#snk fanficion

[simphellscape]

apologies // processing // next | tw: cursing

(a/n): double update!!! also the app i used when i was working on this a bajillion years ago isnt the same anymore so i had to downgrade. can’t find a good way to fake tweets atm sadly but i’ll keep looking!!!

[stilemawillow]

Unbeneficial [Levi | Reader | Modern AU!]

i - the benefits of you | ii - unbeneficial

Most people you knew would much rather never step in your shoes in terms of location. You lived in a big city and the school you attented was only reached by catching a single bus at exactly 7:15 every morning. Your home wasn't even in the suburbs, your neighbourhood was just that vacant. So every school day, you got up at 6 a.m. and left for the bus stop at 7 a.m. It was a tradition now. The same bus, the same seat, the same passengers, the same cigarette butts on the same side of the pavement. Boring but fascinating in a way, how the tedium of habits persisted. Some people's schedules were like clockwork and yours was one of them.

Then arrived the abnormality differing from the usual picture you'd gotten used to. He stood by the bus stop sign, stoic and taut. His habits were easily noticeable. Always holding his suitcase in his right hand, so he could easily lift the left one to check the time on his expensive watch. Never stuffing it in the pocket of his dress pants because they would crease, and fixing his plain tie every five or so minutes. Never observed his surroundings. The only thing his austere eyes were looking forward to seeing (with questionable zest, if any at all) was the bus that would drive him to work and you - to school.

It took you a week to figure out his strict routine and now you were just eyeing him with unhidden curiosity - something he seemed to notice but never openly acknowledge. That was until the second week, when he finally got annoyed with your persistent stare. A single glare from eyes such as his was enough to make your body turn at a hundred and eighty degrees as you nervously clenched in your clammy fist your bland uniform skirt.

By the third week he'd stopped glaring, maturely having concluded you'd keep spying on him - albeit less blatantly. And you did. Arriving at the bus stop had never been as exciting as it was when he was around, with his broad shoulders and variety of plain ties.

At times he would show up with a cup of tea in hand. You blinked at him like an overly curious child - which at the time you might've been - uncaring of what any other woman would've noticed and focusing on the funny details about his conduct and appearance. You didn't see the attractive features or the sculpured body under the suit - you saw the amusing sour expression that made his lips seem comically thin when he frowned at his watch and the interesting scar on his earlobe that, after a lot of pondering, was deemed a result of a piercing during a rebellious period that never healed properly.

On the topic of rebellious periods and piercings, you couldn't help but wonder how old he was. You stood five feet from him, nudging the cigarette butts around with the tip of your left shoe and intensely staring at the ground. He was obviously one of those pricks who worked at a famous company, so he didn't exactly need experience if he had connections. Which meant the possibility of him being twenty was as plausible as the one stating he was thirty. You'd never give him thirty, though. Looking closely, the only thing hinting at whatever age after twenty was the crease between his thin brows and the look in his eyes - knowing but dull, having experienced things a young adult was yet to encounter. So how old was he?

The tea and the stiffness said grandpa. The face said a teenager punk. The suit and watch said responsible, thirty-year-old adult. Then, having considered the many possibilities, you built his backstory in your mind and smiled incredulously at your own imagination. Not even a professional writer would manage to weave a resume so realistic.

His name was Bernard Lewis (because it had to suit his British pale complexion) and he was a twenty-one-year-old college student. He'd grown up in a big city a long way from here but had recently moved due to the internship his father had forced on him. As a compliant son, Bernard had gotten rid of his old earring from the time he'd been in a band in high school and taken his grandfather's favourite watch, moving into his new abode. Imagine his disappointment when he'd been refused a car and forced to take the bus every morning. His plain ties were presents from his mother and he got a new one every Christmas. Last but not least, his constant frown was caused by his seperation from his girlfriend, Crissie, just when his best friend Dylan had started giving her a suspicious number of rides all over the city too. Little additions were that he was trying to quit smoking and most suits he wore were actually his father's - cue his nitpicky behaviour in attempts to keep them neat.

Bernard's character was perfected by the end of the fourth week, which coincidentally turned out to be the week when your first interaction took place. On a very fateful Thursday, Bernard was holding his usual cup of tea and you were kicking around the cigarette butts when a middle-aged lady with a bit too much lipstick collided with the ebony-haired male's back, resulting in some scalding spillage and a very vindictive curse on his side. The deep timbre with the husky edge wasn't how you'd imagined his voice, but you had no time to ponder that because he was about to do a lot of damage to the rude lady if somebody didn't intervene.

Putting a fragile hand to his stained cuff, you saw his snarl turn in your direction with a feral glare that had the ability to cut. Your shoulders shrank a size but you handed him your handkerchief with a shy smile and a silent plea not to attack the lady, which he very reluctantly complied with. Slender fingers dripping with tea brushed against yours as he took the handkerchief and muttered a curt word of gratitude. You just stood there, smiling at his face from up close and relishing the sound of his voice. It suited his eyes, that timbre. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket, saying he'd return it the next day after he washed it. You nodded, about to ask his name (you were begging all the Gods above for it to not be Bernard because it no longer suited his voice) when the bus arrived and you had to get in.

Stopping yourself from annoying him further by sitting next to him, you occupied your usual seat and quietly bounced up and down in fervent wait for tomorrow. How easily stirred the teenage female heart was.

The anticipated Friday arrived and you set out to walk to the bus stop earlier, seeing as Bernard was always there before you, which would now give you more time to muster the courage to ask his name. He was waiting by the sign already, watching you hastily glide down your skirt and fix your hair as you smiled at him. He pulled the clean handkerchief from his pocket - folded and pristine, making a bashful pink tint your cheeks as you took it and questioned the state of his skin. He brushed your consideration off with a scoff, but you didn't give up, eyeing him with a curious look that you'd later learn had been way too penetrating to be ignored.

You were hardly conversing but you were attempting to make it work, longing to hear more of his voice and thus forgetting your initial goal of obtaining knowledge of his name. The bus arrived at exactly 7:15 and you got on, deciding to stand by the ebony-haired male with the expensive watch as he furrowed his brows at the vehicle's doors. You muttered a small 'bye' as he stepped forth when his stop arrived and he graced you with a cold glance and the most diminutive nod he could've given. You took it with a big smile and a kind of nervousness that left your skirt creased due to too much fidgety clenching. You were looking forward to the following Monday with excitement you'd never felt up until now.

And when it came, he wasn't there. He wasn't by the bus stop sign, holding his steaming cup of tea in his left hand and his suitcase in the right one. He wasn't making a funny expression that showed his cutely scrunched-up nose at the expensive watch on his wrist and he wasn't glaring at you as you childishly spied on him out of the corner of your eye, thinking yourself sly. You'd just decided today would be the day you learned his name and now he wasn't there, leaving you weirdly disappointed and pouty. You kicked the cigarette butts around until the bus came and you got on, taking your usual seat with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

A little pinch of hope had clung to the edge of your mind so you ran to the bus stop the next day, expecting him to be back. He wasn't.

A week passed like that. You decided it was futile to wait for him, so you just went on with your life. It wasn't like you liked him or anything. Not his deep voice or his cute nose. Or the far from scary scowl that had the ability to make you smile even when you were tired and moody, just because you admired his energy to frown that early into the morning. You hadn't grown attached to the slender fingers stiffly fixing his plain ties or the satisfied hum at the back of his throat when he drank from his tea. You had no interest in learning his name or age, or everything else he could tell you. No interest whatsoever in him. He was a random man who only glared at you and washed your handkerchief once. Nothing big, even for an inexperienced high school girl.

Almost two weeks after his disappearance, you were running to the bus stop after the first time you'd overslept. Your chances of reaching it in time were slim, but there. You just had to run as fast as the wind, which would result in your underwear totally showing from under the boring uniform skirt you wore. So risk somebody seeing your pink undies or risk being late for school? The choice wasn't exactly easy for a goodie-two-shoes like you, but you at least had the decency to admit your attendance mattered a bit less than your dignity. So you ran as fast as your skirt allowed, watching the bus take the lead a block away. Your eyes widened in horror as you sprinted but your breaths were ragged and your lungs felt like balloons about to pop. You tripped, trying to find the voice to call out to the driver, but all that came out was a pathetic croak.

The bus was taking off and so was your hope. Your pace slowed and your calves protested even when you walked, finding it hard to balance your breathing. You were leaning on the bus stop sign when a car pulled up in front of you and the door opened, vouchsafing your eyes a sight that made them widen in visible shock. The ebony-haired male invited you in with a sigh, explaining that he'd understand if you refused his offer to drive you to school but would very much appreciate a quick decision on your part since he had somewhere to be too. You got over your shock with a hasty nod and jumped in the front seat prior to closing the door and profusely thanking your stoic savior after telling him the address of your school.

The radio in the clearly expensive car was playing an old song you remembered from your childhood and your heart was now beating fast not only because of all the running you'd done. You were stupid for getting in his car - who knew what he would do? This was exactly what your mother had spent years teaching you not to do and yet here you were. Amazingly dumb of you, getting into a stranger's car. And why? Because you'd missed his cute nose and non-scary frown? Not a good enough reason for when you'd try explaining why you'd been assaulted on your way to school. Two sides of a coin were fighting inside you - a protective one and a defensive one.

You felt ashamed for thinking so badly of somebody who might've just wanted to help you but then again - how many high school girls had been kidnapped and killed this exact way? Because they'd been naive and their abductor was attractive? A lot, but this wasn't the case because the ebony-haired male wasn't a bad person, he was only more or less returning a favour. Why did he suddenly have a car now though? Why had he been on the bus for a whole month only to suddenly show up with an expensive car when you most needed transport?

You shook your head with an inward scowl, deciding to distract yourself by apologising for the inconvenience, to which your savior/possible abductor scoffed and noted it wasn't a big deal since his workplace was close to your school. Upon being asked of his profession, the pale man took a small card from his pocket and handed it to you without even glancing in your direction. You took it from his slender fingers, then observed them fix his black tie and grip the steering wheel. Your hues eyed the card. A strange name sat at the top, next to the name of a pretty famous bank that had a branch in the big office building that could be seen from your school's rooftop. A work phone number and an email address were lined under a strict greyscale pattern and above it - the words 'branch manager' in a somber font that made your lips purse.

Your eyes widened in realisation and you looked back and forth between the card and the stoic man who had handed it to you until he shot you an impatient glare.

"What?" Annoyed with the stare, certainly. You couldn't find the words to answer. Was it a shock that you'd seen his name already? In those boring magazines your father loved buying and reading just to pass the time while getting drunk? Was it a shock he was currently driving you to school when he was famous enough to be written into a whole-ass magazine? Or was it a shock than he wasn't a sixty-year-old grandpa with dyed hair and a silly pair of glasses like his name had first made you think? All three together maybe formed the perfect explanation you'd have a hard time articulating properly.

"I'm sorry for the discomfort I'm causing," you began bashfully. "Also thank you, again, for this." There was a beat of silence. Then, at last, you blurted out: "I'm (Y/N) (L/N), by the way. Since, um, I learned yours, I think it's only appropriate to give mine." It wasn't a dignified introduction, merely the most you could muster in such an awkward moment.

He didn't speak for the next five minutes and you only watched the card in your hold with silent admiration and wonder. Levi Ackerman. Sounded times better than Bernard Lewis. First correction to your imaginary story. Branch manager of a bank office instead of an intern. Second correction. Not twenty-one then. Third correction. Your lips pursed in thought. The expensive watch was probably bought with his own money, so fourth correction. You only crossed your fingers for him to have not been picking and buying the ties he wore - it was really the only feature of your story you wanted to have been true.

Questions that would further jeopardise your fantasy's credibility were impossible to ask. Was a girlfriend (actually maybe wife) present in his life? Did his mother buy his ties? Had his father forced him into the business? Was he trying to quit smoking and had he ever been in a band in high school? No, no. Impossible and improper. Actually, fuck improper - it was straight-up rude and the most insolent thing you could do when he was literally wasting his time driving you to school in his very expensive car. Noticing your inward panic as it had obviously written itself on your features, the male glanced at you and stiffly questioned your lateness as to offer a distraction.

You spent a minute ranting about your alarm clock and disappointment when he stopped in front of the school building and looked at you expectantly. You thanked him once more, this time very quietly and with a downcast gaze. You asked him why he'd been taking the bus when he had a car and he clicked his tongue, promptly pointing out you were being impudent prior to snorting in amusement at your shamefaced expression and quickly explaining a friend had borrowed his car for awhile and then crashed it, making him wait an additional two weeks for it to be repaired. You turned to him in surprise and he shooed you off once noticing the hint of a smile at the corner of your mouth. You got out of the car but had a hard time closing the door. You had to say something that wasn't a 'thank you' or a stupid question.

"You have a nice name," you stated with a smile, too fazed to realise the filter between your brain and mouth had disconnected and you were in the process of embarrassing yourself major time. "It suits your voice way better."

"Than what?" A single quirked brow and the non-scary frown was gone. His stoic gaze spoke of mild confusion you happily cleared out with your next words.

"The one I gave you." His brows twitched, in amusement or discomfort you didn't know, and then you became aware of the things you were saying. Your eyes widened in horror and you slammed the car door shut when you saw his lips part. Not waiting for the branch manager to call you mental, you ran for the school building faster than you'd run for the bus less than an hour earlier. Levi Ackerman, you were sure, would never drive past your bus stop again. Even more, he'd probably try to avoid it at all cost. Or so you thought for the remainder of the school day before you walked out only to see a very familiar expensive car outside.

"I get off earlier on Fridays. Now I'd like to learn about the name you've given me." It was what he greeted you with, as all passing students stared at your fidgety figure next to the slick surface of the car he was leaning on. You cracked an awkward smile whilst trying to excuse yourself but when he offered you a ride and a free cup of coffee your lips pursed in great emotional pain as your dry throat called for the caffeine and your heart called for the sound of the ebony-haired male's voice. You agreed after a whole two minutes of thought, getting in the front seat under the multiplying gazes of curious peers and bystanders. This was last thing in the world you were supposed to be doing. Or was it?

You liked Levi's company and though it would take you awhile to get used to the fact he was way different a person than what you'd imagined, there was nothing wrong in just talking to him - right? Yes, he might've been rich and not exactly your age, and you admitted you knew zero facts about his personality but he didn't look like somebody who always had an ulterior motive at the ready whenever he drove school girls to class so they wouldn't be late. So you ignored the stares and you ushered him to drive, sensing as your whole face had started heating up due to the excessive amount of attention.

You found the bravery to question your intented destination, to which the branch manager snorted prior to stating he'd be dropping you off at the bus stop. No romantic detours such as you might've imagined. His crude words made your lips pout in displeasure as you opened your mouth to respond and then remembered he was the adult in the situation and you were taught to never speak back to adults. The grey-eyed male noticed your determination waver and turn into uncertainty, and he did something no adult had ever done in your life. He encouraged your argument. Telling you to defend yourself if you considered his words unjust, the ebony-haired male turned the wheel and the car followed, with your speechless self in it.

It took you thirty seconds to finally voice your retort. Then the next ten minutes you spent arguing in a half-joking, half-serious tone you could call neither friendly nor hostile. You were getting to know his opinions on certain things, some of which included the suspicious aspect of an acquaintance like yours from a third point of view and his reluctance to be dragged into any kind of public drama. In actual fact, he'd been reluctant to offer you a ride that morning, seeing as it would be deemed extremely improper. Then it came - the moment you dropped your guard and asked him how old he was since he was speaking of everything as if it would be illegal.

A weird look was thrown your way. Then a pair of thin lips uttered the vital piece of information you'd come to accept and him - hate. Twenty-six didn't sound old in perspective but became inappropriately ancient the moment it was positioned in a small car space shared with a fifteen-year-old girl. You stared at the road ahead prior to gifting his stoic profile a bright smile and a compliment stating he looked way younger. On the topic of which, as he was quickly reminded:

"What is this name you've given me now?" Levi's grey eyes shot you a brief glance, then focused back on the street signs outside. You clasped your hands together and began nervously chewing on your bottom lip, feeling like your temples would soon start sweating buckets.

"... Bernard," you admitted after a minute-long pause, making the man next to you scrunch up his nose at the car's interior. You avoided looking at the tip of it twitching because you might just start swooning. Such a stoic man didn't deserve a nose so cute.

"Too tacky for me. Who even has that kind of lame-ass name anyway? His mother must hate him." His comments were too out of character for somebody you considered a responsible adult but you weren't allowed to laugh - it would seem as if you were making fun of him. Yet you burst out laughing right then and there, cackling til your stomach hurt and he was looking at you weirdly. You wiped at the still tears at the corners of your eyes with a shit-eating grin, then explained:

"I'm not laughing at you."

"I don't really care about that - you just seem to be having an unusual amount of fun when you're stuck with somebody this boring."

"Boring?" You echoed, blinking in innocent confusion and making him click his tongue in exasperation. You spent the rest of the ride to the bus stop arguing whether he was boring or not, and then - out of nowhere, you heard yourself blurting out an invitation for a cup of tea. He locked eyes with you and felt obliged to refuse as strictly as he could. Then you were making doe-eyes at him and pleading. You promised it wouldn't take long and you'd never interact with him after that - though inwardly you longed for the opposite. He kept saying 'no' over and over again, then you were at the bus stop and he was ushering you out of the car. This had been merely a favour on his part and he didn't wish for it to become anything more.

Then you asked - in the most hopeful voice you'd heard out of your own mouth - if he would be willing to use the bus just once more on Monday. He furrowed his brows at you and said one last 'no' prior to shutting the car door and driving off. You were sulking all the way to home. Your father was fast asleep on the couch and your mother had left you a note stating she would be out with collagues because of her incoming business trip. You went in your room and just... sat, thinking. Thinking and thinking. 26 wasn't a big number. 15 was just smaller. And what about it? His body was also bigger than yours, it was normal for his age to have been too. His hands were bigger than yours and so was his experience on the topic of the world. There was nothing particularly inappropriate about that.

But then again he might've been married or dating somebody. Such weird offers out of the mouth of an underage school girl had to have been terribly repulsive. So you settled with the thought of not seeing him again, if nothing else you'd be coming across his name in magazines. Maybe it would no longer bring the image of a sixty-year-old grandpa with dyed hair and silly glasses to the surface of your mind. Maybe it would make you picture the slender fingers fixing a plain tie as their owner glared at you with a beautiful pair of grey hues and a cutely scrunched up nose. Maybe he'd be holding a suitcase in his right hand.

You made preparations for Monday anyway, because you were a fifteen-year-old that had a proclivity to be too hopeful and optimistic sometimes. Because you were taught to always be prepared, always see things in a positive light. There was nothing positive about the 'no' your question had been answered with but you went ahead hoping for the best in spite of it. You made a cup of peppermint tea and added just a little bit of honey, because such a bitter person couldn't possibly like excessive sweetness, then you headed out, humming and holding the steaming beverage in your left hand. You arrived at the bus stop around the usual time and he was standing by the sign like a mirage, stiff and taut, holding his suitcase in his right hand and eyeing the watch on the left with furrowed brows.

At first you walked closer than you usually would just to check if he was real or not. Then he looked into your eyes and you froze, enveloped by the scent of tea and suddenly so very uncharacteristically happy it was worrying. Your heart was beating fast as you handed him the cup and asked if he liked peppermint, and when he told you the process of offering somebody something went backwards you just laughed, forcing him to take the cup with a shake of his head. You didn't question his change of heart and he certainly wasn't one to address it of his own accord, which you were perfectly fine with. You spoke of the weather and his work, and he nonchalantly shared as little as he could whilst satisfying your curiosity as best as possible.

They were all trivial topics that would under no circumstances hint at the imminent relationship that was to form. Who of the two was to think you'd be, in only three years, sitting on the couch in his apartment, arguing about your relationship prior to kissing like the world was coming to an end? Neither so far. Levi would sense it later on - way later when his feelings would become more conflicted, and you'd never suspect the problematic nature of what was to come, as you'd never consider it an actual problem. That would all come in time, though. For now you were only the numbers 15 and 26 riding in a big bus that would drive him to work and you - to school.

Later you'd inquire about his work hours. Asking him if he had a girlfriend came a week after that. And then you found yourself spending minutes staring at each and every car passing your bus stop in the morning in search of his. You saw him less than a month later after his friend crashed his car for the second time that year. There would be three more, but he'd never seem all too angry about it. Riding the bus together became a shared activity for numbers 15 and 26, and by the time they became 16 and 27 the latter had already agreed to a cup of tea in a café and the former had fallen quite hopelessly in love. Your date on the hood of his repaired car would occur during a very chilly October and your first kiss would take place two months later, in the front seat in a vacant parking lot during a snowstorm.

All in all, Levi's ongoing emotional conflict made things indescribably hard for you and your adolescent optimism but it was eventually overcome. A secret relationship began on a very unmemorable date some weeks later, brought to life by your desperate wish for Levi to give you a chance and his incapability to refuse. Running from the inevitable had meant nothing to him until awhile ago but he'd begun sprinting back when he was still twenty-six and he needed some rest a year later, a little taste of what he'd been afraid of. A taste of something bad, something he wasn't meant to be doing. God, how your beautiful smile spoke of the opposite. It beckoned him closer to the fire until he burned, but it didn't hurt - there was only warmth. So he stayed, in spite of how unbeneficial he thought that was.

[aki-mochi]

Mochi’s Fanfic MasterList

Every fanfic I’ve blogged will have its link posted here.

Levi MasterList

Angelic Demon Book (Obey Me!)

[titan-fodder]

The Tiniest Notion - Reiner Braun x Reader

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Reader

Rating: E (explicit; mdni)

Word Count: 22.6k

Warnings: stepcest (reader is a young stepmom (30) & Reiner (24) is her stepson), female-bodied reader, short-coded reader, hurt/comfort/smut, infidelity, mentioned past suicide attempt, depression & anxiety, therapy, a lot of nipple and breast play, induced lactation and adult nursing, explicit sexual content, Rei is strong enough to lift you, sneaking around, handjobs, fingering, vaginal sex, mommy kink, mentioned breeding kink, general softness, bathing, heavy conversation, nobody gets caught, ending is happy but not resolved

A/N: this fic upturned my life for several days, and now it is here. big thank you’s to @whats-her-quirk and @ghost-party for reading and editing and being generally wonderful, and an extra big thank you to @itsleese​ for putting up with all my questions about milk and breastfeeding in general. you are a saint. every woman is different and blah blah blah but i definitely felt better having your perspective. 

anyway, everyone knows i adore reiner and just want him to be okay, and i, uh, really accessed that part of me while writing this fic or something. okay, enjoy~

If you’d asked Reiner when he was younger what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would have been able to give you a straight answer—a positive answer. When he was nine, he was going to be a pro football player with thousands of fans. When he was thirteen, he was going to be a rockstar with platinum albums and groupies across the world. When he was sixteen he was going to be a marine with countless medals and honors bestowed upon him. 

 He had dreams. Dumb as some of them may have been, they were still goals, ambitions. They were what kept him motivated. 

 Now, at twenty-four, all he wants is to be happy. That’s his new dream. One he isn’t sure will ever actually come true. 

 He’s taken meds, started healthy habits–meditates and journals and makes sure he isn’t putting utter shit in his body–and still, he just can’t seem to overcome this weight that’s been holding him down. It’s the weight that caused him to flunk his last semester of college, the weight that pushed his friends away, and ultimately, it’s the weight that landed him in the hospital after swallowing too many pills.

 And, now he’s here. 

 All grown up with nothing to show for it—no degree, no job, living with his dad despite their complicated relationship. They really don’t know each other at all, not after the fifteen years Roland had spent as something of a myth to Reiner. Then, he reached out on Facebook, and started at least trying to care, and now, after a handful of birthday cards and strained meet-ups over the last few years, it turns out Roland is the one most equipped to deal with Reiner as he is now. 

 “I don’t recommend you go back to living alone,” he can remember the hospital psychiatrist telling him. “Not for a while at least. Do you have anyone close you can stay with?”

 His first thought had naturally been his mother who he’d lived with up until college, but truth be told, now that she’s retired, she just doesn’t have the money to feed two mouths and help with his bills until he gets back on his feet. And, there’s no way he would ask any of the friends he neglected for the last couple years. Which left him with Roland. Leaves him with Roland. 

 And, of course, you–his new wife. 

 You are number four, if Reiner’s count is correct, the youngest so far, a whole six years older than himself and eighteen younger than his father.

 He’s in no place to judge, and it’s not like Roland is the worst guy on the planet, but Reiner still can’t help but cringe a little. Mostly because you’re just… sweet. You’ve been so incredibly kind to him since he arrived at your doorstep, always making sure he’s doing okay, that he’s had enough to eat at dinner, that he never leaves without some kind of jacket or flannel whenever it’s chilly outside. 

 And because of this, Reiner has taken a shine to you, perks up just a little bit when he’s around you. Some people (his therapist) might even say he’s forming an attachment. 

 “So, everyone is getting along okay at home?” Dr. Ral asks, gently pressing her pen to her clipboard where she sits across from him. 

 Reiner shrugs against the couch cushions he’s pressed himself into. “Yeah, no arguments or anything.”

 “Are you and Roland communicating well then?”

 He makes a face at the question, a little grimace as he thinks about the awkward meals the two share every morning when Roland first wakes up and Reiner still hasn’t gone to bed: just the two of them sitting in silence save for the occasional comment about an athlete or the weather. 

 “We’re not pouring our hearts out to each other or anything, but, like, we talk sometimes, I guess.”

 Dr. Ral keeps that soft expression on her face, totally impassive, but Reiner bets she wishes she could sigh and say something about men being emotionally stunted. While Roland might be, Reiner has been wearing his heart on his sleeve for the better part of his life, so he wouldn’t call himself stunted at all. He’s just fucking incapable of dealing with how he feels, hence trying to get rid of those feelings altogether. 

 “Okay, and what about your stepmom? Are you still talking to her?”

 For a moment, all he does is suck on the inside of his cheek. Then, “Some.”

 “And, what do you talk about?”

 Reiner looks down at his hands as he recalls the conversation he had with you before leaving for this appointment–nothing special, just you getting to pet a couple of dogs on your morning walk around the neighborhood. He likes dogs (more than he likes most people if he’s being honest), but the most interesting part of the story was the way you smiled thinking about them. You had Reiner’s rapt attention.

 It’s a potential problem but one he’s not looking to deal with any time soon. He has enough shit on his plate as it is. It’s not like he has a crush or anything. He just likes the way you look when your eyes light up and the way your soft voice sounds when you wake him up at three in the afternoon after he’s slept the day away once again. It’s a comfort thing. You’re comforting to him. 

 “She saw some dogs when she went walking this morning, and then I told her about when I used to run track in high school.”

 “Good,” Dr. Ral nods. “That’s good. I’m glad you two can engage comfortably. I was afraid that might be difficult considering who she is to you and how new she is in your life.”

 “I mean…” He lets his eyes wander as he mulls it over, supposes it was a valid fear, but, “I probably have more in common with her than I do with my dad since we’re, like, close in age and all.”

 “That’s very true. It may be hard for you to see her as a maternal figure, but at the very least, maybe she can be your friend.”

 Reiner forces a tight-lipped smile and nods, not really knowing what else to say on the matter. Luckily, the hour session is coming to an end, so after making sure he’s still free for his appointment next week, Dr. Ral lets him leave.

 He drives back to the house listening to the playlist he’s had on repeat basically since getting out of the hospital–a feel good mix that has all of his favorite songs on it, songs that make him bob his head and even sing along on the few days he actually has the energy to do so. 

 It’s a quarter past three when he gets home meaning Roland won’t be around for another few hours. Reiner makes a beeline for the fridge, having not eaten anything all day, and just like every Wednesday, he finds a sandwich inside a ziplock bag, his name scribbled on the plastic. 

 It’s a little routine you started for his sake. You know that he usually wakes up with barely enough time to shower, get dressed, and make the drive to the office (today being a slight anomaly), so you always have a sandwich waiting for him when he gets back. 

 And, that’s the shit he’s talking about. That’s what has him attached. This kindness from you he doesn’t deserve. 

 But, he still grabs the sandwich and a glass of tea, then shuffles out to the living room where you’re folding clothes on the couch, only half paying attention to the silly medical drama you watch nearly every day. 

 He mumbles his appreciation as he sits in the recliner, and you look up from the t-shirt you’re folding and flash a smile. 

 “Of course,” you tell him just like you do whenever he thanks you for anything you do for him. “I splurged and picked up some deli turkey earlier today, so it should be a nice little treat.”

 It is noticeably fresher than usual—not that the sandwiches you make him are ever bad by any means. Even if they were, Reiner would probably still eat them simply because you prepared them, but that’s irrelevant.

 “You went shopping today?” 

 His attempts at small talk are always dismal at best, but you humor him anyway, picking up a towel from your pile and folding it in half one way, then another, then tucking one end under your chin to make the last two creases. 

 “Mhmm. Not a big trip. Just what was on the list, stuff we were running out of.”

 Reiner hums and turns his attention to the TV, watching vaguely familiar characters perform surgery and whine about their love lives. It’s sappy shit, but you obviously like it, so he doesn’t mind it being on. 

 “Did your appointment go okay?” you speak up again.

 Reiner starts to chew a little faster so that he can answer, “Yeah,” but he doesn’t offer anything else and you don’t pry him for more. 

 He appreciates that. Appreciates being asked—checked on, really—but not pressured. He’s pretty sure you’re really wondering if there’s anything else he needs to talk about, making sure he knows that door is open for him if he ever decides he wants to take it, but so far Reiner has kept himself from crossing that threshold. 

 You shouldn’t worry about him the way you do. He’s glad that you care, but he isn’t your burden to bear. 

 The two of you sit in silence for several minutes, watching the drama and folding clothes. He stares pointedly at the screen when he sees you grab a couple pair of panties from the basket, quickly tucking them under a neat stack of shirts. 

 Reiner is in your space, he thinks, interrupting a task so mundane yet ritualistic, that you should be able to perform without worry, but he’s here and— 

He hurries to finish his sandwich, but when he gets up to leave, you stop and look at him. 

 “You don’t have to go. I was just gonna finish this episode, and then you can pick a movie or something.” He blinks at you, a little confused, and then you add, “I hate you staying cooped up in your room all the time,” and it makes sense why you want him to stick around. 

 Try to off yourself one time and suddenly no one’s comfortable with you being by yourself. Imagine that. 

 “Oh, um…”

 “There’s maybe ten minutes left, and while I’m putting these up, you can decide on something, yeah?”

 “I, uh… Yeah, sure…”

 He still gets up to throw away his napkin and refill his tea but returns, finishing out the episode and taking the remote from you when you hand it to him. You make a few trips to the bedroom you share with Roland, arms full of clothes every time, and Reiner just clicks through the different lists on Netflix until settling on Starship Troopers which has been known to make him crack a smile here and there. Plus, all the action should keep his attention well enough. 

 When you take your place on the couch again, you tuck your legs up underneath you, leaning on the armrest as you mumble, “Oh, it’s been a while since I’ve watched this.”

 He glances over at the way you’re curled, humming in acknowledgement as he does his best to ignore the way your thighs look pressed tightly together, outlined in leggings that cut off mid-calf so that he has view of cute, bony ankles poking out over slipper socks. Even worse is the way your arms are framing your chest. You’re not wearing a revealing top or anything, just a thin little t-shirt, but this reposed position has your tits all pushed up, and Reiner has to swallow and look back at the TV screen. 

 He used to flirt with girls similar to you back in college–his first couple semesters anyway, before it all went to shit–and it’s strange to think that if one were to knock a couple years off the gap between the two of you, he could have easily been picking you up instead of Stacey and Maggie and Ann and so on. 

 Is it strange for you too, or does it not even cross your mind? It shouldn’t be crossing Reiner’s, that’s for sure, but… Sweet. And, cute. And, soft. He imagines you’re so, so soft.

 “I know you just ate, but are you okay with Thai later?” 

 Reiner tears himself from his thoughts and clears his throat. “Whatever you and Roland want I’m fine with.”

 “Mm,” you nod. “Been cleaning and running errands all day, and I just do not feel like cooking.”

 “I don’t blame you.” He tries for a small smile, but it probably just comes off as pained. 

 Still, it makes you grin back at him, worn out and relieved, as if you thought he might demand a home-cooked meal from you or something. 

 “Alright, I’ll text your dad and order it in a couple hours. Just…” you let out a quiet laugh and rest your cheek in your hand, “You might have to wake me up.”

 “If you’re tired, I can let you nap,” Reiner is quick to tell you, not because he wants to be away from you. He just doesn’t want to be in the way of your routine. 

 “No, no, I sleep better with the TV on anyway. Just… Just stay and watch the movie. Relax, sweetie.”

 Something warm and soothing licks at the base of his spine at those words, that name. It’s stupid because you don’t mean anything by it, but it sounds fond, and that is his weakness right now. Just someone being fond of him. You being–

 He stays quiet, sitting very still for about ten minutes until he chances one more glance over at you to find your eyes shut and lips parted as you breathe too deeply to be awake. He stares, admires the way your eyelashes fan over your cheeks, the subtle twitches of your face and hand, and then he decides that’s enough and gets up, grabbing the throw blanket that hangs off the back of the couch and laying it over you as gently as he can. It doesn’t wake you which he’s grateful for, one because you obviously need a bit of rest, and two, it’s less likely you’ll catch him looking at you every ten seconds if you’re asleep. So, this is how he spends the rest of the movie. Watching his favorite scenes only to turn back to you and fixate on the way the shoulder you’re not laying on rises and falls in time with each breath and how the wind of the fan is making little flyaway hairs dance around your face. You only wake up toward the end of the movie’s climax, rubbing sleepy eyes then checking the time on your phone. It isn’t until you snuggle a little deeper under the blanket that you ask, “Did you cover me up?”

Reiner just motions to the spinning blades above and says, “Didn’t want you to get cold.”

 You tap away on your phone for a bit, about dinner, Reiner guesses, considering a few minutes later you’re calling the Thai place in the nearby shopping strip, placing orders you know by heart now. Reiner gets the same curry dish every time you order in from there, only this time he has the pleasure of listening to you try to pronounce everything over the phone, stuttering little um’s and sorry’s in between until you finally tell them you’ll be paying in cash once it arrives. 

 It gets to the house a few minutes before Roland does, and the three of you spend about half an hour eating while listening to the man decompress. Restaurant work is hard–Reiner remembers working at one for a couple years in high school–but damn, some of the shit his dad has to put up with is unreal. That said, Reiner definitely wouldn’t want to work under him. Apparently, it had been Roland’s dream to open up one of his own for as long as he can remember, but… things aren’t quite as bright and shiny as he wanted them to be. 

 “–and if that wasn’t bad enough, fucking Jacob put in the damn liquor order wrong, so we’re missing four of our usual kegs.”

 “Well, that’s not gonna work,” you comment. “Will you be able to get more in time for this weekend?”

 Roland grunts as he sits back, his chair creaking underneath him as he does. “Yeah, but they’ll be more expensive that way.”

 “Still make more money with them than without, I assume.”

 “You’re right about that, but anyway,” he pats his stomach before pushing himself from the table and asking, “Reiner, you mind doin’ the dishes tonight?”

 “Oh, no he doesn’t have to–” you try.

 Reiner cuts you off with a nod, though, “Sure,” then glances at you. “You’ve done enough today. I can handle it.”

 You look like you want to argue, but Roland puts a hand on the back of your neck before you can say anything else. “Need to shower to get the day’s grime off me, but once I’m done, you wanna catch up on a few episodes of Yellowstone?”

 “Of course, love.”

 Reiner’s stomach feels squirmy, and it’s not from the Thai. He shoves that feeling down as deep as possible, gathers everyone’s plates, then takes them to the sink to get started on rinsing them and loading the dishwasher as the two of you retreat to the bedroom. 

 Another long night he’ll spend upstairs.

 Another long night alone with his thoughts.

 He recognizes that they’re spiraling again. Just not in the way they used to. 

 ~ ~ ~

You were late to marry. Or, you felt like you were. 

 As you watched friends from high school get engaged one after another, the same happening during and after college, you stayed stagnant. It was strange considering you were usually who they would go to for advice back in those days–despite your record of failed relationships, they still seemed to trust your judgment.

 Emotionally intelligent, they’d call you. Sympathetic yet unbiased. You picked your girlfriends up after bad dates and, in a couple cases, drove cities over to rescue them from big fights with shitty partners.

 They relied on you. And, you were happy to help and give your perspective, but… it’s not like you had a ton of experience in the area yourself.

 A mixture of being focused on your studies as well as a slew of personal issues, you just couldn’t ever seem to hold a man down. They gave up. You were too distant, too guarded.

 And then, at twenty-nine, you met Roland Braun in his newly opened restaurant. You went frequently enough to secure your own table, usually around lunchtime. You would eat while going over your graduate material, and you don’t know if it was because he appreciated your regular patronage or enjoyed the short conversations you’d have with him, but somehow over the course of a few months, he formed an interest in you.

 You didn’t mind. Much older than you, he seemed stable–safe. You were more than happy to go on a date with him when he asked, and you found that despite there being an obvious gap in age and therefore life experience, Roland was still charming. 

 You knew his history–the first wife he left and the two to follow in her wake, but there was no denying his attraction to you, very flattering to say the least. He had–has–his own appeal. Confidence as well as a certain wisdom you still lack, and though he’s not the type you’d usually go for physically, there’s something nice about the lines around his eyes and the gray that grows in with his stubble. Plus, while he’s brawny, he isn’t entirely fit–decades of experimenting and eating his own food. It makes him nice to cuddle with.

 Not to mention, he’s a pretty decent fuck. Doesn’t have the energy or libido that younger men do, but he does care about your pleasure which is a pretty big checkmark in your book. 

 Six months into your marriage, and there’s still a bit of a wall between the two of you–a disconnect–but it’s to be expected considering you dated for less than a year before tying the knot. 

 You’re very thankful to have found him, and though you’re not quite sure if you love him, you do have a deep affection for him. Besides, it’s not his fault; you just have some hangups. 

 The conversation regarding Reiner had come as a bit of a shock. You knew about Roland’s son, that their relationship was strained, but your husband was extremely concerned about him when he got news of the suicide attempt (as he should have been), and that care multiplied tenfold when Reiner actually reached out to him personally asking for a place to say.

 “I haven’t been able to be there for him his whole life,” he had told you, “... and I’d really like to start now. If you’re okay with it.”

 He made it seem like you had the final say, but it was a request you couldn’t turn down even if it did have the potential to put a strain on the fresh marriage. How could anyone ever say no to something like that?

 “Of course, Roland. Of course he can come stay.”

 And, then he’d arrived a few days later, packed bags and sad eyes, and you knew you’d responded to your husband the right way. You knew you wanted to help Reiner in any way you could. 

 Living with him even now, two months after he first stepped foot in the house, is something you’re still getting used to. It’s a little jarring having him here, mostly because it’s a constant reminder of your age. You’re the same generation as Reiner, able to share pop culture references, familiar with the music each of you listen to and shows you both grew up watching. You can remember a few things he can’t, but mostly the two of you are able to relate to each other. Meanwhile, poor Roland is left out of the loop, and the fact that he wasn’t present for Reiner’s childhood and adolescence only makes it harder for him. 

 There’s also one more thing you have in common with your new stepson–and God, isn’t that weird to say?--and it’s that you have been very close to where he is now. Family expectations paired with college pressure and a simple lack of certain chemicals in your brain landed you in a hospital ward once upon a time. The only difference was that you were placed there as a preventative measure rather than after a failed attempt. 

 You had been so close at one point, though. Fuck, you’d been so close. 

 It isn’t something you talk about. Roland doesn’t even know about it, and you have no plans of telling him. 

 But, sometimes… sometimes when Reiner trudges downstairs from another sleepless night or returns home after a therapy appointment with puffy eyes, you have the urge to sit him down and open up. Let him know that he is not alone. That he can talk to you if he ever needs to. No judgment. No pity. Just understanding. 

 You want to be there for him. You want to help get rid of those dark circles and chronic fatigue. You want to lift his shoulders instead of letting them sag in defeat. But, he has to be the one to make the first move. You refuse to overstep. You refuse to make him uncomfortable. 

 These are the thoughts running through your mind as you stand at the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. It’s nearly two in the afternoon, but Reiner should be getting up soon, and you know he likes to start his day with caffeine whenever he can (you also know his psychiatrist has likely warned him that it’s not good for his anxiety, but you can be an enabler in this one instance).

 You only have a few things on your to-do list today, and you already worked on your thesis for the time you allotted for it, so that’s out of the way. Now, you just need to run and pick up a gift for a friend’s baby shower that’s coming up, then get started on dinner. 

 Reiner ends up padding downstairs just as you’re grabbing your purse to leave, and he stops on the bottom step, looking at you in question. Blond hair is sticking up haphazardly, and he has a few days worth of stubble casting a light shadow on his jaw. Just on the border of rugged and unkempt–a look only few can pull off, not that Reiner is really trying.

 “Goin’ out?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep. 

 “Yeah, I need to run to Buy Buy Baby. Coffee’s ready, though.”

 “Thanks.” He rubs his eyes for a second, then, to your surprise, adds, “Mind if I come with you?”

 You’re stunned that he wants to, at a complete loss for words because why…

 Apparently, he can read your expression because he explains, “Kinda wanna get out of the house today, but if you’d rather go alone–”

 “No, no, you can definitely come! I can wait for you to wake up a little more if you need.”

 He waves you off then makes his way into the kitchen, sniffing the air like the mere smell of coffee will do the job. 

 “I can just take a thermos, but I probably need to hop in the shower real quick.”

 “That’s totally fine. Take your time.”

 He makes quick work of pouring his coffee into an insulated cup, leaving it on the counter so that he can just grab it and go, then disappears back upstairs. Ten minutes later, he’s standing in front of you again, fully dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and a plaid button-down rolled up to his elbows and left open. A dark beanie is pressing still-damp hair to his forehead, and as he clasps a smart watch around his wrist, you have the stray thought that this is the type of guy you used to go for. This is what you used to find attractive, still kinda do, but the notion is quickly shaken from your head because it’s too disturbing considering this is Reiner. 

 “Ready?” he asks after retrieving his coffee, and you nod.

 The car ride isn’t long, and it’s mostly spent in silence save for your playlist quietly filtering through the speakers. Reiner gently bobs his head to each of the songs which is satisfying in an odd way, and you restrain yourself from humming or singing along so that he can enjoy the music.

 When you step into the store, his eyes go wide, and you have to stifle a laugh. 

 “This place is like a damn Walmart, what the hell?”

 “Baby stuff will stay high in demand s’long as people keep makin’ ‘em,” you tell him.

 “True. What are we here for exactly?” he questions, and then, as if it’s only just occurred to him, he suddenly asks, “Wait, are you–”

 “Jesus Christ, no,” you cringe with a vehement shake of your head. 

 “Oh, then why…”

 “My friend is having a baby shower next week. Need to get her a gift.”

 “Ah, okay.”

 “You sound relieved,” you snicker as you grab a handbasket. 

 Reiner makes a noncommittal noise, tells you, “Just surprised for a second. Thought the old bastard knocked you up. Didn’t know how to handle it.”

 You laugh as you start toward the many aisles, passing baby room displays and some of the larger toys to get to the clothes. 

 “I don’t see that happening,” you tell him, and when he glances at you curiously, you segue away from the topic of Roland getting you pregnant because he really shouldn’t be thinking about that. “Also, your dad’s not an old bastard.”

 Shrugging, Reiner cracks a smile–the rare kind where his teeth show–then jokes, “Okay, maybe not a bastard, but he is old.”

 “He’s not–” you clear your throat for a moment, voice dropping in very slight embarrassment, “--he’s not that old.”

 The quiet, “Mm,” of a response sounds strangely smug, but that can’t be right. That would make it seem like Reiner is teasing you, and that is… unlike him. You wouldn’t mind if he was, even if your face is a little warm, but it’s out of character for him, too relaxed. 

 Maybe getting out of the house is already doing him some good, though. Lifting his spirits a bit. 

 “Anyway,” you press on with a click of your tongue. “I’m looking for cute baby clothes and diapers. Maybe some of those bottles that keep air bubbles from forming.”

 “They make those?”

 “They make so much shit for babies now, it’s unreal,” you snort. 

 The two of you make some small talk as you walk around the store. You tell him a little about the friend whose shower you’re going to, and he tells you about the one time he ever babysat, or really helped babysit–an ex-girlfriend’s baby sister. 

 “It was honestly a fucking nightmare. Just… noisy and kinda gross…”

 “Yeah, I am not a huge fan myself.”

 You grab a couple little onesies then find the section full of pacifiers and bottles and nursing covers. Reiner seems quizzical of almost all of it, maybe even a little fascinated, but you don’t comment on it, figure he’s probably never even been in a store like this. 

 The specific bottles you’re looking for are easy enough to locate, and you take a two-pack from the shelf, drop them in your basket, then walk back over to Reiner who has his head tilted to the side as he examines a medium sized box. 

 You recognize the product only when you peer around him, eyes falling on two clear cups connected to what you know to be electric pumps. 

 Reiner doesn’t look at you but clearly senses your presence because he speaks up like he knows you’re there beside him. “These look like they hurt.”

 “From what I’ve heard, pumping isn’t exactly enjoyable,” you tell him, recalling the stories your mother has told you about all the discomfort that comes along with breastfeeding in general. 

 “Then why do women do it?”

 You shrug. “Some doctors say it helps babies’ development better than formula does, but I don’t know about that. There’s also, like, the bonding nature of it, though. Hormones and skin on skin. Forms a better emotional connection between mother and child. Supposedly.”

 “That’s… interesting,” Reiner says, a somewhat odd reaction, you think.

 He puts the box back on the shelf then looks at you and asks, “Okay, ready to go?”

 “Lemme grab a pack of diapers, and I will be.”

 Once you have everything, you check out, and soon you’re back in the car on your way home. For some reason you’re not surprised when Reiner pipes up over the music to ask the same personal question you’ve been asked so many times before: “How come you never had kids?” 

 Most of the time, you get a little snippy with whoever is prodding into your life in such a way, but you suppose it’s natural to be curious about after being in a baby store with you. 

 Still, you feel the need to remind him, “I could still have them if I wanted. I’m only thirty,” and Reiner chuckles.

 “I am all too aware of that fact.”

 “But no, uh, I just never wanted any. I didn’t have the same urge a lot of women do, and honestly, I never thought I’d be a good mom.”

 Reiner frowns. “Why’s that?”

 “Just don’t think I have that maternal nature that comes naturally to others. I care about other people and their well-being, but… I don’t think I have the right head to be a parent.”

 “I’d say you’re dead fucking wrong,” he tells you, and the assuredness in his voice makes you glance over at him in something close to alarm. Reiner is staring at you, then breaks line of sight and sighs, “You’ve been taking care of me since day one. I dropped in out of nowhere, and you just… I just think you’re wrong about not having the instinct. Not saying you should, like, have kids—not wanting them is valid—but… you’d be a good mom. I guess you are a good mom technically.”

 It is a very sweet sentiment, actually makes your throat tighten up a bit, but you think the story might be a little different had Reiner come into your life at a younger age.

 “I’m… glad you think so,” you’re slow to say, touched by the thought but also a little befuddled at the idea that he does see you as somewhat of a mother figure. “I just want you to be comfortable with us.”

 “I am mostly.”

 “Mostly?” 

 “Like, aside from feeling like a burden twenty-four-seven, but that’s not your fault. Or, Roland’s.”

 “You are not a burden,” you almost yell, but even as you say it, you know there’s no way to convince him because you remember feeling the exact same way. Useless, taking up space, pulling others down with you, but the reality has always been that people want to help. It took you a while to catch on, but that had always been the truth. And, it’s the truth now as you pull into the driveway. 

 “Reiner, look at me,” you command after too long of a silence, and he very slowly raises amber eyes to meet yours. “I promise, you’re not ruining anything by being here. We’re happy to have you and happy to help you get back where you need to be.” His mouth twists as he starts to chew on the side of his lip, obviously unsure of how to respond, so you just continue. “Brains are weird, and sometimes they don’t work the way they should, but that doesn’t make you useless or less human. It just means… sometimes you need help. And, that’s okay. You can ask for help.”

 He nods, looking a little dazed now as if his mind is getting away from him, but you think you got your point across well enough because he forces his lips into an almost-smile and utters a barely audible, “Thanks.”

 “Just remember that. On the bad days, remember we’re here. I’m here.”

 You turn the car off and reach into the back to grab the shopping bags, and the two of you head inside, the conversation having come to a close. Reiner heads upstairs, and you start on dinner just like you’d planned, nothing fancy, just turkey spaghetti. At half past six, Roland gets home, and the three of you eat in front of the TV so that he can watch his favorite crime show. 

 Afterwards, you gather dishes and take them to the sink, scrubbing sauce and food particles from each before loading them in the dishwasher. The counter still needs to be wiped down, but as you turn to the separate set of drawers and cabinets to get a fresh rag, you find Reiner leaning against them.

 “Dinner was good,” he says, then, “I’m glad I went with you today. It felt good going somewhere that wasn’t a doctor’s office.”

 You can feel your face soften, have the urge to grab his hand or hug him or something, but you control yourself. 

 “Sweetie, you can run errands with me anytime you want.”

 Reiner’s cheeks turn a little pink at that, and it takes you a second to figure out why, but then you feel your own face heat and stumble over a clumsy apology, “I didn’t mean to–just a habit I picked up in college, I usually don’t even realize–”

 “It’s okay–”

 “The names just sorta slip out. I’m not trying to be condescending or anything–”

 “It’s not condescending,” he’s quick to correct, then, “... It’s kinda comforting, honestly. Just catches me off guard, is all.”

 You stop and take a breath, relieved you didn’t offend him but still embarrassed for it happening in the first place. It started in college, all your silly little girlfriends calling everyone ‘sweetie’ and ‘honey’ and ‘love’, and it just stuck with you, and anyway, it seems like a natural name to call your son, but maybe not your twenty-four year old son who’s staring at you a little too closely now. 

 “Okay, I will…” You’re wringing your hands now, unable to look him in the eye, but, “I will keep that in mind.”

 He nods, still not blinking, and a tingly feeling settles in your spine, one you can’t tell if you like or not. 

 “Um, anyway, yeah, thanks for letting me… come with you… uh…” 

 “Like I said, any time. I know what it’s like just… needing something to do. Sometimes just leaving the house feels like being productive, so.”

 “Yeah, exactly. It felt like I didn’t just do nothing all day.”

 The cop show must end because Roland comes walking into the kitchen then which signals the end of the awkward chat, Reiner dismissing himself to his room while you follow your husband into yours. 

 Not a bad day all things considered. It was nice spending time with Reiner, getting to know him more and learning how to better help him. You think you’re getting an idea of what he responds to best, and as you settle into bed that night, a very small plan forms in your brain about what else you can do for him. 

 ~ ~ ~

It starts off very simple. Reiner finds a note taped to the refrigerator asking him to dust the fans and high shelves in the house. He does without question, and when you get home from being out and about, you gift him a sugary, “Thank you, sweetie,” that he’s quickly grown to like too much. 

 A couple days pass and then, as you’re working on something for your classes, you ask him, “Could you do me a big favor and run to the store to get an onion? I need it for dinner tonight and completely blanked.”

 So, he does, and you thank him, then ask him to do something else the next day and the next day and the next. They’re all very small tasks–household chores, running short errands. It’s not much, and he knows that you’re doing it on purpose, but it gets him moving, gives him something to do, a very small goal. And, when he reaches it, you reward him with basic appreciation that should not make Reiner feel the way it does. 

 But, it does make him feel. Makes his head go a little fuzzy, warmth pooling in his gut.

 For a while, Reiner convinces himself it’s nothing or maybe some distant cousin of anxiety. That would account for the fluttery sensation in his stomach, right? Then, after an accidental touch while passing in the kitchen–nothing obvious or provocative, just your body grazing against him as you slide past to get to the stove–Reiner realizes it’s not nothing, and it’s not anxiety. It’s that attachment he had been so quick to form, and it’s morphing into something else. 

 His brain is wired against him. Now, instead of all of his intrusive thoughts being about putting a fucking gun in his mouth, they’re about what it might feel like to have your arms around him or his around you, his nose pressed into your neck, tracing collarbones with lips and—

 It’s gross. He shouldn’t be thinking these things. You’ve been nothing but kind to him, and all Reiner can do in return is complete all the little to-dos that you give him and fantasize about how soft your skin might feel against his. 

 The best course of action is to distract himself somehow. At first he just binge-watches some TV shows in an attempt to numb his brain, but then he takes inspiration from you and starts assigning himself daily tasks. 

 Reiner creates a new schedule out in his journal, making sure to leave himself ample downtime since he gets burnt out so much quicker these days. He plots it around his current sleep schedule with the intention of slowly making adjustments to get his circadian rhythm back on track, but right now he’s most comfortable at night, and his therapist told him to prioritize himself, though she still makes sure he is getting up and partaking in human interaction when he can. 

 His days start around two, and the first item on his list is some stretching, then a small breakfast that sometimes consists of lunch foods instead. Therapy if he has it, a break afterward to recuperate–either a nap, TV, or some calming video games. Then, he ventures downstairs to maybe (hopefully) spend time or run errands with you. Sometimes he even helps with dinner. Roland will get home around the time, and all of you eat together and usually watch something, and Reiner spends most of that time trying not to glance at the two of you in an attempt to keep that ugly feeling from blossoming in his stomach–a newer development but… familiar. 

 He experienced the same feeling when two of his friends got together despite Reiner having a crush on one of them for a few months, but he got over that just like he’ll get over this. 

 You’re making it extremely difficult, though–not that you’re meaning to, of course. It’s just the way you take care of him and the subtle ways you’re helping him, a little unsure when you tell him one day, “I don’t mean for this to come off as condescending–” 

 You’re always so worried about that, and Reiner doesn’t understand entirely, but he assumes it might be because of the way you’re only a few years older than him yet in a parental position. 

 “—but I’ve seen the way you’ve been pushing yourself more, and I’m… I’m proud of you. I know it’s hard. My old psychiatrist once told me that my antidepressants would only do so much in terms of getting better and half the battle is actually wanting to get better.”

 And, that opens up the floodgates. 

 Alone in the house one afternoon, the two of you sit on the couch just a little closer than normal, and Reiner pries, “You were on antidepressants at one point?” 

 It shouldn’t come as a surprise, a lot more common these days considering how shit the world is, but you’re so… he wouldn’t say bubbly, but you’re light, content, and that’s way more than he can say for himself.

 You nod, “Not just at one point. I’ve been put on them a couple times in the last few years, and then once I think I can handle things on my own again, I get weaned off them.” You look at him very seriously and add, “But, a lot of people stay on them indefinitely, and that’s also okay. Mood stabilizers are… pretty fucking great.”

 “Is that possible? To even get to the point of thinking you can do it on your own?”

 You sigh, sinking back into the cushions, and it causes your arm to brush against Reiner’s. 

 “Sometimes. Like I said, my psychiatrist told me you have to want to, but that’s a fight all on its own. Eventually, that sadness or numbness you get so used to feeling starts feeling safe. Like, you can guard yourself with it.”

 Reiner’s eyes widen, your words hitting him straight in the chest because yes. Yes, absolutely, it feels so much safer than pulling himself out of that darkness. The fear of failure is just too strong to wrestle sometimes. 

 “But, life will keep going on with or without you, and I think, in my case, I got more scared of being left behind. The gap between semesters in college just kept widening–all my friends graduated and settled into their careers and families, and I just felt like there was no way I would catch up, and that started to motivate me more.”

 That makes sense. Reiner is all too aware of his friends who graduated while he was struggling, all the people he still hasn’t congratulated due to his bitterness. 

 The world carried on as he stagnated, and it hurt. It hurt to watch them help as much as they could until they had no choice but to focus on themselves, their own studies and goals. He couldn’t blame them, but it added fuel to the fucking dumpster fire that was his life at the time, and for that, there’s a small part of him that remains a little upset about it. 

 If they had just stayed a little longer, would that have helped? Would he have been able to hold out long enough to join them in walking across that stage?

 Dr. Ral had offered one of those sympathetic smiles when he’d brought it up in therapy a while back, voice level when she’d told him, “I think it was a long time coming. Based on what you’ve told me about your childhood and school history, I think it was a matter of time before you buckled, and that’s okay. You’ve probably been showing signs of depression since grade school, but it’s hard to diagnose at a young age, and it only gets harder with the onset of puberty. The fact that you held out for as long as you did is impressive, Reiner. You’ve been strong for so long.”

 That was one of the sessions that resulted in him coming home with a red nose and swollen eyes, the kind that led you to cook his favorite meal without saying anything about it. 

 Now, he sits next to you, slumping forward with his chin resting in the palms of his hands as he stares blankly at the black TV screen. 

 “You think I’ll ever get motivated like you did?” he mumbles, and when your hand settles right between his shoulder blades, Reiner feels some of the tension leave his shoulders. 

 “I think you’re well on your way. I’ve seen you carrying around your notebook. It has lists in there, yeah? Schedules and reminders?”

 He nods, turning just enough to look at you, and his mouth pulls up on one side at the sight of you smiling softly at him. 

 “Got the idea from you. Leaving me those little chores helped get me started… helped a lot.”

 “I thought they might,” you tell him with a little twinkle in your eyes.

 Reiner wants so much to reach over and cup your cheek because he is so, so grateful you came into his life when you did. He understands the kindness now. He understands why you’ve been looking after him the way you have, and it’s making his throat a little tight. 

 Then, in a strained voice, he tells you just that, how much he appreciates you, eyes beginning to sting, and it seems he passes his emotion onto you. Suddenly, you’re the one with misty eyes, swallowing thickly and looking away before basically whispering, “Kindred spirits or whatever.”

 “Yeah,” he says, huffing out a laugh. “Something like that.”

 Reiner isn’t sure who initiates it that night, but someone is hugging someone, and then you’re leaning back into the couch’s throw pillows, and he’s leaning with you, legs stretched out, hands tucked under the small of your back. You guide his head so that it’s just pillowed enough on the bottom swell of your breast but not buried in them, and he gets it, the hesitance and censorship (for lack of a better word), but fuck, being this close and this vulnerable, Reiner wants–he wants–

 But, he doesn’t move, just reaches for the remote and turns on the doctor show he’s been watching even without you. 

 At some point, maybe halfway through the episode, you start carding a hand through his hair. Reiner thinks it seems natural, like an impulse for you. It threatens to put him to sleep, but he knows Roland will be getting home soon, and he’ll need to move before that happens.

 Just a little longer, though. He wants a little more time like this, lying on top of you, your scent dancing in his nose, supple skin as close as can be yet too far away. He’d be lying if he said his mouth wasn’t watering some, those intrusive thoughts running wild in his brain, but this time Reiner doesn’t bother trying to block them out. 

 Wanna snuggle deeper, wanna kiss her stomach, lift the shirt, leave a mark, bite, lick, suck–then the mental image of his lips wrapped around your nipple, tugging it into his mouth, fingers digging into your plushness and massaging. He wants to taste you, wants lap at you, drool and slurp and suckle–

 Nurse, he realizes with a deep inhale, and it’s that epiphany that makes him sit back up. He doesn’t just want you to care for him, he wants you to nurture him, wants you to nurse him like a god damn–fuck, it’s weird. It’s–it’s–

 Reiner thinks back to the conversation in the baby store when he was holding the breast pump. That’s probably where it all started. Helps development but also helps the bond between mother and child. Is that it? Does he want the emotional bond? Is it some primal part of his brain wanting to be fed in the most basic, human way?

 Or, is he just horny?

 It’s very likely the latter, but… he can’t help but think about the way it would make him feel—safe. Smothered in the best of ways.

 Reiner knows he should make his exit upstairs, half hard in his jeans, so he feigns drowsiness and thanks you for listening, talking, and telling your story (or part of it, he guesses), then tells you he’ll be down for dinner in a bit. 

 “I should get started on that,” you nod, lazily pushing yourself from the couch, and fuck, shit, he’s zeroed in on your tits again, lips parting, hand flexing at his side until he swiftly turns and jogs upstairs before you can notice how his cock is straining against the zipper of his pants. 

 Okay, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, just stop thinking. Forget about it. It’s weird, why are you so fucking weird, Reiner, the fuck is actually wrong with you? She’s your stepmom. She’s married to your literal father–

 That evening after dinner, Reiner overhears you and Roland in the bedroom, the creaking of a bedframe and squeaking of springs. Every once in a while, he can make out the sound of a muffled, high-pitched moan, and no matter how hard he tries, all Reiner can think about is how desperate he is for you to make those noises for him. 

 Stepmom or not, he wants you. He isn’t sure how exactly, but the desire is there, and it’s burning him up.  

~ ~ ~ 

  You end up picking up a part time job to help out a bit–nothing particularly demanding, just a few hours spent tutoring at the local community college every other week day. Roland insists it’s not necessary, that the restaurant is bringing in enough money, and he’s fine with supporting you and his son, but it really just comes down to wanting to pay a bill or two on your own, be a little more independent. 

 When you and Roland were dating, he told you up front that he wanted something of a housewife in terms of spouses, and honestly, you had no problem with it. Staying at home meant time to complete your masters online, maybe even a PhD if you stayed motivated. Of course, you told him that eventually you would have to move forward and into a real career, but for the next few years, you’d be content being his young trophy wife. The two of you still joke about it. 

 But, asking him for money is hard, like a kid asking for allowance, and even though he gives you basically anything you want (within reason), you can’t help but feel like you’re in a position of helplessness. 

 Tutoring will give you some pocket money, “Just enough to, you know, get my nails done and put gas in the car and stuff… pay the phone bill maybe.”

 Roland argued for a while but eventually gave in, backing down as he came to the conclusion that, “Spending time with people other than me n’ Reiner will probably do you some good.”

 And, he was not wrong—hit the nail on the head without even trying. Part of the reason you want the job is to put some distance between you and Reiner. You aren’t upset with him or uneasy, but you do think that he could benefit from a bit more independence just like you.

 The two of you are only getting closer, and it’s… slightly troubling. There’s been a natural progression of getting more comfortable and opening up to one another, but you wonder if maybe you’ve gotten too comfortable. 

 Because… he touches you now. 

 It’s never inappropriate, but it’s a huge difference from the way he used to keep his hands shoved in his pockets at all times. Gentle fingers skimming your waist as he maneuvers past you in the kitchen, splaying across the small of your back when you walk into a store together. At first you think he’s trying to guide you like so many men do, then you have the idea that maybe it’s his way of holding onto you, the way children hold onto their parents’ hand or shirt. Once that crosses your mind, you find that you’re more than willing to let him continue. He needs an anchor, especially in public, and if he’s chosen you as his grounding point, you can live with it. 

 Reiner has told you more than once that he finds you comforting, and that’s fine. You’re glad to be here for him in any capacity. It’s why you let him cuddle up to you on the couch, why you let him weave his long legs with yours and rest his head on your chest. It’s intimate, yes, but it all comes down to giving him a safe space. 

 You’re just a little concerned at the fact that you feel the need to hide it. You both seem to think this is something Roland should not know about, and that is definitely a red flag. 

 Reiner is an adult after all—an adult male with needs and urges, and it’d be a shame if he ever acted on any of those with you, not only because it would change the nature of your relationship but because you don’t know… if you’d be able to tell him no. The second red flag. 

 So, the job is necessary. The distance is necessary. And, when you see the hurt in Reiner’s eyes as you tell him, you know you’re making the right decision. You still feel the need to reassure him, though, coddle him. 

 “It’s just a few hours in the afternoon, and it’s only Monday, Wednesday, Friday.”

 That seems to ease most of his worries, a deep breath leaving him where he lies over you. “Prob’ly for the best,” he mutters, words slightly muffled from the way his cheek is pressed into his teeth. “Maybe I’ll finally nut up ‘nd text Bertl or somethin’. Won’t have anything better to do.”

 Your hand settles on his head, just above the shell of his ear as you stroke his hair. It makes him shiver, and you stop only for him to protest with a soft, “No, feels good,” so you pick up the idle motion again.

 “How long’s it been since you talked to him?”

 Reiner shrugs as best he can and answers, “Few months–probably close to six at this point.”

 “Are you scared of reaching out to him?”

 “A little. He’s been my best friend since freshman year, though, so… hopefully he wants to talk to me.”

 “If y’all were that close, I’m sure he does. If he hasn’t tried to get in touch with you yet, he’s probably just worried about being pushy or overbearing or something.”

 “Maybe,” Reiner sighs. “Wouldn’t blame him if he just gave up on me, though. I… may have told him to fuck off last time we talked.”

 You snort, gently scratching the back of his head and smiling at the way he seems to melt against you a little bit more. “Best friends understand stuff like that. And, he’ll understand even better if you decide to tell him what all happened.”

 The two of you go quiet as a particularly dramatic scene plays on the TV, an episode you’ve seen countless times, yet it still manages to get your attention even now. You can feel each of Reiner’s breaths as he inhales and exhales, the steady thump of his heart, how he nuzzles into you in a way he probably thinks is subtle but is absolutely not, especially when his nose brushes along the curve of one of your breasts. You give him the benefit of the doubt for about two seconds, think to yourself he probably doesn’t even realize, and then you remember that mental illness aside, Reiner is still a hot-blooded male and probably knows exactly what he’s doing. 

 “Heart’s beating fast,” he comments, and it makes you roll your eyes.

 You try to sound casual as you tell him in an airy voice, “Yeah, ‘cause your face is basically in my boob.” 

 Embarrassing him isn’t the goal here, but he should know that you are very aware of his current position.

 Reiner snorts quietly, a short, “Sorry,” falling from his lips as he scoots back down just a bit. “Didn’t even notice.”

 He’s probably lying, but you tell him, “It’s fine,” and just focus on the show again. 

 It’s not something you want to worry yourself over because Reiner has been nothing but respectful toward you and maybe he really didn’t notice. Maybe his head is so full of the thoughts he’s constantly trying to fight that tits and sex are the last thing on his mind. You remember your libido being completely shot when you were struggling, so maybe…

 But, when the two of you sit up and break apart, you catch his eyes lingering on you, staring just a beat too long as you stretch your arms above your head and arch your back in a deep stretch. It’s natural, you tell yourself. You were pushing your chest out, so of course his eyes were drawn there. He doesn’t actually find you attractive, you don’t think. You’re just here, probably the only woman he sees outside of his therapist. It’s not like he wants you. 

 There’s that tiny voice in your head that questions it, though, wonders just what you are to him, and it’s the only thing that justifies the decision to perform… a test of sorts. By the end of it, you think you’ll have your answer, and based on that, you can gauge just how much distance you should put between yourself and your stepson.

 As the weekend passes and you’re able to spend a bit more time with Roland during the evenings, you second guess yourself. This new idea of yours could very well just fan the flames of whatever might be brewing within Reiner. But, it could also prove that there’s nothing there or that, even if there is, he’s more than capable of ignoring it. 

 It’s just that… it’s not lewd, but you’ll be crossing a line. 

 Monday you have tutoring sessions from eleven to four, so you only have a couple hours at the house where it’s just you and Reiner, but Tuesday, your schedule is free. You get up at around nine, take your shower and get ready for the day, then slip into a pair of leggings and a light pink t-shirt that your darker bra definitely shows through. You’re covered up, still modest, something you can pass off as oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even look in the mirror today. Just laugh it away.

 You spend the morning tidying the house and working on the paper that’s been looming over you since the semester started, and when Reiner ambles downstairs, all he offers is a gruff greeting, eyes flicking to your chest for a flash before he makes his way into the kitchen. That’s good. 

 He goes through his own daily routine, doesn’t talk to you until he eventually pokes his head into the makeshift office which is actually the dining room and asks, “Wanna watch a few episodes of Grey’s?”

 “Yeah,” you nod with a grin. “Always.”

 So, you both get into your usual positions on the couch, first sitting too close until lying back feels better, and that’s that. One day down. He passed with flying colors.

 Wednesday you have tutoring again, but Thursday is laundry day. You actually ask Reiner to help out with it, tell him to just bring his dirty clothes downstairs, and the two of you can knock it out in one afternoon. Today you’re in track shorts and a scoop neck t-shirt that dips low enough to show a bit of cleavage, and Reiner has a bit more trouble keeping his eyes to himself. He’s not blatantly drooling, but you see the way his gaze flits back and forth too often to be passed off as casual. 

 It just so happens that he is in a particularly good mood today, though, so you don’t mind the hurried glances–not when he’s smiling and teasing and bumping his hip into yours. It’s not often you see him like this, and it troubles you just how much you enjoy it. 

 “Polka dots, eh?” he says, and when you look over at him, your face heats as you see him folding a pair of your panties. 

 All the loads got thrown in together, so you figured he’d see a few pairs, but this whole time, you’ve been sliding boxer briefs over to him to fold, not wanting to make him uncomfortable by touching all over his unmentionables.

 But, here he is, mouth curling into a smirk, and when he sets the panties on top of one of your stacks, he tacks on a playful, “Cute,” before picking up a towel.

 “Reiner,” you say, hoping it comes out as more of an admonishment rather than the whine that echoes in your head. “You don’t have–let me fold those!”

 “I don’t mind,” he snickers. “Doesn’t bother me or anything.”

 “Maybe it should.”

 He looks at you, something on the tip of his tongue, but instead of saying anything, he just searches through the laundry for a couple seconds before finding the little purple thong you were so hoping you’d get to before him. 

 Light brown irises look a shade darker than usual as he stares at you, folding the skimpy article as best he can given the lack of material there. Then, he plops it on top of the last pair and says, “I don’t care.” 

 The ambiguity of the statement has you warm all over. You want to glare at him or at least squint like you’re skeptical, but all you can do is look up at him with–with–god, you hope they aren’t those big doe eyes Roland pokes fun at you for.

 You decide water is what you need. Go into the kitchen, cool off with a glass, then come back and finish the rest of the clothes and act like what just happened wasn’t fucking strange. 

 And, you do just that. Act like there’s no tension whatsoever between you and Reiner. Keep laughing, keep teasing, and end up on the couch again.

 You can feel every outward breath, hot as it reaches bare skin, and you try not to move at all because you’re not sure how you want to move, how your body wants to respond. Reiner’s stubble is scratching over the place where t-shirt meets flesh, and his fingertips are digging into the small of your back just a little harder than usual, and you are quickly realizing that you may have gotten yourself into trouble. 

 You have the weekend to think about it. The things you were trying to blow off before are suddenly impossible to ignore, but it’s not because of Reiner or that dark look he had in his eyes for those few moments. It’s because of you and your reaction to him. Because of how much you enjoy not only being around him, but pressed against him.

 Monday passes, and you’ve made up your mind. You’re going to back away, put up new boundaries, encourage him to depend more on his therapist and maybe get in touch with his friends again. That’s the plan.

 Then, Tuesday morning rolls around, and you’re in the kitchen at your usual nine AM wake up hour, still clad in pajamas as you wait for your bagel to finish toasting. Footsteps on the stairs make you reel around, surprised to see Reiner up this early (or late in his case). 

 He pauses at the bottom step, and even from here you can see the dark circles under his eyes, assume he hasn’t actually slept yet, and fuck, that soft feeling washes over you, the one you simply cannot fight when it comes to him because you worry. 

 “Why haven’t you been to bed yet?”

 He grunts, making his way into the kitchen and tells you, “Just couldn’t sleep.” 

 Personal space doesn’t seem to be high on his list of priorities this morning because he crowds you against the counter just to reach over your head and grab a coffee mug from the cabinet. When he steps back, he looks down to see your expression–wide eyes, lips parted in bewilderment.

 It must look like concern to him, because he puts a hand on the top of your head and assures, “I’ll be fine. I’ll probably just crash early tonight.”

 You shake him off with a little pout, but when he drops his arm, his fingers graze over your chest, just the right angle to catch one of your nipples on the way down, and it makes you suck in a sharp breath and push yourself into the edge of the counter.

 Reiner’s gaze is locked on your face but not for long. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or maybe it’s the pressure that’s been building between the two of you, but now he doesn’t bother to hide his gaze as it travels to your chest, no doubt taking in the pebbled buds poking against the baggy t-shirt you’re wearing. 

 Your body pulses under the attention, blood rushing and thoughts racing as you think the worst just might happen… any second now…

 But, Reiner just clears his throat, apologizes, and steps over to the coffee maker. You squeeze your eyes shut, let out a slow breath, then straighten up and start walking toward the bedroom just in time to hear the click and pop of the toaster. 

 “Bagel’s ready,” Reiner calls.

 Not interested in eating anymore, you tell him, “You can have it,” wanting nothing more than a quick shower to rinse off your confusion as well as Reiner’s touch.

 It was an accident. It was an accident. He didn’t do it on purpose. It was just an accident. 

 You have no intention of watching TV on the couch with him later today–time to break the routine–but then hours pass, and Roland texts you that one of his assistant managers left for a family emergency which means he’ll have to stay to help close. It will be another several hours until he’s home, and when you tell Reiner this, he looks at you with that exhausted expression and asks, “Grey’s?”

 It takes maybe three seconds of contemplation before you cave. He’s probably having a rough day. You know he hasn’t taken a nap because you’ve been able to hear him shuffling around up in his room all afternoon, so it’s likely he’s unfocused, having a harder time wrestling with his own thought processes. Being overly tired always seems to make you sad, like you’re about to get sick but are helpless to stop it. 

 You don’t want Reiner feeling helpless, and maybe, if he relaxes next to you for a while, he’ll end up drifting off. That’s the best case scenario. 

 You’re not entirely sure what the worst case is, though.

 It’s been a while since you sat on opposite ends of the couch, but tonight, that’s exactly what you do. You lean against one armrest as Reiner takes the other, chin resting in his hand as he blinks slowly at the screen. You can tell he’s drowsy, but he’s fighting it, glancing over at you every once in a while until you finally sigh and hold a hand out to him. 

 Reiner’s face breaks out into one of his softer smiles–grateful–as he grabs your hand and lets you guide him to your chest. He gets situated the way he likes, hands underneath you, legs twined, and you can feel the coarse hair on his calves, Reiner having opted for the comfortable athletic shorts he wears when he’s feeling especially shitty, you’ve noticed. He’s warm and heavy. You think he’s gained a little bit of weight over the last month which is fantastic considering how thin he was when he’d first come to the house. 

 All awkwardness aside, you’re glad he’s here. You’re glad he trusts you. You’re glad you can care for him.

 The drama plays out on TV, and Reiner’s breath falls in and out of rhythm as he dozes for a few minutes only to wake back up. You stroke down his back with one hand, fingers trailing down his spine, and with the other you lightly scratch his scalp.

 “Just go to sleep, sweetie,” you coo when he pushes his face against you. “Still have a couple hours before your dad gets home.”

 He hums, but you can tell he’s blinked himself awake by the way his shoulders draw up higher once again. You breathe out, more disappointed than exasperated. You just want him to relax. If you could only soothe him enough–

 The scene on screen catches your attention, one of your favorite characters crying loudly, feet in stirrups as another doctor examines her, and despite knowing what’s coming, your stomach still flips when you watch the material of a pink shirt dampen in such a particular way, there’s no mistaking what it could be. It isn’t the image itself that makes you nervous, and honestly, you wouldn’t even call it being nervous–more like… anticipatory. 

 It’s the way Reiner’s fingers twitch, the way the warm air seeps through your top only gets hotter as he turns his face into you, nose prodding the very bottom of your sternum. Then hands are moving, sliding between you and the couch cushion, dancing at the hem of your shirt.

 The, “Rei,” that falls from your lips in a murmur serves no real purpose. You’re not telling him to stop or start. You’re not telling him anything.

 The pads of his fingers are scorching against the small of your back, every unique print burning against your skin, leaving trails as he moves just a little higher… then a little more… a little more… 

 Thumbs brush over your ribs, hands curling around your front, catching on your shirt and tugging it upward until Reiner can push it up over your bra, croaking out a desperate, “Please,” as he goes.

 You’re nodding before you realize, eyes shut so tightly they’re beginning to hurt, but your own hand is still holding the back of his head, encouraging him further as he hooks fingers into the bottom of your bra and stretches elastic just enough to push it up over your tits. 

 The deep groan that sounds from Reiner’s chest makes your mouth run dry, a huff of air pushed from your lungs when he settles more of his weight on you. He wastes absolutely no time in lowering his face to you, one kiss placed on the swell of your breast before he latches onto a nipple, and something about it causes him to make another noise, though this one isn’t as much a groan as it is a whimper. 

 Your mind is a mess, no way to pick out even a single coherent thought, but it seems your subconscious takes over, a quiet, “Shh, baby, it’s okay,” sounding from you without your consent.

 Reiner breathes in deeply, sucking on the bud in a way that’s just shy of painful, but stroking his hair seems to calm him down some, and he falls into something gentler, the flick of his tongue making you hold back little moans you don’t want him hearing. 

 This isn’t about pleasure. This is about comfort. Nothing more, right?

 He massages both of your tits, large hands kneading plumpness like he’s guiding it to his mouth. When he releases the nipple he’s been working, you watch as a string of spit spans from the bud to his lower lip. Reiner doesn’t seem to care about any messes, though, as he just leans back down to lick at the other. 

 You do your best to remain calm, to think of this in a non-explicit way. He doesn’t seem to be taking things any further, his hands staying on your chest, and while there is a subtle rock to his body, you can’t tell if it’s because he’s pressing his hips into the couch or just due to the way he keeps dipping and tugging and pushing against you. 

 Honestly, you don’t think he’s actually trying to get off. It’s more like—

 “So soft,” he mumbles, nibbling sensitive skin then circling it with his tongue. “Knew you’d be so…”

 But, he doesn’t finish, just pulls you back into his mouth with a content sigh. 

 You move in a way that leaves both of you on your sides, Reiner’s head lower than yours so that he can bury his face in your chest. Despite the tingle in your spine (and between your legs) Reiner seems… calm. Sinking into the couch, lazily suckling on you like he could do it forever. 

 His hands stop moving so much, the pattern of his tongue growing slower and slower, and you don’t know how much time has passed, but you hear familiar credit music playing from the TV. 

 By the time the next episode starts, Reiner has stilled, Your nipples are wet and now cold, one of them brushing against his lips as he breathes steadily. He’s out—face in your tits, sleeping soundly. It’d be cute if… 

 No. No, it’s still cute in a strange way. You don’t know why, but it is. He is. 

 Another episode comes and goes, and when your phone chimes with a text, it jolts Reiner awake. You can feel him blinking, eyelashes brushing over your skin, and for a moment, you think he might panic, like this short nap would bring him back to his senses. 

 That is obviously not the case, however, as he buries himself in you all over again, murmuring into your skin, words you can’t make out as you text your husband back that no, you don’t need anything from the 24 hour fast food place, just get home safely. 

 You let Reiner take what he needs for just a little bit longer, glad you didn’t decide to resituate your clothes the way you’d considered earlier. It probably would have woken him up anyway. 

 He sucks and gropes and covers both of your nipples with gossamer spit until you scratch at his head a little harder than before and tell him, “Roland’ll be home soon.”

 A mournful groan vibrates against your flesh, ricocheting in your chest cavity, but Reiner still pushes himself up on one arm, pausing only to kiss right between your breasts before sitting up fully and rubbing his eyes. 

 You don’t say anything about what just transpired between the two of you, just pull your bra and shirt back down then stand up. 

 Reiner looks up at you, questions dancing in his eyes, insecurities and fears, and though you are also full of absolute confusion, you still bend over and kiss the top of his head, softly telling him, “Go get some sleep, sweetie.”

 He forces a smile, so so tired, then gets up and trudges upstairs. 

 Watching as he goes, you wonder how it is that you can feel like everything has changed between the two of you while also getting the impression that nothing’s changed at all. 

 ~ ~ ~

 Reiner is a pretty big fucking fan of routines these days. The predictability is nice, keeps him on track and on a schedule even if said schedule is fairly basic. He has a wake up routine—simple stretches, teeth brushing, showering. A specific Wednesday routine when therapy threatens to throw him off. An eating routine that took a while to get used to considering how screwed up his hours are. And then, he has a bedtime routine. 

 That one is probably his favorite (is definitely his favorite). 

 At around seven AM, Reiner sits at the kitchen table and eats a bowl of cereal across from Roland who is still waking up with his coffee, then once his father leaves and that front door is locked into place, Reiner rinses out his bowl and the sugar from his mouth and shuffles into the downstairs bedroom, the one you’re still asleep in. 

 It was probably extremely fucking weird for you the first time—it was weird for him too—but now after a few weeks, you’re familiar with it. Reiner slides under covers next to you, slinging one arm over your hips and resting his head on your shoulder. You’re slowly stirring, just awake enough to hum in acknowledgement, awake enough to shift, awake enough to lazily pull up whatever big t-shirt you chose the night before.

 That’s what he waits for every time. The permission. You have to be the one to say okay, go ahead, otherwise Reiner will just lay and wait and possibly fall into a restless sleep. 

 But, he much prefers this. Not only because he enjoys it more but also because it makes him drift off even faster. He’s already tired, hands moving over your tits slowly, lowering himself to one and sucking in a way that isn’t even a little hurried or frantic.

 Reiner sighs happily, nibbling for a moment before pulling your hardened nipple further into his mouth, and he can feel himself stiffening in his joggers, but it’s not something he’s about to take care of. He’s not here to get his dick wet. He’s here to come down, to relax and be cared for, and as you sleepily card fingers through his hair, he is just that. 

 A puddle next to you, Reiner licks and suckles, trying not to pay attention to the way your hips twitch every now and again. You seem so casual about it, he doubts you’re actually aroused by this frankly pathetic display of need, but he does have to keep in mind this is an erogenous zone for you, so maybe…

 Doesn’t matter. He’s fantasized about you enough, and if he lets his mind get away from him here and now, it’ll only lead to disaster. 

 So, he just lays and grunts and sucks on you as if he were made to. Kinda feels like he was. 

 That’s how it goes almost every morning. Both of you usually end up dozing again until your alarm goes off at nine, and you either leave Reiner to sleep as you get ready for work at the college or you leave him to sleep as you putter around the house, saving errands for later so that he can come with you if he wants to. Newsflash: he always wants to. 

 You still watch TV together, still let him mouth over you as he pleases, running a hand over his scalp or down his spine, and he wonders how you justify it. What’s going through your mind while he takes and takes and takes from you? 

 Reiner feels genuinely bad about it, well aware that this is not normal, but he can’t deny that his mood has been better since you started doing this—whatever this is. 

 In the past four and a half weeks, he’s gotten in contact with Bertholdt and Annie, come up with a new workout regimen that is slightly more than just yoga poses, and has started opening up more in therapy. He’s obviously keeping specific details to himself, but Dr. Ral is aware that he’s found a haven within you, and that his sex drive is back. She just doesn’t know that the two are related, and he’s definitely not about to tell her about how often he jerks off in the shower while thinking about suffocating in your tits, the frequency of which only increasing since he’s pretty sure they’ve grown a little. Maybe you’ve gained a bit of weight he hasn’t noticed anywhere else. Maybe it’s Reiner’s lizard brain playing tricks on him. 

 Anyway, he’s getting distracted now. The original point is that things are changing and for the better. ‘Happiness’ isn’t the right word. Reiner knows he’s far from that, but he’s… adjusting. In his own way. He’s been living with you and Roland for almost five months now, and he can honestly say that it’s gotten easier, that his brain isn’t quite as mean to him as it was before. The ideation is most certainly still present, but it’s not as loud as it was before. 

 His doctors are impressed in a hesitant sort of way, like they’re expecting this very mild high to come crashing down, and he gets it. He isn’t exactly stable just yet. But, they also don’t understand the kind of support he’s getting at home. 

 “What would you say is, like… the correlation between how I grew up and how I ended up here?” Reiner asks Dr. Ral during session, picking at the string hanging from the hole in his jeans. “Like all that nature versus nurture bullshit.”

 “It’s not bullshit,” she laughs. “It’s a widely respected theory. Though, I will admit it’s a little harder to differentiate these days since home lives aren’t the only difficult part of childhood. The world itself is hard to live in, so a lot of anxiety and feelings of hopelessness stem from our environment today. A kid could grow up with doting parents, good friends, and the best dog ever, and still end up struggling.”

 “But, how much of that is the world, and how much of that is just your shitty brain not making the right chemicals?” 

 “Reiner,” she sighs with a little smile. “It could be that your brain has always functioned differently, and it’s only recently become obvious. Or, it could be because you were born into a crappy world full of war and recession and tragedy. Or, it could be the way you were raised at home.”

 “You think my parents have something to do with it, don’t you?” Reiner asks with a bitter smile. 

 Dr. Ral shrugs, “They play an integral role in a person’s life, but I don’t like placing blame unless the fault is obvious.” 

 Abuse, Reiner can assume. He didn’t grow up dealing with anything like that, thank goodness. Probably wouldn’t have made it anywhere near this far if he had, but he did spend a lot of time alone, and he’s not surprised when the doctor across from him highlights that. 

 “We haven’t talked about your childhood in length, but we’ve touched on the missing father and the overworked mother.”

 “You make them sound like self-help books,” he snorts. “For real, though, I was fine. I learned how to take care of myself.”

 “That’s it, though, you shouldn’t have had to. Not at the young age of…?” She lifts an eyebrow in question, and Reiner ruffles his hair out of place as he thinks. 

 “I don’t know, like, four or something? When Mom had money, she’d pay the neighbors to take care of me, but that was… not the case most of the time.” He looks at her seriously, probably pleadingly as he tells her, “She did her best. It wasn’t her fault.”

 “I’m not trying to imply anything was her fault, Reiner. I’m sure she did everything she could to make sure you were okay. I’m just saying that when you grow up like that, without a strong parental figure, it means you haven’t been nurtured the way that most humans need to be.”

 Reiner sucks his teeth, tries to fight the smile that’s threatening to split his face. If she only knew. 

 “Haven’t been nurtured, huh?”

 Her expression is sympathetic. “It could be a contributing factor. You’ve had to take care of yourself for such a long time. Neurochemistry on your side or not–eventually, you were going to hit a breaking point.”

 He drives home mulling it over, tuning out his music and apparently the rest of his surroundings as someone behind him honks when he sits too long after a light has turned green. 

 There’s not even a tiny part of Reiner that’s angry at his mother for the way he was brought up. There were many lonely evenings and weekends, a lot of cheese sandwiches and juice spills, but it always seemed like she was doing what she could to make ends meet after her shitty husband left her. 

 It almost felt like betraying her, coming to live with Roland, but Reiner knows his dad has means of supporting him that his mother does not. Besides, irritated as she would get when Roland would come take him to lunch (the few times that he did), she still seemed to support it, happy that Reiner was getting to know the other person responsible for his being put on this earth. 

 His usual Wednesday sandwich is waiting for him in the fridge when he opens the stainless steel doors, and even though he was fully expecting it to be there as always, Reiner still finds himself chuckling given the subject of his last conversation with the therapist. 

 You won’t be home for another half an hour, so Reiner finishes eating then switches out the laundry you left earlier, thinking too hard about that one afternoon he spent folding clothes with you, the way you’d looked so flustered… 

 Before he can get too lost in the fantasy of what you might look like in nothing but those polka dot panties or that skimpy purple thong, the front door opens and you walk in–bag slung over one shoulder, thermos in hand, flashing a bright smile at Reiner when you see him.

 “Hey, you,” you greet easily. “How was your appointment?”

 Reiner makes a non-committal noise, striding over and taking your bag, putting it on one of the dining room chairs then following you into the kitchen where you rinse out your cup.

 “Same as always. Talk about feelings and plans and progress and shit.” He pauses, feels his lips begin to curl again as he leans against the counter and utters, “Doctor Ral thinks I wasn’t nurtured enough as a kid.”

 The laugh you let out is a little startling but so, so genuine as you grin widely and nod, “Yeah, I, uh–I think I could’ve told you that, baby.”

 Sparks–from the crown of his head all the way to his toes. Reiner watches you wash your dish for a few moments before stepping up behind you, arms locking around your waist as he lowers his head to rest on your shoulder.

 “That why you let me get away with so much shit?” he asks, only half joking.

 You scoff, wiggling a bit and claiming, “I do not–” but stop when you’ve turned all the way to face him. “Okay, maybe,” you concede, features softening when you raise a hand to touch his face. “I just like knowing you’re okay, and the only time I know you are is when… I’m with you, so…”

 He’s too close. He knows it, and you know it, nearly touching, and fuck, you’ve gone this far, so–

 Your body goes stiff when he kisses you, no movement but no objection either, and once Reiner presses just a little harder, you give in and let your lips move against his. 

 It doesn’t take him long to get light-headed, blood rushing south as he pushes you against the cabinets and grinds his hips into yours. A small sound of discomfort rings loud and clear in his ears, though, and he can assume a knob or corner is digging into you, so he leans back enough to give himself the room to lift you off the tile and sit you on the lip of the counter. 

 Your thighs squeeze his sides as he stands between them, his hands roaming until they find what he always seems to be looking for. You mewl when he paws at your tits–soft and plump, so pretty when they glisten with his spit–and Reiner makes quick work of your shirt, only breaking away from your kiss when he has to pull the material over your head. 

 He meets your wide eyes, his own probably looking a little wild as he unclasps your bra, but he does manage to croak out an almost painful, “Tell me to stop–”

 “No,” you breathe, straps sliding down your arms until you drop your bra on the floor.

 Reiner holds your head in both hands as he kisses you again–deeper than the last time, teeth pressing against lips and tongues burning one another, and only when you start to pant does he let go and move downward. 

 The rush of emotion that always comes with latching onto you floods his system–the closeness, the connection, the intimacy of it, and Reiner groans as he sucks you into his mouth, fuck, he loves the feeling, loves the way your little bud hardens against his tongue, how you shudder when he licks at the velvety ring around it, and you’re arching your back and wrapping your legs around him as he sucks and sucks and sucks.

 “Reiner–I–” 

 Something in your voice is a little off, but he doesn’t stop–couldn’t if he wanted to at this point. His cock is throbbing in his pants, and he can feel that his neck and face are flushed with want. He’s so lost, so lost, and doesn’t want to come back, half-crazed and delirious and– 

 The first taste is a shock. A tiny drop of what could be sweet cream, but it’s gone so fast–nothing more than the ghost of flavor–that Reiner thinks he may have hallucinated it. 

 Then, there’s another, and Reiner knows that something new is definitely hitting his tongue. When he pulls back, his eyes go wide, taking in the thick droplets beading around your nipples, and as he gently tugs on the bud he hasn’t been sucking on, a couple more pale dots leak out.

 “Holy fuck,” he huffs, absolute reverence lacing his words, because you’re–this is–he did this to you. He’s no master of anatomy, but Reiner is pretty sure that it’s because of him that your body thinks–

 You whimper a shameful, “Oh, god, I–” but he’s already lapping at your tits again, gathering anything he can and moaning at the saccharinity. 

 Sweet, so sweet, so sweet, Reiner repeats to himself, hips rocking into nothing as he grows impossibly harder, and he thinks if he can drink just a little bit more from you, he might be able to come untouched. This is his secret fantasy come to life. He doesn’t fully understand it, but it doesn’t matter because he is in ecstasy, trying so hard not to hurt you while doing his best to pull every drop of ambrosia from your perfect fucking body.

 It doesn’t take long at all for your dripping to cease, your savory taste on his tongue now only in essence as Reiner raises enough to look you in the eye. Your chest is heaving, smaller hands coming up to cup your breasts as you gaze down at them, then back at him, concern morphing your expression, and for the first time since he met you, Reiner gets to comfort you.

 “I’ve got you, okay?” he tells you with a certainty he has no right to claim. 

 It feels like his head is swimming, and his words are too thick in his mouth, but you still nod, allowing Reiner to tilt your chin up and kiss you softly. It’s only when he braces himself on the countertop that he realizes he’s shaking, affection swelling inside of him, and he can’t help the next string of clumsy words that tumble from his mouth straight into yours, “I’ve got you, okay? You’re so good to me, you know that, so perfect, just let me–”

 You pull him closer to you, press against him, and when Reiner grunts at the way it makes his trapped cock rub over the lip of the counter, you trail shy fingers down his chest and to his waist.

 “One touch from you, and I will come,” he warns you shamelessly.

 It makes you giggle against his lips but does not deter you, so Reiner unbuttons and unzips his pants, pulling himself free and hissing at the cool air that hits him. He isn’t sure he’s ever been this hard before, his tip an alarming shade of red, a string of precum stretching from his swollen head down into his boxers where a small puddle has been left. 

 He’s a fucking mess, and when your fingers close around him, his eyes immediately roll to the back of his head. It’s an awkward angle for you, and he knows this, but he also knows you won’t have to be in this position for long. 

 Pleasure builds in his gut, his balls lifting and tightening, and when you swipe a thumb over his leaking tip, Reiner’s voice breaks on a swear, and he comes on the spot. Lines of white splatter over the cabinets and your legs where they’re hanging over the counter, and he twitches in your grasp, the blood pounding in his head waning just enough for him to focus on your face again. 

 You’re watching him intently, lips parted and tilted upward as you keep stroking him softly. Reiner shudders, grunting when you give him a light squeeze, then covers your hand with his. 

 “Fucking Christ.”

 A few more full-body shivers, and he’s able to tuck himself back into his pants and walk backward on weak legs to help you slide off the counter. You’re quick to wet a paper towel and wipe both yourself and the cabinets down, making sure nothing is left behind, and once that’s taken care of, you pull your shirt back on. 

 Reiner tracks your movements the whole time, still in his post-orgasm high as he admires the way you look bending over, thinks he can see the folds of your pussy through skin tight leggings and wonders if you’re wet right now. God, he hopes you are.

 “You know, I can–I mean, you should let me–”

 You turn to him and shake your head. “No, it’s okay. I just…” You must see the way his face falls a bit. It isn’t just that he wants to return the favor; it’s that he wants to make you feel good. He wants to take care of you. Fuck, he wants to watch you come, knows you will be beautiful letting go like that.

 “Rei, I just need to think for a second, okay?” you try, then as if you’ve just remembered, you raise your hands to your chest again and add, “And, I need to do some fucking research apparently.”

 “I can help,” he’s too quick to offer. “I mean, I can also… it’s my fault, and I don’t–” he chews on his bottom lip, glancing from you to the floor then back to you at lightning speed. “I don’t want you to do anything to stop it. Please.”

 “You…” Eyes narrowing in skepticism, you look at him curiously. “You don’t mind that? Like, you want it? The mil–”

 “You have no fucking idea how much I want it.” The confession makes him blush furiously, but Reiner doesn’t regret making it. 

 “Why?”

 He holds his arms out like he doesn’t know. And, he truly doesn’t, but he is getting a vague idea of where some of his motivations may lie. 

 “All I know is that it feels good. Physically and… emotionally, or whatever.” You stare at him like you’re waiting for him to elaborate, but all he gives you is a casual, “Plus, it tasted good. Wasn’t expecting it to taste that good.”

 You keep watching for a while, gears turning in your head, hands still on your own tits, then nod and relax some. 

 “I’ll, um… I’ll look into it, but if my mom friends are anything to go by then I will probably need assistance with, um–”

 “Anything,” he cuts you off. “I’ll help you with anything, just ask, I’m right here, I promise.”

 That deer-in-the-headlights expression doesn’t leave your face entirely, and Reiner guesses you’re going over all the ways this can go wrong, but he’s past that point. He knows what the two of you have been doing for the last several weeks is wrong, or at the very least, frowned upon, but his default state is untempered anxiety, so this is nothing new. You, however…

 He paces over to you, takes your hands from your chest, and stoops to look at you. 

 “If this is a hard no, if you wanna just stop and pretend nothing’s happened or happening, that’s fine. I’ll understand,” then he adds a purposeful, “I will live,” because that’s what this really comes down to, isn’t it? You don’t want to hurt him and leave him teetering again. 

 “I’m…” you swallow. “I’m not saying no. I’m just saying I need to… prepare.”

 Reiner gathers you to his chest and hugs you tightly, relieved when you wrap your arms around him. You stand like that for too long, and when you peel yourself away, he grins at the way you rise onto your tiptoes and kiss him. 

 “I need you to recognize, though, like…” You pull back from his lips to look at him and finish, “This is fucked up. You know what we’re doing is–”

 “It’s weird as shit, I know,” he confirms with a nervous chuckle. “Had no fucking intention of anything like this happening when I moved in.”

 “Okay, just as long as… we both feel guilty.”

 Reiner snorts. “Is that supposed to stop us or something?”

 “No, but at least I know we each have a moral compass.”

 Reiner leans down again, slotting his lips against yours and grumbling, “A moral compass doesn’t mean shit if it’s busted.”

 You laugh, a little melody muffled by his kiss, and Reiner does everything he can to memorize the way your smile feels. 

 ~ ~ ~

Never in a million years did you think you would find yourself in this predicament–standing in your bathroom, grimacing as you look at yourself in the mirror, massaging your breasts. You had noticed they’ve been particularly tender, but you figured it had something to do with your cycle, possibly hormone changes that are coming with age.

 But no, it’s… induced lactation, as Google explained, and you brought it on yourself completely by accident. 

 One of the biggest reasons you never wanted to have children is the stress it would put on your body, and though you won’t get the full fucking effect of pregnancy, this development is alarming to say the least. 

 You aren’t angry, especially not after the way Reiner had reacted to it, but you’re not exactly thrilled. The whole situation is unprecedented, absolutely did not see this coming, but you suppose you may as well make the best of it. You could stop the process if you really wanted to, but you’re not sure you’d be able to bear the disappointment Reiner would no doubt try and fail to hide. 

 So, you decide you’ll give it a trial period, at least try for his sake, and who knows—maybe you’ll grow to like it and fall deeper into the mess the two of you have made.

 For now, though, there’s definitely a level of discomfort, much of which being a direct result of your breasts. You had to pump several times since this started yesterday, but after an almost full night of not, you aren’t feeling great.

 As soon as Roland had left the room this morning you’d rolled out of bed and into the bathroom to examine yourself. He should be finishing up his breakfast soon, and you consider just getting in the shower to have an extra private space to relieve some pressure, but before you can do that, the bedroom door is opening, and Reiner is calling your name.

 “In here,” you respond, and when he peeks around the corner, you try not to look as uncomfortable as you feel.

 To no avail, apparently, because Reiner frowns immediately, taking in your expression and the way you’re holding yourself.

 “Sore?”

 You make an unsure noise, chewing on your bottom lip.

 “Maybe? I’m not sure if it’s all in my head or not. Like, I’m thinking too hard about it.” 

 “Couldn’t hurt to squeeze some out,” he shrugs in an attempt to look casual, but his mouth is twisting a certain way as he fights a smile. 

 “No,” you sigh, “Definitely couldn’t hurt.”

 He paces into the bathroom, guiding you by the hip to turn you around then lifting you onto the counter like he did the day before. 

 You thought you might get used to this tingling considering how many times you had to do this yesterday, but Reiner was only able to help a few of those times before his father got home, so the pull of his mouth and swirl of his tongue still makes you gasp. He makes a little noise in the back of his throat as he sucks, hands careful as he massages your tits, and it makes you let out a whimper.

 Like the day before, not much comes out of either one, but Reiner acts like every drop is precious, eyes hazy when he eventually pulls away and looks at you. 

 You’re tender and assume you’ll remain so for a while, and when Reiner cups the swell of your breasts, you have to admit his warm hands feel very nice. It does leave you feeling extremely vulnerable, though–a position you’re still not used to being in when around him. 

 Just these past twenty-four hours have shown you how strong he is, how large his presence can feel even if he doesn’t mean it to be. He can lift you with ease, steady hands either wrapping around your thighs or settling under your arms to move you wherever he sees fit. There’s no shyness in the way he presses his hips against yours, and the only question he seems to have is something along the lines of ‘are you okay with this?’ 

 He’s kind and respectful and very concerned with what you’re feeling, but… he obviously knows what he wants. 

 “So, I read a lot last night,” he starts, looking toward the ceiling like it has a script written on it, and you have to laugh because you also read last night–more than your brain could even hold. “Apparently, what you’re producing right now is, like, not exactly milk? It’s–”

 “Colostrum, yeah. It’s really important for newborns. Give it a few more days and my–” you pause and glance downward, stuttering as you finish, “–my milk will… come in.”

 “Exactly. And, there will be… more of that?”

 “A lot more if Google is to be trusted. It’ll, um… It’ll take a little longer for you to… But, they need to be, like, drained, or they’ll start to hurt.”

 “I can set alarms on my phone, or–” Another giggle stops him, and Reiner smiles and asks, “What?”

 “Nothing,” you shake your head. “You’re just really gung-ho about this.”

 “I’m stoked,” he tells you, grin widening before he places a quick kiss on your lips. “I’ve maybe thought about it before. There’s just so many–like, I can’t even explain—it’s sexy and soothing and just fucking triggers something in my brain that…” He exhales heavily, has that look about him that means he’s about to say something that’ll knock the wind out of you, and you’re absolutely correct. 

 Leveling big, amber eyes at you–so deep and painfully earnest–Reiner breathes, “I am so ready to worship you.”

 Your body heats, a familiar stinging sensation making you blink frantically and try to look away, but he catches you with a finger under your chin, the sudden bounce of your abandoned tits making you wince, and Reiner mutters a quiet, “Sorry,” as he kisses you again and again and again.

 He has legitimate feelings, you think. Legitimate, big feelings. It’s worrisome, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have any in return. 

 It’s all the damn time spent alone. The bearing of souls and endless cuddling. You should have stopped it before it even got started, but it is far too late now. 

 After sniffling away tears you’re a little mortified by, you thank Reiner and tell him to go get some sleep.

 “I’ll try, but promise you’ll wake me up when you need me.”

 “I promise,” you nod, trying not to snort when he walks away awkwardly, a little stiff between the legs.

 Of course, keeping the promise is a little harder than making it. It’s somewhat humiliating asking for help with something so personal—doesn’t matter how much Reiner may enjoy it. After living life thinking you’d never once have to utter the question ‘hey, can you help me with my boobs?’, it’s extremely difficult working up the moxy, may as well be asking ‘would you mind milking me?’.

 There’s also the added stress of having to sneak around at night in order to do it. With Roland fast asleep in bed, you tiptoe out of the room as quietly as possible and make your way upstairs where Reiner pulls you into his lap and sucks on your tits until nothing comes out. Then, depending on his mood, he might keep going. 

 Nothing progresses past the quick handjob you gave him a few days ago, but… that changes. 

 After a six-hour day of going over essays with clueless freshmen, you shuffle into the house and drop your bag in the dining room, gnawing on your bottom lip as you glance around for Reiner. 

 When he’s not in your immediate view, you call for him and immediately hear a fumbling upstairs followed by the loud pounding of feet as he rushes to meet you.

 “Yeah, sweetness?” 

 The new pet name has made you blush and smile every time he’s used it the past few days, but today it does not, too bothered by the heaviness in your chest as you gaze at him in a silent plea. 

 “There’s too—something feels different,” you mumble. You’re not quite in pain, but you are sore and feeling a little swollen. 

 The look of sympathy Reiner gives you is enough to make your throat tighten. You still don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, and you’re embarrassed and overwhelmed, and when he murmurs an understanding, “Baby, come here,” you take his hand and let him lead you to the couch. 

 The dynamic is odd—definitely shifted within the last week. Instead of pampering him, he’s the one treating you like glass, cooing at you and holding you closely. You hadn’t foreseen this when he’d first moved in, truly viewed him as nothing more than Roland’s estranged son, a lost boy looking for a home. 

 He is so much more than that, though. 

 Reiner arranges you in his lap before ridding you of your shirt and bra, ogling your chest before biting his lip and palming your tits. That tingle you’ve only just recently gotten used to is ever present, but this firm pressure that seems to be stretching your skin is a new sensation. 

 So gentle when he latches onto your nipple, Reiner soothes you with his soft tongue first, slow to start sucking. When he does, though, his eyes shoot up to yours, wide and excited. 

 “It’s—”

 He squeezes both of your tits just hard enough for fluid—lighter than what you were producing before—to drip from you in a very slow, very thin stream. 

 Milk leaking from your own nipples is such a strange sight to behold, but Reiner is more than happy to lick away the tiny rivulets and pull you back into his mouth. His eyelids flutter as he laps and suckles, and you can feel his cock growing beneath you, pressing right between your legs and distracting you from any of your insecurities. 

 You rock your hips, dragging your covered pussy over his bulge and pushing his face further into your tits. Reiner groans deeply, lifting to meet the motion then releasing your nipple to tell you, “Keep moving like that, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

 It only makes you rub over him again, and Reiner stares at you with half-lidded eyes as he slides a hand under you to caress your aching cunt. 

 “You feelin’ needy, baby?” he questions, voice somehow playful and dark at the same time, and you nod. 

 There is an undeniable feeling of lopsidedness now that he’s partially drained one of your breasts, but as odd as the difference in weight is, you can’t be bothered by it when Reiner is grinding his cock up against you. 

 It’s hard to say what has you so desperate—the idea of relief possibly, or maybe just the fact that the two of you have been tiptoeing around this for what seems like fucking forever. Whatever it is has you trembling on top of him, begging, “Please, Rei, I wanna feel—”

 He shushes you, twisting to lay you on your back then grounding himself with one knee on the couch and a foot planted on the ground. It gives him more than enough access to pepper kisses down your naked torso while slowly pulling down your jeans and panties. You lift off the cushions to help, heart beating erratically as he spreads your legs and gazes at your bare cunt. 

 Fingertips trace down your thighs then in-between them, just barely brushing over your sensitive folds. The touch makes you jerk, knees falling further open, and Reiner watches your expression as he teases you again. 

 You make a pathetic noise of dissatisfaction, and Reiner grins in response, relenting with a low, “Okay, I know,” before he runs a finger down your slit and slowly pushes it into your quivering hole. 

 Every digit slides in with ease, but Reiner’s hands are large—fingers long and much thicker than your own—so there’s still a stretch that accompanies the intrusion. Even so, you moan his name and let your head fall back. 

 “You’re so fucking pretty, you know that?” he breathes, moving to hover over you while pumping in and out of your pussy. He bends to catch one of your nipples again, his grunt reverberating inside of you, and all you can do is whimper and move your hips to meet his shallow thrusts. 

 “Another?”

 “Please—yes, yes, Rei—”

 He pushes the second in even slower than the first, but once his palm is flush with you, Reiner strokes and presses into your walls in a way that has you arching into him. His stubble is rough against your tits, the complete opposite of his velvet tongue, and between his endless suckling and the thick fingers filling you up, you think you might cry. 

 “Reiner, oh my god, I’m—okay, I’m r-ready, just…”

 You feel him scissor his fingers apart for a moment, one last effort to prepare you, then he’s pulling away and tugging his clothes off, pausing momentarily to lick the slick from his hand. 

 It’s only been a week since you saw his cock for the first time, but now that it’s about to be inside of you, it looks bigger. The length makes your stomach flip, well above average with a pretty little curve, but it’s his girth that makes your mouth water. 

 He gives himself a few strokes, precum seeping from his flushed tip, and it’s only when he’s lined up with your entrance that he asks, “Wait, do you want me to wear a condom?”

 You should say yes—should absolutely take a breather and get protection because you’re not on birth control, no need since Roland had a vasectomy long before you came into the picture—but you’re already here, splayed out and boiling from the inside out, so you tell him, “Just pull out, please, it’s fi—”

 You’re cut off when he pushes in, breaching that ring of muscle and making you hiss saliva back from your teeth. You’re plenty wet and well-stretched—Reiner is just–there’s so much of him. 

 Fortunately for you, he knows it and stays still. Even as you shift your hips and squeeze the head of his cock, all he does is shut his eyes and run his fingers down your body. You rock into him, taking him by the centimeter, wondering how you’ll fit every inch, but then he starts rubbing circles into your clit and after the initial clench of every muscle in your fucking body, you open up for him in full. 

 Legs spread, arousal leaks out of you and coats his cock, and your jaw drops as Reiner pushes in as far as he can, panting heavily while you moan beneath him. 

 His first thrusts are torturously slow, dragging his hips back then pressing them forward at a pace that makes you want to scream, but you need it. You need to get used to him because Reiner is filling you up in ways you never have been before. 

 Your husband—Jesus fuck, his father—isn’t the smallest, but Reiner outclasses him in every possible measurement. Your hole stretches around him and your walls mold to his shape, and as he finally picks up speed, you can’t even think straight. 

 “Ohfuck—oh—”

 “Feel good?” he teases, breaking into a groan when he glances down at your bouncing tits, unable to keep himself from attaching himself to one of them again. 

 You lock your ankles behind his back, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to pull him closer—pull him deeper, and when he snaps forward at a particular angle, you cry out and beg him to, “Keep doing that, right there, right there…”

 “Fuck—okay, I’ve got you—”

 Reiner fucks into you so perfectly, making your eyes roll and your toes curl. A smile breaks out on your face, and he must be watching from where he’s sucking down milk because he lets your nipple pop out of his mouth just so he can tell you, “Keep smiling like that, baby, so sweet for me, fuck, so good to me.”

 He slides his hands under you and scoops you up only to fall back with you in his lap, and it forces him further inside of you, the fat head of his cock kissing your cervix and making you choke. Reiner bounces you like that for some time, reaching up and groping you, admiring the way white leaks from your hard nipples and over the curves of your breasts. 

 Then, he’s sitting up and running his tongue over you, lapping up everything he can and growling, “You sure you want me to pull out?”

 You whimper in response. The idea of Reiner coming inside of you makes you throb around him, and he must feel you clench tightly because he groans and keeps going, “Could fuck a baby right into this perfect pussy, make you a real mommy…”

 “Fuck, Reiner!” 

 Even out of your mind like you are, you know you don’t want to get pregnant, but god dammit, the way he says it makes your body ache for him.

 Reaching down, you play with your clit, the position causing your arms to push your chest up, and Reiner busies himself with draining the rest of the milk from your tits, his grip on your hips unforgiving as he moves you to his will. 

 He’s been slamming into your g-spot since he pulled you on top of him, and you can sense pressure building inside of you, a bloated sort of feeling. It isn’t until Reiner tosses you on your back once again and folds you in half that the seal bursts and you start to squirt, soaking his pelvis as well as your own, the fluid dripping down your ass.

 Reiner swears and leans over you, pressing into you further as he rests some of his weight on your bent legs. You’re pinned underneath him, so full of cock you might gag on it. Sweat is beading at his hairline, his cheeks pink, lips red from being bitten, and as you stare up at him, you’re overcome with more emotion than you can process—he’s so handsome and so sweet, and you can tell he adores you, can see it even now in his lustful eyes. 

 He makes a desperate sound when you pull him down into a kiss, sloppy and heated as he drives himself into you over and over. 

 “I can do it,” he pants. “Just tell me you want it. You’d be so pretty—a fucking goddess, my fucking goddess—just let me fill you up with cum, please—”

 “Rei, you can’t,” you try, words thick, eyes teary from so much stimulation. His fingers find your clit again and you whine only for him to muffle it with another kiss. “I want you s-so—mm—so bad, but—”

 He nods, and when you crack an eye open you can see he’s squeezing his shut, brow furrowed as his hips start to stutter. 

 He’s close—so close and fighting it, and you reach behind his head to scratch his scalp the way he likes so much. Amber eyes finding yours, you try to smile, distracted by the flick of his fingers over your swollen clit. 

 “You can come anywhere else you want,” you huff. “Wherever—just not—”

 “I know,” he nods. “I know, I know.” 

 A groan rumbles from his chest but quickly dies off when his mouth opens, jaw sliding, and for one, terrifying second, you think he’s actually going to ignore your plea, but he pulls out all at once, leaving you devastatingly empty as he tugs your legs back down and swings one of his own over your hips. 

 He aims for your tits, stroking his wet cock like his life depends on it until he comes. Thick, hot lines paint your chest and even catch your lips and chin, the sheer volume of cum giving you the impression that yes, Reiner absolutely has the ability to fuck a baby into you—probably many of them—and your body reacts by making your cunt pulse. 

 Once he’s finished, Reiner drops to his forearms and slots his lips against yours, his cum smearing between your mouths and tongues. It’s filthy—you both are—but you don’t want to stop, least of all when he slips his fingers into your hole and starts pumping them back and forth. 

 “You gonna come again, sweetness?” he asks, hovering just over you and licking the mess from your lips.

 You nod, eyebrows knit together as you dig your heels into the cushion. You can feel it building, heat spreading up your legs, but it all disappears when Reiner pulls out to resituate himself between your thighs. 

 You suck in a huge breath when he shoves his fingers back inside, then another when he pulls your clit into his mouth. A similar pattern to when he plays with your nipples, Reiner sucks on your clit until your muscles seize up and you moan his name, squirt dripping into his palm as he fucks you through your orgasm.

 You feel utterly wrecked. Thoroughly fucked and covered in sweat and cum. You’re probably gonna have to clean the couch or, at the very least, flip the cushions until you can get the proper supplies. 

 Catching your breath, you try to calm down, fingers carding through damp, blond hair as Reiner kisses all over your thighs and pelvis. You feel the tilt of his head as he looks up at you, then hear a whispered expletive before he starts crawling up your body, eyes zeroed in on your tits.

 Glancing down, you laugh quietly when you find the tiniest bit of milk dribbling from your nipples again. You reach up to guide Reiner’s face to your chest, smiling lazily when he latches on to one and lets out a satisfied sigh. So quick to fall back into a more vulnerable state, he suckles and squeezes, eyelids drooping as you drip into his mouth and stroke through his hair.

 “Sweet boy,” you hum, tracing around his ears and down his neck. “You’re so sweet.” 

 The two of you have a lot to talk about, but for now you’re happy to bask in your afterglow, high off of hormones as you gaze down at Reiner and feel your heart swell for him. 

 ~ ~ ~ The bathwater is so warm, soothing Reiner’s aching muscles as he sits with his back to the porcelain and you against his chest. He’s honestly still a little sore from a couple days ago–it has been a while since he’s participated in physical activity of that sort, and he can feel it in his abs and thighs. 

 The two of you have acted as heavy pendulums the last forty-eight hours, swinging back and forth between desperate touches and quiet processing. There is pleasure and there is guilt, and then there is Reiner making it even more confusing by drinking from you and triggering who knows what (he knows what–it’s oxytocin, and it’s making you impossibly soft for him). 

 He would feel bad if he wasn’t down so bad, but fuck, the way you watch him when he helps you, how you come into his room late at night all bleary-eyed and tender–he can’t stop, and he doesn’t want to. 

 Now, soaking in the tub, he brushes his lips over your shoulder and murmurs, “What’s on your mind?” You’ve been silent for too long, and Reiner wants to know what’s going on in your head, if it’s anything he can help with.

 “Not much,” you sigh, shifting against him. “I think this is about to get a little more complicated, though.”

 “How so?”

 “Scheduling conflicts,” you say with a little laugh, and Reiner frowns because he doesn’t understand until you explain, “Pumping. Milk production increasing means I’m gonna have to find the time–”

 “We are gonna find the time,” he corrects, slow as he draws his hands out of the water to cup your tits, lightly thumbing over your nipples. 

 Reiner grins when you let out a tiny squeak, your hips jerking and causing ripples. He knows you’re trying to be serious, though, so he doesn’t tease any further, gently massaging your swollen breasts as you relax into him and continue.

 “Rei, you can’t be everywhere I am.”

 “Wanna bet?” he challenges with a snicker. “But, really, what are the alternatives besides stopping altogether?”

 “I guess just pumping at regular intervals like normal mothers do. It’s just like… do I just waste it?” Reiner’s stomach drops at the thought. “Can I give it away? Find some place to store it?”

 “Store it, please, for the love of god–”

 “What?” you giggle. “You just gonna, like, thaw it out and pour it in with your Raisin Bran? Fill a thermos and take it to your doctor appointments?”

 He retaliates by nipping at the shell of your ear and growling, “Maybe.”

 “You are…” You shake your head, laughing again when Reiner has to resituate the way his cock is pressing against your back. “So strange.”

 “It’s endearing, though, right?” 

 “Unfortunately,” you answer, feigning annoyance. 

 He sinks back into the ceramic, resuming the mindful kneading that pulls the occasional little moan from you. Reiner could do this all day. All day and night. Being this close, making you feel good in the most basic way. 

 A few minutes later, you speak up again, a meek, “Rei?”

 “Hm?”

 “Do you… the other day when we were–and you were about to… do you actually wanna get me pregnant?”

 “Oh, uh–” He was wondering when you might bring this up. Truth is, he doesn’t really know where that came from. “Short answer is no…?”

 You tilt your head to get an off-kilter view of his face and frown. “Why do you sound so unsure?”

 “‘Cause, like…” Reiner sighs, rests his head against the tile behind him and tries to get his thoughts in order. “I don’t want kids. Just–I don’t. They would be irreparably fucked up, like–... No.”

 “Okay, but?”

 “But…” He slides one of his hands down to lay on your stomach, stroking over it with his fingertips and quietly confessing, “The idea of not only getting to come inside you but then watching you get fat with my baby–”

 You inhale sharply, lips parted but unmoving, and despite the way he’s getting hard, Reiner feels the need to clarify, “I don’t want kids. But, the fantasy is nice.”

 “So, it’s just a sex thing. It’s not, like, you legitimately wanting–”

 “Yeah, no, I’m not gonna baby-trap you or anything,” he chuckles. “It’s just my fuckin’ lizard brain.”

 “Instinct to breed,” you joke, but it makes Reiner’s grip tighten on you, teeth scraping against your shoulder.

 “Can’t just say shit like that,” he grumbles. “I am a very simple, very stupid man, okay?”

 “You are not,” you laugh. “Everyone has their thing.” There’s a pause, and then your voice drops a bit when you add, “And, it’s sweet in a twisted sorta way.”

 “Hm?”

 “That you think I’d be… pretty like that.”

 “So fucking pretty,” he agrees, pressing his face into your neck. “And, I don’t care what you say, you’d be so good at it–” he mouths over your pulse point, whispers, “–such a good mommy.”

 Reiner hears you breathe deeply, pushing yourself into his hand, and he squeezes one of your nipples until a line of milk squirts from it.

 He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to seeing it, white fluid dripping down into the water–your tits so full for him, fuck–

 “You about ready to pump?”

 You nod, and Reiner helps maneuver you until you’re facing him and straddling his thigh. It’s nearly ritualistic now, the way he wraps his lips around your hardened bud and sucks. There is no difficulty in pulling milk to the surface, sweetness hitting his tongue and rolling down his throat. He can feel some of it dripping from your other breast, running down his hand, and when he squeezes more out, you whine and rock your hips forward, rubbing your cunt over the muscle of his leg.

 Reiner grunts and flexes, doesn’t understand his own need to be taken care of while wanting nothing more than to take care of you instead. He wants you to feed him, wants you to coddle him, and stroke his hair, and at the same time, he wants to hold you close and dote on you, reassure you over and over that he’s got you, he loves–

 Once you’re drained on one side, Reiner moves to the other, breathing heavily, matching the way your hips are moving and making water slosh over the side of the tub. His cock is straining against his stomach, no friction to be found until you take pity on him and wrap your fingers around him. 

 Both of you growing desperate, Reiner fucks up into your hand while you rub against his thigh like an animal in heat, and the whole time, he remains attached to you, sucking you down until you come on his thigh and leak your last bit of milk straight into his mouth. A few more strokes and he’s bucking and spilling all over your hand, the two of you stilling save for the steady rise and fall of your chests as the water washes away the mess.

 It takes several minutes and a lot of effort, but eventually the two of you are able to drain the tub and stand up, the new spray of the shower getting rid of any excess suds or fluids. 

 Reiner watches you towel off, tries to keep his hands to himself as you bend over to dry your legs, and he does a good job doing so, but he breaks when you start to blow dry your hair–on full display, and he can’t help but press up against you. You don’t seem to mind, just smile at him in the mirror and occasionally blow hot air in his face. 

 You change into jean shorts and a soft v-neck, and Reiner guesses the padded bra you put on offers more support than the ones made of t-shirt material you used to wear. He could offer even more support, but that’s irrelevant. 

 “Hey, while you’re getting dressed, think about what you want for dinner,” you tell him as he makes his way to the staircase, towel wrapped around his waist. 

 “Why?” he looks over his shoulder at you. “I just ate.”

 The way you squint at him makes Reiner laugh loudly, your unimpressed, “Har har,” falling on deaf ears as he pats himself on the back for his awful joke. 

 “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

 He jogs up to his room and tugs on a shirt and some sweatpants, pauses to reply to a couple text messages, then gallops back down to help you cook a meal neither of you have decided on.

 “I have some shredded chicken ready to go, so what… pasta? Some kind of buffalo chicken dish?”

 “Oh, I’m down for buffalo chicken,” Reiner nods, opening the pantry and asking, “Sides?”

 He works with you like he has many times before, moving around each other, trading places, poking fun and laughing, and Reiner thinks that this is how it should be, isn’t it–this easy joy that just comes so natural to him when he’s around you. Is this what normal people feel all the time? Is life easier for them because they found what brings them this kind of happiness? Did he even have a chance before meeting you?

 “Alright, your dad should be home soon,” you say, washing your hands, “and until then we can just watch something.”

 Reiner is fine with that but not before tugging you close and kissing you. He needs to get it out of his system since, for the next few hours, he’ll have to act like he doesn’t want every part of you every minute.

 Your fingers curl in his shirt, and you stand on your tiptoes and press into him like it’s exactly where you want to be. It’s where you should be, Reiner thinks, and if he had the means he would make it so, convince you to pick up your life and run away with him like a couple of dumb kids.

 That’s not possible, though, so for now he’ll just have to do what he can to show you how much he cares for you–how much he loves you because fuck, it is a lot. 

 Roland gets home and goes about his evening routine of kicking off shoes and loosening his tie. When he bends to kiss you, Reiner looks away and runs his tongue over his teeth, waiting for the two of you to break apart before he gets up and helps you bring food to the table. 

 Chit-chat about the restaurant takes over, two cooks almost getting into a fight, how incompetent the hosts are, and Reiner wonders why his father does it if it’s all so tiresome, but then Roland begins talking about the birthday party that came in and the way everyone was laughing and cheering when the servers performed their little celebration song. 

 “Girl couldn’t have been older than thirteen, and you could see how embarrassed she was–” he chuckles.

 “At that age, having that many people looking at you is mortifying,” you add, and Reiner agrees. He doesn’t even know if he could handle a restaurant full of people staring at him at this age. 

 “Yeah, well, even with her hands covering her face, I could see her smiling, so… I think she had fun. Definitely seemed happy about the big slice of cake I brought out.”

 “As she should be, that cake is so good,” you say wistfully.

 Roland laughs, reminding you, “You can have it any time you want, honey, you’re the one who told me to stop bringing it home.”

 Reiner watches the two of you go back and forth, you claiming you had to stop because you were gaining weight and Roland insisting he didn’t care, and then Reiner watches as his dad’s gaze dips to your chest, and he has to bite his tongue. 

 “I mean, you look great now. I don’t know what it is, but your tits are–”

 “Roland!” you shout, going wide eyed and stiff, and even Reiner’s cheeks heat up.

 “What? I’m just trying to say they’re bigger, and if the cake will make them even–”

 “Would you–! Your son is right here!”

 Reiner just tries to hide his grin, gathering his empty plate and standing up. “Yeah, I’m just gonna…”

 “He doesn’t mind talking about it, do you, Reiner?” Roland calls out, voice airy with laughter.

 “I mean, I’m a guy–” who has spent an absolutely inordinate amount of time playing with those tits, “–so, no, I don’t mind, but uh…” 

 At the sink, he looks up and levels his gaze with yours, smiles at the way you’re crossing your arms over your chest and pouting. 

 “I don’t wanna embarrass you or anything,” he finishes, winking at you before turning the water on and rinsing his dishes. 

 Roland resumes his light-hearted teasing, making sure to tell you that he loves everything about your body and all kinds of bullshit Reiner has to tune out, but it’s easy to ignore.

 Because Roland doesn’t really know shit, does he? He doesn’t know exactly how perfect your body is. He hasn’t seen the way it can nurture someone, and he doesn’t know the way you taste. Not like Reiner does. 

 If you’d asked him when he was younger what he wanted to be when he grew up, Reiner would have given all stupid answers–athlete, musician, soldier. Dreams of a child.

 But, now he is grown, and if asked again, he would say that he just wants to be happy. He wants to be happy, and he wants to be happy with you. 

[lady-eny]

Levihanween Day 2: Disguise/Costume @levihan-drabbles​

Some Tags: Smut, Friends to Lovers, First Time, Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, l Fluff, Mutual Pining Summary:

Levi accepts to be Hange's costume partner for Halloween, but these costumes have a peculiarity: they seem to fire and uncover some secret desires.

“I…” Hange says, voice a little raw. “I want this. Don’t stop.”

[harukaprism]

Attack on Titan

Scouts

Military Police

[cutepatzie]

Credits to: @erwinsmisu @wonderlandweird @tricter-jake-english

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

      OUR FUTURE WILL BE A BRIGHT ONE: CHAPTER TWO 

                            eremika soulmates through time modern au                                   

                                                (  ao3/ff.net )

GIGIL

FILIPINO, a physical response – like trembling or blushing – to the situation that overwhelms your self-control

i used to wish upon the stars, the toys I once adored

forgotten now, are rolling ‘round the corners of the floor

finally, my dreams have counted up to one hundred today

someday, I’ll trade them all for just this very one

it’s really not bad trying something new every once in a while

especially if I can do it with you by my side

RADWIMPS - nanadenomaya

Destined. Promised. Twin flames. Joined souls.

Soulmates.

So many names for the one phenomenon that goes beyond human understanding and rational thought; wild force, exhilarating and powerful like a tornado. A seed of magic planted in the solid ground of reality.

The scientists, of course, try to rationalize it. It’s a simple thing, basically, they say. If the pair of souls was born and reborn time and time again near each other if two people have met and fallen in love and shared lives together multiple times, if, against all laws of probability, they found themselves through time and space, it just has to create a bond. A bond that becomes stronger and stronger each time they have to part ways – a bond that, after centuries,  transforms from something alike to spiritual connection into a physical pull. As simple and as complex as that.

But this explanation doesn’t cover everything and certainly doesn’t stay true to the magic of it all. Legends and stories fill in the gaps in scientific logic ; mothers tell their kids that the pain of the first meeting is the pain of all the times they had to say goodbye to each other, school children whisper and giggle about how the heat of touch is all the passion and desire soulmates had for each other in all their lives. Not everyone is blessed like that, but those that are, add even more to the whole mystery; watching a pair of bonded soulmates is a strange experience, as they always seem to exist in a different universe, in their shared bubble build on secret smiles and subtle touches.

As a kid, Eren always wondered; will he be able to read someone’s mind? How is it possible, to just meet someone and bam! they’re yours forever? Holy shit, will they share thoughts, will they talk to each other without opening their mouths?

He would spend hours playing in the summer heat with his best friend Armin and just talk about it. They would imagine a thousand of possible “first meeting” scenarios per minute, wondering how it would look like, feel like. Armin would bring his parents’ heavy scientific books and read them to Eren, patiently explaining all the complicated terminology and then they would tell each other fairy tales, rationality and magic and wonder blending into one.

It all sounded just so cool and unimaginable, no matter how many times his mother tried to cool down his enthusiasm.

“It’s not all sunshine,” she warned him, time and time again as soon as he started babbling about wanting to meet them now. ” It’s not as easy as it sounds. This desire to protect someone, to be by somebody’s side, this can be more destructive than anything else in the world. “

And of course, he didn’t listen. Why would he?

He couldn’t wait to meet them. He couldn’t wait to get to know them. He couldn’t wait to remember their past lives.

Mikasa, on the other hand, never quite believed in the notion of soulmates, no matter her having one. It was… bizarre. And she couldn’t understand why somebody would want that. Surely, normal relationships aren’t anything worse or less. Where is privacy, where is a place for little, intimate secrets when the other person can read your emotions like a book wide open?

Around the age of eight, the perspective started to scare the shit out of her.

One evening, perched up on a kitchen stool, she quietly asked her father how she can check if she even has a soulmate and he ruffled her hair affectionately and told her there’s no way to do that, that that’s something you don’t even know you’ve lost until you’ve found it. That some people are born with this ache, but it’s so constant that they become numb to it and just simply live their lives like everyone. That they are not aware that they’re drenched in gasoline until they cross eyes with that other person and touch their skin and catch on fire.

“Why eyes?” she asked then, even diligent, and he kneeled down in front of her.

“The eyes are a door to your soul,” he told her. “The skin turns lighter or darker, freckles and birthmarks disappear and rearrange. Sex changes, hair becomes blonde as the sun or dark as the night. Even your character transforms, your little quirks and interests and the way you talk. But eyes? Those never change. At least that’s what I heard.”

And his face darkened a bit and she is reminded that he and her mother were not destined, that he had no memory of any previous lives, that he didn’t remember eyes of any other woman or man from his past. And so she wrapped her arms around his neck to cheer him up but the anger burned in her stomach; why did he long for a soulmate? Wasn’t her Ma enough? How was his life somehow lackluster because he was not cursed with burning in pain every time he touched his wife?

And so Mikasa decided, right there and then that she would never have a soulmate. Period.

…

The reality, of course, caught her off-guard, her usual self-control gone and forgotten. Where is her unflinching gaze and calm demeanor when she needs it? Where are her silent goals not to fall prey to the whole soulmates nonsense, fall in love in a normal way, stay Just Mikasa, without any added past lives and pain and a person that would suddenly appear in her life and would expect to stay in it forever?

Beside him, she can hardly walk straight. The whole world is spinning in front of her eyes, she feels as if she had a dangerously high fever and she’s afraid she may not be able to find a way to the apartment in which she’s been living for the past three years. His mere presence is just intoxicating; this physical pull towards him, pain piercing through her every time she as much as steal a glance at him.

This want.

But before she can dive head first into the ocean of shame, she starts to wonder, if all those strange feelings are really hers. As the pair of them quietly makes their way through the streets, she begins untangling them; slowly and methodically, ignoring her racing heart and sweaty palms.

Wait. Stop. This is mine. And this is not.

With a wave of surprise, she realizes that although the boy beside her – the one that keeps staring at her and can’t stop smiling, the one that not only trips over his feet but he also skips cheerfully every few steps – this boy wants her too. Just as badly as she does. That she makes him dizzy, that she takes his breath away.  He leans closer and closer to her side, and he seems to do it unconsciously. The warmth simply radiates from him; all the enthusiasm and curiosity. Yes, he doesn’t seem half as troubled and lost as she does, probably, she concludes, because he’s a way more adventurous person than she is, but make no mistake, Mikasa; he may be the smoother one in this situation, but it doesn’t mean  he doesn’t feel the same things you do.

Because he does. She knows it. Eren’s desire burns right along hers and somehow, instead of making her even more flustered, it comforts her somehow.  

Her place really is near and soon enough they leave the freezing wind outside and the matching rhythm of their steps echoes on the empty staircase of her apartment building; Eren steals glances at brick walls and peeling paint, and the obvious lack of elevator. He’s mostly just surprised; Mikasa, in her nice black coat and leather boots looks more like someone living in one of those modern, glass-and-steel skyscrapers in the center, rather than downtown, in a building that has probably seen a huge chunk of last century.

They climb ten floors in silence interrupted only by Eren’s silent wheezing every few seconds, at which Mikasa hides her smile under the scarf.

“Well, no shit you’re so fit, ” he says when they reach the top of the staircase. He sounds slightly winded and he’s clutching on the railing, sending her a grin.

“How do you know if I’m fit?” She turns her back on him, fiddling with keys and fighting blush.

He’s about to say something along the lines of: “Because you just went all the way up like it was nothing” but she adds:

“You haven’t even seen me without these clothes on.”

‘Yet’ hangs in the dead silence that follows, the single word so heavy that it almost turns into a physical being, into a third person standing in between them.

She yelps – and his heart skips because how adorable – and covers her mouth with both hands, keys slipping from her fingers and falling on the floor. And he just clutches on the railing even tighter and simply bursts into laughter, because how could he not?

“For a moment you got me there, that was smooth, I’ll give you that,”  he manages to utter.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, leaning her forehead against the wood of the doors. “Oh my god. It wasn’t supposed to sound like that. “

His fit of laughter lasts for a few more minutes before he senses some kind of uncomfortable buzzing under his skin; it’s like an itch, only more burning and unpleasant. He raises his head up to look at Mikasa and realizes that she’s still standing frozen with her face pressed to the door, slightly flinching each time she hears him laugh.

Oh god, she’s really not the joking type, is she?

“Oi, Mikasa,” he says quietly, straightening up and taking a few steps closer to her. “Hey, I get what you meant, okay? Don’t get all worked up about it. “

Before his brain can process his actions, he places a hand in-between her shoulder blades, his fingers gently patting her back.

She shivers slightly underneath his touch and all the blood in his body seems to flood his brain and buzz in his head.

“Sorry,” comes her muffled response. “I don’t know – how to deal with all of this.”

When she turns around to face him, she is greeted by the sight of his loop-sided grin.

“That actually makes two of us, you know?”

She does, actually, know this. Under the layer of good humor, she can sense the nervousness in him; can see it in the way he licks his lips and scratches the back of his neck every few seconds. And so she nods with a small smile dancing on her lips.

“Let’s go and warm up then, okay?”

Her apartment is small and so disgustingly clean that he cannot help but feel ashamed when he thinks about his own flat; Armin’s books and notes thrown haphazardly on the kitchen table, Jean’s unreal amount of hair products taking every free inch of space in the bathroom and his - well –stuff pretty much everywhere.

Mikasa’s place has none of that. The walls are all painted white and there’s not a single smudge on the cream-colored carpet laying on the floor, nor a wrinkle on the curtains obscuring the window. It should feel clinical and cold, this overwhelming sea of whiteness, but it doesn’t; somehow, despite being so pristine, the apartment feels strangely intimate.

It’s clearly a space that she spends much time in and there are traces of this domesticity  everywhere he looks – in a neat row of cacti on the shelf by the window, in a collection of beautiful, black-and-white photographs adorning the walls, in a bunch of chipped mugs by the kitchen sink and in a warm-looking blanket cocoon in the armchair.

“You want something to drink, maybe?” Mikasa asks politely, gently setting his red scarf on the shelf by the door, her other hand outstretched as she waits patiently for him to hand her his jacket.

He flinches, realizing he has spent the last few minutes standing in the middle of her living room and gawking, leaving traces of melting snow all over her floor.

“I- um, sure, sorry. “ He tugs on the zipper sloppily, eyeing with horror the ever-growing pool of dirty snow water near his boots. ”Shit, I‘m so sorry, let me mop this up, wow, you have it so clean in here, I just- sorry -“

Suddenly, he hears a snort and looks up at her and- is she smirking?

Sure, it’s subtle and barely-there (seems she has regained some control over her facial expressions) but still, the smirk is there and what’s more, he can feel her amusement across the bond.

“Forgive me.” She sends him a small grin. “You looked so horrified. Don’t worry, let me put on a kettle for some tea and we’ll clean it up.”

She hesitantly reaches out and pats his shoulder, her eyes sparkling with humor.

Somewhere, on the back of his mind, he realizes that’s the first time she initiated the contact between them, but most of his brain is basking in the feeling of her fingers touching his skin through the thin material of his shirt.

The warmth. The warmth.

He’s sinking in it, bathing in it almost; he probably looks like a goddamn idiot staring at her with the goofiest smile and puppy eyes but he just fucking can’t help himself.

Mikasa unlaces her boots and puts them by door; she orders him to do the same and, as Eren watches her rummaging through the kitchen (a braided crown of black tresses slightly undone; the straight line of her spine underneath her blouse as she leans down; her long, long legs gracefully moving her from one place to another) he feels something blooming in his chest; something new and hesitant and small, but maybe even more powerful than a lightning strike on the street half an hour ago.

[simphellscape]

damage control // apologies // next | tw: none

(a/n): see i worked on it! i know there are several people out there who requested to be on the tag list for this way back in the day, but i’m not sure who’s still active and interested. just starting from scratch for that. so if you wanna be tagged lmk!

[genosauce-colada]

It’s finally up! You can read the first two chapters of my first ever fan fiction! It’s a High School AU where the Survey Corps is instead a struggling theater program. It’s a Jeankasa fic, were the two get leading rolls and end up bonding through out the school year. I’d like to thank @degeo-eitux for her amazing support. I hope you guys enjoy it. <3

[shingeki-no-killme]

Chapter 26

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Explicit Pairing: Reibert Additional Tags: Reincarnation AU, College AU, Modern AU, and they were roommates, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, bisexual!Bert, Fluff, Mild Angst, Fluff and Smut, Explicit Language, CamBoy!Bertholdt, Spoilers up to and including current SnK chapters, Awkward Sexual Situations, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Awkward Dates, Awkward Conversations, Fluff and Smut, smoking, recreational drug use, drinking, dick piercings, Roommates, Reiner and Ymir are bros, they look out for each other

Summary: A timely coincidence reunites Reiner and Bertholdt, two childhood friends who had fallen out of touch after middle school. They quickly find themselves infatuated with each other and although they attempt to ignore their mutual feelings, their situation seems to be nothing less than perfect. Will they be able to maintain this seemingly perfect reality? Or will it all come crumbling down when details of a past life begin to emerge?

I’ll be adding more tags as I add chapters but make sure to read chapter notes for specifics. Updates on Saturdays. :)

Chapter Summary: Reiner tries to figure out why he's been feeling so weird lately

[genosauce-colada]

One of the best jeankasa works I've ever read...

For @imperfecteclipse who wanted to know what happened before this. 

What Was Lost

Jeankasa. Reincarnation AU. 

3210 words.

She hates waking up. It’s always the worst part because her dreams, whether good or bad, always leave her with a hollow feeling in her chest when she leaves them.

Most people insist that you don’t remember your dreams. Maybe just a fraction of them, but you’re supposed to forget them once you wake up. Mikasa remembers every one of them in vivid detail and at times she doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse.

Keep reading

[cutepatzie]

Credits to: @wonderlandweird and @trixter-jake-english

[housewarningparty]

Drown Me Out (Pt 1/?)

Basically, I'm just sitting here listening to Pity Sex and desperately wishing I had more to contribute to the SNK fanfic community.

But, I don't, so have weird Ymir/Christa modern AU snippet with no real background or context, kthxbai

Also, I'm brand new at tumblr so if I'm doing something terribly wrong, please tell me so!

Drown Me Out (Pt 1/?)

Word Count: 1922

Rating: T (brief language)

Summary: “Okay, but like, exactly how certain are you that he’s your dad anyway?” Ymir jabbed the tip of her socked foot into Christa’s side. “Because, I mean, you at least didn’t inherit his shit fashion sense. Or bigotry. And he’s way uglier than you.”

“...and as such, I will be temporarily stepping down from my position within the church, effective immediately, so I can begin to rebuild the trust with my family that I have so shamefully broken. Thank you.”

The room exploded in chatter, reporters shouting questions over one another as the man on the screen turned away from the podium and began to shepherd his family off stage.

“Mr. Reiss, several other women have stepped up with claims that they also carried on a sexual relationship with you. How will you address these accusations?”

“I’m afraid this concludes the statement from Pastor Reiss this evening,” a different man swept in from the side of the stage and spoke into the microphone on the podium. “Tomorrow, Walls of Faith church leadership will be convening another conference to discuss the state of the church...”

The camera cut away to a panel of well dressed pundits as they prepared to dissect every excruciating minutiae of the pastor’s personal life. Christa turned off the television before they could begin. Her neck felt hot, her chest felt tight, and for some reason her eyes burned like she almost wanted to cry.

“Man, did you see his tie? He must be really devout or some shit, because it’s a miracle that a guy that dresses that poorly could get anyone to fuck him.”

Christa jumped, startled. Ymir had been so uncharacteristically quiet during the press conference that Christa had forgotten she’d been there. When the older girl’s words registered in her mind, she frowned.

“Can you not, right now?” she grumbled half-heartedly. Watching the press conference had been a bad idea. Her heart was beating too fast, and her skin felt too tight, and her stomach twisted unpleasantly the more she thought about the carefully blank faces of her father’s family as they stood dutifully behind him.

“Sorry,” Ymir mumbled. The couch shifted next to her and then Ymir’s legs were across her lap, their weight a comforting burden.

It had been hardest to look at his wife.

Christa had always imagined that it would be seeing his other children that would unnerve her most, but that hadn’t been the case. They were older than her, three boys and a girl. Three of them had stood with their own spouses and children, faces carefully neutral throughout the entire ordeal. Christa thought that having families of their own must have made it easier to cope.

His wife hadn’t had that particular luxury.

She was as beautiful and brittle looking, like a spun glass figurine. Lips pulled to a tight pink slash against her pale face. Her brown hair styled immaculately to fall across her shoulders just so, makeup meticulously applied, clothes regal and well-fitting. She was older than Christa’s mother -- much older. But the lines that creased her face made her look elegant instead of frail. She looked like a woman that might have been proud once, a woman that might have loved her husband.

The pastor himself looked much the same as when Christa last saw him; a little grayer, a little more weary.

Seeing him speak so earnestly about how much he regretted his mistakes made her feel hot and sick.

“Okay, but like, exactly how certain are you that he’s your dad anyway?” Ymir jabbed the tip of her socked foot into Christa’s side. “Because, I mean, you at least didn’t inherit his shit fashion sense. Or bigotry. And he’s way uglier than you.”

“God, Ymir,” Christa sighed incredulously. She shoved Ymir’s legs off her lap and shot up from the couch, heading toward the kitchen.

“Hey, I’m serious,” Ymir called after her. “Your dad is basically an angry looking potato! And you’re like, three times hotter than your mom, so biologically speaking it doesn’t make sense. You should be at a hotness deficit. Unless you’ve got some smokin’ grandparents tucked away somewhere that I haven’t seen photos of but-”

“You are such a dick,” Christa complained, with no venom to match the harshness of her words. She felt Ymir’s hand on her shoulder and let herself be turned around.

“Look, I take it back, alright?” Ymir’s voice was low, sincere. “He looks more severely constipated than angry. A really, really fuckin’ backed up potato.”

Christa snorted, falling forward until her forehead rested on Ymir’s collar bone. She felt Ymir suck in a quick breath and tense up and wondered, briefly, if this was one of Ymir’s bad days, until she felt her friend’s hand come up to hover awkwardly above her shoulder before settling gently against her back.

“Hey,” Ymir whispered. “Wanna go get shitfaced?”

x.x.x.x

There was something Christa found weirdly soothing about lying on a bench in the park drinking beer and watching her best friend continuously fail at heel flips.

“Sonofabitch,” Ymir hissed around a cigarette, landing on the bottom of the deck again. She shuffled back and flipped the board over, a little wobbly from the alcohol.

It was the rhythmic nature of the thing, Christa decided, taking a long swallow from one of the 40s Ymir’s roommate had bought for them. Try, fail, repeat. And every time, the same reaction - Ymir would grumble a curse, or complain that her board was broken, and then she would do it again, like she expected something different to happen.

“Fuck,” Ymir shouted as she fell back on her ass, skateboard scraping noisily away from her. Christa winced in sympathy as Ymir moaned and rolled over in the dirt, rubbing her tailbone pitifully.

“You okay?” she called out, feeling too lethargic to haul herself off of the bench to go see for herself.

“Nooo,” Ymir slurred. “I bit my fuckin’ cigarette in half.”

Or maybe the whole experience had less to do with the futility of human endeavor and more to do with the fact that drunk people shouldn’t be allowed on skateboards.

Ymir limped back to the bench and sat down gingerly on the ground in front of Christa, rolling her neck back until her ponytail just brushed Christa’s sweater.

“Hey,” Christa whispered, reaching over and tugging Ymir’s hair gently.

“Hey,” Ymir mumbled back, staring forlornly at the still burning, mangled cigarette between her fingers. Her palms were scraped raw and bloody, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Jeez, Ymir, what’d you do to yourself?” Christa sighed, forcing herself into a sitting position and grabbing Ymir’s bicep. She pulled hard until Ymir sighed and dragged herself onto the bench too. “Put that down,” Christa ordered, flicking the cigarette away.

“Hey,” Ymir protested, voice cracking a little when Christa grabbed her wrists and pulled Ymir’s hands into her lap. “Those are expensive.”

“There are cheaper ways to kill yourself,” Christa pointed out, spreading open Ymir’s clenched fists to get a  better look at the damage to her palms.

“Like booze?” Ymir nudged the bottle at their feet, making it scrape noisily across the concrete.

Christa blushed. “Shut up,” she ordered. “Or I won’t help you and your hands will get all gross and infected because you have horrible hygiene.”

“Whatever. Maybe they’ll get amputated and I’ll get rad replacements. Like, robot hands or lobster claws. Then who’ll be the idiot?”

Christa smiled, despite herself. “Shush,” she whispered as she gently brushed the dirt and pebbles out of the shallow abrasions to the heel of Ymir’s palms.

Ymir had nice hands. As much as Ymir had nice anything, anyway. Big, strong, long-fingered and surprisingly dexterous. Her knuckles were knobby and a little crooked from the times she had broken them, fingertips calloused and rough in a way that was embarrassingly attractive. Ymir’s nails were always either bitten to jagged tips or caked black with some unidentifiable grossness. Her hands were warm and they looked nice tonight, in Christa’s lap, twitching just a little as Christa touched them.

She felt heat rise up the back of her neck as she realized she’d just spent several long moments staring silently at Ymir’s hands without doing anything. Christa glanced up slowly, brushing the last of the dirt away from Ymir’s bloody palms as she met her friend’s eyes.

“So, is your mom going to come forward?” Ymir blurted, utterly shattering the moment.

“What?” Christa asked, pulling her hands away.

“I, uh, heard the tabloids offer sweet cash deals for shit like that,” Ymir continued, fidgeting on the bench. “Y’know, for exclusives. This church scandal’s gonna be hot shit for a while, so...”

“Oh,” Christa swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat. “I have no idea, really.”

“Oh.”

Christa tucked a lock of hair nervously behind her ear. “I hope she doesn’t. I mean, I don’t think she will. She’s already been paid off, so, I mean, she probably won’t want to get involved.”

“They’re saying he had some other kids with his... anyway-”

It’s a little absurd that for all her bluntness and casual vulgarity that Ymir couldn’tt bring herself to say it.

“-like, would you want to meet them or something?”

Christa grabbed the 40 from the ground and drained it with a single long swallow, not caring that it had gone flat. She rolled the empty bottle between her palms and stared down at the peeling paint of the park bench, thinking about the expressionless line of blonde automatons standing sentinel at her father’s back.

“No,” she admitted, wincing at the feeble tone of her voice. She cleared her throat, and shook her head as if to dislodge her own self-doubt. “I’m tired. Let’s get out of here.”

x.x.x.x

Ymir was squatting at a punk house in the Trost. It was about as far away from Christa’s home in the gated community of Sina Heights as one could get, both literally and figuratively. Standing on the roof of Ymir’s place you could see the crumbled remains of buildings just at the edge of the old Shiganshina district -- the only part of the city that had never been rebuilt after the horrific earthquake.

It was a bad neighborhood, but Christa honestly preferred it to Sina Heights. She didn’t dare say it aloud, it sounded like the kind of thought a privileged asshole might have. It was one thing to enjoy the “character” of a poor neighborhood when you had the luxury of a warm bed and a full belly whenever it suited you, it was something entirely different to be stuck in the Trost because wealth disparity had literally divided the city.

Still, the people here were honest in a way that Sina Heights residents couldn’t fathom, and it was a relief not to have to play the part of the debutante for a while.

She felt Ymir’s pinky brush against the side of her hand before it locked around her finger.

“You awake?” she asked pointlessly, breaking free of the pinky lock to grasp Ymir’s hand more completely.

It was a warm night and Ymir had a resting body temperature of, like, a thousand degrees but Christa inched slightly closer anyway. It felt nice to be close to someone.

She felt Ymir’s nod through the pillow they shared.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “For today.”

Silence filled the room for several long moments and Christa wondered if Ymir had fallen asleep.

“Shut up already,” Ymir whispered back, squeezing Christa’s hand affectionately before pulling away and rolling onto her side. “I’m trying to sleep.”

When Ymir’s breathing evened out, Christa eased against her back, pressing her forehead between Ymir’s shoulder blades. The sound of distant sirens carried her to sleep.

Part 2

[simphellscape]

processing // losing all of it // next | tw: cursing, suicide mention, violence mention

A tense silence fills Armin’s Prius, so much so that he’s actually struggling to breathe. In the time since the worst meeting he’s had in his career, he’s had to stoop to some pretty low places. Having Eren disregard his apology was tough, but this car ride has been excruciating.

No one has heard from Eren in four days. Of course, Armin knew something like this would happen soon after their meeting, but he was hoping it would just be him that was left out in the cold. Unfortunately for him, Jean, Mikasa, and Connie were also a part of that and, naturally, became concerned for their friend. Which leads him to this moment: the band members shifting in their seats and Armin suffocating under their gazes.

Jean breaks the silence: “You promised us an explanation, man.”

“I-I know, just.. give me a second”

Armin inhales deeply. He wishes he had a screen to protect him like last time.

He spends the next several minutes explaining the worst idea he’s ever had. It’s reflex, robotic, and emotionless. It’s how he survives the shame.

He glances in the rear view mirror periodically throughout. The disappointment on Mikasa and Connie’s faces is plain. Unignorable. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see every sigh Jean lets pass his lips, even if the sound doesn’t quite make it to his ears. Yes, this is remarkably worse for him than last time. Yes, he knows he deserves it.

“I can’t believe that you trust us that little, Armin,” Mikasa mutters.

“It’s not that, I—“

“But it is, man,” Connie interjects, “If you did, you’d let us help you.”

“That’s definitely why Eren’s so pissed,” Jean sighs.

“What I don’t get is why he’s so upset with us,” Mikasa mumbles.

Armin can tell that Eren’s vow of silence has bothered her most. Based on the angry red rings around her eyes, she’s worried. Perhaps for his life.

When they arrive, Eren’s apartment is dark. There are Amazon packages on the stoop. It’s clear that no one has been in or out for a while. Shuffling up the walkway, Armin’s heart beats ever faster, afraid of what lies behind the door. He has never faced a consequence so daunting before.

Jean knocks on the door three times in rapid succession. They wait, praying for some sign of life. Nothing happens.

Jean sighs and tries the doorknob. Surprisingly, it’s not locked. They tiptoe across the living room, wordless.

Eren’s bedroom looks as though a bomb went off inside of it. There are bits of paper, torn and crumpled, strewn across nearly every surface. Splintered drumsticks litter the floor, and so do the remains of Eren’s cell phone. It’s clear he demolished it, it’s possible it was with his own two hands. Everyone’s eyes scan the room, finally landing on Eren’s bed. He lays there, face down.

Mikasa’s breath shudders as she nudges Jean forward into the room.

He clears his throat.

“Eren? Hey bro, you alright?”

A pillow flies across the room, landing squarely on Jean’s chest.

“Get out,” Eren asserts, voice muffled by his mattress.

“Really? Armin told us everything, he said he’s sorry, so just—“

“Oh, yeah, Armin’s sorry! Everything is just fine now because Armin’s sorry.”

Eren, now sitting up in his bed, looks terrible. His hands, cut and bruised, toss his comforter to the floor. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead. Bloodshot eyes, wide with fury, scan the posse of people standing at his door. With every heave of his chest, the smell of alcohol wafts closer to their noses.

“Oh, fantastic, you’re here too,” he mutters in Armin’s direction.

“I am sorry, Eren, for the record,” Armin adds, shakily.

Eren rolls his eyes.

“I don’t believe you, and it’s way too late for you to be sorry.”

He regards everyone, his expression unchanging.

“I quit. Find a new drummer, and go home.”

“You don’t mean that,” Mikasa stammers, through freshly brewed tears.

“I do, I really do.”

“So you were just gonna ghost your best friends instead of telling us you didn’t wanna be in the band anymore? That’s mature,” Jean fumes.

“We thought you were dead!” Mikasa cries.

“If you guys were my best friends, then maybe you would have noticed I was miserable enough to kill myself a little sooner.”

“Are you serious? You think we didn’t notice?,” Mikasa takes a breath to steady herself, “We thought that making more music would fix that.”

Eren stares at her, so intensely that she starts to shrink underneath his gaze.

“Nothing would make me happier than never seeing any of you again. Fucking traitors.”

With that, he returns to laying face down on his bed. The band shares a look — dumbfounded and heartbroken. All of them know how impossible it is to change Eren’s mind. In tandem, they leave his apartment, lifeless and defeated.

He’s not so sure about everyone else, but Armin can practically see his future crumbling in real time. It was once so bright and clear, but now it is nothing but darkness. He knew he would lose something today. He knew his pride was long lost. His relationship with this band, their trust in him, and his standing in the industry, hangs in the balance. Losing Eren, however, is losing his life. It’s losing all of it.

“Armin.”

Mikasa interrupts his mental flogging. All he can do is look at her.

“Do you still have (y/n)’s number?” she asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“I think we should give her a call.”

She’s right. If there’s anyone left who would get through to him, it’s (y/n).

He immediately fishes his phone out of his pocket and begins to dial.

“Put it on speaker,” she adds, “I want to talk to her too.”

(a/n): triple update, triple ouchie. sorry :(

[simphellscape]

angst | tw: cursing, alcohol, drug mention, death/murder mention, police show up

You know that you’ve got a decent head on your shoulders. No one is perfect -- not you, and especially not the person who got you into this mess. But never in a million years did you think you would find yourself being lowered into the back of a cop car at 2 am in the middle of New York City.

Now that the red is leaving your vision, you can see the error in your actions. Maybe it wasn’t wise to start a screaming match in the middle of the night. Maybe you shouldn’t have unleashed every single threat you’ve been holding back for months in front of the unsuspecting patrons of the bar. Maybe you should feel something resembling guilt, but you don’t. You can’t seem to remember how to right now. This wasn’t your fault; it’s his. It is, and always has been, his fault.

Eren Jaeger looked different than he did the last time you saw him when you spotted him across the dining room earlier tonight. His hair was longer. He was smiling, laughing. As soon as you realized who you were sharing a room with, your stomach dropped to the fucking floor, and your lungs filled with lead. You remember having to practically chug the rest of your vodka soda to soothe the sudden dryness in your mouth. Your friends then asked you if you were alright, and you insisted that nothing was wrong through gritted teeth. After allowing yourself to panic for a moment, you threw yourself into the conversation your friends were having. You needed something, anything to distract yourself from the blinding truth that, even though you moved halfway across the country after Eren ripped your heart into pieces and crushed it under his boot, he still found you. He always had an uncanny talent for finding trouble, and the idea of you ever escaping that is funny to you, now that you know how the night panned out.

When your friends, though you love them, failed to distract you from your ex-boyfriend’s looming presence, you started to down alcohol like you needed it to live. To be fair, in the moment, it kind of seemed like you did. Before long, you started to feel it. And by the time Eren noticed that you were here, you were sufficiently trashed.

It started with fleeting glances that you always noticed. The moment your eyes caught his stare, he would immediately lock eyes with the floor. You would laugh bitterly at this each time, firmly met with the evidence that even a monster like him was capable of pretending to feel guilt. After a few displays of your drunken anger bubbling up, your friends asked you again if you were okay. You, again, insisted that you were fine.

Looking back, he was probably trying to make sure that it was really you that he was seeing. Even though Eren had changed some in your time apart, you had changed a lot. During your relationship, you were mousier, more insecure, more submissive than you are now. While those qualities still exist in you, you have expended a lot of effort into snuffing them out. You like to think that this effort has made a noticeable difference, both inside and out. The goal was to make yourself completely unrecognizable to anyone who knew you before, and it seemed to have worked.

At one point, Eren got up from the table that he shared with his friends to speak with the DJ. You saw this; of course you saw this. You were still surprised, however, when the song that Eren dedicated to you the night of your first date floated from the speakers.

“Alright, (Y/N), enough,” your friend, Annie, asserted, “What the hell is going on?”

You dimly heard this over the sound of blood rushing to your head. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see her following your gaze to the man of the hour.

“Shit,” she muttered, “Is that Eren? What is he doing here?”

Annie knew of his existence. Everyone at the table did. You were a mess when you arrived in New York, and these people were a huge part of helping you out of it. The only way they could is by acquainting themselves with the cause.

“I don’t know,” you growled.

Even though you knew the borderline homicidal thoughts that were clouding your brain, you were still shocked by the edge in your voice.

“It’s not worth it,” Berthold interjects.

Berthold is your most wise friend. He’s notorious amongst your group for being the voice of reason, even in moments where his advice isn’t wanted. It’s a joke, in fact, how badly things go when people don’t listen to what he has to say. Even though you intended to listen to him, you now figure that holding yourself back like that probably made things worse in the long run. Or, maybe, it was the last stunt that Eren pulled that made things worse.

You were just beginning to recover from the anger that had settled over you when a drink that you didn’t order arrived at your table. This wasn’t uncommon these days. It’s almost like every man around can sense that they can’t have you, for reasons they can’t understand. All it does, much to your dismay, is make them want you more. At first, you refused the drinks. Now, you appreciate the free alcohol, but ignore the sender all the same. When the waiter arrives with a vodka soda, everyone starts ooh-ing and aah-ing. After the commotion dies down, you smile at the waiter and ask who sent it. Unending curiosity has always been a fault of yours.

“That guy in the ponytail over there.”

You follow the waiter’s gesture with a hazy disposition. You didn’t know why your first reaction was to march your way over to the man who ruined your life. It was probably the alcohol, or the previous antics that he pulled, or the anger seething from every nerve in your body. Most likely a funny combination of all of that. Before you could will your feet to stop, you were standing directly in front of his table.

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

His eyes, dead and unfeeling as always, flick over to you as a smirk stretches across his face.

“Hey, (Y/N). Good to see you.”

The edges of your vision turn black.

“Is this funny to you?”

His shoulders tremble, failing at concealing a chuckle.

“Kind of, yeah.”

You suddenly realize that you’re still holding the drink he sent over. It’s your favorite. He knew that. You fight the urge to throw it all over the stupid face he’s making and set it down in front of him, with more force that you probably needed to.

“I don’t want your fucking drink, asshole.”

You turned, extremities shaking, and made a beeline for the exit. You could hear a cacophony of laughter, belonging to Eren and his idiot friends that you never liked, erupt behind you. As you reached the door, you flung it open, so hard that it banged loudly against the wall beside it. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care as you walked out into the rest of the world.

It was an uncommonly cold night. Goosebumps prickled your entire body while you looked for an acceptable spot on the sidewalk to wallow in for a while. Just as you found one, you heard someone call your name from the door of the bar a few feet away.

You were too drunk to place who it was exactly. You hoped it was one of your friends. Instead, it was none other than Eren Jaeger.

Finally, after you realized you were cornered at last, tears started to well at the corners of your eyes.

You better not cry right now, you remember thinking to yourself. You took a deep breath and blinked rapidly in an attempt to banish any signs of weakness from you.

“What do you want,” you muttered.

“I just want to talk.”

“I think you’ve done enough of that.”

“We haven’t spoken a word to each other in nine months!”

“You did enough talking the last time I saw you!” you exclaimed, the dam threatening to break once again.

A hush falls across the street, save for the muffled sound of the bar stereo. After a moment, he speaks.

“Listen, about what I said --”

“Save it. I don’t wanna hear any bullshit excuse about how you didn’t mean it, because you did. I know you did.”

“I just couldn’t stand that you were getting your life together, okay?” he shouts.

You stopped in your tracks at this confession, jaw hanging open. You knew that Eren was evil, but he outdid himself with this one. This had to have broken a record for the most fucked up thing he’s ever said.

“You were about to get your degree, and you had this awesome job lined up, and you were about to be an actual productive member of society, and I couldn’t fucking take it, (Y/N). In my head, I thought you were gonna be around to do stupid shit with me for the rest of time. No self-respecting kindergarten teacher sits around to do shrooms with her boyfriend on her days off,” he takes a deep breath, eyes never leaving you, “so, I cut my losses. I left. And I made it so that you would never even consider following me out.”

Even though this is admittedly outrageous, it checks out to you. Like you said, Eren was evil. Self-centered. A bum. But, most of all, Eren is simultaneously the most prideful and the most insecure person you’d ever had the displeasure of knowing. Having all of this information at your disposal, you knew that, for once in his life, he was telling the truth.

You felt sick to your stomach. All at once, every intense emotion you were feeling -- all of which you thought amounted to hate -- was replaced with true, blinding, unadulterated hatred. The threat of tears that loomed above you practically all night suddenly shrunk. You felt vacant. You felt robotic. You imagined that this must be what an assassin must feel like right before they kill someone.

So, that’s what you did.

“I hate you,” you muttered.

Eren’s eyes grew wide.

“W-what?”

“I. Hate. You.”

He laughed, a breathy, nervous sound.

“No, you don’t. You’re just angry. Baby, I--”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

The hand he’d stretched out as he spoke dropped to his side. He elected to drop the “scorned lover” act, the familiar stand-offishness of him returning with his next statement.

“Stop being so childish and talk to me.”

If this previous conversation were looking through the sight of a sniper rifle, what you said next was pulling the trigger. At long last.

“And say what, Eren? That you not having anyone to do drugs with anymore is your fault? That you being the most vapid, egotistical person on the planet is your fault, too? That loving you was the worst thing I have ever done?” you spat, volume increasing with each insult you hurled his way.

The way his body coiled into itself reminded you of someone being shot in slow motion. The movement was almost negligible, but you couldn’t help but feel gratified at the thought of actually hurting Eren’s feelings. You held back laughter as you continued.

“You know, it’s not surprising that you followed me all the way to New York. Do you live here now?”

You paused, allowing him space to answer you. He didn’t.

“That wasn’t a fucking rhetorical question!” you shouted.

He seemed to choke on the words a bit before they finally came out, broken and jagged. To anyone else, he seemed scared. You knew that he was just embarrassed to finally be faced with the reality of his pathetic life.

“N-no.”

You close the gap between you by shoving his shoulder roughly.

“Bullshit!”

“Hey, cut that shit out --”

“What? Now you don’t want me to touch you? It really seemed like you wanted me to when you kept staring at me in the bar.”

You shoved him again.

“Or when you asked the DJ to play that fucking song.”

Shove.

“Or when you bought me that drink.”

With one final push, he finally stumbles. He almost falls flat on his ass. Almost.

“I didn’t think --”

“No. You didn’t. I don’t think you ever have.”

“Would you quit talking to me like I’m stupid? You know I hate that.”

“I know, Eren. You know what I hate?”

He doesn’t respond. He knows what’s coming. Eren, as stupid as he is, can understand the hell that he’s unleashed at this point.

“You. Every single thing about you. The drugs, the lying, the way you look like a dead fish all the time, the stupid ponytail you wear now. But, the thing that I hate the most of all, is the fact that you insist on demolishing my life.”

The last thread holding you to sanity, to reality, to the rules of this earth, finally snapped under the weight of the person you loathe most in the world being right in front of you. Something about him just standing there, gawking at you, taking this verbal beatdown without trying to fight you anymore, made you want to burn him alive.

“You know, I haven’t been on a date in almost two years. Yeah, Eren, the last time you took me on a date was TWO FUCKING YEARS AGO! DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOW? DO YOU GET IT? I FUCKING HATE YOU, EREN JAEGER! I HOPE YOU FUCKING DIE!”

Even though Eren had a clear height advantage between the two of you, you found yourself towering over him at the end of you emptying yourself out at him. For some reason, he was on the ground. For some reason, he had a bloody nose. And, for some reason, the knuckles on your right hand hurt a lot.

All sense rushed back to you all at once. The tears that you thought you’d banished rush out of your eyes at alarming speeds. All you wanted to do was yell at him a bit. You didn’t mean to hit him. Even you have your limits.

“Shit, Eren, I--” “Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bitch!” he shouted, hand clasped over his broken nose.

Before you can attempt to explain yourself to him, you hear the familiar sound of police sirens coming down the street. Dread settled into your bones. You knew that they were for you.

You took in your surroundings one last time before your first arrest. You found that you’d traveled a few feet from the spot where you’d started this spat. Now, instead of just beside the entrance to the bar, you stood directly in front of it. Every single person in the entire establishment stared at you through the glass storefront. A few people looked scared, but most of them looked enthralled. A few people had their phones out, recording the ordeal from the comfort of their seats. Your eyes landed on the table where your friends sat. All of them, without exception, looked completely and utterly crushed.

As the police car rolled up to the scene, your eyes landed back on your worst enemy. You could see through the blood that covered the lower half of his face that he was smiling. Broad and cocky, as always.

“I think your ride is here,” he drawled.

You summoned everything in you to give him one final, fearsome look. Just as the cop stepped out of his vehicle, you gathered the saliva in your mouth and spit it at Eren, aiming directly for his expressionless eyeballs.

“Alright, enough. Lady, you’re coming with me,” the cops sighed.

You turned toward the cop, raising both hands above your head. You didn’t tear your eyes away from Eren until the cop forced you to turn your back toward him. Only when he was sure that you couldn’t see him anymore, Eren piped up.

“Thank you, officer. She must have gotten a bit too drunk tonight.”

You bit your tongue as the officer exchanged pleasantries with Eren, all while handcuffing you. The officer managed to break away from conversing with your ex-boyfriend just long enough to read your rights to you. He sounded tired, but you couldn’t find it in you to feel bad for him.

As you sit in the police car now, you have a clear view of Eren getting attention from a medic that turned up at the scene after you’d been put away. You can see -- you can feel -- the satisfaction that he’s feeling from the response he’s getting after this altercation. As if he can feel you glowering at him, his eyes flick over to you. For the first time in the four years that you’ve known him, an emotion crowds his normally vacant expression. He wears the visage of someone who has won a great conquest. It’s slight -- only noticeable to you and him. You didn’t think it was possible, but you somehow hate him more. You turn away, disgusted.

You stare at the seat in front of you and contemplate the effect this will have on your life from here on out. You, a teacher, now have a criminal record. There’s video evidence of you drunkenly breaking someone’s nose. Of you screaming obscenities at an “unsuspecting bar patron”. The look on your friends’ faces after seeing you punch Eren flashes in your head. You consider the possibility of being friendless in New York City again. Alone, just like when you arrived.

You know that all of this should matter to you. Maybe it will later, while you’re sobering up in a holding cell. Right now, you don’t care. Not at all. The few thoughts floating around in your inebriated little head right now only concern the way that this argument will affect Eren. It’s entirely possible that he won’t give a shit about whether or not you hate him. But, if he does care, you know exactly what’s going to happen once the victorious feeling leaves him. He’s going to remember the definition of the word hate. He’s going to remember that you, unlike him, are not a liar. And, he’s going to continue to ruin his life, but at a much quicker, much more urgent pace than before.

You won’t be there to see it, but you can’t wait to hear all about it when you stumble across his obituary on Facebook someday.

(a/n): hehe i feel better,,,, i could feel Satan himself looking over my shoulder as i wrote this, and all i have to say to him is: "hey lol"