The first light of morning painted the room in streaks of gold, illuminating the tangled sheets, the discarded uniform, the bite marks on Jean's shoulders. Mikasa lay beside him, her breath still uneven, her legs sticky with the evidence of their night.
Jean traced the scar on her cheek—the one Eren had once kissed—with his thumb. "You're quiet," he murmured.
Mikasa turned her face away, staring at the wall. "People will talk."
He laughed, low and rough. "Let them."
Outside, the rumors were already spreading like wildfire.
By midday, the entire town knew.
At the bakery, women clutched their loaves tighter, whispering behind flour-dusted hands: "Already? Eren's not even cold in his grave."Cadets exchanged smirks: "Kirstein finally got what he wanted. Bet she screamed for him louder than she ever did for Jaeger."Historia, overseeing reconstruction, paused mid-sentence when a scout muttered "slut"* under their breath. Her grip on her pen tightened.
Levi heard it all. He said nothing.
The crowd at Eren's grave was thick with judgmental stares. Mikasa stood rigid in her black dress, the fabric scratching at the fresh hickeys on her neck. Jean, beside her, looked unrepentant, his fingers toying with the hem of her skirt.
"Stop," Mikasa hissed as his hand grazed her ass.
"Scared?" Jean's breath was hot against her ear.
"Not like that. But—"
"But nothing." His teeth nipped her lobe. "They already think the worst. Might as well give them a show."
Around them, Armin's jaw clenched, Connie looked away, and Levi's single visible eye narrowed.
When the crowd dispersed, Mikasa turned to leave—but Jean yanked her back, spinning her to face him.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice was a predator's purr.
"Jean, not here—"
He ripped her dress open, buttons scattering like gunshots across the tombstones. The cold air hit her bare skin, but Jean's mouth was hot as hellfire as he bit down on her nipple, his hands shoving her underwear to her knees.
"You're mine," he growled, pushing her onto Eren's grave. The carved letters of Eren's name dug into her back as Jean mounted her.
Mikasa tried to fight—for a second. Then his cock was inside her, and her moan echoed off the headstones.
Sound: Their skin slapped together, wet and filthy, punctuated by Mikasa's choked sobs and Jean's guttural curses. Sight: Her fingernails carving half-moons into Eren's epitaph as Jean fucked her deeper, harder. Smell: Sex and sweat and the iron tang of blood (from where Mikasa bit Jean's lip). Touch: Jean's hand fisting her hair, forcing her to look at Eren's name while he claimed her from behind.
"Tell me you love me," Jean demanded, pounding into her.
Mikasa shook her head, tears mixing with sweat—until he pinched her clit, and she screamed it.
Ten hours later, dusk painted the graveyard in shades of violet. Jean carried Mikasa home, her limp body draped over his shoulder, her thighs still trembling.
In the bath, she finally spoke, her voice raw: "I felt better. So much better."
Jean stilled. "Better than him?"
Mikasa met his eyes in the steam. "I want you. Every day. You're the only true love."
Neither of them knew if she meant it.