"What's it like, seeing souls?"

The television sprays flashes of light along her profile. Her eyelashes cast little shadows, flutters of cotton-soft length over her cheeks as she shifts her gaze, blinking at him curiously. Surely she's confused as to how he's come to such a question, considering their setting - movie night has never brought the topic up before, never in their seven years of partnership, and he sits back and stuffs his hand back into the bowl of popcorn before he has the chance to keep asking weird, personal questions.

He can feel her gaze on him, as inquisitive as he's nervous, as she slides her legs down, chin no longer resting on her knees. "... Huh?"

Soul contemplates stuffing popcorn into his face until his mouth is full and incapable of running rampant. Instead, he licks the grease from his butter-stained fingers and watches Maka's nose bunch up in his peripheral vision. Humming, he nods and stares pointedly at the TV and hopes that Star Wars will be a convincing enough distraction from the brightness of Maka Albarn's ever perceptive eyes.

He blames the sudden shyness on her eyes. She can read him like a book. They're too bright, too nosy, and curiosity might've killed their cat but it's yet to serve Maka the same fate.

It's unnerving, soul searching, and if she was anyone else he would pull the plug and say the hell with partnership. But she's Maka and he loves her, so he can't, instead finally working up the nerve to look back at her. Her eyes sink to his chest, surely peeking at the glow of light that must emanate from him.

He hopes whatever she sees is good. It must be, if she hasn't kicked him out of the apartment yet, if she continues to slink into his bed after eight o'clock and let him warm his toes on the backs of her calves.

Before long, glowing green is focusing back on his face and he breathes out. She smiles, spouting a textbook definition of, "It's a method that was used for tracking down witches and assessing the situation," like the nerd she is, completely missing the point. "I know you didn't sleep through all of Soul Theory, Soul."

He rolls his eyes and flicks kernels at her. "Thanks, brainiac."

"Well!" She balks adorably, crossing her arms over her chest. "You asked!"

"No," he says slowly. "I asked you what it was like, not what it was used for. It's different."

"It feels like witch hunting. Like old missions."

"Staring at my chest and staring at my soul feels like work?"

She flusters so easily, face draining of all color but the pink that blooms along her nose, her cheeks, down her neck. Soul follows the splay of her blush down and briefly contemplates trying to toss leftover popcorn kernels down her shirt. With her arms crossed like that, she's pressed her chest tight and gives what little cleavage she has an extra boost.

Maka clears her throat and glows pinker. He smiles sheepishly. "Would you believe I was staring at your soul?"

"Cute," she huffs, shifting and tucking her knees beneath her as she faces him. "No."

"Worth a shot."

"No," she says again, shaking her head. "You wouldn't be asking about it if you knew what it was like. I've never really thought about how to explain it before. It's hard."

He nods sluggishly, watching the flashes of color wash the rosiness from her face in shades of blue and green, bright red and blinding white. Half of her face is illuminated and the other remains shrouded in darkness.

Maka picks at the empty popcorn bowl listlessly, arranging buttery kernels as she purses her lips, collecting her thoughts. He doesn't rush her. Instead, he lets his gaze sink further down and watches her work, admiring pale, calloused fingers and bony wrists.

"... It's easier than it used to be," she admits quietly. Soul reaches for the remote and turns down the movie. Maka laughs quietly. "I mean… I used to have to close my eyes before I could really see anything, you know? I had to center myself and focus. It's really just a heightened sense of sight, I guess? Maybe like finally getting a new pair of glasses after needing them for months."

He thinks of lessons with Professor Stein, London Bridge and sensing Free, Italy and Crona. Soul finds himself grunting in affirmation, watching her aimlessly drop a handful of kernels into the plastic bowl like a waterfall. The steady tinktinktink levels him, as rhythm often does, and he stares as she shifts and moves the empty bowl off of the couch and frees up space between them.

And not for the first time he's jealous of her ability - because he wants to be able to see her very being in the same way she can see his. She can read him, soul deep, and while he's privy to her innermost demons and thoughts while they're resonating, he doesn't get to see what her soul looks like. He doesn't get to see what his soul looks like. It's a special privilege that only she and select few meisters have. It's natural, he thinks, to be jealous of such a feat.

He wonders if her soul looks as beautiful as it sounds. As it feels, even, fluttering against his own, blanketing him with Maka's special brand of clarity.

"... Is it hard?"

She hums in thought, sliding her hands down the pale length of her bare thighs. "No, but it was when I first started. Like every other ability, it requires practice."

Soul's half tempted to stretch out and encase her in his grasp, to pull her closer and beg her to teach him, to show him what it's like and maybe tell him what his soul looks like but decides against it. Instead, he wets his lips and smiles warmly as Maka stares at his mouth. "Does it hurt?"

"Huh?" she asks blearily.

"Soul perception," he says. She snaps to attention. "Does it hurt?"

"Oh. No. It just takes some getting used to. It's… jarring, I guess? And as it expands, it just takes a lot of practice to get used to the sensation of seeing more and more souls at once," she says, then smiles softly and reaches over to take his hands into hers. Her hands aren't obtrusively soft, hardened from years of wielding his weapon form, but she handles him with such tender heart that he's fooled.

Soul brushes his fingers along her pale palms and strokes his way up her fingers, feather-light strokes along old callouses and scars. By now, he's long since memorized each knick and scrape, every faint scar that freckles her skin. Her hands are home, after all, and Soul has no qualms relaxing beneath her touch, linking his fingers in the spaces between hers and breathing easy. She's part warrior, part nerd, and full time partner and there's nobody he trusts more.

Maka purses her lips and sets her gaze on him. The heat brewing in those green eyes of hers isn't lost on him. He shuffles, suddenly eager.

"... I could show you?" she offers quietly.

The scene changes on screen and the room goes dark. In the dulled light, he can still see her part her lips, can still feel her squeezing his hand.

"You could show me what a soul looks like?"

Light flickers and blue-toned Maka furrows her brows. "No, but I could… show you what it's like?" she asks. Her skin is warm against his and she raises their clenched palms, brings their locked hands close to her chest and lets him feel her heartbeat. "Do you trust me?"

Without missing a beat, he nods.

Sex with Maka has always been intense.

Maybe not in the slamming headboard and mattress-breaking kind of way, but definitely of the soul searching and toe curling variety. There's something about being intimate with someone who knows him so deeply that really gets him going - the connection they share reigns true even between the sheets and her body is just as beautiful as her soul is. They fit together like pieces to a puzzle, her long legs and his slim hips, his gangly arms and her not-so-fat ankles.

She's Maka, after all. She's the same girl that held him together while he bled out on the church floor in Italy. She's his first (real) kiss, his sexual awakening, his better half, and the girl he kind of really wants to marry someday. Of course sex with her is a profound experience; he's Soul and he's making love to his meister.

But even then, it's never been quite like this.

Relinquishing control is not something he's ever been very good at. So much of his energy goes into keeping a lid on things or maintaining his careful, cool facade. He likes being in charge of his own body, likes making sure his thoughts are still his own and his actions aren't influenced by any outside parties. But Maka's always had a special way of easing his boundaries and barriers without being overbearing and after years of allowing her to call the shots and quite literally wield him, he knows without a doubt that there's no one else he would ever let tie him to a bedframe.

Just Maka.

The familiarity of the fabric of her tie around his wrists almost sends him into visceral flashbacks of their many misplaced ironing boards, but Maka settles her weight on his waist and suddenly it's hard to think about anything else but her. He makes out a smile, tiny and warm and just for him, as she leans over him, second tie in hand and mumbles, "Still okay?"

He blinks and stares at her. He's shirtless but she's not and he would really like to rectify that.

Pulling at his (loosely-tied, actually) restraints proves no good. Maka sits back, sucking her lower lip between her teeth. "No good?"

"Not that," he grunts. "Just… you're still wearing a shirt."

She crooks her head, blonde hair sliding over her shoulders. Her smile is back but it's not nearly as pure in nature; there's a twinkle of mischievousness in her heady gaze and Soul wiggles his toes in anticipation.

"I'm blindfolding you," she teases. "Does it really matter what I'm wearing?"

Soul feels himself nearly go cross eyed as Maka reaches down and pulls her thin sleep shirt over her head. She peels her shirt off like she's unwrapping a gift and it's just so cute and endearing and he's so boned, pathetically so.

His mouth droops open. She giggles, leans over to press a quick kiss to his nose and sits straight again, and Soul's last few seconds of sight are blissfully tit-filled before there's a tie around his eyes and everything is black. With his hands tied and his eyes covered, he can definitely tell how doing this with anyone else would be mildly horrifying. He's in her hands now.

Maka shifts her weight and he bites back a groan.

Her very capable hands.

"Still okay?" she mutters and waits until after he's nodded to slide her fingertips down to his collarbone. She taps an erratic beat and his fingers curl around the rung of the headboard he's tied to. "Focus on the sound of my voice."

As if he can do anything else. Sight and touch have been taken away - all he has is the sensation of her fingers tracing his clavicle and the breathy, blood-burning way she sighs his name. Focusing on anything but her and the way she's touching him would be more difficult. Maka leaves trails of heat in her wake, fingers burning, leaving her mark as she brands him with her nails. She doesn't outright scratch him, but drags her hands along his shoulders, down his chest. All little things that she knows he likes.

Little things that she knows get him going. He swallows thickly and presses his head back into the pillows.

"... 's isn't showing me soul perception…" he says, voice rough in his haze.

Maka thumbs the raised, stitched flesh of his scar languidly, humming a, "Nooo," followed by a quiet, sly, "but I'm giving you an example of what it feels like in the only way I can."

"I can't see anything."

Her fingers begin to trace his scar slowly, slowly, like she has all the time in the world. He's going to go mad. There's no way to know what she's going to do next - he's aroused, panting putty beneath her palms and she milks it for all it's worth, mumbling his name purposefully when he writhes and pulls at his restraints.

"Do you feel it?" she asks, pressing her palm against the center of his chest and spreading her fingers. His heart is about to leap out of his chest as she shifts her weight, warm and secure over his hips. "My soul? Block everything else out but me."

He sure feels something, though he's quite sure the damp heat he sliding against his navel isn't her soul. His eyelids flutter behind the tie as he replays the moments before his sight was locked off, remembering Maka's state of dress - definitely a skirt, and that's one less direct layer of clothing that he has to obsess over. The immediate knowledge that yes, his meister-come-girlfriend is just as turned on as he is only serves to get him hotter and the boner is almost painful, straining against his sweats.

"Soul?"

He's breathing heavy. His fingers flex and grip the tie harder and he wonders, briefly, how she's posed on him, how her hair looks falling over her shoulders, if she's blushing as vibrantly as he thinks she is.

"I- a-ah, fuck," he curses.

"Yours is right here," she cooes, lifting her palm so that she's just fingertips again, shifting her hand in lazy circles. Maka strokes the center of his chest, caressing and rubbing and god, the way she touches him so reverently is enough to drive him mad, never mind the word play. "Do you want to know what it looks like?"

The moan that rips through him doesn't deter her. He trembles, body actually shaking, as she pets his scar, dipping down to kiss his pulse, his collarbone, his heart. Her hair tickles his ribs as she slides away, feathery and light as she sits again, leaning back and settling over his dick.

"It's strong," she starts heatedly. He whines in the back of his throat and wishes she would move, wishes he could see what she sees. "It's blue. And it's lazy, and cynical, but it's also loyal and protective. It's a little rough around the edges, but it burns brighter than anything I've ever seen."

"You're lying," he pants. "It's not that special."

Maka leans, pressing harder on his abdomen and then she's a breath away, hair curtaining around his cheeks. "You're the most special person in the world to me."

"Maka."

"You have a trustworthy soul," she whispers, as if she's suddenly shy, but her lips are so close he can taste almost taste her. Stirring, he struggles harder, focuses on the heat glowing from her face and how he can feel her blush, the way her nose keeps bumping his as she breathes, the smell of her shampoo and Maka's mouth, Maka's tongue.

"A-ah," he splutters.

He feels her giggle more than he hears it, but the flutter of her wavelength lets him know that even through her nervous, careful worries (because she's wanted to push him too far, never wanted to make him so uncomfortable that he would feel hurt or want to stop) she's excited. And her excitement is more than contagious; it's infectious, and she slides a hand up his neck to comb through his hair. She tangles her fingers in his mop of white hair and holds him secure, keeps him still as she kisses his lower lip gently, killing him slowly.

And he wants so much more that it's blinding. More so than his makeshift veil. Maka moves with purpose, gracing him with little kisses and nibbles of his lip but never giving enough, always leaving him struggling and begging for more. Which, he's come to quickly find out, as he groans and pleads her name, he's not above doing. Anything for relief, anything for release of the fire that threatens to burn through his chest.

He wants her. He wants to see her soul too, wings and all, to gaze upon her bravery and honesty and stubborn willpower and burn it into his memory. Because he knows her soul, sure, but he's only felt and never seen it. How can he know something so intimately that he's never seen? How can any part of her still be shrouded in mystery?

Maka licks her way along his jaw and he bucks beneath her, hips yearning. She slides against him, settling and molding her chest to his. Her skin is hot and sticky against his bare, chest, breasts soft as they press against him. And finally - finally - she rolls her hips against him

"M-Maka," Soul grounds out, three parts astonished and two parts thankful. It's never been quite like this. She's bold, yes, but she's never crawled her way on top of him quite like this before, never held him down as she rocked against him, muffling her little sighs and moans against his lip as she uses him to get off. "Maka."

"Is - is it bad?" she squeaks, pressing her cheek to his.

He presses back against the mattress and tries desperately to shimmy his sweats down without the use of his hands. It doesn't even matter if he's inside of her or not - he just needs to feel her heat against him, needs some kind of release because if she's going to hump him into oblivion he doesn't want to still be wearing his pants. Soul quakes, lips parting, free from her teeth and tongue as he whimpers, "I want to see your soul."

Maka's hand slips down his form and she grips him at last, helping him from his pesky waistband and her fingers have never felt better. Hands that have wielded him a thousand times hold him securely. He feels hot and heavy, weighed down by her ties around his wrists and her heady panting, hot against his neck.

She kisses her way along his jack and rests, just behind his ear. The hand in his hair tightens, tangling and tugging and fuck, she's a little too good at handling him.

"Ahh," Maka gasps, rolling her thumb over the tip of him, feeling and touching and fondling. "Can I, um… can I put it in?"

Soul feels himself twitch in her grasp. He quakes, barely managing out a, "Yes," before he's tacking on, "But take the blindfold off," because if she's going to mount him and ride him for all she's worth he wants to see it happen. Maka sinking down on top of him, taking him in and letting her head loll back as she moans and works her hips over him - it's what dreams are made of, wet or otherwise.

She releases her grip on his hair and tugs the knot until the tie is slipping down his nose and he's got one eye free, blinking rapidly as his cloudy vision refocuses. Her blush stretches down her neck and warms the swell of her pale breasts. Even though he's seen her in hundreds of different stages of undress, it's hot as hell every time, especially as she's struggling out of her pleated skirt and dragging her damp pantes down her legs.

He's not even ashamed as he stares at the length of her legs, the pinkness between her thighs, cute, neat blonde curls. Soul drinks in the sight of her greedily. The fact remains that he hadn't asked for use of his hands and only his eyes, and if that's not a little kinky and maybe submissive, he doesn't know what is; but he can't bring himself to care, because even as he squirms and struggles and tugs, Maka still complies with what he wants. When his hips jerk and he stares at the pretty, slender flare of her hips, she presses her hands down on his abdomen, shifts and lines him up where her legs meet.

Her wetness is overwhelmingly silky and he might just die from the sensation of rubbing on her alone. He watches as he rolls his hips, unabashed, and Maka bites her lip and grips his waist, moving with his motions. She falls into time with him easily, letting him buck and stroke his dick along her center.

Maka's dusty brows furrow as she leads a hand to is groin to still him, and then she's moving down, down and everything is hot and right and yes, please, yes, but he clenches his toes and glues himself to the bed. It's her pace, after all, and his will is more powerful than any uniform-grade tie anyway; watching her work her way down until she's full to the brim and her eyelashes are fluttering is more rewarding than any quick fuck anyway.

His voice cracks as he asks, "you okay?"

She blinks back the haze and looks at him, green eyes scalding and he feels his toes curl in anticipation. That look never fails to get him hot. The hardness in her gaze, the steel power in her eyes - she's his meister, in charge, and he's nothing but her willing weapon, ready to please.

"Yes," she mumbles, petting along the thin, soft line of hair that leads to his groin. "Are you?"

Soul wets his lips. "Yes."

"Did you want your hands…?"

The soreness in his wrists barely registers. "Nah."

Something sparks in her eye and he finds that he likes it a lot. He likes that flash of danger, the clear implication that she enjoys being in control and calling the shots.

And when she moves, she takes a part of him with her. He might never see her soul but it's okay, he thinks, as long as he can still feel her so deeply, can still hear the tinkling of notes that come with her. The dance is stimulating, the way she rises and falls, soul singing so clearly and joyously as he digs his feet into the mattress and meets her, thrust for thrust. He doesn't need his hands to hold her because she's already entwined so tightly with the core part of him - they're partners through and through, be it on the battlefield or between the sheets.

But not having use of his hands is also a little hot too.

Or a lot hot. Like he's probably way more into being tied down and ridden than he's ever anticipated, but it's Maka, so he doesn't dwell too long on the implications and instead works with what he does have, legs and hips and the hardness Maka continues to work herself off on.

She's too much. She's emblazed upon him, hands gripping his hips as she sucks her lower lip between her teeth and works and works and works and god, he's going to finish any minute and there's nothing more he can do than gasp her name and beg and stutter for her to touch herself, please, she needs to come too.

And she does, one hand slipping from his hip to play with herself, right where she needs it most. Soul watches her, gasping and faint, dusty lashes fluttering as she tips her head back and it's downright impossible for him to last when she's so mesmerizing. He comes with a muffled swear, crooning lowly as his hips rock erratically, minutely embarrassed that he's gone and finished before she's had the chance.

But before he has a chance to really stress over it, Maka's flushing prettily and gasping his name. Her blush is vibrant, a warm red that glows over pale cheeks and down the length of her neck but he finds himself staring at her mouth instead, pink lips that part and purse and sigh as she comes down from the stratosphere.

"... I bet your soul's really something," he finds himself muttering aloud, moments later when he's caught his breath. Maka perks, surprised, and flashes her glance at him. "It feels like something extraordinary."

She smiles, close lipped and humble. "It's small."

"Size doesn't matter. You know that."

"It's not particularly impressive."

"Sure thing, Angel," he chimes cheekily, and Maka stops herself from leaning over to smooth his sweaty bangs from his face to instead pinch his cheek. "Ow, hey-! What was that for?"

"For being smart!" she says, huffy, but she's still blushing vibrantly and she's always been terrible at hiding her emotions; it's her eyes, he thinks, as she peeks at him, pouting over her shoulder before climbing off of him. Big green eyes, wide and expressive as they betray every giggly, sugary-sweet feeling she has for him. It's too much, and he forces himself to focus on how sore his arms are so he doesn't end up crushing her to him when she finally unties him.

They shuffle about in bed, Soul rubbing his arms and whining about having to move and Maka rolling her eyes and tugging a pair of boxers over his slim hips. Neither of them pretend that what just went down didn't happen, though they also don't push the subject; Soul suspects she's trying to mind his boundaries, maybe thinks that he might not be open to discussing his alignment on the submissive scale, but she still sends him a tender little smile that makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. Because apparently he's still fourteen inside and Maka's cooties are as exciting as they are contagious, and boy, is he lovesick.

It's when they're laying back-to-front, Maka spooning him comfortably, that he mumbles, "You're special, too."

He can feel her blinking sleepily against the back of his neck, lashes tickling his sensitive skin. He sucks in a breath and stares at the blinking red digits of the alarm clock.

"... Huh?"

"You said I was your special person," he says quietly. She hums in response. "You're mine, too. Uh. Obviously."

Her hands tuck around his waist and drag him back, closer, so that there's no space between them and she can link a foot over one of his shins.

Maka kisses the back of his neck lightly. She lets her lips rest there for seconds too long and heat flickers giddily in his stomach, even though they've been dating for years and partners for even longer. It's when she's circling a finger drowsily around his navel that she mumbles, "I said you're my most special person," and that silly, fluttering heat in his tummy becomes full out butterflies.

He rubs the heel of his foot over her toes and presses a smile into the pillow. "Then that's what I meant, too."