It blindsides him.
The first time he notices it, it's fuck-o-clock in the morning on a school day, and he's poking his head into the bathroom to see if Maka's fallen asleep brushing her teeth or something. Because it happens, sometimes, that damn bookworm and her late-night study sessions - and she looks at him, bobby pins pinched between her lips, hair half up, the line of her neck pale and slender, and something in Soul's gut twists.
"Uh."
"I'm hurrying," she says around the bobby pins, twirling her hair tie around her finger, tying one pigtail into place. Either her hair's gotten longer and she's due for a trim or she's tied it lower than usual, because her hair brushes against her shoulder and nearly reaches her collarbone. "Go eat breakfast."
He blinks once, twice. "Already made eggs. You need help?"
Maka clicks her tongue and begins smoothing out the second section of her hair. Her head tilts up, chin high, and there it is again, that coiling in his stomach. Mindlessly, Soul finds himself fixating on her neck, slender and pale, and the way the sandy strains of her hair washes over her skin only makes matters worse. It's like he can't look away.
"No, I don't need," Maka huffs, twists the elastic, "help, I'm an adult, go away."
"You turn eighteen in a week. Not an adult yet."
"Okay, grandpa," she says, turning to face him. Her pigtails are uneven, the right slightly looser, hanging that little bit lower. "Shoo."
She needs his help. Well, what are partners for?
"Here," he grunts, because it's still early and he's tired, dammit, but his meister is helpless, it seems, to do her own hair when she's exhausted. He reaches out, takes her hair into his hands, pulls and tightens until she's symmetrical and pouting at him. "Sorry. Hurt?"
"Pffft. Who do you think I am?"
Human, he thinks, plucking a bobbypin from her lips. Human, and capable of feeling pain, no matter how strong she fronts. Regular old Maka, just shy of eighteen, a head and some change shorter than he, and when she swallows, he tries not to acknowledge how the way her throat moves makes him hungrier than the smell of his scrambled eggs and coffee.
.
For her eighteenth birthday, she wears this baby-pink strapless top, and he can't stop himself from poking the lily-white skin of her shoulders.
"Would you stop that?" she hisses, shoving him away. "Not all of us tan so easily, you know! Some of us have to live in constant fear of our sun overlord."
He snorts, but relents, anyway, instead resting a hand on her bare shoulder. She allows it, like the gracious meister she is, and says nothing of the way his thumb brushes her skin. Maybe she chalks it up as just one of those things they do, platonic touching, seeking the comfort of one another's skin. He sure will, because she's the brave one, and looking more deeply into his motivations often leaves him feeling vulnerable and a little bit guilty.
"I dunno," Soul says, "you get enough sun to freckle on your shoulders."
"But no tan." She's right; Soul distinctly remembers spending the early years of their partnership slathering his meister in the highest spf he could find and buying bottles of aloe by the bulk. "It's fine, I don't need the sun-"
"Vitamin D says otherwise."
Her expression pinches in that way it always does when he's being a smartass. He loves it. It's adorable. "I take multivitamins," she says primly, dusting his hand away, then, and okay, maybe he deserves that. Cut off from physical contact, fine. He'll stuff his hands in his pockets and watch her tug up her top, pretend like he isn't staring a little, wondering about whether or not she's braless.
So guilty. Ugh. "You're just jealous you can't tan."
"I will never wrinkle." She jabs a finger into his ribs. He jumps a mile. "Beautiful, healthy skin!"
"Lobster," he says, huffing, slapping her hand away. "Don't do that, it hurts. Your fingers are so bony."
The temptation to punish him washes over her expression. Soul puts on his best glare and hopes it'll be enough to deter her; the last thing he needs is for Maka's poking and prodding to devolve into tickling, Death, please, no. When it's clear he's out of the woods, he gives her a friendly, platonic once over, laughing quietly at the sight of her clunky heels, ankles dolled up in buckles, toes painted pink, too.
"Cute," he says, then, daring himself not to blush. "What's the occasion, nerdling?" he ribs, as if he doesn't know it's her birthday, as if he doesn't know they're hosting a house party in an hour or so.
There's that pout again. "Cute."
"You ready, then?"
"Almost." She holds out a hand, palm open, and Soul glances down, glad for his meister's non existent cleavage. At this angle, he'd definitely be accidentally staring down her shirt, and that's a one-way ticket to chopville. But he's safe, because his meister is all slender muscle and baby-faced cuteness, and so instead of boobs he ends up nervously gawking at a collar? Of sorts? And that familiar twisting in his gut he'd felt those weeks ago in the bathroom with her flares up again, tighter and hotter than before.
Spluttering, he manages to spit out, "Whatever Blair's been telling you, I don't think-"
"No!" She holds it up, then, and he's still sure it's some kind of human collar. All it's missing is the name tag, dangling in front. "It's a choker, Soul. Did you sleep through the 90's?"
Apparently he had. He also apparently can't handle thinking about Maka in jewelry without getting hot and bothered, what the fuck. Soul scratches his neck anxiously. "... Okay?"
"I can't put it on by myself," she says. His stomach drops, but something else, below the belt and traitorous, certainly doesn't. "Be a good butter knife and help a girl out?"
"Butter knife. Cute." His tone doesn't belly his nerves, thankfully; why are his hands so clammy, it's just a simple collar-thing he's gotta clasp on her. It's fine. Nothing special. She wears jewelry sometimes - tiny little chains, little pendants, a tiny eighth-note necklace he'd gotten her for her sixteenth birthday - this is nothing new, nothing outstanding. He has no reason to blush.
He's blushing. Like a schoolboy.
"Please?"
He tells himself it's his weapon instincts that causes him to bend to her will. He's dedicated years of his life to training to become her steel, her literal weapon -- he's served her, in his own way, since he was barely thirteen, so of course a tiny little 'please' with some fluttering of those doe-eyes of hers melts him into black-and-red putty. Helpless to her will, Soul tries to calm the storm brewing in his chest and circles her, choker-collar-whatever in his clammy hand. He wipes the other on his jeans, grimacing, as Maka reaches behind herself to pull her long hair over her shoulder.
"You need a haircut," he says, then, as evenly as he can manage. There's something about the way her hair looks, ashen blonde, wavy from her crimper, the way it looks almost gold against the white of her neck. Soul swallows back the urge to kiss the spot thickly. The baby hair there is almost darling, fair and thin, and he brushes it back before he has the chance to really think his actions through.
She doesn't balk. Doesn't scold him for touching her without her permission. Ah, well maybe she can write it off, excuse it as an attempt to keep from clasping her hair into her choker. "I'm trying to grow it out."
Uncharacteristic. For as long as he can remember, Maka's maintained the same haircut - just beyond her shoulders, bangs, stick-straight, typically tied up in twintails - she's sported the same style since he'd met her at twelve, but the length of her hair just barely brushes the bottom of her shoulder blades, now.
He presses his thumb to the back of her neck, simply feels the heat of her skin beneath the pad of his finger. "Why?"
"... I don't know. Maybe I wanted to try something new?" She fidgets a bit beneath the pressure of a single finger. He tries not to think too deeply on it. "Choker me already, Soul. I still need to paint my nails."
He wouldn't dare sputter. "Can I get that in writing?" he asks, about ten times cheekier than he actually feels. There's something there that wasn't before, a curious, stifling heat spreading through him, and his hands actually shake as he reaches around her and presses the choker flat to her throat. Him, trained pianist, Evans, with trembling hands, sweaty palms - it's just - he doesn't understand it, this burn ripping through him, the overwhelming urge he feels to side his tongue along the curve of her neck, taste her pulse beneath him.
She inhales. Soul stares very pointedly at the baby hair along the back of her neck. "Too tight?"
"Mmmmm," Maka hums, indecisively, pressing her fingers to the velvet, tight around her throat. "... No, it's good."
It takes him three times to clasp the damn thing. His blood roars in his ears, and it feels a little like madness, the way the silver chain dangles right between her shoulder blades, simple and delicate. His meister is deceptively slight, compact and strong in ways he will never be able to understand, and her neck is slender, barely wide enough to even wear the collar correctly. There's so much excess chain; he'd had to use the very first notch, he realizes, with that strange tightness in his chest tugging, tugging.
"There," he chokes out. "You're good."
Her hair falls back over her shoulders, curtains along her back, blonder than ever in the flourescent light of their ceiling fan. If she notices the way he quickly shoves his hands into his pockets and can't seem to meet her eyes, she doesn't say anything at all. Maka merely sends him a tiny smile, even as he zeroes in on the black strip of fabric along her throat, so dark and blunt.
.
He has this weirdness about him.
He always has. Soul being into strange things really isn't a bizarre concept - a boy capable of shifting seamlessly from flesh to steel, he's always been a bit off kilter, he thinks. But in ways he's been able to handle. A certain penchant for loud, angry music and black nail polish. More loyal than most weapons dare to be. A face only a meister could love. Lanky and tall, often uncomfortable in his own skin, anxious in large groups of people. He's never been typical, exactly.
But he'd been consistent, at least. All of his life, he's been consistent in his oddness, his strange habits; he procrastinates because he's afraid to try and fail, hides behind his meister because she is better at talking and has a higher social tolerance, buys headphones with cans that cover his ears entirely so that he may cancel out the noise of the outside world. Consistent. He is loyal and would do nearly anything for Maka, his best friend, his partner. Would do anything to keep her safe and make her happy.
But wanting to wrap his hands around her throat is just unlike him.
He's sitting and staring at her, elbow on the kitchen table, music loud in his ears. It's almost dreamy, the way he's gawking at her, watching her loosen the tie around her neck, little fidgets and shakes of her hand. She pops the top button of her collared shirt and there it is, that peak of pale, thin skin, and more than anything else, he wants to press his lips there and maybe bite, a little.
Unlike him. Soul turns the music up louder and ruminates in his guilt.
It catches him off guard. It's not that he'd ever been necessarily purposefully celibate, and he's certainly entertained dirty thoughts here and there, but it's never been this bad before. He's nineteen now, mostly a virgin, has kissed only a handful of people, but there's something about his meister's neck that calls to him like a siren. Makes him think thoughts he's never even imagined he'd think before, like - like what it would be like, maybe, to hold her neck in his hand as he sucked an earlobe into his mouth, what it would be like to feel the tremor of her breath beneath his palm as he buried himself within her, to feel the way she trembles and gasps and whimpers his name-
Soul drops his head onto the table and absolutely festers in guilt instead.
He hadn't even been this bad when he was fourteen and apparently hormonal. He's never felt a tug quite like this. He's never been even half as torn up over a feeling before, either. Not even over kinda-sorta-really being head over heels for a girl who wears her hair in pigtails and bookmarks textbook facts for easily-accessible future reference.
The worst. He is the worst. Like Maka needs another man in her life that thinks with his pants.
"I was thinking pizza for dinner," she says, flippantly. Soul peeks from his blanketed arms and tries to school his expression into bored indifference, to varying results. His lips sort of… twitch. Brows furrow. Maka raises her own brow at him. "No?"
"I will literally never say no to pizza."
She blinks, once, twice. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
No, but he's certainly seen religion. With her tie loose around her neck, his discomfort is almost palpable, and Death, why is he so fucking weird? He's lived with her for years, has carried her home on his back and tended to wounds bruising purple along her thighs. This is not the most vulnerable he's ever seen her. Hell, it's not even inherently sexual; she's still dressed in school attire, smart buttoned-up blouse and pleated skirt. Really, he should go back to something more vanilla and daydream about her legs.
"... Ngh." Begrudgingly, he pops his headphones from his ears.
"You're not hungry?" She slips the loose tie from around her and then cracks her neck. "You're always hungry. Like a talking trash disposal."
"You say the sweetest things sometimes, you know? Really know how to make a guy feel special."
"I live to please," she says mindlessly. He wants to argue, remind her that such a line is his, not hers, but it slips from her lips so effortlessly that he instead finds himself choked up. "I have to feed you compliments so you grow up big and strong, right?"
"I am older than you. And taller than you."
Maka flashes him a playful smile. Her tie hangs, undone, around her neck, hanging down, and oh, he could grab her and tug her over, if he tried; she's just in his reach, just barely. "You weren't always taller than me," she reminds him, but his fingers itch and it's difficult to anchor himself on their usual banter when she's practically wearing a leash. "You're welcome."
"Buh." He doesn't have it in him right now. Just doesn't. "Why're you stripping in the kitchen, anyway? You have a bedroom, you know."
She blushes, but it's not satisfying. Well, no. It is very satisfying, but not in the way he wants it to be. He wants to be smug, wants to bask in his rightness and watch her pout and stomp around in that bratty Maka way she does when she's caught doing something she knows she probably shouldn't be, but he's weird lately and he wants to hold her rosy cheeks in his hands and kiss her silly. Which, okay. Maybe that's not the weird part about him. Wanting to kiss her is distressingly normal for him, these days, but the underlying desire to melt into the heat of her cheeks and unbutton her collar to see how far down her blush burns down is… less normal. A little more risque than normal, anyway.
It's like he's depraved or something.
"Ties are uncomfortable," she huffs. He swallows thickly. "You try wearing one all day and then talk to me about stripping, buster."
"Black Room ring any bells?"
She scoffs, then circles around the table, approaching him. He is marble, the unmovable man, caught in her headlights as she leans over to get to his level to glare at him. Close enough now to count her eyelashes, Soul has an abnormally difficult time keeping his eyes on hers and not, erm, lower. He would like to say that he was staring at her tits, or something still wrong but arguably more palatable, but he's not. He's definitely gawking at the line of her throat, pretty and delicate. Her skin must be so thin there. Wouldn't she pink so delightfully, if he were to drag his teeth down to her collarbone.
Fuck. His tongue is so tied and he's so boned. "Uuuh."
She flicks his forehead. "Do you want pizza or not, Soul?"
"Hhhmrmh."
"That is not English. I don't speak butterknife."
Yeah, that makes two of them. Hypnotised, he reaches for her and plucks the first button of her blouse. There's little to no resistance, and hm, maybe she's not as tightly bound as he's always thought.
She sucks in a breath, and his eyes raise to meet hers. Now she's the deer in the headlights.
Soul snaps back to reality and feels his heart promptly plummet into his stomach. "I. Uh." Her eyes are wide and she stands taller, and he can just barely make out the blush now spreading down the pale skin of her neck like watercolors, how it bleeds down beneath the fabric of her shirt. "You were uncomfortable," he says, feebly, as if it explains everything. She was uncomfortable, and that means he has perfect reign over her clothing. He doesn't. He never has and never will.
She exhales shakily through her nose. He wishes he were close enough to feel her breath on his neck. "Oh."
"... Sorry."
"N-No, it's." Maka swallows. Presses her fingers to the skin he's uncovered and left bare. The delicate dip of her throat, peak of her collarbones. "Um. Okay, I just wasn't expecting it?"
Yeah, neither was he. Hands have a mind of their own these days, and he should really get ahold of himself. She is meister and best friend and roommate all rolled into one, but she is not girlfriend, despite his best (and worst) dreams, and even if she was, Soul still doesn't know if he'd be ballsy enough to just unbutton her like that. Because Maka is Maka, and, he doesn't know. She has never been the type of person to ask for help, even when she needs it. She's proud like that. Likes taking care of herself.
Likes wearings her shirts buttoned up all the way and tying a tie-noose around her neck like it's uniform (it's not, it never was) - or on her off days, when she's dressing up for events and likes adorning her neck with tight velvet chokers. She's contrary like that. His meister wears skirts because they're easier to move around in but doesn't mind resistance on her throat.
Soul buries that budding thought before it even has the chance to flourish.
He grunts and melts back into the chair. "... Still don't know why you wear that thing."
"A shirt?"
"No." He knows why she wears one of those, no matter what his daydreams whisper to him. "That tie. You don't even attend the academy as a student anymore, and even then, it was never part of the uniform-"
"-It looks professional!" She huffs, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest. Maka never once moves to rebutton herself up, and Soul's left struggling to keep his eyes on her face and not on her pretty neck. "And mature, okay? I want the students to take me seriously. You know when we were students, so many of our peers just spent their time trying to stare down Marie's shirt-"
That could literally never be an issue for Maka. Both A, because she does not have cleavage, despite her best teenaged efforts, and B, because if anyone tried they'd get a hand hacked off, and he'd be the blade to do it. Whether or not she'd be the one wielding him is undetermined. "Don't really think it mattered what she wore, Maka," he says, twirling a headphone wire around his finger. "S'like- she had tits so people stared. Your old man stared like it was his fucking job, that's for sure."
Her nose wrinkles up. It's more cute than threatening. "He's disgusting."
Yes, this is fact. Soul finds himself nodding. "Yup. But he's gross no matter what. Doesn't matter what Marie wore, he still would have stared like a dog in heat. Not her fault."
Maka purses her lips. Somewhere in there, he knows she's still got some things to work through re: Women and Sexy Clothing, but she's miles better now than she was at thirteen and going through the whole Blair Fiasco. Still, he lets her mull it over as he stands and collects his ipod, shoving it into his back pocket. When he stands, he towers over her, and her brows furrow as she has to lean back to get a good look at his face.
He's feeling brave again. Height seems to empower him. "It's cutting off circulation to your big brain, bookworm. You need that to think."
It seems his height empowers her, too. Standing must shatter whatever spell plucking that shirt button must've put her under, because she squints up at him and her lips purse. "I thought you said I think too much?" she asks, cheekily, like the little twerp she is.
"One of us has to think," he says, but even as he does he knows it's a half-truth; he thinks all the time, probably just as much as she does, but he's more introspective of the two of them. Or maybe he just does it more quietly, and doesn't think so damn loudly that it keeps the both of them up at night.
Even now, he's thinking - overthinking, trying not to get caught staring at the way her lips press together or the way her tongue peeks out like forbidden fruit.
He watches the way her lips press together, now. Watches the way her face goes thoughtful, the raise of her brows. "Sometimes I don't want to think," she says, more quietly than before, and she presses a hand to her collar, still left unbuttoned. Her fingers graze bare skin and she sighs.
Sometimes she doesn't want to think. There's a stirring in his gut, hot and tight, and when she bites her lip and takes to sliding the tie back into place and pressing it to her neck that heat pinches, deep in his stomach, and he just doesn't know what to make of it. He's left gawking after her, then, the image of her fingers brushing against her throat left burned behind his lids.
It blindsides him. And he's not sure what he's supposed to do about it.
next part will actually be nsfw lol