AN: Written for Soma NSFW prompt legs. aw yeah.

There are some things that he wished he just didn't notice. Like how Maka actually seems to detest pants, hence all the fucking skirts, but even her leggings annoy her and as soon as her boots are off, she'll hook her thumbs under her skirt and wiggle out of them. Soul feels like a bit of a jerk and a creep watching her take them off, but the way they fold and crease and collect in bunches fascinates him.

Her tights don't do it so much they just kind of roll. Her leggings keep some of their shape and sort of bunch down. On the days that she wears jeans and can't fucking wait until she's in her room to get out of, he'll watch the fabric fold, the lighter blue of the inside of the jeans contrasting with her skin and the darker blue outside.

He contemplates just getting it out of his system with some fabric studies (he likes to draw, sue him), but when he throws some of his own jeans on the floor to draw the creases and shadows, it isn't the same. At all. Maybe it's just his pants versus hers, but he kicks his jeans back over to the clean laundry part of his floor and wonders just how creepy it would be to ask his meister for a pair of her pants. He can already feel the Maka Chop and he hasn't even done anything beyond think it.

Maka's reluctance to wear pants becomes steadily worse when she begins to forget that he is actually a guy. And as much as he bitches about tits, he's a leg guy, and her legs are on parade just a little too often. And by a little he means she's taken to hanging out in a tshirt and panties. Or a (his) sweatshirt and a pair of, the fuck had she called them? cheeky panties? Cept, more like booty shorts, emphasis on the short. Like really short. Like fuck him sideways he was going to need to retreat to his room and hide under his bed short.

The final straw came when she was in one of HIS white button down shirts (he'd been looking for that last week for the formal dinner they had to go to) and a pair of black low riding, going to give a concussion via inevitable Maka Chop, fucking hipster panties.

How are those hipster? How can panties be hipster? They aren't ironic. Or vintage…

He really hoped they weren't vintage.

Maybe if he just thought about the idiocy of female underwear names and annoying yuppie sub-cultures and not his meister sitting cross legged on the floor he could get out of this alive.

And then the thought occurred to him, what would those panties look like if she dragged them down her legs? Would the fabric roll in on itself? Or just get drawn across her skin and turn inside out until he could s-

Soul groaned and less than gently put his head on the kitchen counter. This was beyond creepy, now he was just being rude. His boner agreed with him. He really should be in the living room testing his theories on the different types of fabric and how many buttons he could get away with undoing before he died a very happy man.

"Soul?" She called.

"No." He said back. Cause no. No no no. He needed to not be anywhere near her, or thinking about her, or wondering if, no! Soul also realized that if he went near his partner, she'd be able to tell that there was no blood anywhere near his brain and he'd be useless to help her. Unless she wanted to-

NO.

"Oi, you ok?" Maka's voice sent him careening away from the counter complete with a yelp and flailing arms. He thought he had his footing but it was just one of those days that decided that, no, Soul hadn't said hello to the floor today and he definitely should. Oh! And he should bring Maka with him that would be a lovely idea! Little get together with the kitchen floor and a girl who was still only in her panties and a shirt that was three sizes too large for her.

Yes, a lovely idea indeed.

One that ended with Maka on top of him. Right on top of him. Breasts flush to his chest, and wow. Actually, from this angle? Huh. He really should back off the "tiny tits" comments 'cause they were tiny but they were still there.

He hated everything about this idea. Cept her tits. He kinda liked those.

Through years of experience and Maka Chops, his left hand had landed on the very safe zone of cradling her head to him and his right was in a slightly more precarious yellow zone of the back of her thigh. Actually, scratch that, orange zone alert, he could almost feel the curve of her ass against his thumb. And her god damn panties were not helping anything.

"Soul?" Maka's squeak was muffled against his collarbone, and maybe, just maybe! If he stayed really really still she wouldn't notice his fucking bon-

She shifted her hips and he gasped. Nope. He was done. Wasn't going to survive. At all. Either his dick was going to kill him or she was. Possible via his dick. Fuck.

"Are you?"

"Am I what?" He managed to groan. Horny beyond belief? Possibly in love with you? In the weirdest position ever? Well yes to that one. But really, why were they called hipster panties. They don't have anything to do with coffee-drinking-you've-never-heard-of-this-band-br oke-ass-possibly-rich-or-homeless-it's-hard-to-tel l-when-you-wear-someone-else's-grandfather's-cloth ing-that-may-or-may-not-be-designer-brand-ART-STUD ENTS!

"Are you ok?" Fuck her eyes were green. Like solid, fucking I'M A NEW LEAF ON A TREE green. No. No he wasn't ok.

"I might be if you could put some fucking pants on Captain Hipster Panties!" His groaning finally turned into growling

"Hiphuggers." And she has the nerve to blink at him like he's the fool in his underwear before grinding their his together again. Fuck it all, he grabbed her ass (his palm was wider than the fabric supposedly covering her!) and tried to figure out if he wanted her to stop or keep going. "They're hiphuggers. I mean they're technically hipsters too, but they aren't hipkinis or boyshorts, but these have a bit more-"

He kissed her. Cause if she kept talking about underwear that she wasn't wearing his was going to lose his erection.

Soul had had Maka lean on him, or collapse on him, but he'd never had her melt on him. Or into him, or, fuck she went boneless against him and kissed him back and maybe this was ok? Maybe, he wasn't going to die?

Well die because of a Maka Chop. Soul was still pretty sure that unless something happened with his dick soon, he was going to die. He'd lost track if his hand was guiding her hips to grind against him or if it was just along for the ride. The wonderful, glorious, mind-numbingly good ride. Somehow, through her gyrating, his kneading, and possibly some magic, his thumb hooked the side of her stupid ass hiphugger panties and pulled down just a bit.

That reminded him of a distant fantasy of watching her pull the panties down, distant being two minutes ago, not even, and it dawned on him that he could pull them down himself. Hopefully. If Maka was ok with that.

"Can these, uhgodMaaahka, come off?" His voice was somewhere between the porn star and sore throat speak and he was only really speaking "Holy Shit I'm Horny and She's The One." He at least still had language, she just moaned and started to try and shimmy out of them with just his thumb and the bulge in his pants as leverage. "Wait, hang on, fuckfuckfuck—"

Rolling her was a lot more fun than it should have been. Hair wild, flush way past the collar of the shirt, and writhing for more contact as he looms over her was making his heart do funny things. She's watching him with her lower lip between her teeth and that's his job! He's got more pressing matters though 'cause he has permission to take her panties off.

He, Soul "Eater" Evans has permission from one, Maka Albarn, to take her panties off.

Her stupid hiphugger panties.

Her stupid hiphugger panties that are soaked through. Soul just about comes and dies on the spot. He's so excited he has to slide a hand up her thigh to keep it from shaking (wait is he shaking or is she trembling?) until he reaches the other side of of the useless black underwear. Maka sighs and shudders when he pulls them down and he's so focused on the new flesh he forgets to see if the panties roll or bunch as they slide down her legs. And there's a lot of leg to slide down. They're both breathing raggedly by the time he flings them across the room because stupid underwear with too many names.

She's gorgeous and pink and wet (because of him!) and there are not swears strong enough for how soon he needs her legs on his shoulders and his tongue tasting her. Because really, fuck cloth: he's much more interested in organic folds now.

(And yes. He made her come. And ended up losing his own load just watching her cause FUCK)