inside you, his entire body tensing as he found his release. A deep groan ripped from his throat as he came, his hips jerking against yours. When he finally collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress— you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close to your chest. Your breaths mingled in the humid air between you, the weight of Reiner's body a comforting pressure against your chest. 

His heartbeat thrummed against yours, a steady rhythm gradually slowing from its frantic pace. You traced patterns on his back through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, feeling the damp heat of his skin beneath. He pulled out with a slow wince, peeling off the used condom to throw away in your bin next to your bed.

"Stay for a bit," You say to him, pulling him back towards you. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Reiner murmured back, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Reiner pushed himself up on his elbows, his eyes dark with renewed desire. He studied your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "I want….want to fuck you again," he said, his voice low, “If you’ll let me.” He nodded toward your desk, piled high with textbooks, notes, and empty coffee mugs from late-night study sessions. "How about...over there, on the desk?" 

A thrill shot through you at the suggestion, and you nodded eagerly at him, unable to use your words. Reiner was quick to help you sit up, his hands lingering on your waist before he stood up.

He reached for your hand, pulling you from the bed— and your legs felt shaky as you followed him to the desk. The wood surface was cool against your palms when he bent you over it, the position forcing your breasts to press against scattered papers and textbook covers. The sharp edges of a spiral notebook dug into your ribs, but you barely registered the discomfort with Reiner looming behind you.

Reiner's hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he positioned himself behind you. You heard the tear of foil as he opened another condom, which made you wonder how many he actually had stored in his wallet….."Ready?" he asked, his voice strained as you were torn away from your thoughts. 

You pushed back against him in response, whimpering and turning around to pout at him— and that was all the encouragement he needed. He entered you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. The angle was deeper than before, hitting spots inside you that made your toes curl against your worn carpet. His movements started slow, experimental, as if testing how this new position felt for both of you. But soon his control snapped, and his hips were snapping forward, driving into you with increasing force. Each thrust pushed you harder against the desk, and the accumulated objects on its surface began to rattle. A coffee mug slid precariously close to the edge, a stack of textbooks shifted, and pencils rolled across the wood.

The sounds of your coupling filled the small room— skin slapping against skin, your breathy moans, Reiner's grunts and groans of exertion, and the constant percussive accompaniment of academic disruption. The contrast between the intellectual setting and the raw, animalistic act sent electricity through your veins. Reiner's hands moved from your hips to your shoulders, using the leverage to drive even deeper— and you braced yourself against the desk, your fingers scrabbling for purchase among loose papers.

After several minutes of this punishing rhythm, Reiner suddenly stilled. "Fuck—I need to see you," he panted, withdrawing slowly. He helped you turn around, lifting you effortlessly to sit on the edge of the desk. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he entered you again, this time face to face. The new position allowed you to see every flicker of emotion crossing his features— the furrow of concentration between his brows, the parting of his lips, the intensity in his amber eyes.

You pressed your foreheads together, sharing breath as he began to move again. The angle was different now, more intimate somehow— each thrust still rocking the desk, but now you could feel his chest against yours, could watch the emotions play across his face. "I love you," he whispered against your lips, the words barely audible but impossibly clear in the charged space between you. His movements didn't falter, the confession seeming to fuel rather than distract from his passion.

Your heart swelled, a wave of emotion so powerful it nearly overwhelmed the physical sensations you were feeling. "I love you too," you breathed back, pulling him into a desperate kiss as he continued to fuck you with increasing urgency. It was true— you did love Reiner, and you had for a long time.

Just as you were lost in the moment—lost in him—the door suddenly swung open with a bang.

"Hey–fuck! Fuck—sorry!" Sasha's voice cut through the room like a siren. She stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as she took in the scene: you on the desk, legs wrapped around Reiner’s waist as he was buried deep inside you.

But before you could even process the shock of being discovered, Sasha slammed the door shut with another bang. The sound echoed in the small room, followed by the distinct click of the lock.

You expected Reiner to stop, to pull away, to be embarrassed by what happened— but instead, he only gripped you tighter, his hips never ceasing their rhythm. If anything, the interruption seemed to spur him on, his thrusts becoming even more forceful, more desperate.

"Let her listen," Reiner growled lowly against your neck, his teeth scraping your sensitive skin. "Let everyone hear how long I've wanted to do this."

The knowledge that Sasha stood just outside the door, that anyone could be listening, sent a fresh wave of arousal through your body. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. "Reiner," you gasped against his shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. "Move to the floor."

He didn't hesitate, with one arm wrapped securely around your waist, Reiner lifted you effortlessly from the desk. His cock remained buried inside you as he carried you across the room, each step causing delicious friction. The rough texture of the dorm carpet pressed into your back as he laid you down, settling between your legs without breaking their connection.

You pushed against his chest, surprising both of you with the force of your movement. "Lie back," you demanded, your voice husky with desire. “I want to be on top.” His golden amber eyes darkened with understanding as he complied, rolling onto his back and taking you with him— and the shift in position left you straddling his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you. You looked down at him, down at the the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the muscle working in his jaw as he fought for control. His shirt was still on, stretched tight across his broad chest, but you wanted more.

With deliberate movements, you reached for the hem of his shirt. "Take this off."

Reiner needed no further encouragement. He sat up just enough to grab the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head, and your breath caught in your throat at the sight—broad shoulders, the ridges of his abdomen, thick biceps flexing as he supported himself back down onto the floor. His skin was flushed with exertion, a thin sheen of sweat making his muscles gleam in the dim lighting. You placed your palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. The blonde coarse hair scattered across his pecs tickled your skin as you began to move, rising and falling on his cock in a steady rhythm— each downward motion drove him deeper, the angle hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your toes curl.

Reiner's hands found your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. He tried to guide your movements, to set the pace, but you were having none of it— you grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head against the carpet. "Let me," you commanded, leaning forward until your breasts brushed against his chest. The new position changed the angle again, and you both moaned at the sensation. "Let me— take care of you."

His eyes burned with something darker than mere lust— trust, surrender and desire all mixed together. He relaxed his grip on your hips, letting you set the pace entirely as you began to move in earnest, rolling your hips in circles before rising and falling in a rhythm that had you both panting. The carpet burned against your knees with each movement, but you barely registered the discomfort. All that mattered was the man beneath you, the way his body responded to yours, the sounds he made when you shifted your angle just right— the way you have secretly been earning for him for years. You watched his face intently, committing every expression to memory— the way his brows drew together in concentration, how his lips parted on a silent gasp, the flutter of his eyelids when you clenched around him.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice strained. "You're going to make me—"

"Good," you cut him off again, increasing your pace. The coil of tension in your lower belly tightened with each thrust. His hips began to jerk upward, meeting your movements with desperate urgency. The control you'd maintained began to slip as your own orgasm approached. You released his wrists, bracing your hands against his chest instead. His fingers immediately returned to your hips, holding on tight as you rode him harder. The pressure built until it was almost unbearable—white-hot pleasure spreading through your veins, making your thighs tremble and your vision blur. You came with a cry that was half his name, half incoherent pleasure, your pussy clenching around his cock in rhythmic waves.

Reiner followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, his back arching off the carpet as he emptied himself into the condom. You could feel the pulse of his release, the way his cock throbbed inside you as he rode out his orgasm. A surge of pride washed through you at the sight— at how completely you'd undone him, how thoroughly you'd taken control. 

For several long moments, you remained joined, both of you breathing heavily in the aftermath. Finally, you shifted to move off him, but Reiner's arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place. "Stay there," he murmured, his voice rough from exertion. "Just for a minute."

You collapsed against his chest, your cheek pressed against the hard muscle of his pectoral. His heart hammered against your ear, gradually slowing to a more normal rhythm. One of his hands moved up your back, stroking your hair gently, while the other continued to hold you close. "Are you okay?" he asked after a moment, his voice softer now, gentler than you'd ever heard it. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

You shook your head against his chest. "No—I'm perfect."

"I'm sorry if I got carried away," he continued, his fingers combing through the tangled strands of your hair. "When Sasha walked in, I—"

You pushed yourself up enough to look at him, propping your chin on his chest. His amber eyes were soft in the dim light, the earlier intensity replaced with something warmer, more tender. "Don't apologise," you said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "I liked it."

A small smile touched his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirmed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his mouth. "But next time, maybe we should lock the door first."

Reiner laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Deal." He wrapped both arms around you then, rolling you both onto your sides so you were facing each other on the carpet. Somewhere on the bed your phone kept buzzing, cataloguing a slow campus-wide meltdown that would take days to fully die down. Tomorrow would bring questions, probably a lot of them, and a version of yourself you'd have to get used to sharing with people who weren't used to seeing it. But right now, with Reiner's arms around you and his heartbeat slow and steady under your palm, none of that felt like it mattered nearly as much as this.