Part Seven
Soul Gets a Clue (And a Sore Tongue)
He's going to kill Blair. What kind of side-effect was that? He just came all over Maka's chest. His meister. Her naked chest. All over it. No matter how many ways he words it in his head, the truth only becomes more horrifying. He, Soul Eater Evans, is glued to his meister, and he had supplied the glue.
Soul keeps his head shoved into her neck. His haggard breath echoes loudly off her skin. He's terrified of moving an inch for several reasons:
One: He does not want to face his partner's wrath for having had an orgasm on everything between her navel and nipples.
Two: He doesn't think he can look her straight in the face anyhow.
Three: If he does move, their skin will peel apart and only rub in the fact that his semen is smeared between them like jam, except not nearly as part of the complete breakfast he should have fucking eaten this morning.
"...I guess I should have seen that coming," Maka croaks out, and Soul groans with humiliation, and not only because of her choice of wording. Her hair tickles his cringing face.
He does feel better, though. Sort of. His previously foggy, lust-blurred sense of awareness now feels up to reasonable standards. Unfortunately, this only makes him painfully acquainted with the awkward obstacle course that they both must pass through if they ever want to have a normal conversation in the immediate future.
"Maka, I'm really, really-"
His meister tenses underneath him, and her skin melds with his in new ways, which he tries not to think about else he'll have a problem that he can't blame on magically enhanced dessert. He prepares for the killing blow.
"Don't go there, f-for now. Let's just, um, get cleaned up? And dressed. And we'll figure it out after. Deal?"
Soul nods slightly in the crook of her neck, though he's confused beyond all belief. He's not dead, and her suggestion even seems like a safe plan for the time being. Whatever, he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe she's in a state of shock, or maybe the fact that the living room is still a mess is driving her clean-freak tendencies into a frenzy and she can't think straight. More likely she doesn't want her weapon to be laying on her in the nude with his god damn semen in between them. In any case, he's sliced through hundreds of kishin- surely he can handle a little of his own misplaced jizz if it means he gets to live longer.
With eyes slammed shut, he slowly pulls away, trying not to slide around too much. His plan is to just quickly dismount and find his pants, but for some stupid reason his eyes open against all sanity and self-preservation. Soul risks a glance to his partner's face just in time to witness her pulling the same stunt, except to his junk. Maka slaps a hand over her eyes, and Soul feels his face heat to volcanic levels. There's a small nagging urge that wants to tell her his thing isn't that small when he's ready for action, but then he realizes she already knows that (considering it's been in her mouth), and he doesn't know what makes him more mortified.
Perching gently on the edge of his bed because he's afraid any sudden movements might somehow make everything worse, Soul leans to the floor and grabs a hastily discarded shirt to clean up with, except it's her sweater, so he drops it like it's on fire and picks up a different shirt from his laundry pile instead. Calmly holds this behind him for her to take. Hears her thank him, voice coming out as a whispered squeak. Ends up picturing her wiping his come off with his shirt, because the sound of fabric on skin is ridiculously loud in the silence of his room.
"...Um?"
He almost turns his head to look, but remembers at the last second and focuses on his desk. "Yeah?" he replies stiffly.
"I'll just... put this in the washer."
Soul bows over, his forehead colliding into his knees. He latches his fingers together behind his neck and assumes the position of preparation for an imminent plane crash.
"I'mmatakeaquickshower," his meister spews all in one breath, her voice sounding further away and from the direction of his door. "A-and I'll fix the... the living room."
"Okay," he grits into his legs.
He doesn't move. Soul remains a statue, even as the washing machine lid clangs loudly when Maka accidentally lets it fall shut. It's only long after he hears the shower turn on that he lets his hands slide apart and dangle to the floor.
His head is still ringing with the sounds of their excessive foreplay from earlier, and as he wearily looks around his room, he wonders if he'll ever manage to sleep in his bed peacefully again. Well, it doesn't matter. Once Maka gets over the shock, he's a dead man anyway. With a sigh, he stands, cringing because the come on his chest is starting to dry and also because he feels like he's just run twenty laps around Shibusen. He kind of wants to take a shower too, but it's not like he's about to jump in there with his meister (no matter how much the thought makes his toes tingle). He finds his boxers and uses these to clean himself.
...Also, his tongue is sore of all things. But it was worth it- no, no, nothing is worth being alienated from his meister, even if eating her out had been fun as all hell. Soul curiously sticks out his tongue to test its soreness, and the thin webbing underneath the muscle complains when it rubs against his bottom teeth.
Soul decides gathering her clothes is probably the first thing he should be doing instead of reveling over the finer curiosities of oral sex that should not have occurred in the first place. He feels that turning her jeans right-side-out and folding them is a little too weird, so he just grabs all he can find of hers and wraps it up in her discarded coat like a sack. But then he finds her bra, which she must have taken off while cleaning herself, and he prays that the tingling that vibrates his spine is just an aftershock from Blair's chocolate. He shoves Maka's tit-holders in her coat and is two steps from his bedroom door when he realizes he's still naked.
Knowing his luck, Blair and her army of schemers would walk in the apartment the second he sets foot out of his room. He shucks on some fresh jeans, because the ones he'd been wearing have his meister's... cream on the front from a handful of too-close-for-comfort encounters. Heat pools in his stomach, so he hastily grabs her clothes and goes to her room, because surely something as girly as Maka's bedroom is strong enough to keep him from getting aroused for the umpteenth time today.
This is a poor plan, even though he's still sensitive and going commando in denim makes him hiss with every step, and even though her room doesn't spur any recent memories that set his blood on fire or make his heart race. It does smell like her though, which is almost as dangerous, and he has to back out of it the moment her clothes are tossed in the general direction of her bed.
His second agenda is to walk, slightly bow-legged, straight past the kitchen and pretend it doesn't exist. He's still pretty hungry- he'd only eaten a few licks of chocolate, an equal amount of milk, and Maka- but he doesn't trust anything in the kitchen anymore, especially with a milk shortage. He'll choose starvation.
In the living room, everywhere he looks bears his partner's signature. Soul treads softly, as if he's expecting a forgotten land mine to go off in the aftermath of an abandoned war zone. He pictures her way too clearly, bent over and clutching the bean bag chair, so this is the first thing he pushes back into its rightful place.
It doesn't help.
He should stop staring at it and getting lost in his vivid imagination. Soul forces himself to breathe evenly. Picks up a couch cushion. Shoves it back into the couch. Realizes the couch is crooked and shoves it back against the wall. Begins gathering books. Swears as he bashes his smallest toe on a leg of the coffee table.
"Oh."
Soul starts with a barely contained yelp. His meister is in sweat pants and a shirt that's still creased from being folded in her dresser. Water weighs her hair down, fringe falling into her eyes and bouncing whenever she blinks.
"Shower's free, obviously. If you want it."
He knows what she's saying, but he can only focus on her body language and red cheeks and how she's not decking him in the face for nearly having sex with her. His reply is delayed. "Uhh. I'll help, first."
Maka makes that awkward half-laugh again, and he thinks that's her way of relieving her internal embarrassment pressure valve. "You don't have to. Here. Let me." She walks forward, and he can't move because his fight or flight response is simply missing. Soul becomes very conscious of his lack of shirt, and this is worrisome because he's never given a shit before. Then again, he'd never had Maka's bare tits smashed against his before today, either.
She takes the books he'd gathered in her hands, and all he can remember are her fingers shoved underneath a bathroom door as they briefly touch his. "It's my fault anyway, so I should be the one-"
Soul gives his head a shake, scattering untimely memories, and scrutinizes his partner to see if she's actually Maka Albarn and not a faulty replacement left by aliens from another galaxy. "What?" he blurts incredulously, watching her shuffle around and picking up other books from the floor. He spies some of his oral handiwork on her neck showing through her flushing, pink skin, and he forgets what he's trying to say.
This is not cool.
"I'm the one who ripped it all apart, so," she says, as if she's stating that the sky is blue, the grass is green, and that her first pair of underwear today had little pink hearts on them.
He splutters. "T-that's not..!" Woah, wait. He needs to take a deep breath and not look like he's on the verge of blowing a gasket. Center his fucking Chi or something. "This is not your fault," he forces out in an almost calm drawl. "I'm the one that just stood there while you ate the damn thing..." And shouldn't she be killing him right now? She even has a stack of weapons in her hands designed for the job.
Maka places the books in a neat pile on the coffee table, though some of the pages stick out awkwardly after their earlier mistreatment. She's very good at talking to him while staring at a decorative pillow she's just picked up in her hands. "No, I must've mixed up the batches. I shouldn't have even let them in the house with their stupid plans, but it was for Tsubaki, so-"
"It was a setup," Soul corrects her. Now he has her attention. Her look of confusion slowly washes away the redness in her face, wide green eyes focused on him.
"What?" she questions flatly, voice filled with preemptive displeasure. Then her eyes and mouth widen in horror. "You, you- did you? Were you in on it?"
Oh shit. "What? No! Nonono, when I called Blair, er, Liz, they already knew what was going on. There was no mix-up. They set us up. Emphasis on us."
There. That's better. His meister's face goes that particular shade of scarlet that he associates with immediate ass-kicking. "They..!" she exclaims, her chest inflating and shoulders thrown back and fists strangling the living shit out of the pillow in her grasp. Alright! Furious-Maka is in the building. They can happily soar on the wings of her fury and skip right over the part where he'd almost done her from behind. "I told them not to butt in, those sneaky little-" Maka violently hisses.
He's just about to tell her she's welcome to kill anyone she wants as long as he gets to choke a certain feline, but then the clouds of Soul's impending doom suddenly part. He hadn't even fully listened to his meister's words, more focused on how angrily and aghast she'd said them, but then Maka, for half a second, sends him a terrified rabbit-in-the-headlights glance before quickly looking away, as if trying to erase the sudden lapse in her anger.
Naturally, Soul winds the past five seconds back in his mind with curiosity. "Wait," he says, one eyebrow quirking upwards with an unsure frown pulling the corners of his mouth, "'butt in' to what, exactly?"
"...I'm gonna order a pizza," she responds, tactlessly dodging his question. She mashes the pillow in her hands into the couch, erasing the last traces of their almost-tryst from the living room. Maka marches away in a hasty retreat.
"Wait, Ma- uhgh."
He shouldn't be reading into it too much. He knows this. He can't stop himself. Soul's mind races with so many tidbits he hadn't taken into consideration- namely things like 'I promise she won't mind', and 'Last chance', and why on earth a bunch of females decided a (sexual) intervention was needed on Maka's behalf. Hadn't their plan been about hooking up Black Star with Tsubaki?
Who was supposed to eat that truffle, and to whose benefit?
His heart makes an unsure, hopeful stutter, and he decides that now is as good a time as any for that shower. Preferably cold, and Chi-centering.
Marsh: Sorry for the delayed update, guys. Two more updates today, though. Hope it makes up for everything~