Nose-in-a-book Maka is not new.
Anything but; more often than not, his meister can be found curled up on their couch with a good book, head drifting off somewhere in the clouds, caught up in tales of knights and wizards and fairies alike. She's susceptible to such daydreams, so easily swayed with literature, like the thirsty little nerd she is, and he is not necessarily surprised to find her in such a dazed, miles-away state, but sometimes Soul likes to try and drag her attention away, like the selfish, needy little porcupine he is.
There is something about the prospect of snatching her attentions away. Exciting, even, because it is such a feat; she is a dirty, dirty bookworm, and sometimes he wonders what stories she must read to get that look in her eye she has right now, tapping her freckled cheek with just one finger. Her nails are bitten and uneven, with chipped baby-pink polish speckling most, but it's still distractingly lovely, and Maka doesn't even notice he's been staring for minutes, now.
He just wants to eat his Lucky Charms in peace and not get caught up wondering what Maka could be reading about. She bites her lip, slips her hand from her face to turn the page, idly twists a dangling pigtail around her skinny finger, and there's no mortal reason for Soul to be aroused in the kitchen at 6:30 AM on a Wednesday, yet here he is. She keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, shifting in her seat, leaning forward and back, and all he can think of is her skirt and where it might be resting on her thighs.
"Maka?"
She doesn't even glance his way. "Hmmm, eat your breakfast, get dressed, brush your hair."
He has done all of these things. Well. Most. Finger-combing his hair for maximum coolness is enough, and he's trying to shovel cereal into his face-hole, but there are annoying meisters looking unreasonably pretty and far away at the breakfast table. Grumbling, he slouches back in his seat, watching her through his purposefully-tousled hair.
"Maka," he says, "you haven't eaten yet."
Unphased, she flips another page. "Not hungry."
"Breakfast, Maka."
A whine, and then, "Just a few more pages, Soul, I'm almost done the chapter."
Soul scowls and shoves himself out of his chair. And as he dumps his soggy cereal down the drain, he wonders what it would be like to hold her attention like that, to distract her so thoroughly. Maka is such a perceptive girl, with bright-eyes and a sharp wit, and there's not much else but a good book that can center her world quite so thoroughly.
Jealousy sort of stings. He makes a face and rinses his bowl to center himself. Being the center of her attention is a lofty goal; unless he's got words for her to stew and sigh over inked across his skin, his bibliophile of a meister won't be spending any time gawking at him, dragging her fingers over every deliberate letter with staggering concentration, tongue pressed between her lips, delightful and pink and-
He exhales and presses a damp palm to his face. His face is practically simmering. Slow down, cool guy. Weapon partner, not romantic partner. There is a difference.
"Are you eating yet?"
"Shhhhhhh."
It would be nice, he thinks, to steal her away like this, though. Convince his seemingly straight-laced partner to skip out on boring obligations like school and homework to instead pay attention to him. Let him have his wicked way with her, or- or let her have her wicked way with him, whichever. His fingers itch just thinking about it, and Soul clears his throat and reaffirms his slouch before turning and leaning back on the counter to watch Maka read.
Her lips are pursed together. Brows drawn. She's so focused, glued to every word, every single comma, and her breath hitches at something or other and it just bothers him further. He would move mountains to have those eyes trained on him and him alone, wide, lash-framed evergreens, prettypretty and dangerous. Too wise for their own good. All-seeing, soul reading, fearless eyes.
She sighs and he pushes a hand through his hair. Cool it. "Maka. Food. Now. Or you're not going to school."
Maka narrows her eyes at him from over the top of her book. "Not hungry."
"You make a stupid face when you lie."
Her lips purse. He thinks about her tongue again, and her mouth, and other bits of Maka he's keenly aware of visually but hs never been introduced to. Her teeth, nearly perfect and straight, blunt just like she is, or- or her neck, as she leans back, pressing her book to her chest. Her shoulders, too, and how smooth they must be, beneath the starch of her ironed blouse.
He's hopeless, really. Maka drums her fingers irritably over the cover of her novel and he's still just standing like a doof, daydreaming about her shoulders. Some sort of hypocrite he is, jeesh.
"I do not!" Christ, she's cute when she's pouting. "And I'm not lying, Soul. I'll just eat later, after we get to school."
"You'd never let me skip out on breakfast."
"You never would," she huffs. "If I let you, your appetite would clean the pantry in a night."
Routine has never tasted so glorious. "I like sweet things, okay, whatever."
"I think you should like your meister a little more and mind your own business," Maka says, so fucking primly, book still pressed to her heart, sitting tall and pristine.
It's wrong, but her attention is directed at him, and it's the clearest he's seen her eyes in days, and, "They don't call me 'Eater' for nothing, you know," just sort of happens.
Blatant innuendo. Right here, over soggy off-brand Fruit Loops and half-finished pulpy orange juice. He wonders, for the briefest of seconds, if he's gone a step too far and crossed a line, and the icy-sting of dread freezes down his spine, wilting back against the counter. Idiot, he thinks, what sort of idiot flirts with his meister without any sort of tact, why doesn't he just ahead and let her know that he'd like to have her babies someday while he's at it-
Maka pinks after a moment, blinking at him. Her book's begun to slip, dragging the neck of that yellow sweatervest of hers, twisting her tie, and he can't stop staring at her, fascinated. She's just a hint off-kilter. That pink coloring her cheeks paints downward, along the graceful curve of her neck, beneath her stiff collar.
Soul clenches the edge of the countertop nervously. She's certainly not appalled, but she's not saying anything, and suddenly her concentration is unnerving. "I- ah. Hm. I mean."
The chair squeaks a bit beneath her as she scoots back. Pale knees press together, and Maka lets her book fall to her lap, instead, bravely, openly exposing her heart. Without her hardcover shield, she's shy, for a moment, biting her lip, but she is also Maka fucking Albarn, and summons her nerve mere seconds after, all meister and nerd rolled into one. "Would that curb your appetite?"
Her thighs look distractingly soft beneath the pages of her book. "Without a doubt."
She shifts. Presses her hands down onto her lap. Shuts her book, blinking at him, as if he is the first she's seen of daylight. Soul swallows thickly.
"... I don't see how that'll solve the issue of my breakfast," she mumbles, and- is she fluttering her lashes at him? Is his meister trying to flirt with him? With- what, nagging? Banter?
Scythe-boy does not compute. She's dragging an index finger over the letters along the cover of her book, tracing the shape of the title gradually, slowly, distractedly. It seems she has other things on her mind, for once - and Soul is caught in her trap, hook, line and sinker. Still, he can't seem to stop watching her fingers work, can't seem to stop thinking about her tracing the his lines, instead, memorizing the shape in that nerdy way of hers.
Flirting. They are flirting, and that damn look she's giving him ignites his veins. He's seen it once before, on Blair, kitty-bum high in the air and swishing as she eyeballed a mouse. Maka is cat, and he is prey.
His legs move on their own. He can't help it - he's Soul, weapon partner, and he is magnetized to his meister's word; her eyes are a soundless call and he is nothing but loyal, it seems, heat burning all the way to his ears as he stumbles forward. He's grunting out, "I think we could work you up an appetite," as Maka's shoving her book aside, for once, and Soul is dropping to his knees before her.
And he lives to serve. Lives to perform for her, and her only, watchful green eyes twinkling and bright as he takes a knee in each hand.
"You're sure?"
He leads only on the dance floor, it seems. Maka parts her legs without preamble, vibrantly pink as she stares him down. There's a hungry glint in her eye, in the way she digs her fingers into the fabric of her skirt.
She is sure. Hell, so is he. Soul glides his hands up her thighs with utmost pleasure, breathing out through his nose; she's so soft here, despite being five-foot-barely-something of muscle and monster-slaying badass. Warm and smooth and- ah, there's a little tremble when he reaches the lace hem of her panties. It sort of makes him want to tremble, too. Certainly makes his heart gallop in his chest like a love-lost loser.
She sighs and cards a hand through his hair.
Soul has half a mind to ask her what the hell she's been reading, because she's wet and he's hardly even touched her, just a few well-placed pets along her inner thighs. Goodness is she wet, and still squirming as he traces the lace of her panties, delicate, thin skin that makes her whimper his name, of all things. Very suddenly, he's the center of her whole world, and it's him she's grasping onto, him she's cooing and sighing over. She looks distant and misty as he hooks his fingers along her panties and begins dragging them down her legs.
Pink. There's so much pink, and cute, and her legs try to squeeze back together but he's wedged himself in the way- Soul tugs her forward by her hips, so warm in his grasp, bare beneath her pleated skirt, until she's on the edge of her seat, knees hooked over his shoulders.
Soul licks his lips deliberately. Looking away from her heat is difficult, but there's still just one more thing, and her eyes miles away, blurry and enamored. "How much do you have left in that chapter?"
She blinks, pupils focusing, lips pressed together. There's such a fluorescent blush burning its way across her nose, along the height of her cheeks, vibrant like watercolors. The brush still strokes further, coloring along her neck, her ears, blurring the specks of her freckles. "A-Ah?"
"Thought you wanted to finish reading," he says, then presses his lips to her thigh. She trembles beneath him, toes curling, fingers tugging his hair. "Maka."
"I don't-" her voice is high, and he can feel ghost feathers fluttering around him, feel the wings of her soul ready to take flight. The anticipation is killing her, and he mouths his way up her leg, kisses the crease of her thigh, even dips his tongue in for a moment, just to watch her quiver. "A few… a few pages, I guess? But, I dooon't-"
She gasps, shoulders back, as he bites her, then. Just a little nibble, just enough to catch her attention. Something purrs in his chest, deeply pleased; he has so much control over her voice, he thinks, grazing her slit with his tongue. So much so that it seems to unglue her, and she tugs his hair again, legs trembling around him, hot beneath his tongue. She's impatient, and still never one to relinquish her control, but there's still something here, something more; he's never wielded his meister before, and this may be as close as he ever gets.
"Better hurry up," he says, very softly. Stares right at her as he does it, lips very nearly pressed to her clit. She seems to waver, for a moment, as he exhales (she's sensitive, so sensitive, and he may never sleep soundly again, not with this sort of wet dream material).
Her breath is so shaky. "I- Soul, I-"
His tongue likes a slow, deliberate circle around her clit. She cannot maintain eye contact.
"Book."
It's a challenge. See if her daydreams and fantasies can outlast his tongue. Her legs are warm around his ears, and she clings to him, distractedly groping for her novel, cracking it open with half-lidded eyes as he finally sucks her clit between his lips. It's a little selfish of him, he thinks, to want to prove himself worthy of encompassing that huge brain of hers. Selfish, but her nails dig into his scalp and he is branded, but she bites her lip and mutters his name as she flips a page regardlessly.
She reads, but her mind is far away. Maka's lashes flutter over her blushing cheeks and she huffs, guiding him closer with a hand in his hair. Her eyes are on the pages but there's a distinct lack of concentration, and it inspires him to experiment with his fingers, too.
Slick doesn't even begin to cover it. Maka is molten gold, neat pigtails draped over those strong shoulders of hers, collar tight over her throat. He wants to taste her there, too, and breathe in the muted fragrance of her perfume. Wants to feel her pulse race beneath his tongue, feel every intake of breath and sigh of relief.
But here is good, too. So good. It's not so much the taste, he thinks, fluttering a too-talented tongue over that delightful bundle of nerves - it's the feel, the sensation, the smoothness of her thighs wrapped around his face. The view, too, of Maka, wilting in her seat, arched almost uncomfortably, so red she might as well be sunburnt, struggling to do anything but whimper his name and shove her hips at his face.
He returns to the task at hand with vigor. His fingers sink into her heat, knuckles deep, and Maka squeaks, of all things, dropping her book to smother a hand over her mouth. Thighs quiver around him, and he slips those two fingers in further, until she's breathing out through her nose and cradling his head in both hands, novel be damned.
So much for the end of the chapter. Bookworm barely made it through a page. His ego inflates exponentially, and it's only when he has his darling meister's full attention does he begin working her into a rhythm, fingers and tongue in tandem.
And for someone who can't dance, she is certainly still bound to his music somehow, someway. His heart is defeating in his ears, and he eases her into the beat, fingers crooking, mouth eager, and she-
Crooning. She is crooning, almost a birdsong, broken open wide, and he may not be a knight or a prince, but she still comes regardless, trembling and yearning.
Satisfied, Soul falls back on his ass and wipes his face with his sleeve. Kneeling for so long makes his knees sore, and listen, if he's seventeen-going-on-ancient, at least he has successfully rocked his partner's world. He grins at her, lips damp, face flushed, as she practically melts off of the kitchen chair, clambering to the floor.
"Hungry?" Soul asks cheekily.
Her legs might still be made of putty, but her hands are on his belt in seconds flat. She stares at him through her bangs and murmurs, "You have no idea."
"I- Oooh, that's… Uh, that's- whAT HAVE YOU BEEN READING, ANYWAY."
No one girl has any godly right looking that cute with a cock in her hand. But Maka's never had any trouble defying logic before, and- yyyyeesh, he supposes it is not strange for her to be apt at handling his shaft. Like some sort of twisted cosmic rules of the World; she who twirls his scythe must also jerk with disturbing handiness.
"Why," she starts, breathlessly, "been thinking about starting a reading list, Soul?"
Only if she will be his entire book club. Only if it means he will get to be with her like this, on the kitchen floor, Maka's bare ass pale and glowing in the fluorescent lighting as she bends over and wetly takes him into her mouth.
He wonders, laying on the cold, yellow tile, if perhaps he has it in him to be Maka's daydream, because fuck. He can't even keep up with the witty banter, never mind the fact that she's decided it's prime time to go down on him.
And it's not even 7:00 yet.