Soul's learned two very important things since becoming intimate with his meister.
The first is that once she has past her very gruesome hangups regarding intimacy and trust, Maka is as demanding in her affections as she is on the battlefield. She likes to remind him of who she is - who he is - with a beckoning tilt of her head, offering the pretty, pale length of her throat like a prize, because he is Soul Eater Evans, and he can't help but to mark her with his teeth. And Maka Albarn knows this, knows it well, and hums, so pleased, as she tangles her fingers through the mess he calls hair.
The second thing he's learned is that her competitive nature does not waver when the lights are off. She might play docile for a moment, mewing so contentedly beneath his teeth and tongue, but she is not submissive (unless he asks, of course, but that's another boner for another day) in the slightest as she digs her fingers into his neck, trails them over his shoulders and maps out each bump and rise of his spine.
He's not sure what's more distracting - her skin, warm beneath his lips, or the way she's grinding against his thigh like religion. Both serve as pretty fantastic spank bank material on their own, but together they're startlingly mind melting. He's not sure there's much else in the world but the curve of her neck and the wicked heat smearing between her thighs.
Yeah, okay, her legs win again.
Soul's jaw drops - because he can't keep himself collected, not while she's making those noises, little pants and whines - as he presses his knee more firmly against her. If only she weren't wearing panties. If only she was situated between his legs instead.
Maka moans and rolls her hips forward. "Mmm, Soul."
He can do nothing but muffle a half-curious moan into the thin skin right below her throat. When she whimpers, he feels her voice vibrate through her and kisses the spot, right there between her collarbones.
"Sooooul," she whines, tugging his hair. It takes a great amount of force to unglue himself from her but he does manage, because Maka is Maka and she calls the shots,and he is her ever faithful companion.
Her smile is slow, as is the way she stretches out under him, ribs arching. Coy doesn't suit her, but he's still drawn in at the way she flutters those dusty lashes. He watches with habitual attention at the way one of her hands has begun trailing down his torso. "Soul," she says again, and his cock twitches at her beck and call. Her fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, so close, so very close and yet just shy of where he wants her hands most.
When she doesn't continue to tease, he figures she's waiting for an answer. "Maka?"
That doe-eyed thing she's doing is so distracting. The juxtaposition between the wide-eyed stare she's giving him and the way she fondles his boxer-clad erection is jarring. How, he wonders, is he ever supposed to differentiate between the prim schoolgirl and the handsy vixen he bunks with when she looks at him like that? It's not like it matters. Both get him hard. Both are Maka. He lets himself buck his hips, just a few times, into her capable grip as he drops his forehead to rest on her shoulder. God, Maka could reduce mountains to rubble with her handiwork.
The whole world gets a little fuzzy as she runs her thumb along the head of his dick. He hisses, breathy, and asks her to repeat.
Maka doesn't even get mad. She just smiles that same little smug grin she's learned from him and asks, "Want to play a game?"
Denying her anything right about now is a bad idea. Soul takes to kissing the freckles on her shoulder instead of trusting his tongue to produce anything remotely coherent. This doesn't please her, clearly, as her hand slides to his hip, instead, and Soul groans. "What game," he finally manages.
"First to come loses?"
He retreats. Just enough to look her in the face. "What."
Finally, she has the grace to blush. "Are you scared?" Maka asks, like a brat, with perked nipples and hickies blooming all over her neck and breasts, as if she's completely unaffected by everything. He wants to trace the color in her cheeks with his tongue. Wants to see if a nipple in his mouth makes her sing a different song. "Afraid you might lose?"
"No." Yes. Terrified. "Sex isn't a competition, Maka."
Her fingers slip just past his waistband, just enough to catch his breath in his throat. "You could use your mouth," she says. "Maybe. If you want."
If he has faith in one thing, it's his ability to eat. He licks his lips, all for show, and watches in slow-burning delight as she follows the motion with her eyes. His meister might be reigning queen of his heart, but she's not made of stone. Soul crooks an uneven grin and asks, "What're the terms?"
"Loser does winner's share of chores for a week?"
"Tempting…"
Her fingers have now begun to pet down his happy trail and he is, indeed, very happy. And distracted. God, is it hard to maintain intelligent conversation when her hands are so very near his dick. He wants to shuck his boxers and let her have her wicked way with him, wield him however she sees fit - but maybe that's her whole plan, shit. Tricky meister, reducing him to horribly aroused putty in her hands before the competition has even started.
With no small lack of regret, he plucks her hand from his waist and says, "Easy there, tiger."
Maka purses her lips. "I'll wear that skirt you like."
"I like a lot of your skirts."
"The short one."
"Stiiiill gonna have to be more specific," he says, only grinning more crookedly.
She heaves a heavy sigh. He might be more inclined to be concerned if it didn't rake through her whole body, chest included, and dammit, her whole body is distracting. Tits are tits, no matter the size, and hers will do just fine. Better than just fine - perky flesh that reacts, fits so neatly in the palm in his hand, warm and soft and full of love. He's just human. Mostly human. And he's weak.
"... The one Blair got me," she mumbles, tiny, embarrassed. "You know, the black one-"
"The tight one?" he asks, brows rising to impressive heights. Maka nods and he chews his lower lip. That skirt is his favorite, fuck, with the way it hugs her ass and leaves so very much leg for him to admire. "Just for me?"
She bites her lip. Nods again, blushing more, and smiles a little, bashfully, when he groans out loud and begins scooting down to reacquaint himself with heaven. He gives twin hellos to each of her breasts, a loving peck to her belly button, then her hip, before she grabs him by the hair again.
"Whaaaat," he whines. Her thighs press together, so soft and supple, and he wipes at his mouth with his wrist, thoroughly distracted.
"Scoot," Maka insists. "I need to be able to reach you, too, remember?"
Oh. Right.
… Oh.
He can still do this, whatever. His body feels like it's made of lead, but he can do this. Soul does an awkward roll, taking her along with him, until she's on top. He succumbs to watching her hips sway as she pivots, then crawls down his body like a cat stalking her prey. Which, right - do not think about the fact that his penis is the prey. Do not think about anything else but the smooth, curvy backside propped up before him. Grab her hips, good, good - and he slides the barest of touches along her inner thigh and watches, enamored, as her whole body quivers.
Then she does the same to him, and he realizes that without a doubt, this is going to be a lot harder than he thought.
Oral is his strength. He can eat. He will eat. Soul Eater Evans was put on this green Earth to eat, and eat he shall - and he'll be damned if his know-it-all partner shows him up this time around. He spreads her legs, gives her a hearty tug, and extends his god-given tongue to refamiliarize himself with his meal of choice.
It's not, he thinks, the taste that really gets him. It's definitely the texture. Maka is all soft skin, damp skin, trembling flesh and that swollen, dear bundle of nerves that he enjoys flicking like a button. Everything is lickable. Or kissable. Or, fuck, both, he can do both, and Maka reacts to it all in turn with little gasps and sighs, thighs trembling beneath his palms. And maybe, just maybe, Soul thinks he might have this in the bag.
That is, until Maka's tongue comes into the equation.
He tells himself he is at a disadvantage, working upside down, but knows in the back of his head it's a bullshit excuse. He could eat Maka out with his damn eyes closed. He's done it before. But when Maka slides a thick lick up his length, pausing only to press the fairest of kisses right beneath his head, his blood pounds in his ears and his tongue fumbles around her clit like he's a damn virgin.
Do it for the skirt. For the ass in the skirt. The very same ass in groping distance. Which, ah, is as familiar as it is lovely, and he takes his time sliding one hand up her strong thigh to caress that, instead, and earning him a tender little moan that rumbles all the way through her.
"Come on, Maka," he finds himself murmuring. He kisses just left of her clit, shuddering faintly at the woosh of breath he feels chill his saliva-slicked shaft. "Nnh-"
In response, she takes the head of his dick into her mouth and reduces him to a boneless mess. Stubborn, stubborn Maka - he returns to his mission with renewed vigor in fear that if he takes his mind off the task at hand for even a moment, he will fall under Maka's spell. And how tempting it is. Her mouth is warm, hot, soft - all of those mushy sex adjectives that sound kind of gross in theory but magical in context - but he is more than just his penis, dammit!
He is. He is. Soul grips her thigh, just to find reassurance of an existence outside his dick and her mouth and sheer molten pleasure. Heels pressed deep into the mattress, fingers digging into the yielding flesh of her legs and backside, he suckles, moving a hand to gently part her folds before sinking a finger in, knuckle deep.
She reacts. Hums all around his dick, sucks harder, squeezes his legs, cups him tenderly. Her slow, gradual start kicks into overdrive and there's no physical way for him to be prepared for the sensation. He blinks back stars as his toes curl. But she's too much, and he's a fool for ever thinking otherwise - his bookworm is a damn prodigy, and her tongue slides over him with a meister's touch.
Forget getting her off. It's all he can do to focus on not blowing his everything while she blows him. She must know she's winning, because she sighs his name, all high and breathy, just the way she knows he likes, and fuck, fuck, fuck, the rest of the world has shrunk down to just her mouth.
He reacts too late, stomach flexing, body shaking, and it's all over. And over. And over, really over, christ.
Moments later, after she's made a show of swallowing (and not without a bit of wincing, because he knows that shit tastes gross, but dammit all if it's not hot), she grins cheekily and plops herself down next to him.
Soul stares at the ceiling, defeated, still floating on that post-orgasm high. "So," he grumbles, finally, after she's rolled onto her side and taken to pushing his hair from his eyes. "Chores."
"Don't be a sore loser, Soul," she cooes, all smiles.
"No skirt?"
Perhaps she takes pity on his puppy eyes. Maka kisses his brow, takes his hand and presses it to her stomach, leading down, down, down, and he thinks he likes where this is going very much. "Maybe I'll consider it…" she says slowly, with a bitten lip and full-blown sex eyes, murky greens that draw him in like nothing else. Soul rolls over, tucking himself between her knees neatly, and lets years of piano lessons carry him to his (fucking fantastic) consolation prize.
Sex isn't a competition, anyway. Seeing Maka lose her composure all because of a few smart fingers is enough reward for him.