aah! welcome to reverb 2016! biiig thanks to my artists, bendandcurl and redphlox, for coming up with this idea and just being all around wonderful to work with. bendy's posting some really cool art and julie's playlist is also going to be going up sometime today on tumblr, so look out for them! of course, thank you also to the reverb mods for organizing the event and just all of the hard work that went into things this year, and thank you a thousand times to proma and madi for betaing!
this is nsfw. this is weaponsexual. you have been warned.
She thinks about her weapon a lot.
Maka suspects, for the first few weeks, that this is standard meister fare. She's the proud partner of a shiny new scythe, and despite his questionable posture and tendency to spit when he talks, how can she not be excited, knowing she's taking the necessary steps toward becoming a great meister like her mama? She's Maka Albarn, emphasis on the Albarn, and she has a legacy to uphold. Of course her partner is something to obsess over, of course.
But then weeks turn into months, which turn into years, and Maka begins to suspect things aren't quite what they seem.
At eighteen, she shouldn't still think about the heat and pulse of demonsteel in her hands, shouldn't still think about the implications of the way his soul shudders when she grips him that little bit tighter in the heat of battle. Maka shouldn't linger on the intimacy of it all, on how right it feels to be connected to him on such an emotional, metaphysical level. Or, perhaps, on the boundless power she feels with her scythe in her grasp, the rightness of wielding Soul, the courage that comes with her meisterhood.
At eighteen, she shouldn't wonder if resonance for her partner is as groundbreaking as it is for her. If maybe, maybe, Soul feels the same hum of lingering fever and desire every time they link souls.
Because she sure does. She feels a lot of things - things she's not so sure are strictly meister related.
Like right now, for example, as she stands between a slobbering pre-kishin and the wide, open Wyoming plains. Instead of running through battle strategies and the best way to cleave the head off of a monster, she's much more interested in the buzz that runs through Soul's handle when he growls her name. Which, oh - she should really be paying attention to the battle at hand, because Soul does it again, and Maka finally snaps to attention, narrowly sidestepping a swipe of mangled claws.
This mission sucks. This whole punishment sucks. There's so much open space in Wyoming. Sure, it makes for an easy battlefield, but Maka has always taken comfort in being able to dive behind trees, should she find herself too close to her target and unable to properly slice at them with her scythe.
She blames Soul for skipping class again. She blames herself for falling prey to his puppy eyes. She blames Black*Star for being a conniving little asshole and convincing her otherwise well-meaning weapon to graffiti a giant dick on the Death Room door.
"Maka!" Soul roars again, and something shudders into place within her. Like magic, she is all meister again, hard eyes and iron-clad asskickery compacted into such short stature as she slams the butt of Soul's pole into the beast's chest. "God, about time! What's gotten into you, spacing out like that-"
His voice is so rough when he's impassioned. That thought certainly doesn't leave her very easily. Instead, it soaks beneath her skin, twisting, swelling, and Maka swallows thickly as she mutters, "Sorry," instead of giving him a real answer.
Because partnership is important. Their connection is important. They work because they're in sync, because Soul reads the battle and Maka delivers the blows, with morbid grace in every hefty arch of her weapon's blade. And if Soul even gets a whiff of what's going on in her head while he's in her hands and aiding her in narrowly avoiding certain death, well-
"Maka!"
She tumbles back into the grass, wind whipping around her, as the pre-kishin roars again.
It's not like her to be so out of it. Without her head in the game, it seems as though she's useless, just a little girl wielding her giant deathweapon without a clue, like she's twelve all over again and starry-eyed as she first dons her academy-approved uniform. It's dangerous, and she's not that girl anymore - so she cries out, lands a steel-toed kick to this beast's slimy, rickety neck, and rolls until she's back on her feet, fire lit bright in her eyes.
And Soul grins from the reflection of his blade, bare shoulders glowing like forbidden fruit, smile sharp like razors.
.
Soul slurps down the tainted soul like dinner and grins lazily at her through the afternoon light, and something within her buzzes, excited.
It's not just the part about wielding him that makes her wonder sometimes. It's him, too, and his mouth - mostly his tongue, and how damn long and dexterous it is as it laces around the stem of those evil souls he loves so much. She thinks about it a lot, about how they must taste, or feel going down, and why he likes it so much - and before she knows it, the words are spilling from her lips, voice thick, and Soul looks up at her, brows raised.
Maka's face darkens with pink. "Um-!"
As if considering his answer, Soul drags his tongue over his lips and fuck, fuck, he should stop doing that. It kind of makes her want to cry, because she knows it's not an appropriate thing to fixate on. As a meister, Maka has reign over her weapon, over the cut of his blade and the grace of his arcs, but she can do nothing to control his mouth - that's his and his alone, and dammit all if she isn't curious.
Soul scratches his cheek. "You wanna know what they taste like?"
Maka blinks and says, "Yes?"
"I mean, it's not really the taste that makes them so great. It's like… water, you know? The more disturbed souls are a little tangier, I guess. Kind of sour," he admits, shrugging, shoulders sinking with well-practiced ease as he shoves his hands into his pockets. Soul has no business looking so good with messy hair and dirt dusting over his eyebrow. "The texture is the really great part. It's smooth, I guess. And hot."
Because she has no censor, Maka asks, "Was Arachne's soul different?"
She tells herself it's because, for so long, she had strived to make him into a death scythe, and feeding him a witch's soul was written in the instruction manual. This is fair game, she thinks passionately, and has nothing to do with wanting to know so much about him, wanting to know everything that makes him both weapon and boy. Feeding him souls makes him stronger. She's not weird. She's not.
Soul purses his lips and she stares like a woman starved, mouth dry.
"Arachne's was kind of salty?" he says, a short laugh caught in his throat. Soul raises a wrist to his mouth and wipes with his sleeve, as if he were drooling, and that catches Maka's attention more than anything else. "Kind of crunchy, too. Uuugh, and there were legs. Spider legs. But not real spider legs, just, like, soul-y legs squirming as it went down. Like it was trying to crawl back up."
"Ew?"
"Ew," Soul says, nodding. "Anyway, let's go back to the hotel. I'm starving."
Her brows knit together. "Soul, you just ate."
He laughs and claps a hand over her shoulder. His arm is warm, and his body even warmer, as he tugs her closer. "I'm not all weapon, bookworm. Soul wants to be a real boy sometimes, too."
But he is a real boy 50% of the time. He's flesh and bone and infuriating, sharp-toothed grins that make her stomach stir and blood run hot - but he's also steel, weaponkind, a large, imposing scythe with jagged black-and-red detailing. He is simultaneously both man and scythe. If she were anyone else, had been raised anywhere else, she might find it terrifying. She doesn't.
Instead, there's heat looming in her belly. Maka clenches her fist.