BONUS CHAPTER
Set a few months after the events of To the Last Letter. OTP prompt: 'You're so fucking hot when you're mad.'
Maka can feel her teeth clack when she's thrown towards the wall, back bouncing off it. She barely makes it an inch away to regain her footing when she's overtaken. Hot, calloused hands squeeze tightly around her hip, roughly angling her face, as a familiar mouth seals over hers. The kiss is bruising and messy, but she can hardly bring herself to care. Teeth nip at her lips, her tongue impatiently and she snaps back, catching the edge of a scar that splits his lip.
Pulling back with heated breath is Black Star, whose smug look only fuels her ire. The only thing that keeps her from unleashing that on him is the obvious flush of his face; he's red from ear to ear and it's starting to seep down his neck. She can see the flutter of his pulse in the veins on his neck just as well as she can feel her blood thrumming in her chest.
Maka watches him as he watches her, eyes swooping over her face like he's trying to memorize it. She knows that her face is screwed up tight, flushed from his attention and her anger. One of her pigtails is loose from where he's run fingers into her hair and she can feel her bangs starting to stick to her forehead from a light sweat.
Like opposing sides of a magnet, he starts to close the distance again. Against the corner of her mouth, in wonder, he breathes out, "You're so fucking hot when you're mad."
Then the onslaught of his affection continues and Maka's insides war and rebel against her. She's so angry, so furious- and on his behalf! - yet all he can do is focus on her. He's leaving a burning trail from her cheek down her neck and, dammit, if it isn't distracting. When he presses a tender kiss right below her ear and his hands trace along her spine, she growls.
Maka wrenches his face back towards her mouth with fingers tight in his blue locks. He's ready for it, almost like he expected retaliation, so she tugs harder and jumps. The leg between hers pushes forward to help support her weight and her legs twist around his hips. They're already close in height, but this angle makes him have to tilt his head up to meet her.
"See?" she whispers furiously into his mouth. "Your legs work just-" He cuts her off with a hungry kiss and his hands grasp her bottom, trying to pull her closer.
The motion pinches some of her skin in the joints of his braces, bracketing his sides and across his lower back. The metal is unforgiving, but so is she. She ignores the small twinge of pain, revels in it, focuses on his breath across her collarbone, scrapes her nails through his hair. Black Star groans and she looks down at him.
Superimposed on the image of him, flustered with pupils blown wide, are the blue arcs of his soul, flexing and snapping out like the finely tuned machine it is. They twitch out to his hips, legs and toes in rhythms she can only make out by how he moves against her. They flare to his fingertips, to anywhere he's touching her, as though trying his best to ingrain himself in her. Gooseflesh raises in its wake.
All this power, all this skill, all this work that he's done and those people - another thought is stifled by Black Star's demanding kisses and Maka swears she can taste his soul as it's core fluctuates out of instinct and emotion. She has no idea how long time passes, with the force of his soul keeping them upright. He undoes her little by little, breath by breath, unrelenting and patient.
He's so bright, like a beacon, and she wonders why no one can understand that he is not broken. Why, her heart screeches, they think less of him now that he has to use his soul to walk? He's the same, from the scar on his lip to the one that cuts across the star on his shoulder. From the color of his eyes to his goofy smile to his electric soul. At his core, he is the same.
Maybe a bit jaded, maybe a bit more serious, but that's what growing up does. And didn't they do plenty of that and do it too young, she thinks. Their kissing has dissolved into the ghosting of lips over cheeks, pressing softly into palms and wrists. He still holds her up, because he can, because she lets him. Because he always has.