Touch - EreMika

Chapter 2: Guilt

His eyes open wide, and he finds himself staring down at the bridge of her nose, and he doesn't know what possesses him to, but he leans forward once more—only to have her move back completely—

—try to move back completely.

His body quickly acts on its own, hands latching onto her shoulders like a vice, and she jumps at the sudden movement, eyes widening.

Then he holds her still, and he can feel himself shaking—feel a storm beginning to brew within him as he grips her tightly, and perhaps even hard enough to bruise. But if he is, she is not showing any pain, but rather, stunned confusion.

"Why did you do that?" he whispers hoarsely, and it is equal parts a question, a statement, and a warning shot.

Mikasa blinks at him, mouth dropping open...

... mouth shutting, closed.

Silence.

He lets it fill the space between them—lets it fill the seconds that tick by slowly, as he commits to memory the porcelain cheeks that are flushed rose-pink, reading like frazzled naivete and innocence—and the wide, doe-like charcoal blues, that seem to scream I don't know but I know I actually know but I don't know.

How cute.

Yet nothing about this moment or the magnetic pull he feels towards her could be labeled with a word as light as cute . No, not when she was slowly burning him from the inside, making his blood thrum fast beneath his skin, making his heart thud hard against his ribcage, heightening his senses to the sound of her breathing—making him feel like a hunter closing in on his prey.

"Hmm?" he hums in askance, leaning forward so that the tips of their noses brush, and he swears the low note has reverberated between them and touched her, and is responsible for the shudder that he feels creep through her body. He feels her muscles tighten within his grip as he shifts his gaze downwards, eyes affixed to her pretty, pink lips, and he admires how they look as they part once more to breathe his air and attempt to give an answer—admires how they look as they close in defeat.

Silence.

Now she is an immobile statue in his grasp, tense all over, and he wonders if perhaps he is going too far.

'She started it.'

He holds her stunned gaze, sliding his right hand up the firm slope of her shoulder, calloused touch grazing hot, smooth skin, and trailing up the back of her neck, the motion of his hand incredibly languid and cruel. Her eyes droop, and she visibly quivers under his touch, hot breath warming his mouth through shaky exhales as her breathing labours.

He drinks in the sight of her, committing this face to memory, because her dazed, yielding expression and the glimmer of something impure in her grey blues are all his doing.

He sucks in a breath, and nestles his hand in her silk raven locks and presses his forehead to hers, fisting his fingers loosely in her hair. And he closes his eyes. And he relishes the feel of her warm air on his mouth, the way her nose brushes his, and she is so, so close, and it is so, so nice, and he wants more.

So he pulls her in, and he takes more.

And he kisses her.

And then it's like a dam has broken, and there is a sense of finally, for fuck's sake FINALLY, even though he wasn't ever aware that he'd eagerly been awaiting this moment—and that is just the word that colors him and the way his mouth molds to hers, and the way his body reacts to hers: eager.