"Mikasa, can you untwist my backstraps?"
There was a flash in those dark, inky eyes in the moment before they turned upon the pale woman, vanishing instantly once their gazes briefly locked. While there was nothing but a sense of casualness to the light timbre of the stoic blonde's features, Mikasa's ears drank deeply of entirely something else—of an opportunity.
"Yes, sure." Her tone was even and equally casual and she closed the distance between them, pace deceivingly nonchalant. Calloused fingers reached up to grasp the black straps and Annie waited patiently, her hands falling as to not get in the way.
There was little that prepared her, however, for the sudden swathe of heated breath that draped itself across the planes of her neck. The blonde felt every last short hair on her upper body stand up straight as if the quiver of lightning that leaped across her nerves was tangible static across her pores, racing straight down her back where the familiar, angry red scratches of Mikasa's claws had healed only yesterday. Her shiver was pitifully suppressed, expressing itself instead through a hushed, inward gasp.
Heat spread tortourously across her neck as Mikasa's dangerously-near lips lowered their attentions to just above her collar. Thin, pale fingers twitched as it took every muscle in her body to restrain the urge to raise her palms to protect the nape of her neck. She forced a deep breath, swallowing hard, and slid her cerulean eyes catch Mikasa's obsidian orbs from her peripherals. It was only then that she became aware of the tugging of her back straps as they were eased from their twisted position and there was no denying the alien sensation of vulnerability that mercilessly plagued Annie—the kind that only the Yemeni woman behind her had ever been able to inflict.
Those possessive, familiar palms pressed into the small of her back, firm and persistent and irrefutably warm and Annie arched in unconscious obedience of the pressure, shoulders subtly seeking the feel of the rest of Mikasa's heat but not getting near enough to obtain it. The woman—no, Annie corrected, the beast—had straightened so easily from her stooped perch of dominance that the motion had gone unnoticed.
"Done."
Even as the words were uttered and she could no longer capture the woman's eyes, she could feel them boring into her. Even without looking, Annie Leonhardt knew the look in them—could run her fingers through the nearly-tangible sensation of her skin being slowly peeled away, rising goosebumps and all, under those smoky optics. The vulnerability left her flushed.
Mikasa turned away so casually that it nearly irritated Annie. Her fingers rose idly and without thought to caress the heated skin, taking time to slow her own heart rate before cursing minutely under her breath. In the game of hunters, there were reminders and promises. And this. This was both. And as she straightened the rest of her straps, turning slyly away, she promised to return the favor when the opportunity inevitably arose.
Based off of art by tumblr user faun-songs.