God.

Fucking.

Damn it!

If today had been a good day, then Jean was about ready to up and desert the military. He hadn't even made it through training yet. After a twelve mile hike - throughout which it constantly fucking pissed it down - there was no room in the showers. So he'd waited. Waited for a shower, only to find that there was no hot food left by the time he got back because that bitch-

Okay.

Calm down, Jean. It wasn't Sasha's fault that she thought you were going for an early night. You knew that waiting for a shower instead of eating first and then showering was risky. But you decided to do it anyway. It's your own fault, and you knew what you were getting into.

But seriously-!

"Ugh...!" Jean tossed over in his bed and reached beneath it. The items that he was searching for were placed perfectly within his reach. A flashlight, a sketch-book and a pencil. They were placed there deliberately, because Jean Kirstein could Not Sleep Angry. So what did he do when he found himself too angry to sleep? He vented in the form of art. It was a method not many knew he entertained. And he would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

Flicking on the dim flashlight, he opened the pad and flipped past a few pictures to find a clean page. Smoothing his palm over it for a second, he checked his pencil was sharp enough before adjusting everything so he could begin.

His left hand held the light source and aimed it at the page. His legs, knees together and raised in the air, formed an easel, and his right hand did all the work. The large room was as silent as it usually was. The gentle snoring of someone across the room - he'd never quite been bothered enough to try and place who's - covered the sound of graphite against paper perfectly.

At times like these, Jean never started out with an idea in mind. All he had to do was draw a simple line, and his hand often went onto autopilot, seeming to already know what it wanted to come out on the paper.

This time, Jean could see the construction lines to a face appearing before him. He briefly stopped when they were completed and mused upon who it should be. Who hadn't he drawn yet? He flicked through his sketch book and saw the faces that looked back at him: Mikasa, Mikasa, Armin, Mikasa, Sasha, Marco - his heart always faltered when he looked at the smiling, friendly, freckled face caught in paper - Connie, Christa, Ymir, Marco, Bertholdt, Reiner, Annie, Armin...

His nose wrinkled at who his mind left him with. But it was true. He hadn't drawn Eren yet. With a defeated sigh, his pencil came into contact with the paper once more and he continued. He wasn't happy about having to draw Eren, but he'd never even given him a chance. He had noticed that Eren's eyes were highly expressive. Would he be able to capture that in his art? It was a challenge he was all too eager to rise to.

Jean became very single-minded when he drew. He knew that he was anyway, but he became so focused to the point where he couldn't see the whole picture developing under his hand as he focused on one part at a time. It was just how he drew. He gave himself headaches with the insufficient amount of light, as well as the squinting and concentrating, and generally forgetting to blink.

This single minded spot-concentration was why he was always so surprised when he finished. He finished with the part he was perfecting, then couldn't find another one. That was when he moved the drawing away from his face, blinked a few times, and took a good look.

What he saw quite literally made him shiver. This was not the stoic face on Mikasa. Not the placid Bertholdt, determined Reiner or plotting Connie. Nor was it angelic Christa or saint-like Marco. Not even his smug-looking drawing of Ymir was anything like this. Annie came the closest, with her mildly irritated look. But even she was a mile off.

To put it simply, his version of Eren Jaeger was PISSED. His face was at two-thirds, his sharp focus on something to the right of the viewer. He was glaring at this imaginary thing with the fires of hell burning in his eyes. His lips curled back to show clenched teeth as if he was snarling like an animal. His jaw was squared, hair untidy, as if he'd just dodged a punch.

Why the holy hell did Jean find it so damn hot? It made no sense. Jaeger looked like he was ready to tear someone's throat out, that was not hot.

...oh, but it was.

That was probably the reason Jean liked to fight with him so much. Because as attractive as he was normally, Eren was almost criminally hot when he was angry. His expressive emerald eyes just burned with a rage that the slightly sadistic Kirstein loved to see directed at him. He had all of his angry attention. He was the one to make his face contort in such a beautiful fucking rage.

It was addicting.

And Eren was none the wiser. None of them were. Jean kept his little fantasies to himself. Ones where he'd often end up with his face ground into the dirt with his arms tied crossed behind him. Bearing his ass so willingly for the bastard to just wreck as he assaulted him with lashings of tongue and whip alike.

It was nothing more than physical attraction and lust. It never would be. Jean still hated his guts. But damn it, he wanted him. He wanted to be abused, to be ridden like the horse Eren seemed to think he was. He'd take being tethered and every lash of a riding crop with shameful delight while quite literally chomping at the bit in his mouth, if only Jaeger wouldn't brag.

While he knew exactly what he wanted, he had to keep his dignity. Those displays would be for Eren only and he didn't trust him not to share. That was why he never said anything.

A soft sigh and a weird smile crossed his face as he wondered how he'd gotten from an angry-looking Eren to fantasizing about being treated like an animal. Taking one last look at the drawing, he closed the pad and returned it to under his bed with the pencil, flicking off the flashlight and replacing that, too.

It was early morning now. Perhaps around three. Time to get some sleep. Jean rolled onto his back and found a head silhouetted against the ceiling from the edge of the bunk above him, looking down with emerald eyes that reflected the barely-there light of the room.

He wasn't aware of Eren watching him. He didn't know how long he had been. He didn't ask. Their gazes locked for merely a moment before Jean closed his eyes. He didn't care that he'd been observed. Ask he had done was draw a picture of him looking angry. Eren wasn't in his head, and that was where the important things were kept. Like his little fantasies. Safe from curious souls and prying eyes. Private.

Eren continued to look down at the male even when he closed his eyes. He had to wonder what was running through his mind when managing to make him look so utterly pissed off. Perhaps he was just expressing his own anger with another face because he wasn't comfortable drawing himself. Though that led him to wonder...

Why was Jean so angry? The emotion in the picture was far more than that of a bad day. He could see that from an awkward angle even in the dim light. Perhaps he'd never get answers. Not to that of any other questions. There were so many questions he wanted to ask him... how long had he been drawing? Did he write, too? Why did he hate him so much? And what was up with that excited spark in his eye whenever he yelled at him? So many questions, and he'd never get an answer. Even if he asked. Jean would just brush him off or find an excuse to fight some more.

If only Eren had the balls to show him how he could really win against Jean. He'd grind his face into the dirt and destroy his ass with a rough fuck. He'd beat him senseless and insult him until he cried mercy; to let him cum and end the torment.

But Jean would tell. Eren didn't want to be seen as some kind of monster... So he refrained and kept his mouth shut. They were just fine living the way they are now. Eren would win every fight they had, whether Jean liked it or not.

If only he knew how much Jean loved it.