PORN because I wanted to.

Also because of the SE Kink Meme on the Shibusen LJ. They wanted Maka and Soul to get it on in a public place.

And I thought...where better to do that than a dingy alley after a battle?

Nowhere, clearly.

On a technical note: there are some rough, strange transitions and abrupt thematic devices inserted a bit late into the fic, and if you've got a way to constructively suggest how to fix them, I am all ears. Pleaseplease and thank you. Otherwise, grin and bear it? Pretty pleasings.

Finally, I envisaged this as taking place sometime after the Shibusen gang take out all their current manga villains, and ideally they'd be of consenting age to undertake the sexitiemz, but you pervs out there are more than welcome to do with their ages what you will (hopefully no one is in to kidlet porn, though...).

Weeeeeeee!

DOI.

only because

Only because he was heady with victory, exhilarated, thrilled to have narrowly escaped excruciating death (again; they're Close-Scrape Specialists), half-wild with adrenaline, and pleasantly sated from the uniformly airy-sweet-electric-warmth of four pre-kishin souls; only because they hadn't seen this much excitement since they'd put down Arachne and the Kishin and Medusa and all their attendant lackeys; only because he was ecstatic that she was whole, that she was (largely) unhurt (if not looking very, very worn), that she was alive, and that she looked –at this very moment—so indisputably cut-ass rugged (proud, fierce, lethal) and almost aglow (the moss of her eyes burned, brilliant, caught somewhere between apple and pine and jade, and the effect was stunning) from her –their—triumph; only because he was Soul and she was Maka and there hadn't been a question for some time what the relative distance between them should be—

Soul morphed from blade to boy in the space of a heartbeat (their heartbeat, synchronously pounding), and Maka had only time to blink in comprehension before he had her against the wall of the alley, fingers becoming momentarily razor-sharp edges to –quite literally—rend the clothes from her body (she was going to hurt him very badly for the lack of forethought after this was over, his subconscious niggled, before he very promptly quashed thinking altogether), mouth rapacious and greedily exploratory against hers.

Maka was hardly unreceptive; she left the well-traveled cavern of his mouth rather quickly for his throat, which she attacked with tongue and teeth with maddening aplomb and frenzied proficiency (he had learned to appreciate her attentiveness to detail, her desire to excel, her need to be the best--), and no sooner did he have her out of her skirt and panties (silk, from Liz, patterned with gawky toucans and distended rhinos courtesy of Patti and oh, he was in so much trouble later, such good, good trouble--) than she was thrusting her hips eagerly against his, apparently entirely unfazed by (or unaware of, even more shocking) late-night cabaret patrons as they filed by Soul and Maka's dimly-lit spontaneous tryst space, laughing and whispering and gasping in shock as Maka heralded their location with her hoarse, brazen, loud encouragement.

He wasted no time shrugging out of his pants, grinning lewdly at her as she pulled her head back to regard him, pigtails (no longer a feature he associated with puerile fashion or girlish sentiment; in the intervening years he had discovered all manner of interesting uses for those dangling locks) matted and damp with sweat, adhering to flushed cheeks and the margins of her bruised mouth, pulling his attention away from the heat of the moment for an instant while he puzzled over the inexplicable allure of those perspiration-engendered whorls.

He wasn't long for the minutiae, however; the beat had slowed but had by no means diminished in intensity. Warm hands found his jaw, tangled gently in his snowy hair, trained his gaze to the verdant insinuation in hers, and without breaking eye contact, he lifted her against him, hoisting her effortlessly and brushing his fingers intimately across the length of her thighs as he cinched them tight around his waist. She shuddered violently as he slid into her utterly without preamble, biting her lip in a vain attempt to keep from making too much noise (an irony which he would have the time to reflect upon and tease her about later, when he was again capable of connecting images and sound with their accordant thought and meanings), her eyes clenching shut and her head ducking forward under the weight of the agonizing pleasure building within her.

Soul had learned long ago how well they fitted together, how perfectly fashioned the one was for the other; what he marveled at now was the way he could play with their respective dynamics –how he could invert their roles as weapon and meister and wield her, pull and push and otherwise manipulate the movement of her body to produce optimum resonance, more potent and impressive harmony, his soul commingling with hers for maximum effect. He liked to be the one responsible for turning his unbending, tenacious partner into so much pliable putty for him to mold as he pleased, enjoyed watching Maka, the unstoppable –and occasionally pigheaded—force of nature, transposed into this tantalizing, sinuous woman he sometimes needed so badly it ached.

His Maka was not meek by any means, though, and as often as he was in control of her, she commanded him with equal fervor and delight. Just as in battle there was a confluence of mutual power between them, a system involving constant counterbalance, adjustment, and compensation, one was never more important than the other, and it was their intimate recognition of this truth that made them so perfectly compatible.

He fought to keep his feet when she grabbed his shoulders for leverage and twisted, inciting a pleasure so intense he couldn't see for one frantic moment, and she laughed breathlessly when he overbalanced and spun them both painfully into the wall (which, he realized with vague revulsion, was slick with grime). He was almost angry until she started to move again, this time with decided abandon, and then he could hardly process anything other than the anguish of the ecstasy developing more quickly than he could control, and the sound of Maka's voice, desperate, broken, glorious all around him, bouncing off of walls and ricocheting violently off the walls of his skull.

His hands rocked her forcefully at the waist while hers alternatively raked across his back and combed painfully through his hair, and the crescendo of their melody steadily climbed until Soul captured one of her pert breasts between the serrated edges of his teeth, until Maka arched sharply and threw her head back, and then, together (because it was always together, everything they did, from the mundane to the profound to the fundamentally human), they achieved perfect harmony.

OMAKE!!

And it was only because they hadn't bothered to be discreet that Black Star and his damnably impeccable hearing (as well as his stentorian sense of justice and his nigh compulsory need to come to the aid of those in distress –for the glory and attention just as much as for the unselfish need to Do Right by his fellow man) had come boisterously crashing around the corner, Tsubaki in hand, crowing his name at the top of his little lurking-ninja-assassin lungs.

It was the first time any of them could recall the azure-headed boy turning tail and running from a confrontation.

Oh, Black Star. You rabid blue ball of (obnoxious) energy.

I love thee.

And blueberries. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.