a/n: Yes, I'm fully aware of the fact that I'm all but walloping a dead horse at this point, but hey, what better thing to do than be part of the problem? Also, more experimental styles/formatting, because why not.

It begins as a subtle exchange through stolen glances in inopportune places. The cause of their mutual discontention is easy to identify, yet comes slowly by her own admission.

He feels it, too.

One foggy morning she walks down the hall and notices he's following her. She lets him along for a while, then, smirking, turns down a hall and back into an empty room, only needing to wait for him to approach before she taps him on the arm and he gasps, startled.

—Annie! he says, but before he can get in another word she pulls him into the room and shuts the door, pins him against it.

—You're a terrible shadow, she says. He grins.

—I'm not trying to be a good one.

—So you're following me, now? she asks, right to the point.

—Sure, he answers. You did the same thing to me.

She tugs him down, down to the dusty floor and rolls over so she's straddling his chest.

—We'll be missed, he says.

—For a little while, she assents, glad she's wearing something a little more reasonable. His breath comes warm at her clavicle.

—Aren't there guards down the hall?

A pause.

—I can be quiet, she murmurs, and her shirt bunches around her shoulders, half-discarded.

And he knows what she's getting at. His heart skips a beat or two, and he stares at her in disbelief. She merely holds his gaze, waiting. The air smells of mold and dust and her skin.

He's tentative as he kisses the top of her head and his hands come to rest on her back, thumbs at the dip in her waist. She hums, considering him. Allows him to tug down the fabric separating them, touching skin, smooth, unrumpled. A small, furtive noise builds in her throat, extinguished when he leans up, kissing her sternum.

It's nothing new; at least, not wholly. There are parts of this that come easy, natural, others that give them respective pauses.

He's quiet as he touches her. Eerily quiet. She's curving up to meet the air when he tests her with his thumb, and her mind is hazy and her breath is a hiss through gritted teeth and she tells herself: focus, focus.

—Is this all right? he asks suddenly, and his voice is croaky, strained in concentration but laced with interest.

She glances up out of agitation—because she doesn't really have to say it, does she?—but he's watching her, all wide-eyed wonderment with a heady flush spanning the bridge of his nose to his cheeks, the tips of his ears, and his groin barely pressing into her naked hip and fuck, it's too much to think about. She nods stiffly. He dips a finger in, gradually, then two, watching her settle.

—All right, he mutters.

It's an awkward position and his wrist soon cramps but she's rocking slowly enough that he can make do. He crooks his fingers, trying to ease the ache creeping in his muscles, and she grasps his shoulder, watching his free hand slide up her torso, stroking her side. She's soft. He sits back, watching her.

She notes he's rocking a little more urgently. She angles her hips a little differently, huffs in satisfaction.

—Ann? he mumbles, only to have her hand press firmly against his mouth. She shakes her head, eyes dark, steely. Her meaning is clear. He relents, but she doesn't remove her hand until he grabs her wrist, pulls her away. He won't take his eyes off her while she pushes down into his hand, slightly chagrined. She leans in, breath ghosting his temple.

—Don't want to be interrupted again, do you?

—You're the one making all the noise, he grumbles. She smirks.

—And you can be next.

He pauses, half inside her, genuinely unsure whether she's joking or not. She just presses back down onto his fingers, but he keeps his eyes lidded so he can watch her. She kisses his brow.

The rest comes easy. Time does not matter; eventually she curls her fingers in his hair, trembling.

—Close? he mutters, and she can only nod.

And then he's stroking her again, and she clamps a hand over her mouth when he leans back, eyes hooded in concentration. She stifles a huff into the meat of her palm and he's staring at her again like he's waiting for permission and she screws her eyes shut.

—Eren, she rasps.

He slides his fingers out and her hips roll back into his stomach and he can feel her. His hand flies out to grasp her waist and he grinds into that junction, and she stifles another grunt, eyes fluttering, the corner of her mouth parted in the suggestion of a smile, flushed all over. Their eyes meet briefly. She ducks her head. He's drawing circles on her skin in the gaps between their rocking until she freezes, emits a kind of muted, breathless whine, arching as he thrusts up a little more intently and he hesitates, hyperaware—the noise is alien from her throat—only to have her full weight sink down against him, and he draws her close. She shivers, arms wrapped tight around him. Soon enough she raises her head, eyes hooded, panting softly. Her mouth curls.

He jolts when her hand snakes under his shirt.

—Um, he says, and he's suddenly aware of how tight his pants are.

—I wasn't joking, she replies, voice husky.

He looks at her, pale and disheveled, hunched over him like some ethereal being. He thinks of the guards and realises he doesn't care. At least, not enough.

—Have a few minutes? she enquires, and his hand is already splayed over her back. He draws her in gently, feeling anxious.

—I'll trust you, he says quietly, and she smiles against his cheek, hand creeping up to press over his mouth, the other roaming up his chest. Her hips sink squarely onto his and he groans softly, breath hot against her palm.

—Good, she whispers.

A/N: Thoughts? Criticisms? Lay 'em on me; it's all appreciated!