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The wooden door creaked behind them, as the tall woman slipped inside the cool cabin first, to then sit down on her aching knees in front of the old wood stove, settling the damp wood down she had cut with the wielding of the axe in the cold morning.
Annie’s dirty fingertips closed the door behind her, sniffling from the cold of the deep winter evening. Her entire body trembled, and the back of her head ached from the fall when Mikasa had slammed her down on the frozen, crystal-snowy surface behind the cabin.
Strands of pale blonde hair fell down her brow, and she managed to walk up to the washbasin, to wipe her dirtied cheeks at least — the ache near the ribs thumped, the strong fist that had rammed into the pit of her stomach that had left her gasping so hard she had barely found the energy to roll to the side when the other hand had curled into a tight, firm fist to strike down on her once more.
Behind her, Mikasa was silent save for the damp wood beginning to crackle and crisp in the fireplace, lighting up the room with a gentle orange-red hue. Shadows flickered, and Mikasa seemed rigid.
Annie’s crystal blue eyes stared down at her barely trembling hands, now covered in cold water splashing down on her bruised skin. Her knuckles stung. The sound of the ice-cold water dripping and the wood breaking under the pressure of fire had Annie’s furrowed eyebrows loosening.
It’s been some time since she had a proper sparring partner; after the war, Annie hadn’t been psychologically capable of fighting without recalling the sheer horrors of her wrong-doings, the losses and countless deaths that had come with their victory. But something in herself had itched, fingers twitching for about the only thing she had always known how to do well, and effectively. Fight.
Annie reached for the scratchy but clean towel hanging near the old washbasin.
Having built a cabin with Mikasa near the outskirts of the woods, and then sharing a home together; it wasn’t something Annie had exactly foreseen, taking into consideration their past clashes and inexplicable tension they had carried back in the 104th Training Corps.
So when Annie had expressed in a testing tone, over the round kitchen table, to spar with Mikasa, the taller woman, in her long skirt and slightly grown out hair, had glanced over her shoulder with a steady gaze, before an —“okay.” came from her, even and hushed.
Then she continued to wash the remaining dishes, without wavering, a pleasant silence, ignited by something akin to heat, taking over them, as Annie swallowed more drops of hot tea in her cup. It had burned her tongue.
Annie rubbed at her own cheeks in a robotic manner, dirty and smelling of copper; she had somewhat expected to be out of shape, though she had still held her own steadily, even when Mikasa hadn’t appeared to hold back either. Her shadowed gaze had been relaxed into hazed concentration as she clashed harsh fists and whip-like kicks with Annie.
It had resulted in ugly bruises, bloody lips, and tingling ears, a rush to her gut that had licked away into a scorching fire. The crystal snow melted into her loose hair that had gotten way too long, and she barely glanced over her shoulder when she heard Mikasa’s soft exhale of her breath, indicating she seemed more relaxed than before.
Annie wiped herself dry with a towel in a practical manner, her white shirt sticking to her chest after having taken off her old sports jacket, and the firm muscles adorned her stomach through the wet material.
Then she heard Mikasa’s voice, low and even, breaking the silence as her dark eyes slowly gazed over to the pale blue basin, a small round thing abandoned in the corner, and exclaimed, “you should clean yourself,” but made no movement to stand up from the kneeling position in front of the heat of the crackling fire, warm colors dancing against her flushed, sweat-slicked skin.
Annie looked down at herself before she glanced over as well, cold sweat running down her throat and into the white shirt she wiped with a scratchy towel. “It’s too cold for that,” Annie cleared her throat, a worn-out husk in her voice, hiding half her face into the towel as she casually leaned against the kitchen sink. Her hip ached. “Unless you heat up the water. Because I’m not,”
It was said loosely, nothing out of the ordinary for Annie, especially after having sparred, but Mikasa raised herself up to her legs regardless with a firm nod, and moved towards the kettle on top of the cast-iron stove. After, she stepped into the open kitchen and reached past Annie to hold the kettle open under the washbasin. She lowered her dark lashes, effectively filling up the kettle with ice-cold water.
Annie, who hadn’t moved an inch, busied herself by drying her cheeks red with the towel. A cool glance at the black-haired woman, and her blue eyes wandered down the slim, pale neck covered in a mixture of cold sweat. Melting snow trickled down her décolleté. Down to the flexing forearms leading to the knuckles of Mikasa’s fingers gripping the kettle steadily, and Annie blinked away the snowflakes stuck between her own lashes.
“You should get some clean clothes,” Mikasa’s lips parted, her tone even and carrying a gravity even at the simplicity of her words, and then she raised her dark gaze to lock eyes with Annie. The splashing of the water, the lax expression of Mikasa, blended with the measured direct way was something Annie had reluctantly gotten used to over time.
Annie could tell, however, that Mikasa was assessing the damage, her eyes flicking down to Annie’s bruised bottom lip. The blonde, albeit habitually, looked away, letting her hair fall forward, seeing it as permission to enter Mikasa’s private room to secure her clothes as well. Then Annie distanced herself with a curt nod, and a, “yes, sir.” hint of dryness, hidden in the coolness she emitted.
Upon returning with soft material, both for Mikasa and her, Mikasa was throwing some more logs inside, the stove radiating an uneven warmth now. The large kettle full of water hissed, gentle, on top.
Annie blinked, slow, and shifted, before she uttered into the night, “it'll take a long time to heat up sufficient water for the both of us,” forcing down a hiss when she shifted, her stomach aching from the violent slam she had taken. The wooden ground groaned underneath her cold feet.
“Yes,” Mikasa responded straight into the crackling quiet, her eyes dark and far-away, as she looked down at the logs breaking in half, the dancing fire swallowing the wood whole. “But it'll be enough to wipe ourselves clean with rags.”
Annie’s cool gaze wandered away from her, to the shut window beyond. It happened to be pitch black, safe for the white snowflakes contrasting against deep darkness, and Annie, without giving Mikasa another glance, knew she was thinking about someone far long gone.
The blonde shifted awkwardly, uncrossing her screaming arms to walk up towards Mikasa, her steps making silent thuds along the way. Mikasa, softly appearing to blink away far-away recalls of nostalgic memories, now watched the way Annie lowered herself down on the soft carpet near the stove.
She placed the neatly folded clothes next to her. It was the usual, what they wore to bed and what she had seen Mikasa wear, a simple black long-sleeved shirt and loose night pants, soft to the touch, similarly to Annie, with her light blue oversized shirt and long pants, worn-out.
Lowering the warm kettle down towards the basin Annie had grabbed along with a barely noticeable grunt, Mikasa then kneeled to pour the hot water inside, the splashing sound filling the small room. Her fingers, Annie faintly noticed, were long, and her palms rather large, fitting for her height: and yet, Mikasa still carried herself with an elegance unusual for her deathly strength.
Annie recalled, her sides aching in pounding pain, the rather graceful way Mikasa had twisted her toned body to bruise Annie’s effortlessly.
And in return, Mikasa had received fitting bruises, and the rather shift in her body unnoticeable to the average eye indicated aching pain, damage to her firm muscles.
“You didn’t hold back,” came from Annie’s bloodied mouth, cool and deliberate, as she tasted copper on her tongue, not feeling particularly offended by Mikasa’s sheer brutality and strength. Annie held the used towel in her hands, to then dip the two small washcloths that Mikasa had seemed to have secured for them, into the warm water. Scorching hot engulfed her fingertips. Annie didn’t blink, once.
“Should I have held back?” Mikasa responded, lingering for a split second, before she reached up to grip the long-sleeved material of her dirtied shirt and take it off in one swift go. Like she did everything in an almost surgical manner, she reached for the wash-cloth in the boiling water, squeezed it, and placed it on her toned shoulder, with half-lidded eyes.
Annie caught a glimpse of a toned stomach, muscles glistening under the heat of the fire hue and the water dripping down her bicep. She looked away, lowering her head to slip out of her bloodied clothes as well.
Upon revealing her own body, she somehow felt odd and avoided Mikasa’s gaze despite feeling it burn her, most likely analyzing the damage, because for all Mikasa’s surface-leveled directness and coldness, she had always carried a troubled heart. A clipped laugh left Annie, and then she exhaled, barely, as she wiped over an ugly bruise with the warm cloth. She faintly noticed the prints left on her wrists by a pair of large, strong fingers.
A hint of hesitation, another crackle of the fire, and then Annie shook her head lightly, “No,” before she dipped the cloth back into the warm water. “You didn’t grow soft on me,” a faint curl of her lips, humourless. “That’s good.”
It was oddly intimate, Annie noticed, light-headed from the heat of the close fireplace, and the hot cloth she was wiping down her décolleté, her eyes subconsciously wandering to find evidence of Mikasa’s throat, red from Annie’s chokehold, a prominent reminder that Annie hadn’t held back either.
“You…” A flicker of Mikasa’s gaze, before she parted her lips, voice unwavering, “looked like you needed it,” and the meeting of their eyes, initiated by Mikasa, had Annie’s neck growing hot. Nothing in Mikasa indicated she was attempting to tease, her words straightforward.
Annie bit the inside of her cheek, the wind whistling outside, tasting remains of blood. “…why?”
And Mikasa’s grey eyes, they wandered downwards to stare at the green-blue bruise forming in the pit of Annie’s toned stomach. “I’m not sure,” Mikasa started, honest, as she absentmindedly wiped down her chest, and Annie instantly looked down, catching a glimpse of Mikasa’s toned thighs, engulfed in shadows. “the look on your face…it was the same as then when we first sparred.”
Annie wasn’t sure how to respond to that, caught off guard, as she recalled the insufferable years ago in the 104th Training Corps, the time Mikasa and her had clashed after she had thrown Reiner down on Eren almost hitting Annie at the last second. Annie closed her eyes, sober, as she wiped the cloth down her naked thighs.
Around that time, she knew she had caught Mikasa’s eye, especially because she had been so close to him, not hading attempting to hold back on him because Annie had felt the hypocritical need to teach him something, to teach him that life was more than just practice, the roughness and sheer death that life carried. It turned out that Eren had died, knowing that as well.
“That so,” Annie parted her bruised lips, slow and deliberate, a blank expression returning in her ice-cold eyes, the small ache in her chest old and pale.
“Annie,” her own name, it sounded foreign on Mikasa’s tongue, the voice measured and restrained, as Mikasa inched closer, taller even when sitting, and Annie blinked, caught off guard. “Hand me your rag to wipe your back.”
Annie’s heart knocked against her ribcage, clenching when she, openly confused, handed her the rag, before she felt tactical fingers brushing against her toned back, down the length of her spine. Annie suddenly realized Mikasa was acting so boldly because Annie had hit the ground too many times to count the past couple of hours.
When the wet cloth met her naked back, Annie lowered her crystal eyes, her hair falling over her shoulder and back. It was silent, for a moment, and Annie glanced outside, snow falling into the night, the singing wind playing with the flakes.
“Your hair has grown longer,” Mikasa observed, low, and Annie knew it meant her strands were in the way, so she reached up with heavy arms to brush them aside. The fireplace crackled, and warmed Annie’s wet skin, drying it steadily.
“Yeah,” Annie narrowed her weary eyes, forcing down a pleased exhale when the rag in Mikasa’s hand carefully wiped at one corner right underneath her old bra, and Annie’s side ached at the touch, something akin to inexplicable thirst taking over. “Guess I should cut it again,” looking down at her bruises on her wrists.
“You…” It was quiet, something akin to hesitance, Mikasa seeming to wonder if she should express something, so when Annie made to look over her shoulder, she met Mikasa’s grey eyes, widening like a deer in headlights, hands clenching. Unhelpfully, the rare expression reminded Annie of the time Mikasa had noticed Annie's affection towards Armin, who had kept her company along with Hitch. “Don’t cut it.”
Annie stared, speechless, and the orange-red hue reflected in Mikasa’s grey eyes, a rare glint that had Annie frozen in place. The bruise near her brow Annie had inflicted was reddening. Then Annie swiftly turned her head away again, lowering her chin, her hair falling forward. She felt a certain heat crawling up near the corners of her blue eyes.
Her fingers twitched, and the muscles in her stomach clenched, before she parted her lips. “Didn’t think you’d care,” Annie forced a laugh — it’s dry, and low. The rag on her back shifted, and if Annie wasn’t so perceptive, she wouldn’t have noticed the freeze, before it retreated entirely.
“Did Armin like it?” The question, so unlike Mikasa but reflecting her straightforwardness, caught Annie off guard, and her ears turned warm, something like rare embarrassment in her otherwise numb body spreading.
“What?”
The rag returned, warm again, lowering towards the end of Annie’s aching spine. As if almost soothing her. Annie shivered.
“I…didn’t expect someone like you wanting to know,” Annie then admitted, drifting off, having been forced into a corner, and she exhaled, subconsciously relaxing when the cloth wandered back up between her shoulder blades again.
“What doesn’t make me qualified to want to know?” retorted the cool voice, and Annie visibly dropped her shoulders, somehow more comfortable with Mikasa’s usual stoicism and low tone. She recalled, dryly, the obvious affection Mikasa had for Eren, especially the surge of possessiveness over him when Annie had attempted to take Eren away. It had been a failed attempt, and Annie had naturally received the cold treatment from someone who didn’t want their closest one dead.
“Armin. He…” Annie parted her blank eyes, cocking her head to the side as she glanced at the crackling fire. “didn’t seem to mind.” That was all Annie was capable of giving Mikasa, someone who had intentionally or unintentionally desired a similar outcome like Armin and Annie, back then.
It was silent. Annie exhaled, sobering up, and she turned around, away from Mikasa’s firm touch, to reach for the other cloth in the basin, with the intention of returning the favor, albeit awkwardly.
“Then why did you not stay?” Mikasa held her gaze, something in her old and broken, a gaze in her grey eyes nostalgic, grief trapped behind them like in a cage.
Annie pressed her lips together, not used to this. They both weren’t used to whatever this was. Exposed to each other, physically, as well as emotionally now. Annie could tell Mikasa wasn’t used to this as well, but appeared to crave something akin to normalcy, something they both never had. An outsider could instantly tell.
Silently, Annie squeezed out the water from the cloth, and the corner of her lips curled up against her will, something bitter and dismissive emerging from within.
“I don’t know,” Annie expressed herself, as she slowly reached for Mikasa’s throat, giving her the opportunity to opt out. “At first, someone like him talking to me,” she continued, subconsciously drifting off, as the warm cloth covered the red lines across Mikasa’s throat. “seeing me as a good person,”
Annie avoided Mikasa’s sharp, intent gaze, not wanting to see what reflected back, instead focusing on her collarbones, and how several water drops leaked down her neckline. Annie squeezed the cloth harder. “made me feel more human.”
It had taken everything in her to admit to that, but it felt similar to when she had admitted to everyone that she didn’t want to be prepared to fight them again, that she didn’t want to fight anymore.
But as contradictory as it sounded —
“While I never wanted to fight again,” Annie gritted, lowering her head, her heart speeding up. “I still craved it. After all, I have always been used to fighting.”
Mikasa should understand her abstract method of expressing herself the only way Annie knew how to without shutting down entirely — Armin was good, but not enough. Not for someone as broken and hypocritical as Annie.
Annie, for all her hypocrisy and the need to belong and feel human, hadn’t found Armin’s presence satiating.
She found that soft touches weren’t sufficient, rather she needed to burn under someone’s hands.
Something primal in her, the fight in her, needed to be ignited — the roughness of her breath, the shivering down her spine, the hands curled up into fists; someone needing to be merciless to make her feel human.
Annie glanced up dismissively at Mikasa’s dark eyes, and in some way, she knew Mikasa understood, to some extent.
“Is that why you wanted to fight me,” Mikasa lowered her head, something unexplainable in her facial expression, and when Annie raised her head, she didn’t notice how close they exactly were, staring into each other's contrasting eyes. “Annie?”
Matching breaths, water dripping down Mikasa’s nose and landing on Annie’s burning cheek, and she blinked, eyes widening at what this could mean, what this indicated. However, when Mikasa’s eyes cleared in sudden realization, and then matched Annie’s expression, something in Annie gave up in defeat.
Annie’s trembling hands reached up, clasping at Mikasa’s face, and tugged her down to press her lips against hers, nothing less than hard, before releasing Mikasa.
“…Oh.”
When Annie opened her quivering mouth, upset, after it had taken everything in her to even take such a reflexive approach, Mikasa lowered herself to meet Annie’s blue eyes, cheeks flushed, an expression that indicated inexperience and shyness “Annie,” she breathed, her voice low and barely restrained, as she leaned closer as well, whispering against her lips, “Annie, I don't know how—“
“You…” Annie bit down on her split bottom lip, the pain vivid and making her feel alive. Her ears rang. “It’s like - it’s like fighting.”
For all her shyness and lack of experience, Mikasa wasn’t exactly timid when she initiated the fight next; pressing her lips against the spot where she had split Annie’s lip, she bit down on it hard, making Annie close her eyes, forcing down a pained grunt.
Parting her lips, Mikasa cocked her head to the side, and gave her an open-mouthed kiss, wet and slow, and Annie wasn’t too surprised that she appeared outstanding even in this department.
“Annie,” Mikasa murmured, in between wet and slick kisses, tilting Annie’s head up with her large hand. It was an action that left Annie momentarily speechless, her hand curling against Mikasa’s firm shoulders.
Annie, however, still gave back as much as she received, roughly claiming her lips, parting her own to have Mikasa’s slick tongue enter her hot mouth. Annie wrapped her lips around the tongue and sucked, and sucked. Her own arms wrapped around Mikasa’s toned, strong body.
She felt Mikasa’s hand wander down the side of her body, firm with callouses, carrying years of experience and monstrous strength that had Annie exhaling. “Mikasa…” her lips parted into a soft gasp, releasing Mikasa’s tongue whose cheeks were warm, the light of the fireplace having the other half of Mikasa’s face engulfed in shadows - she looked dangerous, almost.
Annie, she relished in it, and gave back the stare with a cool gaze, tilting her head in a slow manner, slightly out of breath. The logs cracked under the pressure of fire.
The snow outside fell, and the wind proceeded to hit the cabin. The crystals swirled in the air, and hidden behind all the countless dark clouds was the glistening moon, at its full capacity.