UPDATED: I decided after a conversation with Marsh of Sleep that there were certain things about the original first chapter I very much despised. Chalk it up to writing under heavy influences of sleep deprivation and complementary Full Throttle boozing, but I didn't think it lived up to...what? My potential? Pssssh. As if that exists. Either way, I felt more needed to be said, and I hope this revision is less of a jumbled and confusing mess than the previous monstrosity.

For those of you waiting on a second chapter (if it wasn't already painfully obvious there will be one), it will be up as soon as I can type again. Because of the blizzard and freezing temperatures, my parents' basement is a cold and frigid place to attempt typing ANYTHING at all right now. I've spent the majority of my time the past two days under the sheets, warming myself by the light of glorious smut (both SoMa and non) on my laptop and the resulting insulation that brings. I definitely just said that. No I didn't.

For this reason, I demand that more steamy SoMa goodness grace my inbox over the next two days. Lest a puppy mysteriously dies somewhere. Just sayin'.

Stupid Maka.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid. Maka. STUPID!

"Very cool, Soul," he thought aloud to himself. "Now you're on par with the collective population of whiney fifth graders.

Rolling over onto his stomach, a multitude of very colorful Maka-centered repeals and retorts became muffled in the fluff of his pillow. He hadn't meant to be insensitive. Really. He'd had a good track record lately of behaving somewhat like a polished gentleman. He drooled less. He chewed with his mouth closed. He didn't make fun of her tits…as much. He was (relatively) on time for his appointments. He knew more about her personal dietary needs and caloric intake than he'd ever care to admit. He'd become accustomed to her monthly visitor and made a conscious effort to not freakin' tick her off when she was homicidal on the rag.

But how did she expect him to react to this? He was a man, after all. What girl in her right mind would ask him, the dully coined "big fat jerk", for his opinion on her wardrobe? It was crazy. It was asinine. It was downright irresponsible, that's what it was!

/ / / / / / / / / /

"Soul, what do you think?"

Momentarily glancing up from his comic book, he was initially surprised at the sight before him. That impatience soon turned to awe, and he couldn't pull his eyes away. She twirled a few times for emphasis, glassy eyes staring him down, waiting in wild anticipation for his answer.

What did he think? What did he think of the new yellow sundress, the one that she'd special ordered from the European catalogue just for Kid's dinner party? The one that hugged her waist and torso so tight that it flaunted her curves in all the right places? The one that complemented her flaxen hair so perfectly that he felt as if he'd become lost in a visual sea of gold? The one that took his breath away because she couldn't help but look so god damn adorable in it?

"Well?"

"It's…nice."

"Nice?"

"Nice."

The glint in her eye turned from one of excitement into one of mild disgust. Tilting her head to meet his gaze as he reclined on the couch, her stature and brazen appearance demanded that he elaborate further. "Just nice?"

"It's fine…if you like that sort of thing."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He was swimming in very hostile and dangerous waters, and Maka was staring at him like a questioning shark about to move in for the kill. He had to think of something quickly to change the tide of this conversation. Before he ended up dead.

It's…very yellow."

"Yellow?"

"YELLOW!"

"And?"

" 'And' what?"

"Can't you think of anything else to say?"

For heaven's sake, this girl was frustrating!

"I'm reading."

"Since when do you read?"

"Since…now, woman!"

Hiding his face behind the pages of Sandman was simply not an alternative to the truth that she was willing to accept. What was his deal? Was she really so repulsive that he couldn't even look at her? No, that couldn't be right. He had at least some positive opinion of her appearance, given numerous occasions in which he'd accidently let known some semblance of interest. The secretive glances when she did something different with her hair. The faint pink that covered his cheeks when he folded her underwear. His offer of a massage after an especially hard day fighting off kishin. The blatant staring at her as she indulged herself in her favorite afternoon activity of licking delicious nutella from a spoon.

When it came to his opinion of her, however, she never really expected a completely straight answer to begin with. He was the cool, collected, unwavering, and sexy dude of a partner that had everything in the world going for him. She was the petite, feisty, and geeky meister that had been given the privilege of using him as a weapon to enhance both of their skills as she selfishly sought to be the best of the best of the best. She was allowed to touch him only in the way that any meister would handle his or her weapon on the battlefield. This mutual agreement kept their resonance in check and physical awkwardness at bay.

Still, that didn't mean he had to be a complete and total jerk and ignore her feelings, did it? Were her assumptions that he at least found her somewhat attractive completely unfounded and misled? Was she worth so little that he couldn't give her a straight answer either way, whether he found her pretty in the dress or not? Was his reputation so important that he had to continue this indifferent façade even around her, the one person in the world who knew better?

He made the mistake of looking up from his comic again. Oh, god. No. No, Maka, no tears! Stop the crying! Anything but the waterworks!

"Does it look bad?" His meister was usually stronger than this, but for some strange reason, the lack of her weapon's interest in her appearance and loss for anything positive (or negative) to say popped open the well to her emotions. She couldn't help the tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes. Stupid Soul. Why did she care so much what he thought of her, anyway?

Oh yeah. Because it was him. The boy whose love for her would never go beyond that dreaded level of "best friend."

"Does it make my….look…err….small? Do you not like it?"

His glance away from her person was the only confirmation she needed. If he couldn't (or wouldn't) give her a straight and honest answer, then there really was no point in continuing this useless game. Attempting to hold back more tears and maintain some degree of dignity, she turned to leave and prevent herself from further looking like such an idiot and a little girl in front of her partner. However, his hand around her wrist prevented any movement that wasn't made back toward him.

"What do you want me to say, Maka? Do you want me to tell you that I think it looks good? Do you want to hear that it doesn't matter what the hell you wear, that you'll always look adorable? Do you want me to say that it doesn't matter that you're small, and to hell with anyone that thinks otherwise? You look really cute, okay?"

Maka's loss for saying pretty much anything was only secondary to the fact that her weapon partner was sporting the most frustrated expression she'd ever seen. What was this now? Why was he angry? What right did he have to be angry? She'd been the one to bare all of her emotions and fears to him on a daily basis in the hope that he would someday reciprocate. She never kept anything from him, always letting him know how she felt both physically and mentally…except that one Grand Poobah of all secrets that would probably follower her straight to the grave if she was lucky (or unlucky).

He'd told her how he felt. So why wasn't she satisfied? Because it was painfully obvious that he was angry at her for making him do so, despite the romantic and heartfelt nature of the compliments. And that more than anything made her blood boil over.

Any remnant of fear or embarrassment left her in one infinitesimal instant, and was quickly replaced by her own repressed anger. If he chose to speak that particular language, then who was she to deny him? He'd never been one to respond well to any of her other emotions. Whether it took the form of her yelling or a dreaded Maka-CHOP to the cranium, her anger seemed to be the one thing about her that he had absolutely no problem understanding. If he wanted it, then he sure as hell was going to get it.

Grabbing the comic book from his clammy hands, she threw it across the room like a multicolored missile, plopping herself right in front of Soul's FACE and into his LAP as the WTF factor of the situation continued to skyrocket out of control.

"You mean that?" Her sudden disregard for his personal space began to make the scythe very uncomfortable about her current position on top of his increasingly vulnerable person.

"Ye-yes?"

Completely ignoring the boundaries of his cool bubble that had taken many, many years to fortify, Maka's green eyes gazed into his red ones in a manner that was simultaneously extremely seductive, incredibly innocent, and incessantly intense. She leaned in further to confirm that this was really her weapon she'd cornered on the couch, because this subservient and compliant nature simply was not like him at all . Looked like him. Sounded like him. Had the same distinct scent of old leather and scented body gel that she'd come to associate with not just his person, but with their furniture and laundry, as well.

She shifted suddenly on his lap, sending a jolt of what the fuck was that? straight to his groin and outward into the rest of his defenseless lower half. He only slightly chose to acknowledge the fact that she was sitting directly on top of his little amigo, and that every shift or movement on top of him acted as a painful and excruciating reminder of the act they were unwittingly mimicking.

"Say it again."

"Huh?"

"Say it again? That I look good?"

"Maka, I don't think….ooohhh…."

She shifted her hips into his slightly, feeling herself rub seductively against his covered crotch. To his chagrin, he had decided to go with sweatpants for his lounging-at-home ensemble that day, which left plenty of room for Little Soul to express his enjoyment at Maka's brazen attention. Squeezing her legs around his hips firmly and pushing down and forward at the same time, Soul moaned as he was squeezed oh-so-incredibly tight between the toned muscles of her clenched thighs.

"That's right. You don't think. You don't ever think. You never consider how your hurtful and brainless words make me feel. Especially when you don't have any."

Again. And again. And again. She purposely moved her hips excruciatingly slow, at a snail's pace, letting him feel each thrust and movement as it seemed to take a thousand and one years for each sensation to pass at the advent of another. She was getting wet. He could feel the moisture of her panties through the fabrics of both their clothing. That she could keep a straight face as she stared him down, not one trace of desire etching itself onto her stoic features, while he was twitching and squirming in glorious agony, embarrassed the scythe to no end.

"All I want is your honesty." Again. Again. There was a slight squeak beginning to make itself known in her voice. He was already rock hard, and apparently his state of arousal was finally having an effect on her. At least he wasn't the only one beginning to fall to pieces at her sudden decision to mount him and start grinding away, although her ability at hiding it was startlingly far more advanced than his own.

"The cool act doesn't work on me. It hasn't since I resonated with you the first time. But still, I can't read your mind. I don't know what you're thinking. I don't know how you feel all the time. How could I?"

Again. Again. One hand shot up to her hip, gripping the fabric of her dress tightly as she continued to dance on top of and into him. His moans had already reached a fever pitch, and her stone-cold expression at his reaction brought a raging blush to his face. Who was this girl? This wasn't Maka. She'd never….

"Ma-maka…nngghh…."

"Save it, Soul." She stopped momentarily, to take in his features, but he didn't have very long to catch up to himself. She started the pace again, and his other hand shot up to cover his mouth. To prevent any more embarrassing noises from seeing the light of day.

He wasn't successful. How could he be when she was smashing him so perfectly and wantonly between her legs? The pressure alone was killing him, and damn it all, but he was supposed to have better stamina that this! She hadn't even touched him yet! Already he could feel the pinnacle of completion rushing at him like a runaway train, headed for certain doom at the edge of an endless precipice.

"I want the truth. I want you to be honest. I don't like it when you…" One final hard thrust into his groin that made him see sparkling lights behind his eyes as it sent him whimpering over the edge, the contents of his balls releasing into his pants "…pussy-foot around with me. Even if it's embarrassing, or not cool, why can't you just say what you really feel?"

She was kind enough to halt her movements as he attempted to catch his breath. To his horror, there was now a warm, wet, and sticky mess between them from when he had come in his pants while Maka had rode him like an unbridled pink pony on a magical adventure to the stars. The mere thought of what had just transpired sent Soul's face aflame like a flashing street light. He could feel the heat of it all the way to his torso. He couldn't meet her gaze, and his eyes searched the room frantically for something to ground him back to reality.

Removing herself from on top of him quickly and forcefully, Soul hissed between his teeth and grabbed his poor tortured balls through his pants. Fuck! Maka flattened the skirt of her dress and did her best to brush out any wrinkles that had formed during their activities. Without turning to face him again, he could hear the break in her voice as emotion decided to return to her formerly spontaneous state in one fell swoop. She finally began to cry unhindered, and her weapon could only lie there and listen as the worst sound in the world bombarded his ears relentlessly.

Through obvious sniffles and snorts, Maka managed to confess, "I love Soul. I just wish he loved me enough in return…not to lie to me. Not to hurt me for the sake of looking cool. Even in front of me, when he knows that I know it's absolute bullshit."

The sound of her bedroom door slamming shut was his cue to evacuate to his own room. After cleaning himself up and justifying his weird scent to the damn purple cat on his bed, he shooed said animal out of the premises and spent the next few hours screaming incessantly into his cotton pillowcase like a spoiled five-year-old.

/ / / / / / / / / /

Whoever said relationships of all kinds take work should be smothered for the biggest understatement of the century. Now it was up to Soul to figure out what the hell had gone wrong that day, and how to fix it tout suite. Before he imploded in on himself out of sheer frustration, confusion, and humiliation.