Blenders at 7 AM on a Sunday should be illegal.

Soul groans and drags Maka's pillow over his head. Actually, anything at 7 AM should be illegal, but especially on a weekend - he's not a morning person, has never been a morning person, so of course his roommate slash girlfriend enjoys rising at the crack of dawn to make smoothies. Of course.

If he didn't love her so damn much, he might try and put his foot down, maybe give her an earful and pitch a fit. If it were Wes making the noise in the kitchen, he sure as hell would bitch him out. But it's Maka, who shared her very life force with him the night before, so all things considered, maybe he owes her.

It's not going to stop him from pouting, though. It's 7 AM, as if the screaming birds outside her window aren't painful enough.

When the blending doesn't cease and Soul realizes that sleeping in just isn't going to happen, he grunts and drags himself out of bed. He has the decency to pull on a pair of boxers, lest any magical talking cats be lurking in the halls, and sulks into the kitchen, all but melting at the sight of Maka, wearing one of his shirts, a pair of mismatched fuzzy socks, and nothing else, humming perkily and pouring the contents of the blender into a pink-printed cup. She turns and beams at him and fuck it all, there goes his carefully thought out whining session. Maka's too darling with messy hair, wearing his things and sipping a protein drink.

Her sleepy eyes thaw his cold, angry heart. "Morning," she sing-songs, peeking at him from the rim of her cup before continuing to down it. She winces only slightly, her brows crinkling in dismay.

"... Taste bad?"

"I've had worse," she chimes, sliding her way over to him. Maka kisses his cheek gently, a hello, and he returns the favor back. "Sleep well?"

"Mmmh," he groans. "You?"

"I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow," Maka admits.

Soul can't keep himself from eyeing the cup in her hands. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Even when bleary and clouded with fatigue, her eyes are still sharp, and she cuts through his concern like a blade, sending a zing through his throat at the intensity of her gaze. "Yes," she insists, then breaks to sip again. Maka finishes the cup and sets it on the counter behind her, smiling boldly, and then licks her lips. "Just keeping my energy up to prepare for the day."

Soul certainly doesn't miss the way her line of vision sinks down. Maka stares pointedly at his crotch and he shuffles uneasily, hoping dearly that his penis plays the quiet game. For someone who's not technically a succubus, Maka's thoughts sure drift to things less chaste more often than his do. Watching her eye him like a piece of meat makes his blood burn, and he takes to watching each slender, tiny finger bump and curl around the edge of the counter, short, chipped nails and all.

Those hands were in such interesting places only hours ago. Places he most likely shouldn't be thinking about with Blair probably hiding under the table. He thinks about it anyway. Commence blushing.

Maka grins, though she can't hide that her face is pink too, and turns to the sink to rinse out her cup, humming again and shifting her hips to her imaginary beat. She might be tone deaf, but she's charming, and he grins and slinks over her, linking his arms around her slim waist, pulling her back into his chest. His hands lock there, right by her hips, holding her securely as she squeaks a little and turns to catch his chin with her lips.

"Cuddle bug," she teases.

"You're warm. I'm practically naked. This is for survival."

"Drama queen."

"King," he insists, kissing along the underside of her jaw as she squeezes the excess water out of a sponge and gets to work. Hands move diligently over discarded silverware and cups, carefully around the blades of her blender, and Soul watches in a haze, momentarily distracted by her movements. His lips press against her neck, halted, as her thumb scrubs a piece of breaded chicken off of a plate.

It shouldn't be so mesmerizing. He probably has a thing for her hands.

Fuck, he definitely has a thing for her hands. Blunt fingernails and callouses should not be so sexy, but all he can think about is her hands, strong and sturdy, holding him, or sneaking past waistband checkpoints as she grips her prize and works him surely, steadily, into a blissful oblivion.

Maka's yelp draws him out of his daze. "Ew, don't drool on me!"

His tongue drags down her neck instead, and Maka freezes, chest pressed out. Her hips push against his hands and he drags her back. Her head falls back into his shoulder in a lull and leaves her neck - and throat, ooh - wide open and Soul jumps on the opportunity to dot her with a few more hickies for the road. She writhes and moans against him, effectively putty in his hands as he sucks and bites, careful, as always, with his teeth. When he drags his tongue over each bite, reverent and eager, the sponge hits the counter with a noisy splat as Maka cups her hand over her mouth to mute her little whines and sighs.

7 AM might be too early for blenders, but it's definitely not too early for a little fun. One of his palms slinks lower, spreading his fingers along the bare, supple flesh of her thigh. He soaks up her heat greedily, venturing up her (his) shirt, grinning into her neck upon realizing that she's got absolutely nothing on underneath and using just his fingertips to tease her. She's wet, alluringly so, and he feels around, pressing gently on her as she mewls. Maka sighs, mumbling "Soul, please," through the cracks between her fingers.

"Impatient," he says, low, lips moving against her shoulder, her neck. He rubs circles around her clit, not quite there yet but just enough to reduce her to moans and sighs, hips mirroring the motions of his fingers. Her hips rolls in slow circles, steady little thrusts against his fingers as she tries, fruitlessly, to get him to slide in knuckles deep. She's convincing, too; the way she keeps grinding back against him only serves to frustrate him and get him going, and if the throbbing, vibrant erection tenting in his boxers is any evidence, Maka's doing a damn good job at getting what she wants.

But it's too much fun to tease her. And she's hot when she's squirming in his arms, with one of his hands still pressed to her hip to hold her against him as she bucks. Her motions are fluid, lazy with sleep but still good, still Maka - stubborn, resilient Maka, as she presses a hot cheek against the side of his face and pleads with him, quietly, for a little more. Just a little more is all she needs to get there.

He really wants to help her there.

Soul relents, finally, sinking deep within her easily, crooking his fingers and earning himself a low, crooning moan. He works her firmly, hand curling possessively over her hip as his thumb presses against her and Maka tightens all around him. She flutters and then tenses, tight, her voice cracking and breaking in such darling, blood rushing ways before slumping against him.

His fingers feel hot. He could live there, honestly, and he might have to, judging by the way her thighs have clamped around his hand. Her skin is velvety soft and burning, and it makes him suck in a painful breath and count to three in his head to soothe the aching, straining boner that's pressed quite firmly against the curve of her ass.

Maka breathes low. She sounds pretty when she comes, like a bird song, and he wishes his hand had been cupped over her chest instead, to feel the slamming of her heart.

"Soul?"

"Mm?"

"You ate lunch when we went out with Papa. You don't eat," she squints at the curtains thoughtfully. "Where did it go?"

"... Are you asking me if I shit? Right after you drank a protein shake? Really, Maka? Gross."


"Nyaaaah, just a little lower!"

"Work for it, cat. Nothing good ever comes easy."

Sex toy with feelings or sentient cat toy? Which is the true Soul?

Even he isn't sure. But if it keeps Blair from taunting him or kicking her kitty litter all over his laundry, then he'll dangle his tail over her head any day. She hunts, ears perked as she paces back and forth, bright yellow eyes trained on the edge of his tail as he lays on the bed, chin in his hand as he sifts through Maka's old high school yearbook and shifts his tail back and forth. Maka would probably be pleased to find him playing nice with her pet, but it's less of a peace pact than a mutual agreement that if he entertains her, she won't wreck havoc upon his feeble soul.

Blair misjudges the trajectory and pounces into Maka's dresser. Soul chuckles and flips the page. Huh, Maka went to school with someone named Ox. What an unfortunate name. His glasses leave a lot to be desired, too.

"Do you hear knocking?"

He lifts his head, lazily, and stares at her. "Don't try to distract me. Eyes on the prize."

"No!" she insists, balking. "I hear knocking! I think someone's at the door, nyah."

Sure enough, there's knocking - more like someone's fist slamming against the door. Both his and her ears perk. She smiles smugly and sits to lick a paw. "Told you so."

"Nyah," Soul scowls, hissing at her as he stalks up to his feet and stomps down the hall. It better not be anyone trying to sell him anything, because he's not buying. It can't be Maka; she has class until 2:30 and it's only noon. For fuck's sake, it's almost naptime. What sort of evil person interrupts naptime?

He's halfway across the entryway when Black*Star gets tired of waiting and kicks in the door. It swings off the hinges, crashing nosily into the wall and - Soul winces - definitely leaving a hole where the doorknob hit. Maka won't be happy to find her brother went on a demolition derby through her apartment just to rip her new boyfriend to shreds, piece by lanky piece. Soul swallows thickly and takes a precautionary step back, making note of all the potential exits should he need to make a quick escape.

He's quietly noting the living room window and the tiny window in the kitchen when Black*Star slams his fist into the door to make a startling bang. Soul just about jumps out the kitchen window, he's backtracked so much. "Bed crawler!" he booms, unclenching his fist to point at his prey. Even Blair's hair is standing on end. "I thought I told you to keep my sister out of the bone zone?!"

Guilty as charged. Soul practically lunges back and grabs a chair, just in chase he should need to defend himself. "Maka-"

"Can make her own choices, sure, I get it; the overprotective brother game is old and offensive, whatever," he waves his hand flippantly. "Maka already gave me the whole spiel."

"Then why are you here?! Kicking me around for fun won't get on her good side!"

Drunk on power, Black*Star makes his way over to him. He grinds a fist into his open palm and Soul tightens his grip on the chair. If he's going to go down, it's going to be swinging. No more backing down without a fight. No more crying like a baby when life presents him with challenges. He finally has something worth fighting for and he'll try his damndest to make it out of this without a black eye and three broken ribs.

Just a black eye will suffice. Soul sturdies himself, shoulders squared, and prepares for the worst.

"I know what you are," Black*Star growls, clearly eyeing the obvious signs - the horns, his tail, the sharp teeth and pointed ears - with a predatory sort of intensity. Maka's brother is short but not tiny. His muscles bulge, and despite the faint aroma of Cool Ranch Doritos wafting off of him, there's no doubt in Soul's mind that, should he chose to, he could snap him in half and bench press him for fun. He's not unlike Maka in that respect. They have matching gym memberships. "And Maka-"

"- Is half demon," Soul grunts. "I know. So it's okay. I'm not sucking the life out of a human. Relax."

"No," Black*Star shakes his head. "It's not alright. Still a foul."

"I'm not going to make her choke!"

He pinks but isn't deterred. His stance is steeled, horrifyingly, and Soul raises the chair in defence. "NO, numbnuts! She's - god, she hasn't told you anything, has she? Just enough to get you to agree to stick it in, huh? Can't imagine it took much. Pigtails might have fat ankles and a flat chest but she's probably the best damn thing to happen in your sorry life."

"Get to the point?"

"Your demon dick is going to kill her. Your demon dick kills humans."

Soul brandishes the chair like a weapon and waves it at him. Black*Star folds his beefy arms over his chest and stares him down, not at all intimidated by a wooden chair with cat scratches up and down its legs.

Maybe he should have grabbed a knife or something. Or even a fork. Hell - something with better stabbing potential, because simple battery isn't going to get this monster to back down. Black*Star is probably the only 100% pure human he's spoken to in the past three weeks, and he's by far the most intimidating, beating out even Spirit Albarn, incubus Dumbledore.

"If that were even remotely true, you wouldn't have tried to fuck my brother!"

"Because I have a penis, you dumbass!" he screams, pulling his hair and turning at once to kick the counter. The glasses stacked upside down to dry clatter. "You ever wonder where her mom is? You know, the woman who gave birth to her, not Mira?"

Soul drops the chair. "Wait."

Gone. He hadn't pressed too hard, thinking of nothing but Maka's feelings over the topic. Whenever he brought up her mother's whereabouts, Maka always danced around the subject. It explains why Maka never has long talks over the phone with her mom, explains why her gross dad had looked so gobsmacked and devastated when she decided to drop the mom bomb…

No way.

Sobered by the dawn of realization upon Soul's face, perhaps, Black*Star loosens his stance and scuffs his foot against the kitchen tile. For the first time, he's not Maka's muscle-brained overprotective brother - he's just Black*Star, concerned sibling, and he regards Soul with something akin to pity.

"Her mom passed after giving birth to her."


She's been lying to him.

No, not lying. She's never outright said that her mother was alive and well, but Maka's definitely been lying by omission. Everything else up until this point has been child's play; her not letting him know that she'd known he was an incubus upon meeting him was irritating at best, but not troublesome in the end. Soul's so thoroughly desensitized to being the butt end of the joke that he's not even playing the game anymore. And not telling him about her dad, while potentially dangerous to the current arrangement of his balls, wasn't really hurting him. If anything, it was holding him back from potentially hurting her.

Sure, he gets wanting to hide her parentage, if only because Spirit doesn't really strike him as Dad of the Year. But the part about her mother definitely should've come out when she came clean about her dad. It's an important bit to leave out - her mother died after giving birth to her. Her mother, a perfect human, passed after giving birth to her incubus boyfriend's spawn. The whole thing is so reminiscent of Soul's own relationship that it kind of makes him sick, in a slick palms and shaky stomach sort of way, because what if history repeats itself?

Maka has the body of a human and the spirit of a demon. The details are still unclear. He wishes that he'd thought to push deeper for answers, to ask Marie a few more questions before allowing himself to be escorted far away from his boss and into safety. Would the same happen to Maka? Was demon pregnancy too hard on the body or the soul? Which had been Maka's mom's undoing?

Which would be Maka's?

He swallows thickly and stares at her ceiling. Does Maka even want kids? Does she want them with him? Has she even thought that far into the future?

The thought of Maka cradling a tiny, blonde baby used to make his spirit sing. Now, though… he grips his iPod tighter and presses a hand to his face. Everything is fucked, and for once, just once, he'd sort of thought that things were going to be okay for him. That maybe he'd have a cheesy happily-ever-after - or at least a few years, with a real house, Maka's degree and maybe some dogs.

He would be lying, though, to say some selfish, childish part of him didn't want kids with her someday. Maka's reckless, stubborn and refuses to eat her broccoli some days, but she's also loving and soft and she would be the best mother, and maybe if she mothered his kids they wouldn't be as pathetic as he is. She's goodness and life, bright like nothing else, sharp as a whip and so strong and - he crushes his palm over his eyes and groans. Everything's fucked.

The door opening and closing and the footsteps down the hall don't even register. For a while, Soul lays there and contemplates his choice of action.

"Hey," she pokes her head in, brows taut. "What happened to the wall?"

"Black*Star."

Maka narrows her eyes. "He came over?"

"Mmmh," he grunts, rolling his head to get a good look at her. She doesn't look ill. Her pigtails are high and perky, blonde hair the same dusty, musty shade of gold, eyes boiling emerald. She's just the same as she was when she left for class this morning.

Soul pulls himself up to sit and sets her with a stern stare, tugging out his headphones and setting them on his lap. Her brows raise. "Maka."

"Soul?"

"Where's your mom?"

If she lies, he doesn't know what he'll do.

Even if she does tell the truth, though, he still doesn't quite know what he's doing to do about it. The obvious answer - and perhaps the right answer, morally - would be to break up with her, set her free and let her have a future that won't potentially involve giving up her life to carry his demonic spawn. He could go back to helping Kim out at the retirement home, barely surviving off of the hugs of the elderly and ignoring Wes' offerings of threesomes. It was never an ideal life, but he would stomach it, again and again if it was what Maka wanted. If it was what it took to keep her safe.

He doesn't want to break up with her. But then again, is it really a matter of want, or is it of necessity? Soul's a lot of things, but he likes to think that he's not a scrub - a loser, a dick, a failure, sure, whatever, but he's not the type of guy to drag her down. Especially not to her death. Hell no.

She chooses her words carefully. "She's… not around."

"She's not," he echoes.

"... No."

"And why would that be?"

Her expression is swimming with something, and he has a sneaking suspicion it's nothing of the flirty and fun variety. Dead mothers, Soul supposes, really aren't the ideal conversation to share with one's significant other after a long day of college and part-time work.

Finally, she sets her mouth into an even line and asks, "Black*Star told, didn't he?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She puffs out a breath and leans in the doorway, running her fingers through a pigtail. "Because you'd overreact? Like you're doing right now?"

"Maka, I could KILL you-"

"If I was a regular human! We don't know if pregnancy would kill me or not, and I'm on birth control anyways, so-"

He stands, silencing her. The only noise in the room comes from his discarded headphones, soft, muted jazz humming and a quick, sharp gasp from Maka as she tightens her grasp on the doorframe. Her eyes might be wide and her breath caught, but he can already tell that what she feels isn't fear. Maka's not afraid of it, of him. If anything, she's just surprised.

Soul crosses the room and stands before her. He picks at a pigtail, plucks it out of her grasp and lets it feather over her shoulder. She's tied her hair tight again and god, it must give her a headache to keep that elastic coiled so many times around her hair. Green eyes look up at him through blonde lashes and she's never looked more lovely, more enamored, and not for the first time is he reminded how beautiful she is and how much he loves her, how lucky he is to have someone like her.

"Hey," he mutters, tone flat. "This isn't like everything else you conveniently forgot to tell me. This could actually put your life in danger."

She doesn't even miss a beat. "I want to be with you, Soul."

Soul tells himself not to blush. Fails incredibly. Tries to keep his expression even and stern as he asks, "Do you want to have kids someday?" and fails, again, at the pretty pink blush that blooms, like a single drop of blood into a bowl of milk, across her face. "Right."

"With you," she insists, staring at him imploringly. The heat on her face is still blazing, incandescent, but she doesn't look away even for a second, eyes just as vivid as the heat flaming across the ridge of her nose, the apples of her cheeks. "Either it's with you or not at all."

What part about he can't do this if it could hurt her doesn't she get? It's not a game, not a test to see how tenacious she is. Loving her and letting her go, while painful, is something he can do; loving her and losing her is something he can't. The curling and fluttering in his stomach feels misplaced and gross, and he's a sap for her, he really is - but he can't do this, cannot, even when she blinks those doe eyes at him and presses her hands over his heart. Puppy eyes won't work on him, and he steels his resolve, a quiet mantra of don't give in, don't give in rumbling in the back of his mind.

His hand presses over hers. His own heartbeat is a tick faster than hers, an accelerated, unnatural tempo. "I won't hurt you. I can't."

"I'm not human," she whispers, pressing harder against his chest, like maybe she can infuse herself with him, as if it'll prove her right. They've been one before, only once, and the way she looks at him makes it impossible for him to regret it. "I'm not."

"You're… close, though-"

She clutches his shirt and drags him closer. He stumbles, and not so much sinks into her arms as falls there, but it's nice and cozy and her arms are home, so he links his own around her and lets himself be lulled into a calm by the steady rhythm of her breath.

"Listen to me," she says, muffled into his shoulder. It's a strain, but there's nothing else making sound in the room but his headphones, buried in the caverns of her comforter, so he focuses. "You will not hurt me. We don't have to talk about kids yet if it makes you uncomfortable, okay? Besides, we don't even know if it's dangerous for me. I'm not as human as Mama was, and you're not exactly an incubus allstar yourself, right? You're not gross like Papa."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," he says gruffly, absolutely not pouting.

She manages to hold back her laughter. Maka moves back, just enough to make room for her hands to cup his face and she holds him still, presses her forehead against his and runs her thumbs along the curve of his jaw.

Noses bump, Maka giggles and fuck, it's so hard not to give in and melt into her touch. He wants to. God, does he want to.

"I'm going to be okay. I feel great, you know," she says soothingly. He all but purrs. "You're so worried about the side effects that you haven't even considered the benefits. The sex is really good, Soul." He squawks and she laughs again. "And I'm not human. I'm half demon. Do you really think Marie would let me be with you if it were that dangerous? Or Papa?"

Something inside of him screams in horror. "Uh, your dad wasn't really on board, in case you forgot. He tried to shank me with a butter knife at lunch."

"He would have made a bigger stink. Trust me. You wouldn't still be standing here if I was in serious danger. He's just trying to patrol who I date. He's always done this."

All of her cards are on the table. Maka sucks in a breath and stares at him imploringly. Trust me, her gaze seems to say, and the tightness in his chest loosens.

"... We talk to Stein about this," he mutters. "And you stay on birth control until he deems it safe."

"You want kids now?" she squeaks, and hell, now they both resemble fire hydrants.

"No! N-Not now, but… in the future, sure." Definitely. "And I'd rather know it's safe just in general, in case something does go wrong and you end up getting pregnant, you know? Better safe than sorry. Contraceptives aren't always 100% dependable."

Daydreams of little blonde toddlers aren't so farfetched after all. He feels considerably lighter, like maybe his head is full of helium, as Maka tugs him against her mouth. They kiss slowly, not in any real rush or frenzy, just a comfortable lull of affection and adoration. More than anything else, he wants to convey how much he cares about her, how he wants her to feel safe and happy when she's with him and not like she's constantly dodging bullets to remain healthy. Quite frankly, he doesn't give a fuck about feeding - not if it endangers her, anyway. Never.

Maka tastes like granola bars and apples. He licks his lips.

"Are we okay, then?" she asks, fluttering her nose against his.

More than okay. In fact, Soul is great up until the moment Blair decides that now is the best time to strike and sinks her claws into his gently whumping tail. He howls, not at all the seductive, loving incubus he pretends to be, and leaps into Maka's arms, ass first, arms linked around her neck as he tries his damndest to shake the hunter from her prey.

The cat dangles from his tail, grinning and mewing victoriously.


"You've grown, you know."

He opens one eye to squint at her.

She giggles, laying across from him, and continues to work her hands through his hair. Each time she passes through from root-to-tip he sighs nosily and she beams, beckoning him over. Before long, his face is pressed into her boobs and her hands are in his hair and finally, everything is good in the world. It's so comfortable against her that he thinks he could probably nod off like this, face nestled snugly against her glorious bralessness and listening to the easy pitch of her voice.

Cuddling after a scuffle is even better than make up sex. Soul feels deliciously boneless, slumped against her as she breathes slowly, evenly. Her heart, though, is an even better metronome than anything else, and with his face pressed so close against her chest, he can easily find peace in the stable rhythm.

"Your horns, I mean," she mumbles serenely. Maka sounds so at peace as she lazily combs her fingers through his hair. "They're not just little points anymore. There's some shape to them."

"'ts cause we fucked," he slurs, practically drooling all over her (HIS!) nightshirt. He can't be blamed, though, because there are tits in his face and everything is coming up Soul. "Getting nutrition and… yeah."

Maka clicks her tongue. "I wish you wouldn't call it that."

"Banged. Consummated our love. Bumped uglies."

"Can't you just say we had sex?"

"A lot of sex," he mutters. "So clinical."

His girlfriend is such a nerd. Stubborn, too - when he gives her too much attitude, her gentle petting becomes hair pulling, and while that's sexy when they're getting down and dirty, in ordinary terms it hurts like hell. He groans and squirms against her, muttering his apologies and pretty pleases and come on, Maka, he grew that himself, and finally she relents. Like the gracious, wonderful woman she is, Maka massages his scalp, rubbing at the soreness and ache with firm fingers that have him humming happily into the softness of her breast.

Right up until she bumps the edge of his horn. Then things things take a turn for the weird.

Because somehow horn rubbing equates to pleasure, and when she makes the same mistake again, he moans and then the gloves are off. He's created a monster.

"Oh!" she gasps, looking down at him and positively beaming. There are little stars in her eyes, beams of excitement and mischief that spell out the burial of his pride.

"Oh, no," he groans.

Maka ignores him. "I didn't know that was a thing. Why didn't you tell me rubbing your horns was a thing?"

Well shit, Maka, he thinks as he attempts to further hide himself against her and escape bonerville, maybe because you're the only girl I've ever been with.

Saying that out loud would be certain death, so instead he takes to grumbling incoherently into her shirt and hoping to god she doesn't continue fondling him. Or maybe he hopes she does. At this point, he really can't tell anymore. On the one hand, her fingers felt really nice and he hadn't even been aware he was sensitive there. On the other hand, how embarrassing to get an unfortunate boner from nothing more than Maka nudging his otherwise useless horns during a scalp massage. She had been so innocent in her intentions and then he came along to muck it up with his general grossness and accidental perversion, as per usual.

Well, this explains why horn licking is a thing. It also explains about a dozen of the situations Wes has raved about. Part of him had hoped it was just superstition or Wes being himself, but nope. Maka brushes her fingers along the base, gentle and delicate, with the ghost of a touch, and he all but shudders against her, slack jawed and way too oversensitive for his own good.

Wes is right; he is a sex toy with feelings. Gross, sappy feelings and an overwhelming urge to melt into her capable hands and beg her to do with him as she pleases, just don't tease him. His hands find purchase around her hips and he holds her securely, mouth a slack of heat against the worn fabric of her shirt. Soul finds himself kissing and licking lazily, tongue stroking her cotton-covered nipple with every pass of her fingers.

When Maka gets her thumb involved and rubs steady, heady circles along the base of his horn, he's reduced to a groaning, shaking pile. Goddammit, he knows that move - that's the same rubbing pattern he uses when he's got his hands up her skirt and his mouth on her neck. She's so damn observant and smug as she cooes his name and repeats the process, rubbing firm little o's and quite enjoying the whimpering mess of a boy she has locked against her, rubbing his shameful erection against the crease of her thighs, desperate for some sort of relief.

It's hard for him to think straight. Between being hard enough to probably chisel his way through stone and the deliberate, mischievous way Maka seems to be intent on getting him off through horn stimulation alone, Soul thinks he might lose his mind. He knows what he wants to do, but maybe stuffing his hand down his boxers and rubbing one out in front of her isn't the best way to really woo a lady.

She makes it difficult, though. The slow, languid rolls of her hips against his pathetic grinds make him wonder if there's that delicious, damp heat radiating between her legs again, if she's just as bothered as he is, but he doesn't have time to check for himself. Maka leans over and licks the tip of a horn, of all things, and it goes straight to his dick. He moans breathily and mouths her breasts through her shirt, hands slipping from her hips to cup her bottom and pull her against him.

"Guuuuh," he groans, grasping, squeezing tighter. "Maka, come on…"

She flicks her tongue along the tip of the other horn. "You're so sensitive…"

If only she knew. Every part of him is screaming in desperation, no longer a want but a need, fuckmefuckmefuckme in the worst sense of the word because all she's done is rub his horns a little and why did no one tell him that they would be so sensitive to the touch. Does the universe like playing sick jokes on him? Does it get off on making him squirm? Does Maka?

Her thighs are suspiciously hot. Check yes on the Maka thing - she's definitely getting off on making him squirm and it's just about the greatest thing ever. And the worst. But mostly the best, because her legs are bare and he's only got on a pair of shark-printed boxers and might as well wrap his tail around one of her legs while he's at it, huh, can't hurt; the little ripple of a moan that he feels resonate in her chest is so worth it. Maka fights back, slinging one leg over his hip and lets him lead her into a slow, meticulous grind, one that has him seeing stars and her blowing a hot breath onto his oversensitive antler.

She rocks, rolls her hips, moves with him as she suckles delicately, careful with her teeth but generous with her tongue, hands pushing through his hair in tandem.

Never mind half - Maka's all demon in the way she grins before she works him, fingers and tongue and all, and fuckitall if he's not into it. If he's a fly in her web, then he's about to die a very happy bloodsucker.

He doesn't hate it at all.