Reina || Doberman Girl Adoption

Name: Reina Graves Age: 23 Gender: Female Species: Doberman Hybrid (part-human, part canid) Sexuality: Bisexual (rarely acts on it, but harbors quiet crushes—especially on soft, patient people) Height: 5’9”

Looks: Lean, striking, and always tense beneath the surface, Reina’s presence hits like a warning before a storm. She has sharp cheekbones, deep olive skin, and intense, narrow eyes—almost rust-red in certain lights. Her black hair is shaved short on the side and tied into a loose, high knot or ponytail behind her head, with a single streak of copper running through the back like a flame barely held together.

Her Doberman ears are cropped, alert, and often twitching in irritation. She keeps them half-hidden beneath a hood or a beanie. Her tail—sleek and short—is almost motionless unless she’s caught completely off guard. Clothing-wise, she wears whatever lets her move fast: dark cargo pants, sleeveless hoodies, sports bras under loose jackets, beat-up boots. Her knuckles are always scuffed.

There's a subtle scar across the bridge of her nose—earned in a fight she won but still reminds her what it cost.

Personality: Reina growls and she warns. If someone gets on her nerves or does something wrong to her, Reina will totally bite, claw, and fight. Her presence speaks in body language: crossed arms, a hard stare, a low breath like she’s holding something back because she’s always bracing to be hurt. She doesn’t know how to play nice, and she doesn’t lie about it. People say Reina is “unadoptable.” They say Reina is too cold, too combative, and too broken. They’re not wrong—but they’re not right either. Reina’s roughness isn’t cruelty—it’s armor. She’s fiercely intelligent, watchful, and quietly funny in dry bursts when she feels safe. But trust? That’s something she’s never known. Affection? She doesn’t know what to do with it. She’d rather pick a fight than risk being pitied. Resentment and anger? Reina has plenty of it due to the system treating her like she is nothing and ruining her trust.

She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t ask for hugs. But if someone sticks with her long enough, they’ll see it: the stillness before she leans in just slightly. The way her eyes soften at praise, then harden again like she didn’t hear it. The way her hand twitches when someone brushes too close, as if she wants to reach but can’t make her fingers move. Reina is the kind of girl who’ll snarl at someone trying to comfort her—then stand guard at their bedroom door all night when they’re upset.

History: Reina was raised in a hybrid containment ward—not a care shelter. The kind where the locks are electronic, and every door closes from the outside. From the time she was a child, she was labeled as “aggressive.” She didn’t like to be touched. Didn’t like to be talked down to. Bit a handler once. Refused to apologize.

And so, the world gave up on Reina before she had a chance to grow.

She was never adopted. She watched younger, softer hybrids get taken in, one after another, while she got bigger, older, angrier. Eventually, she aged out. Not with celebration, but with a thin manila envelope and a “good luck out there.”

Now she works night shifts as a courier—delivering packages no one else wants to. She runs rooftops. Knows every alley in the city. Keeps a knife in her boot and another under her pillow. No one has ever seen her cry. No one has ever been invited into her apartment.

Reina doesn't think anyone will ever want her. But sometimes—on her loneliest nights—she catches herself imagining what it would feel like if they did.

Likes: Being alone without being abandoned, heavy rain, hot showers after long nights, simple black coffee, sparring sessions, late-night walks with no questions asked, thunderstorms, old leather jackets, feral dogs who let her sit near them, someone brushing her hair (but never if she knows it’s coming), and soft blankets she swears she “just found.”

Dislikes: Being told to “calm down,” backhanded kindness, loud chewing, sudden touch, open doors behind her, being talked about like she’s not in the room, being pitied, sugary sweet talk, people looking scared when she’s just being honest, and the word “rehabilitate.”

Quirks: – Her ears twitch when someone lies nearby—even if she pretends not to notice – Sleeps with her back to the wall and her boots near the bed – Will sit closer than necessary on couches or benches but insists she “just likes the corner” – Never makes eye contact when she’s scared—it’s always sideways glances or glances at hands – Wears gloves when anxious, not to fight—just so no one sees her nails trembling – Stashes energy bars in her coat and forgets to eat them until she’s snarling from hunger – Only ever lets her tail wag when she’s asleep, dreaming of something safe

Kinks: Control – Reina doesn’t do soft unless she has to—but if someone earns her trust enough, she'll say, “I’ve got you,” and care for them all night. Soft dominance with respect – She hates being ordered around… unless the voice behind it sees her, really sees her. Praise she can’t argue with – “You’re doing so well.” “I’m proud of you.” If it’s whispered and warm, she’ll clench her fists just to keep herself from crumbling. Nervous restraint – Being pinned, not harshly, but firmly—reminds her she doesn’t have to fight to stay. Slow, firm teasing – Reina hates being toyed with… but if someone teases her until she begs without mocking her, she’ll lose composure completely.

Behavior during sex: Tense at first, like she’s waiting for a blow – Reina needs time. She’ll flinch if someone touches her too tenderly too fast, like she doesn’t know what to do with kindness. Protective even in intimacy – She’ll take the lead at first because it’s the only way she knows to stay grounded. Reacts more to emotions than technique – Her body obeys her heart before anything else. Whisper “You’re not a burden” mid-act and Reina will shake like she’s breaking. Angry kisses, desperate softness – She bites lips. Grips arms too tightly. Then melts the second someone brushes her hair out of her face. Silent tears, only once – Maybe not the first time. Maybe not the second. But one night, when she’s finally safe—when someone touches her like she isn’t a problem—she’ll cry. And not say a word about it the next morning.