The door shut with the soft finality of a coffin lid.
Minato's footsteps receded down the hallway, swallowed by the elevator's mechanical sigh.
Silence flooded back in, thick as honey, sticky with the scent of coffee, sex, and the faint citrus of Minato's cologne.
Mikasa stood in the middle of the living-room rug, black lace panties riding low on her hips. The fabric was little more than a suggestion, sheer enough that every bruise, every fingerprint, every bite bloomed vivid against her skin.
A constellation of Minato's claim: the crescent of teeth on the swell of her left breast, the violet thumbprints on the inside of her thighs, the faint red stripe across her ass where his belt had snapped once in play.
Her nipples were still peaked from the cool air and the memory of Minato's mouth.
A slow trickle of him—of them—glistened on the inside of her thigh, catching the morning light like liquid pearl.
Eren sat at the breakfast table, elbows on the scarred wood, coffee gone cold between his palms. The chair opposite him still bore the faint indent of Minato's weight; the cushion beside it was warm where Mikasa had perched on his lap, thighs spread, feeding him bites of toast while Eren watched.
Every crunch of crust, every soft laugh Minato had drawn from her throat, every time her hips had rolled just enough to make Minato's hand tighten on her waist—Eren had catalogued it all with the precision of a sniper.
Now the room was empty of anyone but them, and the silence pressed against his eardrums like water.
Mikasa turned. Slowly. The movement made the lace shift, revealing the slick shine of fresh come at the apex of her thighs. She didn't wipe it away.
Eren's knuckles went white around the mug.
"You watched," she said. Not an accusation. A fact.
"I couldn't look away." His voice came out gravel-rough. "He fed you strawberries from his fingers. You licked the juice off his thumb like it was the sweetest thing you'd ever tasted."
Mikasa's lips curved—small, knowing, almost tender. "And you sat there the whole time with your cock so hard it must've hurt."
Eren's laugh cracked like a whip. "Don't."
"Don't what?" She stepped closer, bare feet silent on the hardwood. "Don't say it out loud? Don't remind you that you could've stopped it with one word and you didn't?"
Another step. The scent of sex—Minato's come, her arousal, the faint metallic tang of the belt—wrapped around him like smoke.
Eren shoved to his feet. The chair scraped back, toppled. "You want me to say it? Fine." He closed the distance until they were chest to chest, her nipples brushing the thin cotton of his T-shirt. "I sat there and watched him spread you open on our table.
Watched him slide into you while you moaned his name. Watched you come on his cock twice before he even let you finish your fucking coffee."
His hand shot out, fingers circling her wrist—not gentle. "And every second I hated him.Hated myself for letting it turn me on. Hated that I wanted to drag you off his lap and fuck you right there in front of him just to remind you who you belong to."
Mikasa's pulse fluttered under his thumb. "Do I belong to you, Eren?"
The question hung between them, sharp as a blade.
He released her wrist only to fist the hair at her nape, tilting her head back. "You belong to us," he growled. "To this. To the way we burn when we're honest. But right now—" His other hand slid down her body, cupping the heat between her legs.
Two fingers pushed inside without warning, curling, and she gasped, knees buckling. "—right now you're so full of him I can feel it."
Mikasa's hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in. "Then take it back," she whispered.
"Take me back."
Eren's mouth crashed into hers—brutal, devouring. He tasted coffee, strawberries, and the faint salt of Minato's skin where her lips had been. He kissed her until she whimpered, until the only name on her tongue was his.
He spun her, bending her over the table. The same table where Minato had fucked her slow and deep while Eren watched. Plates clattered to the floor; a glass shattered. Neither cared.
Eren shoved his sweatpants down just enough. His cock sprang free, flushed and aching. He didn't ease in. He took—one savage thrust that buried him to the hilt in the slick mess Minato had left behind.
Mikasa cried out, the sound raw and broken, her cheek pressed to the wood.
"Feel that?" he snarled, pulling out only to slam back in.
"That's me inside you. Not him. Me."
"Yes—" The word tore from her throat as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, the table creaking beneath them. "Harder, Eren. Make me forget—"
He did. Each thrust drove the air from her lungs, drove Minato's ghost a little further out. His hand cracked down on her ass—once, twice—watching the flesh bloom red under his palm, overwriting the belt mark with his own.
Mikasa sobbed his name, pushing back to meet every stroke, her body a live wire under his hands.
"Look at me," he demanded.
She twisted her head, eyes glassy with tears and lust. He leaned over her, chest to her back, one hand snaking around to pinch her clit.
"You're mine," he rasped against her ear. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she chanted, voice fracturing. "Only yours—Eren—"
Her orgasm hit like a detonation, walls clamping down so hard he saw stars.
He followed her over, spilling deep with a guttural groan, hips jerking as he emptied himself inside her.
The warmth of his release mixed with Minato's, a filthy, perfect alchemy.
They stayed locked together, trembling. Slowly, Eren's grip softened. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to the nape of her neck, her shoulder, the fresh handprints on her skin.
Mikasa turned in his arms, legs wrapping around his waist as he lifted her. The table was a battlefield of shattered glass and spilled juice; he carried her to the couch instead, sinking down with her straddling his lap.
His cock was still half-hard inside her. Neither moved to separate.
Mikasa cupped his face, thumbs stroking the hollows beneath his eyes. "I saw you," she said quietly. "When he made me come the second time. You weren't just hard—you were shaking. Like you were holding back a scream."
Eren's laugh was watery. "I wanted to kill him. I wanted to thank him. I wanted—" He swallowed. "I wanted to be enough."
"You are." She kissed him slow, soft, a balm to the bruises they'd both inflicted. "You're the one I crawl back to. The one I let see me break. Minato was a game. Pieck was a game. This—" She rolled her hips, clenching around him deliberately. "—this is home."
Eren's hands slid up her back, tangling in her hair. "Next time," he said, voice rough with promise, "I'm the one who feeds you breakfast off my fingers. I'm the one who fucks you on the table while someone else watches. And when they leave, I'll still be the one who carries you to bed."
Mikasa smiled—small, fierce, his. "Deal."
Outside, the city roared to life. Inside, they stayed tangled on the couch, trading lazy kisses and softer confessions, rewriting every mark until the only story left on her skin was theirs.
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