marisoil

[marisoil]

𝑪𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒

summary: ꪆৎ (1920s au) a cop with a badge too heavy for his shoulders, a socialite too bright for anyone's sanity, they’re both absolutely doomed.

an: i was ovulating during the writing of whatever this is (you can tell). i feel like itʼs lowk giving booktok,, feedback on this would be much appreciated!! (◞‸ ◟) might do some more depending on how this one goes [blink]

trigger warnings: power imbalance, jealousy, emotional turmoil, risky relationships, tobacco use, manipulation (if you squint), emotional vulnerability

genre: mostly fluff

word count: 3.5k

bertholdt hoover was a man made to endure, a man made for carrying things, for bearing heaps of what others could not. the kind of fella who kept his head down and his hands busy, broad-backed and quiet, shoulders like stone slabs meant for bearing things no one else could handle. the city of marley didn’t have much patience for soft men; in the gilded chaos of the roaring twenties, the streets were thick with jazz, smoke, and dirty politics. amidst flappers with rouged knees, dapper men tipping their straw boaters, he did what he was supposed to; put on the uniform, took the oath, and kept his nose clean. a lawman through and through, his uniform was neat enough to draw eyes but never hold them.

but you were no burden. you were conflagration in satin stockings, burning through every oath he’d ever sworn to uphold. a socialite draped in silk and scandal, with the kind of laugh that turned heads and left men (him, most of all) wondering if mortal ears were ever meant to hear music so sweet. your name was always on the lips of cigar-chewing barkeeps and parasol-clutching harpies, you were grotesquely lavish, a kitschy cathedral built to indulgence and made purely out of another soulʼs restraint. mornings found you sipping spiked tea on sun-drenched balconies, while afternoons slipped away in the folds of boutique dressing rooms, where clerks bent over backward to find the perfect shade of temptation for you.

in every sense of the word, you were excess. too much money, too much charm, too much of a good thing stretched to itʼs breaking point. a chandelier swaying just before the fall, a glass of merlot filled to overflowing, a secret too loud to be kept.

at some juncture in your life, between the empty noise of their promises and the heavy silence of the mornings after. you began to believe that no one could stomach entire spoonfuls of you. perhaps only the undemanding aspects of your existence, the ones they admired from a safe distance, the ones they praised like dilettantes, unsure and shallow in their admiration. men, in their infinite optimism that could easily be mistakes for arrogance—insisted they could handle you; they threw their hats into the ring with all the gall of gamblers who think the house will finally lose. and for a while, they played the part: offering love as if it were currency instead of an unexamined reflex. but inevitably, as night follows day, they faltered, overwhelmed by the intensity of you and your contradictions, your needs, your refusal to be contained.

“you don’t have to call me every time something happens.”

“you’re something else, doll, but maybe take it down a notch, huh? no need to shout the house down.”

“you’re amazing, but i don’t know if i’m the right guy for all of this.”

they treated you like a puzzle, or worse a nuisance. so you began to wonder if the problem lay with you: a creature too large for the paltry cages they called love, too restless to settle for what they called enough.

of course, that was before you met bertholdt.

he first saw you on a call, a routine disturbance at one of those upscale speakeasies masquerading as tea rooms. the kind of place where old money rubbed elbows with new money, and no one dared whisper the wrong names. you’d been sitting at the bar, cigarette holder poised in one gloved hand, with your manicured fingers curled around a coupe of champagne. reiner had nudged him toward you with a knowing smirk, but it was you who made the first move, as was your routine, your lips curved into a smile that could ruin a man. you’d looked at him, not through him, like most people did. something about the way your gaze lingered made his heart stall beneath his ribcage, and from there he knew he was sunk.

he hadn’t meant to take you home. hadn’t meant for your dress to pool on the floor of his apartment or for his hands to learn the heat of your skin. but you unraveled him like you’d been born for it. the morning after, he’d stood at the window, his shirt rumpled and his resolve liquefying as you stretched across his bed like trouble itself had learned to walk upright in silk stockings, a wry smile tugging at your lips when he stammered, “this can’t happen again.”

but then, days later by means of despicable coincidence, there you were, turning his world sideways once more, pulling him into the shadowed alcoves of ballrooms, your gloved hands gripping the lapels of his coat as if you’ll die without him like you insist you would. “you shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, his breath warm against your neck, but his hands betray him, slipping around your waist and pressing you closer like he once had during the night he couldnʼt forget even if he tried. you tilt your head, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you purr, “neither should you, officer.”

you were nothing he was supposed to have. not in this life and especially not in this city. it should have been easy to walk away, to stay away, but you’ve always had a talent for taking what you want and bertholdt, poor fool that he is, didn’t even try to stop you.

you’ve made bertholdt hoover an accomplice to his own undoing. his uniform feels heavier when you’re near, like the badge on his chest knows he’s betraying everything it stands for just by breathing the same air as you. it seemed, and to this day still does seem absolutely proposterous at first—you and him. he was just a flatfoot, after all, pounding pavement while you lived a life of velvet and champagne. you were the kind of woman who could get a man fired, and bertholdt knew it. but you had a way of making him feel like you were meant for him, and worse like he was meant for you. in his eyes, you were a grace-given gift. through some unseen kindness from a life he could not recall, he had been repayed in the form of you, sweetly cocooned in a douceur adorned with ribbons and bows just for him. all for him, every inch of you. only ever for him.

you adored him, he was completely enamored with you, and you don’t apologize for any of it, for the mess you make of him.

you’re a thief, he thinks. you take up all the space in his mind and in his pockets, where the little pieces of you collect. loose pearls from your necklaces, ribbons from your wrists. you leave a trail behind you that only he bothers to follow, like you know he’ll pick it all up. he keeps your earrings in a little dish by his bed, ones you claim to forget every time you’re over. one of them is missing its backing, and you said it doesn’t matter because “it’s just an excuse to come back.” you said it so flippantly, throwing the words over your shoulder as you twirled out the door, but bertholdt thinks about it every night. wonders if it’s true, if you’ll keep leaving pieces of yourself behind like breadcrumbs. wonders if one day, you’ll leave too many, and there’ll be nothing left of you except the trail.

he keeps a picture of you, folded neatly into the soft belly of his jacket, he can feel it even now as he walks behind you, his fingers brushing absently over the hidden pocket. it’s old, creased from being folded and unfolded, touched and caressed when the real you is not around for him to hold. it’s not much, just a snapshot really, but it’s enough.

and you have one of him, too, though yours is much, much larger than his, a little dog-eared from being tucked into your clutch, covered in those maddening lipstick marks of your affection. when he’d asked you about it you said, “well, it’s my favorite picture.” you never hide it. in fact, you brandish it like a trophy, waving it at him in public just to watch him turn pink all the way down to his collarbones and he swears he can feel his ribs bending to make room for you.

your lipstick leaves ghosts everywhere: on crystal rims, on the necks of champagne bottles, on the stark white collar of his shirt you stole one lazy morning. he can still see it there, smudged and pink, a ridiculous, infuriating claim you left behind like a signature.

you like to touch him, your affection spilling over in unmeasured handfuls, and bertholdt takes it all, always unsure how to give it back without breaking it. your foot hooks over his under the table, dragging lazily until he jolts, his knee banging against the wood with a sharp, graceless sound. your hand slides beneath his glove, fingers cool against his warm ones, your thumb pressing into the creases of his palm as if you’re trying to read the lines of his life. a flick at his ear when he’s being too quiet, too bertholdt. sometimes you’ll poke his chest like you’re trying to find the exact location of his heart, grinning when he finally relents and catches your wrist, his thumb circling over the thin bones there. bertholdt isn’t used to being wanted so openly, so carelessly, but you make it feel natural, like this is just how the world works: you touch, and he catches fire.

over time, you make him comfortable enough to reciprocate those affections but you still have progress to make. his hands, so large they feel almost grotesque to him, were built for things like restraint, utility, the cold grip of a gun. but when he touches you it’s like he’s terrified the world might break. you laugh at him for it sometimes, draping yourself across his chest, your perfume threading itself into the fabric of his uniform, and say, “bertholdt, you hold me like i’m a cracked egg.”

it frustrates you to no end. you’ve always been shameless when it comes to bertholdt hoover. maybe it’s the way his shirt strains against his shoulders, seams groaning under the power of him. you notice everything: the dip in his throat when he swallows, the faint press of his veins just under his skin, the way his jaw clenches when he holds an anger thatʼs never directed at you. he smells like smoke, sharp and bitter, but when you kiss him, his mouth is sweet, tinged with a faint metallic tang. but he holds back. doesnʼt give you all of which you want, which is all of him. so you push harder—pulling at his tie, sliding your fingers into his hair, nipping at his neck just to hear the low, shuddering breath he can’t quite suppress. he’s maddening, the kind of man you want to press against until he forgets himself completely, and you’re determined to make him forget.

you love him so, so much. you love him for the way he never makes you feel small, for the way he lets you be yourself without apology. and you’ll be damned if you ever let him go. bertholdt hoover belongs to you now, and you’ll fight the whole damn city if it means keeping him.

he lets you win every argument. always. even when you’re wrong, which you rarely are. your words are sharp, but they always soften when it’s him. instead, you tease and provoke, and he lets himself be provoked because he loves the way you grin when you think you’ve gotten the better of him. and you have entirely. there’s no part of him you don’t own, no corner of his mind you haven’t occupied.

he’s jealous, though he’d never admit it outright. he thinks you’re too radiant to belong to anyone, and yet he burns at the sight of other men circling you like moths to a flame. their hands hover too close to your backside. he tells himself it’s not his place, that he has no claim on you, but then you glance at him from across the room, your eyes daring him to say something, to do something. you’re playing a dangerous game, and bertholdt’s never been one for risks. until you.

“you’re angry,” you say one night, he’s standing too close, his jaw tight, his hands shoved into his pockets to keep from dragging you away from the room full of prying eyes. “you let him touch you,” he murmurs, the words barely audible, and your smile stretches, wicked and knowing. “oh, bertholdt,” you coo, your fingers trailing along his sleeve. “are you jealous?”

“stop it,” he snaps, and it’s so unlike him that you pause, blinking up at him with something almost resembling surprise. then, quietly, he adds, “please.”

bertholdt knows this can’t last, knows you’re everything he’s not, bold where he’s reserved, reckless where he’s cautious. he knows it’s wrong, knows he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be sneaking into your estate under the cover of darkness, but he can’t stop. not when you greet him at the door in something entirely inappropriate, your smile bright and mischievous as you drag him inside. “i missed you,” you say, your voice soft, and it undoes him. every single time.

you kiss him like you’re trying to devour him, and he lets you. his hands are trembling as they slide over the silk of your dress, his breath ragged as you tug him closer. “what would your captain say,” you tease, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw, “if he knew where you were right now? what you’re doing?”

“donʼt,” he breathes, his hands tightening on your waist, but you don’t stop. you never do.

the city has no place for love stories like yours. it chews men like him to the bone and spits them out without ceremony, while women like you slip between its teeth, too clever to be caught. bertholdt knows this. he knows the weight of a badge, the weight of duty, the crushing inevitability of a city like paradis. but for you, he’d bear it all a hundred times over. all he knows is that for as long as you keep leaving pieces of yourself behind, he will pick them up and hold them close, even if it means losing himself entirely.

bertholdt hoover is a man made for carrying things, for bearing what others cannot. but for you, he has learned to let himself be carried, too.

you are the only thing that feels real. and bertholdt, for once in his life, is not strong enough to let go.

[marisoil]

𝑰𝐍 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇

summary: taking care of bertholdt while heʼs sick </3

an: hello?? why is nobody writing for my husband anymore .·°՞(≧□≦)՞°·. stop this madness i beggg

genre: fluff

word count: 1,865

bertholdt hoover is dying, or at least that’s what he’s convinced himself.

he’s spread out on the bed like a wilted fern, blankets wrapped somewhere near his ankles, his cheeks are sweltering with a rouge so pronounced it appears to radiate heat, an almost wrathful vermilion. perspiration grips his pores in uneven tracks, weeping down the line of his jaw until it pools at the hollow of his throat. his hair sticks to his forehead in a matted constellation of ink and sweat, each strand entangled by the molten fever devouring him from the inside out.

the illness has robbed him of his grace; it has transformed him from a man of deliberate tranquility to a disheveled, breathless mess. his chest stutters unevenly, and you try not to count the seconds between each rise, try not to let your concern wrap itself too tight around your ribs, but it’s no use. his breathing hooks into you like barbed wire, pulling every composed thought to pieces. the air is heavy with sickness, wet and sour. nose red and raw from tissues he’s half-heartedly tossed to the floor that youʼll have to clean up sooner or later, everything in his head feels indistinct, every square inch feels like itʼs been stuffed with dense cotton.

he canʼt think, he canʼt breathe. he’s miserable. absolutely, profoundly miserable.

“you’re not dying.” bertholdt groans. his arm flops over his face in what he most likely believes is a tragic display of distress. his flaked lips part, but whatever retort he was working on tangles in his throat, collapsing into a pitiful whimper. he lets his arm which is suddenly as heavy as stone descend unto the bed, that small gesture costing him something he can’t spare.

he blinks up at you, his glazed eyes lazily wandering along your features. “i can’t breathe,” he wheezes, voice shredded by congestion. “it’s over for me. tell reiner… he can have my star destroyer lego.” you bite back a laugh, dipping the washcloth into the bowl of cool water you’ve set by the bed. his dramatic tendencies are endearing, really. he always leans into the absurd when he’s out of his depth, and now, with his fever tugging at the strings of his lucidity, he’s in a rare form.

“you’re gonna be fine,” you coo, wringing out the cloth and pressing it to his forehead. he shivers at the touch. “you don’t know that,” he whispers.

“actually i do. because you’ve just got a bad cold, and bad colds don’t kill people.”

“you say that,” he mumbles, “but “it’s not… just a fever. it’s—” his hand weakly reaches out, awkward fingers fumbling for yours. “—the plague?” you cut in. his hand finds yours, and you take his sweaty grip, cradling it between your palms. “then i guess weʼll die together,” you reply lightly, brushing back damp strands of hair from his forehead.

“don’t say that!” his voice cracks, and it’s hilarious how genuinely horrified he looks. “i don’t want you to get sick. stay away from me. i’m—i’m toxic.”

“you’re not toxic,” you reply, leaning down until your nose brushes his. “and i’m not going anywhere.” he tries to protest, tries to scoot away from you, but he’s too weak, too exhausted. instead, he slumps back into the pillows with a squeak, looking up at you like you’ve just confessed to a crime. you don’t care that he’s sick, that every exhalation is a cloud of germs, that you’ve probably already doomed yourself to catching whatever he has. none of it matters. you’ll take care of him, hold him together when he feels like he’s falling apart, and if you get sick, you’ll survive.

“you’re gonna get sick,” he nods, “then you’ll hate me. then you’ll leave me.” “never,” you say, without hesitation. you press your lips to his temple, ignoring the way his skin burns against yours. his breath hitches, a soft sound caught between disbelief and something far more fragile.

“you’re too close,” he croaks, “too close, yn. you’ll…” the rest of his sentence melts into the heat of his fever, ecstasy coursing through him in the way your lips press against the side of his head.

“bertholdt,” you interrupt, your voice low and certain, “shut up.” something in him jolts, sharp and immediate. his heart stumbles, then picks up, drumming erratically in his chest. it’s embarrassing, dizzying, and so utterly him. he shouldn’t like the way you say it, shouldn’t revel in the dominance of your voice, but he does.

“you’re like… the sun.” your hand pauses mid-stroke, the damp cloth pressed against his temple. “what?”

“you’re…” he blinks up at you, his glassy eyes catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp. his mouth is dry, the words sticking to his tongue, but he forces them out anyway, clumsy and slurred. “you’re warm. but not… not too warm. just right. like… like sunlight.” you stare at him, your expression unreadable, and he feels a fresh wave of heat rush to his cheeks. it’s not the fever this time; it’s the realization of what he’s just said, the absolute absurdity of it. he wants to crawl under the quilt and never come out again, but your lips twitch into something close to a smile, and it stops him cold.

“you’re delirious,” you say, but there’s no bite to your words, no mockery. it makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with his fever. your palm lies flat against his cheek, and he leans into your touch without thinking, his body betraying him. “but i guess it’s sweet.”

he huffs out a laugh, or something close to it, but it breaks down into a cough that wracks his entire body, making you wince. your hand is there instantly, guiding him back with a tenderness that makes his heart ache. “easy,” you whisper.

“see? this is what happens when you talk too much,” you chide gently, easing him back against the pillows.

“sorry,” he whispers, but you can tell he doesn’t mean it. “goodness, bertholdt. i honest donʼt know what to do with you.”

“you’re…” he tries to speak, but his throat is too dry, his mind too foggy to form more coherent thoughts than he already has. he swallows, the effort sending a fresh wave of pain through his body, and you’re there immediately, lifting a glass of water to his lips with steady hands. “drink,” you command, and he obeys without question, the cool water soothing the fire in his throat. when he’s finished, you set the glass aside, your fingers brushing against his as you pull away.

“you’re cute.” your breath stills, the faintest laugh escaping you. “say that again,” you coax, your fingers trailing along the line of his jaw, pulling his gaze back to yours. his cheeks deepen in their flush, though fever alone cannot take the blame.

“i didn’t mean to—”

“you did. say it again” you counter, your tone light, teasing. he groans, burying his face in the pillow. “you’re cruel.”

“maybe,” you admit, your lips ghosting over his ear. “forever and always, bertholdt hoover,” you whisper, your words laced with warmth. “even when you’re sweaty and gross.” his breath stirs faintly against your neck, soft and uneven.

“you’re ridiculous.”

you shift slightly beneath him, trying to adjust the pillow to give him more comfort, but bertholdt doesn’t let you move far. his hand suddenly slips to your waist, his grip featherlight but firm enough to keep you close. “stay, don’t go.”

“i wasn’t planning to.” his eyes are heavy-lidded as they search yours. there’s something desperate in the way he looks at you.

“you’re so… so good to me,” he breathes.

“you deserve it,” you say simply, and his breath hitches like the words are something fragile and unattainable. you feel his fingers flex at your waist, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

“can i…” he starts, his voice trailing off as his eyes meet yours again. he doesn’t finish the sentence, but you understand him anyway, leaning in before he can lose his nerve. his lips are chapped, rough against yours, but the unpolished texture only makes the kiss feel more real, more him—raw and unguarded. but then you kiss him back, your hand slipping to the back of his neck to pull him closer. the fever has made him pliant, his usual hesitations melted away, and he responds with an urgency that surprises you. his mouth is warm, and his kisses are clumsy, desperate, as though he’s trying to memorize the feel of you.

you don’t pull away, not even when his breath catches or when his fingers tighten against your hip, grounding himself. instead, you let him pour himself into you. it’s feverish, messy, and utterly perfect, the taste of him lingering on your lips like something you’ll never forget.

when you finally part, it’s only because you can feel the way his body has gone slack, his head falling back onto your chest. he gives you a small, blissed-out smile that makes your chest tighten.

“you’re…” he whispers, his voice trailing off as his eyelids grow heavier. “perfect.”

[marisoil]

𝑫𝐎𝐄 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

summary: post-rumbling, reiner decides to pay you a visit. somewhere along the night he realizes he wants more than he’s allowed himself to have.

an: first ever time writing a oneshot this is wild!! thereʼs not enough canon-verse fics on here. ily reiner plz have my kids.

genre: fluff

word count: 2,040

the walk to your little house feels like a pilgrimage, the quiet paths are different now, quiet like everything else in this strange peace, but his feet know the way. every step bringing him closer to you feels like something that’s his alone, something he’s stolen from whatever fate has decided for him. as his feet drag along the asphalt, he feels it, that old feeling he’d buried deep, kept under the lock of duty and war and shame. he canʼt his finger on it, partially because he isnʼt used to feeling it and the other reason being his unease at embracing the ferocious ardency heʼs inclined to feel for you and you only. it feels something like want, like yearning. thereʼs a hunger that lies dormant in the depths of his stomach for your presence, he craves it. it’s become something primal. when you’re not there, it’s like you’ve left a sunken space in him that he can’t fill. the feeling is so strong it drives him delirious, his mind tricking him into seeing you everywhere in everything all at once.

he’ll catch the faintest whiff of something sweet and saccharine, and he turns too quickly, thinking for a split second that you’re there, only for reality to empty itself into disappointment. it’s maddening, truly. he should count himself lucky that you look at him with adoration, not hate or disgust. it's a wonder to him, really, the way your irises sussurate with an adoration he cannot quantify, as if he could never disappoint you. it clutches his sternum in a brutal, unrelenting grip, he feels the weight of it in his throat, an unfamiliar pulse. being tethered to the horrifying vastness of your adoration for him is both a sufferance and a delight.

each time your eyes cut into him, something feral stirs, absurd in its magnitude. it is not want; it is collapse, an insatiable entropy dragging him toward visions fabricated entirely of you, a universe where only your form exists. he craves the things he can't have, for things he knows he doesn't deserve. he aches for the wreckage of your voice, the way a certain word escalades from your throat. his name resting on the tip of your tongue. reiner.

he knows he's being greedy, but can he be blamed? he wants your presence beside him, filling the air with something honest when the night unspools the seams of everything he’s hidden from himself. he wants the sound of your footfall, the solace of your soft hands soothe over the wounds he’s long since tried to veil. it’s all he can do not to scream for it. your very existence fills his senses until there’s no room for anything else. he’s greedy, he knows that. but it feels less like a sin and more like the only truth left when he reaches for you.

reiner finds himself hesitating just outside your door, his hand hovering in the air as he gathers his breath, eyes fixed on the warm glow spilling from your window. he’s been here before, he’s seen that same light, the one that makes your home feel like something from a memory he’s never had, but tonight, something feels different. maybe it’s him. maybe it’s just the need to see you, to feel something warm and alive again. the front porch was adorned with little plants in mismatched pots, vibrant green against the earthy wood. it suited you—warm, welcoming, a sanctuary. his breath hangs in the air, and for a second, he almost turns back. he almost turns back, almost lets the fear swallow him but he can’t, not after all this time, not after all the misery he self-inflicted upon himself all for the sake of loving you secretly. so, he raises a hand, knocking softly.

soon enough you open the door and there he is, broad and tired, standing on your doorstep as if he were exactly where he was meant to be. for a moment, you just look at each other. you stand there with the light falling around you in soft, warm colors, a subdued inhalation of surprise escaping your lips and reiner has to remind himself to breathe. there’s something so simple, so uncomplicated about this, about you in the doorway, framed by a house that feels alive with your residence. you don’t know what he sees in you, standing there in your small, homey world, but you can see it on his face, that hint of awe barely masked by his usual serene demeanor. then his expression shifts, softened by a small, familiar smile.

“i figured iʼd check in on you,” he says, voice a little lower than usual, “i wanted to see how you were settling in.”

you smile, “thatʼs sweet of you.” stepping aside, you motioned for him to step inside, “come in and see for yourself! i’m pretty proud of the place, actually.”

as he steps over the threshold, you notice him looking around, his gaze catching on the simple things—the plants in their little mismatched pots, the scarf you left over the back of a chair, your books stacked on shelves that barely hold them all. it’s all you, every inch of it, and he never wants to leave.

“oh i love it here,” you beam, almost shy, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the way you look in this moment, pride and warmth written across your face. “it’s just…it’s mine and i’ve never had that before.”

he only nods. “it suits you.”

you brighten. “i don’t have tea,” you tell him, “but i do.have hot chocolate. i know, technically itʼs not in season but this is my house and i get to do what i want sooo..?” you grin, eager to be a good host.

“hot chocolate sounds perfect,” he says, laughing softly to himself with a specific bliss only you can evoke within him. as you moved around the kitchen, pulling out mugs and heating the milk, reiner lets himself relax, sinking into the cozy couch. you hummed softly to yourself, how at home you seemed here, in this space youʼd made. and for a fleeting moment, he imagined coming here every evening, finding you here, waiting for him. it was silly but it made him giddy.

you finish and bring the hot chocolate over, handing him a chipped mug filled with the warm, rich drink, and he takes it. you settle beside him, watching as he takes a sip, his eyes closing as the sweet liquid pools into his mouth. it was rich, sweet, with just a hint of something extra—cinnamon, maybe? it was unexpected, and he smiled to himself. it tastes like you, somehow, although he doesnʼt yet have evidence to back that statement up. he wonders if you know how good it feels just to sit here, to be near you, to let himself soften in your presence.

“thanks.”

the night wears on and a gentle drowsiness settles over you. fighting back a yawn, glancing at the clock, realizing how late it’s gotten and he’s already reaching for the mugs on the table.

“let me help you with those,” he says, gesturing to the mugs on the table.

“oh,” you say, a little flustered, “you don’t have to—”

but he’s already at the sink, sleeves rolled up as he rinses the chocolate stained mugs, his movements practiced like he was made for a life of domesticity. the sight of him washing your dishes, his large hands so gentle and careful, tugs at something deep inside you. he’d be a good father, you think suddenly, your heart skipping a beat at the thought. he has that quiet strength, that steady patience, the kind of man who’d hold a child like they were made of glass. he turns, catching you watching him, and you can feel the blush creeping up your cheeks.

“what?” he asks softly and you shake your head, shrugging. “nothing.”

he walks back over, stopping just a little closer than before, closer than friends should be. you rise from your reclined position on the couch, his eyes follow you. he’s not sure what to do with the tension hanging between you, but he knows he can’t look away.

“reiner,” you whisper, voice barely audible, your eyes soft and warm as they meet his. you rise just slightly on your toes, fingers reaching for his hand where it lingers behind your ear, drawing it down and entwining your fingers with his. his heart stutters as he feels your grip tighten. you lean in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss so soft, so tender, that he feels something in him unravel, something he’s held tightly for so long finally slipping free. you part slowly, his breath hitches, lips still tingling from your kiss, and he instinctively darts his tongue out to wet them, savoring the lingering taste. a faint sweetness coats his mouth, the subtle warmth of chocolate mingling with the softness of you. it’s rich and a little bitter, melting slowly on his tongue, leaving him wanting more of the quiet indulgence that you’d just shared.

and then, without warning, he feels the tears start to fall, warm and wet against his cheeks, spilling over before he can stop them. he tries to pull away, tries to hide it, but your hands are there, steady and sure, cradling his face as he breaks, his shoulders shaking with the force of emotions he can’t contain.

you pull back, eyes wide, a flicker of panic crossing your face as you take in his tears, the way he’s falling apart in front of you.

“reiner?” you whisper, voice filled with worry. “are you okay? did i do something wrong?”

he quickly shake his head no, tries to find the words, but all he can manage is a choked sob, his voice thick and broken as he tries to speak. “i’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “i just…i never thought iʼd feel this way.”

your expression softens, and you pull him closer, your arms wrapping around him as he clings to you, letting himself be held, letting himself fall apart in your embrace. he clings to you, burying his face in your shoulder as the tears continue. there’s relief in the way you hold him, in the warmth of your arms wrapped around him. he feels himself melt into you, surrendering to the comfort, and embracing the way he’s laid himself bare before you.

“i don’t want to go back home tonight.”

you smile, a warmth in your gaze that sends a shiver through him. “then stay,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

and in that moment, he knows he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.