A/N: I wrote this while listening to Mike Posner's song I Took A Pill In Ibiza.
Oh, and I also own absolutely nothing related to either Soul Eater or Mike Posner. Enjoy!
The room is dark, save for the pulsating colored lights that highlight the writhing bodies on the dance floor. Soul knew that the Thompson sisters could really throw a party, and with Kid's funds to back them up, they pulled out all the stops. The white-haired weapon doesn't much care for the songs filtering through the DJ's sound system, nor does he really like the thudding bass lines shuddering through his body. He isn't there for that, though. If he was, he'd have left a long time ago; hell, he wouldn't have even come in the first place. He only stays for one person.
And the best part is, she has no fucking clue. Oh, she knows that he wouldn't be here of his own volition, but she doesn't think about why he would agree to come with her and waste a Friday night at the Gallows when he could be watching a movie with her on their couch. Granted, if they were watching a movie, he wouldn't get to watch her dance, twisting her lithe meister-body to the beat of the electronic shit the DJ calls music.
He gives her credit as his crimson gaze follows her every movement. She isn't self-conscious in the least, her modesty thrown to the side along with the heels she had worn here. Soul almost retrieved them for her, but he refused to be that goddamned whipped. They weren't even together, still only partners in the Shibusen sense of the word.
Although lately he had been pushing the boundaries on that. And by lately, he meant for the last couple years. Cleaning up after missions became a little more charged, and helping her peel out of ruined clothes seemed more for his benefit than hers. He found himself having more "nightmares" as excuses to slip into her bed in the dead of night. She never complained, though, so he didn't feel as guilty as he maybe should. However, the small sighs and noises she'd make as he curled around her did lead to more cold showers on his part, but it was a small price to pay to wake up next to Maka.
He shakes his head, taking another swig of the water in Maka's water bottle ("Soul, you and I both know that Black Star is going to spike every liquid in the room") and wiping his mouth afterwards. He knows his feelings for his meister go way past what's deemed normal, but fuck, he knows he can't change them. He doesn't particularly want to.
What he does particularly want to do is gouge out every single set of eyes (that aren't his own, of course) that are roving over Maka's body as she dances. The idiot probably doesn't even notice her little black dress riding up her impossibly long legs as she moves to the music. Soul does, though, and apparently others do too. Abruptly, he decides to make his way from his chair on the side of the room to the dance floor to prevent his meister from flashing the whole goddamned party her womanly bits (and maybe to flash his pointed teeth a few times at certain douchebags).
The music changes when he's halfway to Maka, and her emerald eyes lock with his own carmine ones, intense and enticing. He can see wisps of her hair falling out of her elegant twist, and some of the strands stick to her neck. He tells himself he moves toward her of his own accord, but he knows deep down he could never refuse her, especially not when her body shifts to match the beat and her red, red lips curve up to smile at him. His ego inflates when she completely brushes off some guy trying to get her attention even as he commits the asshole's face to memory for a future intimidation target.
He reaches her and her eyes close as she pulls him in, her arms wrapping around his neck as his go to her hips. He smooths his hands down her sides, partly to fulfill his mission of protecting her modesty but mostly just to touch her in a way he's been dying to do for so long. She leans her head into his collarbone and gyrates her body down onto his, and he can't help but pulse up into her, matching her movements. It almost feels like resonance, the way they move to complement each other, and Soul loves it.
But despite the high buzzing through his veins at being with her like this, he can't quite bring himself to believe that she's doing this without the help of some kind of spiked drink. He reluctantly takes one hand from her body and tilts her chin up, stopping their movements in the crowd of twisting bodies.
What he sees rocks his every perception of Maka. Her verdant eyes are smoky, but he can't smell anything on her breath. Her wavelength twines with his, and he can feel the pure, unadulterated want in her soul. She wants him, her snarky, lazy weapon, every bit as much as he wants his nerdy, stubborn meister.
The blood leaves his head and goes straight south as she looks at his lips and licks her own. He has no control over his desires now, and leans forward to claim her soft lips. She's pliant, and their bodies begin moving again as their lips dance over each others'. All Soul is aware of is his meister - her lips under his, her small hands sliding in his hair, the way she's melting into him as he uses his body to curve around hers as they move to the music, some kind of trance-y, bass-filled song that is now his second favorite song of all time, right next to the song of her soul.
Their bodies pulse together as they dance more on each other than with each other. Soul can't deny the delicious friction as he shifts her impossibly closer to him, his hands running up and down her lean frame. They break their kiss, both panting harshly. He rests his forehead on hers, his half-lidded gaze meeting her own. A corner of his mouth quirks up, and hers stretches into one of the widest smiles he's ever seen on her face, her hands clasped behind his neck with her arms on his shoulders.
The song is over, but another one quickly takes its place. Before he can say anything, Maka - his brilliant, fucking amazing meister, Maka - breathes, "Do you want to get out of here?" Her eyes hold a small bit of doubt, and he fixes that by roughly pressing his mouth to hers again.
"Fuck yes," he growls against her lips, and she greedily kisses him back. They reluctantly break apart long enough for Maka to get her heels and for the both of them to make a mad dash to his bike. He doesn't really remember the ride back to their apartment, only vaguely knowing it's the fastest they've ever made if home from the Gallows. She doesn't seem to care as she tugs him off the bike and up flights of stairs to their door. As soon as she unlocks the door, they're on each other again, not waiting for the door to close behind them. His sharp teeth pull at her bottom lip, and the moans she makes zing straight through his body. He barely gets them to his room, the pair collapsing on his bed without shutting his door, too preoccupied with showing one another the pent up emotions burning within them.
When he wakes up in the late morning, tangled in his sheets with the love of his life, he can't imagine a better way to spend a Friday night.