M

✮ she/her / 21 / INTJ / Gemini

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AO3 / Masterlist

cw: violence, gore, illegal fighting, etc.

read at your own risk.

Chapter 3: Birdie

The gun barrel against your skull feels cold and unforgiving. You can smell the oil on the metal, and there’s a slight tremor in his hand that tells you he’s excited, that he’s been looking forward to this for God knows how long.

“Easy now,” Eren says, his voice carefully neutral. His hands are visible, palms out, but you can see the tension coiling in his shoulders. “Let’s not drag this out, yeah?”

The man behind you laughs, tightening his hold on the gun. You close your eyes, breath shallow. “This is business. Pure and simple.”

“What kind of business?” Eren asks, taking a careful step closer.

The pressure against your head increases slightly. “This one here owes some people quite a bit of money. And when people don’t pay what they’re due..”

“How much?” Eren’s question cuts through.

“Pardon?”

“The debt. How much does she owe?”

You shut your eyes even tighter, feeling sick. This is where Eren realizes you’re more trouble than your worth, more trouble than you let him on. This is it. This is where he steps aside and lets them take you.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” the man says, and you feel Eren’s surprise ripple through the air between you. “Plus interest,” he quips with a smug grin. “Plus penalties for making us look for her.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eren breathes.

“My mother’s medical bills,” you hiccup a half-breathed whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. “I thought I could help. I thought I could fix it.”

The man behind you makes a tsking sound. “Borrowing money, she swore she could pay off, specifically. Turns out this girl here thought she could just run away and wander off. Thought she could just leave.”

“I was desperate,” you say, hating how small your voice sounds. “She was dying, and the insurance wouldn’t cover her treatments. I just needed–”

“You don’t need anything,” the man interrupts. “You’re coming with me.”

But before he could move, Eren stepped toward you.

“She’s with me,” he says, his voice carrying an authority that gives you the smallest bit of hope. “Whatever she owes, we can work something out.”

The man’s laugh is sharper this time. “That so? What exactly do you think you can offer, hmm? You’re gonna give me the money? It’s too late for that, boss wants to see her.”

“Forty-eight hours,” Eren says. “Give us two days to come up with a payment plan.” Eren gestures around the infrastructure behind him. “You understand investments, don’t you?”

You feel the gun barrel shift slightly as the man considers this. “And why would I agree to that?”

“Because she’s more valuable to you alive and working than dead in a ditch somewhere.” Eren’s eyes lock with yours. “She made it this far, didn’t she?”

The silence stretches long enough that you start to wonder if you’ve stopped breathing entirely. Then the gun pulls back reluctantly from your head, but you can still feel the man’s presence behind you.

“Forty-eight hours,” he says finally. “If she runs again–” ​ “She won’t run.” Eren’s voice is certain, even though you’ve given him no reason to trust you.

“See that she doesn’t.” The man steps back, and you finally turn to see his face properly. He’s old, with graying hair and a look in his eyes that he isn’t taking this seriously, or anything at all, for that matter.

Then he’s off, clicking his tongue expectantly before leaving. Your breath is shaky, and you look at Eren with shame. He sees your expression and sighs.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Eren whistles. “Plus interest.”

“I know.”

“That’s not cleanup money.”

“I know that too.”

He studies your face in the dim orange light filtering through the dirty street lights above. “You’re going to have to get in the ring.”

The words hit you, almost like a punch in your gut. “What?”

“Fighting pays more than cleaning. A lot more. It’s the only way you’ll make enough money to even start paying that down.”

“I can’t fight. I don’t know how to–”

“This is your problem to fix.” The indifference in his voice stops your protests cold. He steps closer, close enough that you aren’t able to muster up the courage to go anywhere. He makes you feel small; the slightest bit of courage coiling in your stomach makes you wince.

You force yourself to look at him, hands trembling. You weren’t sure what you wanted to say, but you’re not even prepared. Not even the slightest bit. But you have no other choice.

“I’ll teach you.”

-

The next thirty-six hours are a symphony of pure agony. Eren trains you in the room where you scrub Marco’s blood off the concrete. You could almost laugh at the irony.

“Keep your fucking hands up,” he snarls for the hundredth time, slapping your wrists hard enough to sting when your guard drops. “You drop your hands, you eat fist. You eat enough fists, you die.”

Your arms feel like they’re filled with lead, muscles screaming from holding the same position for hours. Sweat pours down your face, stinging your eyes and mixing with the blood from the split on your lips. But you don’t dare lower your hands.

“Again,” Eren commands, throwing a punch toward your face with enough force to cave in your skull if it connects. He’s not gentle with you; he’s not training you for anything other than the fact that you’re going to fight for your life.

You duck and weave like he taught you, but your legs are shaking, unable to settle on which direction to go or when to bend. Your foot catches on the uneven concrete, and you stumble, barely catching yourself before you hit the tailbone first on the floor.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hands on your knees as you try to force air into your lungs.

“Your form is terrible.” Eren spits out at you, but there’s no heat in it. “You think too much. This isn’t strategic, it’s all instinct.”

“I don’t have instincts,” you pant.

“Then we need to get your shit together.” he crouches down in front of you, waiting until you meet his eyes. “Tell me about the day you left home.”

“What?”

“The day you decided to leave when your mother died. What happened that day?”

The question tears through you like shrapnel. “That’s not– I didn’t–”

“Yes, you did.” His voice is gentle, but it’s what he wants you to hear. “Was it the only choice you had left when all the good choices were dead and buried? Was leaving after your mother died a good choice?” Eren stands, extending his hand to help you up.

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. You don’t answer him. You don’t need to. Because he knows, he knows that when all is said and done that the only logical reasoning would be to run away, act like you’re dead, pretend as if nothing ever happened. But you’re here now, you’re in this situation now, there’s no more pretending.

“One more round.”

This time, when he comes at you, something inside you shifts. Maybe it’s the exhaustion burning away everything but the core of you, maybe it’s the pure frustration after the nonstop training, and you just want to get it over with, maybe it’s the desperation finally growing teeth, but you stop trying to think and just react.

When his fist comes toward your face, you slide to the side and drive your elbow toward his ribs with pent-up force.

He blocks it, but barely, and you see a genuine surprise flash across his features before it’s replaced by something that might be pride. ​ “Again.”

You lose track of time after that. The world narrows to movement and reaction, to the burn in your muscles and throat, and the sharp focus that comes with everything else falls away. You’re relentless, and you might even be ready.

But nobody ever feels ready to die, don’t they? You catch sight of yourself in the broken mirror leaning against the wall. You look different, you’re hollowed out. Like the past few days have carved away everything soft and left only the sharp edges of you behind.

Maybe you are ready.

- ​ The crowd tonight is rabid and hungry. Word has spread that there’s a new fighter, some desperate cunt who thinks she can survive in the ring, and they’ve come to see that. ​ You’re in the back room, trying to wrap your hands with strips of cloth while your fingers shake. Every time you try to wind the fabric around your knuckles, it slips and unravels, making you start all over again.

You click your tongue in frustration, throwing the cloth down.

“Here,” Eren takes your hands and picks up the strips. “Let me.”

He winds the fabric around your knuckles, being careful not to wrap it too tightly or too loosely. You watch his face as he works, noting the concentration in his features; his jaw is tight.

“Like what you see?” he asks without looking up, fighting the urge to smirk. He knows you’re analyzing him.

You look away, not even bothering to reply, taking your hands off his hold once he finishes.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says quietly, voice raspy from the copious amounts of yelling he did to you earlier. He looks down at you; he’s analyzing you now.

“You might not have a choice.”

“I always have a choice.” He raises your chin to meet his gaze, and there’s something possessive in them that makes the heat pool low in your belly despite everything. “Always.”

“Time!” comes a voice from the doorway. ​

Eren’s hands fall away like he’s been caught, and the moment shatters. “Ready?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The walk to the ring feels like a death march. The crowd parts as you pass, and their voices snicker at you.

Your opponent is already waiting in the ring, and the sight of her makes your bowels clench. She’s older than you, by far, maybe mid-thirties, with scars that speak of years spent fighting like she lives for it. And maybe she does.

“In this corner,” the announcer bellows over the crowd’s bloodlust, “with twelve straight kills–Ymir Fritz!”

The crowd erupts in approval.

“And in this corner,” the announcer continues to introduce you, his voice dripping with mocking uncertainty. The crowd boos so loud it feels like the first wave of a hit. Someone throws a bottle that shatters near your feet, spraying glass and beer across your legs.

You look toward Eren, standing at ringside with his arms crossed, and he nods only once.

The bell rings.

Ymir, like a train, comes at you. There’s no testing, no feeling out, just pure fucking violence. Her first punch catches you square in the ribs, and you hear something crack. The air leaves your lungs in a rush, and you stumble back, tasting blood.

You gasp. You’re okay. You’re fine.

She doesn’t give you time to recover. Her next punch comes at your face, and you barely get your guard up in time. The impact rattles your teeth and sends your gaze spinning, ruining your vision. ​ She’s fast and experienced, and she wants to hurt you. Every punch is thrown with the intent to break something–anything.

A hook to your kidney sends fire racing up your spine. An uppercut nearly lifts you off your feet, your vision graying at the edges.

The crow is screaming for your death, and Ymir is happy to give it to them.

“Move!” Eren’s voice cuts through the noise. “Stop letting her fucking butcher you!”

But you’re already behind, already hurt. Blood streams from your nose steadily. You could hear Ymir enjoying every single bit of this, with enough force of her fists driving to your stomach, it almost makes you vomit. She brings her knee up toward your face hard enough to give you a concussion.

Time slows to a painful crawl.

You see the knee coming to your stomach. And in that stretched moment, something inside you breaks. You’re not the same person anymore–hell, you’re unrecognizable, you find something worth doing this for. No matter what it costs. No matter who has to die.

Your hands come up, catching Ymir’s knee blow and twisting with every ounce of strength you have left in you. She loses her balance, eyes growing wide as you drive your elbow into her rib. ​ The sound is wet and sharp, and you swore you could hear something break. She gasps, stumbling back, and for the first time tonight, you see something different, like fear, flash across her face. You don’t give her time to think, you don’t give her time to recover.

Everything Eren taught you comes flooding back in; now it’s instinct. When she throws in a desperate move, you slip it and drive your fist into her sternum. When she doubles over, wheezing, you bring your knee up to meet her face. The impact sends blood spraying across the ring in a perfect arc. Her nose explodes in a burst of cartilage, and she staggers back, hands clutched to her face.

Ymir spits out blood, circling you now. She’s hurt, but her stamina is high. She charges again, another desperate move to make a comeback. When she overextends on a right hook, putting all of her weight behind it, you step inside her guard and drive your fist into her throat with every force you have left.

The punch lands. Her eyes bulge, hands flying to her throat as she manages to make a broken whimper. She staggers, choking on her own blood, then goes down, hard.

She hits the floor face-first. That’s when the referee starts counting, but you can already tell she’s not getting up. Her body convulses once, twice, and then she goes still.

“...eight… nine… ten!”

You won.

You should feel sick. You should feel guilty. Should feel something other than the satisfaction spreading through you. But you don’t. You feel alive.

Eren climbs inside the ring, rushing through you, wrapping his arm around your waist as he guides you toward the ropes. “How do you feel?” he asks, voice rough.

You look at him. You’re in shock.

“I feel good,” you say; this time, you mean it.

A smile spreads across his face. He’s satisfied. “Good.”

His chest pressed lightly against yours–and for almost a second, you two were synchronized. You’re shaking, with adrenaline still coursing through your veins, and you’re sticky with blood and sweat on your skin.

“Birdie,” he murmurs, voice low.

Everything feels like a blur; your vision can’t even comprehend the background beneath you. Everything is loud to the point of overstimulation.

You look up at him, heat radiating between you. You open your mouth to say something, and he leans in, closer than he should. His lips hover carefully, brushing against yours like he’s not sure about whether or not to go about this. You could almost feel your knees threaten to give out. ​

You grab a hold of the side of his head, hands tracing the curvature of his face, nudging that it’s alright with all the energy you have left.

Before a coherent thought could muster from both of you, Eren’s lips pressed to yours in a rush, hard and demanding. Your knees went weak, and you almost fell back before he grabbed you from the small of your back and lifted you closer. His hands roamed all over, tracing the tense muscles still lingering from the fight, gripping you in a way that was equal parts careful and winded.

The sound of the crowd faded, the world shrinking to the press of his mouth on yours, the heat of his body towering over you against yours. You moaned softly to him, tasting the faint tang of copper from your blood. Every nerve ending in your body sang sweet harmony. Right now, this was all that mattered.

Eren broke the kiss briefly, resting his forehead against yours. You’re both breathing hard. He murmured something behind your ear, but to your dismay, you didn’t hear it. You tried to speak, tried to protest against the force of the sensation, but his lips were back on yours. This time was slower and more deliberate, as if testing the boundaries and seeing how far this could go. Your hands traced the contours of his shoulders, over the curve of his biceps. Feeling the tension in his body mirroring yours.

And then, before you two could even ponder it, a shout from the crowd disrupts the moment. Your body stills, and you turn your head away from the crowd in embarrassment.

Eren laughs cheekily, hauling your body upright before guiding you off the ring.

“Show off a little, birdie. You’re worth watching.”

Satoru, who’s clearly studied what makes women take a second glance and executes it perfectly. He’s performative, the epitome of performative. 

The same Satoru you’ve briefly met and saw go into the same record store twice this week. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking about how the music industry really failed female artists in the seventies,” Satoru says, not looking up from the Fleetwood Mac record he’s examining with theatrical concentration. His wired earbuds dangling perfectly against his jacket, the black one that makes his shoulders look more enticingly broad. 

You don’t look up from the r&b section, not batting an eye. “Have you now.” 

“Like, take Stevie Nicks. Great songwriter, but she was constantly overshadowed by the guys of the band. It’s systemic, really.” He runs his fingers through his hair, fixing a couple strands in such a practiced way it makes your jaw clench. 

“Mhm.” You flip aggressively through the vinyls. 

“I actually just finished reading Michelle Obama’s autobiography–” 

“Oh my god.” you finally turn to face him. “Do you practice this in front of a mirror?” 

He blinks, not a coherent thought forming in his head. “Practice what?” 

“This whole…” You gesture vaguely at his entire frame. “The feminist awakening bit.” That’s when you do a once over at what he’s wearing. 

And Jesus fucking Christ. 

He’s wearing a Carthartt jacket over a flannel shirt, light blue almost-baggy jeans that fit him like a glove, and a pair of clogs that tie it all together. You look up at him and his wired earbuds with scorn that it almost makes him think you’re going to choke him with it. 

“Did you google ‘how to appeal to women’?” 

His mouth quirks up. “Are you saying it’s working?” 

The worst part is the way he says it, like he already knows the answer. Like he can see right through your irritation and the sound of the fluttering in your chest when he’d bent over earlier to reach the top of a poster shelf. 

“I’m saying you’re a fraud.” 

“Fraud,” he repeats, stepping closer. The Fleetwood Mac record still in his hands. “But you’re still here.” 

“I’m shopping.” 

“You bought that Revoal record twenty minutes ago,” His eyes flick to the bag by your feet. “But you’re still browsing. Still listening to me talk about systemic oppression in the music industry.” 

Your face heats. “Maybe I just really like r&b.” 

“Maybe.” he’s close enough now that you can smell his cologne–something expensive and subtle that he definitely researched. 

The record store suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. The soft music playing overhead seems louder. 

You look at him, really look. The practiced charm, the calculated aesthetic, the way he’s watching you like he’s trying to read your mind. All of it designed to make women want him. That he’s different. 

The terrible thing is, it’s working. 

“You’re insufferable,” you say finally. 

“Look, I know what this is. You know what this is. But I also know seventeen different musical and state of the art things we can talk about, and I tip really well at restaurants.” 

You snort despite yourself. “Wow. What a catch.” 

“Right?” He leans against the poster bin. “What do you say? Let me take you to dinner.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, weighing your options. He stares back at you, completely shameless. He knows your answer. 

“Fine.” 

“Fine?” 

“One dinner. If you bring up the wage gap before appetizers get to the table, I’m leaving.” 

Suguru, who listens to your remarks about how “it’s just sex” while literally rearranging his entire schedule around your lunch breaks and keeping your coffee order memorized down to the exact amount of foam. 

Suguru, who has perfected the art of looking completely innocent and unfazed while his hand is up your skirt during client dinners, nodding seriously about budget allocations while his fingers work you into a mess. 

Suguru, who leaves his suit jacket draped over your chair after particularly intense “overtime sessions,” and gets genuinely pouty when you try to give it back because he likes seeing something that belongs to him in your office. 

Suguru, who brings you your coffee from that place downtown when you’re stressed, but also can’t resist kissing your neck while you’re trying to drink it, mumbling “let me help you relax” against your skin until you’re laughing and pushing him away. 

Suguru, who gets visibly jealous when the new intern flirts with you, then spends his lunch break reminding you exactly who you belong to in his elevator. 

AO3 / Masterlist

cw: death, violence, usage of weapons like guns, blood, illegal fighting/activities, etc.

read at your own risk.

Chapter 2: Dirty Work

Dawn breaks over Medina in a matter of hours, the city was quiet and comforting, and that provided you with more security than you’ve ever known. This, so far, has been the best sleep you’ve ever been graced in months. You were somewhere they couldn’t find, and that’s all you needed. 

Eren’s knuckles wrap against the metal door of the storage room where you spent the night. The makeshift bed of old mats and cardboard and a thin blanket did nothing to ease the ache in your bones, but you couldn’t care less. 

“Rise and shine, birdie.” His voice cuts through the haze of your sleep. “Time to earn your keep.” 

Birdie.

Eren was persistent, with every nudge on your shoulder a grimacing groan came out of your mouth. The rest was needed, so needed that you didn’t mind waking back up ever again. But you had shit to do, you had to “earn your keep” so you push yourself up regardless of every muscle in your body protesting. 

The events of last night felt so surreal you could almost convince yourself that it was all just a dream–only it’s not. The Medina Fightclub, as they called it, almost sounds fictitious. But the soreness in your body and the taste of cigarette smoke that still clung onto your clothes reminded you that it was all real. 

“What time is it?” you ask, running a hand through your tangled hair. 

“Does it matter?” Eren’s already turned away, expecting you to follow. “We’ve got work to do.” 

The walk through the abandoned maze feels different in daylight. Everything looks more decrepit, with sunlight glinting through the windows. You pass other figures moving through the place–some you recognize from last night’s crowd, others are new faces with the same hollow-eyed desperation that mirrored yours. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, quickening your pace to match his. 

“Scene cleanup.” He doesn’t slow down. “Part of the business. Fight’s get messy, shit needs to get straightened for the next one.” 

The way he says it makes your stomach twist, but you’ve come this far. You think about the money and how the pay’s good, about having somewhere to stay and hide. You think about the men who were chasing after you, and how they probably won’t even think to look for you here. 

Eren pulls out a set of keys, unlocking a back door you hadn’t seen before. 

“Welcome to the real show,” he says, pushing the door open. 

The smell hits you first–metallic and sharp, mixed with something sour that makes your eyes instantly water. The back room is exactly what you’d expect from a place where people go to die for literal entertainment. Concrete walls stained with god knows what, overturned chair, broken glass scattered across the floor like confetti. 

And the center of it all–last night’s loser, sprawled in a new area. He’s been dumped like he wasn’t worth anything. His body is twisted at angles that make your stomach go in on itself. 

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, taking an involuntary step back. You’ve never seen anything like it before, throughout the shit you’ve done and all the things you’ve been through, this was out of the ordinary, and that scared you. 

“He’s not gonna help you here.” Eren’s voice is flat, matter-of-fact. He walks over to a metal cabinet and pulls out rubber gloves, bottles of industrial cleaner, and what looks like a body bag. “This is what happens when people lose. This is what we clean up.” 

You catch the gloves he tossed at you. “You said you were in. This is what being in means.” 

Your hands shake as you pull the gloves on. The rubber is thick and yellow. You’ve cleaned up messes before–vomit, blood from your mother’s nosebleeds, the aftermath of her chemo sessions. But this is different. This is a person. Was a person. 

“I can’t–” you start, but he cuts you off. 

“You can, and you will.” He’s not cruel about it, just certain. “Nobody’s forcing you to stay, but if you walk out that door, you’re on your own. Your choice.” 

You think about it, you think about all of it. The train station, sleeping in wet alleys, about the constant fear of being found. You think about the empty promises you made to yourself and your mother and how they all led to this moment. 

You pick up the bottle of bleach. 

-

The work is worse than you imagined. Blood doesn’t clean easily from concrete–it seeps into the pores, staining everything it touches with a permanence that makes you nauseous. The bleach burns your nostrils, mixing with the metallic stench of death doesn’t exactly mix well with other chemicals, and you could’ve sworn you can taste it in the back of your throat. 

You first scrub across the largest stain and it sends a spray of diluted blood across your forearm. The sight of it–pink and watery, but still unmistakably human–makes you heave. You bite down on your tongue hard enough to taste copper, forcing yourself not to vomit. 

Keep going. Don’t think about what it is. 

Every surface needs attention: the walls, the floor, the folding chairs that somehow got splattered despite being yards away from the ring. With each wipe, each scrub, you’re erasing someone’s last moments. 

Eren doesn’t help. He just watches, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, studying your every move. You can feel his eyes on you as you do your work, cataloging your reactions, your breaking points. You wonder if he’s waiting for you to break down, to start screaming from all the blood, to prove you can’t handle this. Maybe you can’t. 

You’re breathing through your mouth now, but it doesn’t help. The blood coats your tongue, thick and cloying. Your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold the scrub brush. The concrete is rough against your knees as you kneel beside the largest stain, and you realize you’re whimpering. 

The brush catches onto something, a piece of what might be bone or tooth, or something else you don’t want to identify. You retch and almost pull back, the bile burning in your throat, but nothing comes up. You haven’t eaten in almost a day. 

Just clean. Stop thinking. 

While cleaning around the makeshift desk where the bets were placed, you find them–-notebooks filled with names, numbers, dates. The pages are splattered with blood, but the writing is still legible. Your eyes scan the entries, trying to make sense of the system. 

Marco Bodt - $47,000 - 30 days overdue 

Theo Magath - $23,000 - PAID 

Keith Shadis - $31,000 - 45 days overdue 

The list goes on and on. Some names are crossed out in red ink. Others have dates written next to them–dates that have already passed. 

“Found something interesting?” Eren asks, appearing beside you. 

“These people… they owe money.” 

“Smart girl.” He takes the notebook from your hands, flipping through pages. “Welcome to the game. The fights are just a way to collect the money.” 

“Collect the money?” 

“People borrow money. People can’t pay back that money. People fight to clear their debts. People die.” he shrugs like he’s explaining the weather. “Simple math.” 

You look back at Marco’s body, you could only surmise that it might be his name. 

The sound of frantic knocking interrupts your thoughts. A woman’s voice echoes through the door. 

“Marco? Marco, are you in there? Your shift started an hour ago!” 

Eren’s hand shoots out, ungloving your hands. “Handle it,” he says quietly. “Make it believable.” 

“I can’t–” 

“You can, and you will.” He looks at you sternly as his grip tightens. “Unless you want to explain to her why her boyfriend’s guts are decorating the floor.” 

The knocking continues, more desperate now. “Marco, please! I brought you lunch!” 

Your heart hammers as you walk to the door. Through the small peephole, you could see her, in her early twenties, tired eyes, holding a paper bag that probably contains a sandwich made with whatever she could afford. She looks like you did months ago, well before everything went to hell. 

You crack the door open just enough to show your face. “He’s not here.” 

“What?” Her face crumples. “But he said he’d be here.” 

“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him.” The lie tastes bitter. “Maybe he went home with someone else after the fight?” 

The words hit her like a physical blow. Her face goes white, then red, then collapses entirely. “No. No, he wouldn’t. He said he was going to win. He said he was going to fix everything.” 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, and you mean it. “I really am.” 

She stands there for a moment, clutching the paper bag to her chest. Then she turns and walks away, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. 

You close the door and lean against it, feeling sick. 

“Well done,” Eren says, and you hate how unconvinced he sounds. “Sounded good enough.” 

You don’t respond. You can’t. Instead, you grab the rubber gloves and you go back to cleaning, scrubbing harder than necessary, trying to wash away the image of that woman’s face. 

It’s while you’re cleaning around Marco’s body that you cut yourself. A piece of broken glass hidden under his jacket slices across your glove and onto your palm. You hiss in pain as blood wells up. 

“Shit,” you mutter, pulling your hand back. 

“Let me see.” Eren’s voice is different now, urgent. He’s beside you before you can protest, taking your hand in his. His touch is surprisingly gentle. 

“It’s not deep,” he says, but he's already making his way towards a cabinet where he keeps all the cleaning supplies. “But it needs to be cleaned.” 

Eren returns with a first aid kit, and you watch in confusion as he carefully ungloves your hand and cleans your wound. His hands are steady and focused. For a moment, you forget where you are and what you’re doing. 

“There,” he says, wrapping gauze around your palm. “Can’t have you bleeding out on day one. Bad for business.” 

The moment breaks, and you remember who he is and what he does. But the gentleness of his touch lingers, confusing you. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. 

His fingers linger on your wrist for a moment longer than necessary, and you can feel your pulse jumping under his touch. When he look up, his green eyes catch yours, and something passes between you–something that makes your breath hitch despite the horror surrounding you, 

“I didn’t take someone like you could handle something like this,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing once over the edge of the bandage. It sends warmth through you. “You’re good. More than you let on.” 

“I don’t feel good,” you admit. 

“Nobody does at first.” He releases your hand, but he doesn’t step away immediately. 

The moment stretches between you, and you’re acutely aware of how close he is, how his voice has gone softer. Then Marco’s body catches your peripheral, and reality crashes back. 

“I should finish,” you say, pulling your hand back. 

Eren only nods. 

- 

By the time you finish scrubbing the last stain from the concrete, your hands are raw and your back aches. Marco’s body is wrapped in black plastic, ready to be disposed of in whatever way they handle these things. The room looks normal, there’s no evidence. 

You stand up slowly, peeling off the rubber gloves with shaking hands. It’s done. You did it. You cleaned up a dead man’s blood and lied to his partner and somehow didn’t fall apart. 

But now, standing in this sterile aftermath, something inside you cracks. 

‘I need–” you start, but the words get stuck in your throat. “I need some air.” 

“Hey,” he says, his voice gentler than you’ve heard it. “Are you good?” 

“Am I good?” The question comes off as a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. “I just spent hours scrubbing someone’s blood off the floor. I just lied to a woman who was bringing her boyfriend his lunch. Nothing is good! I am standing here acting like this is normal!”

Your breathing is getting faster and shallower. The walls feel like they’re closing in.  

“I can’t do this,” you whisper, your voice breaking. 

Eren grips your arm tightly, steadying you. “Sit down,” he says, guiding you to one of the chairs. “Put your head between your knees.”

You do as he says, trying to force air into your lungs. The panic is building. 

“I feel all of it. The guilt, the disgust, the way it sits on your stomach. But I've learned to carry it because I have to.” 

He crouches down in front of you, bringing himself to your eye level. “The first time I cleaned up after a fight, I threw up for an hour. Couldn't bring myself to eat for three days. Kept seeing the guy’s face every time I closed my eyes.” 

His submission was vulnerable. 

“How do you do it?” you ask. 

“I suck it up. I find something worth doing it for.” 

After you’ve calmed down, Eren leads you to a maze of corridors and hallways that lead to a different part of the building. The place is bigger than you thought, especially for something under a bridge. 

This area is cleaner and more organized, almost civilized compared to the fight room. 

“We need to talk.” 

You felt good enough to lower your guard down, your eyes flicking up to meet his. He doesn’t do anything. Instead, he stayed standing, close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep looking at him. 

He studied you for a moment. Then he reached out, cupping your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazing softly along your skin. His fingers were warm. 

“You work for me now. Not just cleaning–whatever there is I need you to do. In exchange, you get protection, food, a place to sleep. And you stay alive.” Eren’s voice drooped a little. 

“Do you understand?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

“Good.” He doesn't step back. “There’s another fight tonight. Stay with me.” 

- 

That evening, you find yourself back in the main room, but this time you’re not hiding. Eren has positioned you near the wall where you can see everything. 

The crowd is bigger tonight, more electric. Word has spread about last night’s fight, about Marco’s spectacular failure. You try to not think of him, or anyone else for that matter. 

“Stay close,” Eren murmurs in your ear, his hand settling on your lower back. “Don’t wander off.” 

The fighters are introduced, a massive man with scars covering his forearms, and a younger guy who looks barely out of his teens. The crowd roars as they take their positions. 

“Who do you think’ll win?” you ask. 

“Does it matter?” Eren’s voice is flat. 

But you notice the way his jaw tightens when he looks at the younger one. The way his hand presses more firmly against your back, like he’s trying to keep himself grounded. 

The fight begins, it’s quick and brutal. A lot more violent than you expected. The crowd screams for blood, placing bets on how long it’ll take for someone to die. 

The young one is fast but desperate. He dances around the bigger man’s swings, landing quick jabs that barely seem to make an impact. You can see fear in his eyes, the way his movements become more frantic with each passing minute. 

“He’s gonna lose.” you whisper, not sure why you feel the need to say it. 

“Yeah,” Eren agrees, his voice tight. “He is.” 

The bigger man catches the kid with a massive hook to the ribs, and you hear something crack. The kid stumbles, gasping and the crowd erupts in cheers. Money changes hands rapidly as the odds shift. 

“Why doesn’t he just give up?” you ask, watching the kid struggle to get back on his feet. 

“Because giving up means dying slower,” Eren says. “At least this way, it’s quick.” 

The kid makes one last desperate charge, throwing everything he has into a wild swing. For a moment, it looks like he might. But the bigger man sidesteps easily and brings his fist down on the back of his neck. 

The sound is sickening, almost like branch snapping. The kid hits the ground and doesn’t get up.

You’d expect cheering from how batshit sadistic the crowd was but there was nothing. Instead, there's an odd moment of silence. Then someone in the back starts clapping slowly, mockingly, and the spell breaks. 

“Show’s over,” someone calls out. “Pay up!” 

“Come on,” Eren says, his hand on your back guiding you away from the ring. “Let’s get you out of here.” 

But as you turn to leave, you catch sight of something that makes your blood freeze. In the crowd, partially hidden behind a pillar, stands a man in the dark coat. He’s not watching the cleanup in the ring, he’s watching you. 

When your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he smiles, a cold predatory expression that makes your spine shiver. Then he raises his hand in a small wave. 

You know that face. You’ve seen it before. He’s one of them, one of the men who were chasing you. 

“Eren,” you whisper, grabbing his arm. ‘We need to go. Now.” 

He follows your gaze and his entire body goes rigid. “Shit,” he breathes. 

The man in the coat is moving now, pushing through the crowd toward you. He’s not hurrying, he doesn’t need to. He knows you have nowhere to run. 

“This way,” Eren says, pulling you toward a side exit. “Stay close to me.” 

But as you reach the door, you hear a voice behind you that makes your heart stop. 

“And here I was hoping we could catch up.” 

Eren’s hand moves to something under his jacket but he doesn’t turn around. “Keep walking,” 

“Oh, I don’t think she wants to do that,” the man says, voice getting closer. “Do you, sweetheart? Not when we have so much to talk about.” 

You feel weak, but you force yourself to keep moving. The exit is just a few feet away. If you can just make it to the door. 

“You know, I have to admit,” the man continues. “You’re harder to track than I expected.” 

Eren pushes the door open, and the cool night’s air hits your face. You’re almost free. 

“The question is,” the man says, and his voice is right behind you now, “what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” 

You stepped through the door, and for a moment, you think you’ve made it. Then you hear the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked. 

Fuck. 

Eren is looking at you with no other expression other than a blank one. The man has his gun cocked to the back of your head. 

“I think it’s time we had that conversation.”

AO3 / Masterlist

cw: violence depicted, death, crime, illegal fighting/activities, etc.

read at your own risk.

Chapter 1: On the Run

You’re on your feet before you even know it. 

You don’t remember the last time you stopped running, it’s too much of a distant memory now. Everything’s changed for the worse. You feel your eyes pool with an aching, throat-lumping blur for a moment before focusing again, it’s too late to cry, it’s too late to sulk over this, you don’t have time for that, at least not anymore. So you blink it off. 

The weight of your body feels like nothing, your legs are moving as quickly as your stamina lets you. Maybe this is what they’re describing when they talk about runner’s high. It feels good, it feels liberating, you don’t even want to stop. 

The adrenaline pumps through your body in an out-of-body manner, you’re not tired, in fact, you’re free, you’re living, you’ve reached your peak. 

Until you force yourself to halt, looking behind you, it’s just silence. There’s no one there. You’ve lost them for now. 

Your chest burns as you gasp for air, the runner’s high crashing into reality like a brick wall. You compose yourself, catching your breath as quietly as possible, making sure that no sound comes out from your mouth, not even a groan, not even an exasperated gasp, you couldn’t risk it. 

The street lamps blur together through your tears, the ones you can’t blink away this time. You sob, for the first time in months. You couldn’t believe it, this is your life now. You had spent months becoming someone you didn’t recognize—forging documents, lying to the government, stealing in every way that mattered—all desperate attempts to keep your mother alive. Credit card bills go unpaid, calls go unanswered, you’ve fully isolated yourself from the world, and maybe it’s better this way, but you know damn well it’s not. 

You’re in some part of town you don’t recognize, industrial and empty. It’s the kind of place where people disappear.

You look ahead of you, the train station is looming ahead like salvation, no one’s there, maybe it’s because it’s 2 in the morning. Its fluorescent lights cut off and on, it’s uninviting but you make an attempt to walk towards it anyway. Your legs shake as you struggle to walk, muscle memory carrying you forward even as your body threatens to give out. 

You push past the fair gates, not giving the consideration of paying a second thought. Even if you did, you don’t have the money. You ignore the station agent's empty threats and the five second alarm that stings your ears. You know they won’t actually do anything. 

Inside, it’s almost deserted, just a few late-night commuters and a couple of unhoused people lying carelessly on the floor. The familiar sight stings you, you know it all too well. 

You collapse onto the metal bench, finally letting yourself feel the weight of what you’re running from. Your clothes are dust-filled, sleeves torn and raggedy, your jeans cuffed and stained with browning, dried blood. You're at your lowest. There’s no home to go to, nowhere to stay for the night, you’re not in contact with anyone in your life anymore. You have complete liberty over yourself, only you don’t. 

The numbers flash in your head like a neon sign: seventy-two hours. That’s what they gave you. That was three days ago. You push the thought behind your head, avoiding the thought like it doesn’t sneak back in every time you’re not occupied. 

You glance at the train display as if you had a destination to stride off to. 

Scheduled departures

Train H to Avon 7, 15, 34

Train F to West Lancaster 4, 23, 48

Train P to Medina 2, 17, 42

Train G to Loudon 3, 20, 45

You look back in front of you before mustering enough leftover strength to get yourself back up on your feet. Medina doesn’t sound so bad right now, and so does a train arriving in two minutes. 

Your steps are unsteady as you make your way behind the platform line. The digital clock above the tracks read 2:03 AM - only one more minute until the train to Medina arrives. It’s quiet, comfortingly quiet, no one’s here to get you, and for once, you let your mind and your eyes shut. 

Regardless, your muscles are the first to relax, but second comes the aching, every limb intertwining with your exhaustion as you force your eyes open. You can’t rest here, not now, and certainly not while standing up.  

Beneath you the ground shakes, signaling that the train is almost near. You eye it in the distance; the lights are flashing, and the distant sound of the train horn is gradually getting louder. The train pulls in with a mechanical screech, its doors sliding open slowly. 

You slip inside just as the departure bell chimes, collapsing into the nearest seat you could find. The train car is nearly empty, just you and a man in a rumpled suit sleeping, taking both seats of the paired chairs with his feet hanging off the seat. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as the train lurches forward, about 45 minutes until it reaches Medina. 

You lean your head against the window and close your eyes shut. You’re numb to the feeling, of running, of sulking, of thinking of ways to desperately pay for your mother’s treatments, but you couldn’t do anything. The cancer had already spread, she was too far gone, and before you could even register the situation you hit the ground running. Literally. 

The rhythmic clacking of the train wheels becomes a countdown in your head, matching the beeping of the machine that your mother clung onto before the final weeks of her life. You’d been sitting in that sterile, unwelcoming, hospital room, promising her you’d find a way to make her feel better, that you’d figure it out. She’d squeezed her hand with what little strength she had left, acknowledging your promise. She knew you wouldn’t be able to, deep down you both knew, so you strung your promises until they finally caught up to you three months after her funeral. 

You push the memory into the back of your head, another one to ignore until it creeps back up. 

The train shudders beneath you, and through your exhaustion, you hear heavy footsteps moving through the train car. Your eyes snap open, looking behind you as a transit officer makes his way down the aisle, checking tickets and looking directly at passengers. 

Shit. 

You’d forgotten about jumping the turnstiles. In sheer carelessness, you thought the empty threats were, well—empty. But here he is. 

“Excuse me, miss.” His voice cuts through the mechanical hum as he stops at you. Medina couldn’t come any faster now. “I need to see your ticket.” 

You hear your heart hammering, you’re convinced he can hear it too. “I… I don’t have one.” 

“Miss, you need to step off at the next stop.” His hand reaches for his radio on his shoulder. “Fare evader on Train P, car two.” 

The train begins to brake, and you know you have seconds before this becomes another chase. Through the window, you see the platform approaching. The sign flickers but you can see its faint glow. Medina. Thank fucking God. 

Without putting in so much of a second thought, you’re already moving, pushing past the officer and making your way toward the doors. The departure bell is still chiming as you burst out of the train and onto the platform. 

Medina station is just as deserted as you expected, and that works against you. You have nowhere to hide off to. 

“She’s running!” The officer’s voice booms across the platform. 

You don’t look back. Just like before, you run like you never have. 

Your feet glide towards the dusty tiles with a sense of familiarity, pushing past the fare gates and straying off to another dead end of a night. But you don’t care, running from something is better than staying put. At least for you.   

You maintain a good enough distance between yourself and the station before clearing the signal that you can look behind you. 

The officer waves off a petty hand and turns his back around. You could almost hear the curses he yelled the moment he realized you were too far off to chase after. He gave up, not that there was that much of a point anyway. 

You pant as you try to adjust your eyes to the darkness, the street lights giving way to an alleyway under a highway bridge. You’ve never seen anything like it before, it was poorly lit, with flickering yellow lights that would immediately make anyone’s gut gnaw. 

Your legs feel like lead as you walk towards it anyway, with each step getting heavier and heavier than the last. You were exhausted and your body knows it all too well. You needed sleep. 

You scan inside the alley for the driest corner, somewhere where the constant flickering of the lights won’t reach. Just a few hours of rest— that’s all you need before going back up on your feet again later. 

It’s not the first time you’ve slept rough, and you know it won’t be the last. At least here, no one will think to look for you. 

You desperately crawl towards the corner and settle in, eyes heavy and yearning for sleep before you notice a small crackle of light coming from what you thought was a solid wall. 

Except it’s not. It’s a door, poorly painted but enough to not be detected from a distance. You could hear voices slipping through it— not the kind you’d expect in a place like this. Laughter. Cheering. 

The smart thing would be to ignore it, to find another spot and to just leave it alone. But you couldn’t. This was too good to pass up on. The sounds were alive and sharp. Who would blame you?

Your fingers find the edges of the door carefully, the metal is beaten and weathered, rusty too. There’s no handle, there was nothing to grip on but the edges. So you pull slowly, with each exposing inch making the constant cheering louder. 

And suddenly all the fatigue you felt vanished. 

You step inside the narrow corridor that looks like it opens into something larger, with voices gradually growing louder with every step. You smell a horrid amount of cigarette smoke and you scrunch your face in disgust. 

With one final stride, the corridor opens up and you freeze. Red light bathes everything, every single person, every dried blood, every ragged and torn up furniture—you struggle to process it all at once. There’s a mass of bodies surrounding the geometric shaped platform from the center that you slowly realize is a ring. 

The crowd surges and moves violently like it’s a living thing. Everyone is focused, they’re all sweating, they’re all arguing and some are physically fighting each other. It’s chaos, you don’t even know what you just stepped into. 

Two figures circle each other inside, they look like they’re fighting with raw, bandaged fists. With each movement creating fresh spatters on the canvas that’s already dark with stains. 

You look to your right and left, posters cover every surface—faces you don’t recognize, dates, numbers. Some are torn, some are overlapping, creating a collage of violence and what basically looks like bounties at this point. 

You press yourself against the wall, your heart hammering and encapsulating every inch of your being. This isn’t just illegal, it’s primal and desperate. People are gambling for their lives for the sake of entertainment. 

Your eyes lock onto one figure in the ring. A man with his dark hair pulled back in a bun, sweat glistening on his bare shoulders and forehead. He was focused, with every punch as calculated and precise as you’d imagine. His eyes flashed a shade of dark green that complimented the rest of his features. You had to admit, he was attractive, but his brutality makes your blood run cold. 

The crowd’s bloodlust suddenly makes sense to you now. This isn’t a sport, it’s a type of execution with an audience. You watch his opponent crumble, and there’s no getting back up. He’s limp and unmoving. He's dead. 

The man in the bun pulled his head back and let out an exasperated laugh. He won and he knew it. No referee needed. 

Every fight ends the same way. The winner takes all, with the loser not even taking anything, not even their last breath. 

The crowd once again erupts with the loudest uproar you’ve ever heard in your entire life. The man steps back, blood dripping from his knuckles, his breath barely labored. 

Four pairs of hands reach through the ropes, pulling him up onto shoulders. Someone grabs his wrist and thrusts it in the air, at this point, the roar becomes deafening. 

He’s their champion. He’s their killer. 

The name “Eren Yeager” bounces off the walls. That’s when he sees you. Through a blanket of faces he finds his eyes settling onto yours. Dark, calculating, still riding the high of his kill. 

Even in his moment of triumph, he’s watching you. And you realize you’re no longer just a spectator. 

Through the constant chants of his name he gestures with his other hand—not in victory, but pointing. Directly at you. His fingers curl in a subtle gesture, and you see two men at the edge of the crowd nod in understanding. 

Panic floods through your system. You turn your body towards the corridor in which you came from, pushing past tens of bodies that suddenly feel heavier. The crowd is too thick and frenzied, and you realize you’re stuck. 

Your heart hammers against your chest as you try to claw your way out, but firm hands grab your arms before you can even reach the door. 

“Easy there,” one of them says, his voice almost gentle despite the rough grip on your arm. “Boss wants to meet you, nothing to worry about.” But the way he steers you tells a different story. 

They guide you through the constant chatters and yells and you notice Eren being lowered down. You continue to get guided past the crowd and stop in front of a door. Same structure, same everything, but actually has a doorknob. 

At this point, you’re being shoved in. And a couple seconds of pacing turns into minutes. You’re anxious, you don’t know what you’re about to get yourself into. 

You scan the room for anything but you find nothing. Everything here is surprisingly sterile, the complete opposite outside of these doors. 

Eren walks in, still wearing that stained wife beater from earlier, sweat and crimson staining parts of his upper body. He doesn’t bother cleaning up. Not when he wants to see you. 

He leans his back against the wall, and you’re in the center of the room, studying you with the same calculated look. 

“So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He steps closer, “Hmm?” You can smell the metal tang from the blood on him. “And don’t give me bullshit either, sweets.” 

You quirk a brow, suddenly everything about this doesn’t feel real. 

“A girl like me?” You let out a harsh laugh. “You don’t know anything about me.” 

“I was looking for a place to sleep. Didn’t expect the entertainment.” You continue. 

Eren’s mouth turns into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so sharp. “Entertainment.” The word rolls off his tongue with a click. He tilts his head to the side. “That’s what you call it?” 

He’s now stepping towards you, he’s already examined every part of you. From your face to the rest of your body. He knew, you both knew, you’re on the run. 

“Most people who stumble into my fights don’t usually stick around long enough to watch the finale.” He stops just close enough that you have to tilt your head back just to look him in the eyes. “But you did. Watched the whole thing.” 

“So you’re either tougher than you look, or more desperate than you’re letting on.” He coos and rests his head on your shoulder before whispering. “I’m betting it’s both.” 

“Sounds like we might be able to help each other, what do you think?” He puts his hands in his pockets, patiently waiting for your answer. 

You should say no, you should definitely say no, but what do you have to lose? Nothing. You’ve been looking over your shoulder for weeks. What’s one more bad decision? 

“What kind of help are we talking about?” The words come out before you can stop them, and you can see satisfaction flickering in his eyes. 

“Tell me—how do you feel about getting your hands dirty?” The question hangs in the air between you, loaded with implications you’re not sure you want to get into.

“The work isn’t pretty, but it pays well. And I take care of what’s mine.” 

“What’s yours?” You question, and his smile turns predatory. 

Eren reaches up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek. “You stick around long enough, and you might find out.” 

His touch is gone as quickly as it came. But his eyes never leave yours. “So what’s it gonna be? Hmm? You in or you out?” The way he says it makes you feel like there’s no other choice. 

Fuck it. 

“I’m in.” 

BLOOD MONEY | MASTERLIST

An Eren Yeager x Fem!Reader

Drowning in your own sufferings, you’re willing to risk it all. That’s what you tell yourself before fully succumbing to Medina, where money flows as freely as blood does. Eren catches you watching, eyes sharp even through the smoke and noise, something in you stills. He’s fresh from the ring, breath ragged and knuckles red. Something about you piques his interest, to which he takes to his advantage and offers you one opportunity to redeem yourself from your burdens, only if you’re willing to get your hands dirty.

cw: 18+, degrading, rough sex, power imbalance, biting/marking, choking, criminal activity, illegal fighting, blackmail scenarios, rough sex again and I mean rough sex, hair pulling, oral sex, semi-public sex, etc.

Minors DNI.

STATUS - ONGOING

Available on AO3

Wordcount: 8k (ongoing)

1. On the Run

2. Dirty Work

AO3 / Masterlist / Moodboard

EDITED | COMPLETED

Wordcount: 3.7k

cw: 18+, mature audiences only.

Minors DNI.

Newly promoted and chronically late, you unknowingly take the last elevator available to only the highest-ranking executives and apparently, it's him. Suguru Geto. Who promises himself to give you, your exhausted, frustrated self, some type of relief every time you take his elevator.

The HR conference room feels sterile under the fluorescent lights, all beige walls and corporate motivational posters that ring hollow in moments like this. You sit across from Suguru at the long table, maintaining professional distance even though every instinct tells you to reach for his hand. 

Shoko Ieiri from HR adjusts her glasses, a stack of policy documents spread before her like evidence in a trial. Ijichi sits to her left, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, as always. The third person at the table is someone you don’t recognize, a stern-faced man from Legal whose presence makes your stomach clench. 

“Thank you both for coming.” Ieiri begins, her tone carefully neutral. “I’m sure you understand why we’re here.” 

Suguru speaks first, his voice steady. “We do. And we’d like to address this directly rather than dance around it.” 

“Go ahead.” 

You take a breath, finding your voice. 

“Suguru and I have developed a personal relationship outside of work hours.” A partial lie. “We understand this creates complications given our professional dynamic and we’re committed to finding a solution that works for everyone. 

The Legal representative, his nameplate reads K. Nanami–leans forward. “The concern isn’t just about complications. There are liability issues, potential claims of favoritism or a hostile work environment. When there’s a clear power imbalance–” 

“I understand,” Suguru interrupts smoothly. “Which is why we’re here to discuss alternatives, not to defend something that clearly violates policy as it currently stands.” 

Ieiri nods approvingly. “What kind of alternatives did you have in mind?” 

“Transfer one of us to a different department,” you suggest. “Remove the direct reporting relationship entirely.” 

“That’s… actually reasonable,” Ijichi admits, sounding surprised. “We do have an opening in Strategic Development. Same level, same pay grade, but different chain of command.” 

You feel something ease in your stomach, “I’d be interested in that position.” 

“It would mean working more closely with external clients,” Ieiri explains. “More travel, different responsibilities. Are you sure you’re prepared for that change?” 

“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation. You’ve already risked everything, what’s a little more change?

Nanami makes notes on his legal pad. “We would need to establish clear boundaries. No interaction beyond what’s professionally necessary during work hours. Separate projects, separate meetings when possible, and certainly separate elevators.” He eyes you both sternly. A familiar knot forms in your stomach, forcing you to look down in shame. Suguru takes notice and his jaw clenches. 

“And outside of work?” Suguru asks. 

“Outside of work, you’re both adults,” Ieiri says carefully. “But any hint that your personal relationship is affecting workplace dynamics, client relationships, or team morale, we will have to revisit this conversation.” 

The meeting continues for another twenty minutes, covering documentation, transition timelines, and the kind of corporate liability language that makes your head spin and your eyes glaze over. But the core message is clear: they’re willing to make this work. And you couldn’t be more relieved. 

As you all stand to leave, Nanami adds one final comment. “For what it’s worth, the fact that you came forward proactively rather than making us discover this through complaints or incidents… or even denying it simply, it speaks well for both of your characters.” 

-

Three weeks later, you’re settling into your new office in the Strategic Development wing. It’s smaller than your previous space, but the work is engaging—more creative, more client-facing, more aligned with where you’d eventually wanted your career to go anyway. 

The transition hasn’t been seamless. There were awkward moments the first week when you’d instinctively head toward the fourth elevator, muscle memory from months of routine. Colleagues asking casual questions about the sudden change in department. Learning new systems, new team dynamics, new responsibilities. 

But there are unexpected benefits too. Your new supervisor is brilliant and supportive in ways that feel refreshing after navigating the politics of the executive floor. The work challenges you differently, stretches skills you’d forgotten you had. 

And the best part? No one here knows a damn thing about you and Suguru. No whispers, no knowing looks, no weight of shared secrets. You’re just the new Strategic Development specialist who’s surprisingly good at client presentations. 

The hardest part is the distance. Suguru is only three floors up, but it might as well be three cities. Your text conversations are limited to logistics–when to meet, where to go, careful not to leave digital trails that could be misinterpreted if anyone ever cared to look. Everything about you two when it comes to the workplace has been all about strategic, and stolen moments feel more precious now. You share brief encounters in the lobby when your schedules align. Careful smiles across crowded conference rooms during company-wide meetings. The thrill of secrecy has been replaced by something deeper and connected–the satisfaction of choosing something real over something easy. 

There’s no guilt anymore. 

-

It’s already been six months since the transfer when Suguru texts you on a Thursday evening: Free tonight? Want to cook for you. 

You’re at your desk, finishing up a client proposal that’s due tomorrow, but the message makes you smile. Your place or mine? 

Mine. I’ll pick you up at 7. 

I can drive myself. 

I know. I want to pick you up. 

The distinction matters now in ways it didn’t before. Every gesture feels more chosen and intentional. You’re not just fucking your boss in secret, you’re building something that exists outside the building entirely. 

Suguru’s apartment is a sleek high-rise downtown, all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern furniture that probably costs more than your monthly rent. You’ve been here a handful of times now, but it still feels surreal, like playing house in someone else’s life. 

“How was your day?” he asks, taking your jacket and hanging it in the closet. The gesture makes your chest feel all warm and you smile at him appreciatively. 

“Good. Challenging. Gojo has me leading the Henderson account presentation next week.” 

“That’s huge.” His pride is genuine, uncomplicated by the workplace politics that used to color everything. “Henderson’s a major client.” 

“I know. I’m scared.” 

“You’ll do great.” He guides you to the kitchen, something that smells incredible is simmering on the stove. 

You settle onto one of the bar stools, watching him move around the kitchen with surprising competence. This domestic side of Suguru still catches you off guard, the man who commands boardrooms and has his own elevator, chopping vegetables and stirring sauce with the same focused attention he brings to everything else. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, not looking up from the cutting board. 

“About?” 

“About us, and how well this is working. The separation, I mean. It’s been good for us.” 

You shift in your seat to make yourself comfortable. “You sound surprised.” 

“I am, a little. I thought it would be harder. Not seeing you every day, not being able to…” He glances up, something heated flickering in your eyes. You nod and laugh. 

“The elevator sessions?” 

“Among other things.” His smile is soft, fond. “But this feels more real. We’re not sneaking around anymore.” 

You nod, listening to him. 

Suguru sets down the knife, giving you his full attention. “When we were sneaking around at work, there was always this element of inevitably. Like we were caught in something we couldn’t control. But this, choosing to be together when we don’t have to be, when there’s no forbidden thrill driving it, it feels different, a good different.” 

You know what he means. The urgency has been replaced by something steadier, more sustainable. The hunger is still there, but it’s something accompanied by genuine affection, by the kind of comfort that comes from actually knowing someone beyond the confines of stolen moments. 

The timer goes off, and he turns back to the stove, but not before catching your hand before bringing it to his lips. The gesture is casual, easy, the kind of unconscious intimacy that speaks to how naturally you’ve settled into this. 

Dinner is excellent, some kind of pasta with homemade sauce that makes you think he stole the recipe from his mother. You eat at his dining table, city lights flickering beyond the windows, conversation flowing easily between work stories and weekend plans and the kind of mundane details that somehow feel significant when shared with the right person. 

“I have something to tell you,” Suguru says as you’re clearing the dishes. He leans against the doorframe at the end of the kitchen as he watches you. 

Something in his tone makes you pause. “Good something or bad something?” 

“Good something. I think.” He walks near you and leans against the counter now, suddenly looking less certain. “I got offered a position. Different company, but a really big step up. Senior VP of Operations.” 

Your heart does something complicated. “That’s… wow. That’s incredible, Suguru. When?” 

“The offer came in yesterday. I haven’t responded yet.” 

“Why not?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, studying your face. “Because it would mean relocating to Tokyo. And because I wanted to talk to you about it first.” 

The words hang between you, loaded with implication. You set down the plates you’re holding, needing something to do with your hands. 

“Tokyo,” you repeat. 

“I know it’s complicated. Your career is here, your life is here. I’m not asking you to drop everything and follow me. But I also can’t make this decision without knowing where you stand.” 

The honesty in his voice makes your chest tight. A little over a year ago, you were two people sneaking around in elevators. Now he’s considering job offers based on your opinion. The growth feels dizzying. 

“How long do you have to decide?” 

“Two weeks.” 

You nod, processing. “It’s a good opportunity.” 

“The best I’ve been offered. Complete operational oversight for a company twice the size of our current one. It’s everything I’ve been working toward.” 

“Then you should take it.”

The words surprise you just as much as they seem to surprise him. “Just like that?” 

“Just like that.” You move closer, reaching up to touch his face. “Suguru, this is your career. Your future. I won’t be the reason you turn down such a great opportunity.” 

“And what about us?” 

The question you’ve been avoiding since he started talking. You take a breath, finding courage you're not sure you even possess. 

“We’ll figure it out. Maybe I can find something in Tokyo. Maybe we do long-distance for a while. Maybe this is exactly the kind of challenge we need to figure out how serious this really is.” 

His expression shifts, something like wonder replacing the uncertainty. “You’d consider moving?”

“I consider a lot of things.” You smile, “If it means Tokyo, then we figure out Tokyo.” 

The words are out before you can second-guess them, hanging in the air between you like a bridge you can’t uncross. You’ve never said something without carefully thinking about it before, it feels strange. 

Suguru’s response is immediate and wordless, his mouth on yours in a split second. He cups your face like you’re something precious. The kiss is soft and reverent. 

You laugh, surprising yourself. The sound is bright and genuine. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” He rests his forehead against yours. 

You kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of possibility lingering in his mouth. When you break apart, the future feels less daunting. 

“So,” you say, straightening his collar in a habitual gesture. “Tell me about Tokyo,” 

-

The conversation about Tokyo continues over the next hour, sprawled across his couch with the city painting patterns on the window. You talk about logistics and timelines, career opportunities and cost of living. But underneath the practical considerations is something else, the giddy excitement of planning something together, of choosing each other completely. 

You settle against him, head on his chest, breathing in his scent that’s become your sense of comfort. 

“Can I ask you something?” you say after a few minutes of comfortable silence. 

He nods. 

“That first day, in the elevator. Was it planned? the stopping, the—” 

“No.” You can feel his laugh vibrating through his chest. “God, no. I was genuinely just going to the ground floor. But then you walked in looking like you were about to fall apart from stress, and something about the way you held yourself together, I knew I had to do something instead of just admiring you from afar.” 

You think about yourself in that elevator months ago, frazzled, insecure, desperate to prove herself. You feels like a different person now, someone you remember fondly but have outgrown. 

“I should probably head home soon,” you say, though you make no move to get up. “Early meeting tomorrow.” 

“Stay,” Suguru says quietly. “Stay tonight.” 

The invitation isn’t new, you’ve spent the night here before, and he’s stayed at your place plenty of times. But something about tonight feels different, it felt more significant. 

“Are you sure?” 

Instead of answering, he shifts beneath you, guiding you to straddle his lap. The movement is fluid and natural, your body already knowing how to fit against his. His hand settles on your hips, thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of your work dress. 

“I’m sure about everything when it comes to you,” he murmurs, voice rough with want. “All of it.” 

The certainty in his voice makes something flutter in your chest. You lean down to kiss him, slow and deep. His response is immediate, hands sliding up to your back to tangle in your hair. 

The kissing builds gradually, heat simmering between you like it has all evening. There’s no urgency now, no risk of being caught or interrupted. Just the two of you and all the time in the world. 

Suguru’s mouth trails down on your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp. His hands find the zipper at the back of your dress, he slides it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room, making you shiver. 

You help him slide the dress off your shoulders, the fabric pooling around your waist. The air conditioning makes your nipples firm, but it’s the heat in Suguru’s eyes that makes your breath catch.

His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks through the lace of your bra. The touch is gentle, exploratory, like he’s rediscovering familiar territory. 

“Tell me what you want,” Suguru whispers in your ear, voice low. 

“You,” you answer without hesitation.

The honesty seems to break something loose in him. His hands become more urgent, more possessive, pulling you closer until there’s no space between the both of you. You can feel him hard beneath you, pressing against your core through layers of fabric that suddenly feel like too much. 

You grind down against him, relishing the sharp intake of your breath it draws from his lips. His grip on your hips tightens, guiding your movements, creating friction that makes you both groan. 

“Bedroom,” he manages, the word more growl than speech. 

“Here’s good,” you counter, not wanting to break the spell of the moment. 

“Bedroom,” he insists, but his action contradicts his words as his mouth finds your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple through the lace. “I want to spread you out properly. Want to see every inch.” 

The promise in his voice makes you weak. You let him carry you to his bedroom, his mouth focusing all of his attention on your tits. 

The space is dimly lit by the windows, casting everything in soft silver. Suguru turns to face you beside the bed, hands framing your face as he catches your lips again. This time there’s nothing gentle about it, it’s hungry and desperate. 

Your hands work at the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling with urgency. He helps you, shrugging out the fabric and tossing it aside. In the dim light, you can see a landscape of shadow and muscle, and you take a moment to simply appreciate the view. You’re not even bashful about it anymore. 

“Like what you see?” He teases, mouth quirking upward at the sight of you admiring him. 

His hands find the clasp of your bra. Letting it falter down to the side before his mouth is on you once more. You find yourself pinned beneath him, your back pressed into the soft mattress of his bed. His hips nestle between your parted thighs, the hard length of his arousal pressing insistently against your core through the thin fabric. You can feel the heat of his skin radiating on you, the weight of him bringing you into a haze. 

Suguru’s hands roam your curves possessively. His tongue delving past your lips to claim you thoroughly. You moan into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair that he managed to tie up into a small bun during work hours. You hold him close as you lose yourself in the taste of him. 

The rest of your clothes disappear in a tangle of eager hands and whispers of sweet nothings. When you’re finally bare before him, Suguru takes a step back, eyes drinking in every inch of you. 

“Perfect,” he breathes. 

The reverence in his voice makes you bold. You reach for his belt, fingers working the leather until you can push his pants down his hips. He kicks them aside, and then you’re both exposed, bathed in the small light of the windows. 

Suguru reaches the apex of your thighs, you’re already wet and wanting, body responding to his touch like it was made for this. 

“Suguru,” you gasp as his fingers find your clit, circling with just the right pressure. “Please.” 

“I know, baby,” he cooes, lips brushing your ears. 

He works you with patient skill, fingers and mouth and whispered words of love until you’re writing with pleasure under him, balanced on just the end of release. Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, he pulls back, leaving you gasping and desperate. 

This is one of the most frustrating things he does, and now you’re annoyed. You glare up at him, making him smile in a way that makes you know he does this for pure joy and amusement. 

“Not yet,” he says, ignoring your cussing complaints. He settles between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You’re so ready for him that he slides in easily, both of you groaning at the feeling. 

“God,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours. “Every time. Every fucking time,” 

You understand exactly what he means. You make your way towards his shoulders as he begins to move, slow and deep, each thrust delicate and measured. You make eye contact with each other the entirety of the time, never looking away once. 

Suguru’s pace increases, movements becoming more urgent as he chases his own release. You meet him thrust for thrust, bodies moving in perfect rhythm, everything else fading away until there’s nothing but this. The sound of skin against skin, the whispered endearments, the building pleasure that threatens to consume you both. 

When your orgasm finally crashes over you, it’s with Surugu's name on your lips and his body pressed tight against yours. He follows you over the edge moments later, face buried in your neck as he shudders through his own release. 

Afterward, you lie tangled together in the aftermath, breathing slowly returning to normal. Suguru’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath your cheek. 

“So,” you say eventually, voice soft in the darkness. “Tokyo?” 

His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Tokyo,” he confirms. “If you’re serious about considering it.” 

“I’m serious about a lot of things.” You say. Smiling sheepishly against his chest. 

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

You close your eyes, already half-asleep, and you let yourself imagine Tokyo. It feels less like an ending, it feels good and legitimate. You’re not running away from anything anymore, you’re chasing life as is. 

-

One year later. 

The Shibuya building is all glass and steel, reaching toward a sky that’s perpetually and devastatingly grey. You’re early today, a luxury you’ve learned to afford yourself since moving to Tokyo a year ago. You decided to live separately from Suguru for now, learning how to adjust to life in a new city without any of his help. It’s good. It builds character. But you don’t let your individuality get in the way of the both of you, so you make efforts to see each other often.

The marble lobby echoes with the click of your heels and the low murmur of conversations in what sounds like three different languages. 

You adjust your blazer, navy this time, paired with a soft silk blouse that actually fits perfectly. 

Your phone buzzes. A text from your colleague. Onecorp team arrived 10 minutes early. Conference room B will be ready in 15. 

Onecorp. Even seeing the company he works for in professional correspondence makes something flutter in your chest, though it’s anticipation now rather than anxiety. 

The elevator bank is busy with the morning rush, but you spot an opening in the fourth elevator just as the doors begin to close. Old habits. You almost feel nostalgic. 

You slip inside and freeze. 

Suguru stands against the back wall, exactly where he always used to position himself. Nothing about him has changed, but you act like you didn’t just eat dinner at his apartment yesterday. He takes note of the bit.

“You’re early,” he says, voice warm with amusement. 

“I’ve been practicing," you reply, the doors slide shut behind you. 

The silence stretches, but it’s different now. Charged with history rather than uncertainty. You’re both aware of other people in the elevator, the cameras, the professional distance you meet to maintain. But underneath it all is the electric current of everything you’ve built together. 

The elevator dings on the 58th floor. But as soon as you step towards the doors, his hand catches yours briefly. The touch is quick. Professional to any observer, but his thumbs brushes across your knuckles in a gesture that’s entirely personal. 

You smile, squeezing his hand once before letting go. “See you in the conference room, Mr. Geto.” 

The doors slide open, and you step out into the hallway. But this time, you glance back, just once, to catch him watching you go with something that looks like tenderness. 

As the elevator doors close, you realize you’re not burdened with secrecy anymore. You’re walking confidently toward a future you’ve chosen. 

The receptionist greets you with genuine warmth, and you have ten minutes to spare before the meeting starts and you get to see him again.