|101 Ways Not To Use Your Weapon
Author: Maiden of the Moon PM
There are some things that a meister just shouldn't do with their weapons... be them serious, sexual, or stupid. -A collection of one-shots. Updated! Maka's new exercise regiment may require Soul's help. Or at least, the help of Soul's shaft.-Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance - Soul Eater & Maka A. - Words: 1,941 - Reviews: 33 - Favs: 95 - Follows: 67 - Published: 05-05-10 - id: 5949294
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: I don't own Soul Eater. (That right belongs to Maka.)
Author's Note: I am so in love with this series, right now. But I'm afraid to search for any fan-stuff for it, 'cause I don't want the ending of the anime to be spoiled for me! D: I'm following the dub, and as of this moment have devoured the first two box sets… but now I'm stuck waiting for June first, when part three comes out. Oh well…
Warnings: Sexual situations! Older Maka and Soul. The rating of this collection may be going up in the near future… Also, I don't actually have 101 ways planned, so if you have any ideas, feel free to share them with me. :3 SoulxMaka is my primary ship, but I also love LizxKidxPatty, and TsubakixBlack Star, etc, and am easy to coerce into accepting interesting challenges. C;
101 Ways Not to Use Your Weapon
It wasn't because of her fat ankles.
Really, pediatrics and her lowest of anatomy had nothing to do with it. (And on a related note, what the hell kind of insult was that, anyway? Her ankles were fine, no matter what Soul said. Besides, what did he know? His ankles were far thicker than hers, as she was well aware—after all, she folded their socks.)
So no, it wasn't that. Definitely not.
Nor was it some sort of reactionary response to Blair. Kitty's claws may have been as sharp and straight as her body was supple and curved, but those weren't things that Maka noticed. (Especially not while standing in front of the bathroom mirror, poking tentatively at her rounded cheeks and flattened chest. Oh no.)
That didn't factor into the equation at all.
And honestly, it wasn't as if she needed more exercise; she was already working herself to the bone for the DWMA. Her body— while perhaps not the most attractive of the female forms found in her class— 'got the job done,' as they say, and that was the most important thing. She could run, and fight, and tilt her head and smile in just-such-a-way that she'd managed to wrap two of the guys on campus around her little finger. (Admittedly, those two guys were her soul mate and her father, but even that had to count for something, didn't it?)
Of course it did. It meant that a need for additional training had nothing to do with the situation currently at hand— nor did it relate to the questions that her mind was in the process of formulating. And oh, yes, the cogs in her head were turning, turning, turning now…
Because in the end, what it came down to was simple curiosity.
Maka cocked her pigtailed head, gracing the television set with a half-lidded stare full of a grudging interest. It was oddly fascinating, the contents of the screen… like a very perky train wreck. Or a PG porno. In every conceivable corner of the glass-plated monitor, girls her age with breasts like Patty's and rears like Tsubaki's were swaying and grinding to upbeat pop tunes, dancing up a sweat as they thrust their hips in a highly provocative fashion. "The Flirty Girl Workout is guaranteed to slim you, trim you, and thin you!" the chipper voice of an unseen spokeswoman pronounced, her enthusiasm increasing as the camera zoomed in on the beautiful, perspiration-dappled faces of the teenage actresses. "Work your abdominal and thigh muscles in ways that you'd never dreamed possible! Order now, and we'll throw in a special bonus DVD—a free lesson on the health benefits of pole dancing!"
The blonde meister considered the advertisement's exuberant proposition with a soft "huh" of intrigue. Or bewilderment. Or some strange combination of the two. Either way, it was a sound that did not escape the ears of the boy beside her—lounging upside-down on the overstuffed couch.
"Mm? What's up?" Soul murmured in half-conscious concern, one eyebrow quirking as he craned his neck upward. His legs were folded over the back of the seat; on his stomach, the TV guide served as a pseudo blanket. He was the very picture of sluggish comfort… and soon, Maka had joined the ranks of such bonelessness— tipping her face so far to the left that her body quickly followed suit.
Folded fingers fell to rest upon the weapon's chest; the girl's chin connected with the back of her hands. The solemnity within her jade-green gaze startled Soul—his eyes widened as her own eyes narrowed, an inquiry forming behind the troubled sheen of her irises.
"Maka, what're you thinking about? Talk to me," the boy demanded, feeling the faintest stirrings of anxiety forming beneath the pressure of her palms. It wasn't like his meister to look so very grave… Not outside of battle, anyway. What could the matter be? Surely it had to be a problem of great impor—
"Do you think I should order that DVD?"
Soul's crown collided with the living room floor, shattering the peace (and his skull) with an audible cracking sound. But if the fall was painful, it didn't register on his face; there was no room for such an expression, what with the sheer exasperation that had taken control his features. What?!
Maka instinctively straightened, her somber air vanishing like a summer morning's mist. "You okay?" she asked lightly, grabbing hold of her partner's hand and helping him back onto the cushions. Despite her kind assistance, Soul regarded his meister with an indignant sort of sidelong glance.
"What the hell kind of question is that, Maka?" he inquired flatly, brow furrowing in a bizarre combination of frustration, puzzlement, and a hard-to-repress fantasy of his partner in the revealing work-wear of the infomercial girls. (Er, not that he'd been paying much attention to the 'details' of the commercial, or anything. No way. After all, cool guys don't ogle over hot chicks. That's demeaning.) "And what good would it do you, anyway?" Soul continued in an irritated drawl, scrubbing vigorously at the tender injury on his cranium. "When would you use it? It's not like we have a whole ton of spare time… or money. How would you afford all of the equipment?"
"We already have a DVD player," the girl pointed out, in a calm and thoughtful manner that only served to further annoy her roommate. "What else would I need?"
"Well, what about a pole?" Soul supplied, throwing a transitory glare at the television. The bouncing boobs and butts were still there— fairly predominant on the little plasma screen— demonstrating a few tricks that the buyer would learn from the bonus DVD. Even as they worked their well-shined shafts, the fine print at the bottom of the display made clear that the rods came separately, and at a price far-steeper than the DVDs themselves. "You haven't got one of those lying around, have you?"
Maka considered this for a minute, eyes trailing far to the left. But after pausing momentarily on some unseen point in the distance, her intelligent gaze drifted meaningfully back towards her weapon, finding his face and regarding it with a sort of determined conviction.
Soul hadn't thought it possible to simultaneously blanch and blush, but he somehow managed.
"…you've got to be kidding." He hoped.
"What's the problem?" the young woman queried, grinning sweetly. "You're certainly long enough as a scythe. And we can stick your blade into the wall to keep you steady. It'd be perfect."
"Into the wall? Now I know you're kidding." Except that she didn't seem to be.
"Don't you want me to tone up, Soul?" Maka persisted, leaning all the closer to her very disturbed partner. In reply, the boy flinched, gulped, and felt his mouth turn into cotton, the desert dryness perpetuated by the way in which his meister had chosen to stare at him— up through her long, black lashes and windswept bangs. The 'come hither' look, he'd always privately called it… "You're constantly teasing me about being a beanpole with chubby limbs. According to this, muscle definition is just a dance away."
Soul grit his pointed teeth; he could feel Maka's warm breath wafting against his throat, tickling and teasing with each delicate exhale. "I've danced with you before. Doesn't help." Why wasn't she letting this drop?!
"I thought boys liked pole dances," the blonde hummed, sounding faintly perplexed, now. She nuzzled all the nearer, so near that—before the weapon realized it—his fingers had slipped between her knees, and her forehead had nestled beneath his jaw. She smelt of daffodils and lilacs. Was she wearing mascara…? (Had she planned this? If only he could make his brain work—!) "Or was that lap dances…?"
Soul was seconds away from swallowing his own tongue. "I think most guys tend to be a fan of both," he weakly confessed, watching with a petrified sort of delight as Maka all but climbed into his lap, settling herself between his thighs. Why couldn't he move? He felt like someone had used soul thread on him: his back and arms were immobile, as if they had somehow been glued to the couch. (The only part of his body that was showing an interest in movement was… oh dear.) And to top it all off, his meister's expression had yet to change: as if some kind of mask, the girl's face remained fixed in the same contented beam, lovely and amused. It was wholly distracting, when you got down to it. "But you know…" Soul then added (in a choked sort of way), "I don't really… That is, I'm not, uh, cool with the whole 'half-naked stranger' business… I mean, I get a lot of that with Blair and— Maka, you're making it very hard (bad choice of words, idiot!) to carry on this conversa—…!"
He sucked in a breath. "…oh."
Maka's grin widened. "Are you sure you wouldn't enjoy it?" she teased, giggles in her taunt as she pressed a butterfly kiss to her companion's fluttering jugular. "I'm sure it'd result it some great exercise for you, as well."
"…you don't say?" Suddenly feeling much freer— the pretense of innocence vanishing with the pair of feminine hands down the front of his jeans— Soul allowed himself a husky chuckle. A deep breath; a rustle of clothing. As the sounds resonated in her ear, Maka found herself at a tilt, again: falling backwards and into the cradle of the couch.
"But I can think of better exercise," the boy softly purred, fingers sliding underneath his meister's blazer and eyes flashing like a flame.
Because honestly, this had never had anything to do with Maka's weight— about fat ankles (not that they were!), or Blair's wiles (she was just a dumb feline), or a need for physical activity (the girl was getting plenty of that, thank you).
Nope. This performance was the product of sheer curiosity… (Could she do it? Would she dare? Would he respond? Was it worth it?)
And if Maka learned anything that afternoon, it was that the answer to all of those questions was a (very vocal) "yes."
1. As a Pole