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That fucking skirt.
It’s all because of that damn skirt.
Soul might just be going insane— but who can blame him? Maka has always had great legs and with her wearing that short fucking skirt that she decided would be part of her SPARTOI uniform on top of that?
Death, he feels disgusting for even thinking about it like this.
She's his meister. It's supposed to be— professional.
(He's pretty sure they're well beyond professional by now, when she’s regularly seeking him out and curling up next to him on some difficult nights, but oh well.)
But goddamnit, every time he's in scythe form and she's decided not to wear stockings (because of course she did), and he gets a flash of that fucking white while her skirt flutters around those damn thighs, he just—
He just…
Soul swears under his breath. This is the exact kind of behavior she hates— men thinking with their dicks.
But Death fucking damnit if he isn't going insane.
“Soul? You okay?”
No, and it's all your fault.
He jolts to attention. They've just defeated a Pre-Kishin (easily, of course. They're one of the strongest weapon-meister pairs at the DWMA currently, after all), and he's still in weapon form in her hands.
And he'd been spacing out too, because lo and behold, her legs are bare and that skirt—
“Soul?”
Ack.
He stutters out a reply. “Yeah— uh, Yeah. ‘M fine.”
He can see her vaguely suspicious stare from the corners of his eyes. She lifts him, so that his blade is resting on the back of her shoulders, the top of his snaith next to her face. Though he can't really see her, with it being positioned next to her cheeks.
“You don't sound fine.”
A pause. “Can I just transform back now?”
She sounds reluctant, but says yes anyway. And so, he turns human, gulping down the evil soul in one quick movement.
She's definitely not convinced. Their resonance hums quietly in the background, and what with that soul perception of hers, she can surely tell that something's wrong. “Let's go, Soul. We need to fly back.”
He hums, transforming back just as easily. It's become second nature, now, obeying her commands. He fits perfectly in her palm.
He groans internally. Being positioned in between her legs like this, his shaft cushioned between those muscled thighs and so near that area—
He should just kill himself. What the hell is wrong with him?
They're soaring through the skies now. Every time Maka wants to change directions or plummet down, she tenses her legs and presses harder around him, and he's left wondering how it would feel if he had been in human form instead and—
This is… really concerning. Even for a teenage boy, this is just too much, isn't it?
He's cursing his own hormones when she speaks again. “Just spit it out, Soul.”
Ugh. It's always like this— she always knows when he's being bothered by something, and will pester him to the ends of the earth until he blurts it out in frustration. It's a tried and true routine of theirs, and even though he wants to lie to himself and say that he won't give in this time, he knows that won't be the case. So, he delays.
“I told you, Maka. ‘S nothing.”
She slows them down. “Bullshit.”
There's no fooling her, honestly. But it's not like Soul can just say he's been obsessing over her legs—
“We’ve done this way too many times, Soul,” comes her exasperated voice. “It'll be over the sooner you just talk.”
“I don't wanna, Maka. Stop pushing it.” His frustration bleeds into his words, and he almost regrets it.
Her legs tighten around him. Even in weapon form, he can acutely feel it, and his brain fuzzes over—
“Am I that untrustworthy? Come on, Soul! We've been partners for years!”
“It's nothing like that, Maka, just stop—”
“—This is just like when you refused to talk to me about the black blood! You know how I feel about you being so closed off—”
“That was so long ago!”
Death, this is so frustrating—
“Whatever, my point still stands! What the hell is your problem—”
“My problem? My problem is your damn skirt!”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
It comes out unbidden, and he regrets it the moment the words leave him.
They stop mid-air. An awful silence stretches, and he can imagine the confused look on her face. The city lights beneath them faintly twinkle, and it takes everything in him to not consider crashing into them for the slim chance that they develop amnesia and forget that any of this happened.
“I— what? My… my skirt? Is there— is there something wrong with it?”
Soul realizes he should backtrack, but a sudden urge overtakes him, telling him to double-down. He should double-down, just so she realizes that she shouldn't have pushed and flushes and admits “I shouldn't have asked,” and Soul could then revel in his moral righteousness just so that they can then forget about this and move on.
“Yes, Maka, your fucking skirt. Your fucking legs— they've been my problem since day one! It's just— it's not hard to catch a glimpse when you're wearing that short fucking skirt and gallivanting around—”
“Gallivanting? How's that even in your vocabulary?"
What the fuck? That's what she says? How's she not more flustered?
“What the hell, Maka, that's not— I'm telling you that your legs affect me!” He's rambling. Soul should just shut up now.
He doesn't. “It's not my damn fault that you have nice legs, and it's— sometimes you forget that I'm a man, and death, I don't know for the life of me why the hell you like wearing that stupid skirt anyway—”
Why can't she just wear pants like a normal fucking person? He's not the type of weapon partner that'd control what the other wears, but god, her legs have to be a public safety hazard—
She's laughing.
What in the actual fuck is going on?
She's laughing.
Maka’s doubles over, clutching her stomach and fucking laughing.
He feels her body trembling on him, and a sudden flash of worry passes through him— what if she falls over? — before the bewilderment sets in.
“Maka? The hell? This ain't something to be laughing about!”
His face burns— well, it would, if it could in whatever limbo that his body is in while in scythe form.
Is he dreaming? Her reaction doesn't seem appropriate at all.
“Oh, Soul. I— oh my God!”
She stutters something out through her raucous laughter, but he can barely hear it.
“What?”
“Of all the things you could've said—” She's wheezing. Is this that funny? “I didn't realize my legs were that big of a deal. I guess I should apologize, shouldn't I?”
“I— Maka, you're way too calm about this!”
She flattens herself against his shaft, tilting a little, so that he can see her expression fully. There's a little pink tint smattered on her cheeks, and she's grinning almost mischievously.
“Let's land somewhere nearby, c’mon,” she says, and he's again left confused because they're not anywhere near their apartment.
But he does as he's told (a weapon always obeys the meister) and they drop in an empty alley in the middle of Death City. He suddenly fears for his life because wait— what if she's brought him here to beat him up or something? For being just like her father?
She wouldn't do that.
(Would she?)
“Soul, transform back.”
Upon hearing those words, his body changes on instinct— goddamnit.
He's hunched forward. Soul definitely has a pathetic expression on his face, a sharp contrast to her almost delighted one.
He clears his throat. “Why are we—”
She plops down on a crate, legs dangling. She's at eye level with him, but curse his eyes; they go straight down to where her skirt rides up just a little, exposing just a little of the curve that makes up her—
No. No— he should not go there. His gaze snaps back to hers, and her smile has grown even wider.
She tilts her head, pigtails swishing with the movement. “I mean, I know teenage boys are gross. But you've never been involved with other women, so I understand where sexual frustration can come from—”
Why is she talking about it like it's— like it's normal?
“Maka, I'm thirsting over your legs. Like a fucking dog. That's not a good thing! What the hell is wrong with you? I was expecting a Maka-chop!”
“I mean, I was a little mad at first. But…” She flushes, and then looks sheepish, averting her eyes. He can't decipher her expressions anymore. She scoots forward, beckoning him closer. “You can… um, you can touch them.”
His brain goes blank.
“The fuck?”
“Dont make me say it twice, Soul.”
“Maka, what are you even— do you hear yourself?”
This feels like one of his fantasies that he normally wouldn't dare speak of. Really, has he just gone insane, then?
“Come on. I'm giving you a solution to your problem.”
“A—A solution?” he asks, incredulous, his voice certainly an octave higher.
She looks serious about this. He bites his lip.
Against his best judgement, he's… tempted. He wants to slap himself, but just looking at her legs causes him to swallow and—
“If you don't want to, then let's just go home—”
“No!” he blurts out, and then scrambles. “No, it's— it's, uh, not like I don't wanna. It's just that… fuck, Maka, do you not realize how weird this is?”
Maka sticks her tongue out. “Who cares?”
Of course. She's always been stubborn and brash; what did he expect?
But—
He clamps his mouth shut, hands paused in midair, fingers twitching. He so desperately wants to touch, to run his hands over her creamy skin, squeeze those damn thighs and—
Oh. He was slowly inching towards her without even realizing it.
... He might even be drooling.
And then—
“H—Huh?”
She's hopped off the crate, already walking away from him. He sputters, not knowing what to do, because what the hell just happened?
“Wait! M—Maka?”
“You took too long. I'm hungry, Soul. Let's go home.”
He's left severely dumbfounded.
Was... Was she just teasing?
She looks back. “What’re you waiting for?” And then, after a second, she says, “maybe I'll give you another chance when we're back home. If you still want to, that is.”
At that, he immediately follows her, steps hurried, because god, he is no better than a dog.