a/n: hi and welcome to fluff central! we will return to our regularly scheduled program of angst next chapter. for now, just enjoy the ride.
all fic and chapter titles are lines from songs by the goo goo dolls. kallie will marry you if you can guess which ones.
chapter two: made to be broken
soul evans is far too cute for his own good.
Soul is adorable when he pretends he's not blushing.
It's ridiculous, really. He's tan, but not that tan. It's not exactly something he can hide. He can scowl and grumble and look away every time she cuddles up to his side, but she's known him since he was twelve years old. He's no bad boy rebel. He's a not-so-secret mama bear in a terrible, genetic disguise.
She can't believe it took a witch for her to realize he's stupidly in love with her, too.
"Stay still," she says, just to mess with him. He couldn't be more of a statue if he tried.
He scowls. "You're not funny."
"I'm hilarious."
"Clearly we have different definitions of what constitutes good humor."
"You think you're the funny one in our partnership? Really, Mr. I'm Going to Rename Myself Soul Eater And Emulate the Hunchback of Notre Dame Because I'm So Clever and Cool?" Before he can retort, she finishes fiddling with his hair and straightens with a bright smile. "Tada! All done!"
She has to bite her tongue as he takes the handheld mirror she passes to him and gazes at his reflection for the first time. There, pointing upwards from above his forehead like a misplaced horn, is a ridiculous sprout of white hair gathered together and secured with a pale pink bow.
To his credit, he doesn't explode like he could. Maka suspects he knew what he was getting himself into when he reluctantly agreed to let her play with his hair after she pulled out the big ole puppy dog eyes on him.
Still, even as his jaw ticks and his eyebrows look like they're physically in pain to keep from twitching off his goddamn face, he manages to keep his cool as he says, very calmly, "Considering you spent the better part of your adolescence wearing pigtails, I shouldn't be surprised that you have such terrible taste in hairstyles."
Maka gasps. "Take that back!"
"You turned me into a doll styled by a two-year-old," he says dryly. "I don't have to take back anything."
"You look cute!"
"I'm a Death Scythe."
"A cute Death Scythe," she insists. "The cutest in all the land. Royal-worthy. Cross my heart."
"You do realize that everything coming out of your mouth is increasingly more ridiculous, right?"
"You gonna blame that on the curse too?"
It's been two weeks since she woke up from what was supposedly a curse-induced nap—like the kind that princesses are put under by a big, bad witch in children's fairy tales, only to be rescued by the kiss from their handsome, knightly prince.
Except her prince is far from amicable, and he refuses to kiss her so much as goodnight, even as he lets her crawl into bed with him after a long day of training. No matter how much she and everyone else try to convince him that her feelings probably haven't been too affected by the spell, he won't listen. Claims he knows better. Claims he's doing this for her own good.
It's the curse, he always responds whenever she tries to tell him she loves him. You don't know what you want. The spell is influencing everything you think and feel. I'm your weapon, and I'll always protect you, Maka. Even from yourself.
It'd be almost romantic if she weren't so goddamn horny all the time.
In a lot of ways, these past two weeks have taught her that Soul is far more of a pushover than he'd ever let on. He lets her cuddle up against him and hold his hand and pepper kisses all over his adorable, blushing face. He still won't let her kiss him for real, of course, because he has some misplaced sense of chivalry that insists on letting her drown in sexual frustration instead of helping her get off, but she's long since stopped trying to push.
If he wants to play the celibate martyr for the sake of his own conscience, she won't stop him. It's only a matter of time before the curse is reversed and Maka can prove that her feelings are her own. Then she'll be mounting him like a horse and he won't have any excuses not to have his dirty way with her.
Until then, she just has to bear with his frustrating stubbornness as best as she can. Which sometimes isn't easy at all.
"Nope," Soul answers now, in response to her rightful accusation that he blames everything on her untimely curse these days. "I know that's all you." He yelps when she whacks him on the arm, rubbing at his bicep with a criminally adorable scowl. "See? Violent actions in the face of minor teasing? Now that's the Maka I know."
"So I'm me if I'm violent but I'm not me if I'm affectionate?" Her tone is incredulous. "Is that really what you think of me? Why the hell do you even love me then?"
"Your ass, obviously," he deadpans. She whacks at him again, this time with a mild growl of frustration, and he actually cracks a grin. He takes her wrists in his hands. His skin is so warm, his touch impossibly gentle. His hands are so much softer than her rough, scarred, meister ones. She feels like she's melting beneath the warmth of his gaze but then of course he has to ruin it by saying, "Ask me again when you're back to yourself."
Maka flops to the ground with a dramatic groan. "You're impossible," she grumbles into the carpet, but the words are so garbled that it sounds more like, "Vvwwe vwvwawvwvwle."
"I'm sorry, was that English?"
"I said, you're impossible," she repeats, again in carpet-speak.
She can hear him move off the sofa to crouch by her head. He nudges her shoulder. "C'mon, Maka. Don't fucking lie on the ground like that. It's disgusting. You have no idea what kind of germs collect there."
"Dun tvwell mwe vwuh vu vuu."
He snorts. "Okay, I don't even need to speak Carpet Eater to know that you were telling me off then."
She rolls her head to the side, just enough to peer up at her partner while still ensuring there will be weird wool patterns indented on half her face. "Go on a date with me?"
For a moment, he only looks confused. "Is this some kind of bizarre blackmail situation? 'Take me out or leave me to wither away on the dirty ass floor forever?'"
"Would that convince you?"
"Considering you're still under a spell and I've already gone over the ground rules several times over the past couple weeks, I'm gonna say that's a big fat no."
She pouts, which must make her look ridiculous considering her face is still smashed against the ground. Soul's lips twitch. "You're mean."
"Your insults need work, Albarn."
"Come ooooon," she whines, rolling onto her back in that small space between the couch and the coffee table just so she can look up at him with the full force of her treacherous puppy dog eyes. "I'm bored! All we do is go to school and train and come home and cuddle while we watch movies. Kid still won't let us take any active missions because of my so-called curse, even though it's been two weeks since I woke up and they still haven't found the witch. It gives us nothing to do."
Clay and Akane have been struggling to catch the woman's tail, so Kid sent Black Star and Tsubaki to join them on their mission yesterday. Maka has no doubt the loudmouthed assassin will escalate things exponentially, but still. It sucks being left to do nothing, especially when it's her own wellbeing that's on the line.
She never realized how boring and monotonous civilian life is until she was forced off active duty.
Soul levels her with a disapproving look. "Kid's just being careful. He wants you to be safe."
"He's being ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous," Soul corrects. "Kid just adores you and doesn't want to be responsible for sending you abroad only for your impaired judgement to get your body returned in pieces. You know how much he cares about you."
It's not an exaggeration. Kid and Maka have always been close, the only two among their immediate friends who prefer to read and spar intellectually instead of performing raucous mischief around the city. Plus, Kid is the only one who listens to her when she gushes about cool facts she learns at the library instead of tuning her out or purposefully pretending to snore, like Soul does.
But ever since Kid took over his late father's position as the reigning Death God, he and Maka have grown even more inseparable. Though all their friends did their best to support him during the stressful transition, only the green-eyed scythemeister seemed to be able to keep him steady. His weapons were his support, but she was his anchor. She took over all immediate clerical duties in regards to his post, helped keep him on a balanced schedule, and forced him to take breaks whenever he overworked himself, which was far more often than was healthy during those first few months. Even for a god.
Plus, she dealt with his newfound solemnity a lot better than the rest of them, taking it in stride instead of being wary and cautious. She suspects that's a strong reason for why Kid leans on her so much more than everyone else.
The young reaper changed a lot after he lost his father. It haunted him in a way he refused to show, and while he worked hard to rid himself of his neurotic tendencies so they wouldn't get in the way of his new position, it also hardened him in a way Maka hated to see.
Now, he's too serious for his own good. Too intense, too focused on his mission, on keeping everyone safe, on protecting the truce with the witches that once saved their lives. Sometimes it feels like he aged a hundred years overnight and Maka often worries that the toll of his inherited position may be getting to him more than they realize.
But he's still Kid, their Kid. An irreplaceable member of the now disbanded Spartoi and a very good friend of hers, whether he's obsessed with symmetry or not. She wouldn't have it any other way.
Knowing that Soul is right, Maka lets out a deep sigh and pouts, her view of the world still upside down from her spot on the ground. "Fiiiiine. But if you're not going to stick your dick in me, the least you can do is take me out a few times and remind me why I find you cute in the first place."
This position was a great idea because it gives her a full view to the deep flush crawling up his neck. "You grope my ass when I'm not looking and then look away and whistle when I turn around, as if I won't know it's you," he points out dryly. "Do you really need a reminder?"
She thinks about it for a moment then sheepishly concedes. "Point. But it still doesn't hurt to be pampered. Girls like to be treated like princesses sometimes, y'know?"
"Even my stubborn, hotheaded, I-can-handle-it-myself, I-don't-need-anyone-else, maneater of a meister?"
She sticks out her tongue. "Even her."
Soul sighs. Tips his head up to stare at the ceiling like he can't believe he's even considering this ridiculous plan of hers. "Fine," he grumbles eventually, cracking a wry smile when she lets out a shriek of excitement. "Yeah, yeah, I'm the best, I know. Whatever. It's Saturday. I could use the excuse to get out of the house. Do you even know what you want to do on this date of yours?"
"Ours," she corrects, "and duh, of course I do." She squeals again and is on her feet so fast that Soul doesn't have a chance to steady himself before he's tackled to the ground. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You won't regret it, I promise!"
He lets out a small chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before he can talk himself out of it. "Calm down, bookworm. It's just a date."
"It's a date with the boy I love," she corrects. "That is a big deal, Soul. The biggest."
Pink dusts his cheeks. "You're a fucking dork."
"Hell yeah I am. And don't you forget it." She snuggles into his chest for another couple beats before she pries herself off and bounds off towards her bedroom. "I need to get ready!" she shrieks. "We'll leave in half an hour—and dress appropriately, Soul. We're going skating."
-x-
Thirty-two minutes later, Soul finally emerges from his bedroom to where Maka is already waiting on the sofa.
She takes on look at him and bursts out laughing.
Puffy grey winter coat. Thick, knitted beanie. Coupled with the deep red scarf wrapped around his neck that she'd originally gotten for him as a gift before their first mission in the tundra, Soul looks like the poster child for a hot chocolate commercial or a bystander in an advertisement for some sort of winter sport competition, and fuck if he isn't the cutest thing she's ever freaking seen.
But he's also ridiculous, and she laughs and laughs and laughs so hard that she physically can't breathe. She has to clutch her stomach and bend at the waist, she's laughing so damn hard.
Soul glances at her normal schoolgirl attire and immediately realizes his mistake. His eyes go wide in horror. "You told me to dress for skating!"
"Yeah, roller skating. Do you know how much money it would cost to keep an ice rink cold enough in this crazy desert weather? Kid would never. He takes budgeting very seriously." Maka can barely choke out the words through fits of uncontrollable laughter.
With a growl, he immediately begins ripping off his layers as he says, "God fucking damn it, Maka! That's it! I'm done! We're staying home!"
"Oh, come on," she wheezes. "Don't be like that." Her eyes are blurry. Her lungs are full. Sweet Death, she's officially laughed herself to tears.
"Fuck off!"
"Language!"
"You're not my mother. Don't tell me what to do!"
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not, because then I couldn't dream about—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence!"
"Oh, Soul," she croons, sidling up to him so she can wrap her arms around his waist from behind. "Sweet, sweet Soul." He continues to march towards his bedroom anyway, dragging her along and struggling to angrily strip more layers as he goes. "You're so cute, I can barely handle it. Seriously, I don't think it's physically possible for someone to be as adorable as you."
"Eat. A. Dick," he growls, then, before she can cheekily respond, he hisses, "Don't! Say anything."
She couldn't hide her smile if she tried. "Marry me?"
He stumbles so hard he almost sends them both plummeting to the ground in a heap. "MAKA."
"Would you believe me if I said I meant it?"
"You're—"
"Under a spell, I know." She lets out a dramatic sigh. "I swear, if I have to hear you say that phrase one more time, I'm going to throw myself off the highest point of the Academy. But right now, we have a date to make. You promised, Soul. You can't break your promise."
He visibly deflates. "You're the worst."
"I love you?" she offers hopefully.
A scoff. "Yeah, yeah. Now get off. I need to change."
"Aw, but—"
"Maka."
"Fine," she pouts, "but I'm still mad at you anyway."
"Why, because I won't agree to take advantage of you while you're under a spell?"
Shaking her head, she reaches up to flick his hair. "Because you took out my bow."
-x-
As it turns out, Soul has never gone roller skating before.
It shouldn't be a surprise; he didn't exactly have the most normal childhood. But Maka is a strong believer in rites of passage, and an even stronger believer of "if you haven't fallen on your ass repeatedly as a child while trying to maintain your balance on eight tiny wheels, you haven't lived." Competitiveness is her shtick and dares are her kryptonite. She has many stories about Star kicking her ass on rollerblades when they were children, and she's excited to introduce someone to the sport who she knows won't automatically surpass her. It'll be nice to be the competent one for once.
Maka finds herself struggling to hold back a laugh as her cool-as-sin partner struggles to tie his rented skates like he's three years old and has never attempted a knot before.
She ends up having to fasten the laces for him, mostly because he leaves them loose like one of his skater shoes and that's a sure way to get a broken ankle. Her hands may be tiny, but they are strong. She is secretly pleased when he winces as she pulls the laces tight.
"Do you want to keep both your ankles, Soul?"
"Well, yeah but—"
"Then shut up and let me work."
By the time they hobble off to the rink, her partner is visibly tense. Anyone else might think his face is simply in resting bitch mode, but she knows better. The force at which he's currently gripping her arm as she leads him towards the rink's entrance is starting to cut off her circulation.
"Relax, Soul," she soothes. "I've got you. You know I won't let you fall."
"You better not," he grumbles. "If I crack my head open and die before I'm legal, I'd at least like the last song I hear not to be some atrocious bop from the eighties. Seriously, it's bad enough that there are colorful flashing lights everywhere. Do they really have to blast the soundtrack to some cheesy old-school roller derby movie?"
She struggles to hide her laugh. "Careful, Soul, your inner pretentious musician is coming out."
"It's a valid concern!"
It takes several tries and cooing prompts to coax Soul onto the rink. A lot of people, including a few snickering children, pass them where they argue and hover by the entrance. They must be a hilarious sight: tiny little blonde attempting to talk a towering, gangly-armed demon boy off a literal edge.
Maka thinks they look perfect together.
Eventually it's his pride that wins out—because hell if Soul Eater Evans is going to be outskated by that helmet-wearing preteen who blew a raspberry at him while soaring past at an alarmingly fast pace. Maka has to bite her tongue to hide her laughs as her partner tightens his grip on her arm and hisses, "Don't you dare let go," before allowing her to drag him into the flow of skaters.
They move slowly. He refuses to let go of her arm. When that proves to be ineffective, she pries off his grip so she can lead him forward by the hands instead, skating backwards in front of him.
"Come on, just kick off with your weight! Push, push, glide; push, push—you're not pushing, Soul! You're just gliding." To be exact, he's just letting her drag him along while he stiffly keeps his wheeled feet firmly planted on the wooden floors as if not breathing will keep him from falling on his ass. People continue to skate past them, many of them stifling obvious laughs.
"I'm—trying," he grits out. His feet do not move. To be fair, she can't blame him. Soul slouches over enough on a daily basis that he could be distantly related to the candy cane, and candy canes are not known for their balance. His spine is not used to this kind of upright labor.
"You're doing great!" she says encouragingly, making him scowl.
"Stop talking to me like I'm a preschooler who needs the validation to survive."
"Well—"
She's not sure what happens because she's fairly certain she doesn't see his feet move, but he must shift his balance or attempt a push or something because all of a sudden, he's flailing forward with a yelp like a keeling, shadowy tower about to crush her into a pancake.
Her eyes go wide. "Soul—!"
But it's too late. The ball is already rolling, and she overestimated her own balance on eight wheels while a giant, flailing beanpole is toppling on top of her. It's like trying to save a panicking person who's drowning. If the victim isn't calm, they all go down.
And down they go.
"What a loser," a snotty kid snickers as he skates past the heap on the ground that is the long-limbed Death Scythe crushing his tiny blond meister.
Soul groans into her neck. "I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning."
Sympathetically, Maka pats his back and tells him he's squishing her boob.
-x-
"Here," she says, placing the ice pack on his head. "For your battle wounds. And this—" She presents an ice cream cone the size of Mount Everest, piled so high that even daredevils would feel nervous. "—is for the wounds on your fragile pride and soul."
Her partner scowls at her hilarious joke but snatches the cone from her hand anyway. Miffed as he is, he would never turn down food. It goes against everything he believes in.
They're sitting on the edge of the fountain downtown after what Maka would claim was a very successful skating session, though Soul and his three thousand bruises would probably beg to differ. She'd left him there to find ice because he was far too sore to walk, and she returned with two types because she is a firm believer of positive reinforcement. Despite his constant complaints, he was such a good sport, humoring her starry-eyed romantic curse brain like an absolute pro. He deserves the treat.
Plus, she feels kind of bad for laughing at him so much over the past couple hours. But she wouldn't trade it for anything.
"You didn't get a cone for yourself?" He eyes her carefully as he slathers the rapidly melting dessert with his abnormally long and criminally attractive tongue.
"I'm sharing yours," she says as if it should be obvious. When his face pinches with distaste—he isn't called Eater without reason, and sharing food is not his favorite hobby—Maka bites back a snicker. "Out of all the things you've gone along with today, you're going to draw the line at letting me have a bite of your ice cream? Really?"
"Maybe next time you try to recreate one of your cheesy romantic comedies, choose an activity that doesn't almost give me a concussion and I'll be more generous."
Her eyes brighten. "Next time?" she repeats, and Soul snorts.
"You're lucky you're so damn cute."
Banter as they might, Maka is glowing. She can't remember feeling this carefree. She may have a reputation for being reckless, but she's also cautious in all the ways she wishes she wasn't—or at least, she used to be, before she woke up after a week-long coma and found it impossible not to openly ogle how cute her weapon can be—and allowing herself to feel this way around Soul is like having a giant weight lifted off her chest that allows her angel-winged soul to soar.
Her partner can grumble and groan and complain all he wants, but he can't fool her. He is soft. The sweetest little marshmallow human around.
It's clear how much he cares about her. She doesn't know how she never saw it before. So why isn't it clear how much she cares about him? Why won't he believe her?
It's the spell, he keeps insisting. And what if he's right? What if the curse is affecting her mental state more than she realizes? Her emotions feel real to her, but magic is tricky that way. It could manipulate everything she's ever thought and felt and she'd never know any better. It could change her view on everything, morph her into another person, and she'd be heedless to stop it because she wouldn't even know to fight.
But then she takes one look at his face and feels her chest fill with such warmth and affection that she just knows. She knows. This can't be fake. This can't be anything but the truth.
...Right?
Realizing that she's been staring at him in silence long enough that his brows have started to furrow with concern, she parts her lips, eyelashes fluttering innocently. "Ahh?"
He takes one look at her waiting tongue, turns beet red, and angles the cone for her to take a lick. "You're the worst," he grumbles.
Maka beams.
"What's up with the bag, anyway?" he asks, tilting his chin towards the gift bag she returned with in her other hand. "If you bought some ice cream for later, we're going to have to book it home now if you don't want it to turn into teeth-rotting soup."
"It's not ice cream—it's your present! I was going to save it for your birthday, but I couldn't wait so I decided to get it for you now. I think you more than deserve it after the strenuous physical labor I put your lazy ass through."
Soul raises a brow at her. "If giving gifts on platonic I'm-humoring-you-because-you're-under-a-spell-but-you're-also-kind-of-terrifying-so-I-can't-tell-you-no dates is a thing, I can't be blamed for being unaware. This is kind of new to me, you know."
She rolls her eyes. "Just open it, you dork."
After handing her the ice cream cone which she happily starts to lap up like a pup, he pulls out the tissue paper and moves to toss it onto the ground before he notices Maka's warning glare. He dutifully tucks the crinkly material under his arm instead. Peers into the bag. His eyes widen. "Are you serious?"
It's a leather jacket. Not real leather, of course, because Patty would pummel them to hell if they ever supported the cruel skinning of cows, but the nice fake kind that you can only get at official stores that sell nothing but fake leather. The kind that costs a fortune.
"To replace the one you lost," she says. "From, you know. When I bled all over it."
Tactful, as always. Just the reminder of the Mission That Went Wrong makes Soul's jaw tighten and Maka briefly tenses, wondering if maybe she did this all wrong and she's as terrible at this whole dating thing as she was scared she'd be.
She wanted this to be a fun excursion for the both of them, wanted to make her weapon as happy as he makes her, but the entire time, he's been grumbling and unhappy, complaining every step of the way. She knows that's just the way he is, just his face, especially recently, since she hasn't exactly been making these past few weeks easy on him and none of their friends seem to be cutting him any slack either.
Part of her hoped that by getting him out of the house and doing a date-like thing would loosen him up a bit. Get him to stop trying so hard, to lessen his restraint, just a little. He's been so stressed lately, trying to be a stand-up guy who won't take advantage of his meister even when she can't seem to control her mouth.
But—well. She only seems to keep screwing things up.
She always screws things up. It's in her blood, after all.
"I'm sorry," she blurts out when he continues to stare at the jacket with an unreadable expression. "I can return it if you don't like it or if you want something else or—"
"Maka." He stops her with just her name, just a look. All it ever takes him is a look, and this one is all hidden softness and lovely reds. "Shut up. It's perfect. Thank you."
Those few words light up her entire world.
-x-
Later that afternoon, Soul is in the kitchen making pasta while Maka showers when he hears a startled shriek.
He bursts into the bathroom so forcefully that the door slams into the wall, both hands gripping a ladle still dripping with tomato sauce, ready to swing. "MAKA! What happened? What's wrong?!"
His meister is standing in the bath, clutching the shower curtain against her naked body like a towel. For a moment, Soul loses his train of thought because holy fuck, she's so hot with water dripping down her slender shoulders and a warm flush crawling over her skin. She grimaces at the sight of him. "Sorry, sorry! It's fine, I overreacted, I was just startled when he popped in, it's no big deal."
"He? He who?!" There's no one else in the tiny room except—
That's when Soul realizes that the mirror is an image of the Death Room instead of a reflection, and standing right in the center is Kid, who presses both hands over his eyes. Every visible inch of his deathly pale skin is flushed with pink.
"I—I apologize," Kid stammers, and Soul is so stunned by the sight of the reaper actually blushing that he forgets to be mad. "I should've rang first. I didn't think you would be, uh—"
"It's fine!" Maka squeaks, clutching the shower curtain tighter against her body. "Did you need something?"
"I can call back—"
"There's no need; you're already here. It would be silly to tell you to go now." Her face is cherry red. "So what is it? Is it about Black Star? Did they find the witch?"
"I—yes. Actually, it's—well, can I just—" Kid starts to move his hands so he can make eye contact while he's speaking, but when Soul lets out a rumbling growl, his fingers snap together again. "Well!" he says loudly. "I'll just, uh, get to it then. Black Star and Tsubaki think they found the witch but are uncertain if she's the right one. I have them on the other line. Is it alright if I transfer you through so you can confirm with them directly?"
Maka's eyes go wide as saucers. "Now?"
"Considering he currently has the witch tied up against a tree, I'd say yes. We need confirmation as soon as possible so we can either bring her in or get them to release her. It's going to be a PR nightmare if the latter is the case, but—"
"I'll handle it," she says immediately, dropping her embarrassment like a slab of ice. Her expression is a mix of fearless determination and soft reassurance. "It's fine. Send Star through. Soul and I will deal with it either way."
Kid's hands relax against his face enough that he can send her an appreciative glance. "Thank you, Maka." Then he seems to remember that she's naked and snaps his hands back into place. He coughs. "Well, I guess I'll just—"
"Yeah, that'd probably be a good—"
"—and let you get to it—"
"—until we get this sorted out—"
"Before I go though," he blurts over their combined, embarrassed babbling, "you should probably know—"
"What is it?" Maka furrows her brows, looking concerned.
"The pole for your shower curtain is crooked."
The mirror flickers, and within the next heartbeat, the image of the Death God is replaced by a close up of Black Star's face.
"—how dare you mute a god and put me on hold, you pussy-faced bastar—oh hey!" Black Star says when he realizes that his side of the mirror call is now live. He pulls back just enough that his face is no longer pressed obnoxiously against the screen. "LOYAL FOLLOWERS, BEHOLD. YOUR GOD DEMANDS THAT YOU—dude, is Maka naked?"
Soul growls loudly. It was one thing for Kid to see her like this; he was obviously embarrassed about it, and Soul is ninety percent sure that the reaper is asexual.
But Black Star is a pervert. A shameless pervert.
And that pervert is currently dying of laughter.
"Were you two getting it freaky up in the tub or something? It's about damn time! I was almost scared that you'd actually make it through this whole curse without copping a single feel, so I am a proud bro right now."
Soul bares his teeth. "Shut the fuck up, you asshole. Maka was just showering when Kid jumped in with a call. That's it."
"So Kid made the first move? Wow, I totally lost that bet—"
"Star!" Maka shrieks. Her green eyes are wide. She glances quickly at Soul before snapping her gaze back to the assassin as she says, almost desperately, "The witch?"
"Right." Black Star nods and backs up from the mirror, revealing where Tsubaki is in sword mode, her shadow tendrils restraining a woman to the tree. "This is the one you were looking for, yeah? Honestly don't know why those other plebs had such a hard time finding her; it was a piece of cake."
"Star," Soul says slowly as Maka slaps a hand to her forehead with a groan. "You do realize that woman is blonde, right? With dog ears? We specifically said that the person we're looking for is a redheaded fox witch."
He blinks. "You did? Ohhhh. Well, why didn't you say that from the beginning?"
Behind him, Tsubaki sighs.
Soul has long since decided that there's nothing cuter than a sleepy Maka in the morning, eyes half-lidded and still dressed in one of his sleep shirts, which by this point has usually hitched up her thigh as she drapes one sinful leg over his hip.
Unfortunately, she's an early riser, his meister, all fervent passion and soaring ambition, and he loves that about her, he does—when it doesn't interfere with his sleep schedule or his ability to sneak in a cuddle session before noon.
But this isn't just early. This is obscene. The sun isn't even up yet. Waking up to empty sheets next to him and no warm, soft, Maka-shaped body against his side makes his grumpy face even more sullen than usual. He curses the god who blessed his partner with the ability to be a morning person as he drags his limbs out of bed, still half-asleep but mostly needy and more than a little selfish.
How dare she want to see the sun before it rises and sets? She's supposed to love him, damn it. Shouldn't she want to spend all day in bed by his side like the warmest, prettiest pillow known to man?
If he's going to drape himself over her body like a cloak, she can't be opposed. It's her fault; she's the one who turned him into this needy, touch-starved plushie of a man. She spoils him with her constant hugs and then expects him to survive more than a second without them. Absurd.
He's shuffling down the hall towards the living room when he hears a low moan.
His muscles coil, spine pulling tight. His wide eyes snap to the closed door beside him, knowing deep in his mind that he already knows what's happening but is unable to comprehend the significance and breathing is suddenly, painfully hard.
A light gasp followed by another moan. A hitched breath. Sweet, sweet sounds, throaty and subdued, like she's trying so desperately to keep quiet but can't manage it. "Soul," she whimpers, but she's not talking to him, not really, and for a moment his vision goes completely white.
Something else is painfully hard now, too.
"Soul," she gasps again, and though the door remains closed and he's too frozen to move, he can see her as clear as day. Spread out on her bed, legs parted, fingers working magic. He can picture her like fucking torture, all flushed skin and bright eyes filled with want, and when he hears another sound, quiet and wet, like something he can't describe and has never seen but somehow knows, deep in his gut, like a cursed instinct buried in the torturous, hormone-driven part of his brain—he can't breathe. All oxygen flees his body and his blood has certainly traveled somewhere else.
His hand jerks its way to the front of his pants without his permission—just to lessen the agonizing pressure because god, he wants he wants he wants, so badly—but he miscalculated how closely he'd gravitated towards her door because his knuckles slam against the knob in his haste, the loud bang echoing like fucking thunder through their now-silent home.
"…S-Soul?" This time she's definitely speaking to him, just as breathless, chest halted, but for different reasons.
He has to clear his throat and pretend he isn't shaking. "Y-yeah," he calls back through the wood. "I—sorry." Fuck. "Was just heading to the bathroom." Liar, liar, liar.
There's a tiny pause. "Soul, can you come in here?"
Into the room where she'd just been touching herself a minute ago? Uhhh, how about hell no. "T-that's okay! I think I'm going to just—" Throw myself off the roof and hope the impact erases my very existence. "—go back to bed. Or—yeah." As if he'll ever be able to sleep normally again after this.
"Soul, please?" It's not her meister voice—tentative and unsure, so different from the all-encompassing commander he's so used to—but it seizes his blood all the same.
Struggling to swallow, he braces himself as he cracks open the door and steps into her bedroom. They haven't used it in weeks, not since she first woke up from her cursed nap and he realized denying her anything was going to be near impossible so he might as well save his energy for when it counts.
He thought that his bedroom, where they spend all too many hours cuddling around not-so-hidden boners, was the most sinful out of the two. But if she's been turning her own room into some secret self-service den where she makes waves while he sleeps, he doesn't know how he's ever supposed to think normally again.
Maka is sitting up in her bed, knobby knees curled beneath her tiny frame. Even in the darkness of her room, only broken by the faint glow of the hallway nightlight spilling in from behind him, he can see her blush. Feel it, like a warmth binding his soul to hers. Her hands grasp at the sheets at her sides, and he finds himself wondering which one had just been inside her. Both? Maybe something else?
His mind nearly convulses. The floor needs to swallow him up for eternity, and pronto.
"Did you… hear me?" She's whispering, which is pointless considering Blair hasn't lived here for months and they're both wide awake, but the hushed note of her voice only reminds him of her stifled moans and he suddenly can't look anywhere near her face.
"Maka, fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Soul, I'm not mad."
She's not? Surely that's the curse speaking. Had he walked in on her masturbating a month ago, she would've put a dent in his skull and avoided him for weeks. The fact that she's the one who demanded his presence in here after being caught is either good fortune as per the spell or bad because she wants to see his face before she kills him.
In his surprise, his gaze snaps back towards her just in time to see her shake her head. "I'm not," she repeats quietly. Fiddles with the sheets again. "I want… I still need—"
Realization settles. His lungs seize. "Maka, I can't, you know I can't—"
"Not that!" Her face is pink. "I know you can't do… that, or won't, or whatever, but I just… I…"
"Maka?" Concern overrides his embarrassing tomato of a face, though his color does not change. Whatever his issues, she always comes first, and he will stand by that even if he is rapidly approaching death by blue balls because none of it matters if it's what she needs.
"I want you to watch me."
Tomato, meet fire. For a long moment, he is nothing but a blubbering, gaping, hopeful mess of a boy, and he wants to think he knew what she said but is also really hoping she didn't say what he thinks she did because there's only so much he can deny when she's staring at him with green eyes so big and sweet and hesitant, like she's laying her whole heart down in front of him and is scared he might step all over her.
"Maka," he says in a hushed voice, his tenor deep and reverent. He wants to say more. He needs to, so she'll understand. But his mouth refuses to move.
Never releasing his gaze, she slowly untucks her legs from under her and eases onto her back as she whispers, "You don't have to do anything. Just watch."
In retrospect, the first touch is almost innocent, just a light hand to her chest as if she hopes the pressure will calm her racing heart, but at this point, anything would seem erotic to his undersexed mind.
Then, with a shaky exhale, she parts her knees and blows up his fucking world.
He's seen her naked before—once in a flash of skin and shrieks for him not to look after she lost a bet to Black Star and had to skinny dip in Kid's pool, and again when he bathed her a couple weeks prior because he mistook her fatigue to mean innocence—but it's never been like this, never in this context. She's not even naked now, is still drowning in his oversized cotton shirt that she insists on wearing to bed, but that space between her legs is uncharted territory. Never been conquered, never even been a possibility until this very moment.
When her hand finally reaches its destination, they both let out a simultaneous groan.
She's still slick, still wet—he can hear it, see it, as her fingers slide so easily through her folds. For him, he's like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time and he almost forgets that she'd been doing this before he arrived—that she may be impossibly more gone that he is—and so that slow build-up he's expecting to get her ready, it doesn't exist. She goes straight for gold and presses two fingers inside her core and he loses all feeling in his knees.
He should look away. If he was a good enough man, he would. But he's not, and she's a fucking vision, the way she moves, the way she gasps, the way she stares at him with half-lidded eyes filled with desire and these perfect fucking sounds he couldn't make up even in his dreams.
"Soul," she cries out, fingers twisted now, rhythmic in their expertise. Her other hand helps, rubbing at the spot above where her fingers disappear, and Soul sees fucking stars, having her call out his name while she's like this, right in front of him—it's like something from a dream. Better than a dream, because his nighttime wants are always her, and this is more than anything his fruitless brain could ever imagine.
"Maka." Her name escapes his lips in a burst, this low, strangled groan of a sound he barely recognizes as his own. His hand squeezes the front of his pants before he can stop it, and the instant his pleasure spikes, he registers what he's done and he forces his grip to release, guilty.
"No," she whispers. "Don't stop. Please, Soul. I want you to come with me."
His whole body jerks. He has to slam his hand against the wall beside him to keep from collapsing in a boyish, hormonal heap. "Maka."
"Please." Her voice is breathy; begging. Shoulders taut and fingers working faster, deeper. "I want you so badly. I dream of you all the time, of you touching me like this, inside of me like this. Your weight, the pressure…" She breaks off with a sharp cry as her fingers rub her just right, and her hips jerk off the bed in the most erotic fucking thing he's ever seen. His sweet, innocent meister, surrendering control right before his eyes while imagining it's to him.
How the fuck is he ever supposed to think again?
"But if you won't let me touch you like I'm dying to, let me see you touch yourself." She's nearly panting now. Breaths short and gasping with need. "Please, Soul? For me? I need you."
His dick is free from the confines of his pants with embarrassing speed. Surprisingly, it's not his name that does it for him this time, not the pleading expression on her face and the desperation in her every pant. It's the other three words—not the ones he really wants, the ones she says often these days but never with the context his heart needs, but still just as powerful. The thought that she needs him as much as he requires her existence to so much as breathe.
He doesn't approach the bed as he touches himself, and remarkably, she doesn't ask him to. Instead, he stays by the door, gripping the handle with one hand as his other jerks his dick like his life depends on it, not trusting himself to get anywhere near her when they're both wound up and his cock is out like this, and Maka loses herself to her gasps of pleasure as they work themselves to their end.
Soul comes first. He's not proud of it. He'd been so wound up just from hearing her that it shouldn't be a surprise he's this much of an embarrassment, and two and a half weeks of denying her open advances surely haven't helped. He catches his release in the edge of his shirt so he doesn't paint her floor like a fucking idiot as he fails to muffle his groans.
Seeing him unravel seems to push Maka off the edge to because her cries become soundless gasps as she falls, writhing, tense, the most beautiful fucking thing he's ever seen. He could watch her come for hours but also his limbs have turned to jelly, so he finds a happy medium and slides his back down the wall until he's a molten pile of mush on the ground, staring at her in a thrumming haze.
This is not the first time he's worked himself over the peak before—after all, he lives in close quarters with a girl who wears mini-skirts on a daily basis and doesn't seem to understand the meaning of personal space—but it's the first time it's felt like that. His brain is so numb he doesn't think he'll ever be able to stand again.
"Soul?" she whispers. She doesn't say anything else, doesn't move aside from the shuddering rise and fall of her chest, but her voice beckons him all the same. He wants to drown in oblivion and never move, but even missing the majority of his brain cells post-orgasm, his soul still bleeds for hers. Yearning, reaching, needing.
He's embarrassed and more than a little ashamed of himself for succumbing to these biological urges when he knows she's not in her right mind—but in his defense, he's not in his right mind either. He never is, when it comes to her.
"Nnnng." It takes a long moment for him to remember that his limbs need direction and motivation if they're ever going to move. Guiding them into an awkward crawl-slash-shuffle is like a kid trying to walk around in a sweater and pants that are far too big for him, his prepubescent balance hindered even more by the flopping fabric overextending his limbs.
Eventually, Soul makes it across the floor and has to yank his body up onto the bed in one jerky motion, collapsing on the mattress next to her like an undercooked pancake. He half-expects her to mount him like an unsuspecting giraffe, but instead she merely rolls onto her side to face him, hands tucked by her face, eyes so big and warm and full. She doesn't reach for him at all and he hates himself for being disappointed, but her gaze—it's like a blanket and he has never felt this content.
"Maka?" he whispers.
Her lips part slightly. She closes them in favor of nibbling on her bottom lip instead. She shakes her head against the pillow. "I'm okay. Just a little tired, is all. You know how it is."
His eyes are still trained on where her teeth had been teasing her plump lip. "Hn?"
Mirth sparkles behind her soft gaze. Her expression is gentle, so gentle, and when she reaches out to lightly cup his jaw with her fingers, that is what truly makes his heart leap. More than anything else, more than what they'd done together mere moments before, nothing makes his heart feel as full as this except for when she looks at him like he's the most wonderful thing in the world.
A giant sap, he is. Very much so. Fortunately, Maka seems to like him that way.
"Go to sleep, you dork," she murmurs affectionately. "I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?" he whispers.
"Promise."
The next day, they drop by Gallows Mansion so Maka and Kid can deal with the disastrous public relations nightmare that will result from Black Star's inability to use his brain for more than three seconds.
Witches do not like to be accidentally mistaken for other criminals just because of their species, which is… more than fair. Unfortunately.
Since Maka tends to take on as much problem solving responsibility as she can to help out Kid—or at least, she did, before Kid benched her because of her curse—Soul has had a front-row seat of how much bullshit even gods have to deal with in their current economy. Not only is Kid responsible for overseeing the Reaper's List and all the weapon-meister pairs at the DWMA who are tasked with hunting them down, but he is like a mayor-slash-manager-slash-CEO-type-administrator for the foremost witch-friendly city on the planet, as well as the global organization tasked with protecting innocent civilians with allies and partners all over the world.
That means there is a lot of sucking up to be done. It also means there is a fuck ton of paperwork.
Usually, Soul lets Maka take care of things with Kid on her own and spends that time either sleeping, listening to music, or staring at the clock for her to get back—which is barely an exaggeration—but these days, he refuses to let her out of his sight for more than a few hours. For obvious reasons.
And so he wakes up with her at the ass crack of dawn—a.k.a. before noon—and drags his feet as he sleepily drives them to Kid's house on his bike like the dutiful weapon he is.
They find the Death God in his garden—because yes, the highest entity in their land has taken up gardening as a hobby. When Soul first found out, he couldn't wrap his mind around it either.
"I can't believe that out of all the hobbies in the world, you chose gardening," Soul said to him, all those months ago.
Kid merely shrugged. "The skills I learn while tending to my garden are transferable to the skills I need to run a controversial organization like the DWMA. No matter how perfectly I plan things, no matter how meticulously I take care of them, things can always grow beyond my control and I have to learn to adapt to them. It's good practice. "
"...Maka said that to you, didn't she?"
At that, the reaper cracked a smile. "I think she meant for it to be an ironic metaphor or a pep talk during one of my tantrums. I don't think she ever expected me to take up horticulture as an avocation."
Their very own Death God, a proud father of plants. Who would've thought.
Now, Soul follows Maka onto the absurdly large terrace behind Kid's mansion to see their serious, professional friend wearing a straw hat and an apron as he crouches in the dirt. Liz and Patty sit on matching lawn chairs off to the side, basking in the sunlight. The former wears giant sunglasses as she flips through a magazine, managing to look unimpressed even when half her face is covered by shades, while her little sister lies on her stomach facing Kid, skimming through something on a DWMA tablet that looks surprisingly devoid of pictures.
"The crazy clown man wants to know about his security detail for his next tea party," Patty is saying. "Says he's got some of his witchy friends attending and needs the extra manpower. Wants Kim but not Jackie. Ox but not Harvar. Star and definitely Tsubaki."
Kid doesn't even look up from where his gloves are currently patting down dirt. "Tell Mr. Hatter that he'll take whoever we assign to him and there won't be any complaints."
There's a brief pause as Patty skillfully and somewhat exuberantly types something into the tablet. "He insists on Tsubaki."
An exhaled breath. Almost a sigh. "He can drop by Friday at noon for the weekly conference and I'll have crumpets ready for him. We'll discuss it then."
"The raisiny kind?"
"Don't insult me."
"Just checking!" Patty giggles.
"What's next?"
The younger pistol weapon hums absently as her fingers fly across the screen the screen. "There's an issue with the bossy people at the European branch of the Academy. La di da, management thingamabobs, who-das, and—oh boy, they are not happy. There are a lot of choice words here, Kiddo."
"Fax them through to our school's board of directors and jot a personal reminder for me to speak directly to them to smooth things over. If there's any talk of a coup, I want to hear about it."
"Chicken coop?"
"Patricia."
"Not that kind of coup, got it."
He exhales. "What's next?"
"Complaint from the museum," she reads off happily. "The art lady said that the same man keeps coming in to stare at his reflection in the artifacts and he's scaring away the customers—"
Kid groans. "Dorian Gray," he mutters grimly. "Skip that one; I'll come back to it later. I don't feel like dealing with his narcissism right now and he's utterly impossible to deal with unless you're willing to crawl on your knees."
It's clear they've been at this for a while. A gardening reaper trying to verbally work through menial city issues with help from his most childish weapon while primping his flowers… Soul almost wants to laugh. Patient as Kid may be, even Death Gods have their limits, and Kid's have nothing to do with saving the world from evil pre-kishins wreaking havoc or making peace with other countries.
No, their friend's kryptonite happens to come in the form of petty day-to-day mayoral tasks. Clearly the worst part of his all-consuming profession.
"You know that's not a good idea, Kid," Maka calls from where she and Soul have been observing him from the side, her voice light and teasing. "Dorian doesn't like to be ignored or put off, even for a minute. I don't care if it's just for a second when you're surrounded by friends. He'll know. He always knows."
Though it's obvious Kid isn't thrown by their appearance—he probably sensed them coming from miles away—he still turns to look at them like he's pleasantly surprised. He stands, perfect spine, perfect fucking everything, which is at clear odds with the dirt covering his gloves.
Two years later and it's still strange seeing the reaper look anything less than pristine.
"Maka, you've only been off duty for a few weeks and you're already trying to backseat drive my decisions," says Kid. "You really think you could do a better job than me?"
"Is that an actual question or are you being facetious?"
"If you want to be the one to deal with the Dorian Gray issue, be my guest. He's always liked you better than me anyway."
"Doesn't everyone?" Maka smiles and waves back at Patty, who looks ecstatic to see her. "Hey, Pat. Liz. Kid's got you guys working for him today? How cruel. It's a Sunday."
"Death Gods take no holidays," says Kid dutifully.
"Or Death God's weapons," Liz grumbles. "Can't a girl read a trashy magazine in peace around here? Seriously, Kid, I know you benched Maka because of the whole curse thing or whatever, but I am not a secretary and Patty isn't either. We're not equipped for this kind of stuff."
"I didn't know tanning was such a strenuous activity for you," the reaper says, and Liz makes a face.
"She's right though, Kid," Maka adds. "You know I don't mind helping out. This whole keeping-me-off-active-duty thing has gone on too long. I'm lovestruck, not incompetent. I can still do my job, you know."
Kid eyes her stoically. "Help me deal with this PR crisis first and then we'll talk."
Maka brightens. "Deal!"
It makes Soul roll his eyes. Only his ridiculous bookworm of a meister would get excited over going back to gruelling, tedious, and often dangerous unpaid work. The nerd.
"Sissy's just in a bad mood because Kilik's still babysitting Angela while Star and 'Baki are gone," Patty explains, wiggling her toes absently in the air. "The twins are good about sis staying the night, but Ange asks way too many questions."
Liz throws her magazine at her sister's face. "I just want to get laid by my boyfriend. Is that really such a crime?!"
Peeing off his dirty gloves with the meticulousness of a scientist dealing with a very corrosive substance, Kid straightens his clothes and walks onto the patio to dispose of them. "Thank you for all your help, Patricia. Maka and I have some business to discuss inside, so please. The three of you should enjoy the rest of your day."
"Why do you even need me? Seems like Patty's doing pretty well as a replacement," Maka says teasingly.
Kid rubs his temples hard enough that his knuckles almost crack. "She's brilliant, that's indisputable, but she keeps adding keyboard animals to the end of every single message and it's driving me mad."
"Keyboard animals?"
"Let's just say it involves a fair amount of brackets, commas, and slashes in the form of her favorite mammals," he says grimly. "Sometimes even amphibians if she's feeling especially creative."
"Ahhhh."
"Wipe that smile off your face, Maka. It's not funny. I'm a Death God. Ruler of this city. Reaper of tainted souls. I'm supposed to be a professional. I can't have someone speaking on my behalf who ends all their sentences with Japanese-style emoticons and several lines of special keyboard characters in the shape of zoo animals."
"Patty, you're adorable," Maka calls over her shoulder, making the younger pistol beam.
Kid groans. "Please don't encourage her. She's rebellious enough as it is without her taking notes from you."
-x-
Several hours later, Soul walks into Kid's home office to see Maka holding her shirt up to her chest and Kid pressing a hand to her bare stomach.
His hands tighten within the confines of his pockets. "What the hell are you two doing?"
Maka glances up with a smile. "Soul! I was just showing Kid my scar."
"For purely scientific purposes," Kid adds.
"Scientific purposes," Soul echoes slowly. "Right."
"I'm no longer symmetrical anymore," she teases the reaper, a twinkle in her round green eyes. She is sitting on his desk, her legs dangling over the edge, and even then, she has to look up to Kid. Has to look up to everyone, she's so small, so slight, and yet in this room, Soul can tell that she's the largest thing any of them has ever seen. "Does that mean I'm no longer your favorite?"
"Maka, if you think this scar makes you any less perfect, you greatly underestimate yourself."
She practically preens. "That was a test and you passed with flying colors. I'm so proud. You're making OCD your bitch."
"I am vaguely certain it doesn't work that way, but if you insist." Kid waves her pampering hands away, but it's the way an owner talks adoringly to their cat who has taken up residence on their lap and refuses to go away. "Now come on. You've done enough today. Go hang out by the pool with the girls. I need to talk to Soul."
"What am I, your dog?" she says, but she doesn't protest as hops off the desk and kisses Soul's cheek before whirling to skip out of the Death God's home office, humming off-tune as she goes.
Soul levels the reaper with a flat look. "The fact that she willingly walked away so we could obviously discuss her means that she's planning on doing something reckless and you caved and gave her permission. What did you agree to?"
Kid exhales a tired sigh. "She wants to return to active duty."
"No."
"I'm giving you two a trial run first," the reaper adds, as if that makes everything better. "Nothing too difficult, and nothing that's too far for Kim to fly at the off chance that something were to go wrong. Just a state-local demon that we caught wind of last night. There have been a few reports of after-dark unrest and some very vivid dreams where people have been swearing they've seen wraiths around their homes, but the statements have flown under the radar until yesterday because I've… admittedly been behind in paperwork since Maka's stopped working for me."
"A nightmare demon."
Kid nods. "Yes. Another team could probably deal with it, but even when compromised, Maka is still far more equipped to deal with this kind of threat thanks to her anti-demon wavelength."
"Well, I said no," Soul repeats flatly. "She can barely go three seconds without staring at my ass and loudly sings romantic ballads in the shower that depict how badly she wants to get down. And you think she's in any mind to go after a fucking demon?"
"We've been sheltering her, and she's unhappy about it, and she has a right to be. Besides, the fact that she's angry is a good thing. It means that underneath the heightened emotions, she's still the same willful workaholic we know."
Soul's expression is dark. "You already told her yes."
"Would you have been able to deny her?"
They share a muted sigh.
"There's one more thing though," Kid adds quietly. "Black Star and Tsubaki—they think they're close to finding the witch, for real this time. They'll probably have her back within the week. I just thought you should know."
A warning, however thoughtful, is still a warning. Soul swallows. "That's… good. That's a good thing."
Kid's face is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes, not quite sympathy but not quite pity either, and Soul feels like he knows it, somehow, deep in his chest. Has the emotion branded in his gut but can't find the word to name it. "We should get back to the girls before they decide to do something reckless and blow up the pool."
"Hey, Kid?" he calls after him.
The reaper pauses but doesn't turn around. "Yes, Soul?"
There is a long pause. "Thanks. For telling me."
Another pause. A brusque nod. "Of course."