Th. 37:
Grinding

It's his fault that she wakes up in the middle of the night, a mess of sweat and long limbs. The sheets around her are clammy and cold even though they're in the middle of summer. Maka gets up from her bed and swallows, cringing at the pain and dryness in her throat; she heads towards the kitchen, aching for a glass of water, perhaps maybe full of ice cubes. She considers getting a lemonade before being startled by the noise coming from near the fridge.

"Oh," she says.

He turns to her, shirtless – his scar in sight – holding a carton of juice.

"You're here," she says, through gritted teeth. "Why are you here?"

"It's my house too. You're telling me I can't be in my own kitchen?" He drinks directly from the opening, and she sputters madly before hissing at him, get a glass like normal people. "Whatever. Are you still mad at me, or do I have to suck up to you?"

Maya grabs the closest thing in range and throws it at him; in reconsideration it turns out to be not such a bright idea, because she throws him a butter knife and he might get injured or something, which by now would be a plus … but she doesn't want to clean anything. Soul steps back and deflects the knife easily with a throw of a bladed arm, and yells, "Are you mad, that could've—"

"Hit you?" She doesn't sound concerned. "Please, that was more of a figurative throw than anything. You're a deathscythe, for god's sake, you can't go around being hit by girls, Soul!" Maka is screaming now. Ordinarily, she would be the one trying to keep him quiet; but her voice echoes around in the empty apartment. For once, she's glad that Blair doesn't decide to crash in their home, because if she did, then she would've been all over this situation. "You … You ass!"

"Your mom," he replies with a hiss, and then his eyes widen to saucers as Maka picks up any other thing – a plate – and throws, "W-wait, I didn't … It just came out—"

"Nice comeback there, bitch," Maka shrieks, her voice cracking painfully as she struggles with tears because that was such a low blow, she can't even deal with this now. Not when she's painfully horny and frustrated and experiencing post-menstrual crankiness. Not when he's shirtless and delectable in front of her. Not when their relationship is not even half of what she wants it to be.

"Maka," he says, concerned, setting the carton aside with other motives, moving towards her, going as far as to reach out a hand. "What's wrong with us, today?" Maka wants to tell him that it's not just today that they don't work; the gears that are him and her are stuck in perpetual puberty. And it's a cycle: he makes fun of her breasts around friends, and when they are home she leans over the table, innocently picking something, until he excuses himself to go jack off in the bathroom. He does, she punishes, but she isn't sure of why she does it. "Look at me."

"I don't want to," she replies weakly, turning away to move to her safe-house, her room, where his entry is wordlessly-prohibited by expectations. "I'm going to sleep some more. We have classes tomorrow, and unlike you, I don't plan on slacking off." There is a jaded tone to her voice, and she hopes he realizes it. But Soul doesn't, because he still makes to grab at her wrist, his fingers soft against her callused ones; he makes her turn on her heel with a pull, and green meets red.

"Let go." Her voice is taut with concentration as she focuses on the wall, shying away from his eyes, her arm flexing in his hold. Instead of complying, Soul pulls her closer to him and wraps his arms around her waist, leaning his chin on her shoulder. It's ungodly, but she's slightly taller than him, and Maka knows that he's thinking he's uncool. "Soul," she warns, feeling her heart palpitate in a frenzy, feeling her cheeks warm at the contact.

Her skin tingles and the blood in her body is boiling. He doesn't know what he's doing to her, she thinks with panic, and tries to wriggle out of his grasp. It doesn't work; instead he pushes her closer to him, his hands almost on her hips but not quite. She feels herself gasp and her back constricts like the string of a violin; and it's so easy, the way he unwittingly plays her. Soul freezes, then, his fingers tightening around her skin, finding their way under her shirt slowly. He's scared; she's more.

"Ngh," Maka lets out, through firmly gritted teeth, but the sound reaches him anyway because they are too close for it not to. And she throws her head back when he presses his lips chastely against her neck. But the gesture, oh, it's anything but chaste, because his fingers are drawing his name on her stomach, and when his fingernails graze her skin, she falls against him, the shock of pleasure too high for her to properly handle.

Her hands are around his neck – she doesn't know how they got there, to be honest. But she grips his hair and pulls him away, harsh and painful. She expects him to yell and say something like, what the fuck, or expects him to snap out of it. Maka doesn't expect him to groan and press his groin against her own pelvis, but when he does … "Ah!" she half-exclaims, half-moans, when he moves his hips, moving hers too. His hands are cupping her ass, under the pajama pants she has. He does the thing with the fingernails again and Maka pushes forward with excitement and surprise. She bumps into his cock, and almost feels his knees giving out.

They fall to the floor – Soul's over her, his eyes crimson dark and dangerously focused – and he places one leg between her own, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her until she's sitting on him. His back is against the washing machine. She's glad it's not washing anything. His cock is pushing up against her front, and Maka just grabs him by the head and pulls him up, in order to have a proper first kiss, or something.

Neither of them expected to have their first kiss after preforming something of this nature. It's not perfect, but she's too hot and bothered to care whether their teeth bump or whether Soul's mouth tastes like tooth paste. As long as he doesn't stop moving under her, it will be fine; and he doesn't. She can see it in his eyes, that the only time he'll stop is when he comes. And she's going to stain another pajamas because of him, and the washing machine is full already and it feels too good for her to care.

"Was this why – ungh – you didn't want to talk to me," he asks, voice strained as he keeps grinding against her. When she doesn't answer, her cheeks red, he sucks at her jaw, cleanly and effortlessly. He takes care not to leave a mark. "Because you were horny?"

"I was not horny," she replies, like she's been accused of some heinous crime, and gives her own hips a sharp tug so that his eyes roll up and he squeezes hard. "I was affected with something. Unrelated to you," Maka finishes triumphantly, biting at his ear lobe curiously, just to see what kind of reaction she'll get out of him.

Soul practically loses it, pushing his hips up and hers down, and she has to stifle a muffle just so it won't boost his ego. He thrashes about, then, and Maka's certain that she's going to come, or whatever happens at this given time, until his right hand pushes the back of her head and he kisses her with gusto, with a passion she's sure not to find anywhere else in the world. That's her igniter; that's what makes her slump against him, shivering and trembling with the force of her orgasm, and she feels him relax underneath her.

"Unrelated to me," he says, hoarsely, and it makes her arms goosebump, "I'm sure."

It's only after she flees towards the bathroom and locks the door that she realizes that he's never going to let her live this down, and that she lives with him, and now things are all wrong and her pajama pants are all stained.

Shit.

The following week is spent with awkward silences and annoyingly obvious blushes.