Maka
She takes his offered hand. All other forms of Soul Resonance have been child's play before this. She's regretful that their opponent is such a weakling before their might.
No, that's not good to think. That may be a hint of madness lurking between them. She hears the little imp cluck in dismay behind a closed door.
They dance to his lullaby in the flickering glow of candelight while outwardly she waltzes around razor-sharp talons, swinging her deadly blade behind her. The smell of rancid feathers invades her nose, along with decaying flesh and a hint of something like ozone- the sparking electric scent of magic.
Maka and Soul are hanging in mid-air, the finishing blow already set into motion. Her mouth is slowly opening, baring teeth and ready to let loose a snarl. Witch Hunting is massive with its curving, double-edged, shining blade that crackles with blood lust.
Away from the slow-motion slaughter, she and Soul dance together, though it's not so much a dance as it is a lazy shifting from foot to foot. Her mind keeps wandering to what had transpired minutes or moments or miliseconds ago (she doesn't know how to keep track of time in the reality-altering place that is the Black Room). She tries her best to not think about it- partly in embarrassment because her thoughts are wide open for him, but mostly because she doesn't want to mess up the battle in progress 'up top.'
It's no good though. The murmur of the sensations of Soul's teeth scraping unrestrained and crazed against the tendons in her neck bubble up, painting her face red and catching the attention of her partner.
She can't hide anything down here. The tails of her dress are a dead giveaway of her feelings- even while concentrating on resonating or dancing or the lullaby or how much taller he is than she when he's actually standing straight, the shadowy fabric flutters near him. It caresses his calves and weaves between his ankles formlessly, like smoke. He bemusedly takes a hand off her waist and holds it out, watching the tell-tale misting tendrils curl around his open fingers.
Maka stares at his hand, unable to pull her eyes away from the fingers she knows are adept at a countless amount of things.
"Fuck it," he thinks suddenly, confusing her.
She's flustered and slightly startled as he pulls her more closely to his body, her dress-gloved hands that had been on his shoulders now pinned to his chest. Like a ghost at the keys, the piano behind her plays Soul's soft notes in a continuous loop without any assistance.
This is getting more intimate than she gives Soul credit for, and it makes her nervous. She wonders if he's still under the lingering influence of the black blood, and he hears her, sighing in her hair, murmuring "No," and then "Maybe," and then "Don't care."
His hands run along her hips, mist curling off the dress and twisting in his fingers. His thoughts are a murmur of growls or purrs- a jumble of emotions that have the aftertaste of possessiveness. Though she can't deny that his hands flip a switch inside her that sets her nerves on fire, she is a little overwhelmed and frightened. She doesn't know if it's really Soul acting this way or the demon pulling strings from behind a locked door.
She's not in control, here. Her panic is at odds with the calm lullaby from the piano. She pushes away from him, leaning back from his chest, but his arms wrap around her shoulders. She struggles in his grip, the top of her head butting into his chin.
"Ow. Maka... Maka wait. Hold on a minute-"
Outside, battle suddenly starts up again in a rush of real-time. She makes a mistake. Witch Hunting misses the harpy by not a small distance. Maka roars angrily, readying for the next swing, but there's another round of zombies in the way. She won't be able to use such an open move without endangering herself. The witch doesn't even care about her army as her spells mow through them directly towards Maka and Soul.
"Please."
Her focus is back in the Black Room, the battle outside back in slow motion again. The constant shifts in her perception of time are disorienting. Soul's arms are still around her, but they're loosening now the less she struggles.
Soul hardly ever says please. Frustrated as she is, he definitely has her attention.
Maka feels his anger at himself for being so needy. Yeah, maybe the blood is messing with him, but so is the jet lag, and hunger. He's starving for her. He's missed her so much that it disgusts him. Stein is horrible for him- all sharp, soul-less beats where she is flowing melody. And she's so near. He needs to only take another step forward to the black hole. That's why it's there, right? So he can fall in?
She's not really sure what he's thinking about anymore as he bombards her with his adoration, ceasing the slow dance and reaching with his hands to run his palms along her back and shoulder blades. He's ravenous for some better connection than this, even though up until a moment ago, this happened to be the most powerful Resonance to date.
Soul is arguing with himself, debating if he is fully in control of his actions or not. He thinks he is as he pulls the ribbons that contain her hair in tails, gathering the loosened locks in between his fingers and caressing the nape of her neck. Then again, maybe he isn't in control, because his hands are now hovering dangerously close to places he hasn't told them to go.
She's feeling alarmed again, her heart galloping in her chest. She shies away from his touch, to which he pleads "Don't. Don't fight me. While Resonating... you could get killed out there."
"Well then stop trying to unbutton my dress," she hisses, indignant. What the heck is that logic? He's totally taking advantage of the situation! She smacks him chest with her fists, and he looks away with a scowl.
"Is it really that horrible?"
The thought is quiet, and she almost misses it in the thundering of his frustrations.
Had he been wrong? Is this not what they have been dancing around their entire time together as partners? He doesn't know what to think anymore, because honestly, what he feels for her is as insane as the black blood itself. He doesn't know what he should do.
Maka is shaken by his frankness. To her lack of response, he starts to move away from her, but she keeps him close, her fingers digging into his jacket. She doesn't know what to say- she's confused, a little happy, still a bit scared, and mostly unprepared. The answer comes by itself, through the fog of her silence.
"Take the lead," she thinks.
Her fingers cling shakily to the lapel of his suit. Not without a measure of skepticism, he leans closer to her carefully, like he's afraid she might change her mind. She doesn't know what to do with herself after basically relinquishing control to him, so she holds still when he cranes down and presses the side of his cheek to hers. The lengths of the dress swirl and shift restlessly as she feels his lashes slide against her skin, eyes opening, waiting for her to tell him to stop.
They're both a little surprised when he licks her, though it's not the first time today.
"Did you just...?"
A hesitation. "Maybe."
Maka's not sure what to think, and neither does he, so he does it again anyway. "For science," he silently offers. He crushes her even closer to him, his suit stretching and creaking with the movement, his breath heavy in her hair. The tip of his tongue lightly traces the outer curve of her ear.
Science, indeed. He's been hanging around Stein too much. Soul abstractly shares this sentiment, but is mostly preoccupied with his teeth and an earlobe. She shudders in his hold. His face travels to the crook of her neck. She anticipates his warm lips, but he freezes, wondering, "Are you fine with this?"
He tries his best to not make his insecurity noticeable, but she can still taste it behind his question. Her breath hitches in a sigh into the collar of his suit jacket, "...maybe?"
Up top, Kid is firing another, final cannon blast to give them cover enough to use her attack, for the swing leaves her wide open in the process. Stein and her father are busy hacking toward Sid and his magic bindings, and inside, Soul leaves the faintest of languid licks on her jugular.
The lullaby is changing, turning into a darker, more mature piece that's she's heard before. It's the one he's been working on constantly- the one that gets stuck in her mind when she thinks of him.
"Is this allowed?" He silently asks again, though the words are headier, thicker, and fit to burst. Anything beyond this is entirely dependent of her answer. Give him the order, please, because he doesn't think he'll be able to ask coherently again.
"Do it," she orders before she can stop herself with second thoughts.
A small moment, and then the dam bursts. A feeling of diving, of surrendering, and a devoted "Yes, my meister."
Soul takes a hand to keep her gloved ones pinned to his chest as he takes his other to- not painfully, but not without forcefulness- yank her jaw up and to the side.
"Don't know why'm so obsessed with your neck," he growls along her skin, pinching with teeth and sucking the tender skin into his mouth. The choked gasp that escapes her makes him groan in return, the sound rumbling through his chest underneath her hands.
The sensations she feels urge him on, amplifying his own need to simply worship his technician. Its not without some irony that she finds she sounds like a zombie with the moaning he draws out from her. The piano's song is growing in volume, attacking notes viciously with intensity, while his tongue continues the dance on her neck.
Confessions spill from her lips and into his chest. Their connection draws tighter with each admittance. She's missed him too. It's too quiet at home without him. She can't sleep through the night without him there. She got nailed in the head by Kirikou because she was so worried (a growl and a kiss to her temple where the protective headgear had bit in). She'd made too much food for dinner. She'd been annoyed with anyone whose hair wasn't snow. She listened to piano concertos when lonely, but it hadn't been the same.
Their feelings are reaching absurd heights, their mutual attraction reflecting off each other and growing in tempo with every rebound. She's fully caught up in his craze, the current of him dragging her under. Soul Resonance is peaking again, perhaps even more powerful than it had first been. He bends her backwards over his arm, every place he nuzzles with teeth becoming hot. She realizes that the heat is the black blood responding to him, the fabric of her dress becoming sizzling liquid and revealing bits of her skin at different rates of exposure where he evaporates it with his fingers.
She'll never wield another. She'll never be this close to another.
Would he be this devoted out of the Black Room with a night's rest and the calm of daily life? Would he still be willing to run his hands along her hips, even if they didn't make her dress melt at his will? Dare she let herself become addicted to his touch- even if it is only a facsimile of it here?
"Yes, my meister," he whispers aloud, hovering near her mouth.
Maka finds that the Black Dress has made it to the outside, shielding her from the spells the harpy witch blasts at her. Kid's Death Cannon obliterates the undead blocking her path. She brings Soul down on the witch with an elegant and deadly flourish, slicing her explosively in two.
With his lips, he makes her feel how he never wants to serve another meister again, and that his life belongs to her so much that even his own blood protects her.
After the abrupt end of battle, Maka's perception of space and time resumes normally. Her mind is on overload, the end of Soul Resonance making her crumble to her knees before the floating, sickly orb of the witch's soul. The night air smells of burning feathers. After the collective earth-shaking sound of now-inanimate flesh collapsing to the ground, it is eerily silent. She's too overwhelmed by all that's happened in the past twenty minutes or twenty seconds, so Soul demurely shifts from her lax hands and to his own feet. He tiredly shuffles over in his usual posture and slurps up the soul as he always has- with a complete disregard for manners and a hearty groan.
Only now does the sound make her toes curl with anticipation inside her boots.
It's awkward as they fly north-west across Africa and into Europe. They should probably talk or something- set parameters or acknowledge that, even though it had only been in their connected minds, they had crossed a new line- but she doesn't want to talk over the howling wind rushing past her ears.
They had left the others behind on the island. Stein doesn't have a Grigori soul or any other form of transportation, so Kid had called in for a private jet and waited with the rest of the group. Soul had been adamant about going home immediately, wanting to be far, far away from 'The Shithole.' Maka had tried arguing that he should at least get a night's sleep before going across the Atlantic, but he had irritatedly assured her he was fine and shoved his weapon form into her hands, eager to leave.
Maka purses her lips in thought, dismayed. Hadn't he been all "Meister, yes my meister," before? And now he's being a stubborn jerk. She's only worried about him! Plus she is pretty tired herself- she had just finished the long trip and hasn't had a chance to rest yet.
It seems that merely thinking about disaster can bring it to reality. In mid-air, Soul's weapon form shudders briefly. He's veering off to the right, listing downwards and she has to tighten her grip on the scythe handle to keep from sliding off.
"Soul! What's happening?" She yells over the wind, and becomes alarmed at his lack of response. He shudders again beneath her, and with a flash, he's human. She stares dumbfounded at his shoes. She's straddling his waist, backwards, but there's definitely no time to be mortified at their positions.
Soul is asleep.
They plummet at an angle, and she shrieks. Her legs clamp on him like a vice and she turns her back around to smack him in the face, eager to not die. The action makes them spiral, and she looses track of which way is up and down. He's awake with a start, and the look on his face clearly shows his questioning of reality with Maka sitting Reverse Cowgirl, spinning in mid-air. The sensation of falling then predominates his senses and waves of panic rush over the bond to collide with hers together in an eddy of chaos.
He clutches her hips in a death grip, and then realizing the situation fully, shifts into the scythe and then sloppily into flying mode. Running on pure adrenaline they right themselves, banking hard to the left and narrowly avoiding a group of trees and scraping Makas legs through a thick copse of underbrush. She has to duck low to the handle as they dodge hanging branches, leaves slapping and slicing her in the face like razors.
When they make it out the end of the small forest and into an open plain, they slow down, her feet touching the ground and jogging to a stop. Soul shapeshifts out from under her while her knees buckle and collapses for the second time in the past twenty-four hours, trying to catch her breath and keep herself from murdering her partner. Her shins complain at the rough field grass that digs into her burning legs, but she ignores them and covers her mouth with a hand, breathing deeply and trying to calm her nerves.
Soul is laughing. It pisses her off before she realizes it sounds more out of distress than humor. He sits bonelessly and in a heap next to her, head in his hands.
"Christ," he says in between exhausted half-chuckles and groans, "-this is fucking ridiculous."
He looks at her over his shoulder worriedly. He grimaces when he sees the scrapes on her face. Soul shuffles over to her on his knees, reaching out with his hands to swipe dirt and blood from a particular cut under her eye. The touch instantly triggers a blush and tingling in her limbs. He's extremely apologetic through the bond, and even offers a 'my bad' before his head drops to her chest, finished with being awake.
At a loss, the best she can do is restrain herself from Makachopping him and maneuvering the both of them around so his head rests on her stomach as she lays back in the grass. She wonders how they managed to scrape by this far in life alive.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"...Are you really sure?"
"Look, quit questioning me, woman," Soul snaps at her. He plucks dead grass from his hair before he shifts into weapon form. "I get it, we don't want a repeat of ...the incident."
"You mean the part where we fall out of the sky like a ton of bricks," she offers, taking him in her hands and mounting.
"I can make it to London," he says forcefully.
She doesn't want to believe him, her mouth set in a frown as she looks at him over her shoulder. His eye at the end of the scythe is glaring angrily at her, so they take off again, stopping in a nearby farming village and picking up a small meal.
They should have stayed with Kid and the others, and while flying she voices this sentiment constantly, mostly to keep him irritable and awake.
It's not as burning hot as it had been when they crossed the equator, but it is still uncomfortably warm in the afternoon sun with little to no cloud cover, and is still warmer than it had been at Madagascar. They stop once at the coast of Tunisia so they can stretch a little before crossing the Mediterranean, and twice more through France as Soul tires more frequently.
London is familiar to them, though not exactly comforting as it was the place they had encountered Free. They knew their way around there, at least, so it will be easy to find a place to stay and rest. Almost to their destination, Maka can see the lights of the city in the quickly-darkening evening light. She grips Soul tightly with her hands and with the bond, urging him to keep going.
"I'll carry you to a bed if I have to- just a bit further."
He doesn't even grunt and only offers the faintest hint of acquiescence in the bond. They make it to the south-east outskirts of London, and Soul muddily shapeshifts out of the scythe as soon as they're on the ground. Deep down, she can feel his indignation at his weakness, and a bit of shame in putting his meister in danger, but she assures him that he's worked very hard and deserves some rest. She drapes his arm over her narrow shoulders and leads him towards the city lights.
They hitch a ride with a very wary, but otherwise accommodating old man in a small pick-up truck who had seen them walking down the side of the road. Maka rides in between the two of them, much to Soul's groggy dismay. Maka rests a hand on her partner's knee and, reassured, he smashes his face into the passenger window, beginning to snore. The old man asks where they need to go.
She explains no particular destination other that an open room to stay in.
"He on the drugs?" The old man asks after awhile. Maka laughs despite herself.
"No, no... he's had a rough couple of days. Just needs a meal and a bed."
"If you don't mind me saying, you don't look very far behind him."
Maka glances at herself in the rear-view mirror in front of her. She spies her reflection whenever they pass underneath a street lamp. Her face is a mess, chapped from being wind-bitten and she thinks her nose may be sunburned. There are still dried bits of blood from plowing through trees earlier that day.
"You're probably right, but he's done enough. It's my turn now," she says.
The street lamps and lights from passing cars give her vertigo.