There is boundless trust.

In Soul's eyes, especially, as she touches him; there is something remarkable about how he lets her in, how he lets her see him in such rare moments of vulnerability. There is unwavering, boundless trust, and the smoky darkness in her weapon's stare burns crimson as she traces the sensitive skin of his thigh.

Echoes of nights past are made apparent, even more so, as she presses her palms flat and guides his legs apart - usually, their positions are swapped, and it is her laying flat on her back, putting her trust in him as he touches her with such reverent, dedicated affection. Between weapon and meister - between lovers, she thinks, with a satisfied sigh, as she coaxes the knot in Soul's brows apart - there should be equality, a certain give and take that goes both ways. Maka should not be the only one on the receiving end of such adoring ministrations. Soul should not be the only one relied on for such bliss.

He breathes out and his muscles relax. The way his stomach twists and turns as he moves beneath her, though, is distracting, and her tongue burns hot between her lips. Such heated, taut skin is on display. The scant few abs he does have are endearing, and the line of his scar gleans like a badge of honor.

Soul deserves nice things too. Soul deserves so many nice things.

Maka licks her lips. "Okay?"

His gaze is on the ceiling, and Soul's lips form words before any sound actually comes out. Maybe he's counting. Maybe he's reciting lyrics and thoughts and shaping his mouth around the sounds of her name, but - then he's sighing anyway, allowing a "yeah," as Maka's hands work the muscles in his thighs, rubbing and rubbing until he's malleable weapon goo. His face burns pink and she's never seen anything quite so sweet. "Yeah, Maka."

She wants to watch him come undone. She wants to hear him scream her name, to choke on the syllables as he shakes and quivers and clutches her shoulders, her waist, any part of her he can ground himself to. More than that, though, she wants to be the one to help him get there; Maka wants to pull his pieces apart and help him reassemble in the aftermath, while he's blinking back stars and struggling to catch his breath.

The bottle of lube is only an arm's length away and she rubs it between her palms, nice and slow. No sudden movements, and Soul's eyes finally find her skin, watching, almost hypnotized, as she works. She comes in peace, can't he see?

And ah. He blinks, lips pursing. How can she not want to kiss him when he looks at her like that? It's so different, being on the opposite end of things. Such a different perspective. Hands-on Maka likes being in control; hands-on Maka likes the way Soul watches her move, allows her to press a kiss to his neck before slowly, gradually prodding him.

The skin of his throat burns beneath her tongue, and she can almost taste his voice, the way his breath catches as she presses that little bit more. Penetration, she knows, is something that must be taken in bits and pieces. Especially the first time. So Maka goes slow, leaning back to watch his reactions as she slips inside him, just a finger.

Her glee is almost voyeuristic. Soul puffs breath beneath her, face burnt such a lovely rose color, as she moves, and before long, those hard lines in his face go lax. He is putty beneath her, breathing deeply, chest rising and falling as she slips out of him.

"Ah," he blurts, and Maka can't help but smile as his voice cracks. He's too much for her, really.

The rest is instinct. She can't very well carry on without properly lubricating her tool, can she? Soul watches this, too, though with slightly less apt interest; he chews his lip as Maka brings her hands over the sky-blue strap on, brows raised, and okay, it feels a little silly. Soul's certainly used lube on her, and he's certainly lubed himself up before melting into her heat, but his cock isn't synthetic. His is very nearly weeping from neglect, standing tall and pointing heavensward. Maka can't feel anything but how wet her panties are beneath the catch of the harness and the way Soul's fingers dig into her hips.

But she can't focus on that now. She needs hands to help lead her beneath him, help her prod him with the tip of her toy. He sucks in a sharp breath and one of her hands moves to settle his hips.

"Easy," she mumbles. "Relax."

"I am," he insists moodily.

"I won't hurt you," she reminds him. His shoulders melt back into her pillows. "I can stop, if you want, and we can-?"

"No," he says, almost too quickly, and then burns brighter for it. "No, it's… no. I trust you. It's fine."

I trust you.

There is boundless trust in the way Soul lets her love him. In the way he moves beneath her, as he allows her to fill him in such a private, intimate way. He is almost musical in the way he sounds, and in the way he writhes and keens - it's almost like dancing, she thinks, and leans to press a hand flat against his stomach, loving the feeling of his muscles beneath her palm, tight and twisting.

"Okay?"

Soul swallows. "Uurgh, yeah- oooh," he groans, as she slinks back just to move in again cautiously. "That's…"

Her mouth is dry. Such curiosity is dangerous, but Maka still asks, "Good?" because her mouth is so damn big and her brain so endlessly thirsty for knowledge. She wants to know what makes him tick. She wants to know she's doing a good job, wants to know she is just as worthwhile a lover as her partner.

And he sighs. Stubbornly, so stubbornly, and still blushing pink as he grunts, "Yeah."

Her smile curls. "Yeah?"

"Something… something like that," he mumbles, rubbing a thumb along the sensitive pit of her elbow.

It's all the inspiration she needs to repeat the motion, thanking months of being on the opposing end for lending her such a rhythm. Beatless, clumsy Maka is still so insecure over things like musicality, and fears never truly understanding the things Soul holds so dear - but it is enough to draw moans from such an ordinarily composed, hard-wired boy, and that is victory enough. Angling her hips and hitting something new, something different (and watching Soul's entire composure melt like butter) is just the icing on the cake, because wow.

Wow.

Pupils blown wide, he arches beneath her like a violin's bow, louder than she can ever remember him. Oh, he's very nearly shouting, and Soul's voice never gets such use; the thought of him groaning himself hoarse makes her burn, and Maka pistons her hips, wanting more of this, and he delivers, quivering beneath her. His fingers pull at her, grasping for anything, catching the dip of her waist and holding himself steady as his voice breaks again.

She wants to taste her name on his lips. God, does she want to taste the moment the sun breaks through the clouds and he shatters.

"Fuck," he curses, gripping her tighter. "Fuck, fuck- chhhhrist, fuck, fuckfuckfuck-"

He cracks as she moves again, a little faster, and then he can't help it, his hand is on his dick and he's working himself so furiously that for a moment, she's afraid he might hurt himself. But the moment her rhythm falters Soul whimpers.

Her wannabe tough cool guy whimpers, and then Maka's working him harder than before, taking a leg in her hand and pushing it up. He may not be the most flexible, but at least from this angle, it's easier to move. It's easier to hit deeper, easier to move her hips, easier to press a kiss to his unshaven calf and feel the heat of his skin against her cheek.

It must be good, for Soul to be making noises like this. Like he'll die if she doesn't help him race to the finish line. Boys are so sensitive, she thinks, and wonders how anyone could find error in this. Soul cries her name, such a broken, pleading sound, and she's never felt more loved, never felt quite so trusted in her life. It's intimate, sharing something like this with him. Doing this with him.

It's her, after all. He lets her in like this. There's not another living soul who has heard Soul Evans beg - please, Maka, god, fuck, please, please.

And then all of a sudden, there it is - and he curls and moves, coming hard, gasping and shaking and trembling all over. His come is hot on her stomach - and plentiful, Maka notes, wondering if he's ever come this hard before. Or maybe this is normal, and she's just never noticed before, because he's always the one who's dealt with clean up.

Or it's just been other places. Like in a condom. In her mouth. Dripping between her thighs, as he dabs a damp cloth between them and then kisses her tummy with a smile.

Ah- hm. But now it's all over her, and really rather kind of sticky, so bending over to kiss his stomach, too, would probably be decidedly less cute. Easing out of him is the first step, so she does that, biting her lip as Soul groans and throws an arm over his face. Unstrapping the damn thing takes valuable time, and by that point, her weapon's bones have finally reborn their steel and he's sitting, watching her with warm, thoughtful eyes.

Maka smiles shyly, feeling silly and bashful, despite the fact that his jizz is definitely oozing down her abs and it feels a little obscene.

"Gross?" he asks, expression decidedly guarded.

Her heart aches. His fingers are warm beneath her lips, and she kisses each digit before planting a final, ginger kiss in the center of his palm. "Only the clean up," Maka promises, and Soul smiles, too.

"Sorry," he says, finally, caught between a laugh and a sigh. "I'll get a-"

Maka pushes his shoulders back, sits forward on her knees and tastes his lips. "Stay here and recoup. We're on again in ten."

And when he smiles, shark teeth full of toe-curling promises, she feels nothing but warm, bubbling trust in the center of her chest. It's Soul, after all. Soul who loves her, Soul who she lets in - Soul whose tongue is a devious, sharp little devil and will bring her such glory, too.

In ten minutes, when she's got his spunk off of her abs and her panties on the floor. Just the way they like it.

i uhhh. might have been a little drunk when i wrote this. (shrug emoji)