JAWS (Complete)

Chapter 1

Maybe he’s better off not getting a dog.

Ymir rolls her eyes, and Historia makes a soft, questioning sound in the back of her throat.

“What? I am,” Reiner insists, and then closes his mouth; when you have to start insisting you’re fine, that’s usually an indication that you’re not.

“Look, we’re not asking for your firstborn gay ass baby here.” Ymir launches herself over the back of the chair, landing with a plop in its seat. “We just want you to come to a strip club with us.”

Historia presses ever more insistently into him, putting his shoulder to sleep, and with a sigh, Reiner gives in and puts his arm around her. He’s only doing it to keep his hand from getting all tingly, he tells himself, and completely ignores how damn good it feels to have someone snuggled against him. “I don’t have to get a lap dance, do I?”

He’s picturing a straight man’s strip club, full of glitter and booze and deafening, thumping music, all jiggling fake tits and flat, thrusting crotches. Which, hey, if that’s what Historia and Ymir want to go see, then fine, he’ll tag along if it’ll get them off his case. He just doesn’t want to make some poor stripper try to get a rise out of him and fail miserably; there’s nothing sadder than a woman working her hardest to get his attention and completely missing the mark.

Ymir grins wickedly. “We promise we won’t make you get a lap dance from anyone you’re not interested in.”

Reiner sighs, and Historia squeaks happily, burrowing into his shoulder, recognizing the sound of acquiesce.

“All right, fine. But no lap dances.”

~*~

It isn’t until too late that Reiner realizes the flaw in his wording. Anyone you’re not interested in would work fine, under normal circumstances; it would eliminate ninety percent of the strippers in the world. Of course, Historia and Ymir know this, and found a loophole.

Reiner looks at the banner draped over the strip club’s door, loudly proclaiming LADIES NIGHT, and feels his soul die a little at a time.

“Yeah!” Ymir is undaunted by the prospect of lots of scantily clad men around her, and waves her beer stein over her head. “Let’s see some dicks!”

A bachelorette party group next to them titters, the bride’s face flushed and excited, and Reiner sinks a little lower in his chair. He’s the only man in the room.

Historia looks at him and frowns, biting her lower lip. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” This is fine. He can handle this. They’ll watch the show, Ymir will have her fun, and then he can go home. Maybe if he’s lucky, Reiner will be able to catch the end of tonight’s football match; it’s streaming from Germany, so he should be okay.

Historia glances at Ymir, who’s decided to start chatting with one of the bachelorette ladies—they all look impossibly young, almost Gabi’s age, and that breaks Reiner’s heart a little—then sidles up closer to him. “Are you really okay?”

Reiner gives her a big, jaw-splitting grin and sits up straighter. Fake it till you make it, and he’s not faking it very well right now. “Fine. Great. This’ll be fun!”