sleeping in the wrong bed

Jean’s broken his promise to you. 

He swore up and down that he wouldn’t leave you alone, that he’d dance with you for most of the night, that he’d make sure you didn’t get yourself into too much trouble. He’d promised you, linking his pinky finger around your own and shaking it once, twice. 

That was hours ago. Now, he’s nowhere to be found, disappeared into the throng of people in the crowd. You’re pretty sure you spotted him out of the corner of your eye, sneaking off hand-in-hand with some giggling frat sweetheart, but you can’t be certain. And now it’s too loud, and hot, and bright, and you’re all by yourself. Fantastic. 

This is why you don’t go to frat parties. 

You figure you might as well be buzzed if you’re going to have to stay here for the next few hours, so you head to the kitchen, pushing past girls in too-tight tube tops and guys in button-downs and expensive sneakers. Someone in this house has to keep a six-pack in the fridge, right? 

You’re just about to help yourself when a voice calls out from behind you. 

“You stealing from us now?” 

When you turn around, you come face-to-face with the one of the hottest guys you’ve ever seen. 

Soft blonde hair, sharp jawline, lean muscles, and his eyes– so blue and sparkling that you could almost get lost in them. Not that you’d mind. 

In short, he’s absolutely gorgeous. 

“Relax,” he says. “I’m not gonna freak out on you. Don’t worry.” He reaches into the fridge, tossing you a can of cheap, college-kid beer. “They usually don’t provide alcohol to anyone outside the frat, but I’m sure they can make an exception for a pretty girl like you.” 

Your mouth goes dry then, because he’s talking to you. Not just talking to you— flirting with you. Out of all the beautiful girls at this party, he’s choosing to stand here in the dingy frat house kitchen, talking to you . 

You have to be the luckiest girl in the house tonight. 

“Well, thanks,” you say, cracking the tab on the beer can and bringing it to your lips. “I appreciate the recognition.” 

“No problem,” he says, and sticks out his hand. “I’m Armin, by the way. Armin Arlert.” 

You can’t remember the last time someone introduced themselves by their full name to you at a party, much less offered you a handshake. It’s a little odd, but endearing, in a way. “(Y/N),” you say, and take his hand in yours. His hands are small, the fingers long and delicate; the smooth metal of his rings feels cool against your skin. 

As the two of you delve further and further into your conversation, you realize more and more how different Armin is from the other guys you’ve been with. He waits patiently for you to finish your sentences before he speaks, offering up little vocalizations of mmhm and no way and that’s really fascinating. He asks you about your major, your hobbies, your goals. What you want to be in life, where you want to go. If he’s pretending to pay attention to you, the way most other guys do when they’re trying to get something out of you, he’s doing a damn good job at it, his blue eyes focused and intent as they gaze into yours. 

He tells you about himself in return: he’s a senior, almost ready to leave Trost U for good, and a history major a few months away from getting his teaching license. He student-teaches at the local middle school, he explains, and he hopes to be able to continue teaching there once he graduates. 

“That’s amazing,” you say, and you mean it. You feel a little twinge of guilt rise up in your chest at the way you’d judged him previously; clearly he was more than just a keg-standing, beer-chugging party animal. To be fair, it isn’t entirely your fault— it’s not exactly every day that you happen to meet a guy as jaw-droppingly gorgeous as Armin that’s actually capable of holding an intelligent conversation. Armin isn’t like any of the other guys you’d met at these types of parties, actually. He didn’t try to back you into some dark corner and shove his tongue down your throat, or attempt to win your affection with a steady flow of alcohol, or snake his hand around to grab a handful of your ass on the dance floor. No, Armin’s not like that. He’s kind, and smart, and considerate, and— God help you — so, so cute . 

“I bet you’re the teacher that all the girls have a crush on,” you say, raising your plastic cup to your lips to take a swig of the dark liquid inside. It tastes stale and musty, like someone’s left it sitting out for way too long. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Armin laughs, and scratches at the back of his neck. “I really don’t think they would have any reason to have a crush on me, of all people.” 

You pause, eyes wide as you stare back at him, scanning his features for any hint of insincerity, but his face is plain. Okay, you think, he obviously isn’t as smart as you thought he was, because this guy would have to be insane not to realize how attractive he is. 

Right? 

“You’re joking,” you say. “You really don’t see why anyone would have a crush on you?”

He shrugs. It’s not disparaging, the way he speaks about himself, not contrived or sympathy-seeking, not searching for any kind of pity or reassurance. It’s factual in the way he says it, humble, unconcerned with such a concept of physical attractiveness. The way he speaks about it, it’s like knows it’s there, but doesn’t think to attribute it to himself, content to let it circle around him without ever landing on its mark, like moths around a flame. “Not that there’s anything wrong with me or anything. I guess I just don’t see what would be all that enticing.” 

“Oh, there’s plenty,” you say, extending your arm towards him to wrap your fingers around his forearm. You’re standing close enough for you to feel his heartbeat, now, the warmth of his skin, and you crane your neck to meet his gaze. “You’re sweet,” you say, and his face colors a little as he smiles down at you. “You’re interesting, you’re respectful…” You grin as you press further into him, feeling the solidity of his muscles pushing against yours. “Not to mention you’re ridiculously sexy.” 

Armin inhales quickly, a sharp intake of breath that makes his body tense under your touch. “You think so?” he says, leaning down so his lips brush over the curve of your ear. 

“I know so,” you say, and turn your head so your lips meet his. 

His lips are soft against yours, his hand warm against your skin as he reaches up to cup the back of your neck. His hands are soft, delicate, holding you in a way that’s purposefully gentle, but firm enough to ache a little when he wants it to. You gasp a little as his other hand loops around your waist, digging into the flesh of your side and drawing you closer to him. He doesn’t falter at the sudden interruption, just presses harder against you, undeterred. 

Your heart is pounding when he draws away, his hand still on the back of your neck. Armin’s face is still just as calm as it’s always been, without a trace of the nervousness currently coursing through your veins. He’s collected, calculated, but something glimmers behind his eyes that wasn’t there before. Some fire’s just been set under him, some passion ignited that you can tell by his expression that he’s determined to follow. 

“Hey,” he says, his grip still tight on your waist, thumb skating over the slope of your hipbone, fingers dipping ever so slightly under the waistband of your pants. “You wanna go upstairs?” 

Your jaw drops. “You’re a brother here?” 

Armin raises his eyebrows, drawing back from you ever so slightly. “Well, yeah,” he says, chuckling a bit in an uncomfortable, self-excusing way. “You really didn’t know?” 

“Nope,” you say. “It’s my first time at the house, actually. My best friend’s buddies with Eren Jaeger, and he was falling all over himself that he got invited out tonight, so I basically ended up getting dragged along as moral support.” 

“Ah,” Armin nods, “okay. That makes a little bit more sense, then.” He tilts his head to place a kiss on your neck, right at the top of your jawbone. It’s light, unburdened by the usual insinuations or expectations, but it still sends a shiver down the length of your spine. “I definitely would’ve remembered someone as pretty as you.” 

In that moment, you know you’re done for. You know you shouldn’t allow yourself to get swept off your feet, because boys like this hardly ever have your best intentions in mind, because  because you told yourself you wouldn’t let yourself get swept off your feet ever again, because you pride yourself on the way you’re able to filter out their bullshit, immune to their sweet-talking and pathetic attempts at seduction. 

So why is this stranger— this beautiful, blue-eyed, sweet-talking stranger —why is he the one that you just can’t say no to?

Why do you allow him to take your hand in his, to lead you up the stairs, to push past the throng of people with one hand on the small of your back the entire time? Why is your pulse pounding in your wrist as he brushes his thumb over it? Why do you let him pin you against the door as soon as he closes it, trailing kisses over your lips, your neck, your jaw? And why do you let him pin you down against the bed the same way? Why do you relish the way his body feels so strong and solid on top of yours? 

You don’t have an answer. You can’t explain it, can’t justify it, can’t make any more excuses for yourself. Here, in some dingy frat house, in the (surprisingly very clean) of a (surprisingly very polite) stranger, you allow yourself to be seen beyond the wall you’ve built. And it feels fucking fantastic. 

Armin’s mouth is hot on your skin, warm and wet as his kisses travel downwards, his hands roaming over your body, grabbing onto your face, your shoulders, your arms, anywhere that he can that won’t make you too uncomfortable. Anywhere except where you know he wants it the most. 

As your breathing grows quicker, shallower, and his motions grow faster, more frantic, he slows suddenly, heated kisses becoming shorter and lighter. “Hey,” he says, rubbing slow circles against your jawline when you whine at the sudden lack of his touch. “Are you nervous?” 

Shit. He’s noticed it, even though you were trying so hard to conceal it, trying to hide just how long it’s been since you were with somebody. You spent plenty of time flirting, sure, little teasing jabs or flirty touches to strange men at dimly-lit parties. Hell, you’d been talking a big game to Armin just a few minutes before. It was easier to talk like that, so bold and brazen, when you knew that nothing would come out of it. You could say whatever you wanted if you knew that it was just a simulation, that nothing you spoke would ever come into existence. But somehow, with Armin, everything became very, very real, very, very quickly, and your brain is now spinning to keep up. 

“Do I seem like it?” you say, trying your best to force an unwavering smile that, judging by Armin’s face, may or may not be convincing.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “You just seemed kind of tense, is all.” He smiles. “Everything is up to you here. I won’t do anything unless you want it, too, okay?” 

“I want it,” you say, against your better judgment, because you do, completely. “I want everything with you.” 

He kisses you again, but this time it’s laced with something a bit more intense, and his kiss is harder, catching your bottom lip in between his teeth as he pulls away. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs. “Can I show you?” 

“Yes,” you say, yes a thousand times over. 

He worries the edge of your top between his fingers, thumbing over the hemline. “Can I take this off?” he asks, voice hushed and low, and you nod. He slides the fabric over your head, until you’re left in the same position, back flat against the mattress. His hands come to cup your breasts, kneading at the flesh as he kisses down the side of your face. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, again, like he’s incredulous at the fact that you’re here, with him. “Beautiful.” He reaches one hand around your back, unhooking the metal clasps of your bra in a smooth, solid motion. 

When he drops the clothing over the side of the bed, fallen into a heap on the ground, he runs his hands over your chest, squeezing your breast in one hand and rolling your nipple between his fingers with the other. His hands are even warmer on your skin now; they’re bolder, too, exploring the planes of your body freely, without reservation. 

He gasps a little when his fingers dip below the waistband of your panties, pressing two fingers to your clit and rubbing once, twice, experimentally. “You’re so wet here,” he breathes, a coy smile on his lips that you just can’t place the meaning of. His eyes flash, intent, like he’s calculating his next move, dreaming up all the possibilities of what might happen next. He brings his fingers up to his mouth, closes his lips around them and licks them clean. “You taste so fucking good,” he whispers. “Can I taste you more?” His fingers skirt across the bones of your hip, fumbling at the edge of the lace of your panties. “Please?” 

And how could you ever say no to a face like his? 

You nod, and he pulls off your panties, leaving you completely naked for the first time. Everything about you is on display, clear for him to view, to judge, to do with what he pleases. 

He tightens his grip on your hips and plants a quiet kiss on the inside of your thigh. His mouth is wet, firm on your skin, and the heat of it so close to where you want it, but not quite, is driving you insane. You start to squirm a bit, under his grasp, mind clouded and hazy with thoughts of his tongue, his fingers, every part of him pushing further inside of you. Making you feel good , the way you deserve. The way you crave. 

“Armin,” you whine, when he licks a slow stripe up the inside of your thigh. “Armin, please.” 

He stops, pulling away so you can see the shine glistening on his lips, the spark in his blue, blue eyes. “Please what?” 

You don’t know. You don’t know, and you don’t care, just anything, anything to have his mouth on you, to make the itching burn beneath your skin stop. “Do something, Armin, please , I–” You swallow, a gasp catching somewhere in the back of your throat. “I need you. Please.” 

“Baby,” he says, before lowering his mouth to you. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ll take care of you.” 

When his mouth finally, finally touches you, you almost scream. You feel it rise up in your chest, the tension of it threatening to snap, and you bite down on your hand, hips bucking up as if involuntarily. “Oh, fuck ,” you say, muffled by the back of your wrist wedged in your mouth. “Armin, fuck , oh, my God.” 

His tongue feels like fucking heaven, the way he’s licking up and down your pussy, circling slowly around your clit in a way that makes you bite down harder on the hand between your teeth. The wetness of his mouth on your pussy, the slow, solid pressure on your clit, it all feels incredible, good enough to have you seeing stars. 

And suddenly the feeling is gone, just as soon as it arrived, because Armin’s mouth isn’t on you anymore. You whine a little at the sudden loss of feeling, the space between your legs suddenly empty and aching. “No,” you say, “no, why did you—?” 

“(Y/N).” Armin’s voice is soft and low. “If I’m gonna do this with you, I want us to do it the right way.” He pulls your hand from your mouth, lacing his fingers with your own and letting your hands fall onto the bed. “I want to hear you, baby. I want to hear how good you feel.” 

 He gives another tentative lick to your clit, and you moan, louder now and unashamed without the obstruction. “That’s it,” he says, and nudges your legs wider with his free hand, grabbing a handful of your thigh. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.” 

His tongue is still electric, still wet and warm and so, so good against you. You cry out as he sucks your clit into his mouth, and his hold on your hand squeezes tighter. You’re fisting your fingers through his hair, pulling at it in handfuls. Maybe a little too hard, but you can’t help it; your body is floating ahead of you, and you need something to ground you back to reality. Something to ground you back to this room, and this bed, and this boy. 

The slide of two of his fingers into your pussy is all you need to tip you closer towards the edge. It’s so much , the pressure in the pit of your stomach building as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you. “I—” You start to speak, cut off by a sharp intake of breath as he shoves his fingers in again. “Fuck, oh shit, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.” 

He groans, the vibration electric and alive on your skin, and fucks you open on his fingers with increased fervor. You tighten your hold on his hair, pulling at the blond locks between your fingers, as you struggle to hold still on the bed, limbs twitching and your mind racing. When you come around his fingers with a cry, you almost don’t recognize the sound as coming from your body. It’s distant and faraway, your head light and fuzzy, as if it’s not attached to your body anymore. With a squeeze from Armin’s hand in yours, you come back into yourself, identifying the sound of the voice. It is you, coming long, and loud, and hard, legs trembling against the mattress, back arching up and away from the surface. It’s a you that you didn’t think Armin would be able to extract, but you couldn’t be more glad for it. 

When the fog in your head clears a bit, Armin draws back, the bottom of his face shining in the darkness of the room. “You okay?” he whispers, and you nod, tongue still too heavy to form words. He kisses you, pushing his tongue past the parting of your lips, and you taste yourself, the way the taste mixes with him. 

“I want you,” you whisper, when you finally can again. “Please. I want you inside me.” 

“Yeah?” he says. “How do you want me, baby?”

“Just like this,” you say, and spread your legs wider underneath him. “Want you to fuck me just like this.”

“Pretty girl,” Armin says, and kisses your lips. “I’ll give you what you want, okay? Anything you want. Just be patient for a minute.” He leans his body away from yours, off the bed and fumbling for something in his bedside drawer, and retrieves a small, square packet. Your body is aching without his hands on yours, clenching tightly again and again around nothing. It’s painful, the burn, the missing him, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to keep calm until he’s finished. 

Both of you gasp when he first pushes into you, the warmth of his skin against yours and the stretch of his cock inside of you sparking heat throughout your body. 

“Oh,” he says, a small choked sound coming low from the back of his throat. “Oh, shit. Is this okay? Are you okay, babe?”

“Armin.” You kiss the side of his neck, and he tastes like sweat and salt. “It’s more than okay.” You wrap your legs around his waist, digging the points of your heels into his back. “Right now, I just need you to fuck me or I think I’m going to scream.”

And he does. Until you do. 

He’s more forceful than you’d expected him to be, thrusting into you with long, solid strokes, his hands planted firmly on either side of you, almost caging you in underneath him. It’s not in a way that’s violent, or aggressive. He’s not claiming you for his own, nor is he stealing you away from some other guy, marking his territory so that no one else can possibly lay claim to you. No, you think, as he fucks into you harder, his hair falling in front of his eyes, now closed tightly as his face crumples in on itself in an expression that could just as easily be one of pain or pleasure. No, he’s protecting you. Holding you close underneath him, so that himself and himself alone is the sole provider of your pleasure. He’s orchestrating everything, making sure you have what you need, bringing one hand to the side of your face to stroke down your jawline, smooth down the mess of your hair. Taking care of you, the way you deserve. The way you need. 

It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. The way he moves above you, muscles shifting underneath your touch, his body shaking as he holds himself up over you, the moans that he tries so hard to stifle that still come out in a high whine. The pleasure is undercut with a bit of pain as he thrusts deeper into you, his movements growing sloppier and more frantic as you cry out for him harder. It’s almost pathetic, really, what he’s reduced you too. You’re barely even able to form coherent thoughts, the trajectory of your cognition being ground to a screeching halt every time his body slams into yours. 

He winds his hand between your bodies, fumbling across your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, until he finally comes to a stop, pressing his thumb against your clit and rubbing small circles against it. It nearly makes you scream, the sudden rush of pressure and pleasure permeating throughout your entire body in pulses. It’s so much, all at once, your skin glistening with sweat and your head swimming against the heat, but god, it’s so fucking good. 

It’s too good. It’s too much. 

“Wait,” you say, “wait, wait, wait,” until his movements slow. “I wanna ride you,” you whisper into his ear, clutching tightly to the blades of his shoulders. 

“Huh?” He’s gasping for air at this point, his muscles trembling with the exertion. His hair is damp, sweat-stuck down to his forehead, and a piece of it hangs down in front of his eyes. 

“Let me ride you,” you plead, your voice jumping into a high-pitched whine. “Please?” You dig your heels further into the small of his back, making him whimper a little at the sudden spark of pain. “Just wanna feel you. I need to feel you deeper. All the way inside of me.” 

He breaks into a smile at that, shaky and relieved. “Whatever you want, baby,” he says. “You know I could never say no to you.” Gliding his hands over the curve of your waistline, he flips you over in one solid movement, hoisting you onto his body so that your legs are straddling his either side. He’s stronger than he looks, you register, a dim-lit, passing thought in the back of your mind. 

That thought is secondary, however, shoved away in favor of the crushing want that’s flooding your brain. You still can’t believe he’s been able to get you like this, dick-drunk and fucked dumb on some stranger’s cock. You can’t believe that you want more. 

You throw your head back in relief as you sink down onto this cock, lowering your position an inch at a time, savoring the slow burn of the increasing stretch. Your thighs are aching as you push himself further into you, but you press forward, spurred on by Armin’s soft groans and the spasming of his body underneath yours. 

It’s blissful. There’s no better way of describing it: the warmth of his skin against yours, the pressure of his fingers digging underneath your shoulder blades, holding you flush against him, and of course, the dull ache of his cock buried deep, deep inside you. 

You place your palms flat against his chest, running your hands over the smooth muscle. It grounds you, the touch of his skin, the heave of his chest underneath your fingers. His heart beats solidly underneath you, and you feel the vibration reverberate throughout your fingers. It reminds you for a second that he’s something truly real, alive. Yours, even just for the night. 

When you start to move, raising yourself up so that the tip of his cock almost slips out, then slamming yourself back down, something breaks inside of you. Grinding your clit against his pelvis, feeling the explosion of pleasure that sparks out from the source, you see how people get addicted to this sort of thing. For the first time, you understand your friends that spend hours in the bathroom on Friday nights, pinning up their hair and pushing their cleavage together just so before they leave the house. You’d never quite gotten it before, the emphasis they put on these parties, the way they put these frat houses on a pedestal, ranking their favorites like a sports roster. You especially didn’t understand their excitement when they came back to the dorms the next day, high heels dangling from their fingers and mascara smeared in dark rings around their eyes. They were just guys, like any other. Boys, even, not nearly distinguished or mature enough to earn the title of men. 

You know now what the problem was, what it had always been. Why you’d never been able to share in their delight as they recounted the hijinks of the previous night, how he’d made them come over and over again, how they really thought that this guy would be different, how he was sweet, how this time they’d found one that actually cared. You’d never been able to get excited about all those guys, the same iteration of frat boy carbon copied over and over and over again. The reason was simple: none of them had been Armin. 

“Baby,” he says, his voice choked-out and strained around his heavy breathing. “Baby, you gotta slow down. You’re gonna make me come, oh, fuck.” 

His words reach you, of course, but you don’t heed them. You can’t. Not when you’re feeling this good, and your ass is smacking against the tops of his thighs, and his fingers are pressing lines of bruises into the small of your back, his nails cutting half-circles into your skin. 

“Yeah?” you pant, still bouncing up and down on his dick. “Why don’t you, then? Come for me, Armin. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you inside of me.” 

His hands are still flush against your hips, strong arms reaching underneath you to help you when your thighs shake too much for you to keep moving. He’s tilting his head back, brows pinched together as he fights off his orgasm, the trembling in his legs telling you that he’s close. “I’ll give it to you,” he says. “Can I come for you? Please, baby, I wanna feel you. I wanna come inside. You’ll let me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” you say, because however close you are right now, it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough until all of him can be inside of you, until your bodies can merge so close together that fucking doesn’t really feel like fucking at all, merely as an extension of your own form. In this moment, you’d give him everything, anything he asked for, just to keep hearing him moan underneath you, just to feel his hands digging into the curve of your waist. “Come for me. I want you to.” 

He twitches as he releases, throwing his head back and moaning so loud that you almost consider covering his mouth with your own hand. You couldn’t even if you wanted to, though, because feeling him twitching inside of you sends you over the edge, and you’re coming all over his cock, clenching down around him so he cries out your name even louder. You don’t care. You hope everyone hears it, how good you’re making him feel, who’s making him feel this good. You scramble for something to hold onto, something to ground you back to reality; your head feels floaty and disconnected from the rest of your body as the wave of pleasure ripples through you. You can’t help but bounce a little on his dick, each motion forcing his dick deeper inside of you and dragging your clit against his pelvis, pleasure exploding white-hot and sparking in the pit of your stomach. 

You’re not sure how long you stay there like that, grinding above him while he fucks into you with slow, lazy strokes. You’re not sure which one of you pulls away first, whether it’s you who slides your legs off of his body or him who rolls you over so you’re lying on your back, head firm against his pillows. 

You’re sure, though, that it’s him who pulls the covers tight around you, who sneaks downstairs to grab a bottle of water to put on the bedside table for you, who drops a kiss to your cheek when your eyes are closed and your body stills. 

Funny, you think, just before the weight of sleep pulls you under. This time, it’ll be you apologizing to Jean for disappearing. 

It’s late at night, and everyone is drunk except for her.

Well, so she thinks, anyway, judging by the raucous laughter coming from the campsite, its dim lantern-lights flickering outside her window. The scouts had finally gotten their hands on a stash of wine, and were currently basking in the collective glory of their success, punch-drunk and rapidly cycling through emotions. Mikasa has never really been one for partying, so she’d snuck away from the group, winding up back at the cabin, alone. No one had noticed that she’d left.

She sits at the head of her bed, folding forward to drop her forehead to her knees. Fuck, she’s more hopeless than she thought, going slack-jawed and shaky-handed at the way Eren’s eyes glowed green under the moonlight. It’s pathetic, the hold he has over her, how utterly reduced she is at the thought of him. It really is.

“Hey.” Eren ducks his head to stand in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame. “You left early.”

“I’m just a little tired,” she says, and bends down to unwork the lattice of her shoelaces, shucking off her boots onto the floor.

“Mikasa.” He takes his seat next to her on the bed, the mattress underneath her sagging at his sudden weight. “I can tell you’re thinking about something. Probably getting yourself all freaked out over it, too.” He sighs, crossing one foot over his knee in a figure four. “Just tell me what the problem is before I have to go and find out for myself.”

“It’s nothing you have to concern yourself with,” she says, but he shoots her that razor-sharp look that says listen to me if you know what’s good for you, and she acquiesces. “Fine. Would you… would you mind if I asked you a question?” It’s a stupid one, one she already knows the answer to, even if it isn’t the one she wants, but she’s asking anyway, just to hear it from him.

His brows knit. “Hopefully nothing weird, but yeah, I guess so.”

“What do you think about me?”

Three heartbeats pass before he speaks, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. “Let me ask you instead. What am I to you?” Eren says, and she feels the bed drop out from under her.

What isn’t he to her, would be an easier question to answer, and thousands of responses spring into Mikasa’s mind: brother, friend, rival, nuisance, crush, leader, her reason for being. Maybe in another life, her lover. None of these are quite right, she realizes, letting the words melt under her tongue, tasting bitter and incomplete in her mouth. “You’re family,” she says, finally, without meeting Eren’s gaze, and as she speaks the word she’s painfully, painfully aware of its insufficiency.

“Family?” He inches closer to her, so their knees are brushing, and the touch feels warm and electric against the coolness of the sheets. “Is that your final answer?”

“What else would we be?” Mikasa breathes, her head spinning a little at the heat of Eren’s skin against her own.

“You’re a smart girl, Mikasa.” Eren runs his fingers along her leg, light and deliberate as he digs his nails into the muscle of her thigh. “I don’t know of many people who jerk themselves off every night thinking about their family.” He laughs, humorlessly, and his smile is empty, self-indulgent. Like he already knows he’s got her pinned down exactly where he wants her. “Do you?”

“I— you have it all wrong,” Mikasa says, and she hears her pulse pounding hot and loud in her ears. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” Eren tightens his grip on her thigh, leaning in so that his lips brush the sensitive patch of skin behind her ear. “You think I couldn’t hear you fucking your fingers to the thought of me? You think I couldn’t hear you moaning my name? The walls in the barracks weren’t that thick, you know.” He licks a wet stripe down her neck, long and languid, and chuckles at the way her leg twitches under his hands. “Oh, but obviously I have it all wrong, hmm? I guess it wasn’t like that after all. Why don’t you tell me,” he says, “why don’t you explain to me what it was like, then.”

An achy heat spreads across Mikasa’s face. She knows exactly what it was like: how she used to lie awake on the rickety cot of their barrack, stuffing two fingers inside of her and wishing they were Eren’s, wishing for his hands against her hips, for his tongue to lap up the slick dripping down her thighs. Under the shroud of darkness, praying that none of the other Scouts would slip out from the heavy weight of their sleep, she came alone, wrist in her mouth to stifle her screams. When she pulled it away, panting, the outline of her teeth was carved into her skin, red and raw and tender to the touch.

“I wanted you,” she says, and closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at him, his smug I-told-you-so expression and the slightness of his smile.

“Open your eyes,” Eren says, and when she does his face is inches away from hers, his eyes dark and narrowed. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He brings his hand up to cup the side of her face, and his palm scrapes rough against her skin. “So you wanted me then. And now?”

He’s teasing her now, she’s aware of this; she’s also aware of the buzzing, too-light feeling pooling in her stomach and crawling up the back of her throat. He’s insatiable in this way, always has been, since they were kids. Unsatisfied with anything until it’s concrete, tangible, indisputable: I want you, I want you, I want you.

“I still do,” she whispers, and Eren’s mouth is on hers, warm and soft, gentle at first and then pushing in closer, deeper. He curves his hand around her jaw, thumb swiping back and forth over her skin. It feels out of place, the gentleness of his touch, the sweetness of his lips, against the coarseness of his hands, the way they bite angrily into her thigh.

“Do you like it when I touch you like this?” he says, and glides his hand further up her leg.  Mikasa moans in response, so he snakes his hands under the hem of her shirt, skims his fingers over the lace of her bra. When he rolls her nipple between his fingers, squeezing her breast with his other hand, she cries out, heat throbbing at the apex of her thighs.

She needs him closer. The layers of clothing in between them are suddenly tight and itchy against her skin, and she raises her arms over her head, yanking at the collar of her shirt. “Take it off,” she says, “all of it. Please.”

“Goddamn,” Eren laughs, and he catches her wrists in one hand, pulling off her shirt with the other. He tosses it to the side, where it puddles on the hardwood floor. “You’re so eager for me already.” Mikasa’s exposed now, and the cold night air bites at her skin, Eren’s eyes roaming over her body. She crosses her arms over her chest, too-aware of her nakedness, vulnerable in front of him like something on display.

“What are you doing?” Eren’s eyebrows are drawn together, his jaw set, and he wrenches Mikasa’s arms down. “Don’t ever hide from me like that again, Mikasa.”

“I just… wanna be good for you,” she mumbles, and his grip clenches tighter around her forearms.

“You are,” he says. “You’re so, so good for me.” He flattens his tongue against her solar plexus, licking down the valley in between her breasts. “So beautiful. Can I show you?”

“Okay,” she says, and he closes his mouth around her nipple, flicking his tongue over it in a way that makes something deep, deep inside of her stir. “Eren.” Mikasa throws her head back, threading her hand through the mess of his hair. “Eren, I want… I need more.”

He releases her breast, mouth wet and glistening in the darkness, and glances up to meet her gaze. “What do you need, baby?”

“I want to see you.”

“Yeah?” He slips his shirt over his head, casting it aside to tangle with hers on the ground. “That all?”

No, it’s not all, not even close, because Eren’s beautiful, and he’s here with her and no one else. No one else gets to see him like this, gets to trace their hands across the muscles of his body, to feel the firmness underneath, the weight of his tongue in their mouth. No one else gets to be his and his alone.

“I want you to touch me,” she says.

“Hmm.” He presses his lips against her neck, nipping her pulse between his teeth. “Use your words, Mikasa. Where?” He toys with the belt buckle at her waist, fingers trailing across her stomach. “Here?”

“Please,” she says, and it comes out in a humiliating, high-pitched whine, but her skin is blazing where Eren’s meets it and her heartbeat is hammering faster, faster and she needs his hands on her. Everywhere, anywhere, as long as he’s touching her.

“You’re going to have to ask me nicer than that,” he says, and his movement slows to a stop.

“Please,” Mikasa says, again. She can’t stand it, can’t stand the buzz of energy with nowhere to release, the ache where the air fills in the gaps between their bodies. “Eren, please, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, how much I’ve fantasized about you, please, please, just touch me, I’m begging you. I’m begging you. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You’re such a good girl for me,” Eren says, and unbuttons the fly of her pants, pushing them past her hips, ankles, until the thin cotton of her underwear is the only thing that separates them. “Always doing exactly what I tell you to.” He swipes his finger over her clit in lazy circles, laughing at the way she lolls her head backwards, gasping. “Fuck,” he groans, loud and sharp in the night’s silence. “You’re so wet already, baby. Is this all for me?”

“For you,” she says, and wraps her hand around his bicep, the smooth muscles shifting as he rubs her clit. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Eren, I swear it. God, I wanted you so bad I– I  thought I would die sometimes.” He quickens the pace of his strokes, and she bucks her hips upwards, grinding against the pad of his finger. “Used to— touch myself thinking about you. Used to pretend it was you doing it.”

“Should’ve said something before,” Eren says, placing his other hand on her shoulder to shove her back against the headboard. “All you had to do was ask. Would’ve taken care of you.” He pulls off her underwear, slipping a finger inside of her, and Mikasa can’t breathe.

She can’t breathe, because the pain between her legs is finally dissipating, a static shock pulsing through her body instead. For all the nights she’s dreamed of him, having him on top of her, under her, inside her, she finally has him, and he’s strong and solid and so, so good.

“Fuck, I can feel you,” Eren whispers, voice tinged with equal parts amazement and astonishment. “So fucking tight. Fuck.” He thrusts another finger in, deeper this time, and Mikasa cries out at the sudden stretch. “Nobody’s ever been inside this pussy but me, huh?”

“You’re the only one that I want,” she says, rocking against his him. “Couldn’t ever be with anybody else.”

“Shit.” Eren scissors his fingers, and Mikasa reaches out and pulls him closer to her, nails carving red scrapes into the muscles of his back. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. God, you’re perfect.”

Perfect. Normally she’d object, brush off the label in favor of something more objective, holistic. The usage of the word has never truly resonated with her; she’s never seen the world so black-and-white. Everything good is underlined by the bad, she’s realized, everything bad harbors good within. And of all things, she’s certainly not one to ever be called perfect: her with her short temper, her fury, her blindness to anything else when she sees what she wants. But here, in the dark, Eren’s skin warm against hers, his fingers curling deep inside of her, something heavy clenching her lower stomach in vice grip, she finally understands. She feels cared for, wanted. She feels perfect.  

“Come for me, Mikasa,” Eren murmurs as her cries rise louder and louder. “Be a good girl and come on my fingers. I know you can.”

She can, and she does, a tremor tearing through her body as she jerks forward, spilling out over Eren’s fingers. She squeezes her eyes shut as she shudders, her limbs light, liquid, sinking through the bed, the ground, only held up by Eren’s palms underneath them, and by his voice whispering I know, baby, I know. It’s okay. You’re doing so well.

Before she can open her eyes again, Eren’s shifting away from her, and she hears the rattling of his belt buckle, fingers fumbling desperately in the dark.

“God, I need you,” he says. “You have no idea how sexy you are like that. Driving me fucking crazy, fuck.”

He kisses her, faster this time, tongue forcing past her lips and circling her own. He lets out a self-satisfied moan, a soft little hmm sound that reverberates down her throat. She softens, lets herself go limp in his arms, because he’s here, and he’s holding her, and the world is melting fuzzy and fluid around her as his hands run over her body. “Eren,” she says, and he presses down on her hips, her back flush against the mattress, and all at once he is inside of her.

It isn’t how she expected it would be, she thinks, and even her own thoughts are distorted, muffled and distant like they’re being broadcasted from someone else’s brain. Pain radiates from between her legs, the place that Eren’s claimed for himself, where they’re connected. It feels heavy and full and intrusive, something she has to mold herself around to accommodate, a sort of stretch that burns.

Eren makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, harsh and like it’s clawing its way up his throat. “Shh,” he says, and she realizes that she’s whimpering, writhing under his body. “Mikasa. Do you trust me?”

His face is twisted in a way she’s never seen before, flushed and raw, jaw clenched like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something. “I trust you,” she whispers.

“Good,” he says, and grabs her hips flush against his, skin to skin. “Just let me make you feel good, then. Just let me do that for you, okay?”

She nods, and then she’s crying out as Eren fucks into her, the force of his thrusts stabbing and sharp at first, but eventually subsiding into a dull pressure, a tingling feeling that effervesces throughout her whole body. Eren plants his wrists on either side of her head, caging her in, and the strands of hair falling loose from his ponytail brush across Mikasa’s face, bouncing as he ruts his hips against hers.

“Feels so fucking good,” Mikasa whines, and wraps her legs around Eren’s waist, digging her heels into the small of his back. “Used to dream about you fucking me. How good your cock would feel inside me,” she pants. “Woke up soaking wet with my pussy fucking throbbing, thinking about you. Fuck, Eren, I need you, please don’t stop.”

He groans and tosses his head back, grabbing her hand in his and pinning it onto the pillow. Beads of sweat drip down his face, his neck, and Mikasa runs her tongue along his jaw, licking up the salt that gathers there.  

“Get up,” Eren breathes, and pulls out without warning. The sudden emptiness is almost more painful than the intrusion, the dissatisfaction of being so, so close to what she wants and then having it taken away. twists a hand into Mikasa’s hair, wrenching her up so her back is to him now, his other hand hooking under the bones of her hips. The hand on the back of her head forces her down into the pillow, and she tastes the dry linen of her sheets, skin still buzzing hot and itchy at the lack of his touch.

He snaps his hips against hers, and his dick presses into her, so deep in this new position that she feels its weight in her stomach. Every time he draws back, slowly, and then rams into her again, that pressure builds, low and heavy in her gut. Being at his mercy like this, his balls smacking against her ass with every thrust, makes her feel light, untouchable, fucking ecstatic. Eren yanks hard around his fistful of her hair, scalp stinging, and pulls her head back so that her back is arched and his lips are at her ear.

“You’re such a good little slut for me,” he says, words broken by his breaths coming fast and ragged. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m a slut for you.”

When he winds his hand down her body to stroke up and down her clit, the pressure in her stomach only builds.    

“You’re close, baby, I can feel you,” Eren says, rubbing circles over her clit. “Let go, Mikasa, oh fuck, give it to me, baby, please.”

She isn’t sure what it is he wants her to give to him, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll give him anything he wants: her innocence, her life, her body. Anything he wants, he can have it, mark it, lay ownership to her however he pleases. So she gives him all of her, clenching around his cock as she comes, vision fading white at the edges and a slow, sticky lightness creeping through her limbs. She’s shaking, hands clutching at the mess of the sheets, face shoved into the pillow as Eren’s thighs slam into hers from behind. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognizes Eren’s low moan, his voice calling say my name, say my fucking name, and she falls forward, spiraling, unable to form thoughts around Eren, Eren, Eren.

He comes shortly after, his movements growing frenzied and sloppy. He moans as he fucks hard into her, a pulsating heat blooming from the place where their bodies connect.

“Holy shit,” she says, head still reeling, legs still trembling hard against the bed. Eren exhales a long, shuddering breath as he pulls out, and she feels the warmth of him come leaking down her thighs. She should be disgusted at the vulgarity of it, but she relishes in the vulnerability of the exchange: that which was once inside of him now being inside of her.  

He laughs, taking her into his arms to flip her around onto her back, and kisses her, soft and cautious. Like he can’t quite believe that she’s his, that she’s here with him, that she isn’t going to shatter under his touch. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, and Mikasa smiles against his lips.

“I’m really happy,” she whispers. She doesn’t want to say it too loud, isn’t sure if speaking the feeling into existence will cause it to vanish as quickly as it arrived. “I never thought this would happen to us. That I would finally get to be yours.”