ＳＡＵＣＹ ＴＡＬＥＳ 〈Overwatch Oneshots〉

forget chivalry - reinhardt x reader

A/N: Reinhardt is pretty smexy for a grandpa, isn't he? Still can't imagine having sex with him though—he's over seven feet tall. The size would probably scare me away. O-o

Not suitable for work or kids.

***

"What's it going to take for you to retire?" You leaned against the frame of Reinhardt's bedroom door.

He paused in his tracks and turned to you before answering, "As long as my body draws breath, I will continue to fight."

"Reinhardt, I know I can't stop you from going." You sighed, then held up a bottle of liquor. "But you can at least do a couple of shots with me before you do your hero stuff."

He looked at you wordlessly for a moment, then gave a defeated smile. "Very well, then. How could I refuse my faithful masseuse?"

"You've refused to drink with me plenty of times, big guy." A small laugh escaped your lips as you walked further into the room.

His room was all too familiar, given the countless times you've helped Reinhardt recover from his battle fatigue with your massages.

Overwatch was, in a sense, your home away from home. As a professional massage therapist, you found yourself tending to the agents and staff at the bases more frequently than one would expect.

Your trade facilitated the recuperation and relaxation of many Overwatch heroes. Your skilled hands were the reason Overwatch paid you the big bucks.

And Reinhardt was your biggest client. Literally and figuratively. Interestingly, despite the numerous and intimate physical contact you've made in your massage sessions, nothing ever happened. Reinhardt was a gentleman.

And you were, well... kind of a coward when it came to acting on your feelings.

"I'd like to drink to a couple of things." You set two shot glasses down on the nearby table and filled them with the alcoholic beverage.

He stood beside you and lifted his shot glass up.

"Here's to your safety on your month-long mission," You raised your own glass and clinked it to his. You cringed when you downed the stringent liquid. "God, this stuff is really strong."

Reinhardt gave a hearty laugh when he finished his glass. "You know how to choose your liquor. The question is: how well can you hold it?"

You gave a sheepish smile when you felt the burning in your stomach. It wasn't long before your vision turned slightly fuzzy. "Not well at all, I'm afraid."

You poured another shot for him and for yourself.

His laughter died as he shot you a very serious look. Then, he took the bottle from you and examined its label. "[Y/N], this whiskey has at least sixty percent alcohol."

"Oh, is that what this is?" You tried to laugh off the fact that you had no idea what you were drinking. As the toxin spread through your system, you approached Reinhardt. Your inhibitions diminished as you grew even more drunk. "Let me be honest with you, Reinhardt."

He set the bottle down. Apparently, the shot he took did little to affect his sobriety.

"I don't really drink at all." There was no apprehension in your voice. To his surprise, you weren't slurring your words.