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insipid-drivel · 1 year ago

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Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap

I'm going to go ahead and preface this with: I comment pretty regularly on clips and photos featuring horses and horseback riding, often answering questions or providing explanations for how or why certain things are done. I was a stable hand and barrel racer growing up, and during my 11 year tenure on tumblr, Professional Horse Commentary is a very niche, yet very necessary, subject that needs filling. Here are some of the literary and creative gaps I've noticed in well meaning (and very good!) creators trying to portray horses and riding realistically that... well, most of you don't seem to even be aware of, because you wouldn't know unless you worked with horses directly!

Some Of The Most Common Horse + Riding Mistakes I See:

-Anybody can ride any horse if you hold on tight enough/have ridden once before.

Nope. No, no, no, no, aaaaaaaand, no. Horseback riding has, historically, been treated as a life skill taught from surprisingly young ages. It wasn't unusual in the pre-vehicular eras to start teaching children as young as 4 to begin to ride, because horses don't come with airbags, and every horse is different. For most adults, it can take months or years of regular lessons to learn to ride well in the saddle, and that's just riding; not working or practicing a sport.

Furthermore, horses often reject riders they don't know. Unless a horse has been trained like a teaching horse, which is taught to tolerate riders of all skill and experience levels, it will take extreme issue with having some random person try to climb on their back. Royalty, nobility, and the knighted classes are commonly associated with the "having a favorite special horse" trope, because it's true! Just like you can have a particularly special bond with a pet or service animal that verges on parental, the same can apply with horses. Happy horses love their owners/riders, and will straight-up do their best to murder anyone that tries to ride them without permission.

-Horses are stupid/have no personality.

There isn't a more dangerous assumption to make than assuming a horse is stupid. Every horse has a unique personality, with traits that can be consistent between breeds (again, like cat and dog breeds often have distinct behavior traits associated with them), but those traits manifest differently from animal to animal.

My mother had an Arabian horse, Zipper, that hated being kicked as a signal to gallop. One day, her mom and stepdad had a particularly unpleasant visitor; an older gentleman that insisted on riding Zipper, but refused to listen to my mother's warnings never to kick him. "Kicking" constitutes hitting the horse's side(s) with your heels, whether you have spurs on or not. Most horses only need a gentle squeeze to know what you want them to do.

Anyway, Zipper made eye-contact with my mom, asking for permission. He understood what she meant when she nodded at him. He proceeded to give this asshole of a rider road rash on the side of the paddock fence and sent him to the emergency room. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't have the permission from the rider he respected, and was intelligent enough to ask, "mind if I teach this guy a lesson?" with his eyes, and understand, "Go for it, buddy," from my mom in return.

-Riding bareback is possible to do if you hold onto the horse's mane really tight.

Riding a horse bareback (with no saddle, stirrups, or traditional harness around the horse's head) is unbelievably difficult to learn, particularly have testicles and value keeping them. Even professional riders and equestrians find ourselves relying on tack (the stuff you put on a horse to ride it) to stay stable on our horses, even if we've been riding that particular horse for years and have a very positive, trusting relationship.

Horses sweat like people do. The more they run, the more their hair saturates with sweat and makes staying seated on them slippery. Hell, an overworked horse can sweat so heavily that the saddle slips off its back. It's also essential to brush and bathe a horse before it's ridden in order to keep it healthier, so their hair is often quite slick from either being very clean or very damp. In order to ride like that, you have to develop the ability to synchronize your entire body's rhythm's with the rhythm of the horse's body beneath you, and quite literally move as one. Without stirrups, most people can't do it, and some people can never master bareback riding no matter how many years they spend trying to learn.

-You can be distracted and make casual conversation while a horse is standing untethered in the middle of a barn or field.

At every barn I've ever worked at, it's been standard practice with every single horse, regardless of age or temperament, to secure their heads while they're being tacked up or tacked down. The secures for doing this are simple ropes with clips that are designed to attach to the horse's halter (the headwear for a horse that isn't being ridden; they have no bit that goes in the horse's mouth, and no reins for a rider to hold) on metal O rings on either side of the horse's head. This is not distressing to the horse, because we give them plenty of slack to turn their heads and look around comfortably.

The problem with trying to tack up an unrestrained horse while chatting with fellow stable hands or riders is that horses know when you're distracted! And they often try to get away with stuff when they know you're not looking! In a barn, a horse often knows where the food is stored, and will often try to tiptoe off to sneak into the feed room.

Horses that get into the feed room are often at a high risk of dying. While extremely intelligent, they don't have the ability to throw up, and they don't have the ability to tell that their stomach is full and should stop eating. Allowing a horse into a feed/grain room WILL allow it to eat itself to death.

Other common woes stable hands and riders deal with when trying to handle a horse with an unrestrained head is getting bitten! Horses express affection between members of their own herd, and those they consider friends and family, through nibbling and surprisingly rough biting. It's not called "horseplay" for nothing, because during my years working with horses out in the pasture, it wasn't uncommon at all for me to find individuals with bloody bite marks on their withers (that high part on the middle of the back of their shoulders most people instinctively reach for when they try to get up), and on their backsides. I've been love-bitten by horses before, and while flattering, they hurt like hell on fleshy human skin.

So, for the safety of the horse, and everybody else, always make a show of somehow controlling the animal's head when hands-on and on the ground with them.

-Big Horse = War Horse

Startlingly, the opposite is usually the case! Draft and carriage horses, like Percherons and Friesians, were never meant to be used in warfare. Draft horses are usually bred to be extremely even-tempered, hard to spook, and trustworthy around small children and animals. Historically, they're the tractors of the farm if you could afford to upgrade from oxen, and were never built to be fast or agile in a battlefield situation.

More importantly, just because a horse is imposing and huge doesn't make it a good candidate for carrying heavy weights. A real thing that I had to be part of enforcing when I worked at a teaching ranch was a weight limit. Yeah, it felt shitty to tell people they couldn't ride because we didn't have any horses strong enough to carry them due to their weight, but it's a matter of the animal's safety. A big/tall/chonky horse is more likely to be built to pull heavy loads, but not carry them flat on their spines. Horses' muscular power is predominantly in their ability to run and pull things, and too heavy a rider can literally break a horse's spine and force us to euthanize it.

Some of the best war horses out there are from the "hot blood" family. Hot blooded horses are often from dry, hot, arid climates, are very small and slight (such as Arabian horses), and are notoriously fickle and flighty. They're also a lot more likely to paw/bite/kick when spooked, and have even sometimes been historically trained to fight alongside their rider if their rider is dismounted in combat; kicking and rearing to keep other soldiers at a distance.

-Any horse can be ridden if it likes you enough.

Just like it can take a lifetime to learn to ride easily, it can take a lifetime of training for a horse to comfortably take to being ridden or taking part in a job, like pulling a carriage. Much like service animals, horses are typically trained from extremely young ages to be reared into the job that's given to them, and an adult horse with no experience carrying a rider is going to be just as scared as a rider who's never actually ridden a horse.

Just as well, the process of tacking up a horse isn't always the most comfortable experience for the horse. To keep the saddle centered on the horse's back when moving at rough or fast paces, it's essential to tighten the belly strap (cinch) of the saddle as tightly as possible around the horse's belly. For the horse, it's like wearing a tight corset, chafes, and even leaves indents in their skin afterward that they love having rinsed with water and scratched. Some horses will learn to inflate their bellies while you're tightening the cinch so you can't get it as tight as it needs to be, and then exhale when they think you're done tightening it.

When you're working with a horse wearing a bridle, especially one with a bit, it can be a shocking sensory experience to a horse that's never used a bit before. While they lack a set of teeth naturally, so the bit doesn't actually hurt them, imagine having a metal rod shoved in your mouth horizontally! Unless you understand why it's important for the person you care about not dying, you'd be pretty pissed about having to keep it in there!

-Horseback riding isn't exercise.

If you're not using every muscle in your body to ride with, you're not doing it right.

Riding requires every ounce of muscle control you have in your entire body - although this doesn't mean it wasn't realistic for people with fat bodies to stay their weight while also being avid riders; it doesn't mean the muscles aren't there. To stay on the horse, you need to learn how it feels when it moves at different gaits (walk, trot, canter, gallop), how to instruct it to switch leads (dominant legs; essential for precise turning and ease of communication between you and the horse), and not falling off. While good riders look like they're barely moving at all, that's only because they're good riders. They know how to move so seamlessly with the horse, feeling their movements like their own, that they can compensate with their legs and waists to not bounce out of the saddle altogether or slide off to one side. I guarantee if you ride a horse longer than 30 minutes for the first time, your legs alone will barely work and feel like rubber.

-Horses aren't affectionate.

Horses are extraordinarily affectionate toward the right people. As prey animals, they're usually wary of people they don't know, or have only recently met. They also - again, like service animals - have a "work mode" and a "casual mode" depending upon what they're doing at the time. Horses will give kisses like puppies, wiggle their upper lips on your hair/arms to groom you, lean into neck-hugs, and even cuddle in their pasture or stall if it's time to nap and you join them by leaning against their sides. If they see you coming up from afar and are excited to see you, they'll whinny and squeal while galloping to meet you at the gate. They'll deliberately swat you with their tails to tease you, and will often follow you around the pasture if they're allowed to regardless of what you're up to.

-Riding crops are cruel.

Only cruel people use riding crops to hurt their horses. Spurs? I personally object to, because any horse that knows you well doesn't need something sharp jabbing them in the side for emphasis when you're trying to tell them where you want them to go. Crops? Are genuinely harmless tools used for signalling a horse.

I mean, think about it. Why would crops be inherently cruel instruments if you need to trust a horse not to be afraid of you and throw you off when you're riding it?

Crops are best used just to lightly tap on the left or right flank of the horse, and aren't universally used with all forms of riding. You'll mainly see crops used with English riding, and they're just tools for communicating with the horse without needing to speak.

-There's only one way to ride a horse.

Not. At. All. At most teaching ranches, you'll get two options: Western, or English, because they tend to be the most popular for shows and also the most common to find equipment for. English riding uses a thinner, smaller saddle, narrower stirrups, and much thinner bridles. I, personally, didn't like English style riding because I never felt very stable in such a thin saddle with such small stirrups, and didn't start learning until my mid teens. English style riding tends to focus more on your posture and deportment in the saddle, and your ability to show off your stability and apparent immovability on the horse. It was generally just a bit too stiff and formal for me.

Western style riding utilizes heavier bridles, bigger saddles (with the iconic horn on the front), and broader stirrups. Like its name may suggest, Western riding is more about figuring out how to be steady in the saddle while going fast and being mobile with your upper body. Western style riding is generally the style preferred for working-type shows, such as horseback archery, gunning, barrel racing, and even rodeo riding.

-Wealthy horse owners have no relationship with their horses.

This is loosely untrue, but I've seen cases where it is. Basically, horses need to feel like they're working for someone that matters to them in order to behave well with a rider and not get impatient or bored. While it's common for people to board horses at off-property ranches (boarding ranches) for cost and space purposes, it's been historically the truth that having help is usually necessary with horses at some point. What matters is who spends the most time with the animal treating it like a living being, rather than a mode of transport or a tool. There's no harm in stable hands handling the daily upkeep; hay bales and water buckets are heavy, and we're there to profit off the labor you don't want or have the time to do. You get up early to go to work; we get up early to look after your horses. Good owners/boarders visit often and spend as much of their spare time as they can with spending quality work and playtime with their horses. Otherwise, the horses look to the stable hands for emotional support and care.

So, maybe you're writing a knight that doesn't really care much for looking after his horse, but his squire is really dedicated to keeping up with it? There's a better chance of the horse having a more affectionate relationship with the squire thanks to the time the squire spends on looking after it, while the horse is more likely to tolerate the knight that owns it as being a source of discipline if it misbehaves. That doesn't mean the knight is its favorite person. When it comes to horses, their love must be earned, and you can only earn it by spending time with them hands-on.

-Horses can graze anywhere without concern.

This is a mistake that results in a lot of premature deaths! A big part of the cost of owning a horse - even before you buy one - is having the property that will be its pasture assessed for poisonous plants, and having those plants removed from being within the animal's reach. This is an essential part of farm upkeep every year, because horses really can't tell what's toxic and what isn't. One of the reasons it's essential to secure a horse when you aren't riding it is to ensure it only has a very limited range to graze on, and it's your responsibility as the owner/rider to know how to identify dangerous plants and keep your horses away from them.

There's probably more. AMA in my askbox if you have any questions, but that's all for now. Happy writing.

#horses #horseback riding #writing #writing tips #long post

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moluvies · 2 months ago

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crawl home ꔛ reiner braun x reader

a/n: spent way too long writing this bc i love reiner

words: 9.3k

cw: lowkey bff!jean, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy reader, soldier!reader, pre-timeskip friends/lovers, betrayal, forgiveness, reiner is pathetic, angsty, kinda serving friends to enemies to lovers, SMUT!!, oral (f!reader recieving), pinv sex, breeding, MDNI !!

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

Reiner was taller now, even if it was hard to believe. Maybe not as tall as Bertholdt was, but taller. Not only that, but while he maintained some of the more prominent muscles in his figure, it was noticeable how much weight he had lost. His hair was slightly longer - maybe he didn't keep up with cutting it as much as before. But to be fair, the change wasn't necessarily drastic. Not like the amount of facial hair he let grow out, which was completely ridiculous but so on brand for him.

But what did you care?

Your gaze lingered on him a moment longer, practically having to force yourself to look away from the man you swore was dead to you. But he wasn't, was he? He was standing right there, talking to Connie and Jean like nothing happened. As if the night prior Jean didn't literally punch him. Did they all just forgive him suddenly? Traitors.

You sighed. Maybe you were being dramatic.

The only thing you wanted to hear now was the sound of the water swishing beneath the boat, maybe even a seagull. But it was like you couldn't drown out his voice. It hadn't changed. It was exactly as you'd remembered it being about four years ago. Though, back then you swore you'd found it charming.

Odiha. That's where you were going, what you were focusing on, in order to service the flying boat that would help you and your fellow scouts reach the Rumbling, you needed to reach Odiha. To stop Eren. So why was Reiner's presence bothering you so much?

Reiner was your best friend at one point. When you first joined the cadet corps, it was obvious you were nervous to anyone who took a second to look. And for that, most people didn't see you as a potential reliable comrade.

Most people.

Reiner liked you. He had once playfully claimed you made funny faces during sparring exercises and took you under his wing, seeing your potential. Back then, Reiner had a talent for making anyone feel seen. Even stubborn cadets like Annie seemed to at least tolerate him, maybe even respect him.

So how could you not fall in love with him?

It was ridiculous how quick it happened. You were sure there were other girls vying for his attention just like you were, but you swore Reiner gave you special treatment. It was stupid.

Reiner would see you entering the mess hall and instantly make sure there was a spot open at his table for you. Bertholdt had typically sat across from him, but most of the time there was a spot directly next to Reiner conveniently available just for you. He'd call you by your last name over to their table, always a smile on his face, always so damn sure of himself.

"Bread?" He had offered, causing you to shake your head with a nervous smile on your face. Nervous. Not nervous enough, apparently. But that didn't matter—not when Reiner was offering you bread, or to train after hours with you, or take you into Stohess one weekend when you mentioned wanting a change of scenery.

"I know you wanted that muffin," Reiner said regretfully as you walked away from the bakery stall at the food market. "Sorry I couldn't get it for you."

You shook your head, mouth full from the cookie he'd already got for you just ten minutes prior. "It's fine, really," you assured him, words slightly muffled from the pastry.

Reiner simply smiled at you, taking a bite of his own cookie.

When you returned to Trost that evening as the sun was just beginning to set, the teasing from your comrades was relentless.

"Woah!" Connie had exclaimed, realization dawning on his face as he looked at you and Reiner entering the mess hall together. "Where've you been all day?" He asked, nosy as ever even if the answer was plain as day.

"A date. Is that really such a foreign concept to you?" Reiner had teased, making Connie grin mischievously.

A date. You had your suspicions that that's what it was, but Reiner hadn't explicitly said it. Not until Connie asked. The straightforward explanation made your heart race, gaze dropping instantly to your shoes as Connie's laughter filled the space.

"So that's why you've been polishing your boots and actually combing your hair. I was wondering what the special occasion was," Jean had said to you, his brow raised and arms crossed in a way that was so distinctly Jean. Despite the words, you were sure it was his own way of approving.

"Oh, my God, is that a hickey?" Sasha suddenly butt in, moving into your personal space. Her hands held your head in place as she stared at the scrape from training on your forehead.

"Hickey—what—Sasha, that's on my forehead!" You had defended, but it was too late. Multiple other cadets heard the word hickey and ran with it, causing a flurry of gossip surrounding you and Reiner. And Reiner didn't deny it. He just smiled at you, and somehow that made you feel better.

There were plenty of times he'd made you feel better. An embarrassing amount of times. A pathetic amount of times, considering what he might've been comforting you about.

You sniffled, attempting to straighten yourself out before dinner was served in the mess hall as you sat on a log on the outskirts of the training grounds, taking in the yellow and orange blend of sunset before you. Even with the view, your mind was elsewhere.

It hit you every now and then at random. Despite it happening almost five years ago, you had pushed the grief down as far as you could bury it when your family was killed during the breach of Wall Maria. You were so young when it happened, but suddenly you were alone. When the Armored had broken through the inner gate of the wall, your childhood home had been crushed by a stray boulder.

You were lucky. You came to terms with that at a young age. Far too lucky. It chipped away at you everyday since, even without you realizing. What made you so fortunate to have escaped? Avoided certain death like your family couldn't? What made that soldier step in and save you but not them?

The wondering was pointless, though. They died and you didn't. For some reason fate had kept you alive until now. And for that, you had to live with a purpose. Even if now that purpose was wiping your snotty nose and trying to compose yourself enough to go eat with your friends.

"Bread?"

You had looked up to see none other than Reiner holding out a small loaf, a second one for himself in his right hand. Hesitantly, you had taken it, using the moment Reiner sat down beside you to attempt to discreetly wipe at the tears on your cheeks.

He didn't ask. You supposed it wasn't his style, or maybe he just assumed you didn't want to talk about it.

Reiner simply took a bite of his bread next to you, leaning forward as he chewed. After moments of silence, Reiner looked at you for a second and then towards the sunset. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards into a soft, almost wistful smile, but he said nothing.

"What?" You finally asked.

He almost replied with "nothing," you could tell, but he sighed and leaned back, either hands at his sides resting on the log. "You know what I miss most about home?" Reiner asked, his gaze locked with the sky. "The way the sun would rise over the hills," he stated.

You realized you'd never talked about it—why you were crying that day. To be honest, you didn't want to. Something about his presence had just put you at ease back then, to the point you forgot all of your troubles.

When graduation drew near, you weren't even sure what Reiner's plan was. Everyone knew his perfect scores got him into the top ten, eligible to enlist as a military police officer in the interior. That would've been great for him, but you weren't sure where that left you.

You weren't with Reiner when the Collosal titan had appeared and breached the wall into Trost. But you were there when Eren was discovered to be a titan himself.

From there, something in Reiner had shifted.

Back then, you figured it was realization of some sort. Realization that things were complicated, things were scary, things were real...

Things got even more real when Marco died. Marco wasn't someone you were close with, but he was always there, always kind. If someone as capable as Marco, as determined, as strong, as kind as Marco could die, what would that mean for you and your friends?

Many cadets dropped out that day, despite graduation being so close. You almost did as well. Especially upon seeing Jean's reaction to Marco's death, you didn't know if you had the guts to continue.

But Reiner always had to step in.

"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for," he said, his strong hand on your shoulder. "Look at me," he commanded softly. You hesitated but met his eyes. They were serious, and almost cold now. Different from how they used to look at you. "I know you've got what it takes."

And that was that. Along with Jean, who was sure he'd join the military police, you joined the Survey Corps, falling under the wing of the Commander Erwin Smith.

You were terrified, but you had Reiner.

Things in your lives seemed to come to a halt when Annie was revealed to be a titan. And then Ymir, along with Krista being some kind of royalty and living with a completely different name—Historia.

It was all confusing and overwhelming, and you really wished Reiner was there for you. And he was, physically, always there. But then he was distant. Even when sitting directly beside you during meals like he did before, his focus was obviously elsewhere.

And then it happened.

You revisited that day often. When Reiner and Bertholdt transformed, and everything you thought you knew came crashing down.

You couldn't even cry, or scream, or do much of anything. You'd learned a long time ago to accept these things, but God did it hurt.

Then he was gone. He and Bertholdt, back to wherever they came from—their "hometown" as they so often called it. You didn't know back then, and you'd honestly stopped caring.

When Eren was rescued from them, he tried telling you on the way back what Reiner had said in response to him screaming at them. Eren had brought you up, telling Reiner about all the pain and trauma you endured years ago when the inner gate of Wall Maria was broken and your family was killed.

Sorry. Sorry was what he said, according to Eren.

What a coward.

The next time you saw Reiner was a few months later. But it wasn't really him. It was the Armored titan, the same one you remember from childhood who had breached the wall. And now here you were, back in Shiganshina with your fellow scouts.

The bloodshed was monumental in Shiganshina. Bertholdt had died, but Reiner lived—barely. You weren't there when Hange and Jean had captured him. And you were grateful you weren't. Just three months after discovering his true self, you knew you'd do something stupid like let him go if you had been there. But that part wasn't really up to you, and he got away regardless.

That's when you discovered the truth of everything. The titans, the walls, Paradis, Eldians.

You wished you could hate him. But everyday you'd hoped for the day you could speak to him again, just once.

Those feelings seemed to have formed into anger as the years passed. And by the time you and your fellow soldiers raided Liberio, you basically lived in a shell. You promised your comrades you weren't going to allow feelings to get in the way, and you delivered.

So much happened in such a short amount of time it was difficult to even remember it properly.

You remembered seeing him—really him—for the first time again on Paradis. He was almost pathetic looking now, but a part of your heart still yearned for him.

Were the feelings even the same, though?

You and the rest of the scouts had to compromise and join forces with the Warriors in order to put a stop to Eren's plan to go through with the Rumbling. It was the first night that Jean brutally punched Reiner at the campfire. Years ago, you might've blindly taken the side of Reiner. Hell, if he said a word to you since being back on the island maybe you would've defended him. But he didn't. So you let it happen.

When the kids, Gabi and Falco, rushed to Reiner's side after the altercation, you felt as though you needed to physically drag yourself away to avoid saying anything to him.

Instead, you found Jean, cooling off in the outskirts of the woods. His head was in his hands, leaning against a tree as he shook.

You placed a gentle hand on his arm, causing him to jump. You made eye contact, but he was quick to look away. Though, your small touch grounded him.

"Sorry about that," Jean apologized. "I got carried away." His voice was breaking, you'd noticed, but you shook your head.

"Don't apologize," you replied.

You made a choice that evening. The choice to stay loyal to your comrades instead of blindly following Reiner like you did when you were a dumb kid. But it didn't make it any less difficult when he stood there on the boat looking almost like he had years ago.

The expression on his face was that of determination. And the people at his side were none other than Jean and Connie.

You scoffed, pulling your gaze away from the men and staring off into the vast ocean—the ocean you didn't even knew existed years ago; the ocean Reiner didn't bother mentioning to you those nights you sat together for hours.

You'd gone over every emotion the past four years. You saw his side as best you could. Even so, it was hard to forgive. Especially when Reiner himself hadn't made an effort to speak to you.

"Hey." You didn't look up, you knew it was Jean.

"You gonna talk to loverboy or what?" He asked after a beat of silence. You finally lifted your head to shoot him a glare. Jean simply smiled, looking back at where Reiner and Connie were still talking and then back to you, sitting beside you on the bench.

You remained quiet for a moment after Jean sat beside you, your fingers absently picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. The gentle rock of the boat beneath you seemed to match the churning in your stomach.

"I'm not talking to him," you finally said, keeping your voice low despite the distance between you and the others.

Jean snorted. "Right. Because ignoring him is working so well for you."

You shot him another glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've been staring at him every chance you get since yesterday." Jean's knowing smile widened as your cheeks flushed with heat. "Don't worry, he's been doing the same thing."

Something fluttered in your chest at his words, but you quickly tamped it down. "Has he... said anything?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice smaller than you intended.

Jean chuckled, that same knowing look in his eyes that made you want to shove him off the bench and into the sea. But then his expression softened.

"No," he admitted. "But it's getting annoying watching you two dance around each other like this. You look at him when he's not looking, he looks at you when you turn away. It's really embarassing for both of you."

You sighed, turning your gaze back to the endless blue horizon. The vastness of the ocean still amazed you, even now. "Well, if he wanted to talk, he would've said something by now."

"Maybe he's thinking the same thing about you," Jean pointed out.

"That's different," you protested weakly.

"How?"

You opened your mouth to respond but found you didn't have an answer that wouldn't sound childish. Jean was right, and you both knew it.

"Look," Jean said, his voice gentler now, "I'm not exactly Reiner's biggest fan. You were there when I..." He flexed his hand, the same one he'd used to punch Reiner the night before, his knuckles reddened now. "But we're all stuck here together now. And whatever was between you two—"

"There was nothing between us," you interrupted, the lie bitter on your tongue.

Jean gave you a flat look. "You're a terrible liar. Always have been."

You looked down at your hands, suddenly finding your fingernails fascinating. "It doesn't matter now anyway."

"Maybe not," Jean agreed. "But you're never going to stop wondering if you don't at least talk to him once. Really talk to him."

The silence between you stretched for several long moments as you considered his words. The rational part of you knew he was right. This tension, this unspoken thing hanging in the air between you and Reiner, it would only continue to distract you. And with what lay ahead—with Eren and the Rumbling—you couldn't afford distractions. And more importantly, you didn't want to die with regrets.

"Fine," you muttered, standing up with a resigned sigh.

Without waiting for some type of reaction from Jean, you turned and made your way across the deck toward where Reiner and Connie stood. Your heart hammered against your ribs with each step, and you briefly considered turning back. But Jean's words echoed in your mind—you would never stop wondering if you didn't at least try.

Connie noticed you first, his animated conversation with Reiner faltering as you approached. Reiner turned, and for a moment, you were transported back to those days in the mess hall—him turning to call your name, saving you a seat beside him.

But his eyes weren't the same. They carried a weight now, dark shadows beneath them speaking of sleepless nights and unshakable guilt.

"Um, I'll just..." Connie mumbled, already backing away, but you barely registered his departure.

You stopped a few feet from Reiner, suddenly unsure what to say. All the anger, all the hurt, all the things you'd rehearsed in your head over the years—none of it seemed right now that he was standing in front of you.

"Can we talk?" The words came out steadier than you felt.

Reiner looked surprised, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you. He nodded once, hesitantly. "Yeah. Of course."

You nodded, and without another word, turned to lead the way to the stairs. You could feel his presence behind you as you descended into the dimly lit interior of the ship, the wooden steps creaking beneath your weight. The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of salt and damp wood.

The sleeping cabins were arranged in a narrow corridor, small compartments with barely enough room for the bunks they contained. Most were empty now, with everyone gathered on the upper deck to watch the endless expanse of ocean passing by. You chose one at random, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The room was tight, with just enough space for two narrow bunks built into the walls and a small porthole that cast a circle of fading evening light across the wooden floor. You sat on one of the bunks, the thin mattress sinking beneath your weight. Reiner hesitated at the doorway for a moment before entering and sitting on the opposite bunk, the space between you barely more than an arm's length but feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.

Reiner's shoulders hunched slightly, his large frame somehow seeming smaller in the confined space. His eyes darted around the cabin before finally settling on his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap.

You found yourself remembering another small space you'd shared once, years ago during a thunderstorm. The supply shed had been the closest shelter when the rain had caught you both during evening training. You'd sat side by side on crates of gear, listening to the rain hammer against the roof, shoulders touching as Reiner told stories about his hometown to distract you from the thunder. And you remembered how you felt when he held your hand, the way his touch was so gentle, his fingers lacing with yours. Back then, his voice had been warm, his smile easy, his eyes bright with something that made your heart race.

Now, he sat across from you, silent and tense, his gaze fixed on the floor between your feet. The only sound was the creaking of the ship around you and the distant, muffled voices from above.

The silence between you stretched until it became unbearable. Your fingers dug into the thin mattress beneath you, knuckles turning white with the pressure.

"My family is dead because of you," you finally said, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the heavy air. The words hung there, raw and unavoidable. "Every time I look at you, I see that day. The Armored Titan breaking through the gate. The boulder that crushed our home."

Reiner didn't flinch, didn't look away. He just nodded slowly, his eyes hollow. "I know."

"You know?" A bitter laugh escaped your lips. "That's all you have to say? You know?"

"What do you want me to say?" His voice was flat, resigned. The voice of a man who had already condemned himself a thousand times over.

"I want you to say something—anything—other than 'I know,'" you snapped, the anger you'd been holding back finally beginning to surface. "I want you to explain how you could sit with me that day by the training grounds, offering me bread while I cried about my family, knowing it was you who killed them."

Reiner's gaze dropped to the floor again. "I don't have an explanation that would make any sense to you."

"Try me," you challenged, leaning forward. "I've had four years to think about this, Reiner. Four years to try to understand."

He looked up then, and the defeated emptiness in his eyes almost made you recoil. This wasn't the Reiner you remembered—the strong, confident soldier who always seemed to know what to say, what to do. This was a shell of that man, worn down by guilt and grief.

"I compartmentalized," he said after a long moment. "The Warrior and the Soldier. Sometimes, I... I forgot which one was real."

"And which one was it?" you asked. "Which version of you was real, Reiner?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know anymore. Maybe neither."

You stood up abruptly, unable to sit still with the storm of emotions churning inside you. The cabin was too small to pace properly, but you moved to the porthole, looking out at the darkening sky without really seeing it.

"Do you have any idea what your betrayal did to me?" Your voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "It wasn't just that you were the Armored Titan. It was that you were you. Someone I..." You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Someone I cared about. A lot."

You heard the bunk creak as Reiner shifted his weight but didn't turn to look at him.

"I nearly quit the Scouts after you left," you continued, watching your breath fog the glass of the porthole. "I couldn't understand how I could have been so wrong about someone. How I could have trusted you so completely."

Your fingertips pressed against the cool glass as memories flooded back—training together in the rain, his hands adjusting your grip on the ODM gear controls, his laughter at your terrible jokes, the way his eyes would find yours across the mess hall.

"And it wasn't just you," you said, your voice growing thick with unshed tears. "I haven't been able to truly trust anyone since. Not completely. There's always this voice in the back of my mind asking if they're hiding something too. If they'll betray me just like you did."

"I'm sorry," Reiner said, his voice barely audible.

You whirled around to face him, anger flaring hot and bright. "Sorry doesn't bring my family back! Sorry doesn't erase the fact that you lied to me for years! Sorry doesn't change the fact that every memory I have of us is tainted now because I don't even know if any of it was real!"

"It was real," Reiner said, standing up now, something finally sparking in his eyes. "That's what you don't understand. It was all real for me too."

"How could it be real when it was all built on a lie?" Your voice rose, echoing in the small space.

"Because I didn't know how to separate the lie from the truth anymore!" He took a step toward you, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Do you think this has been easy for me? Do you think I just walked away and forgot about all of you—forgot about you?"

You stared at him, momentarily stunned by the sudden emotion in his voice.

"I've thought about you every single day since then," he continued, his voice breaking. "I see your face in my dreams. I hear your voice when it's quiet. You've been haunting me for four years, and I deserve it."

The raw pain in his voice knocked the breath from your lungs. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you stared at him, really seeing him for perhaps the first time since you'd learned the truth—not as the Armored Titan, not as the Warrior, not even as the Soldier, but as Reiner. Just Reiner, broken and haunted and so very human.

"I know you hate me," he said, quieter now, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. "You should hate me. If I could go back and change what I did..."

"But you can't," you whispered.

"No," he agreed. "I can't."

The admission hung between you, simple and devastating in its truth. You couldn't change the past. Your family was still gone. The walls were still broken. And Reiner—your Reiner—had still been the one to do it.

But the man standing before you now, shoulders slumped under the weight of his actions, eyes filled with a pain that mirrored your own—he wasn't the Armored Titan anymore. He was just as broken as you were.

Then suddenly you moved, your arms wrapping around his waist, your face pressed against his chest as sobs wracked your body. You could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your cheek, so at odds with the broken man it belonged to.

For a terrible second, he remained frozen, and you thought you'd made a mistake. Then his arms came around you, tight and desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head as he buried his face in your hair. His body trembled against yours, and you realized he was crying too—silent, shuddering sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.

The stubborn shame that had kept you both at arm's length dissolved in the salt of your mingled tears. There, in the dim light of the cabin, with the gentle rocking of the ship beneath you and the uncertain future ahead, you held each other like the last two survivors of a shipwreck—broken, exhausted, but somehow still alive.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, holding each other in the dim light of the cabin, your tears gradually subsiding into uneven breaths. His arms around you felt both familiar and foreign—the shape of him changed, but the way he held you still the same.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to look up at him, your faces were inches apart. Your hands had somehow moved to his shoulders, feeling the unfamiliar angles where muscle had once been. His eyes, red-rimmed from crying, searched yours with a question he didn't dare voice.

"I still hate what you did," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I don't know if I can ever forgive that."

Reiner nodded slightly, accepting your words without defense. One of his hands had found its way to your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear from your cheek.

"But I don't know how to hate you," you admitted, the confession tearing itself from somewhere deep inside you. "I've tried for four years, and I just... can't."

Something flickered in his eyes—a spark of something you hadn't seen since before everything fell apart. Hope, maybe. Or longing.

You weren't sure who closed the distance. Maybe both of you, drawn together like the inevitable pull of gravity. His lips found yours in a kiss that was hesitant at first, as if he expected you to push him away. When you didn't—when instead you pressed closer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt—the hesitation gave way to a desperate need that matched your own.

Reiner's arms tightened around you, backing you against the wall beside the porthole. The cool glass pressed against your shoulder, a stark contrast to the heat of his body against yours. His kiss deepened, years of unspoken feelings pouring into it as his tongue met yours.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, longer now than you remembered. The scrape of his beard against your skin was new, and your heart skipped a beat at the way his breath hitched when you tugged gently at his hair.

When you pulled away again, breathless, his eyes were dark with a mixture of desire and pain. "I shouldn't be doing this," he whispered, even as his thumb traced circles on your hip. "After everything I've done..."

"Shut up," you murmured, pulling him back to you. "Just shut up, Reiner."

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob against your lips. "Still stubborn," he breathed.

Your hands tangled in his hair, eyes squeezed shut as you took in the feel of him. You were desperate, you knew. You felt pathetic, but you wanted him. Needed to be close to him.

"It's embarrassing how long I've wanted to do this," you murmured against his lips, your voice barely audible over the sound of your racing hearts.

His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed as he took an unsteady breath. "When we were back in training, that day in Stohess..." His voice was rough, trailing off as your lips found the curve of his jaw.

"Why didn't you kiss me then?" you asked, the question muffled against his skin.

Reiner's laugh was soft and broken. "I wanted to. Every second we were together." His hands slid down to your waist, anchoring you against him as if afraid you might disappear. "I told myself it was because of the mission. That I couldn't get distracted."

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your hand coming up to touch his face, feeling the unfamiliar texture of his beard beneath your fingertips. "And the real reason?"

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "I was afraid that if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. That I'd tell you everything." The admission seemed to cost him, his voice barely above a whisper. "And then you'd hate me."

"I did hate you," you said quietly. "When I found out."

His eyes clouded with pain, but he nodded. "I know."

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his again, more gently this time. "But I hated myself more for still wanting this. For still wanting you."

Reiner's response was to kiss you again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours more firmly against the wall. One hand tangled in your hair while the other gripped your hip, his touch both gentle and desperate. You could taste the salt of tears—whose, you weren't sure anymore—and something else, something uniquely him that you had tried so hard to forget.

The ship rocked with a stronger wave, causing you both to sway. Reiner's arm tightened around your waist, steadying you, and for a brief moment, you were back in the training grounds, his arms around you as he corrected your stance, his breath warm against your ear.

"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth, the words so quiet they might have been imagined. "Every day."

You didn't answer with words. You couldn't. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, alongside grief and betrayal and a hundred other emotions you couldn't name. But for now, in the dim light of the cabin with the sea stretching endlessly around you, you let yourself remember what it felt like to be in his arms.

Your lips found his again, harder this time, your teeth catching his lower lip in a way that made him groan. His hands tightened on you in response, lifting you slightly as he pressed you more firmly against the wall. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, years of longing and hurt and need pouring into it.

The world outside—Eren, the Rumbling, the fate that awaited all of you—seemed distant and unreal compared to the solid warmth of Reiner against you, the familiar-yet-different taste of his mouth, the sound of his ragged breathing mingling with your own.

This wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, tracing a path that made your breath catch, you realized it might be something like a beginning. A chance to finally confront all the things left unsaid between you, all the hurt and the betrayal, but also all the moments that had been real.

Reiner’s hands slid down your sides, fingers digging into your hips as he kissed you with a desperation that made your knees weak. The rough scrape of his beard against your skin sent shivers down your spine, and when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, you gasped—only for him to swallow the sound with another searing kiss.

This isn't at all how you expected your "talk" to go. Years of rehearsing different scripts in your head about how you'd tell him you hate him when you saw him, how you'd show him how it felt to feel betrayed and alone... All of those came crumbling down when he touched you like this, so gently but also so needy.

Not that the idea in general hadn't crossed your mind an embarrassing and pathetic amount of times. That, you couldn't deny. Since your cadet days you'd wondered what it would feel like with him, hoping he'd make a move. But he never did. Your heart skipped a beat when you felt the sadness well up inside you again, but that feeling quickly went away when he tilted his head to better kiss you.

His body pressed you harder against the wall, the heat of him searing through your clothes. You could feel the evidence of his arousal against your thigh, and the knowledge of how badly he wanted you—after all this time—sent a thrill through you.

Then, without warning, he broke the kiss, his breath ragged. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice rough.

You didn’t.

A low sound escaped him, something between a groan and a growl, before his hands tightened on your waist—and then he was lifting you, turning, and depositing you onto the narrow bunk behind you in one swift motion. The thin mattress barely cushioned the impact, but you barely had time to register it before Reiner was on his knees between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

His gaze flicked up to yours, searching, hesitant—like he still couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you.

"Please," he breathed, fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. "Let me taste you."

The raw need in his voice sent a jolt straight to your core. He was begging. Reiner—the man who had once been so confident, so sure of himself—was now on his knees for you, looking up at you like you were the only thing that could save him.

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. You also didn't expect it to go like this. The Reiner that you knew back then presented himself to be some kind of big leader, something you admired because of how he never seemed to let it go to his head. He was one of the strongest, but he was humble.

So seeing him like this, desperate between your legs, felt almost like culture shock.

But even so, being with him, feeling him, talking to him all felt so good. So good you could cry. "Okay," you breathed, nodding.

His fingers trembled slightly as he undid the fastenings of your pants, tugging them down your legs along with your underwear. Your cunt was already pathetically wet just from making out, and suddenly you just wanted to close your legs so he wouldn't see how much he affected you. Stubborn pride still warred inside you even now. The cool air of the cabin ghosted over your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Reiner’s breath as he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, making your heart swell.

Reiner’s hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing over the damp curls between them. His breath stuttered when he saw how wet you were, his fingers tracing your folds with agonizing slowness.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

He kissed at your inner thighs some more, almost like he just couldn't get enough of the simple action. He'd lick at them, suck them, anything. Reiner was willing to drag this out, it seemed.

"Has anyone ever done this for you before?" Reiner asked, his tone carrying a mix of emotions, staring up at you with his pretty hazel eyes as he kissed at the soft skin of your thighs. Deep down, he selfishly hoped no one else had gotten to see you like this—feel you like this.

Your breath hitched at the sight, unable to pull your gaze away and similarly unable to stop your arousal and need as you felt yourself wet the sheets beneath you even further. "I don't see how that's any of your business," you replied stubbornly, wanting to keep the small amount of control you still held.

That gave Reiner all the answer he needed. "Hm," he responded, careful not to anger you, careful not to upset you. but also understanding and seeing just how much you wanted this—wanted him. And equally he was exceptionally aware of the way his cock twitched in his pants, desperate to make you feel good, desperate to feel your thighs around his head and your fingers against his scalp, desperate to hear you in these moments he's imagined you in so many times.

Reiner didn’t wait for another teasing remark from you—his mouth was on you in an instant, his tongue dragging a slow, filthy stripe up your soaked cunt, groaning against you like he’d been starving for this. The sound alone made your back arch off the bunk, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as his hands clamped down on your thighs, holding you open for him.

He was messy—no finesse, no practiced rhythm, just pure, desperate hunger. His tongue lapped at you like he was trying to memorize your taste, his nose pressing against your clit as he buried his face between your legs. Every flick of his tongue was sloppy, wet, loud, the obscene sounds of his mouth working you filling the tiny cabin. You could feel his stubble scraping against your sensitive skin, the rough drag only making the pleasure sharper, more overwhelming.

“Fuck—Reiner—” Your fingers tangled in his blonde hair, gripping hard as his tongue circled your clit before sucking it between his lips. His groan vibrated through you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips up, giving him better access as he devoured you.

He was relentless, like he’d been waiting years for this—because he had. Every muffled sound he made against your cunt, every time his tongue plunged inside you only to drag back up, every time his lips sealed around your clit to suck—it was all too much, and yet you never wanted it to stop.

His enthusiasm was almost embarrassing, the way he moaned into you like he was the one being pleasured, his hips moving against his hand as he rubbed his cock through his pants. You could feel the wetness of your own arousal smeared across his chin, and the sight alone had your thighs trembling around his head.

Drool mixed with your arousal, dripping down his chin as he ate you out like a man possessed. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, keeping you open for him as his tongue plunged inside you, fucking into you with rough, eager strokes before retreating to suck your clit again.

"Taste so good," he panted against you, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, fuck, I knew you would—"

His words cut off into a groan as he redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit before he sealed his lips around it again, sucking hard. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on you filled the cabin, obscene and perfect, and you could feel the way his hips rocked slightly against the bunk, rutting into nothing as he got off on just tasting you.

"Been thinking about this—" he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in, his tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "—every night—"

His fingers dug into your thighs, leaving marks as he held you down, refusing to let you squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.

"Close," you choked out, your hips jerking against his mouth. "I’m so close—"

Reiner growled, the sound vibrating through you as he sucked your clit into his mouth one last time, his tongue flicking over it rapidly—

And then you were coming, your back bowing off the bunk as pleasure crashed through you in waves. He didn’t let up, licking you through it, swallowing every drop of you as you shuddered and gasped above him.

When you finally went limp, panting, he pulled back just enough to look up at you.

His chest heaved, his eyes dark with need. But above that, it was like he needed some confirmation he did good.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Are you okay?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him up your body until his weight settled over you, pressing you deeper into the thin mattress. His skin was fever-hot, his muscles taut with restraint, but his eyes—those damn hazel eyes—were soft, almost reverent, as he looked down at you.

You didn't answer, not verbally at least.

Your hand slid into his hair, gripping tight as you dragged his mouth to yours, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. A rough groan tore from his throat, his hips jerking forward instinctively, the hard length of his cock grinding against your still-sensitive clit through his pants.

His groan was muffled against your mouth as you licked into him, your fingers tightening in his hair. You could feel the way his body shuddered when you nipped at his bottom lip, the way his hips jerked forward instinctively, grinding his cock—so fucking hard against your thigh.

“God, you’re—” His voice broke as you kissed him again, rougher this time, your teeth dragging over his lip. His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. “Fuck, I need—please—”

"Reiner," you breathed, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Please fuck me."

You could feel it—the way his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against your mouth. His hands fumbled with his belt, his fingers shaking as he undid the buckle, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and aching for you.

Reiner didn’t waste another second.

He hooked his hands under your knees, spreading you wider, his gaze locked on where your slick glistened between your thighs. His breath hitched, his cock twitching against your stomach as he lined himself up, the blunt head pressing against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough.

You did.

His eyes burned into yours as he pushed inside, slow, so agonizingly slow, his jaw clenched tight as he fought to keep control. The stretch was delicious, the way your walls fluttered around him making his hips stutter.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. “You feel—Christ—you feel even better than I imagined.”

And then he was seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt. For a moment, neither of you moved—just breathed, just felt, the weight of years of longing crashing over you both.

Then—because he needed to see it, needed to know this was real—he leaned back on his heels, pulling out almost all the way just to watch the way your cunt clung to him, glistening and desperate, before slamming back in. His cock disappeared inside you, your wetness coating his dick as your body stretched to take him.

The sound you made was sinful.

Reiner’s hips snapped forward again, harder this time, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that made your toes curl. His grip shifted from your wrist to your hip, holding you in place as he fucked into you with slow, deep strokes—like he was savoring every second, like he wanted to memorize the way your body took him.

His dick glistened with your arousal, disappearing inside you with each thrust, your cunt gripping him like it was made for him. He couldn’t look away—couldn’t stop the way his breath hitched as he watched himself fuck into you, over and over, your body taking him so perfectly.

Reiner’s rhythm was relentless, each deep stroke dragging a gasp from your lips. His broad palm slid down your stomach, fingers gliding through your slick until his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, rough circles that made your toes curl.

"There you go," he murmured, voice thick with praise as he watched your face twist in pleasure. "So fucking pretty when you take me like this. Can’t believe you’re real—can’t believe I get to have you."

You whimpered, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, for everything. Reiner moaned at the way your body clenched around him, his thumb pressing harder against your clit.

"Love the way you take me," he panted, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. "Like you were made for me, huh? Made to take my cock just like this—shit—"

Then, without warning, he leaned forward, his chest pressing flush against yours, his weight pinning you completely beneath him. The new angle made him sink deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that had your vision whiting out for a second.

"There," he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. "That’s it, sweetheart. Let me have you just like this—fuck—"

His thrusts turned slower but impossibly harder, each one dragging a broken moan from your lips. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you again, swallowing your gasps like he needed them to survive.

He braced himself above you, muscles taut, sweat glistening on his skin as he watched your face—every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-off moan—like he was memorizing you all over again.

His hips rolled into yours with a deep, almost reverent grind, pressing so deep you could feel him in your ribs. Your breath hitched as he lingered there, his tip nudging that perfect, aching spot inside you before pulling back with a slow, torturous drag that made your toes curl.

"Feel how deep I am?" he breathed, his fingers tightening on your hip as he rocked into you again, slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. "Fuck, you’re perfect."

His voice was wrecked, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. But he didn’t rush—just kept moving inside you with that same maddening pace, every thrust a sweet torment.

"Could stay like this forever," he admitted, his lips brushing your jaw. "Just like this—buried inside you, feeling you clench around me like you never wanna let me go."

"Reiner," you whined.

"I've got you," he responded, hips never stopping.

And when your back arched, your body tightening around him, he didn’t speed up—just kept fucking you through it, his lips pressed to your neck, whispering praise as pleasure washed over you in waves.

Reiner’s thrusts grew more erratic, his control slipping as your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper with each desperate clench. His breath came in ragged gasps, his forehead pressed against yours as he fought to hold on just a little longer.

“I—fuck—I’m close,” he groaned, his voice rough with need. His fingers dug into your hips, his rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled tight in his gut.

You arched beneath him, nails scraping down his back as you panted, “Inside… please, Reiner—I want you to cum inside me.”

His entire body tensed at your words, a shudder running through him. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark with lust and something dangerously close to worship.

“Are you—fuck—are you sure?” he rasped, hips stuttering as he struggled to keep his pace steady.

You nodded, biting your lip as you clenched around him deliberately, drawing a broken groan from his lips.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Want to feel you—all of you.”

That was all it took.

Reiner’s restraint shattered.

"Fuck—gonna fill you up so good," he panted, his forehead dropping against yours. "Gonna make sure you feel it—"

You clenched around him, your own climax building again, and he cursed, his rhythm faltering.

"Come with me," he demanded, his voice wrecked. "Wanna feel you cum on my cock while I’m deep inside you—fuck—please—"

His words tipped you over the edge. Pleasure crashed through you, your body tightening around him in waves, and Reiner lost it.

With a growl that was almost feral, he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulsed inside you, hot and thick. His body shuddered violently, his fingers gripping you like a lifeline as he spilled deep, his release filling you in waves.

You could feel him pulsing inside you, his cock twitching as he rode out his orgasm, his forehead pressed to yours. When he finally stilled, he didn’t pull away—just stayed there, his body heavy and warm against yours, his breath slowly steadying.

After a long moment, he lifted his head, his gaze soft as he brushed a sweaty strand of hair from your face.

"Okay?" he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

You nodded, your fingers lazily tracing the muscles of his back.

Reiner exhaled, something like relief—or maybe wonder—flickering in his eyes before he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

"Good," he murmured against your mouth.

You lay in comfortable silence for what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Reiner's weight pressing you into the thin mattress, his breath warm against your neck. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, as though memorizing the feel of you. Neither of you wanted to break the spell, to acknowledge the world waiting outside this small cabin.

"I love you," you whispered finally, the words escaping before you could think better of them. They hung in the air between you, raw and honest.

Reiner stilled, his breath catching. Slowly, he raised himself up on his elbows to look at you, his hazel eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart skip. For a terrible moment, you thought you'd said too much, revealed too much of yourself to someone who had once betrayed you.

But then his expression softened, a genuine smile—one you hadn't seen in years—spreading across his face. "I love you too," he said, his voice steady and sure. "I always have."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. "I know it doesn't change anything," he murmured. "I know it doesn't make up for what I did. But it's true."

His eyes grew serious again. "Whatever happens with Eren, with the Rumbling… I'm going to protect you. I promise."

Before you could respond, a sharp knock at the door made you both jump.

"Hey, you two done?" Connie's voice called through the thin wood. "There's food up on the deck if you're interested. Kinda limited, but better than nothing."

You and Reiner exchanged wide-eyed looks before scrambling to get dressed, movements frantic and clumsy in the small space. Your fingers fumbled with buttons and clasps as you tried to make yourselves presentable.

"Uh, yeah," Reiner called back, his voice remarkably steady considering his panicked expression. "We'll be right there."

You could hear the smirk in Connie's voice as he replied, "Take your time. Not like we can hear everything through these paper-thin walls or anything."

Your face burned as you hurriedly tucked in your shirt. Reiner looked equally mortified, though a small, almost boyish grin played at the corners of his mouth when your eyes met.

"Ready?" he asked softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the door. Connie was waiting in the narrow corridor, a knowing grin splitting his face. Without a word, he turned and headed up the stairs, gesturing for you both to follow.

Reiner went first, and you couldn't help but notice the way Connie immediately engaged him in animated conversation as they climbed, acting as though nothing unusual had happened at all. Their voices faded slightly as they reached the deck above.

Jean appeared at your side as you finished climbing the stairs.

"So," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I take it the talk went well?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "Yeah, really well," you replied, hoping that Connie was just teasing and no one else heard a thing.

"I just mean," he continued, a stupid and annoying grin on your face, "when I suggested you two clear the air, I didn't necessarily mean you should bring down the whole ship with your—"

Your face burned with embarrassment and fury. "I will literally throw you overboard, Jean," you hissed, shoving his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble back. "I swear to God—"

Jean laughed, ducking away from your next swing. "Hey, I'm happy for you guys! Honestly!" He held up his hands in surrender, still grinning as he backed up the stairs. "Just doing my part as your friend to give you shit about it."

#attack on titan #aot #snk #reiner braun #reiner braun x reader smut #reiner smut #reiner x reader #reiner braun x reader #smut #reiner x reader smut

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adasitecompliance · 2 years ago

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itelya · 23 days ago

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Can I request ex military husband Sukuna and Toji reacting to their son calling y/n the b word? 😂 I just know they’d be furious and practically leap over furniture to snatch the kid up not knowing it’s a prank

a/n: ty for the request it was fun to write😂 ⟢﹒ masterlist

You're in the kitchen, chopping fruit, the sun filtering gently through the curtains. Your son is sitting at the counter, his elbows propped, his eyes fixed on you. Too quiet. Too focused. He has that look, that posture... the one that announces a monumental stupidity.

"Mom... you are a bitch," he says quietly.

The word falls like a thunderclap in your ears. You stop dead in your tracks, the blade still in your hand. Your gaze slowly rises, your eyebrow arches, icy. You don't know whether to scream, burst out laughing, or simply disown him right then and there. Your heart is between disappointment and anger.

In the living room, deathly silence. Toji, slumped on the sofa, opens his eyes slowly, and Sukuna, leasing on the armchair, raises his head so quickly that his neck cracks. Toji freezers, his eyes fixed on their son, the expression of someone about to go into battle. Sukuna stands up without a word, his jaw clenched.

They exchange a look like two soldiers who've just picked up an enemy signal.

"He didn't say that..." Toji breathes.

"He dared." Sukuna replies, already moving.

Your son immediately turns pale. He should never have done that, even for a laugh. "IT-IT'S A PRANK! A TIKTOK! I SWEAR! IT WAS A JOKE, JUST TO SEE YOUR REACTIONS!"

"A prank?!" the two men repeat at the same time, their voices deepening.

Toji leaps from the couch. Sukuna crosses the room at terrifying speed, and their son rushes out of his chair, fleeing toward the dining room as if his life depended on it. Hiding behind the dining table makes him forget one detail: no piece of furniture can protect him from two highly trained ex-soldiers.

"When did they raise you to think a word like that should be tested?!" Toji snarls, stepping forward.

"Do you want us to laugh too by sending you to a retraining camp in Kyrgyzstan for six months?" Sukuna adds with such menacing calm that it sends shivers down your spine.

"But you were laughing when I said 'shit' at 4 years old!" their son desperately tries, accused from behind the table.

"To think I was ready to give you my old service knife for your next birthday..." Toji snarls, his gaze dark. "But forget that. I'd rather give it to the dog."

Your son opens his mouth to defend himself, but Sukuna raises his hand sharply, cutting cleanly.

"You want to be smart? Fine. Apology letter to your mother. Three hundred push-ups, and while you're doing them, you keep repeating 'Sorry, Mom, I'm an impressionable idiot' over and over again."

Toji quietly snuck up behind him. He grabbed him in a flash, lifting your son with a firm arm. "You want to talk like an adult? You're going to live like a soldier."

"But I've seen other kids do it...!" your son complains, offering to climb out of Toji's enormous arms.

"A follower, too?" roars Sukuna, outraged. "I was a unit captain, not some pathetic TikTok sheep."

Toji chuckles softly, that sadistic little laugh you recognize all too well. "Let's start by shaving his head. It'll help him think."

Your son starts to cry for real, shaking like a leaf. He doesn't want to lose his beautiful hair. You approach, calm, gentle, your hand outstretched.

He turns to you, relieved. This is your only chance. His light. His mother. You gently place your hand on his head, stroking his hair like a promise... then you smile. "I'm the one who's going to shave it."

A cry escapes his throat, pure and sincere. "Mom, I'm sorry! I swear I'll never do it again! I love you! You're the best parents in the world! I'm too young to lose my hair!"

Toji and Sukuna cross their arms, stoic. They look at him, already deciding what to do with him.

"Too late, soldier. The uniform starts now."

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vertagedialer · 2 years ago

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mona-risms · 26 days ago

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Okay hear me out. Polytrix x reader with reader being their coreographer but when they train they have a vibrator that's just slowly buzzes all troughout and if they mess up a move reader would just turn it off but if they manage to get to the end without mistakes reader would turn it to the max and make them cum until their legs shake, but afterwards they still have to do more practice and in the end they're just edged beyond believe and desperately begging reader to just mess them up in frint of the big wall mirror <33

Also may i be 🎨 anon 🫶

First of all, yes you can!! Welcome 🎨 :3c. Second of all, no fuckin wonder Rumi's muscle memory kicked in when it did during Takedown LMAOOOOO it's a fucking Pavlovian reflex by that point 😭

They SWEAR to you that it's completely beneficial. In fact, they say it's an incentive!! To do better!!!! Bc it's very fun and very effective!!!!!!! No it's not unprofessional (it is technically) and it's not a distraction (it definitely is), but honestly when you get results like how sharp they are with choreo? Literally why would you ever debate otherwise??? Clearly it's working soooooo..... It's most definitely funny as fuck when they see reviews and stuff ab how their choreo's so sharp and smooth and whatever, and maybe they even get asked ab it, to which they just. Thank you for your service 😜 and no one will know the wiser

They all just have different colour-coded vibrators inside them ("fun-coloured and fun-sized", thanks to Zoey LMAO), all at different settings that'd count as their individual 'minimum' aka what they can definitely feel and get absolutely dripping wet and sexually frustrated over but nowhere near enough to push them off the edge. Imagine even slowly turning up the intensity as the three of them progress through the choreo you taught them, whether it be via turning it up based on the part's difficulty level or inching it closer and closer up the closer the song gets to the end. You even get them to sing while doing the choreo too, bc how could they EVER think of being the top-charting idols if they can't even sing through a number and perform perfectly while they have distractions threatening to throw their concentration and mobility coordination out the window? Honestly, you're being a good choreographer by helping them here!!!!

By the end of it their panties are absolutely soaked through from the edging and the overstim and constant switch and everything and NONE of YOUR touches, and unless they've done a Particularly shit job, it always ends with you making sure that the trio gets a turn in being eaten out and fucked through; they're begging you to give them a reward, and honestly why wouldn't you, when they've done and will do their very best?

There's a reason why their dance studio's soundproofed and always locked whenever you lot are using it 😁

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flowersforbucky · 18 days ago

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practice

john walker x ex widow!reader

"Was that your first kiss since your divorce?"

"That bad, huh?"

"I didn't say that."

word count: 4.2k

author's note: imagine the conversation between steve and nat in the winter soldier but make it reader and walker 🤭

warnings/tags: 18+ only, kissing and suggestiveness, sensuality, tension, bickering, canon level violence, undercover couple trope, no use of y/n

“I swear to God, Walker. You're making this so obvious. Stop staring.”

You kick his shin beneath the table where you sit across him. The two of you are nestled in the corner of the overcrowded room full of party-goers, trying your best to remain inconspicuous.

You're trying your hardest to remain inconspicuous. Your partner, on the other hand, has been ogling the target from across the room for the last half hour.

He shoots daggers at you with his eyes. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he spits under his breath. “Is that not what I’m supposed to be doing? Keeping an eye on the target?”

“There’s a difference between keeping an eye on someone and eye-fucking them,” you hiss.

Walker scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not eye-fucking him. Jesus. We don’t all have backgrounds as highly trained spies, you know.”

Maybe you’re being a little too harsh on him. This is his first true undercover operation since the formation of The New Avengers. He’s a soldier, after all – not a spy. It's no secret that he hadn’t exactly been jumping at the bits to put on a fancy suit and pretend to be your date tonight, but at least he’s kept his bitching and moaning to a minimum.

Despite his little staring problem, he’s otherwise played his part well. Touchy enough for it to be believable that you’re here as each other’s dates, but not too touchy. An arm around your shoulder here, a light hand on your waist there. Hesitant, and a little awkward, but you’re the only one who notices – everyone else here is too busy stroking each other’s dicks to read into your forced public displays of affection.

You lean over the small table, taking his hand in yours in an effort to play your part. “Just glance in his direction regularly,” you advise lowly. “We aren't here to analyze his every movement. Until he goes to meet the seller, we can relax.”

Which is exactly what you’ve been doing since you first arrived at the estate this evening. Mingling, sipping on mocktails to keep up appearances, just trying to blend in while keeping watch on the man that you’d been tasked to spy on.

This entire party is supposedly a cover for the owner of the estate to meet up with a vibranium arms dealer – based off of the limited information Valentina had provided, the owner of the estate, Alexander Sokolov, had arranged for a meeting with a vibranium arms dealer to take place here tonight. Your and Walker’s objective – wait for Sokolov to excuse himself from the party, follow him, and eavesdrop. Valentina wants you to find out who this dealer is and when this deal will go down.

To sum it up, you’re only here for intel. As long as things go according to plan, there should be no reason for either of you to get your hands dirty tonight.

“I’m just a little on edge. I’m not used to missions looking like… this.” He nods down at where your hand holds his, and then vaguely gestures with his free hand to your surroundings – the grand piano in the corner of the room, the full service bar, the extravagant décor and all of the ridiculously rich assholes in attendance.

His lack of experience in this area is exactly where you come in, you suppose. Undercover ops, taking on someone else’s identity – you’ve been there, done that more times than you can count. It’s second nature to you.

Normally, you’d be right in your element. But this – holding hands, soft touches, close whispers, exaggerated longing looks with a teammate, a partner, someone that you actually care about – is brand new territory.

You’re just a little better at hiding it than he is, is all.

“Just look at me more than you look at him,” you suggest lightly. “Like it or not, I am your date.”

He snorts a laugh, then lifts his drink to his face in an effort to conceal the light blush on his cheeks. “I’m a bit out of practice, I guess. I haven’t been on a date since—”

“He’s leaving,” you interrupt him, your eyes trailing after Sokolov as he struts to the opposite side of the room. You stand up, not dropping Walker’s hand. He follows your lead, rising from his seat.

He's been a little unsure of himself so far this evening, so it surprises you when he puts his hand on the small of your back and begins to guide you across the floor. No one seems to notice that Sokolov exits the room, except for a security guard that follows him when he exits.

“Remember,” you murmur as you make you way through the throng of people, “If anyone asks where we are going, we are just looking for the bathrooms.”

“The bathrooms are in the opposite direction. There’s only about a dozen signs for them,” he hisses under his breath.

“Well, we better not get caught, then,” you retort through gritted teeth as you poke him in the side with a saccharine smile, just in case anyone is looking your way.

He responds with an exaggerated laugh that earns glances from a group of older women congregated by the door that Sokolov had just walked through moments before.

“Smooth,” you grunt as soon as the two of you are out of ear shot of the other guests. Sokolov and the guard turn left as they reach the end of the long corridor, leaving it vacant except for you and Walker.

As silently as possible, you both follow them, unsure of exactly where they are headed within the mansion. You assume a private room; an office or a study – but then they exit the house completely through a door on the opposite side of the house from the party.

You peak out of a window as Walker stands obnoxiously close to your backside. You’re unsure if it’s due to nerves or general lack of spatial awareness, but you bite your tongue and focus on the scene at hand.

It's dark outside, but there’s enough flood and path lights to see that Sokolov and his guard are standing in the middle of an extravagant courtyard garden. A moment later, a third man appears from an entryway on the west side of the courtyard. You don’t recognize him as a guest of the party, but Sokolov obviously knows him well by the way he greets him with a chummy grin and enthusiastic handshake.

“Any idea who he is?” You whisper to Walker.

“Not a clue,” he grunts lowly, close enough that you feel the vibration of his chest against your back. “How should we proceed?”

It takes you by surprise that he asks for your direction. It goes against Walker’s nature to take orders from anyone, and being the shoot first, ask questions later kind of guy that he usually is, you halfway expected him to forget that you're only here for intel and charge at the guy on sight.

“Can you hear anything that they're saying? Read their lips?” You ask hopefully, glancing around dark room - an open floor kitchen and dining room – to brainstorm. Your regular human hearing and eyesight can’t make out the first word from inside the house, but you hold out hope knowing that the super soldier serum that courses through Walker’s veins heightens his senses.

“No,” he sighs. “They’re too far away, their voices are mumbled.”

If the two of you were to attempt to exit out of the same door they did, you’d be spotted right away. But to your right, on the other side of the dining room, there’s a sliding glass door. If you can ease it open, you'll be able to sneak outside and listen from behind the exterior wall of the house.

Walker follows your gaze, noticing the door and realizing what you’re thinking without you needing to say a word. You walk as quietly and quickly as you can manage in your heels, flipping the lock to the door and slowly easing it open until the there's a big enough opening for Walker’s large frame to squeeze through. It creaks a bit, but Sokolov and the seller keep talking, oblivious to your presence.

Right at the edge of the house, there’s a large potted plant that helps to conceal you both. You stand the closest to the plant, with Walker right behind you, still close enough for his chest to brush against your back. You listen in silence, waiting for Sokolov or the seller to mention anything of value. They talk lowly – still too quiet for you to make much out other than a random word here and there.

“Next weekend,” Walker whispers next to your ear. “Deal’s going down next Saturday night. Over two million in vibranium weapons.”

“Have they said where?” you whisper back. “What about a name? We need to get an ID on this guy.”

He shakes his head, exhaling in frustration.

Goddammit. They aren’t making your jobs easy.

You open your clutch, reaching inside to retrieve your cell phone. If you could just part the branches and leaves on this plant enough, you could zoom in to at least get a photograph of the seller’s face to run through facial recognition programs…

“Shit, shit, fuck—”

As you’re trying to zip the clutch closed so that nothing falls out of it, you lose your grip on your cell phone and it falls out of your hand, onto the cement pavement at your feet. It makes a loud enough noise to cause both you and Walker to freeze.

Sokolov and the seller both go silent. There’s no way they didn’t hear that.

“Let’s go—”

“No time to run,” Walker cuts you off.

“Who is there?” Sokolov’s voice booms from a few yards away. “Show yourselves!”

Their footsteps grow louder as they walk towards your and Walker’s hiding spot. You have maybe five seconds to think of a game plan that doesn’t involve shooting your way out of this –

“Don’t kick me in the dick for what I’m about to do,” Walker mumbles, shaking his head.

You open your mouth to ask him what he’s talking about when he maneuvers you up against the side of the house. Your back collides against the wall, and his large hands caress the sides of your stomach. You gasp in surprise, but the noise is muffled by his lips capturing yours.

Oh. So this is the game plan, then.

You run with it, knowing there’s no time to flee or think of any plausible explanation as to why the two of you are so far away from the party, in an off-limits part of the estate.

Your hands instinctively fly to his head, your fingers weaving through the short tufts of his blond hair. It’s rushed and messy, his tongue dancing with yours for dominance. For a split-second, you forget where you are and why this is happening. There’s no fear or worry at the fact that you’re seconds away from being caught – there’s only the scruff of his beard tickling your jaw, the musky scent of his cologne that infiltrates your senses, and an undeniable heat between your legs.

His movements are uncertain yet enthusiastic – you’re sure it’s due to the rather unusual predicament that you’ve found yourselves in, but there’s a part of you that wonders if the kiss would be the same under different circumstances.

You can hear voices yelling at you, masculine and angry, but you can’t make out what they are saying over the deafening rush of blood in your ears. Walker pulls away with a low groan that snaps you back to reality.

There’s a small voice in the back of your mind scolding you for actually enjoying that, but you’ll have to process that later. When you're far the fuck away from here and Walker isn’t still gripping your hips like a lifeline. Your eyes meet for the briefest of moments, just long enough for you to see his dilated pupils and then kiss swollen lips before the gravity of the situation sets in.

“Can you two not fucking hear?” Sokolov yells. “I said who the fuck are you and what are you doing here? This area is off-limits to guests!”

Sokolov and the seller both stand several feet behind Sokolov’s security guard, who has a Glock 17 pointed right at the two of you. You recognize the pistol right away – its little sister, Glock 19, is concealed in your clutch.

“Oh!” You exclaim, feigning shock and embarrassment. You smooth down your dress where Walker’s hold had bunched up the fabric, and then wrap your arms around his bicep as the two of you turn to face the three men. “We’re so sorry. We were on our way back to our car when we saw the garden and just couldn’t help ourselves—”

“Right,” Walker agrees, nodding a bit too enthusiastically. “We apologize. We just lost track of time. We’ll be going—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sokolov barks. “I asked you a question. Who the fuck are you?”

You feel him tense beneath your hold on his arm. You give him a reassuring squeeze as if to say don’t escalate. Before you can attempt to bullshit Sokolov further with your undercover names, the seller steps forward with a look of apprehension.

“I recognize you,” the older, paunchy looking man grunts at Walker. “I’ve seen you somewhere. What's your name?”

You glance up at your partner to see that he looks like a deer in the headlights. It takes you back to the time you had first met him – when you’d been tasked with killing him, only to join forces with him, Yelena, Ava, and Bob in an effort to escape the warehouse facility Valentina had sent you all to burn alive in. During the attempt to steal a Humvee while in disguise, you had been asked to identify yourselves.

Walker’s response to that demand had been “no”.

Perhaps lying under pressure isn’t his strong suit.

“My name is Isobel Callaway, and this is my date, Mason Aldridge,” you answer when Walker hesitates for an awkward amount of time. “I have our invitations right here, if you’d like to see—”

“He wasn't talking to you,” Sokolov snaps. It takes everything in you to not pull your pistol from your clutch and end this all right here and now, but if Walker can manage to keep a level head, then so can you.

“No, he’s right,” Sokolov muses, stepping forward to take a closer look at Walker. His lips contort into a sinister smile. “I know you. You’re that knock-off Captain America. Well, you were. What the fuck are you doing creeping around my property?”

Another brief moment of awkward silence, and then Walker lunges forward, wrapping his hand around the barrel of the security guard’s pistol. The guard fires a shot, but Walker easily overpowers him in strength and the bullet goes flying towards the night sky. Within seconds, Walker takes the gun and sends the guard flying backwards from a mere punch to the sternum.

Walker grabs you by the arm as Sokolov and the seller both start scrambling to retrieve their own firearms from the their coat pockets. You run as fast as you can to keep up with Walker as he all but hauls you across the courtyard, all while internally cursing the fact that you’d chosen to wear the pointiest stiletto heels that you own.

Both men fire a series of bullets in your general direction, but they only succeed in hitting Sokolov’s garden statues. Right as the parking lot comes into view, you see several more guards running towards you and Walker from the opposite direction. You scramble to retrieve the car keys from your clutch, tossing them to Walker as you dive into the passenger seat. He wastes no time throwing the car into reverse, speeding away from the estate as dozens of bullets bounce off the vehicle’s bulletproof windows.

“Damn it,” you breathe. Adrenaline courses through you as you try to catch your breath. The security guards and the estate grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. “That was a bust. Val is gonna be so pissed at me. And I left my phone. That phone was brand new, too…”

“Who gives a shit about Val,” Walker grunts in what sounds like discomfort. “We’ll tell her that the seller never showed and Sokolov spent the evening getting shit-faced off of his expensive bourbon collection.”

His response takes you by surprise – you had been bracing yourself for him to bitch you out for dropping your cell phone and biffing the entire operation. You side-eye him, noticing that his face is contorted into a grimace.

“You good?” you ask, angling your body to get a better look at him. It’s too dark to see him very well, but judging by his facial expression, he’s in some sort of pain.

“Yeah,” he hisses, removing one hand from the steering wheel to turn the car’s interior light on. “I’ll be fine, just got graz—”

“Holy shit, John!”

He pulls back the right side of his coat, revealing his white button-up shirt to be dyed bright crimson across his abdomen. He yanks the fabric upwards, revealing a bloody gash where a bullet had skimmed his right side.

“We need to get somewhere safe,” you tell him, trying not to panic. It doesn’t appear to be too deep, but he’s already bled quite a bit. It needs to at least be cleaned and dressed, if nothing else. “You need to apply pressure to that. There’s a first aid kit in the trunk—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts you. “The bleeding will slack off soon enough. Let’s just get back to the Watchtow—”

“No,” you shake your head with finality. “We’re three hours from Manhattan. We're stopping for the night. There’s a safe house twenty minutes from here.”

You put the address to the safe house in the GPS, and to your surprise, Walker doesn’t object any further. You consider offering to drive, but you know he'll insist that he’s fine – and he will be fine, thanks to the super soldier serum that causes him to heal quicker than most would. But he’s still human, so it's still important that he bandages a fucking gunshot wound.

That’s your rationale for insisting on stopping at the safe house for the night, anyway. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that him pushing you up against the wall and kissing you like your lives depended on it is clouding your judgment.

It was for the mission. He never would have kissed you otherwise. You know this, and yet you can't stop replaying it in your head. The scruff of his beard, his hold on your waist, the slightly awkward yet eager way his lips moved against yours…

You clench your thighs together where you sit in the passenger seat, internally cursing yourself for even thinking about Walker in the way that you are. He’s bleeding out beside you, and you're getting worked up over a fake kiss.

After what feels like an exceptionally long car ride, you arrive at the safe house – though it can hardly be called a house – it's barely bigger than a shed. You’ll be lucky if there's one bed, let alone two.

Walker goes inside while you retrieve the first aid kit from the trunk of the car. When you enter a few moments later, he's already shed both his jacket and button-up. He sits on the couch, blood caked across his abdomen.

No one should look that good covered in blood. It isn't right.

“See?” He sighs as you lock the door behind you. “It has already stopped bleeding.”

“Good,” you hum, breaking your stare on him. You glance around the small kitchen for some additional supplies to distract yourself from how warm your face feels. You manage to find a singular hand towel, which you run under warm water to use to clean the blood off of him.

When you walk over to him with the first aid kit and towel, he reaches out to take the supplies from you. You sit down beside him on the small couch’s limited amount of space, shaking your head.

“Let me,” you insist. “It’s my fault this happened, anyway.”

He stares at you for a moment, his expression indecipherable, and then nods. He raises his right arm to give you access to his side, resting it on the back of the couch.

You delicately swipe the damp cloth across his stomach, starting with the dried blood matted in the hair around his belly button. The intimacy of the situation isn’t loss on you, but you don’t let yourself dwell on it. He’s perfectly capable of cleaning himself up, but there’s something compelling you to be close to him.

You clear your throat after a minute of thick silence. “I have a question for you. Which you do not have to answer – I feel like if you don’t answer it though, you’re kind of answering it, you know?”

He exhales in annoyance, though his stare is curious. “What?”

“Was that your first kiss since your divorce?”

He chuckles, throwing his head back against the couch to stare up at the ceiling. “That bad, huh?”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say that.”

“Well, it kind of sounds like that’s what you’re saying.”

With his skin now clean, you move onto dressing the wound. Any normal person would have definitely needed stitches, but the gash already looks smaller than it did when he had first showed you in the car. Still, you proceed with applying an antibiotic ointment before bandaging it.

“It was,” he sighs. “My first kiss since the divorce. First kiss in almost two years. Guess I’m kind of out of practice.”

You pause, looking up at him. He meets your gaze again, his cheeks slightly pink in embarrassment.

“It wasn’t bad,” you assure him sincerely. A heavy ball of nerves settle in the pit of your stomach. “Really, I mean… despite the circumstances, I enjoyed it. I don’t exactly get a lot of time for practice myself,” you laugh awkwardly.

It's true. Maybe it hasn’t been almost two years like it has for him, but this line of work doesn’t exactly leave you much time for dating or even casual intimacy.

“That makes two of us, then,” he chuckles softly, and then leans in closer to you. The already too small safe house suddenly feels even smaller, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“I’m sorry, though,” you murmur with a small smile. You avoid his gaze, staring down at the bloodied towel in your hand. “I hate that your first kiss in years had to be wasted on a fake mission kiss.”

He snorts. “Sorry? Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who kissed you, and I’m definitely not sorry. Unless, of course, you didn’t enjoy it or it made you uncomfortable or my breath was bad or—”

“Jesus, Walker,” you groan, shutting up his rambling by leaning forward and pulling his face to yours for the second time tonight.

For a second, he’s still. Just when you fear that you’ve imagined the tension between you and wonder if you should pull away, his lips begin to move with yours. The same enthusiasm from earlier is still present, though there’s now less uncertainty in his movements. His hands once again settle on your sides, pulling you closer to him.

Now that the two of you are alone, and there’s no threat of dangerous men shooting you at any given moment, you quickly see that he had been holding back earlier. In the privacy of the secluded safe house, he doesn’t hesitate to pull you onto his lap. You straddle him, being careful not to brush against the wound on his side.

Your hands trail down the expanse of his bare chest and his do the same to your back. He groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, and the heat between your legs flares once more. Your dress is hiked around upper thighs, allowing you grind down against the growing bulge beneath the smooth material of his pants.

You break the kiss, feeling light-headed and hazy, and look down at him. “So…” you hesitate, sweeping the pad of your thumb over his kiss-swollen bottom lip. His eyes flicker between your eyes and lips, his hands planted firmly on your hips, keeping you rooted against him.

“Is there anything else you’d like to practice, while we’re at it?”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

thank you for reading!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🥰💕

#john walker #john walker x reader #john walker x you #us agent #us agent x reader #us agent x you #john walker x y/n #john walker oneshot #john walker one shot #us agent oneshot #wyatt russell #wyatt russell characters #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#the new avengers

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saltymarshmall0w · 2 months ago

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DPxDC Prompt: Phantom is the first hero.

Phantom first appeared when Batman was a mere ghost story on Gotham streets and Superman was just a few rumors of a floating guy in Kansas.

He showed up on a broadcast for the new musician literally the entire world was obsessed with.

Some strange glowing kid beat up the lead singer and sucked her up in into a thermos, leaving everyone dazed and confused. He left before the audience could gain their bearings and process that they’d just been mind-controlled into practically worshiping what’s-her-face moments ago.

Not a couple of weeks later, the Mayor of Amity claimed on live television that Phantom was kidnapping, and he quickly became a controversial figure.

Was he just some kid trying his best to save the people of Amity from ghosts or was he a super-powered individual running around using his abilities to parade around, showing off willy-nilly regardless of the casualties?

Lawmakers in the US started arguing over ghosts— over Phantom entirely. There was no precedent. They started passing laws that would later be the foundation for many Meta hate laws. (Laws the Justice League would have a hell of a time dismantling.)

Meanwhile, someone takes it into their own hands to put a million-dollar bounty on Phantom.

No one stopped to think that they are hunting a hero— that Phantom helped exponentially more than he hurt. The only thing standing in between the destruction of Amity and peace was one young teenager, and very few people seemed offended by the prospect.

Phantom avoided the bounty hunters and went on a robbery spree—seemingly to prove he couldn’t be stopped.

A few weeks later, Amity disappeared in its entirety for three days— not entirely a surprise, something like that happened— and came back with battle scars and footage of The Ghost boy (invis-o-bill) declaring his name to be Phantom before storming off to fight the evil ghost king.

The controversies kept coming:

Phantom is ruining Christmas. Phantom is controlling the weather. The entirety of Amity Park is falling asleep.

Regardless, Phantom became so popular he was a household name. He had fans— mostly in Amity– and reached the height of popularity when he defeated a powerful plant ghost that took over most of the Midwest with a smirk and a snappy comeback.

Then the Mayor of Amity– a new guy– hired a group of ghost hunters called “Masters Blasters”.

The group had some things Phantom never did: Training, financial backing, a media presence from day one, better tech, Zany personalities and, least controversial of all, they were all entirely human.

For months, they took down ghost after ghost, dwindling down the ghost population to a mere handful while Phantom struggled to keep up.

The last video of Phantom includes him accusing the Masters Blasters of something unspoken— that he “knew what they were doing with the ghosts.” He wasn’t happy about it. The petty rivalry quickly turned into a battle.

The people of Amity quickly became more resentful of the people charging them for their services and fighting their local hero. They were quickly chased out of town.

But Phantom was never seen again.

None of the ghosts that once populated Amity were ever seen again.

There was no backup for Phantom. No paranoid bats checking up on their fellow heroes. Three years after his initial debut, Phantom – and just about every ghost-related thing faded into obscurity as Metas took the scene.

There were wonderful American themed superheroes saving the world from Alien threats and Phantom was quickly forgotten in the rise of the Justice League.

Over the next decade, hundreds of heroes will emerge worldwide, and the public will soon learn a lot about how heroes operate.

They will see what teen heroes normally look like– what they look like when they have support and when they don’t. When they’re clearly sleep deprived and overwhelmed and trying their best. They see heroes when theyre mind controlled and scared and hiding injuries.

Too little too late for Phantom.

Bonus (optional):

Years later: Batman had more mentees(kids) than anyone can keep track of, Superman had two super boys. Teen heroes were abundant and the Justice League has been established for well over a decade.

If anyone asks the first hero was Wonder Woman— she was around during the World Wars, wasn’t she? And if not, it must have been Superman for saving Metropolis in his first well-broadcast appearance.

Through one mishap or another they ended up in the realm between worlds and find themselves in a throne room made up of creepy gothic architecture. skeletons of the undead lined the walls and figures with one big eyeball for heads stared at them from where they huddled in groups along the outlets of the room.

A boy sat on an uncomfortable throne of stone, wearing kingly regalia for someone much larger than himself. His crown rested around his neck like a spiked collar, a glowing green chain connected from the crown to the floor.

He had dull, glowing green eyes and limp snow-white hair. The boy hadn’t aged a day since his first appearance yet still changed so much.

He wasn’t surly or contemptuous like how he is remembered. Rather, Phantom was quick to provide them with a way back home and thank the heroes for taking care of Earth while he was gone.

He smiled derisively at the hero's concern, revealing that there had been an asteroid— one that he couldn’t get rid of using his usual abilities. He sold his soul for the crown and ring, gaining enough power to divert the Asteroid’s path.

He had infinite powers at his finger tips and the price was that he was being run ragged trying to solve petty disputes and fight cosmic horrors while his “council” delighted in the power of the throne without any of the responsibility.

#Dealers choice what made Phantom disappear and why he came back #dc x dp writing prompt #dp x dc #dpxdc #danny phantom #justice league #writing prompt #any additions or ideas would be greatly appreciated #not that I'd use them #I just like when people yap at me

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brookghaib-blog · 2 months ago

Text

The ghost I left behind - II

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Words: 7,03k

Chapter I , III

18 months ago

The dinner rush had slowed to a crawl.

It was one of those mid-week slumps where time dragged its feet, and the only people who came in were either regulars who knew the staff by name or wanderers with nowhere better to be. Y/N moved between tables with practiced rhythm, balancing plates and coffee refills like second nature, her back sore and her feet aching in shoes she’d long worn past comfort.

The little bell above the entrance jingled.

A man walked in—mid-fifties, pinched face, suit slightly wrinkled like it had seen better years. He looked around with thinly veiled disgust before huffing and plopping himself into the booth by the window—Table 9. The corner one. The one nobody liked serving because the light always flickered overhead and the booth’s cushion was partially split.

Y/N forced a smile and approached, flipping open her notepad.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Cluckin’ Bucket. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

He didn’t look up. Just waved his hand in the air like she was a gnat.

“Coffee. Black. And make sure it’s fresh.”

“Of course,” she said gently, tucking the pen behind her ear.

A few minutes later, she returned with a mug, carefully setting it in front of him.

“I’ll give you a moment with the menu—”

He cut her off without lifting his eyes. “Jesus, you’re slow. Do you people even train here, or just pick up anyone who needs cigarette money?”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“I… I’m sorry?”

He finally looked at her, and his smile wasn’t kind. “You should be. You’re lucky anyone even eats here with the way this place is run. What are you, twenty? You going to be slinging grease until you hit thirty? Classy.”

She stiffened, drawing a steadying breath. Her fingers clenched slightly around her notepad.

“Sir, I’m doing my best. If there’s something wrong with the service, I can ask someone else to take your—”

“Don’t get huffy with me, sweetheart. Just bring me a two-piece meal. And none of that soggy crap you people usually serve. If I find a hair in it again like last time, I swear to God…”

Y/N’s jaw tightened, and something heavy pulled at her chest.

“I’ll put in your order,” she said, voice quiet, calm—but the burn in her throat was rising fast.

As she turned, he muttered just loud enough to hear, “No wonder your kind ends up in jobs like this.”

She froze, mid-step.

No scene. No yelling. Just a single breath, then another. Her hands were shaking now, and she didn’t want to let them see.

“I’m taking five,” she murmured to the shift manager, barely audible as she walked past the kitchen.

She pushed through the back door that led into the alley behind the restaurant, where the dumpster smell mixed with exhaust and the quiet hum of city traffic. The cold air hit her like a slap. She pressed her back to the brick wall, closed her eyes, and finally let out the breath she’d been holding.

The burn in her chest wouldn’t go away.

She hated how easily people like that could unravel you. How fast kindness could be swallowed up by cruelty. She’d been so tired lately. Not just in her body but deep in her bones.

She wiped her eyes quickly. No tears, not here, not for that man. Just five minutes. That’s all she needed.

Then, just as she stepped away from the wall, she heard movement.

Around the corner of the building—behind the employee entrance—was a dim alcove where the employees usually went to smoke or cool off in costume. She walked quietly toward the sound, expecting maybe someone to be hiding out like her.

Then she saw him.

Bobby.

Still half in his chicken suit, the headpiece sitting on the crate beside him. His back was to her, hunched over something in his hands. The foil glinted faintly. A tiny click. The smell hit her first, acrid and chemical and sharp. The pipe. The lighter. The slow drag.

She stopped cold.

He turned his head slightly—just enough to catch her from the corner of his eye.

And froze.

They didn’t speak.

He looked at her like a child caught red-handed—eyes wide, mouth parting with some silent, unspoken apology already dying in his throat. His shoulders drooped, the weight of shame dragging him down like a stone.

Y/N didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at him. Everything in her face was quiet—but inside, it cracked.

She had always known, somewhere. The strange mood swings. The occasional vacant look in his eyes. The way he’d sometimes vanish after work and come back different.

But she told herself it wasn’t often. That he was better now. That he was trying.

And now, here it was. Not suspicion. Not a maybe. A truth, in sharp relief.

She blinked slowly. Her chest rising and falling like she’d just been punched there.

Bob didn’t speak. He didn’t run. He didn’t even look away.

She did.

Y/N turned and walked back inside without a word, the door swinging shut behind her.

She didn’t cry. She didn't say anything. Not yet.

She had a shift to finish.

The conversation would come later.

But in that moment, something inside her was already breaking.

The walk back to her place was drowned in silence.

The city buzzed around them — car horns, laughter, the occasional bark of a street vendor — but between Y/N and Bob, there was a vacuum. Her steps were steady, controlled, but her jaw was tight, eyes forward. Bob trailed a little behind, hands buried in his jacket pockets, shrinking into himself like a child expecting punishment. Shame clung to him like smoke.

They reached her apartment. It had become a second home to him — familiar, warm, soft in the corners where his own life was harsh. He’d left extra clothes in her drawers, knew how her kitchen light flickered when the microwave was running, had memorized the scent of her shampoo from the pillowcases.

He watched her unlock the door. She didn’t speak, just moved to the bathroom, turned the shower on. Steam soon crept under the crack in the door.

Bob stood there, frozen. A picture frame on the wall caught his eye — the two of them at the park, that first sunny date. She was kissing his cheek, laughing. He looked dazed, goofy, stunned by her affection. He still felt like that. Always stunned.

The door to the bathroom opened a while later. She came out in clean clothes, her damp hair pulled back in a loose bun. Wordlessly, she moved to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients like muscle memory. The rhythm of chopping vegetables, setting the water to boil, flipping something in a pan — it was too normal. Too quiet. It was the kind of silence that screamed.

Bob sat on the couch. His leg bounced. His palms were sweaty. The sound of a spoon clinking against a pan made his chest tighten.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

"Y/N," he croaked.

She didn’t turn.

He stood up slowly, walked a few steps toward the kitchen. "Please. Just say something."

The chopping stopped. She placed the knife down and leaned her hands on the counter, head bowed.

“Why?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Why do you do it?”

Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t accusing. It was sad. It was tired.

Bob swallowed hard. His throat burned. He opened his mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out.

Then he spoke, slowly, quietly. A confession years in the making.

“I was sixteen the first time I tried it,” he said. “It was just supposed to be for fun. Some kids in my neighborhood — we were bored, angry, messed up. I didn’t think it’d be a thing. But it stuck.”

He looked down at his hands like they weren’t his own.

“My brain… it’s not right. Hasn’t been for a long time. There’s this weight I carry every day. Like the world is pressing down on my chest, and everyone’s expecting me to breathe like it’s nothing. Some mornings I don’t even want to get up. Some nights I wish I wouldn’t wake up.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

“The meth — it made it quiet. Just for a while. It made me feel like I could do things. Like I wasn’t a loser, a disappointment. It tricked me into thinking I was normal.”

He stopped and turned to face her. His eyes were glassy, his voice breaking.

“But then I met you. And for the first time, I didn’t need it to feel okay. You made me want to stay clean. You made me believe I could. And I was trying, I swear, I was trying so fucking hard.”

He stepped closer, his voice desperate.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want to lose this — lose you. You’re the only good thing that’s ever really been mine.”

His knees buckled slightly as he dropped down to them in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry. I hate that I messed this up. I hate that I let you down. Please… please don’t give up on me. I swear I’ll get clean. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll go to meetings, therapy, rehab — anything. Just don’t walk away.”

Tears streamed down his face now, dripping onto the floor.

“I know I’ve got a thousand reasons to hate myself. I know I’m broken and messy and hard to love. But you… you make me want to be better. And I will. I promise. Just… don’t let this be the end.”

Y/N stood still for a moment, frozen, her hands still gripping the counter behind her.

And the only sound in the room was his quiet, wracked sobbing, and the distant clatter of boiling water on the stove, as dinner burned, untouched.

Bob stayed on his knees, eyes red and rimmed with shame, when his voice returned — quieter now, like a wound being exposed.

“My dad used to hit me,” he said. “Not just when he was mad — sometimes, I think, just because he didn’t know how else to talk. Or maybe he did, and he just liked watching me flinch.”

His eyes weren’t focused on her now. They stared past her, through her, into a corner of memory he rarely let himself go back to.

“He was a drunk. A real mean one. He’d come home and if the dishes weren’t done, or the TV was too loud, or I looked at him the wrong way — that was it. And my mom… she didn’t stop him. She just… endured. Like it was normal. Like it was just what families were.”

Y/N’s hands had gone still behind her on the countertop.

“I used to hide under my bed, back when I was little. I’d count the cracks in the floorboards, try to breathe as quietly as I could so he wouldn’t hear me. I remember thinking if I could just disappear for long enough, maybe he’d forget I existed.”

He laughed once — a low, broken sound that barely resembled laughter. “I used to wish I could disappear entirely.”

A tear slipped down Y/N’s cheek, but she said nothing yet. Let him speak.

“When I got older, I fought back. Not well. But I tried. And when I was seventeen, I left. Packed a trash bag with clothes and took a bus out. Thought I’d figure it out. Be free.”

He looked up at her then — just barely.

“But the thing is… when someone teaches you your whole life that you’re worthless, it doesn’t go away just because you leave the house. It follows you. It lives in you.”

His hands shook now, resting on his knees.

“I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I’m seconds away from falling apart. Like no matter how good something feels, I’m gonna ruin it. And I thought— I thought maybe if I numbed it, if I buried it, I could be normal.”

He exhaled, tears slipping freely now.

“But then you showed up. You, with your stupid coffee orders and your sweet laugh and the way you looked at me like I wasn’t a fucking disaster.”

His voice cracked, almost too much to continue.

“And now you know. Everything. The drugs. The lies. The damage. You know it all. So if you want me to leave, I will. I won’t fight it.”

Y/N moved then, slowly, quietly kneeling down in front of him. She reached for his face — her touch soft, careful — and wiped the tears from his cheeks, her own still silently falling.

“You’re not leaving,” she whispered, her voice firm despite its softness. “You don’t get to push me away, Bobby. Not tonight.”

He blinked at her like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“I’m gonna help you,” she said. “Not because I think I can fix you, or save you, or any of that hero complex bullshit. But because I see you. I see who you really are underneath all of it.”

She gave him a small, fragile smile. “And I know what it’s like. To fight temptation. To almost fall. You think I don’t get it? That I didn’t come close to things I don’t even like to think about now?”

Her thumb stroked his cheekbone, gently.

“The only difference is, I didn’t fall. Not back then. But you— Bobby, you got up. You got up today. You came home. That counts for something.”

She leaned in and kissed him, soft, slow — not fiery or frantic, but grounding. A tether to the world he was convinced he didn’t deserve.

And when she pulled back, his arms wrapped around her like a man clinging to the last piece of a life raft. His grip was tight, desperate. His body trembled against hers.

“Why…” he whispered, breath shaky against her shoulder. “Why do you love me?”

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. Her own were glassy, full of heartbreak and something stronger — belief.

“Because I see the man you’re trying to be,” she said. “Because even when you’re at your lowest, you still try to protect me. Because you never looked at me like I was broken, even when I told you all the reasons I could be.”

He shook his head slightly, disbelief etched across every inch of his face.

“How…” he whispered. “How can someone have so much love for me?”

And she didn’t answer right away. She just kissed his forehead, brushing the damp hair from his face, and pulled him close again.

In the quiet of that little apartment — with the burnt dinner on the stove, with their photograph still crooked on the wall — Bob let himself cry like a child for the first time in years.

They forgot about their surroundings and just laid against the couch, and Y/N held him through it all, her love a quiet, unshakeable force wrapped around him like armor.

Still. Steady. Like she wasn’t afraid of what he’d just shown her.

He couldn’t even look at her when she said, softly, “You’re not the only one with ghosts, Bobby.”

He glanced at her. She wasn’t looking for sympathy — just understanding. Her voice didn’t shake. It was tired, but honest. Worn down from years of holding things in.

“I’ve never told anyone everything. Not like this,” she said. “But… did I ever mentioned to you about Jordan? He was my first love.”

Bob turned toward her, the lump in his throat tightening again.

“I wasn’t always like this. Quiet. Careful,” she said, a hollow laugh passing her lips. “I used to be… wild. Not in the good way.”

She looked down at her hands. Her fingers were shaking.

“My mom — she’s the kind of woman who never wanted a daughter. Especially not one who reminded her how much time she’d lost. She was beautiful once. And she hated that I got told the same thing. She treated me like I was competition in her own house. Constantly picking at me. My clothes. My body. My laugh. Everything I was, she hated. It’s like I walked into a room and reminded her of all the choices she didn’t make.”

Bob’s brows drew in, his mouth a tight line of hurt on her behalf.

“And my dad?” she scoffed. “He was a college professor. Brilliant. Poised. Married to appearances. When I turned twelve, he started spending more nights in his office than at home. Eventually, he ran off with one of his grad students. Left a sticky note on the fridge. ‘Don’t let your mother go crazy.’ That was it.”

She blinked hard, not wanting to cry again. Not for them.

“I became the adult in the house before I hit puberty. My mom drank. Screamed. Slept through entire weekends. I cleaned. I cooked. I learned how to smile and make it look real. I still loved her tho, I never really blamed her for being the way she was, maybe she had reasons and I just… came in the wrong timing.”

She leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might hold something safer than the past.

“By the time I was sixteen, I was going out every night with older friends. We used fake IDs, got into clubs. I was… reckless. Desperate to feel like someone wanted me. Like I wasn’t invisible unless I was being yelled at.”

She turned to Bob, finally, her eyes watery.

“That’s how I met Jordan.”

Even saying his name made her stomach twist.

“He owned the club. Rich. Handsome. Wore these stupid expensive suits like he was always playing dress-up for some fantasy life. And he noticed me. Like… noticed me.”

She laughed bitterly. “I thought I’d won the lottery. I was seventeen, and he was thirty-two, and I felt like I was starring in some tragic love song. He gave me everything. Drove me around in his sports car. Bought me designer dresses. Called me ‘his girl’ in front of everyone.”

Bob stayed completely still, listening with his whole soul.

“But it wasn’t love,” she said. “It was manipulation. Control. He liked that I was pretty and broken. Liked that I thought being chosen by him meant I was worth something.”

Her hands tightened in her lap.

“Then one night… he took me home after a club party. I’d said no. I remember saying it. I was tired. I didn’t want to stay over. He gave me a drink, just so “ we could relax”— I didn’t know something was in it. I passed out in his bed.”

Her voice cracked then, finally.

“When I woke up, I wasn’t wearing my dress anymore. Just a sheet. He was in the kitchen making coffee like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”

She looked at Bob, her voice hoarse.

“I didn’t do anything. I just… laid there. Crying. Because I realized right then — I wasn’t looking for love. I was looking for someone to lie to me sweetly enough that I could pretend it was real.”

A long pause followed. Bob’s hand found hers, trembling but firm.

“He never went to jail. Of course not. I didn’t tell anyone. Who was gonna believe me? I was just some ‘party girl’ sneaking into clubs with an older man.”

Tears finally spilled down her cheeks.

“So I went numb. For a time, I just thought that dating would lead me to the same path my mother went into. I told myself I deserved it for being stupid. For needing love too much. Life stopped being colorfull, and just went with the whatever the wind took me, and it was not far. I got out of the house, never truly cared to repair the relationship with my parents, but going with no money wasn't very smart, didn't even got the education I desired, got away from my friends. And when I realized I was stuck in a loop, always stagnant, never really improving, and I just accepted it.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt, breath shaky.

“But then… you.”

Bob’s eyes locked with hers, wide and wet and full of disbelief.

“You came into that stupid fast food place in a chicken suit. Nervous. Sad. So fucking awkward. But you were kind. And you made me feel… safe.”

She smiled through the tears.

“And every day, even on your worst days, you looked at me like I was something worth staying sober for. And that meant everything, Bobby. It still does.”

She moved closer to him, took his face gently in her hands.

“I know what it’s like to carry pain that eats at you. I know what it’s like to feel like your story’s already been written — and it ends with you broken. I don’t judge for the path you took, sometimes I…I thought about it, I hang out with the wrong people, of course I have done it before, I didn’t rely on it but…I just I don’t know, I was lucky I guess.”

Bob was crying now, hard, his face buried against her shoulder.

“But it’s not over,” she whispered. “We’re not done.”

He looked up, shaking.

She brushed a tear from his cheek and smiled through her own.

"I see you. Not the addiction. Not the mistakes. You. And I love you… even the parts you hide.”

Bob let out a trembling breath and held her tighter, like he’d never let go again.

And in that moment — surrounded by all the wreckage, the shadows of what they'd both survived — two broken souls found something whole.

Present day

The days bled into each other now.

She moved like a shadow through the fluorescent-lit diner, apron tied tight around her waist, sneakers dragging just a little more than usual. The name tag still read Y/N, though the letters were beginning to smudge. No one commented. No one really looked.

“Welcome to Cluckin’ Bucket. What can I get you?” “Refill’s free. I’ll be right back.” “Fries come with that. You want ranch or ketchup?”

Her voice didn’t change. Not cheerful, not cold—just flat. A practiced cadence with just enough inflection to pass as human. The kind of tone that no one questioned. That no one cared enough to dig beneath.

Her coworkers passed by in a quiet shuffle. No jokes. No checking in. Just nods and tray exchanges. Maybe they could sense it—the weight around her like a storm cloud that never lifted. Or maybe they were used to it by now.

She stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom during her ten-minute break and didn’t recognize her own face. The bump beneath her uniform was unmistakable now. She didn’t bother trying to hide it anymore. There was nothing left to hide behind. No more stories. No more pretending that he might show up mid-shift and scoop her into his arms like it was all some misunderstanding.

The clock ticked by. Her shift ended without fanfare.

She changed in the back room, put on her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck. No goodbyes. Just the squeak of the door as it closed behind her.

The night was cold but clear. A rare calm in the chaos of the city.

She walked with her earbuds in, phone buried deep in her coat pocket, letting the random shuffle take over. Whatever came on, came on. She didn’t care anymore. She didn’t have preferences. She just needed something to drown out the silence.

Halfway home, her feet started to ache. She spotted a bench tucked beside an empty bus stop, under a flickering streetlight. It wasn’t much, but it was empty. And it was still.

She sat down slowly, one hand instinctively resting on her stomach.

The music kept playing.

And then, like fate—like punishment—their song came on. That stupid song, that she could not stop listenning. "Yours" - maye.

That one he used to hum under his breath while frying chicken in the kitchen. The one they danced to once in the middle of their living room at midnight, barefoot and grinning, cheap wine on the counter and nothing but love between them.

Her throat tightened.

She stared down at the cracked pavement beneath her feet, the light above humming faintly as it flickered.

He loved me, she thought. He really did.

That was the cruelest part. He hadn’t been faking it. She’d felt it in his touch, in the way he held her in the mornings, the way he kissed her forehead when she cried after a long shift. It wasn’t pretend. He loved her.

But he left anyway.

He loved her, and he left.

The thought came like a stormcloud, suffocating the warmth before it could grow.

He had made a choice. She knew that now. The police confirmed it. He had planned it. Saved up. Booked a ticket. Crossed oceans not to be found. She spent her free time removing the flyers she had put up for him.

She wanted to scream at him. Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t the baby enough? But screaming wouldn't help. It never did. It only made her feel hollow afterward.

Still, her mind wandered—always back to him.

Maybe he regrets it, she thought. Maybe he’s out there, wishing he could come back. Maybe he thinks about her. About this child.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Every hopeful thought fought against the brutal weight of reality like a war inside her skull.

She was tired of the battle. Hope hurt almost as much as the truth.

She lowered her head into her hands and let the music keep playing. The baby shifted inside her, a small, fluttering reminder that she wasn’t completely alone.

But she felt like she was.

She lived in limbo now. Between memory and disappointment. Between what they had and what was left behind.

The bench was cold. The city was loud. But she stayed there for a long time, because going home meant facing the silence of their apartment again.

And she wasn’t ready for that yet.

Meanwhile, in Malaysia- 2 months ago

The air in Malaysia was thick — not just with humidity, but with something heavier. Guilt didn’t have a scent, but if it did, Bob imagined it would smell like the sweat-drenched room he was holed up in. Ceiling fan rattling overhead. One bare light bulb swaying from a cracked ceiling. A single mattress on the floor. A half-empty bottle of water at his feet.

He hadn't spoken more than a few words to anyone in days.

The job they’d given him was temporary, meaningless. He moved crates from one side of a warehouse to the other. A ghost with hands. No one asked his name. He didn’t offer it.

Every night, he collapsed onto the mattress like a dying star — heavy, slow, and silent. And every night, her face found him again.

Y/N.

He could still see the way her hair fell across her face in the morning when she leaned over the stove, cooking eggs in his worn-out T-shirt. The way she would hum softly under her breath while drying dishes. The way her fingers curled instinctively over the swell of her belly the day she told him they were going to be parents.

He had kissed that hand.

And then he left.

Because he was a coward. Because the drugs were easier. Because he’d convinced himself she was better off without him.

But the truth was uglier than that.

He missed her so much it made him physically ache. Not just her body, her warmth — but the space she created around him. Safe, forgiving, real. She was the first person in his life who hadn’t looked at him like a lost cause.

And he’d proven them all right.

He rubbed at his face, scrubbing tears away before they could fall. But it was useless. They came anyway.

He reached under the mattress and pulled out the photo.

It was wrinkled, faded from being handled so many times. It showed the two of them sitting in the park on their first date — the one where she packed the entire meal and insisted he try her potato salad. He hated eggs, but he ate it anyway because she’d made it with so much love.

She was laughing in the photo. He remembered that moment. He'd just made some dumb joke about the squirrel trying to steal her sandwich. She had leaned into him, eyes crinkling, and he thought, I’m never letting go of this.

He traced the edge of her face with his finger.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He’d whispered it every night since he left. Sometimes louder. Sometimes choked out between sobs. But she couldn’t hear him. She would never hear him.

He imagined her now — back in that little apartment. Alone. Tired. Maybe crying. Maybe angry. Maybe both. Maybe she hated him. He wouldn’t blame her.

But maybe… just maybe, some part of her still believed in him.

And that was the cruelest hope of all.

Because he didn’t deserve it.

He stared at the ceiling, hands trembling. The meth wasn’t hitting like it used to. The numbness didn’t come fast enough anymore.

And still, in his mind, her voice lingered.

"You’re stronger than this, Bobby. You’re not your worst day."

He closed his eyes and clutched the photo to his chest.

But in this place, across oceans and guilt, those words felt like they belonged to someone else. Someone better than him.

Still, he held onto them.

Because it was all he had left.

Night came early in this part of the city.

Not because the sun set any quicker — but because the shadows here swallowed light before it could settle. The alleyways twisted like veins, pulsing with neon flickers and muffled shouting from nearby vendors. The street smelled like oil and rot and burning sugar. Bob barely noticed anymore.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just nodded off in strange places — under stairwells, on benches, wherever his body finally gave in. He was five days clean and forty-eight hours high. Maybe more. Time didn't work right anymore.

His hands shook as he walked. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back. His mouth was dry. Eyes too wide. He was running low — the last dose hadn’t been enough. Not by a long shot. The pain crept in again. The ache behind his eyes, the guilt in his ribs. Her voice in his head.

"Bobby, don’t lie to me." "We can get through this." "I love you, even when you don’t love yourself."

He gritted his teeth and shoved her voice aside.

She wasn’t here. She wasn’t real anymore.

He needed to make her go away.

He ducked down a narrow side street, where dealers sometimes drifted like ghosts, offering plastic baggies with eyes too old for their faces. But tonight, no one was there. Just the hum of faulty streetlights and the sting of desperation in his chest.

“Looking for something?”

Bob stopped.

The voice was smooth — too smooth. Like glass over ice. It came from a man leaning against a rusted metal door, half-shrouded in shadow. White shirt, dark blazer, not a bead of sweat on him despite the thick air. He looked out of place here. Clean. Controlled. Dangerous.

Bob didn’t answer. Just stared with hollow, half-blown pupils.

The man stepped forward slowly, like he already knew the answer.

“You’re not from here. You don’t belong. You’re just trying to disappear, aren’t you?” His smile was thin. “I know that look. Like you’re trying to burn every part of yourself out so there’s nothing left.”

Bob blinked, confused. Agitated. “You got something or not?”

“I have something,” the man said. “But it’s not what you’re expecting.”

That should’ve been a red flag. Maybe it was. But Bob had walked past every red flag he’d ever seen without blinking. His curiosity was frayed, his caution dulled. The man held out a card.

“Come with me. Right now. We’re looking for volunteers. People like you — no strings, no questions. You let us do what we need, and in return...you won’t feel a thing ever again.”

Bob stared at the card. It was black. No writing. Just a silver symbol — something sharp and angular, like a thunderbolt wrapped in a serpent. "O.X.E"

“What is this?”

“A way out,” the man said simply. “You’ve tried everything else. Let this be your last door.”

Bob hesitated.

His skin itched. His teeth clenched. His knees ached. His chest hurt. Not from withdrawal — but from remembering her. From remembering what he left behind. The girl with stars in her eyes who made him believe, for a little while, that he could be worth something. That he could be whole.

He swallowed hard.

“Will it make me better? Like... a better person? Useful?” he whispered.

The man’s smile didn’t change. “Eventually.”

Bob nodded once.

That’s all it took.

And just like that, he followed the man into the dark, down a corridor lined with flickering lights and metal doors — unaware that the choice he just made wouldn’t numb his pain.

It would unleash it.

Present day, 7a.m- New York

The weak morning sun slanted through the café windows in narrow ribbons, cutting through the steam rising from two mismatched coffee mugs. The air smelled faintly of burnt toast and the overworked espresso machine. It was too early for the place to be busy, and too quiet for comfort. A tiny bell chimed each time the door opened, but no one came in. Not yet.

Y/N sat across from Officer Cooper, her hands wrapped tightly around a chipped mug like it was the only thing anchoring her in place. Her eyes were tired. Dark crescents hung beneath them, untouched by makeup. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose across her face. She looked thin — too thin — except for the roundness of her belly, which pushed gently against the edge of the table.

She stirred her coffee slowly, even though she hadn’t added sugar. Or cream. Just for something to do with her hands.

“I’m sorry I called,” she said, her voice quiet. “I just didn’t know who else…”

Cooper, across from her, shook his head. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I told you before — if you need something, you call. That wasn’t just some empty promise.”

She offered him a small, broken smile. It didn’t last.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Been thinking about things I shouldn’t. Options.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What kind of options?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers moved to the base of her belly, holding it gently, protectively. Her gaze dropped to the table, then shifted to the window. She didn’t want to see his face when she said it.

“I’ve been looking into adoption,” she said finally. “Private. Families who… who can’t have kids. People who want this. Who have homes. Stability. Money. Things I don’t.”

Cooper leaned back, visibly stunned. His coffee mug clinked softly against the table as he set it down, forgotten. “That’s a serious thing to say, Y/N.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m saying it.”

He studied her. The deep-set sadness in her eyes. The stiffness in her shoulders. The fragility in her voice that she was trying so hard to hide.

“Do you want to give the baby up,” he asked gently, “or is this the last thing on a long list of desperate maybes?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Her lips trembled, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop it. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. She turned her face toward the window, where early morning joggers passed by, carefree. Laughing. Living.

“I love this baby,” she said, her voice breaking. “So much it makes me sick. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t even have enough money for rent next month. My job’s cutting my hours ‘cause I’m showing too much. I can't stand on my feet that long anymore. I’ve sold half our stuff just to make it through. And every time I think I’m crawling forward, I just— I slide back.”

Cooper reached across the table and placed a weathered hand over hers. It was warm. Solid. Like a rock in a storm.

“You’re not alone,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Feels like I am.”

“You don’t have to make this decision today. Or alone. There’s help out there. I can pull some strings — get you in touch with someone who can offer a better job. Something safer, something that won’t drain the life out of you. Hell, I’ll drive you myself if I have to. In the meantime, I can help, I told you I'm a grandfather, I can give you stuff for the baby, stuff that my granddaughter outgrown, I don't know, I can give you some money, help you get on you feet.”

She finally looked at him, eyes shimmering.

“You’d do that?”

He nodded, serious. “I would. I told you I have a daughter like you, I know my help would be for a good outcome.” He let out a deep breath. "I know you're just a good person with unresolved past damaged, and I could I look at someone who resembles my babygirl and let them suffer the consequences of other people's actions Y/N."

Y/N looked back out the window, her shoulders shaking slightly as the tears finally came. But she didn’t sob. She cried quietly, like she’d gotten good at it. Like it was part of her morning routine.

“I keep thinking about him,” she whispered. “Not the one that left. The one before. The one who came home with flowers after a long shift. The one who said I made him feel like maybe he wasn’t broken.”

She wiped her cheeks, her hand trembling.

“I have the photos. And this baby. And some dumb song we used to play every Sunday morning while cooking pancakes. That’s all I have left of him.”

She exhaled shakily, resting a hand over her bump again.

Cooper was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, but firm.

“What was it about him, Y/N?” he asked. “What made him worth all this pain?”

She looked at him, startled.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re holding onto something that’s dragging you down so far, I’m afraid you’ll never come back up. What was so special about Bob Reynolds that even your love for this baby’s not enough to let him go? You spent months knocking at my door every single day, demading those lazy bastards to do something, persisting, looking for him. Losing yourself for a guy who planned leaving while sleeping by your side.”

Y/N didn’t answer, not right away.

Y/N didn’t look at Cooper when she spoke.

Her gaze stayed pinned to the window, as if the right answer might walk by, wearing Bobby’s face.

“I know him,” she said quietly. “That’s why I can’t let go. Not because I’m stupid or weak or in denial. I know Bobby.”

Cooper leaned forward slightly, listening.

“I know how dark his thoughts can get. How he used to wake up some mornings and just… sit there. Quiet. Staring at the floor like the weight of being alive was too much. And he’d smile at me, pretend everything was okay, but I could see it. That hollow look in his eyes. I know how much he hated himself for the things he did. How ashamed he was of the drugs. Of needing them.”

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through.

“He thought I didn’t know how deep it went. But I did. I always did. And I never once judged him. I just wanted him to stop because I loved him. Not because I was angry. Not because I wanted to fix him. Because I wanted him alive. And he tried, God, he tried. Even when he failed, he tried again.”

She paused, drawing a shaky breath.

“You’re asking me why I can’t let him go?” she said, finally turning to Cooper, eyes brimming with exhausted pain. “Because he never let go of me. Even when he was breaking, even when the drugs were louder than my voice — he’d still look at me like I was the only good thing he had left. He knew everything about me, Cooper. The ugly things. The things I never told anyone.”

She looked down at her hands, as if the secrets were written in her palms.

“I told him how I used to be, I was really a bad person for myself, specially in my teeangers years. God... So much shit that I don't even understand how I let all of it happen, but you know what?”

Her voice softened to a whisper.

“He kissed me. Just kissed me, and said, ‘That doesn’t change a thing.’ Like none of it made me less. And I know it did, that's how I ended up here, not pregnant and alone, but here. And was doomed before him, anyway, we were eachothers only light.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks now, freely, silently.

“I didn’t have to pretend with him. I didn’t have to be strong every second of the day. He’d remind me — every single day — how far I’d come. Even on the days I couldn’t see it. Even when he couldn’t see it in himself.”

She pressed a hand to her belly, as if grounding herself.

“That’s why I can’t stop loving him. That’s why I keep hoping. Because the man I knew wasn’t just an addict. He was kind. And scared. And trying. And maybe… maybe he left because he thought I deserved better. Maybe he thought disappearing was mercy.”

Her voice was almost gone now. Just a whisper, like she was talking more to herself than to Cooper.

“But I didn’t need better. I just needed him.”

The silence between them settled like dust.

Cooper said nothing. What could he say? There was no law or logic that could dismantle the truth of what she'd just laid bare. No policy, no report, no advice to hold against the unshakable bond she'd painted with her words.

So he just sat there, eyes on her, while she stared through the glass at a world that kept moving without her.

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