all of the reviews warm my soul! it makes me so happy that i've managed to produce something that so many other ace-spectrum people understand and relate to. i do want to say, however, that i've been writing Maka as demisexual through the entire thing, and while sex-repulsed aces are very real are very legit, it's not what i hc for her. that's not to say, however, that it's a wrong headcanon because i also love that interpretation! :) but being on the spectrum is confusing, and wading your way through it is tough, and i wanted to try and explore that some.

i wanted to finish this up with something sweet. it's not very physical, but it's always been more about the emotional for them.

She doesn't feel as naked in her pale pink bra as she thought she would.

Maybe it has something to do with the warm hand rubbing slow, gradual circles on her stomach. Maka closes her eyes and inhales, focusing on the low, rumbling heat in her belly and the way Soul's lips feel pressed against her shoulder.

"Soul..."

Her partner forces breath through his nose and presses his face into her neck. His mouth is warm and damp against her skin and it makes her tremble a little.

She licks her lips. "Soul, I want to try..."

His response is, expectedly, concern. Soul scoots his way up and cups his hands around her jaw, and she does her best to ignore his arousal pressing against her belly and the way his breath on her face makes her want to melt into the sheets. "You don't have to," he repeats like clockwork, spoiling her with little kisses on the tip of her nose and over the apples of her cheeks. "You can put your shirt back on."

She almost laughs, because it's not about the shirt. It's about how comfortable she feels laying topless in his bed, despite her utter disinterest in such activities prior. It's about how when he looks at her she feels pretty, even in a plain bra and hickies blossoming on the slope of her neck. The warm, redredred look of his eyes drink in the subtle shape of her and she likes it, loves it, and tucks her hands against the small of his back and tugs him against her.

Soul's nose bumps against hers clumsily. "I want to," she pleads. "Please? Can we try, just this once?"

He leans his face back and brushes her bangs from her eyes. "I'm sorry I took your shirt off," he admits, guiltily, and maintains shy eye contact. His fingers comb through her hair gingerly, framing her pink, pink cheeks with flaxen gold, pausing to press his thumb against her bottom lip. He never stops touching her, all gentle grazes and cautious, adoring kisses to her brow.

"... If you're sure," he mumbles against her skin, the apple of her cheek, stroking down the slope of her neck.

"I am," she says fearlessly.

They share a look. Maka nods and Soul kisses her mouth, lips soft and careful, hands sliding down her nearly bare shoulders. "Don't force yourself for me," Soul whispers, breath hot against her chin - fretting, adorably, as usual, but Maka tightens her grasp along his hips and tugs him to her. He groans, gravelly and broken, and the heat coiling low in her tummy tightens. "Maka…"

"It's not for you," she breathes back, grazing his hipbones, sliding her hands up, daringly, to stroke the edge of his scar. Soul sucks in a breath as she continues to rub the jagged line, the stitches, the raised, marred flesh curiously. He's never made these noises before, she thinks, and becomes more than a little drunk on the power of knowing she can turn him into a panting, writhing mess just from a few well-placed strokes on his abdomen.

"... Well, a little for you," she admits, quietly, "but for me, too."

"Okay," he murmurs, red eyes so murky with something Maka's never been able to put a name to. The fire churns within her, tears at her chest, where her heart trembles and quivers eagerly. "Okay."

His look is searing, boiling wine red. Pupils blown wide, jaw slack, the particular shade of his eyes shadowed by the closed curtains and the midnight hour - he's esoteric, muted desire and something else, something devoted and adoring and just for her, and it's a little like drowning, letting him look at her like that. Like she's on the ocean floor, grappling, reaching, gasping.

Maka's never been afraid of the dark. When he slips a hand down her back and unclasps her bra, she pulls his face to hers and kisses him soundly.

There are no jokes about her body. No, Soul's long since outgrown those days. There's only appreciation, low groans as he grazes the peak of her breast with his long, slender fingers first, and then his tongue. It's warm and wet and somehow good, and Maka's head falls back into his pillows, back arching and howling his name. He flicks a glance at her, watching faithfully as he kisses and licks and nibbles, gently, on her soft, tender flesh.

She's either going to melt or spontaneously combust.

"... A little harder…"

Soul pauses. The sharp edges of his teeth tickle her breast.

She blushes bashfully. "I mean… you can, um... " she sighs and pushes her fingers through his hair, brushing his long, long bangs from his eyes. "... bite?"

The steadfast, devoted glow in his stare turns the heat brewing within her liquid. He moves against her with his lips, gentle, timid, before he goes back to the teeth, nibbling a bit more firmly. She closes her eyes and smiles, focusing on the pinpricks of sensation digging into her. Soul hums softly, moving to suck harder still, until he releases her skin with a pop and kisses the area as she moans.

"Always wanted to do that," he admits, guiltily.

She opens her eyes, dizzy with passion. "Battle scars," she blurts uselessly, dissolving into a nervous, restless giggle as he scoots down to kiss the actual battle scars that stretch across her ribs. They're old ones, faded with time, but they're there, nonetheless, and Soul pays his dues. She would be happy to sit and let him take his time, to really explore and map her body with his mouth and tongue, god, but the liquid heat pooling between her thighs is smoldering and suffocating, distracting, and she begins to wiggle her hips and squirm her way out of her sleep shorts.

Soul's breath catches in his throat and he stares, thoroughly preoccupied with the shimmying of her hips.

Eventually, though, he shakes himself out of his reverie and makes himself useful, hooking his fingers around the thin fabric and pulling it down the length of her legs. He swallows noisily, noticeably, as he reverently grazes the inside of her thighs, like religion.

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice molten, eyes wide and so goddamn red. "Because I can stop-"

"Don't stop," she pleads. Her legs are shaking, trembling, and she wants to get lost in his touch, in the coil of their souls and the captivating way his eyes seem to stroke her, so much more firmly than his mindful hands. All clothing needs to go. Her panties are too much, and she makes to get rid of them as soon as possible as Soul just about chokes on his tongue.

"Hey," he catches her hands. She didn't even notice they were shaking. "It's okay. Calm down."

"I am calm."

He smiles earnestly and leans to press a kiss against her hip. "It's just me," he murmurs, his voice nearly lost in the ruffling of the blankets as, together, they undress her. "Just me," he repeats, though now it's him that's quaking.

"Soul?" she squeaks. His mouth droops, kissing her hip, the inside of her thigh, the area where she trembles from, damp and ready, so ready. "I trust you."

The heat from his face is a reassuring warmth against her thigh.

It's his first time too, she realizes. He's never done anything like this before - always waiting for her, always watching her, never once sparing a glance at anyone but her. His devotion fills her chest with an unexplainable blanket of longing and she writhes against his sheets, grasping for his hand, squeezing his fingers between hers.

"What's it like for you?" she breathes into the darkness. The night time chill has her on edge, peaked nipples and little shivers that Soul enjoys silencing with the warmth of his tongue.

He stills for a moment, considering. "... Good," he allows. "Really good."

"Does it feel right?"

He catches her face in his hands and kisses her slowly, surely. "Like nothing else," he mumbles against her lips.

Maka beams, twinkling beneath him. She cups his jaw tenderly, like he's a fragile bird that needs to be treasured, cradled delicately in her hands. "Me too."

He has so many more freckles than she's ever realized. Even in the dark, she can make them out, stippling along his eyelids, over his nose, and his lashes are so fair but so long and graceful, fluttering over his cheeks every time he blinks.

"... There's no one but you," he whispers, like it's a secret, a hushed breath shared between them. "It's always been you."

She realizes, after Soul fiddles with a condom and sinks into her, pressing his forehead against hers and puffing out a breath almost painfully, that he's just like her. He loves her the same way she loves him - so dearly, tenderly, and values their connection more than anything else. Meeting with him, body and soul, is otherworldly, like moving with the tide and burning up, immersed with each other and coiling so desperately that it's hard to decipher where Soul ends and Maka begins.

And he's just like her. Except he's always just known that it was her, always her, without putting a name to it.

Soul's good like that. He doesn't need words to convey his feelings. He's better with actions, with brushing her damp bangs from her eyes and kissing her deeply, enraptured, as he comes undone, blushing and gasping.

Maka presses a smile into his shoulder.

"... You're my best friend, you know."

Her partner laughs, body trembling with exhaustion, and scoots his way down to the foot of his bed. "Shaddup, nerd," he sounds, affectionately, and spreads her legs. He nuzzles her inner thigh, where she's still so invitingly sensitive and she gasps, keening. "Duh."