A/N: Thank you.

TOUCH

IV. Awaken

It is as though it happens in slow motion–the frantic sway of his limbs, the rise and fall of his boots slamming into the dewy grass, his mouth opening wide, lungs heaving to scream her name over and over again.

He pushes to call it louder and louder each time, because he cannot even hear himself under the thunderous thrum of his heart in his ears.

He slams the door shut behind him, a swirl of stars peppering his vision at the rush of blood to his head.

Red. Red red red red, her shirt is so red, redder than the scarf wrapped around her neck, and he is still screaming her name in her face as he falls to his knees, and thank GOD if there even is one, because it has reached her, and she is prying her weak, heavy-lidded charcoal blues open to look up at him, eyes brimming with tears, blood leaking out of the side of her mouth, red red red, so red.

And then he hears his own name leaving her cracked lips in a pathetic croak, and in syllables that are far too spaced out.

It is the only thing he hears with any clarity above the pounding in his ears.

He ignores his dizziness and drowsiness and sets his jaw as he walks in long strides through the empty hallway.

Without a second thought, he pulls her upright with one arm, sliding his other arm beneath her legs, immediately rising back onto his feet and beginning to run as fast as his feet could carry him.

He feels her hand fist weakly in his shirt as she lifts her head slightly to look at him, eyes shining with tears.

"Just…" the word carries on a breath, voice a weak rasp, "…leave me–"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he growls down at her through the hot tears streaming down his face–tears that he had no clue were even there until he begun to taste them on his tongue, and feel them dribble down his chin.

She, too, looks as though she is about to burst into tears–not for his rudeness, he knows, but rather for their shared, unspoken fear–or, his fear, he can't help but grimly think when he looks down at her and her head is lying limp, her eyes closed.

Involuntarily, he lets out an anguished sound that is all at once a wail and a growl and a scream, as he summons the strength to run faster.

His strides grow faster and faster, fists clenching tightly at his sides.

Then, she is lying at his knees unconscious, and he is hunched over her, popping each button of her dirty, bloodstained blouse open with shaking hands that begin to stain red because there is blood everywhere, everywhere, everywhere–all across her torso, on his hands, under his fingernails, on his shirt, red, so, so red, and though he is scowling and trying to be useful, he can see his tears dropping onto her bare skin and mingling with the blood there, because he is crying harder than he has in a very, very long time, and maybe he is instead being useless, because Hanji is suddenly pushing him out of the way and beginning to bark commands that, too, are muffled under the sound of his heart in his ears.

On autopilot, he hears just well enough to obey.

And then he is running to her, his shadow flitting across the stone floors, long and narrow against the orange glow flooding in through the windows.

He is no longer crying, his fingers tightly clutching at the scarf in his lap when he watches the needle pierce her skin, thread tugging it back together, stitches pulled taut as the wound continues to gush red.

And eventually it is over, and with trembling hands, he is left gently pushing Hanji out of the way to mop at the blood on Mikasa's skin, and to wind bandages around her waist gingerly, left shuddering when he watches blood blossom on the pure white of the newly placed gauze–all the while barely hearing Hanji blather on about a potential coma, about excessive blood loss, and other things he did not hear because he chose not to.

Her voice is such ambient noise that he only realizes that she has left the room when Armin places a hand on his shoulder, a clean shirt in his other hand, azure eyes both grim and pitying.

His own frown deepens as he nods at the blond, before gingerly lifting her upper body just enough for Armin to pull her limp arm through one clean shirt sleeve–and then the other.

His eyes begin to sting, and he bites back the hoarse feeling in his throat and he is so, so tired, but more than he is tired he is desperate.

When Armin is gone, he is left staring at her immobile form.

'Wake up, wake up, wake up,' he commands her with the intensity of his gaze as he slides over next to her, bending over her to study her unconscious face.

Save for the sound of her ragged breathing, the hour passes in silence.

He is shaking when he rounds the corner into her hallway–

He slides his hand under her upper back, lifting her just slightly, his other hand tossing the scarf over her neck, then winding it loosely around twice over, before setting her back down gently.

He looks down at his sloppy handiwork, feeling foolish for dressing her unconscious form.

He lifts a hand to adjust the scarf, anyway.

–panting when he stands before her door–

When her eyes flutter open into his, the exquisite relief that pulses through him is indescribable.

–fist trembling from how tightly it is clenched when he pounds his knuckle hard against the wooden door, each hit pronounced and painful against his skin and bones, the tempo rapid to match his heartbeat, rhythm scattered and messy to match his current state.

Then, there is a quiet, "Hi."

Then, a gentle, "Hi," in return.

Then, a prolonged, wordless gaze that lasts for a long, long time–until her eyes shift down to the region of her wound.

When there is no answer, he tries again, banging on her door, the feeling of desperation so overwhelming that he feels his eyes burn and his throat start to close, and he knows he should swallow it all down and act less crazy, but there is no one even around, so he does just the opposite and instead smashes the side of his fist into the door in heavy, punctuated, violent slams–

"It's nothing."

The words come out in a rasped cough, and she licks her chapped lips, half-lidded charcoal blues locking onto distressed emerald greens. She attempts to roll onto her side and rise, but he halts her movements, pressing gently against her shoulder to push her back into the makeshift bed of piled blankets.

"Shut up," he replies with a shake of his head.

–until his hand falls on nothing, because the door is open.

The sight that meets his eyes renders him speechless and leaves him on the verge of tears.

He can sense her annoyance the minute she steps out from behind the door. But, as soon as her eyes fall on his, Mikasa wears several faces within the span of a few seconds–surprise, confusion, unease, concern, and then a cocktail of all at once.

"Eren? What's wrong?"

Just looking at her is overwhelming, as she is alive and well and unscathed–a far cry from the haggard, blood-soaked Mikasa of both his most recent dream, and the unpleasant memory he had far too vividly recalled enroute to her door.

"Eren…?"

He is weak at the sound of his name on her lips, and at the curious peer of her grey blues, so clear and full of life. Strong is the desire to let his knees buckle and slink down into a squat, so he can bury his head in his hands and revel in his relief.

"Eren…" she repeats his name a third time cautiously, taking a half step forward with a raised hand–at which he reflexively and evasively jerks a half step back, out of fear that even the lightest of touches might reduce him to a sobbing and blubbering idiot.

But then hurt flits across her face, there and gone in a blink, and he is instantly filled with guilt and regret, because his defensive maneuvering has been misinterpreted, and has once again brought about the Eren and Mikasa of the past week–a tense mix of push and pull, unspoken mandatory physical distances, jerk reactions, and misunderstanding upon misunderstanding, with now yet another to add to the list.

Eager to vanquish the tension he had unintentionally reinstated between them, he steps back into place and clears his throat.

"Nothing," he finally croaks, voice gravelled and groggy, probably making it evident that he had just roused from a daylong slumber.

"Everything's–yeah," he continues, determined to act as normal as possible, although his eyes are already darting nervously between hers and the floor as he clears his throat again. "I'm good. I just wanted to see you–I mean, check up on you. Check up on how you're doing. Feeling. Yeah."

'Smooth.'

The scrutinizing crease of her brow eases only slightly at the half-truth, her gaze remaining vigilant.

"Oh... " Mikasa replies quietly, the tentative blink of her grey blues reflecting the disbelief in her voice.

As her gaze lingers, it is clear she is working hard to maintain neutrality and subdue the judgement beginning to shade her features, and he cannot help his irritation at the scrutiny. But, by the time her eyes scan up to his chest, his initial annoyance at being sized up quickly fades into self-consciousness, leaving him fully aware of his unkempt appearance.

He then begins to think that perhaps her overly cautious behavior was at least somewhat justified.

After all, he had avoided her the entire week.

And he had nearly broken down her door with his crazed knocking–or, door-punching, really.

And she had opened it to find him clad in pajama pants and a crumpled shirt, hair mussed, dark circles beneath his eyes, face dour with exhaustion, dumbly gawking at her in silence, then saying stammering uncharacteristically thoughtful things–right after jerking away from her like a frightened animal the moment she moved just the slightest bit closer.

He groans inwardly and nearly grimaces at the string of foolish behavior, but withholds the reaction for fear of having her misinterpret it and landing them back at square one.

"So, your wound," he begins, in an attempt to derail her train of thought from whatever conclusions she was drawing from his crazed appearance and behavior. "How's that doing?"

"It's healing well..." Mikasa replies slowly, eyebrow arching inquisitively.

He nods in reply, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

"Oh. Good."

"Eren," she follows up instantly, giving him another quick once over, "Are you sure you're okay? You look…"

He sees the gears begin to turn as her eyes drop down to his chest and stare past it as she thinks of what to say. Not two seconds in, he is certain she is thinking of a less abrasive way to say:

"… like shit?"

His words come out nonchalant, and it is perhaps the most natural he has sounded this entire time (swearing was his forte, after all). Apparently agreeing, Mikasa looks back up, her expression slightly relieved at his intervention, as she gives him a slight nod and shrugs a shoulder.

"Well…yes," she replies curtly, the concern never leaving her face, or her tone.

The response is perhaps the first time he is absolutely certain he is awake, as the Mikasa in his dreams was never quite as dry or blunt. He clenches his jaw to bite back a smile at the thought, and is about to assure her that he is alright despite his crazy appearance. But he then gives pause when, out of nowhere, her eyes widen at the realization of something, her expression suddenly a mix of guilt and knowing.

"Did I give you something?" she asks worriedly. "I was still sick yesterday, I–"

"No," he cuts in, shaking his head sharply. While his sorry state was indirectly her doing, they had seen each other twice the entire week–and at both times, had stayed a minimum of three feet away from each other, making the passing of any sickness near impossible.

"No, no, you didn't," he continues to reassure her when the intensity of her concern and guilt does not lessen, because of course she assumed it was her fault. "It's..."

He pauses, realizing that the only honest end to the sentence is a long-winded explanation of things he still did not know how to articulate. He flicks his eyes down to the floor to escape her probing gaze, anxiety building as he flounders for an explanation.

"Uh…"

He scratches the back of his head, now studying a scratch on the tip of his shoe as he begins to sweat.

"Do you need your bandages changed?" he blurts.

'Why that? WHY THAT?' he thinks, withholding a wince at the incredibly random offer.

Eren looks back up at her to gauge her reaction, and perhaps retract the offer, or follow up it up with some sort of explanation that he does not yet have.

When he meets her eyes, pure confusion has taken place of her guilt.

"Sasha's coming after dinner to take care of it," she says, words drawn out, gaze discerning as though she is attempting to deconstruct his true motives.

"Oh," he replies with a nod, briefly glancing at his shoes before looking back up at her. "You're… not having dinner?"

'HOW is that relevant to anything?! HOW? WHY CAN'T YOU SPEAK NORMAL?!' he seethes at himself internally.

Again Mikasa arches an eyebrow at the random line of questioning, and he is left biting his tongue and inwardly cringing at his inability to partake in a normal social interaction with the woman he had grown up with, and had recently decided he wanted to grow old with.

"I ate a little earlier. I was planning on sleeping early tonight," she says, clearly still confused about what was taking place.

"Oh," he nods again, "Shit, sorry, were you just about to–?"

"Oh, no, no. Not yet."

"Oh, okay."

Silence.

A few beats into the silence, he realizes that he is still bobbing his head up and down needlessly.

"Well," he begins, halting his nod, unnerved at the silence and his own overwhelming awkwardness, and her heavy, borderline judgemental gaze, "I could just help you with all that now if you want," he offers, gesturing at her abdomen. "So you don't have to wait for Sasha. Besides, I kind of still owe you, so–"

The rest of the sentence dies in his mouth, because the confusion on her face fades into disappointment–albeit subtly to one unfamiliar with the workings of Mikasa's generally unexpressive nature–sending his insides into a panicked frenzy at his stupidity, because he should have known she would read such words as an obligatory peace offering.

"Uh," he shakes his head, "No, I mean–"

"It's alright, I can wait for Sasha," she says firmly, impressively masking her hurt, though he knows better, because he can hear her voice waver in the slightest. "She'll be done in an hour I think, so–"

"I want to," he interrupts, suddenly several paces closer, his hand plastered on her doorframe, trying not to read into the way she reflexively leans back to put more distance between them.

She blinks up at him, mouth falling agape at his erratic behavior, his sudden enthusiasm for changing her bandages likely throwing her in for a loop.

His eyes lock onto hers as he nods.

"It's the least I could–" he cuts himself short, careful not to throw another I owe you-like phrase into the fray. He wonders if she has even caught his near-slip up, but sees that she is instead too busy being bewildered by his craziness, and is thus hanging on his every word in confused anticipation.

"I… just want to."

There is barely a shift in her expression, and she looks troubled and even more reluctant, brow crinkling further in confusion.

"Please," he follows up, voice uncharacteristically soft in a way that has her eyes widening even further in puzzlement.

But then, she steps backward and pushes the door further open in invitation. He realizes, once he steps through the threshhold, that she has likely given in more out of her concern for him.

The final dregs of daylight filter in through her curtains, bathing her room in a warm, amber glow. As he peers out the translucent curtains, he is reminded that he has slept the entire day away, and is irritated at himself anew. However, his annoyance lasts only briefly, clipped by the sound of the door clicking shut behind him, reminding him of just where he is standing.

And then it is silent.

Incredibly silent.

It is more silent than any hush he has ever uncomfortably sat in, because he can hear his own heartbeat–can hear the scuffle of her shoes against the floor as she turns around to set her heavy stone-blue gaze on his back, weighing him down in place, self consciousness prickling his skin and throwing the rhythm of his now extremely audible breathing.

It is almost suffocating, being trapped in this small box of a room with her, feeling her eyes bore into the back of his head. The silence that has settled over them is thick and so very full of tension and things gone unsaid, and it feels as though they two are the only souls for miles and miles, now insulated from all else–from the white noise left behind in the hallway, light years away from the dining hall filled with their feasting comrades.

Yet, in all his discomfort, he knows that there is nowhere else he would rather be.

The wood creaks beneath his shoes, cracking the silence as he turns to meet her gaze.

Then, they look at one another wordlessly, and he swallows as the weight of her gaze shifts now to his eyes, heavy on him, heavy in him, as she gestures briefly towards her bed.

"You can sit," Mikasa says quietly, as though with a reverence for the silence that has become their constant.

He finds it strange that her cheeks do not tint pink at the invitation, while he himself begins to grow warm. The levity of her words, and how casually she throws her hand this way, throws her words that way, is like it's normal–like she has invited him to lounge there casually many times before, and like she has invited him to fall asleep there next to her time and time again.

Now that he thinks of it, she hadnever invited him to do so–he had just done both things in the past several times over, without invitation. However, during such times, he had done so without any reservations, or any thought of the inappropriacy behind a young man sharing a warm bed with a young woman. Back then, they were merely childhood friends who had slept next to one another–of course, maintaining a significant amount of space between their bodies. Sometimes they had done so out of necessity, and other times, to lie in the presence of another in the wake of any nightmares, or days that had been particularly horrific.

But things were different now–different enough that it is with utmost unease and stiffness that he stalks over to the pristine mattress and takes his place upon it, pretending he does not feel like he is encroaching on some forbidden space.

When he settles onto the sheets, his eyes fall on Mikasa's back as she makes her way across the room to rummage through her desk drawers, watching as she deposits a few supplies onto the surface. She then picks up a matchbox to tend to to the candles sitting atop the corner of her desk, he surmises, in preparation for nightfall.

The strike of the match against the small box rips through the silence, and Eren watches as she deftly touches the small flame to the candles, with all the finesse she maintained when dicing titans to bits, and with all the grace she maintained when doing…well, anything.

She then waves the stub, the flame dying out, the warm, burnt scent of a recently extinguished matchstick invading his nostrils, permeating the room's familiar and clean and pleasantscent.

His shoulders begin to relax into a slump, body loosening in the slightest, a strange sense of calm washing over him. Mikasa then gathers the supplies into her arms, and that same sense of calm almost instantly evaporates the minute she turns and makes eye contact with him and begins to stride in his direction.

Then she is much closer, gingerly setting the items down next to the lantern and the water basin atop her nightstand.

"So," she begins, voice startling when it cuts the silence, though her tone is light and passive.

She plucks a stub from her matchbox.

"Are you…?" she trails off, striking at the box.

No flame ignites, and her sentence remains unfinished.

He frowns.

Mikasa strikes again, the flame failing to ignite again, and she maintains her silence, as he begins to bounce his leg restlessly.

Then, she strikes again–and this time, the wooden stub snaps in half between her thumb and forefinger, and he is left grinding his teeth in impatience, but trying, for once in his life, not to act on it.

Without complaint or even a grumble, Mikasa pulls another match out of the box, her eyes briefly meeting his, causing his gaze to immediately flinch back down to the box in her hand, as though he has been caught staring.

"What is it?" he blurts sharply and quietly, face warming as she strikes again–a newborn flame finally dancing at the tip of the small, wooden stub.

"You… " she begins without completion, yet again, as she touches the flame to the oil lantern's wick, face now screwed in focus, because it is not catching as easily as it did on the candles she had lit just moments ago.

His soul–the impatience is gnawing at his soul, just as the flame is gnawing away at the stub in her grasp, stubbornly refusing to catch onto the wick. He looks back up at her to urge her to 'finish your goddamn thought already'. But then, heforgets the demand, too busy observing that she is perhaps even more stubborn than the flame that refuses to cooperate, because she refuses to retract her hand even though it is just shy of licking her fingertips.

How Mikasa, of her–to be so invested in the act of lighting a lamp, and to remain unfazed, even when the heat is beginning to sting her skin.

And indeed, how Mikasa of her, because she has succeeded, the room suddenly much brighter, her face relaxing as she swings her wrist to put out the flame between her fingers, that same strong, burnt scent filling the air once more as she looks back at him, and gives pause.

"... Never mind," she murmurs.

"What is it?" he repeats, taking care not to sound too eager, although his curiosity is once more at its peak–as is his annoyance, because she is shaking her head and doing that thing again, where she broaches a topic, and retracts it.

He fumes internally, impatience spiking.

"Fine," he says instead, somehow managing to be both brusque and gentle as he pats the space next to him on the bed.

"Come–what?" he snaps in response to the puzzlement that takes over on her face.

Eren feels his face warm as she shakes her head silently, no longer even attempting to mask her bewilderment.

"Nothing," she says quietly, as she slides out of her shoes and crawls onto the bed.

As she settles in and begins to shrug off her cardigan, he reaches for the medical supplies on her nightstand, not a few seconds later turning to find her popping the top button of her blouse free.

He freezes, and suddenly he is unsure of whether he is even breathing anymore, because his eyes are locked onto her fingers as she pops another button free, in effect loosening her blouse and giving just the suggestion of smooth, beige skin. His jaw tightens, teeth grit, mouth locked into a frown as she undoes another button, bringing the defined dips of her collarbone into view. And then another button goes and his palms grow damp, the modestly clothed swell of her breasts exposed, followed by the top half of her defined abdomen, the firelight playing shadows on the sharp curves of her toned flesh, and the room is already insufferably hot when she undoes the next button, bringing into view…

Her bandages.

His stomach drops.

'You're a fucking pig, Eren.'

Disgusted with himself for ever daring to look at her in such a way, he averts his gaze, instead staring at an empty space on the mattress, all the while silently fuming at himself. He then remembers that it was only a few days ago that he had opened her blouse with his own hands–which were all slick with her blood, at the time.

Exhaling sharply through his nose at his own self-loathing, he looks back up to find her popping the last button free, the urge to ogle completely replaced by pure, unfiltered shame.

"Ready?"

Her voice cuts into his thoughts, and he looks up to find not a single hint of embarrassment or discomfort on her face, making his leering from moments ago even more shameful.

"Lie down," he responds, quietly.

Curiosity still etched on her face, she obeys the solemn command without question, and reclines back onto the mattress, raven head sinking into her pillow.

"Sasha's been doing okay with it?" he asks, gently brushing her blouse further open to expose her entire torso, relieved at how normal it all begins to feel. Newfound feelings aside, they had, after all, tended to one another's wounds while half naked numerous times.

"Not too bad," she replies as he picks up the scissors on her nightstand, and begins to snip away at the bandages.

"That's not the same as 'good'," he mutters as he slices through the last piece and taps his fingers to her side–at which she knows to arch her back just enough for him to pull the cut up bandage free.

"Mmm. I prefer the way you do it."

He wishes she hadn't been looking at him while saying such a thing, because he knows he is now blushing.

"Then… I'll do it from now on," he mumbles in reply, not daring to make eye contact with her, instead focusing on the russett-spotted gauze resting atop her wound, as he reaches down to peel it back. Slowly, the unsightly garble of raised, mauve tissue comes into view, threaded through with stitches, the edges of the wound puckering against her otherwise smooth and unblemished beige skin.

A wave of nausea washes over him at the sight–not at its grotesqueness, but rather at the reminder that he had trivialized the injury through his extremely insensitive behavior over the past week. The thought leaves him livid and unable to look away, lips curving into a deep frown, face darkening considerably as he all but glares down at the wound.

"It's ugly," Mikasa says, voice ripping him from his trance, her words blunt and emotionless as though stating a common fact, though they are softly spoken.

Almost immediately, he shakes his head sharply, eyes darting back up to her face.

"No," Eren begins, reaching into the water basin at her bedside, before pulling the rag from the bowl, and squeezing it with one hand until it is wrung damp, "No… "

'No part of you is ugly,' he nearly says before he catches himself.

He dabs the area around the wound gently with the rag, his face warming at the disgustingly saccharine thought–one that he believed wholeheartedly, despite its sappiness. Even with part of her flesh mangled, she was still a finely tuned walking weapon and a sight to behold, if his ogling moments ago was of any indication.

Of course, he'd be hard-pressed to verbalize such a thought.

"It's a wound. It's not supposed to be pretty," he mumbles instead, before tossing the rag back into the brass bowl. He then picks up a small jar of ointment and begins to unscrew it, all the while wilting under her probing gaze–the likes of which the Eren of last week would have snapped at with a brash 'CUT IT OUT', because it was making the typically uncomplicated task of unscrewing a bottle cap far more difficult. However, in a demonstration of great self control, he instead bites his tongue and continues to avoid her eyes, carrying on in silence as he finally uncaps the bottle, and scoops out a sizable dollop of ointment with his fingers, before setting the bottle back onto her bedside table.

As gently as possible, he presses his ointment-caked fingers to the periphery of the wound, brow scrunched in concentration as he works under the weight of her unrelenting gaze. Slowly, he grows accustomed to the silence, finding it more comforting than suffocating–until Mikasa cuts into it with an innocuous:

"What happened?"

He stiffens completely, not daring to meet her gaze head on.

"What do you mean?" he deflects, continuing to gently rub his fingers in small circles against her skin, avoiding the still-tender areas of the wound, his face screwed in concentration.

"Well… you were about to break my door down," she says softly, in the way one does when broaching a potentially sensitive topic.

Eren frowns, staring thoughtfully at the wound, maintaining his silence as he continues to work–mostly because he has no idea how to respond.

"And you look really awful," she adds on, nonchalantly.

He snorts, finding the bluntness refreshing, especially after an entire week of walking on eggshells around one another.

"I've been getting that a lot lately," he scoffs.

"Eren."

Suddenly, her fingers, soft and strong, are curled gently around his wrist, and he is still as stone in her grip.

His eyes snap down to the hold, where he is forced take stock of her purpled knuckles, which were yet another mark that was indirectly his doing.

He frowns deeply.

"Hey," she calls his attention before his mind can spin out into another guilt-ridden trance, and she is suddenly hoisting herself up onto her elbow, half-sitting up. His eyes flick to hers at the shift, about to command that she lie down and not move at all until he is finished, but the immense concern on her face squashes any attempt at being abrasive or commanding.

"What's wrong?"

Soft, her voice is so soft that the hairs on his arms stand on end, every syllable so infused with worry, grey-blues showcasing that rare emotion that is reserved only for him, and it all reaches into him and makes him want to tell her everything–every single thing he has been thinking, every single thing he has realized, but it is just too much, and he doesn't even know how or where to start, or if such thoughts would even be well received after a week of full-blown douchebaggery.

So, he scowls and clears his throat.

"Lie down," he commands, shaken at how difficult it is to force his face into a glower while staring her in the eye, when all he wants to do is fall apart in front of her.

He pulls his wrist from her grip, his stomach instantly dropping in regret once he does so. But, he takes comfort in the lack of sadness on her face at the action, finding only defiance on her face, as she disobeys and remains resting on her elbow, eyes challenging, much like that night, in the moments right before she had kissed him.

He tears his eyes from hers, looking back down at her wound, not even attempting to partake in a staring contest this time, knowing that he would undoubtedly lose.

"Please?" he begrudgingly entreats the tear on her abdomen.

When she doesn't move an inch, he chances another imploring look at her, softening his scowl.

With a frown, she follows suit and lies back down.

Eren continues his work in silence, no longer minding the feel of her gaze drilling holes into his skull, for he is too preoccupied with thinking about how to say things, because he has to, because she asked. He did not exactly have a plan when he ran to her in a panic, the moment he woke. His anxiety and desperation had made all rational thought and any foresight impossible, now leaving him completely unprepared to give any sort of speech. However, despite his apprehension, he figures now is as good a time as ever to apologize and explain himself and tell her… things.

When he has finished applying the ointment, he readies himself to speak, summoning his courage as he reaches into the water basin to wipe his fingers off on the rag, letting his mouth drop open as he grabs the new gauze and gingerly places it over her wound.

He stares down at the dull white square for a moment before speaking, deciding to be honest, and begin with the very reason he had sprinted to her and nearly broke down her door.

"I just wanted to see you."

And even just the seep of honesty, however vague, alleviates some of the pressure that has been sitting on his chest.

It makes him brave enough to look at her face–

At her incredibly unimpressed, underwhelmed, and unconvinced face.

"What?" he snaps incredulously, first insulted that she found his honesty about feelings unimpressive and underwhelming; then, relieved at her reaction, because her clear disbelief roused his argumentative nature, and with it, the needto convince her that he was being truthful.

"I'm serious," he follows up sternly.

"That's why you were punching my door?" she inquires flatly.

"Well that's how badly I–!" he spits defiantly before catching himself, for some reason still not brave enough to say, 'That's how badly I wanted to see you.'

He stammers, staring at her unchanging expression, frustrated at his inability to convince her. But then, he acknowledges his dramatics, how he randomly wound up changing her bandages, and how absurd their situation must have seemed to her, after an entire week of rude avoidance.

He is left swearing under his breath, dropping his attempt to finish the sentence altogether, as he begins to unfurl the end of the bandage roll while avoiding her gaze.

"Eren," she tries to prompt him for an end to his sentence, but he says nothing as he presses the bandage to her abdomen, pulling it taut across the lean stretch of skin, at which she obediently arches her back to let him pull the roll under.

He remains silent as he leans closer, his hand guiding the bandage along the soft skin of her back, her peer heavy on his face, his heartrate beginning to accelerate for some stupid reason.

"I had a bad dream," he murmurs as he continues to work, figuring that he should say something before he can focus on how fast his heart is starting to beat.

And then it is like a weight has been lifted, because he does not have to look at her to feel her expression shift into one of slight surprise and understanding.

"Oh."

And now she is silent, apparently finding the answer valid. He figured she might, as in their youth, when she had first started living with his family, he had woken many nights to find her teary-eyed and nearly hyperventilating, shaken from her nightmares. At such times he would stay close at her bedside, eyes on hers, hand on hers, until she fell back asleep. Then, once Shiganshina had fallen, she had returned the favor in kind when he was the one tossing and turning and crying on a regular basis, waking to her warm, pitying charcoal-blues, as she used her sleeve to dry his tear-streaked face, fingers loosely curled around his wrist until he fell back asleep.

However, it had been years since they had sought one another's comfort in such a way.

It is likely why she is staring at him with such concern in her eyes, deducing that whatever had led him to her door must have been something particularly horrific–which it was.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks hesitantly.

The gauze begins to disappear with each turn of the bandage around her torso, the seconds passing by in silence, neither saying a thing as he continues to work.

"We don't have to talk about it if–"

"It was about this," he says, smoothing the bandage over her abdomen as he winds over and under again, his stomach fluttering, not only because of the feel of her warm skin against his palm and the backs of his fingers each time he goes around, but at the impending truths he is going to have to relay soon.

Silently, she looks back at him in understanding, and he feels the tension ease slightly in her body, as he winds the last piece back around and tucks it into place.

"Oh," her voice finally comes softly, with understanding.

He sighs heavily, lifting a hand to smooth out a slight fold on one of the bandages as he mentally prepares himself to say more.

He thinks he might start by describing the dream, and then segue into the conclusions he had drawn from there–but his train of thought stops abruptly when she reaches for his hand, and slides her fingers into the gaps between his.

His mouth drops ajar as he stares and stares at their hands loosely entwined across her abdomen, heart fluttering when she squeezes his fingers between hers, and he is left mute, without a clue as to what to say or do in response. Slowly, his eyes trail back up to find unbridled concern on her face, eyes reading 'are you okay?', her gentle clasp conveying, 'I'm here'. His eyebrows arch pitifully despite his best efforts not to break, and it is the first time in a long time their eyes are locked in something that is not a stubborn staring contest. The warmth and tenderness of both her peer and her grip then begin to dissolve the tension that had both of them on edge ever since he had stepped into the room.

Mouth agape, he shakes his head and curls his fingers slowly to squeeze her hand back.

"I'm an asshole," he blurts.

She quirks an eyebrow at the remark that certainly did not suit the warm, comforting hush that had settled over them. But she does not say anything, only continuing to stare on–either in agreement with the statement, or to let him continue speaking.

"I'm sorry," he says, squeezing her hand again, eyes flicking down to their lock, where he once again notes the purple tint of skin shading her knuckles. He pulls her hand up to get a closer look, with a shake of his head.

"This too, this is…" he murmurs under his breath, running his fingertips over the bruised region with his other hand, with a shake of his head. "I'm such an–"

"Eren," Mikasa says sharply, sitting upright, too suddenly, and so close that he can feel the warmth radiating off of her body.

"This," she says squeezing his hand, gesturing at the bruises they are both staring at, "this was me being stupid. This was me dealing with how I felt in my own way–"

"Yeah, because of me. Can you just let me have this one? I was complete dick about everything," he says, irritated, because again she is letting him get away with murder, blaming herself for something he most definitely was responsible for. "I fucked up. Can't you just–can't we just agree on that?"

"But it was my fault you acted that way–"

"No, it–"

"I said and didthings I shouldn't have, and–"

"Because I pushed you to–"

"It doesn't matter," she says with a shake of her head, and he does not even notice that they have been holding hands the entire time, until she pulls her hand back into her lap, leaving him much colder.

"I didn't have to respond or give in like that, and… I know you. I should've known saying those things and doing… that would…"

She trails off, no longer looking at him, and he has to wonder what exactly she means when she says "knows" him.

Then, she sighs.

"I don't blame you for acting the way you did, alright?" she says with finality. "I… I just wish we could put this all behind us."

He blinks down at her, unable to help the nerves that begin to crop up–both at having to say more things, and at the possibility that she had changed her mind about him.

"Well… we can't," he says sternly, face dropping into a scowl in preparation of saying actual things this time, and his heart falters just a bit at the sadness on her face, and the shine in her eyes as she frowns down at the foot of her bed.

"But I… " she begins, expression crestfallen, eyes beginning to gloss over.

'... What? Why–?'

"I'm sorry," she says, brow scrunched as she visibly fights her tears with a defeated shake of her head, making it clear that she has interpreted his reply differently.

'FUCK.'

"I know I messed up, but–"

In a blink, his fingers are cinched tightly around her wrist, and she whips her head up to look him in the eye, and he has no idea what to say next, or how to even begin to say all that he must, but in his panic to stop the downward spiral of this poor attempt at a confession, he begins with:

"Stop that."

Silence ensues as he searches her eyes, and they grow even more sorrowful, because he has said the wrong thing yet again, and he is left wondering why is he so awful at this. So far, all he had managed to do was make it seem like he was about to lecture her, and make her feel worse, and he can tell as much from the way the tears are continuing to brim at her eyes, and at how her eyebrows twitch as though she is resisting the urge to fall to pieces in front of him–which then shoot up to her hairline, eyes wide and panicked at the sound of a rapidfire knock at her door, followed by a click and a sing-songy:

"Knock knoooock–OH."

He does not even have time to blink before Mikasa tears her wrist from his grip, her expression flipping back to relatively neutral, as she looks towards the door. His eyes linger on her face momentarily, as he registers the instant switch, finding it eerie, most especially after the internal war of emotions he had just seen play out on her face.

He then follows her gaze to the door, to find a wide-eyed Sasha peering in.

He frowns, not even attempting to soften the glare he is already shooting her way.

"Sorry! Um–didn't mean to interrupt," Sasha says through nervous laughter, cheeks tinted pink, as she makes brief eye contact with him, already seeming to understand her transgression, "I was just–"

"You're not interrupting anything," Mikasa says a little too brusquely for his tastes, only adding onto his irritation, because Sasha had indeed interrupted something.

"Eren was available a little earlier to replace my bandages. We're just finishing up here."

'Available,' he scoffs internally, for some reason annoyed at the word choice.

"Oh. Great, then!" Sasha says with a nod, flustered as she shifts back out of the room, pulling the door along with her. "I'm gonna–okay! Yeah," she continues, as she pulls it closed.

And again they are left alone in the silence, both blinking at the door, both left discombobulated at the unexpected respite from the tension that had just peaked between them.

But with the silence, that same tension fills the air once again, only heightening the moment Mikasa turns back to him, face close despite the coolness in her gaze. And suddenly, it occurs to him what Sasha might have thought she had walked in on, considering the candlelit room, their relatively intimate position upon Mikasa's bed–not to mention the fact that her shirt was hanging wide open, and that his hand had been on her wrist.

Eren's face warms, but he has little time to be embarrassed, because she is already plucking her cardigan from her bed side, moving to shift past him and off of the bed.

"Thank you," she says quietly, not even looking up at him.

Quickly, he blocks her path, and even then she refuses to look at him.

"We're not done talking," he says firmly, the ache of guilt swelling through him at the way she refuses to meet his gaze.

She maintains her silence, her mouth dropping open as she stares down at a patch of bedsheet between them.

"I… don't really know what else there is to say," Mikasa says quietly, defeatedly, eyes at his chest.

"I really don't know how to fix this, and I… I really want to," she says, voice thick with frustration, in a way that makes his heart ache.

"There's nothing to fix," he replies, hoping it is the right thing to say–but it is not because his tone is unintentionally gruff, and when she finally looks up to meet his gaze, she looks so incredibly heartbroken that it makes his mouth drop ajar in shock, because he is hurting her even more and doing the exact opposite of what he is trying to accomplish.

"Mikasa," he says her name in a harsh whisper, panic taking over because he no longer knows what to say. He places his hands on her arms, fingers squeezing gently as he blinks rapidly, wishing he had even half the finesse and suave of his dream self when it came to saying things.

She opens her mouth to speak again, at which he immediately shakes his head sharply.

"Shut up," he blurts harshly, internally kicking himself at the reflexive reply because her face falls even more, and he is making it worse even though he didn't know it could get any worse, and now he is panicking inside.

He grits his teeth and exhales sharply through his nostrils, trying to gather his thoughts, mouth dropping open in the hopes that all that he needed to say would fall from his lips in an articulate deluge–but, nothing comes because he is not good at this, and he doesn't know how to get her to understand.

But then, his eyes drop to her mouth and he does know how to make her understand–the method she had so boldly used on him and his boneheaded self just days ago.

He is left scowling, and swallowing, his heart thudding in his ears, his internal monologue chanting, 'I don't know I don't know I don't know should I, I don't know' and he wonders how she had ever mustered up the courage to do what she had.

Steeling himself, he huffs out sharply through his nose once more, now all but glaring at her mouth, as he begins to lean forward. Almost immediately, he feels her muscles tense in his grip, her entire body going rigid, her previously sorrowful charcoal blues widening in bemusement.

Even so, she says nothing, remaining as still as a statue, no matter how much closer he inches–not shifting, even when he is close enough to note that she is holding her breath.

And then the tip of his nose brushes hers, and he feels her ask, "What are you doing?", the words a tremulous, warm breath on his mouth, his heart a war drum banging violently in his ears.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" he manages to whisper back, feeling as though he might pass out from all the blood rapidly rushing to his face. His nose slides against hers in his torturously slow approach, his heart pounding against his ribcage, face hot, room hot, palms growing clammy on her sleeves–yet, still, he is scowling in an attempt to cover up his nervousness.

"Why?" he feels her whisper onto his mouth, the single word shaky as though she is on the cusp of breaking down into tears. "You–"

The beginning of the next word is muffled and lost as he closes the space between them, decisively pressing his lips to hers, his eyes screwed shut as though he has just made an terrifying, yet exhilarating, running jump off of a cliff and into cold waters. Yet, despite the shudder that runs up his spine, he is anything but cold because she is warm, so, so warm, her mouth soft and familiar, and the sensation is so pleasant, despite how her lips remain motionless against his, and how her body remains tightly wound in his hands.

It is after a few beats too long that her lack of reciprocation leaves him embarrassed and defeated enough to give in, his lips peeling off of hers slowly–but then, her palm is soft on his jaw, fingers curling round the back of his neck as she holds him in place so that he only gets far enough so that the tip of his nose is at hers.

Eren then opens his eyes slowly to find Mikasa's downcast, directed at his mouth, before they flick up to meet his in a gaze that is all at once anxious and desperate and morose and confused. The hurricane of emotion almost makes him feel sorry for kissing her–but only almost because it is hard to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of her breath on his mouth, her nose sliding against his, and her hands soft on his face.

Then, she closes her eyes and pulls him in, her lips molding to his, and he is instantly at peace with his bold decision, warmth pulsing through his entire being, because she is kissing him–ever a silent force, powerful, commanding, yet tender, in a way that is completely and utterly Mikasa. When her fingers slide into his hair, her mouth moving against his with frantic vigor he can barely keep up with, he can't help but think of how he once didn't care at all for this whole kissing thing and even found it repulsive and disgusting in concept. But now it's all he wants to do, because it's her and it feels good–so good that he slides his hands around her back to pull her even closer–only to be torn from her warmth, when she pushes her palm against his chest, her other hand falling from his hair and resting gingerly on his shoulder.

His mind a jumble of euphoria and frustration, he opens his eyes to the sight of her flushed face, brow wrinkled in thought, her eyes veiled with unshed tears and directed at his chest.

"Hey," he whispers harshly in panicked confusion, leaning forward, his hands reflexively coming up to cup her face.

"Don't do this," she says in a cracked whisper, as though she is holding back tears. She attempts to shrug further back out of his hold, but he does not let her, his hands remaining affixed to her face as he leans in even further and presses his forehead to hers.

"Don't do what?" he asks, confusion only increasing, considering that she had just kissed him, and had seemed more than okay with doing so.

"You know–"

"I don't, so tell me," he urges her, feeling her jaw clench in his hands, the way one does when biting back tears.

There is a prolonged silence as her breathing slows, as they both gather their bearings, the heat of the moment winding down.

Her shoulders slump in defeat, as she refuses to meet his eyes.

"Don't… pity me," she whispers, brow creased into a slight scowl.

"What?" he whispers back incredulously.

"I know you, Eren," she says with a shake of her head, expression troubled as she bows her head to obscure his view of her face. "I might've deluded myself about these things when we were younger, but you've never felt that way about me, and I know that. You just–"

"I want you," he retorts, the words tumbling from his lips with startling ease before he can catch them, even though just moments ago he was physically incapable of uttering them. In response, he feels her stiffen considerably beneath him.

"No, I know you," she repeats firmly, shaking her head more emphatically, a tear trailing down her face, the image stabbing at his heart.

She lifts a hand to wipe the tear away, fixing her brow back into a stubborn scowl.

"You think you feel this way because you care about me–and, well, you may not be nice, but you're kind, and–"

"I want you," he says again, slower, words drawn out as he tilts her face up to force her to look him in the eye. When she finally does, her expression is both defiant and helpless, eyes glossed over, and his heart aches.

"And the… stuff–all the stuff you said you wanted, too," he adds on softly, and she looks confused only for a split second, until the sudden wide-eyed shock on her face signifies her understanding of the stuff, fresh tears immediately springing to her eyes.

She grabs a hand he has on her cheek, meaning to pry it off as she shakes her head in exhaustion.

"No," she repeats defeatedly, now as though she is trying to convince herself, her eyes downcast once more, and his irritation flares at the stubborn denial despite his very best efforts to be honest and convey all that he felt. "You–"

His frustration gets the better of him, because his mouth is on hers again. This time, she is completely still against him, her grip on his hand slackening slowly, the salt of her fresh tears tasted on his tongue. He slides his fingers into her hair and pulls her closer in a plea of 'please believe me', and in a slow, borderline morose acquiescence, she begins to return his kiss, her shoulders beginning to slump in a 'no… maybe… perhaps', and it is not enough for him, because she is still hesitant and not at all the firecracker that had stung his lips and set his body ablaze just moments ago.

'Prove it prove it prove it,' is what her stiff limbs taunt, what the uncertainty in her kiss conveys, and because Eren Jaeger loves a challenge, he grips her silk raven locks and pushes his tongue into her parted lips, to prove it. Then, he decides it must be working at least a little bit because she is beginning to slouch into his embrace, despite the unrelenting stream of tears dampening their kiss.

So he pushes further, to prove it more, and pulls back, his eyes fluttering open to peer down at the parted, wet, swollen pink lips that are hovering over his. Purely by some instinctual pull, he presses a chaste kiss to them, before pressing another beneath her lips, his eyes sliding shut as he presses another to her chin and another and another and another ever so gently down the soft curve of her jawline–

"St–ah… "

–the resistance in her throat dying into a gentle gasp as his lips blaze a trail of fire down the warm flesh of her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, tongue flicking out onto the hot salt of her skin, something between a gasp and a moan fighting its way out from the back of her throat as she cranes her neck to give him more access.

Emboldened by her silent submission, he nuzzles the crook of her neck and suckles the soft flesh, a shaky exhale bursting from the back of her throat, and she is melting in his arms as she slides a hand around his back to grasp at his shirt. He kisses up and down her neck, then strips her shoulder bare, peeling her shirt's collar back, along with her bra strap, as he trails kisses across her shoulder, right to the very end, then back up again, punctuating the trail with a single kiss to her neck, as she slides a hand into the thick of his hair.

He pauses there, pulling her into an embrace, brow knit in frustration, face hot from their shared warmth and his own boldness.

"Why won't you believe me?" he mutters against her skin.

She shifts the hand she has nestled in his locks to cup his cheek, and he pulls back just enough to be able to look into her dazed, grey blues, about to verbally insist that he wants her, once again.

But then, he forgets how to speak once met with titillating sight of her rose-tinged cheeks, her bra strap dangling off of her shoulder, her sleeve pushed halfway down her arm, a significant amount of snow white flesh exposed, and swelling pink where his teeth and lips insistently roamed.

A few seconds pass, and she does not reply, merely staring at him, hand sliding from his face to his shoulder, perhaps trying to process what has just happened.

"Tell me… what I have to do," he manages to muster, as she maintains her silence, staring at him in deep contemplation.

In her silence, he finds his gaze dropping down to her exposed skin every few seconds. Unnerved at his own newfound fascination with the imagery of her partially removed shirt, he begins to tug at her shirt sleeve to cover up her skin once more, in an attempt to seem less perverse and maintain some semblance of respect–until she halts him, with a hand on his wrist.

He then looks back up to find her eyes resolute, expression dark, his own eyes widening slightly in subdued puzzlement.

Then, she leans closer and dims his world completely with the push of her lips against his, the kiss rapidly ascending into utmost fervor as she pushes forward and forcefully tugs his wrist downward, urging him to peel the rest of her sleeve off. He has half a mind to resist, but then she has his bottom lip between her teeth, her tongue flicking at it in a prolonged tug, and he decides that he must strip her faster. And so he does, shoving the sleeve off, before shoving the rest of her shirt off, greedily smoothing his palms back up over her firm, velvet skin.

Out of breath, his heart pounding hard, he pulls back briefly to open his eyes into hers, and he is unsure of whether he is more nervous or aroused at how they have darkened, and how they burn into him with all the intensity she possessed when zoning in on a target on the battlefield. But then, she presses her palms down roughly onto his shoulders and begins to crawl onto his lap, and he decides it's aroused, because she has him kicking his shoes off in eager accommodation of the unspoken command, eyes locked onto hers as she straddles him, her heavy, heavy weight resting on his thighs as she sinks her fingers into his hair, roughly gripping at the tousled locks to tilt his head up to hers, capturing his mouth in an invasive kiss, and god, it is like a dream–in fact it was a dream–but, he finds himself thinking that she is better than anything he could have ever dreamt up, because her tongue is hot on his, weight bearing down on him in a way that makes him wrap his arms around her bare skin tighter, makes all the blood rush south, and makes him eagerly return her kiss as though she is his source of air.

Palm soft on his body, she glides a hand up his abs, his shirt riding up on her wrist, and he hisses as she halts the kiss and presses her forehead to his, nose turning against his as her fingers reach his chest.

"Take this off," she breathes onto his mouth, in effect worsening the ache in his pants.

"Please," she adds, always so polite, even though she is sliding her thumb over his nipple, and he has to wonder how on earth the real thing is even more of a minx than the Mikasa of his dreams–but then he is not sure why he is surprised because Mikasa Ackerman always exceeded expectation in all she did.

Breathing hard against her, he moves to pull his shirt off the rest of the way, only to have her tug it over his head and toss it away herself.

Then she is kissing him again, pressed flush against him, her skin hot and soft between the rough cloth of her bra and her bandages, sticking to his wherever exposed. She smooths a hand up and down his bare upper back, her hand gripping his hair harder–until, suddenly, her hands aren't on him at all and there is the sensation of cloth sliding between them, slight rugburn felt on his chest, but immediately forgotten because then there is nothing between them, her chest pressed flush against his skin, bare and soft and lithe, unlike any other part of her otherwise firm body.

His face is on fire and all the blood is rushing south and he is aching, and he knows he should pull away and tell her 'you did not have to do that, we do not have to do anything,' but he instead runs his palms over the smooth, newly bare region of her back, his arms cinching tighter around her waist, inadvertently causing her to shift further up his lap, her crotch now pressed firmly against the tent in his pants.

Too abruptly, she breaks the kiss, and Eren's eyes flutter open in a daze, to find her face flushed and equally dazed, face tinged with a mix of surprise and concern.

"Your…" she trails off, and by the sheer embarrassment on her face and the way his own face burns in response, he knows exactly what she is referring to.

"Oh. Yeah… sorry," he mutters, eyes dropping down in embarrassment–only to catch his first full view of her bare breasts, at which his eyes widen and immediately flick back up to her face, his ears and cheeks now aflame.

She, too, looks sheepish, shyness taking place of the salacious haze in her charcoal blues, and suddenly it is as though they were not undressing one another, and did not have their tongues jammed down each other's throats, just a moment ago.

"No, I mean, is it–it's okay?" she clarifies, blinking down at him, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck.

He stares blankly at her, trying to decipher her question–until it dawns on him that, for all the natural skill she seemed to have with their activities, she is clueless.

His mouth hangs agape, prompting her face to redden in response. Immediately, she averts her gaze, and he must withhold his amusement as he brings up a hand up to smooth over her upper arm.

"Yeah," he assures her, nodding slowly, wondering why his heart feels so incredibly full as he stares up at his oblivious companion, and wondering why he finds her lack of knowledge on such matters so endearing–not that he was an expert, by any means, as anything he knew on the subject, he'd heard passively, and against his will, in excruciating detail.

"It, uh… it happens when it's… touched a lot…" he flounders for words, wanting to implode at the strange word choice.

"Oh," she says with a nod, seeming genuinely interested.

"Yeah–I mean, also other times, but mostly during stuff like… well, this."

"Oh," she nods again thoughtfully. "Like, kissing and–?"

"Yeah, like–yes."

"So it doesn't hurt?"

"No, no."

"Oh," she says once more, her shoulders slumping in relief. "I thought it was getting that way because I was sitting on it and it was hurting you–"

"No, if it gets that way, it's 'cause it… feels good," he says firmly, face growing hot at his incomplete, yet sufficient, explanation.

"Oh," she says with another nod.

With the silence that ensues, how far things had escalated begins to sink in.

They had been at each other and on each other, eagerly undressing one another, unwilling to part mouths for more than a few seconds. And suddenly, they had devolved back into a pair of sheepish and prudish youths–which was a more fitting designation, since they two were the least expected to partake in such activities amongst their comrades.

But then, he decides that this is different, and the feel of her skin on his, and the push of his mouth on hers, could not simply be reduced to some forbidden fantasy come true, or a mere submission into some hormonal urge.

He was incredibly inarticulate when it came to matters of the heart, and touch served to convey all that he could not say. Touch was the language they both understood best, 'I want you', 'I need you', 'I trust you', and 'this is for you, only you', told in kisses and skin on skin and shared, drunken gazes.

And so, he continues to touch her, his fingertips beginning to run up the bumps of her spine as he stares up into her eyes, which gaze back into his curiously and observantly.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to her collarbone, and another to her neck, chaste and so tender that he feels her skin prickle in response, about to trail another up her neck–but then his chin is suddenly jammed into the crook of her neck, when she pulls him into a tight embrace.

After he registers the sudden movement, he closes his eyes, arms cinching tighter around her waist, as he sighs at the sensation of her warm skin on his, and her fingers combing through his hair, lulling him into an incredibly rare sense of contentment.

Then she wriggles her hips slightly, in what he first assumes is an attempt to adjust her position on his lap.

But then, she continues to move, her clothed heat pushing insistently against his crotch, the cloth of her flimsy underwear, and his thin pajamas the only barrier between them.

He does not bother to pose a question at the deliberate, languid, stir of her hips against his, and instead welcomes the sensation, his eyes remaining closed, the steady rhythm of his breath growing more and more syncopated as the blood begins to rush back downwards. He turns his cheek into her neck as he holds her closer, senses heightened at the feel of her hot breath in his ear.

"Is that good?" she whispers.

'Oh my fucking fuck.'

A shiver jolts his spine, and he lets out a weak, shuddery exhale before pulling back to be met with a charcoal blue smolder that makes his stomach flutter violently.

"Yeah," he breathes, her mouth hovering over his as they stare at one another, caught in a shared, drunken daze.

And together they move, his hips grinding up into her heat as she licks his bottom lip, beckoning his mouth open until he darts his tongue out to tease hers back, and he lets himself wonder how the hell they had the capacity to be so lewd, before he presses his mouth to hers once more, all the while smoothing a hand up her thigh and bunching her skirt in a fist, wondering what could possibly come next. And, as though she has read his mind, her fingers begin to fumble at the waistband of his pants–immediately putting him on the defensive as he grabs her wrist, and presses his hips up, pushing forward with a grunt, her body bouncing against the mattress with a thud, grey blues startled, as her back hits the sheets. Caught in a mix of competitiveness, and his desire to please and give rather than receive, he crawls above her, spreading her legs with his knees as he descends upon her in an eager kiss, before working his way down her body, littering kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, and down the valley between her breasts, then trailing his tongue up the curve of her breast. She hisses as he runs his tongue slowly over her nipple, winding a circle around the firm nub, before taking it into his mouth, her fingers immediately fisting in his hair and holding him there against her, his ego swelling at the sound of her labored breathing and restricted moans, her body writhing under the swirl of his tongue the gentle grope of his fingers.

Emboldened by her reactions, he smooths his hand over her abdomen, down and down, pulling up her skirt, two fingers rubbing at the dampened patch of cloth between her legs, trailing up to tug at the waistband of her undergarments, the coarse tuft of hair felt on the backs of his fingers as he tugs the flimsy cloth downward.

But then, despite the fact that his mind is hazed with a primal and insatiable hunger, the now miniscule rational part of his brain calls his attention, bringing to light the possibility that she might not want to go any further. Almost immediately, his concerns are put to rest when she grabs his wrist and drags his hand down into her underwear, fingers brushing past the coarse patch of hair, where it is wet and hot, sending his face aflame, as though he hadn't been pressing his fingers to that very region a few moments ago.

He can hear himself breathing hard, face burning as he runs his fingers against her slick, hot folds. He then slides a finger in with ease, and she tilts her hips up to his aid, hand still guiding his wrist as she writhes against him. At first moving cautiously, he lets her take full control, feeling the ache in his pants begin to worsen at the sight of her rosebud lips agape, fine, raven eyebrows raised in helplessness, breath shallowing, moans cutting off at the back of her throat, half-lidded eyes on his as she uses him to pleasure herself. His own breathing shallows and he decides he can't get enough of the sight, so he pushes another finger in slowly, watching her gasp as her tight heat stretches around his fingers. Then he begins to increase his pace, moving in a way that has her grip on his wrist slackening, has her breathing quickening, the plush heat his fingers are churning growing even wetter as he moves. At the mere sight and feel of her, and knowing the image beneath him is his doing, all the blood rapidly rushes south, his ache beginning to swell visibly–which she so kindly takes note of, as she reaches down to rub through through the thin cloth of his pants, his length hardening beneath her touch.

He hisses and all too quickly and withdraws his fingers from her slit, sitting back on his heels to roughly tug off her skirt, and she does not protest–does not utter a single word when he pulls the only piece of cloth left on her body down her legs roughly, before tossing it aside.

Mikasa's hesitance only comes when he shifts further down on the bed and hoists her thighs onto his shoulders, as he presses open mouthed kisses up her inner thigh–up and up, his tongue swirling at the space between her thigh and her crotch, up and up, prompting a shaky and hesitant, "Ere–"

She gasps sharply as he dips his tongue into her heat, and it is intoxicating–her scent, the taste of her wet flesh on his tongue, her fingers grasping his hair. For once he is glad for the lecherous bunker talk he had involuntarily tuned into, because he is running his tongue over all the right places, focusing there –that apparently sensitive place that makes her gasp over and over again, makes her hips writhe under his mouth, makes her moans come out throaty and full, makes her hand fist in the sheets–makes his own libido spike dangerously. He allows himself a glance up at her, and he cannot even see her face, her head rearing back into her pillow, chin up, face to the ceiling. He can't help his satisfaction at the sight, and the fact that he is the one responsible for reducing one of humanity's most powerful warriors to this. It feeds his desire to please more, his tongue flicking over the sensitive region over and over, faster, her entire body beginning to tense and tense–until her body shudders and jolts sharply, a muffled, yet throaty moan filling his ears.

Slight panic takes over as her limbs slacken completely, and he whips his head up to the concerning sight of her panting, and biting into her own forearm.

"Are you okay?" he queries, eyes widening as he rises onto his knees to get a better look at her, while absently wiping away the traces of her all over the bottom half of his face with the back of his hand.

She continues to breathe heavily as she removes her arm from her mouth, exhausted, half-lidded eyes finally meeting his as she nods at him, apparently incapable of speech.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks dejectedly as her breathing begins to slow.

"No," she replies with wide eyes as she shakes her head. "It felt really–it was good. My mind just… went blank?" she says, a query in her statement.

"Oh," he says with a nod, realization dawning on him at the description, his ego flaring considerably, ears burning. "Well, that's good."

"That's supposed to happen?" she blinks confusedly up at him, her face flushed, likely from both the physical activity, and her lack of knowledge in the area, and it is endearing.

"That's the idea," he murmurs, his face and heart warm as he slumps onto his side next to her, and bends forward to press a chaste kiss to her mouth, unsure of whether she is alright with kissing him when he has her on his tongue. But, it doesn't seem to be a problem, as she forcibly pulls him down to deepen the kiss, sending away the innocent Mikasa of a few seconds ago at the flick of a switch–and she is long gone when she breaks the lock only briefly to utter a breathy command of "Take this off," before resuming the heated kiss and sliding her hand up his still-clothed rigid length, fingers tugging down the waistband of his pants. And again he is like a loyal labrador, quick to obey, the air meeting his exposed skin as he kicks his pants and underwear off. His face then warms in embarrassment, but it is quickly forgotten when he feels her palm smooth down his abs, down and down until she has him in her grip.

At the sensation of her velvet soft hand wrapping around his hardness, his kiss becomes far less focused as he hums into her mouth, hand gripping at her shoulder, his jaw slackening as she gently pumps at his stiff length, thumb smoothing over the moistened head. And then his hips jerk into her hand of their own volition, the cinch of her grip tightening, pace increasing, grip tightening, pace increasing, grip tightening–maybe too tight, and maybe pulling too hard, WAY too hard–

"AGH!"

Eren breaks the kiss abruptly, his mind spinning at the jumble of pleasure and pain. He sits up and rests into a kneel, the pain quickly dissipating as he catches his breath and gathers his composure.

"Sorry! Did I–sorry!" he hears Mikasa's voice, thick with horror and concern. "Are you okay?"

He nods in response, eyes down at his still relatively rigid member, only now realizing how drastic his reaction might have seemed–which had stemmed mostly from the shock of being quite literally yanked from his rapidly heightening pleasure.

When he looks up to assure her as much to allay her concerns, he stops short at the sheer horror on her face, and begins to register the absurdity of the situation.

In her enthusiasm to please, Mikasa had accidently exerted her brute, Ackerman strength on him.

"Eren…?" she calls his name cautiously, maintaining some distance between them as though she might injure him again should she come any closer.

He bites his tongue to prevent himself from smiling at the ridiculousness of the situation, because, though he is inexperienced, he is quite certain that risk of dismemberment was not typical in most sexual situations.

Then again, Mikasa was not typical.

"Is it–are you alright?" she cuts into his thoughts again, looking at him as though she actually might have broken him. He maintains his silence, too busy wondering how he could be brimming with even more affection and fondness for her because of the fact that she had nearly torn his manhood off with her superhuman strength.

And then amusement fades to pure warmth as he gazes at her–Mikasa, a fierce warrior who was all at once soft and nurturing and demure and stoic, and blunt and nagging and doting and beautiful and dangerous and synonymous with home; Mikasa, who was not one for sentimentality unless it involved him; Mikasa, who never let her guard down for anyone or anything, yet was completely bare and vulnerable before him now–save for the bandages she now had to sport because she had nearly died for him.

Inexplicably, he feels his eyes begin to sting.

'What the fuck?' he chastises himself, frowning at the sensation.

"Eren…? I'm–I'm sorry, does it still hurt?" she stammers, gentle urgency in her voice, as she sits up straighter and leans in closer, likely thinking that his eyes are watering because of the non-injury she had inflicted on him moments ago.

He tears his eyes from hers, and they briefly drop down to to take in her nakedness, to sit with the fact that he is also naked, and that they are naked together, completely bare and vulnerable to each other.

And yet, he has never felt more secure and safe in his entire life.

A sense of contentment and overwhelming affection and gratitude washes over him, and he does not know how to grapple with it because it is all so foreign, and his eyes are stinging even more, and he swallows because he is not sure what else to say when he looks into her eyes.

"Eren!" she finally snaps in a harsh whisper, at his non-responsiveness, likely alarmed at the shift in his expression. She sits up on her knees to match his height, placing her hands on either side of his face, her voice heavy with concern.

"Can you talk?"

Oh, he wants to laugh and kiss her because she is so serious and clueless and convinced that she has broken him.

And he also wants to cry a bit, because he is so incredibly in love with her.

"Do you need ice?"

He blinks down at her, eyes widening, heart beginning to boom in his ears once more.

'...What?'

Her face grows even more concerned in response to the more drastic shift in his expression, and she is likely thinking it has something to do with his unscathed biology, when in fact he was just flabbergasted at the fact that he had just used that stupid, stupid word–that word that the teens around him so often used to label the irrational headrush that was supposed to justify their hormone-driven activities.

"Hey…"

And though there was certainly some of that happening at the moment, the word came to mind more to label the intensity of his fondness and caring and admiration for her, because "want"and "need" did not quite cut it.

"Eren."

And what scares him the most, is that it had come naturally, without any thought at all.

He scowls down at her, his face on fire, and her eyes grow even more concerned because she hasn't a clue about the bomb he has just internally dropped on himself.

"Okay," she says with finality as she pulls back, "I'm going to get–"

He presses his hands to the backs of hers to keep them on his face, her expression flipping from concern into rose-tinged puzzlement.

"You're never allowed to get hurt, ever, ever again," he says firmly, voice low as he gazes into her eyes intensely, his own eyes still stinging. His heart beats hard in his chest as his fingers curl to grip the strong, velvet soft hands that had killed in his name, and that had held him in his darkest of moments.

"Ever," he repeats, as he leans forward and bumps his forehead against hers, then pulling back so they are nose at nose and he is scowling down at her in feigned intimidation.

"Do you understand?"

Her surprise melts away slowly as her brow arches, pure emotion fading onto her face.

"Well?" he asks hoarsely, and she nods wordlessly, rapidly, her own eyes glossing over, as she bites at her bottom lip.

Her gaze drops down to his mouth before she pulls him into a kiss that is slow and tender and sends his heart soaring. All the while, she pushes forward and crawls onto him as before, hot flesh sticking to his, the wetness between her legs scattering on his skin as he places his hand on the bandaged small of her back.

It is a slow burn, her lips moving against his with intent, motion of her tongue on his languid as though to savor the moment. Then, her palms are sliding up his torso until they come to a stop on his chest, and she is pushing gently, pressing forward until their mouths are parted, and his back is pressed to the sheets, and she is sitting upright atop his hips. Then his awed emerald greens are peering up at darkened charcoal blues as his breathing labors, his eyes roving up and down her naked body, stomach fluttering violently at the sight of her straddle, the firelight playing shadows on the dips and curves of her muscled, firm flesh. He smooths his hands up her thighs–then, is completely incapable of movement when she grinds her wet heat against him in one languid motion, coating his stiffening manhood in her juices.

He gasps because it feels too good, and unlike anything he has ever felt before, and he knows they should probably stop but god, he doesn't want to, and from the look in her eye and the unrelenting motion of her hips, she doesn't want to either. So he lets her do as she pleases, unable to tear his dumb gaze from the lewd sight of her slick heat slowly grinding against his bare, now incredibly rigid length, and he is certain he looks incredibly stupid and blank, his eyebrows raised helplessly, mouth agape, hissing as he presses his hips up into hers to feel more, eyes sliding shut to drown in the euphoric sensation of her warmth.

Then his jaw slackens completely when he feels her fingers on his shaft, sliding the tip of his already moist member against her sopping wet folds, his eyes shooting back open to the sight of her spreading herself there and lowering herself onto him, slowly, maddened at the sensation of her smoldering, tight walls sucking him in as he watches himself disappear into her.

"Fuck," he manages to exhale, staring with unwavering interest and attention, his breathing growing uneven as he watches her sink down and take him in deeper and deeper, feeling her tightness and hotness envelop him completely, his hips rising to push in and drown in her more –eliciting a sharp hiss from her, that draws his eyes back up to her face, which is contorted in pain.

Guilt comes to the forefront, somehow finding its way through the haze of pleasure that has taken over his mind, prompting him to sit up and place his arms around her back.

"You alright?" he whispers up to her, impressed with himself at his ability to form words when his brain was rapidly going out of commission.

Without reply, she places her arms around his neck, legs shifting around him, her eyes closed in concentration as she continues to take him in, face flushed, beautiful, sweat-laced, and all his.

He fights hard not to thrust up into her, maintaining his self control, as he feels himself fill her to the hilt. Then he allows himself a brief moment of sentimentality, his pleasure heightened at the fact that it was her, his confidante, protector, and best friend turned-lover, he was with–that two people who only knew the cruelty of the world could find a sense of pleasure, comfort and security in one another.

But then, his ability to think takes a dangerous plunge as she presses her forehead to his and raises her hips slightly, then lowers herself back onto him while stirring her hips, squeezing him within her warmth. He sucks in a breath, pushing up into her as much as possible, wriggling his hips against her, until she is rocking her hips against his on her own rhythm, the tight pressure and heat and slipperiness sending his mind higher, despite the clumsiness of their movements.

And then, ever the fast learner and overachiever, Mikasa pushes her palms against his chest until his back is to the sheets once more, and he is dazed as his eyes flick down to where they are connected, watching her raise her hips, before she lowers and takes him in all the way once more, the rapid friction sending a jolt of pleasure through his body, something between a moan and a gasp involuntarily escaping the back of his throat. And she does it again with precision, faster this time in an unintentional show of her strength as she pushes down onto him harder, the mattress concaving beneath his body with each thrust.

The concentration on her face melts away as she continues to move with more certainty, her eyes closed, mouth agape as she pumps against him with fervor, her pace growing faster, hips beginning to slam into his with a force that rocks the bed frame, and he grits his teeth, the sight filling him with something feral that has him thrusting up to meet her halfway just as she presses down, feeling himself meet the mouth of her womb at the force of his thrust, causing an uninhibited and loud moan to escape her lips, her focused expression shattering completely in surprise, brow raised helplessly, head tossing back and 'god oh god oh god' he muses because the sight all on its own is maddening, never mind how incredible she feels, because he did that–he is responsible for that lecherous face, and complete loss of self control and inhibition, and he decides he wants to see more.

So he thrusts up again, falling into rhythm with her, the uninhibited pleasure blooming on her face, encouraging him to snap his hips into hers harder, faster–until she slams her hips down definitively to stop his movements completely, taking him in all the way and stirring her hips against his, her walls contracting around him to squeeze him, and he arches his hips to press into her more, to watch her mouth drop open helplessly more.

"Fuck," he lets slip again, now unable to control himself at the sensory overload.

He tugs at her forearms to pull her down, so that she falls forward, the rest of the world disappearing behind the curtain of her short raven hair now edging his periphery, her hands fisting in the sheets on either side of his head as he places his hands on her hips, bending his knees and planting his feet firmly into the mattress for leverage, now completely in control as he begins to thrust hard into her.

Dazed greens lock onto dazed grey blues, her pink lips parting to let fly a quiet moan with every thrust, their shared, labored breaths, and that wet sound of him moving in and out of her filling the room, her face growing more and more helpless as he increases his pace and the force of his thrusts.

"E-re-n…" his name comes out in broken, throaty syllables as his pleasure begins to spike dangerously, and it's getting to be too much and it feels too good, and he wants more, so he pulls her down and presses his mouth to hers, and he fucks her–pace increasing, arm tightening around her back to pull her flush against him, until he is slamming into her, and she is humming into his mouth.

"I'm…" he tries to speak against her lips, but he has forgotten the entire concept of language as he continues to move, and as she slumps completely onto him, face in the crook of his neck, her moans loud at his ear, and he is on the edge of something, somethingsomethingsometh-

And then he is gone and everything is nothing and his mind is blank, euphoria ripping through his body as he grinds his hips up into hers and spills out into her warmth, an unabashed groan rumbling up from his throat as he twitches into her and squeezes her tighter in his arms.

Then it is over, and he is left high and delerious, and they are an exhausted, panting, sweaty mass of flesh. His eyes flutter open to the ceiling as he eases the pressure of his embrace and catches his breath, then turns his head to look at Mikasa, who, too, is red-faced and breathing heavily.

And though they have just crossed a line impossible to edge back behind, and that all that had been left unsaid has, for all intents and purposes, been communicated, the only words fitting for this moment are still far too embarrassing for him to say.

So he brushes her bangs from her eyes, and presses his lips to hers, wordlessly.

He had never imagined that an immense sense of peace could be felt at the mere act of gazing upon another's face, or listening to another's breathing.

'She looks like a fucking painting,' he muses as he observes her moonlit face, only mildly irritated at his descent into the sensitive ball of mush that was his dream self.

Then, her eyes flutter open into his, and he feels his face warm immediately in response. Despite his embarrassment, he takes solace in the fact that he had not been saying revealing things at her in her sleep–though he isn't sure what else was left to reveal, considering what had just come to pass.

"Hi," she rasps groggily, the sound, for whatever reason, prodding at his heart and warming him inside and out.

"Hi," he replies curtly, brow knit as he attempts to hide away the embarrassing feelings that are taking over–never mind that they are already naked and had partaken in activities far more embarrassing a little over an hour ago.

And though being intimate in such a way is new, he notes that she has taken to it with far less reservations, her leg sliding between his beneath the sheets.

"You alright?" he asks, resisting the grin that threatens to spread, combatting it with the downward tug of the corners of his lips. Despite his expression, he shifts his leg closer against hers to reciprocate the contact.

She nods, covering her mouth as she yawns, and it is so cute, and his ears warm, his scowl deepening to combat the stupid smile that wants to take over, because he didn't even know such a word was in his vocabulary.

"Mmm. Just a little sore."

"Sorry," he murmurs, running his palm up her forearm.

"No, it's fine," she assures him. "I'm surprised it even fit though."

His face and ears burn even more at the foolish swell of pride brought on by her unintentional compliment. He scoots closer and buries his head in the crook of her neck to obscure her view of his pleased, yet mortified, expression. It takes only a few seconds for him to settle into contentment, her skin warm on his face, as she begins to thread her fingers through his hair.

"Did it hurt a lot?" he murmurs against her neck, sleepiness taking over as she continues to comb her fingers through his hair.

"Not too much. Just in the beginning."

"And then it was okay?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" he asks, moving back slightly to look up at her.

"Yes," she assures him, hand halting its ministrations, face flat and not a tinge of embarrassment found. "Most of it felt good."

"Oh," he says quietly, blood rushing back to his face. "Good."

He resumes his place at her neck and lays there against her skin, soothed by the feel of her breathing as she continues to weave her fingers through his hair. It is enough to lull him slowly into darkness, despite his now very off sleeping schedule, until–

"Have you done it before?"

His eyes shoot open.

"Done what?" he murmurs as he shifts back, and scoots further up so his head is resting on the pillow, and he is at eye level with her, her face now effortfully neutral.

"... This," she asks quietly, prompting his eyes to widen.

"No," he says firmly. "Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," she says, averting her gaze, expression bashful. "You seemed to know a lot about it."

"No," he repeats, just as firmly. "I just… knew some stuff from overhearing the perverts I bunked with before."

"Oh," she says with a nod, her relief evident.

"Listen, I… don't look at other people the way I look at you," he says, eyes immediately dropping to her collarbone, face warming at the admission. "So… I couldn't do this kind of thing with anyone else. I wouldn't want to."

She is silent, and he can feel her eyes boring into his head, and all the blood is rushing to his face once more.

"Not even Levi?"

"...What?" he snaps, head shifting up to stare at her deadpan face with wide eyes. "What the hell is the supposed to…?"

But then he registers the amused, crinkle of her eye, and how she bites her bottom lip in an attempt to withhold the slight upturn of the corner of her lips.

"If you're gonna start making jokes, at least make it look like you're making a joke–and make them less disturbing," he says gruffly, fighting his own grin as he watches one take over her mouth.

"Sorry," she says, and it is impossible for him to maintain his disgust at her decidedly odd sense of humor, because the prospect of her making a joke and smiling is so rare.

He savors the moment, staring at her, before shaking his head.

"You're so weird," he mutters, a scowl still on his face as he pushes forward to press a kiss to her mouth, her fingers sinking into his hair and keeping him there against her, as she deepens the kiss.

He sighs into her mouth, feeling her wrap her leg around his to pull him closer, as his hand slides down the velvet soft skin of her back, and he wonders why, oh why it had taken him this long realize how amazing this whole kissing thing was, and how amazing it felt to be naked with and do things with Mikasa.

She pulls back, eyes set on his, and they gaze at one another, settling into a comforting hush once more. As he continues to caress her back, her gaze becomes observant, eyes light in their scrutiny, as she regards him like a child observing a world wonder, filled with awe and question upon question.

"What?" he asks softly, hand coming to a stop on her back.

She blinks back at him, cheeks tinting pink as she shrugs a shoulder. Now that she has brought attention to it, he can't help but run a hand over it, just because he can.

She remains silent as he slides his hand up the slope of her shoulder, her eyes set on his face, attempting to read him once more.

"I'm just not used to getting this kind of attention from you," she finally says, quietly.

He pauses, slightly startled at the statement. He had become so comfortable holding her and being entangled with her in this way that it felt like they had been acting like this for years–forgetting that it was only as recently as last night that he had realized his own stupidity and resolved to act on it.

"I know," he says shamefully, eyes at her chin. "I promise I'll be less stupid from now on."

He runs a hand up her arm, eyes shifting back to hers. Though he had assumed she would happy at his response, he can see the gears turning in her head as she threads together whatever she intends to say.

"You know… you don't have to change," she says quietly, eyes still on his. "You don't have to do anything differently, or act differently."

His hand comes to a stop on her forearm.

"You don't want me to?"

"No–I mean, I don't want you to feel like you have to act a certain way, now that we've–just… I'm okay with whatever you're comfortable with. It's enough to know that you..." she gives pause, staring at him thoughtfully, face beginning to flush.

"... want the stuff?" he finishes for her, now unable to help the grin that spreads on his lips.

"Mmm," she says with a nod, her mouth upturning into a slight smile, and he is melting.

"Well," he shifts his gaze back down to her neck, "I kind of like… this," he mumbles, trying his best to act nonchalant as he feels his own face grow hot. "So. I'd like to keep doing that, if that's okay."

The question is essentially rhetorical, yet there is still a pause that leaves him hanging on edge.

Then he feels her shift closer, feels her hand on his chin, tilting his face up, her gaze still rose-tinged in embarrassment, her eyes locked on his, a distinct certainty to their intensity.

"You can do whatever you want to me," she whispers, a sultry quality to the shyness that pervades her tone, as she shifts her leg between his once more.

Blindsided by the lascivious undertone of her response, his eyes pop wider, stomach fluttering as he feels her palm run down the side of his torso, her gaze expectant.

He swallows.

And then he musters the courage to play along.

"Whatever I want?" he whispers back, as he pushes forward, close enough so his nose brushes hers, and now they are in sync, and on the same playing field.

She nods, and what a mistake he muses, because her coy behavior emboldens him to roughly push into her shoulder, lift a leg and push forward until her back is pressed to the sheets, and she is pinned beneath him.

"Whatever I want?" he asks again, bending forward, pushing her legs open with his knees, one hand sliding up her abdomen, firm until he reaches the plush skin of her breast, thumb circling over a nipple, prompting her mouth to drop open in a gentle gasp, her eyes flicking down to his lips as he flicks his thumb over the hardened nub.

"Yes," she breathes meekly onto his mouth, blinking her half lidded gaze up into his eyes, and he barely has to move at all to press his lips to hers because their faces are already so close. All over again, he is melting at the feel of her soft hands roving around his lower back, one hand sliding down and down until she reaches his ass–giving one cheek a firm squeeze. Blindsided once again, he yelps into her mouth, half tempted to break the kiss abruptly and comment on how strange she is, but he doesn't dare to, when he feels her mouth curl into a smile against his, something that sounds like a laugh humming into his mouth. His heart overflowing with affection and that stupid "L" word once more, he kisses her full and slowly. And again they descend into more as she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him in so his hips are pressed flush against hers, and she is bad–worse than he ever imagined his conservative companion could be, because she is wriggling her hips up into his, and his blood is rushing south once more, and she is snaking down a hand between them–when his stomach gives an unapologetically loud gurgle.

The two freeze mid-kiss, her hand never quite making it to its intended destination. Eren squeezes his eyes shut, mortified at the interruption, and breaks the kiss, blinking his eyes open into a pair of amused grey blues.

"Hungry?" she queries, replacing her hands on his lower back, the nature of her caress now more sympathetic than the sensual groping from just moments ago.

His stomach answers on his behalf, growling once more.

"A little," he says, realizing that he hasn't eaten for the past twenty-four hours. "Haven't eaten since yesterday."

Mikasa narrows her eyes, and he flinches at the sudden and drastic shift in mood.

"You what?"

He swallows.

The oil lantern hanging from her grip illuminates the darkened path, their footfalls gentle and cautious as they traverse the winding halls.

She nearly jumps when he reaches for her hand, her cheeks tinting pink, expression inquisitive as he returns it with his own equally pink scowl.

They remain linked until they reach the eerily dark kitchen, illuminated only by the lantern in Mikasa's grasp. She sets the lantern down on the center island which casts the span of the dim light wider, the scant sliver of moonlight peeking in through the window the only other source of light. In a daze, finally fully feeling his exhaustion, he leans back against a counter, watching passively as she begins to poke around the kitchen.

It is after a little while that she returns to him with a small roll of bread, a sense of nostalgia instantly ripping through him.

"This is the only thing we have a surplus of at the moment. They'll notice the supply change if I try to make anything right now," she says lifting the bread slightly for him to take it from her grasp.

He does not reach for it, instead blinking down at it thoughtfully.

While he had certainly eaten equally uninteresting rolls of bread since the moment she had force fed one to him about a decade ago, in this particular moment, the little roll served as another reminder of how she had made him survive through the years, only further solidifying his… "L" word for her.

Shaking himself out of his trance, he realizes that she must think he is completely out of it, or at least really hungry if he was staring at a piece of bread with such emotion in his eyes.

He raises a hand to pull it from her grasp–only to have her suddenly press the roll to his lips.

Now all he can do is stare down at her hand, lips pursing beneath the bread roll, his throat beginning to close, eyes beginning to stupidly sting in the stupid way that they do, as he meets her eyes, which are filled with understanding, her cheeks tinted pink once more, and he need say nothing more to communicate his thoughts, because she knew, just as she always did, without him having to say a word.

He snatches the bread from her hand, and presses a firm kiss to her mouth, not fully backing away.

"Thank you," he says, following it up with another kiss, the words encompassing far more than the little roll of bread in his hand.

"Mmm," she replies shyly as she backs away.

He bites into his bread as she rounds the island to grab the lantern.

"That Levi joke you made earlier by the way–pretty fucked up," he begins, in an attempt to lighten the mood, mouth full of bread as she walks towards him.

Her face remains flat, and serious.

"... that was a joke, right?"

She looks at him, expression unchanging as she walks towards the archway.

"Well, I don't know. You did used to look at him weird."

"What?!" he whispers harshly through the bread in his mouth as he jogs to catch up to her.

And as he continues to defend his admiration of their leader in their younger days in harsh whispers, he slides a hand into hers, her fingers immediately curling to reciprocate the grip–her flat expression breaking, lips twitching into amused grin every few seconds.

He finds himself continuing to rant foolishly, for the sole purpose of bringing about that very sight.

Eventually, they fall into silence so he can scarf down his bread in record time–after which he is left to silently dread their temporary goodbye until morning.

But once they reach their destination, Mikasa only tightens her grip on his hand, dragging him through her threshold, and releasing his hand to shut and lock the door.

She strides over to her bedside to put the oil lantern back in its place, before walking back over to him.

"It's late–early–I actually don't know," he begins dejectedly, knowing he should take leave before he loses his will to do so. He did not wish to find out what sort of disciplinary action might be taken, should they get caught–never mind the stares they would receive from their comrades if he was caught sneaking out of her room in the morning.

But, she says nothing, fingers already tugging the bottom of his shirt up.

"Mikasa," he hisses in chastisement, face warming already, though he lets her remove his shirt and toss it across his room, the stirring in his pants already commencing despite his protestation. "We can't… "

He pauses as she undoes her buttons, this time, giving way to her bare chest, no bra in sight.

"Yes?" she asks, so nonchalantly that he has to wonder if she knows the effect she is having on him. But, by the time she pushes the last button free, he figures that it doesn't matter, because he lets her know, shoving her shirt off the rest of the way before he presses his mouth to hers and pushes his tongue into her mouth, feeling her claw at the waistband of his pants as he kisses her all the way to the bed, pushing her down into the sheets, hands eagerly working to tear off her remaining clothing once more.

"I should go back soon," he exhales, pinning his knee between her legs as he pushes her further back up the bed.

"You should," she agrees, pulling him down into a kiss, tugging his pants and underwear down so his growing excitement is exposed once more.

"After this," he says as he kicks his pants off the rest of the way, and she hooks a leg around his waist, and pulls him down by the hair.

"After this," she repeats in agreement before pressing her mouth to his, hand running over his bare length.

"I gotta go back after this," he says again, though he barely remembers uttering the phrase when she spreads her legs and tilts her hips up into his in invitation, raven hair fanning on the sheets, eyes half lidded. His stomach flips at the sight as he presses his mouth to hers and pushes forward to drown in her warmth once more, lost to the sensation of her skin and her lips and her fingernails digging into his back as he moves against her.

"You should," she hisses into his ear, syllables broken up by the rhythmic jolt of his hips.

He bends forward to kiss her once more, whatever he "should" be doing already long forgotten.

THE END.

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has followed this fic, and waited so very patiently for this update. A special thank you to those who left thoughtful reviews, and to the select few who have so graciously listened to me vent about it over these past few months (esp. to the particular person who has received most of this venting, you know who you are). With all that has been happening in my life outside of the internets, you are the main reason I was able to push through, and felt accountable to finish this fic.

Writing this final part drove me crazy. The idea for Touch came from the desire to write something emotional and raw, that transitioned into endearingly awkward, and somewhat pure, first time, in-character, Eremika smut, that could potentially fit into canon. That said, I had no idea how difficult it would be to make a confession and a love scene happen organically. We're talking about two inexperienced young adults who barely ever speak of such things, and pulling a confession of love out of a boy who doesn't appear to have a romantic bone in his body. The last thing I wanted to do was butcher their characters, and devolve into anything too cliche or sugary sweet, and at the end of it all, I wanted you to believe that the people in this story were undeniably Eren Jaeger and Mikasa Ackerman. Trying to accomplish that landed me in a writing process that spanned months, which consisted of an entire scrapped 16,000 word draft, late weeknights, bursts of inspiration, then periods of anxious procrastination, then the writing of scenes you'll never even read, re-writing scenes to death, and generally just countless revisions to the work you have just read. All this tireless work has leant itself to the goal of writing an experience, and little moments and exchanges, that stayed true to the essence of Eren and Mikasa. I hope I that shone through here, and that I was able to do their characters justice.

Because I don't want to overdo this closing author's note, I will have a rambley blog post up on my tumblr (a-heartablaze) discussing my take on Eremika in the story, some of the writing process, and a response to a couple of reviews, if you care to read more on that kind of thing. Within that post, there will also be a summary of the epilogue I had originally intended to write. The post should be up by the end of the week.

Anyway, writing this story has been quite a ride. I died many times writing this fic, but, as a hopeless romantic, fangirl, and over-analytical writer (who thinks many unclean thoughts), it's been a pleasure giving these two wonderful, angst-ridden characters some light, while delving into the complexities of their unique relationship, and exploring the beauty that can grow from what already exists between them. I hope we get a chance to see some of that in-canon (probs not the smut, though that would be cool too), but if not, I hope you enjoyed my take on what could be.

I sincerely hope you have enjoyed this, and once again, thank you so much for reading.