Soul Evans considered himself to be a relatively lucky person. Relationship with his family notwithstanding, he had little to complain about. He had amazing friends, he was the Last Death Scythe, and, to his great pleasure, he had himself an amazing girlfriend.
A girlfriend that was presently sprawled beneath him, her hand buried deep in his pants, whispering absolutely filthy things to him.
Could life get any better than this?
They had been together for several months, and while this particular activity was nothing new to him, it never stopped feeling fresh and exciting. They hadn't managed sex yet. Much to his surprise, for all his pining and wanting and waiting for her, for all the dreams his 19 year old brain conjured up, for every depraved, perverted thought that crossed his mind when he would stare at her crossed legs when she sat on the couch, he had discovered that *he* wasn't ready.
It was an unexpected feeling, to be so close to her all the time, to finally have the right to kiss her when he felt like it (and he indulged in such every chance he got), to enjoy the absolutely sinful pleasure of his fingers sinking into her wet heat, and her lips wrapped around his hardened shaft, and to acknowledge that he still wasn't ready to move on to the next logical step.
He was nineteen years old for Death's sake. What the hell was he waiting for? It wasn't like he hadn't been given the green light. Maka dropped hints. Well, what *she* thought were hints. Leaving books about sex out on the coffee table seemed ingenious to her, but it was quite ineffective. They talked about sex in a general sense. But, he made no move to further progress the sexual nature of their relationship, and she did not press him.
That was why he loved her.
What she was doing to him right now certainly didn't hurt, either.
Early on in their relationship, Soul discovered that he rather liked it when she treated him as an object. He was her sexual toy to tease and torture as she saw fit. Initially he had felt ashamed of himself, but he had learned that such a kink wasn't at all unusual. One would think that he would compare it to the way she wielded him in battle, but it wasn't the same at all. True, he transformed when she called for him, and she wielded him in her strong, tiny hands, but that was a partnership.
They discussed their plan of attack, they worked hard to save each other, and while it would appear she had the edge as the meister, it always came down to the fact that it was the weapon's job to protect their technician. He was always able to tell her no if he so chose to. He could argue with her decisions until they found balance. He could even deny her use of his weapon form if he really wanted to. But this little kink he had was entirely different. Even though he was on top of her, she controlled him effortlessly, and even if it had occurred to his barely-beyond-adolescent brain to tell her no, he wouldn't have.
He knew she enjoyed this particular position because it made her feel safe, and small, and protected, and powerful. She reveled in their size difference. There was something undeniably attractive about being pinned beneath a member of the opposite sex, particularly the snowy haired man above her.
The last few years had done wonders for him in terms of physical maturity. He stood just over six feet in height, and his perpetual slouch had straightened out a bit, giving him a truer appearance of being indifferent than what he had been going for at fourteen. He still looked like he didn't give a shit (and he usually didn't), but somehow it was better, almost haughty. All his years of training with Maka had left him well toned and muscular without being overdone (Black*Star preferred to tell him he still looked like a scrawny weakling, and it was no wonder he wasn't a God). He was lithe and lean, and clearly his partner appreciated that.
"Soooul," Maka purred at him, her right hand dragging in firm, languid strokes along his hard length while the left stroked through soft strands of his hair.
"Haaah?" was all the more the white haired man could manage. He had her caged between his arms as he partially propped himself up on his elbows, and his back arched as his hips flexed back and forth against her small hand. He panted quietly against her ear and then rumbled deep in his chest as she squeezed him lightly.
Her head tilted up slightly to suckle at his pulse point, and he rumbled again. He couldn't help himself. He wished he could scold her for such an action, as he knew she just liked the noise. But goddamn if he didn't love it.
Her breath ghosted across his jaw line as she whispered to him, "Are you going to come for me, Soul? Are you going to come for me like a good boy?" and she gently twisted her hand around the base of his cock before pulling up and stroking down again.
His breath hitched and he moaned loudly against her neck, hips pitching forward in short jerks.
"That's not an answer, Soul," she taunted him. The fingers stroking his hair curled against his scalp, and she gave him a firm tug. She was rewarded with a soft yelp and an even softer reply.
"I want to," he rasped hoarsely at her. "I really want to."
Her hand dropped from his hair and she put a finger under his chin, tipping his head up so blazing red orbs could meet hazy green.
"So why don't you let go for your meister?" she smirked at him, deft fingers swirling around the head of his dick and wetting themselves with his undeniable arousal. "Be a good boy, Soul."
He shivered and snorted heavily through his nose, sanguine eyes slipping closed. He couldn't deny her what she wanted. What he wanted. He thrust himself into her hand rhythmically, sharp teeth grinding as he stretched himself out and leaned over her. His hips flexed and his spine curled, and he whimpered pathetically as he felt her squeeze him tighter.
Maka's free hand slipped back into alabaster locks and she pulled roughly, ignoring his startled yelp and the faltering of his rhythm.
"Look at your meister, Soul," she growled at him.
His head was tipped back, lips parted, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and all he could do was offer a loud moan.
"If you don't look at me," she hissed at him, "I will stop."
His eyes flew open and he stared at her intently. A shiver ran from the base of his spine up through the nape of his neck and he pushed himself back a bit, his hands dragging down his bedspread to rest near his knees. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, to watch her as her lips curled into a wicked smile and he jackhammered into her soft palm.
"Come on Soul," she cooed. "You're such a good boy. Such a very, very good boy, and an even better weapon. Be a good weapon and come for me."
And he did. He couldn't help himself. With a few more short thrusts and a loud grunt, he felt himself pulse against her hand. His body quaked and shuddered as he felt the warm wetness press against his skin, the fabric of his pants, and the silkiness of her hand.
He rocked back to rest on his knees and allowed his eyes to slip closed again, breathing heavily through his nose, lips sealed tightly closed. His arms hung limply at his sides, finger tips idly twitching against the smooth skin of Maka's thighs as he tried to settle his racing heart. He was dizzy, and tired, and sated for the time being.
"Feel better, great Death Scythe?" Maka questioned smugly.
A delirious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, even though his eyes remained closed and he swayed lightly in a post orgasmic haze.
"Yes, my meister," he replied serenely. "Thank you."