A/N: This is real smut eater, totally M/NSFW, graphic sex people. It's also a bit on the fluffy side as smut goes. It has an odd, shifting omniscient perspective past the initial expositional narration that will, hopefully, be easy enough to follow.
This is real smut eater, totally M/NSFW, graphic sex people. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. It's also a bit on the fluffy side as smut goes. It has an odd, shifting omniscient perspective past the initial expositional narration that will, hopefully, be easy enough to follow.
They never did things quite the way people expected them to, quite the way they were supposed to in anyone else's eyes. It wasn't something purposeful, something planned. It just was.
Like resonance. They had collected 99 kishin souls without being able to resonate properly, 99 kishin souls and one cat soul, actually. 100 souls, all the old fashioned hack and slash way. It was unheard of, to do so so young, to do so by simple slash and kill, but they had done it. Everyone would have expected Maka Albarn, top of her class, meister protégé, daughter of the greatest weapon-meister team Shibusen had ever seen, to resonate well and truly, to do so quickly and without issue. And when they hadn't? Everyone had expected that maybe they never would, or maybe they would patch together some half assed bond that would barely pass muster, or maybe the meister would finally ditch her sarcastic, lazy weapon for someone more driven. Yet, when they finally got it, they got it, and their resonance, their soul bond, had become the envy of the school.
Actually, in the beginning, no one had expected the friendly bookworm and the odd looking, caustic scythe to last more than a week as partners, but they had.
And then, years later, just before the battle on the moon, when they were so close that every look, every touch, screamed their feelings to everyone who saw them, everyone expected they were dating, but they weren't. Everyone expected them to start dating any minute, any second, but they hadn't. Everyone seemed to know it was love but Soul and Maka themselves. It took them a long, long time to figure it out, or declare it, or share it, and it wasn't until over a year after the incident on the moon that they finally, for whatever reason, did. It wasn't like anything much changed from the outside—only Black*Star had spied a stolen kiss in the hall, and suddenly, when people asked Soul if Maka was his girlfriend, or Maka if Soul was her boyfriend, neither denied it.
No, they never did things quite as they were expected to do them. Not as weapon and meister, not in love, not with sex.
Yes, sex. That was next in the progression, wasn't it? And everyone had figured, close as they were, once they declared their undying love and whatnot and were together, the weapon and meister would be completelytogether. Even Spirit had been so convinced that the younger scythe had defiled his daughter that he had sat the boy down for a serious and confusing talk about Maka, sex, being safe, and not breaking her heart you cocky little shit the instant they'd been caught kissing, and long before anything else could even hope to occur.
Because nothing had occurred. Soul and Maka didn't work that way. It didn't matter that they had long since considered each other's personal space fair game and open season, long before kissing had engaged in little touches and hand holding, and snuggling. It didn't matter that they were utterly comfortablewith one another, body and soul. Everyone had assumed that if the far less physically demonstrative meister-weapon couple Black*Star and Tsubaki had jumped into bed the very night they confessed their attraction (and pretty much the whole school was aware of this fact, much to the shadow weapon's chagrin, because her meister had a big mouth,) then surely Soul and Maka, with all that touching and meaningful glancing, would do the same.
Only they wouldn't, they hadn't. And, two months after an accidental kiss that led to stammered confessions, they still hadn't really progressed beyond kissing and snuggling and holding hands. Hands had roamed, but only to safe territory, kisses had deepened, but nothing beyond.
Maybe it was because Maka was still afraid, so afraid, of screwing things up. Afraid that if she gave into her own sometimes overwhelming physical need, she would become somehow like her father. If they took things slowly, carefully, didn't become too caught up in that desire she was well aware they both felt, maybe it would all turn out okay. Or maybe it was because Soul could sense her hesitation and, as in most things, let her take the lead. She set the pace, and so far, the pace was agonizingly, torturously slow.
Trips to the bathroom or a bedroom were frequent for both, though separately, particularly after their intense but controlled make out sessions, where heated kisses were exchanged, where lips met necks and throats and ears, where hands roamed down arms and up thighs and tangled into hair, but where nothing more occurred. Both were always left panting for more when Maka would inevitably push her weapon come boyfriend away, claiming exhaustion, or suggesting they should watch television, or exclaiming a need to use the restroom. Or, or, or—anything but continue down the road they were on, which was skirting dangerously close to hands on pert breasts, or underneath too short skirts, or grasping arousal clearly straining beneath stiff denim.
When a new line was finally drawn in the sand, long after anyone would have thought possible, it was, as so many things for the two of them, because Maka decided to cross it. It was a Saturday night, one in which, as had become the norm over the past two months, their movie viewing had quickly turned into something else. Cuddled together on the couch so snuggly, it took very little, a stray touch, a warm smile, to provoke their mutual ardor, to turn movie night into make out night.
On this particular night, it was well into their make out session, high time that Maka pushed away and ran to the bathroom or bedroom or anywhere but here and now. How many times had they done this, had she done this? His hands felt achingly good squeezing her hips, just riding up hot and needy over her waist. Her own hands tangled in his hair again as he began to trail wet kisses down her neck, his tongue darting out to tease soft skin, causing her to bite back a moan. It always felt so good, and later, as she touched herself in the bath or in the bed, she knew she would think of how much better it would feel if she didn't hold them back, if it were him doing the touching, riding thoughts of him to orgasm, biting back the impulse to cry out his name in her ecstasy. She was entirely certain he did the same, spending his time alone with her on his mind, thoughts of her hand where his would be, and that knowledge kindled her own flame higher and brighter.
It was always the same. She wondered, silently, if the fact that she was tired of it was a sign that it was time to do more, go further. Would there be harm, really, in letting him touch more? In touching more herself? She ached to feel him, to know what it would be like to grasp him, hold him, stroke him. Would the skin be soft? Would he be hot? Would he moan and gasp at her touch as he did when she kissed just the right spot on his neck or when she nibbled his lip? And what would it feel like, to be touched by him in those places she had forbidden them to go. To feel his hands stroking the needy flesh of her breasts, the aching heat of her clit.
Maka might be prone to hesitate about some things, but when she did finally decide, it tended to happen quickly. Suddenly, she decided. What harm, to have his hand stroke her heat instead of her own? To stroke his in turn? They already thought of each other as they pleasured themselves. Why not simply exchange hands? That wasn't much farther than they went here, a small step, a baby step. Not intercourse, they didn't have to go there yet in order to go here, do this.
Her choice made, she moved one hand slowly, teasingly, from its place in his hair to trail down his neck, then chest.
For his part, Soul felt her hand and thought she must be about to push him away, push them apart as she generally did at this point, resigned himself to it as much as he wanted more, so much more. He expected it every second, even as her warm little hand teased the flesh of his stomach and he bit his lip, bit down on his gasp of need, even as he wished and willed that her hand would keep moving, keep going, that she would finally touch him where he had ached for her touch for so long.
As her hand lingered at the waistline of his jeans, he expected her to flee at any moment, disappointment flaring unbidden. He gave her neck a hard suck, the intensity of his action a promise and a plea. Maka gasped, and he felt her shiver her pleasure before her hand began to move once more, not to push him away as he expected, but to travel farther down, just brushing against the hardness in his jeans, just brushing against that part of him he had been praying for her to touch all this while, soft, hesitant, searing, and not nearly enough. He wanted more even as this was all he had ever wanted. Her feather light touch along the top of his jeans was slow torture, her tracing of his hardness the most exquisite, most teasing thing he had ever experienced. He couldn't stifle his moan, still his impulse to move his hand up where he had never dared touch, taking her cue, grazing the side of her breast. She gasped in return, and he felt her shiver beneath his fingertips; taking that and her own wandering hand as a sign, a shift in the boundary, he ventured his hand over the swell of her breast, enjoying the feel of her flesh, warm and soft in his hand even through the fabric of her tank top. He enjoyed her soft moan, the slight arch of her body at his touch, the feel of her hardened nipple in his palm as he squeezed softly.
At the feel of his hand on her breast, where she had so long ached to feel it, had so often denied her longing, Maka's faint touch became firm, forcefully groping his hard length under the rough fabric of his jeans. She wanted to feel more and, as his breathing became unsteady in her ear, as her own breath caught at the feel of him teasing first one then another nipple through the fabric of her shirt, she quickly moved her hand up, pulling at the snap of his jeans to leave enough room to snake her hand underneath the denim. She dug beneath the fabric of his boxers without ceremony, needily grasping his hot, stiff cock in her hands, so unexpectedly soft and silky, yet so warm and hard. It was foreign, yet wonderful, this part of him she had dreamed of touching so long now twitching in the palm of her hand. Gratified by his ragged moan at her initial touch, eager to find out what pleased him, to hear him cry his pleasure, she began to move her fingers along his length, exploring with soft touches and firm ones, trying to figure out where he liked to be touched, where it would feel best, how she might bring him to the brink and beyond.
"Maka," his voice was low, her hand holding him, stroking him, a form of insanity, his mind entirely filled with her touch and the feel of her flesh beneath his hands. Soul moved his own hands down and beneath the fabric of her shirt and, encountering neither protest nor resistance, palmed a bare breast. While he mourned the momentary stilling of her hand, he enjoyed her moan against his ear, throaty, needy.
"Soul," she gasped, and suddenly he felt her free hand leave his hair, felt it grasp one of his own hands and guide it down her torso, down to the fabric of her sleep pants and beneath.
"Please," Maka breathed in his ear, even as her pace quickened on his shaft, her fingers spreading sticky precum over his head, working it over his tip, feeling to finally reach that vein along the bottom, that spot where it met his head, that made him moan and gasp, causing him to forget, for the barest instant, that his hand was now poised above her panties, the fabric soaked by her rising desire. The feel of that, her wetness, her heat underneath the fabric, underneath his hand, elicited another gasp from him and a simultaneous gasp from her as he began to stroke along the fabric, along the still covered slit of her womanhood. Soul couldn't believe he was touching her, that she was touching him. Her hand felt so good, so right, and he wanted nothing more than to feel her against his heated skin forever as he continued to stoke her covered sex, to feel her maddening touch on his skin, to feel her soft breast in his other hand.
"More," she panted, turning her mouth to kiss and lick the skin of his neck, lifting her bottom ever so slightly from her place straddling his knee to give him better access. Never one to deny his meister, he slid aside the soaked strip of cloth he had been stroking, slid a finger along her hot length for the barest instant before working it between her wet folds. Her moan, the tightening of her grasp around his own length, the feel of her so hot and wet and needy, caused him to moan in turn, to feel around for that part of her he knew he should find, though he had no experience to rely on, to tell him precisely where. After a few moments of feeling, blindly, his finger finally hit upon a part of her that felt hot and hard, puckered beneath her wetness and his touch, and as his finger ran over it, her soft gasp of his name, her stilled hand, was all he needed to hear, He began to stroke, reveled in her own quickened pace, her index finger running over that most sensitive part of him, that place where head and shaft met, over and over again, causing him to shudder, his own fingers working over her hot flesh causing her to do the same, to writhe and moan and finally gasp.
"Soul!," her moan tore from her lips, unbidden, and his echoing "Maka," the feel of his cock twitching once beneath her fingers, made her shiver with pleasure. This, this was surely better than being shut up in her room, trying to bite back her cries of his name, imagining fingers that felt so much better on her skin than her dreams of them ever could. Maka could not have imagined how his slight callouses would feel, rough yet soft against her, how feeling him stroke her, swirling his fingers, changing his pace, quick then slow then quick again, would leave her panting and gasping, how the feel of his hot length in her hand, so warm, so soft, so impossibly big and needy, weeping and twitching with her every touch, would leave her aching for him, even as his fingers worked to satisfy that ache. She wanted this, needed this. She wanted more than this, needed more than this, too, but this could be enough. It was more than she had ever imagined, less than she ultimately knew she desired, but it could suffice because it was so much greater than anything they had done before, so much more fulfilling.
Maka quickened her pace unbidden, her own moans tearing through her at his ministrations, loud and raw and uncontrollable, Soul's answering grunts and gasps building her own pleasure, building his in turn. They fed off each other, their mutual touch, their mutual sound, spontaneous and ragged and beautiful, this music they made together. She felt herself getting close to the edge, her fingers seeking his hot, soft tip once, twice, felt him twitch against her hand, heard his ragged cry of her name, his hot seed spilling against her palm. At the feel of him, twitching and spurting, she imagined what it would feel like against her, inside of her, and she cried out his name in her turn as his relentless fingers and the image of him, so hot and hard inside of her, pushed her over the edge.
Her voice was ragged in her own ears, her moan more like a scream, long and aching, his name on her lips pleading and reverent. She had never come so hard, not by her own hand, and she knew that she would never wish to go back to her own hands when she could have his.
The meister collapsed against her weapon, spent, panting for breath for several minutes, feeling his own pants beneath her, the rise and fall of his chest, his hand snaking out of her panties to draw her closer, trapping her own hand in his jeans. She moved back, looking at him sheepishly as she pulled her hand out and away, eyeing the cooling evidence of his release speculatively.
"We should probably clean up," she mumbled, coloring, sliding off his lap to make for the sink. Maka glanced back to see her scythe rise and shuffle uncomfortably towards his room. She returned her focus to her hand, washing carefully, then drying, marveling at what she had just done, what they had just done together. She had shoved them across the line she'd drawn, and she knew there was no going back. Thinking to what had just happened, how good it had felt, how right, she could not regret it.
It wasn't another moment before Soul softly padded out of his room, dressed in only sleep pants, and moved up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her to him. She felt good in his arms, so small and soft and warm, and he couldn't help breathing in her scent through her hair with a contented sigh. This had been what he'd wanted for weeks, months, years, longer. Not everything he'd wanted, maybe, but so much more than he'd ever felt until now.
"We should go to bed," he murmured against the back of her ear and she nodded, slightly, her assent.
"Mmmmhmmm."
"My room?" he asked, though he needn't have. He had the bigger bed, and while they might do nothing but cuddle or kiss, they had taken to sharing it weeks ago.
"Mmmmhmmm."
His only response was to spin her in his arms, eliciting a surprised gasp, before planting a soft kiss on her hairline. She smiled up at him and then, wriggling from his arms, pulled him by the hand to bed.
Quickly settled, Maka in his arms, her body molded pleasantly against his, Soul couldn't help but smile against the back of her head, a smile that widened as she spoke softly.
"Goodnight, Soul. I love you."
"I love you, too." He said easily, marveling at how even such powerful words failed to represent everything he meant by them, everything they represented for him. He pulled her that slight bit closer, trying to convey through touch what he could not through words and decided, perhaps in what they had done tonight, what they had shared, he might have begun to let her feel what she meant to him, what she would always mean to him.
No, Soul and Maka never did anything the way they were expected to, waiting so long for every half step, relishing every small change, sharing their space and their bed long before they shared their bodies. But that was them, together, their path, their choice, and as they drifted into contented slumber, neither would change it.