He's covered the complimentary alarm clock with one of your socks. The microwave is unplugged. The slight crack under the door is blocked with his pants. What should have been the full moon is now only a shadow that casts even darker shadows over the night, the hotel room that much more pitch than the blood had ever been.

He comes to you in this darkness, murmuring against your wrist— the one part of you he's found blindly.

"Caught ya," you feel more than hear.

The bed caves under his knees and hands, but he does not touch you. Your eyes are wide open but you can't see the faintest hint of him. If you searched for his soul you know you would find it— maybe taste what's on his agenda. But you don't. He likes to pretend he's nothing but disembodied fangs, craning low to nip at your shoulder. You like to pretend, too.

You recall how he'd looked, today: razor sharp eyes glinting at your mission target, hungry for his future meal. It's easy to transpose. You rub your feet together with giddy impatience, your skin tight and chill and electric.

His hands are cool on your heated skin as if he's steel and flesh at once, and he brings your hands to a point behind your head. He gently molds your fingers around a slat in the hotel headboard. You grip it like you've been superglued.

(In the beginning, he would use a necktie— usually yours— but he likes it better when you're bound by your own willpower.) (Though, rather than 'willpower' he calls it 'stubbornness', but the end result is the same— you're wet and you've become so faster than seems humanly possible.)

His hands disappear into the pitch and all you get is the fringe of his hair ghosting across your belly as a precursor to wet warmth searching for your navel. His tongue dips in and you choke on a tiny squeal because it tickles and it doesn't tickle at all.

"I wanted to fuck you so much today," he says softly, a pleased note in his voice painting the filthy grin you see in your mind. His breath washes across your hips and you squirm.

"I could tell."

Soul hums a question mark in such a way that it's clear he's not questioning anything because he already knows the answer. "Were you disappointed?"

That tongue traces the curve of your right hip and burns along your thigh. "W-when?"

He pinches your skin with his teeth at your answer. "You know when," he rumbles. "Where were we today, Maka?"

Your breath quickens as you feel his hands grip down your sides, fingertips firmly dragging across your thighs and clamping around your knees. His touch is warmer now— less steel and more flesh and blood and kindling flame. He eases your legs apart. You give him no resistance. You can smell yourself.

"That bookstore," you whisper— that store in the heart of this city, where your target had been scheduled to make a delivery and subsequently kidnap another victim to devour. The both of you had camped out in the tourism section for an hour beforehand.

"'That bookstore'," he repeats, grin still in his voice. "Where you came all over my hand."

He'd been so cheeky about it, too, idly commenting on a sightseeing book of Belgium on the shelf. 'There's a museum of 'erotica' over there, you know. Like a history of fuck.' Then he loudly announced how there was a four-dong poster bed, and the aisles around the tourism section had vacated while your face steamed in embarrassment and anger.

And that's when he snuck his hand under your skirt, teasing your backside with his nails, mouth murmuring dirty things on the nape of your neck. You had thousands of books at your disposal to smack him with, but you did nothing. You were on duty. You were in public. And yet.

"You… h-hah— You ripped my stockings," you half-heartedly complain.

"I'll buy you a hundred of them," he says after giving a thick lick to your slit. He hums again, this time savoring the taste. "Something 'bout you coming next to a shelf of books is too much to pass up. You know what this means, right?"

You really wish he would stop trying to engage you in coherent conversation with his lips on your clit. Your eyes clench tight, calling on higher brain function. "What," you gasp out.

"We're gonna have to do it in the library. Restricted section. Behind the counter."

What does it say about the drive of a man when he plans a sexual encounter before the present one is even completed? "Do you have a death wish—"

He distracts you for a good minute and thirty seconds, suckling on your folds and tracing your entrance with his tongue. "Or maybe a day you have duty," he says while you attempt calmer breathing patterns. "Organize books and ride my face while everyone else is studying."

Your eyes snap open in surprise, but it's still too dark to see anything. "Wh— your ffuh—" you breathe, trying to comprehend what he's suggesting while fingers spread you wide. "Nnm!"

"I'd do it in a heartbeat. Have you rub yourself all over my mouth—" He punctuates this by licking deeply into you. You've seen that tongue wrap around corrupted souls a hundred times (Two-hundred and seventy-seven, in all truthfulness, but that number escapes you right this moment). Your voice escapes you as your nerves spark and push you further into frenetic arousal.

"Anyway. Were you disappointed?"

The bed frame creaks in your strangulating grip. "Is this… a trick question?" you manage. It's accidental, but you sense his small bit of pride in how you're still able to smartass at this stage in the game. You abruptly lose all sensation of him, Soul abandoning his station between your legs and hovering somewhere in the darkness.

His voice dips low, resonating in your ear. "That I didn't fuck you against the shelf."

So much of your body shifts and writhes involuntarily at the heat in his words. You can't help but picture it: uncracked spines and harsh shelving digging into your back with your weapon's arms lacing under your legs, hoisting you up and holding you still as he both takes you and gives himself. You ache. You try to save face.

"We couldn't have, in public-"

Soul interrupts you because he knows better, and if you didn't know better you'd accuse him of having Perception. "Don't lie to me," he says gently, face nuzzling near your ear. "You wanted to risk it. Maka Albarn gettin' caught in a bookstore with her legs wrapped around me and coming all over my dick."

You moan incoherently, feeling his erection prod your abdomen. It leaves a chill spot in it's wake, his own arousal cooling on your skin. You try to tilt your hips to meet him, but he moves out of reach and nips at your jaw.

"Tell me."

It comes from you, a voice that seems not yours and yet never more yours, hoarse and dark and true. "Yes," you say, your body bucking into the empty darkness, searching for your personal devil whom you trust more than anyone on this earth, whom you want more than anyone on this earth.

"Yes, what?" He presses, sotto voce, his insistence more intense and raw— he's not drawing this out to tease you anymore, searching for something vital to tip the scales of his own stubbornness in this game.

Inner thighs slick and burning, you seek his mouth with your own, hoping your words will magnetize his lips to you in the dark. "Yes, I was disappointed—"

"Because?"

The one word helps you zero in on his face, twisting your head and craning your neck to feel his breath curling around your lips. When you give him what he wants, you feed him directly; every silent desire, every fantasy you had today falls from you and into his mouth in nearly silent whispers.

Soul goes deathly quiet, the only sound in the room coming from your hissing breath and your shifting body. "Because I wanted you," you whisper. "I wanted you to take me against a shelf or bend me over a chair," you whisper. "To take you against a shelf, or in the alley behind the store— to suck you until your knees go weak and you beg for me."

He groans and kisses you roughly, his hands on either side of your face to hold you still and eat your secrets. You keep whispering even when he pulls away, every admission piling up into a mountain that makes him tremble. You tell him how you wanted him to do it, slacks still clinging to his hips as he enters you, how you love it when he plays with your clit while he takes you from behind. When you tell him about the moment after killing their target, watching him chew that corrupted soul and how you would do anything to feel his teeth on you, on every part of your body, your secret either inspires pity or breaks him.

Soul caresses your arms and peels your hands off the headboard, holding them carefully and bringing them to his mouth. He nips at a knuckle, then takes the pad of a thumb in his teeth, carefully tugging.

"I wanted to rip your clothes off the moment we checked into this room. I wanted you to join me in the shower, to fuck me against the wall and make me come so much I can't—"

Your hands catch the moan that stutters from him. As he slides them down his body, you feel his pulse fluttering, his blood dancing in his neck and pounding under his chest.

"I love it when you talk dirty," he drawls. "See what it does to me?" And he wraps your hands around his cock. You can't see, obviously, but you feel him twitching in your grip as you map the familiar shape by touch.

You are keenly aware of the heady anticipation straining from him, from you, from the pits of your souls. You want to let it out, to mercilessly claw through skin and bone for relief. "Put it in," you urge. "All the way in. Please? Do it." You want him to grind you down, shake you up with his hips, force the breath from your lungs, hear him howl when you clench around him.

You're still as he moves over you, nerves nearly vibrating with need as he wedges between your legs, your chests sliding together. A moan escapes you from the pressure of his weight; from the sudden, sheer amount of contact. Hips tilting to help align with him, you tremble as he sinks into you, growling your name with gratification.

You smile.

"Caught ya," you say, linking your ankles behind him, your legs locked around his sides. A noise rumbles through his chest as you pull him deeper into you. "And I want to see your face when you come, Soul Evans," you vow, pulling your sock off the complimentary alarm clock and triumphantly capturing the filthy grin you knew he had all along.