burned into my brain are these stolen images
by. Poisoned Scarlett

act seven, scene two

He realizes very quickly that waiting is something Maka does not do best and he thinks that he should have anticipated this.

Her fingers play with his hair, body pressed against him, hips locking with his as she runs her tongue over the seam of his lips. He parts them for her, taking in her tongue, his arm wrapping around her hips, clutching her even closer to him. She moans, a sound that vibrates down his throat and is met with his own. Soul runs his hands down her sides, kisses her open-mouthed and hot, wanting to feel even more of her, wanting to discard the silk black one-piece that has only served as fuel for his desire. His mouth slants against hers and then he does something that makes her heart leap to her throat: his hands massage into her sides, his fingers pressing into her skin until they reach the swell of her breasts. She mews when he runs his fingers around them and she grabs a wrist and pushes it towards an aching nipple, gives a moan of satisfaction when he grabs her breast and gives it a soft squeeze.

"Soul," she groans. She reaches behind him and opens the door open, shoving him through it. She manages to shut it before he draws so close she can smell his deodorant, so close she can run her lips over his neck. She dares to lick his jaw, the ache between her thighs growing at his tremble. He holds her behind her neck, pressing their lips together again and invading her mouth with his tongue this time. He allows his hands to see for him, to graze down her perky breasts until he reaches the swell of her hips. He reaches around to grab her rear, to push their hips together until she can feel his length against her. Maka moans, grinding into him, sucking in breath when pleasure spreads through her body like a drug. She lifts a leg, bringing him in closer, her heart in her throat, his cock so intimately close to her that she can feel it with every thrust of his hips.

She doesn't know or quite understand why he has this effect on her. But she doesn't question it, how his mouth saps away all her resistance, her reservations. She leans into his touch instead of pulling away like she's supposed to, like she tells herself she should. She moans into his mouth and melts, snaking her hand under his shirt to touch the muscles that flex as he grinds into her.

The room is dark. It's an adjacent dance room, this one having mirrors on every wall unlike their usual practice room. The floors are wood paneled and gleaming as she pulls him near the wall. It's dark and the only way she can see is from the windows that line the top of the walls. They introduce that ghostly glow of the moon, illuminate his eyes a bright red when she looks at him. She breathes his name, pulling his shirt up his stomach. He obliges, pulling it off himself. Her mouth latches onto the first patch of skin she can, tasting him all the way up to his collarbone and sucking until he curses and buries his fingers in her hair, pulling her away for a second.

"Over here," he grunts and pulls her against the mirror. She squeaks at the cold but it's quickly forgotten when his mouth latches onto her own again, tongue wrapping over hers and doing things that fan that fire she has for him. She slides down the mirror, bringing him down with her, until she is on her knees with him, her hands grabbing the loops of his jeans and tugging. She unbuttons his jeans, unzips them, and when she tugs his jeans down again, this time they do come down, slowly, getting caught on the bulge that aches to break free from the confines of his boxers. She tugs his jeans around it, her hand massaging his cock softly after.

"Wait, are we really gonna'—?"

"Unless you don't want to," she mumbles, kissing his jaw, letting her hand fondle his dick as he lets out a shuddering pant in her ear. "Want to stop?"

"No," he gulps. "Hell no."

She bites her lip in delight, grabbing him from over the silk material of his boxers, wanting to feel him full and hot in her hand and not through clothes.

"Maka," he growls when she dares to reach into the slit of his boxers, giving herself a teasing touch of what's comes, and she giggles into his mouth. But she obliges, pulling his jeans down as far as she can. He kicks them off himself, grabs her and guides her down until she lies flat on her back. He wastes no time kissing her jaw down to her neck, licking her skin and hearing her moan her approval the lower he goes. His hands slip under the straps of her one piece, pulls them down her shoulders and down her chest and stomach until they're down to her strong thighs. She sits up, bends her legs so she can kick the one-piece off, and he grabs hold of one leg beneath the knee, massaging his thumb into the juncture as he kisses her again.

"Soul," she murmurs, opening glazed eyes to look at him. "What..."

"Just follow me," he tells her, pushing her leg towards her until her knee is by her ear. She lets out a tiny grunt, her other leg drawing up so she isn't uncomfortable, and then he lines their hips together, his covered length sliding up her wet slit. She bucks up, gasps, her chest heaves and she thinks there is not enough oxygen in this room, in this entire world, to keep her alive if he continues. His hips thrust vigorously against hers, his name breaks her throat, she throws her head back as she lifts her other leg a little more. Her hands which hold her upright are starting to give but her hips meet his with equal enthusiasm, harder and faster as pleasure begins to build. She wants to rip her panties off, rip his boxers off, expose his long cock to her and push it inside of her, because she truly believes that if he is not inside her within the next few seconds, she will surely burst into flames.

"Soul," her voice is hot-velvet, thick and raw as she digs her nails into his shoulder. "Soul, please."

"Are you sure?" He lowers her leg so her knees can squeeze his waist instead. He catches his breath, sweat starting to sheen his skin, and the moonlight offers just enough light to see her mussed hair and her bright green eyes. She has eyes that sparkle with every angle of light and even when there is no light, they kindle with an internal fire. She has the preciously curled lips of a girl who knows too much for her age, of a girl who has so much weight on her shoulders, and he wants to make it go away. He wants her to be free, if just for a second, a split second of freedom from the perfection that encases her in its box of rigid standards and expectations. So he crushes their lips together and he pulls off his boxers, pulls down her panties, feels her wet slit against his pulsing shaft and pushes past it, deep into the internal warmth that is all her, just her, and catches her moans as she urges him to go faster, to fill her now because she needs him now.

"Oh, god, yes," she cries, her head falling back as he pushes into her. He hisses at just how tight she is, how hot she feels, pushing deeper and deeper until he is buried within her at the hilt. There's a second when they both stay still and bask in the glory of being united as fully as they possibly can before he pulls out and thrusts back into her, picking up speed with every thrust. She bites her lip, racks her nails down his shoulder and follows his rhythm the best she can. Eventually she lays down flat, her body rolling against his in a way that only makes him thrust faster.

"Fuck, Maka," he groans, licking his way back into her mouth. "You feel so good," he husks and she keens, meeting his hips faster as pleasure starts to blot out her sight. She closes her eyes, her mouth parted because she can't bother to keep her cries to herself, and she is close enough to the edge she can almost taste it. Once she is at the edge looking down, she arches and she comes hard enough that what she thinks is a voiceless cry is actually a pitched scream. Soul's hand actually covers her mouth, his weak shush doing nothing to quiet her, because when he comes it's with the same intensity only his cry really is voiceless, just a strangled choke of her name and a thick stream of gasps and pants and groans before he slumps over weak-boned but the most satisfied he has been in what he can honestly say is ever.

"Soul," Maka breathes, gazing up at the ceiling as her heart calms. "I think I saw perfection in you once, too."

His eyes open, his breathing still labored.

"That first time I saw you play," she continues, quietly. Her hands gently play with his hair. "The way your hands moved over the keys, just for a split second, I saw it. You were perfect."

He scoffs but something inside of him cracks at that. He hasn't realized, not until this moment, just how much he has wanted someone to tell him this. He hasn't realized it and he can't decide whether that is a miserable epiphany or a fortunate one yet. Instead, he buries his nose in the crook of her neck, kisses her fluttering pulse and mouths words that make her cheeks feel warm and quiet her hearts aches and fears.