You Kidnapped My Reason.
PWP shameless smut~ Found this and realized that I had never posted it anywhere but on GW. Please enjoy, loveys.
He finds her there on the couch, draped on her stomach and completely engrossed in her novel. It's not the first time it's happened, and he knows it isn't going to be the last. His eyes dart to the side and sure enough, she's still in her school skirt. He can just see the curve of her ass under that fucking skirt, and she shifts slightly. Soul gulps. There's bare skin, and he can feel a thin sheen of sweat break out across his skin. His meister is a tease, and she's going to murder him via blue balls. This is the third time this week, and he's pretty sure if he goes and steals the bathroom for another hearty round of self-abuse, his dick is going to fall off.
Maka chooses this moment to look over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. He can only hope that she doesn't notice the awkward boner, or that if she does, she graciously ignores it like he's trying to.
"Hey Soul. Did you wanna sit down?" He should say no, a thousand times no. He needs to be anywhere but on a couch next to her and that skirt, but what comes out is a gruff,
"Yeah."
"You want me to move?" Fuck his brain; it's going haywire, but his head is nodding stupidly, and she kicks her ankles up. He's committed now. All he wants to do is run away as far and as fast as he can, but he's already sitting, remote in hand. Maka goes back to her book, but she's fidgety now, shifting from side to side. He doesn't know who he thinks he's kidding, flipping through channels like he gives any shits about what's on. When she starts swinging her ankles, he almost loses it completely. He grabs an ankle before she can clock him in the chin with it, and she squeaks, kicking out with her free leg. Soul knows for a fact now that his meister is going commando and something in his brain short circuits with a blistering pop. He dodges her free foot neatly and snakes in between those tantalizing legs. He doesn't think that she can kick him in the head from this angle, but she's proven time and time again that she's fucking ridiculously flexible, and the thought makes his blood burn. He keeps the ankle just in case.
Maka whips her head around, and he's expecting the death glare she gives him, but not the way her cheeks are flushed or how hard she's breathing, or the fact that they've known each other for years now, and he can easily read behind that glare. It doesn't hurt that he can clearly smell her arousal, either.
"Soul, what-" it comes out breathy and more curious than angry. He growls and dips down, nipping at the rounded curve of her ass, and she squeals this time, flush spreading down her neck.
"No, Maka. What are you doing? What's this?" He drags his free palm up the back of her thigh, thumb resting just underneath one pert cheek. Absentmindedly, he rubs her soft flesh, and watches her breathing quicken as she stares at his hand in helpless fascination. "Are you trying to drive me insane?" Her glare intensifies, and she lifts her chin defiantly. The blush has spread to the top of her chest, and he can just see it disappearing into her shirt. He wants to unbutton her oxford and see how far down it goes. With his tongue.
"What if I am," she replies, one brown arched in a clear challenge. His thumb digs into her flesh as all the air goes out of his lungs at once and his brain tries to process those four little words and just what he's going to do about them.
Apparently he's taking too long for his meister, because she's arching her ass up under his hand and her skirt has got to be just about the least effective piece of clothing that she owns. He inhales sharply and breathes,
"Fuckit," and his teeth are grazing her captive ankle, moving down to the back of her knee. Maka gasps, but his mouth is already gone and it's just his hand ghosting up her leg until he's gripping her hips, pinning her as she squirms. His dick is painfully hard, and pressing it into the couch really isn't doing him any favors. The logical solution is clearly to drag her hips back to meet his and this time he manages to elicit a sharp,
"Soul!" from his meister. Her wriggling is going to make him insane in very short order, but fuck if that isn't the kind of insanity that he can really get behind. He pushes his hips forward experimentally, and oh, it feels incredible; he can't even fathom what this would feel like without his jeans in the way. Maka is making these little groans that are completely entrancing as she pushes back into his cock. She moans his name again and hearing it sends amazing signals to his brain. Her shoulders are shimmying back and forth and he's mesmerized by the motion until he realizes that she's unbuttoning her shirt and he's not participating.
He growls her name, breath hot against the nape of her neck and she freezes for one critical moment. He seizes the opportunity and hauls her upright. She's managed to get about half of her shirt undone, and he's distracted by glimpses of blue cotton.
"Let me help you with that," he murmurs, and he's applying deft pianist fingers to the problem. She's a little vexed with her weapon, because dammit, she was almost done. She grinds back against him, irritated, in what Soul decides is definitely his new favorite form of punishment. Except every time she does it, his fingers fumble, and he whines in frustration.
"If you cut my shirt off, " she pants, writhing greedily against him, "I will kill you."
"Hnng woman, if you don't want me cut your shirt off, hold. The. Fuck. Still." She manages just long enough for him to finagle the last button, and then she's shucking her shirt as fast as she can, tossing it somewhere into the ether. She could care less where the damn thing lands. His fingers splay across her ribs, skin hot and smooth and fucking intoxicating. He sets his teeth along her neck, pleased to note that her blush does indeed extend down to the tops of her breasts, but then Maka begins anew her single-minded quest to grind against him into goddamned oblivion, and he's been gifted with two perfect handfuls of titties to play with. He drags a nail over one cup and watches Maka melt into him. He mirrors the action, and she stops completely, shocked into silence by the sensation of one blunt nail scrapping across her nipple. Soul does it again he decides this is his new favorite game; only this time Maka springs into action as he flicks her nipple. She arches her arms back, hands tugging deliciously at his hair before clawing down to the back of his shirt and tugging imperiously.
"OFF," she demands, and Soul groans a bit because that means he's going to have to remove his hands from her tits, and that's not in the cards, but she's got her head back, resting on his shoulder and her tongue is tracing the shell of his ear. "Your skin, I need-" and she's dissolving again as he pinches her nipples. Her request is enough, despite his reluctance.
Soul disengages long enough to haul his shirt over his head and then he's glued to her back and the feeling of skin against skin is phenomenal. She sighs, like his skin on hers is a boon, and he can't decide if he wants to lick her soft neck or try and get her bra off. Decisions are hard, though, and he's an ambitious sort of man, so he tries both, and Maka is stuck alternately giggling at his fumbling attempts and gasping when he bites down in retribution. With much cursing, he manages to remove the offending garment, and Maka is lost. Her hands are everywhere at once, grabbing at his jean clad thighs, fisting into his hair.
Soul wonders briefly if it's strange that he's got her essentially naked and they haven't even kissed yet, decides that with his hands wrapped around her breasts and his hips thrusting gently against her ass, that it really doesn't matter because he loves her, has kind of always been in love with this crazy cool nerdy creature writhing in his arms. And hey, maybe she loves him too and might have been sending him her ass-backwards versions of signals for the past few weeks because this is Maka and her brain is on some completely different plane from everyone else's. He groans into her back and tries not to think about all the times he guiltily whacked off in the bathroom when he apparently didn't even have to.
Maka twists in his grip, and he has just enough time to mourn the fact that she's not pressed against him before she gives him a long hard stare that takes his breath away. Then she's throwing herself at him, lips pressed tightly against his, arms wrapped around his neck, and he's crashing backwards onto his elbows, couch cushions marginally softening the blow. She wastes no time with delicate kisses, her nails are in his shoulders, teeth clacking sharply against his, her tongue sliding against his own. Her fingers are fucking freezing, and he snorts into her mouth, abs twitching away from her wandering hands. They warm up fast as she explores his body, and Soul learns quickly that his meister is as clever with her fingers as any musician because suddenly his belt is unbuckled and useless, and his pants are unzipped and he's trying not to whimper into his meister's mouth and she's got his boner in one small, callused hand, and is trying to kill him as she figures out through some kind of sexy echolocation what the best way to jack off her weapon is.
She's nipping at his lips now, and he's trying to control the way his hips are rocking into her fist, but she's got his dick trapped between her hand and his stomach and she's still trying to melt her hips into his and Soul gives up, lost in warm pressure and her slick tongue against his.
"Haaah-M-Maka. Fuck. Stopstopstophnngh." She pauses long enough to pull away and narrow her eyes. She's giving him the death glare again, jaw set firmly, and he's having a hard time deciphering whether she's more pissed that he stopped her fun, or if that's hurt building up behind her green stare. He leans forward, kisses her tensed jaw gently, and tries not to make any more unmanly noises when she squirms. He might have stopped her disastrously talented hands, but he's still got a mostly naked Maka nestled snugly in his lap, hot and wet and incredibly tempting.
"Am I doing it wrong?" she demands, and he has to choke back a strangled, deranged laugh bubbling up.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" He grabs her hips and fuck his dick is so close to where he wants it to be, but he manages to tamp down on the bad, bad urge and restrain himself. He rubs against her slowly and her green eyes go wide, nails biting into his shoulders again. She rocks forward on her own and Soul's eyes cross slightly. He wants to move forward that half an inch and bury himself to the hilt, wants to hear more of those ridiculously sexy noises, wants to hear his name spill from her lips.
"Is this right?" she asks, and it's timid sounding, but there is nothing but pure wickedness in her eyes as he grunts out a strangled,
"Fuck, yes." Any semblance of hesitance is gone now, and Maka gives him a smirk dangerously reminiscent of his own and says,
"That's the whole idea." For a moment, Soul is completely still. His eyes bore a hole into Maka's, but her moment of insecurity has been completely burned away by his lips and hands and hips, by the naked want in his eyes (the raging boner pressed against her doesn't hurt her confidence, either). "I'm sure," she reassures, rough nails scraping lightly against his nipples. Soul jumps, twitches, and it's like a jumper cable to the brain.
"Back right pocket," he bites out. Her hands are already in motion, and she manages to squeeze his ass as she pull out his wallet and finds the condom Black*Star had shoved in there in the least covert way possible last time he'd tried to prove that he was the world's greatest pick pocket and assassin. Never has Soul been so grateful for his loudmouthed friend. He panics for a moment, but Maka already has the condom out of its foil package, suspiciously deft as she kisses him and pinches the latex tip. She catches his eyes and her blush is back in full force.
"Blair," she explains, and Soul laughs at her embarrassment, and she takes that moment to roll the condom onto his dick. It's uncomfortable, but he can cope, especially as Maka's got a firm grip on him again, and she's whispering things like,
"I want you, Soul," and "Hhngh, please," as she maneuvers his dick. Everything is ridiculously hot and warm and he has no idea what's going on until she grunts in frustration and shifts again and suddenly everything is white hot beautiful as she sinks onto him.
She winces once or twice and he freezes, terror warring with the sensation of being in his meister and wanting to thrust up into her, but Maka smiles at him and solves his dilemma, pushing herself down further, rolling her hips slightly and as she tries to get used to the feeling of being filled. She's pressed against him, and he can't help but stare because her tits are right there, begging to be fondled. She pulls back slightly, and he bends her back, one hand supporting her spine, the other clenching her hip and his mouth is hot and wet against her as he licks and sucks her tits. Her brain has completely checked out, and she tangles a hand into his hair and impales herself on his dick again, whimpering as he bucks his hips into hers. He can just make out her cracking plea.
"Haaaah-touch me, Soul." His brain is firing on all cylinders, goes into overdrive at the sound of her rough voice, and he's going to make her see stars, even if it means he strains something in his hand. He's inexperienced, but he's not uneducated. He's watched enough porn, maybe even snuck a couple of Maka's bottom-shelf books, and he knows what a clit is and it's general location, and he dedicates his thumb to the task. He rubs, tries not to think about how tight and slick Maka is, feels the little nub and swirls his digit around it. "Fuck," she hiccups, and she's so keyed up that her hips are driving into his wildly and she's clenching around him. He rubs his thumb against her again, falling into a rhythm with their hips and suddenly, she's gone completely, back arching, mouth open but silent as she slams into him, shuddering violently; it would be fascinating to watch, but she's squeezing him mercilessly, and he can't think anymore because he's biting her shoulder to keep from crying out as he plunges into her spastically and everything is stars behind his eyelids until his brain catches up to his body and all of his limbs are uncooperative jelly.
He slumps back onto the cushions, taking Maka with him and for a long moment, there's nothing but the harsh sounds of their mingling pants. Soul manages to lift his head long enough to meet his meister's exhausted green eyes.
"Wow," he says.
"Wow," she agrees, and he could dance because she's smiling at him and there's no awkward regret, but movement isn't really a happening thing at the moment, much less dancing, so he smiles back and kisses her softly, because that's a thing that he can do now, and they lay there, together, content and tired. Except after a minute, Maka begins to fidget against him, and there's something sticky starting to drip onto his thighs, and it takes a second to process just what that is.
Maka clears her throat delicately, and her blush is back in full, violent red force.
"We should ah, haaaa. Check..." He stares at her stupidly until it clicks and he's blushing too and on the verge of panicking with the sheer number of what-if scenarios pummeling his brain. He tamps them down to varying degrees of success, barely manages to not start up a frantic mantra consisting of "Ohgodohgodohgod," and gingerly withdraws. They both cringe at the sensation, but the condom is at least where it's supposed to be, and now Soul's left with the task of disposing of the thing in a way that doesn't lose him any more cool points that he already has. It's impossible, he's pretty certain. His pants are still technically on, denim wrapped around his thighs, but they're kind of a complete sticky moist mess from their enthusiastic activities, and his boxers are in even worse shape. They disentangle with marginal success, and he manages to remove the sticky latex with minimum wincing.
It's a lost cause, really, so Soul tugs up cold, wet boxers and jeans and half shuffles, half waddles to the nearest trash can, hissing the whole time at the feeling of material anywhere near his still sensitive junk. He waddles back to the couch, and their eyes are like opposing magnets. Her tits are still out and about and distracting, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to look at his meister without envisioning her naked. She's desperately trying to look anywhere but at the stain on this jeans, but it's right there, and kind of her fault, and it's better than the alternative which is looking at his stupidly sculpted chest. She could look him in the eyes, but all that makes her think of is what he looks like when he orgasms, and that is no fucking good. Maka thinks that they may never be able to look at each other again, despite the fact that they just had sex that they both wanted and didn't regret and wasn't that supposed to be the hard part?
Soul sighs. Cool is so far gone he can't even contemplate it. There's no hope of salvaging any image he might have had, and fuck, he's never really been able to fool her anyway. He holds his hand out, and she takes it reflexively. He pulls her up, off the couch, and crushes her to his chest. they're both sticky with sweat as they embrace, but he can feel Maka begin to relax against him and the tension begins to dissipate. Perhaps there's still hope for salvaging this post-coital lull, he thinks, staring at the strands of her hair plastered to his chest. He backs away, tugs her with him, and moves towards the hall.
"Soul, what-?" she's confused, but doesn't resist. He shoots her a cocky grin.
"Shower time, Maka."
