He's a little like a bug under a microscope with the way he's looking at her.
Or maybe he's like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His eyes are wide, perhaps even a bit guilty, as he fidgets, squirming and bumping his knees against hers. It's kind of a treat, in a way, to watch Soul crack open like an egg; her partner is ordinarily so stone faced, half resting bitch face and half bored indifference, but right now his eyes are blunt and honest, swimming with that interesting, restrained lust she'd heard only moments before, and how can she not act on it?
Her weapon stammers, attempting to peel her hand from his skin. "I- what, Maka, it's like midnight, what the fuck-"
"It's okay, I just- Soul, really, it's fine, just transform, would you?"
"Why," he huffs, pouting, cheeks endearingly rosy. "Gonna make fun of me?"
It's much too humid in their dinky hotel room for this. It's not even summer, for goodness sake, and she's lived in the desert heat all of her life. But with the way Soul's looking at her, all wild, heated eyes and the degree of his blushing, it's no wonder it feels like the room's heater might actually be working.
"Why would I make fun of you," she asks, gradually scooting her way closer to him again - slowly, slowly, as if approaching a skittish cat. "You're my partner, Soul, resonance is just a thing that happens sometimes, remember? It's not either of our faults if sometimes things just slip through-"
He stares at the ceiling, jaw locked. "Things."
"Yes," Maka says, "things. I don't see why you're so embarrassed, I wield your shaft all the time-"
Soul very nearly wheezes, and the mattress trembles beneath the weight of his shock. "Don't say it like that!"
"Your handle," she says, gritting her teeth, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sits straighter. From her position, hovering over him, he looks almost pretty, with tousled hair and heat blooming across his face like watercolors. She casts a barely-there shadow over him, a skinny, unimposing silhouette, but he still remains beneath her, pinned to the spot under her gaze. It's not the first time she's noticed this power she has over him, this taketaketake and unspoken control she effortlessly wields like a second scythe, but it is the first time it's had such intimate connotations.
She has a handle on him in more ways than just his weapon form. And he knows it, too, judging by the way he lays there, not even tempted by the many escape route open to him, even in the face of his embarrassment.
Breath loud, she says, "I heard it."
His brows raise fractionally. "Heard what."
"You. Your thoughts. Kind of… just... " She raises a hand, spreads her fingers, wiggles the tips and watches him zero in on the motion like a hawk. Maka wonders if he even realizes he's doing it. "... You're not weird."
He gives a strangled laugh. "I'm kind of weird, Maka. Think you heard that pretty clearly."
"It can't be that weird if I feel it too."
Soul Evans is a wildfire, and he shakes her with nothing more than his eyes. It can't be weird to feel like this, she thinks, watching each rise and fall of his chest, watching him blink and lick his lips and watch her. How can it be weird, if every moment of her life has been leading up to this one? If she's been raised on the idea of trusting her very soul to one person - her weapon, her partner - to grow and fight and die for each other? How can it be weird to love this someone so impossibly, so fully?
How can it be weird to love him no matter the form? They're connected, inevitably, undebatably, and there is no Maka without Soul, just as there is no Soul without Maka. They are weapon and meister. Partners. Soulmates.
He breathes in deep and then holds in the breath. When he finally releases it, she feels it in her lungs, filling her with this ballooning, incredible heat, and she knows that without a doubt, this moment in time is sacred. Soul cracks, breaking like a promise, and he blinks at her, watching her hair as it falls over her shoulder as he mumbles, "You do?"
Her finger taps her chest. "Mmm," she hums, afraid to make too much noise and break the magic of the moment. He's managed to cast a spell with nothing more than the buzzing of his soul around hers. "Right here."
He grins like the devil. "In your tit?"
"Don't ruin it again, Soul."
His grip warms her hip. Maybe, just maybe, she could let herself indulge in the dig of his fingertips on her bare skin, on her waist, her thighs. She wants to bury herself in his protective grasp, that possessive way he seems to loom over her without preamble, the way he watches her move through a room, hidden beneath a mess of white hair and perpetual slouch. Maka wonders if he realizes that she's bound to him in the same way he's bound to her - she might be the meister, and she may call the shots, but there will never be anyone else for her the way Soul is.
Their resonance is a sort of unstoppable magnetism, and really, it comes to no surprise when her lips find his, only seconds later, while she pushes his hair from his face and curves over him like a weeping willow.
.
There is a sense of completeness that comes with kissing her partner. For a moment, she is no longer just part to a whole - she is tangled so deeply in an unbreakable, unfathomable bond, tied tight with red ribbon, soul deep. And his hands. And his lips. And his mouth.
It escalates, because he's Soul and she's Maka and they always seem to bring out the kindling in each other. Her knees sit on either side of his hips while he plants warm, wet kisses on her mouth, all clumsy, adoring tongue and searing passion as he cups her face securely in his hands. It's impossible for her not to fall under his spell, because she's watched him swallow the souls of the damned a few too many times and now she finally understands what his tongue feels like. A little strange, a little tough, a little loving. It's Soul's, alright, and she loves it.
This position only has one drawback - she has to brace herself with her hands to remain over him, when more than anything, she wants to map out his flesh with her palms and memorize the feeling of him trembling and breathing beneath her. The bookworm in her wants to know everything. The aroused part of her wants to strip him down and ride him for all that he's worth, wings or not.
"Maka," he chants against her lips, over and over, like little punctuation between every prolonged stanza of messy contact. Kissing is warm and wet and probably gross with anyone else, but with Soul it's exciting and comforting and heart-stopping and right, in a strange sort of way. His fingers dust over her cheeks and she takes the chance to bite his lip. "Mmmhh."
That's a sound she'd like to hear again. Maka nibbles a little, brows raised, and Soul whimpers and hisses, sliding his hands down from her face to grip her shoulders.
"Maka," he says again, when she sinks lower and begins trailing kisses along his bare neck. "Maka, Maka, Maka."
"Soul," she parrots back, biting his throat for good measure. The way he arches into her and moans is entirely worth her efforts. "Soul."
"Fuuuuck," he groans, low and gravelly, as she licks his bobbing Adam's apple out of sheer curiosity. One peek tells her he's staring at the ceiling, chin pointed high, as he pushes her hair from her face. "I wanna- can I-"
"You still haven't transformed," Maka cuts in, whining. "I asked you to do that like fifteen minutes ago."
Soul breathes deeply, combing his fingers through her hair. "Got a little sidetracked," he croaks, voice dipping lower, somehow, and shaking something deep and primal within her. "I will, I just wanna… you're warm, and I wanna-"
Before he can finish, she's ripping her shirt over her head and sitting tall on his hips. For once, she's not even a little upset at the way Soul can't seem to meet her eyes. His gaze seems fixed just a notch lower, and his composure breaks that little bit more, lips parting, hands cupping her biceps as she lets out a nervous breath. There are silvery scars dotting her skin like the arches of her ribs, and though she's older, she's still not nearly as developed as Blair or Tsubaki or even Jackie, but Soul doesn't look at her any differently.
He licks his lips again. "I… uh…"
Because he doesn't make a move and she's impatient, she takes both of his hands and presses his palms to her breasts. Soul swallows thickly, and she certainly feels something shift beneath her, harder than any demonsteel she's handled before.
When she smiles, he shifts beneath her. "E-Easy, speed racer-"
"Tiny tits," Maka whispers.
"Tits are tits," Soul fires right back, but there's a rosy blush warming his complexion. "'Nd yours are-" he cuts himself off, shyly, biting his lip, watching his hand move over her soft flesh. There's a certain possessiveness in the way he cups her in his grip, a fondness that would choke thirteen-year-old Maka up and paint her face red. As it is, it thaws her a little, and she watches him with a soft affection as he rolls his hips instinctively. "... they're yours."
She wouldn't dare laugh. "They're small."
"They're part of you," he insists, and there's that heat in his stare again, burning bright like a furnace. He's a furnace, for goodness sake, and his fingers brush over her perked nipples with deep-rooted reverence. "Small or not."
"They're not too small?"
He snorts. Pushes himself up onto his elbows and puckers his lips. She falls into him out of habit and they kiss, barely, briefly, and he mutters, "Nah," into her mouth. "Anything more than a handful is a waste."
"That's not what you said when you were thirteen," she says, only half-bitingly. Maka's a bit mesmerized by the feeling of his lips brushing against hers, the way his breath warms her upper lip, the way his lashes look when he blinks, and everything else is a little hard to deal with. She can't separate herself from him now, not while they're intertwined so essentially. "You said nobody could ever-"
"I was wrong," he says. "And you're really hot."
"Soul."
Resonance bleeds his truths through, though - his mouth might be blunt and his teeth sharp, but beneath his rough exterior, Maka feels his compassion, his devotion, his admiration. He might be the reigning king of aloof apathy and even indifference, but there's a lot of squishy, sentimental feelings brewing within her scythe, and he smiles crookedly at her, hands sliding firm to her thighs. She hears things like beautiful and incredible and angel, even, whispered all around her and stroking her very soul. Idiot.
And she wonders, not for the first time, if his steel would feel just as rewarding under her as his flesh. If her feelings for him - if wanting him, both inside and out - extending to both of his forms, metal and man, makes her a bad meister or not. If maybe he wants the same.
He is her weapon partner, and she is his meister. On and off of the battle field.
Her hands itch. Blood runs hot. She needs him in her grip, like a heart needs a beat, and out of routine, she mutters, "Transform," and Soul's bound to her word like the faithful weapon he is.