Sensation trickled back into her brain in pieces—first the thick ache of bruises along her leg, then the static feeling of her arm trapped under her, and the weight of a body sprawled on her back, pinning her down. The heat hit last, a wave washing over her from head to toe, sparking hot wherever they touched. She could barely breathe with it, all too aware of the sweat where his chest pressed against her back. If she hadn't known exactly who it was lying with her, she would've been flying to her feet and possibly killing someone. But with his breath heavy and peaceful in her ear, she couldn't work up the strength to move at all.
The corduroy of the couch was biting velvet lines into the side of her mouth and she regretted every decision she'd ever made to lead to this. Decisions like going out drinking after a mission that had drained them both, and staggering back to the apartment at 4am and collapsing in a heap on the sofa, unable to make it to their separate rooms. Maka took a deep breath and held it in until her lungs started to burn. She could feel him shift above her when she exhaled, and she lay there motionless for a long moment, letting the reality of the situation soak in.
Soul was a furnace and she was burning. He was solid against her back and the heat felt like hands, stroking down her skin over and over again. Her t-shirt was plastered to her, the button on her jeans digging into the give of her stomach, and she stretched slowly, stiffly, trying to work out the kinks in her muscles without disturbing Soul. The stretch was a mistake—the pull of her body felt weirdly good, shaking through her and settling in the pit of her stomach, and she wanted to move more, to either roll away from the heat of Soul completely, or squirm into him more firmly, rub all over the couch until she could feel the indent of its fabric buzz hot against her skin.
The bony points of his hips pressed harder into her ass for a second before they were dragging sideways, his whole body ticking over an inch, disturbed by her movement and trying to get comfortable again. Somehow she hadn't noticed it earlier, a point of contact melting in with all the others, but one of his hands was at her side, his fingers tucked in against her bare skin where her shirt had ridden up, and she could feel those fingers bite into her for a second to steady her automatically as he moved. Maka felt like she was going to evaporate into the heat. If he shifted up just a little bit, she knew she would be able to feel the soft push of his dick, and just thinking about it made something clench sick and dizzy in her gut. Half of her was primed for flight, legs tense enough for the bruises to pull at her skin, and the other half wanted a fight, wanted to rub and grapple and move with someone until she was—
Soul's hand slipped, skidding sweat slick down the arch of her waist, and Maka lost all of the air in her lungs. Her chest rang hollow and tight, and she sucked in a frantic breath, bucking up into him automatically. In the split second that she was pushed up off the couch, his hand slid again—and then they were both crashing back down, shoulders jarring hard, his fingers splayed flat over the soft part of her stomach.
He made a sleepy, grumbling noise above her, rubbing his cheek against the side of her neck. His hand flexed, fingers digging briefly into her. Maka tried to breathe normally—maybe fall back asleep—but she could feel the imprint of his hand pressing deeper into her skin everytime she inhaled, and she couldn't think about anything else. The rhythm of her breathing and the push of his hand synced up with the pulse of heat contracting around her until it felt like the world existed only on this couch, only in his touch.
There were things that she sometimes thought about Soul, half-formed daydreams, pointless extensions of the effect of his smile, wishes cast like a line into water (hooking no one but herself). She was alright with pushing those thoughts down, had gotten pretty good at it over the years. But it had been three months since someone other than her had touched her properly—her ex with his hand under her skirt by the back wall of a club, lights strobing around them and his breath hot on her ear—and Maka could deal with unrequited love, but she couldn't quite deal with Soul's hand so close to the top of her jeans.
She knew distantly that she had to move, had to wiggle out from underneath him, but she couldn't seem to get herself to do anything that would end the almost promise of his fingers on her skin. She would have to wake him up obviously and just wait for him to spring away in embarrassment.
"Soul," she whispered. "Hey."
There was no jolt of awareness above her, nothing to signal that he had heard her and woken up. He did move, syrupy slow, pointy chin digging a groove into her shoulder as he squirmed in even closer to her neck.
"Maka," he murmured hazily.
"Soul, I need you to—"
He sighed out, long and slow against her ear, and shifted once more, three fingers slipping just underneath the waistband of her jeans. His body above her felt like the movement of a wave and she rode it automatically, pushing her hips up and forward into it; three fingers became five and suddenly his hand was curling down between her legs, palm cupping heavy over her cunt.
Maka gasped sharply and went as still as possible, heart hammering in her chest. Her brain felt like a machine running a million miles an hour and failing to come up with anything but sensations. Soul's hand was impossibly large, burning hot against her through her panties. She hadn't properly trimmed in weeks and she could feel where stray curls of hair were pressed to the insides of her thighs by his fingers. She was damp and growing more so by the second, everything in her centred on the pressure of his hand.
For a strange, liquid moment both of them were utterly still, barely breathing. Maka had the wild thought that Soul was actually fully asleep and hadn't even registered where his hand ended up, but then—
Then his middle finger was rocking slowly down against her just once, sinking ever so slightly into the seam of her cunt. Maka clenched down around nothing, a wave of fever-heat screaming up her body. Thoughts of repercussions and tomorrows were gone; there was only touch me, touch me, god, touch me. He'd stopped though, as if he was waiting, and she didn't know if this was a dream to him or if he was awake, but he'd said her name and she needed him to keep going.
"Yes," she hissed. "Yes, yes—"
He did it again, this time moving the rest of his fingers too, pressing down harder until she could feel the grind of fabric against her clit. Maka panted against the couch, her eyes closed and her hips lurching back into the steady, sure rhythm he was rubbing. He drew his fingers in circles, smearing her panties against her until they were soaked and outlining her cunt, and then he stroked his middle finger right down the centre of her.
"Fuck," she bit out, still somehow trying to be quiet, as if all of this would stop if the bubble of hush around them was broken. Soul was breathing harshly in her ear, mouth a wet, slack circle of contact against her shoulder, and he pressed in with the tip of his finger, barely parting her, a tease of a push.
She shoved into the touch, frustrated and shivering with the heat. "Soul—"
"Jesus," he whispered, his voice rough like he'd been screaming for hours. He hooked a finger into the crotch of her panties and yanked them to the side. A string of slick stretched and snapped wet against her thigh, and then his fingers were on her for real, prying her open.
His skin against the swollen spread of her cunt felt like being touched by a live wire—she heard herself make a stupid, distant sort of whimper, bucking up into the touch. She could feel the thickness of each knuckle sliding slippery against her, rubbing up and down her slit in a mindless, horrible pattern—tip of his middle finger just rubbing against her entrance on a stroke down and then grinding hard against her clit on the way back up. If he just went a little faster, a little harder, she knew she could get off like this, come against the heel of his hand, and she kicked a leg off the couch, getting a foot on the floor for purchase so she could shove herself harder against him, try and make it happen herself.
Soul groaned, cutting himself off to suck a hard kiss to her neck, and his hips hunched forward, finally sliding up against her properly so that she could feel the awkward shape of his dick trapped in his jeans, pressing hard against her ass. His right foot joined hers on the floor, socked toes brushing up against her instep, and he rocked down into her, the two of them finding a rhythm as easy as if they'd been doing this for years.
She couldn't help but imagine being fucked like this, Soul getting his dick out and squeezing it into her in sharp little thrusts, filling up the empty pulse in her gut. She could feel the heft of him against her ass and wanted to know hot his cock would feel inside her—she could barely breathe with the idea of it, heat coiling in her gut. The voice in her head had changed from touch me, to fuck me, but the words wouldn't form in her throat.
As if he knew what she needed, Soul flattened his hand against her cunt and finally sank his middle finger inside her. She was so open for it that he went as deep as he could go on the first push, and Maka yanked her own hand up to her mouth and bit down on it, trying to muffle the high-pitched noises she was making. He pulled his finger out slowly and she could feel herself stretching around every knuckle, could feel how drenched his hand was when he pushed back in with two. He fucked them in three, four times, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit, his hips surging against her ass, and suddenly she was coming, sparking up along her whole body, crying out into her hand and shaking through it. Her body wrung itself out around his fingers; she felt like she was gushing, everything tense and electric and singing.
Soul's free hand grabbed her hip, clutching hard, and he rabbited his hips down, rubbing himself off frantically against her. Maka's hand slipped from her mouth, her limbs going loose, sporadic shivers making her clench down on the fingers still inside her, and the force of his thrusts slid her forward on the couch, corduroy dragging over her lips. He was saying her name, over and over again, the sound distant to her dizzy ears, and when he went still and trembling she felt his fingers curl inside her and she almost came again, aftershocks running through her like she'd been in an earthquake. He sounded soft and almost pretty when he came, voice low like a song, and she wished she could feel his cock kicking and jerking through it properly, instead of muted by fabric, wished she could actually see him come.
"Fuck," Soul breathed.
He slumped over onto her and she took his weight easily. Her bruises from the mission were starting to ache again and there was a wet patch of saliva on the couch right where her mouth had been—she'd drooled on it, which was incredibly sexy. Soul pulled his fingers out of her, and it felt sticky and sort of uncomfortable. All of the weird, awkward parts of sex and its aftermath were already starting to creep in. He left his hand down her pants though, just sort of resting against her all warm and comforting, even though the waistband of her jeans must have been cutting a line into his wrist, and she figured that it was all worth a little awkwardness.
The idea that she should be worried about tomorrow, worried about what this was going to mean for them, started to manifest in the back of her mind, but it was distant enough that she knew she'd be asleep before she really felt its sting. Soul was breathing soft and steady against the side of her neck, clearly already conked out, and Maka closed her eyes.
The room was much cooler now.