Author stuff: Obligatory 'No, Amp isn't dead' statement.
Okay now that that's finished, here's the other crap: This was sitting around, half-finished. So I finished it. For CW/CV, 'cause it's her burfdai! Or was. Yesterday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LADY! That eighteen wheeler is just for you, baby. This was going to be a lot dirtier, and I may come back to the idea of an S&M SoMa someday (because who can resist the acronym puns? No one, that's who!), but for now, the sneak-attack fluff got the better of me. I blame the music.
Warning: EXTREME OOC-ness, crack, angst, drive-by smut, varying ranks of fluff and stupidity, vaguely implied time skipping, and dizzying perspective switching that you'll have to figure out on your own. Terribly sorry.
The summary? Being forced to grow up on the fly makes Maka lose her marbles. Soul goes along with it because he's a dude and possibly a masochist, and over time, tries to teach Maka what the hell love really is by doing nothing at all. What a lazy ass.
It's actually not nearly as amusing as it sounds. I do not own Soul Eater, or Bjork.
Puberty hits her like a well-placed punch from Marie Mjolnir. Sore breasts and cramps nearly defeat her. Adding tampons to the grocery list shakes their little world with awkwardly long limbs and mood swings that make Asura look like a model member of society. She does give credit to Soul, who weathers her frustrated storm of teen-aged fury as best he can while juggling his own problems, the poor guy.
Problems such as finding time to jerk off without her accidentally walking in on him. She can't imagine how frustrated he must be. Hormones and primal urges can only be back-stocked through so many midterms, extended missions, and ridiculously explosive and life-threatening battles. They can't escape each other, and she only inadvertently adds fuel to the fire of his physical frustrations by simply existing in a mini skirt. They spend almost every waking moment together. The only time her partner has to himself is when he's snoring.
Over time, a mutual agreement is formed. After becoming desensitized to the sight of morning wood, it's presence every day as natural as eating breakfast, she stops harassing him about the abnormally long showers he sometimes takes. Likewise, he never confronts her about the double-A batteries that keep disappearing. Eventually, they both get in the habit of "going to bed early" on particularly frustrating days.
While riding his bike into the Rocky Mountains, heading to an assignment in the dead of night, he can only assume that the rumble from the powerful vehicle is severely fogging her judgement. Delving in the use of pocket vibrators one too many times can do that to a person, he guesses. One moment he'd been concentrating on trying to see the road, and the next her hands had wrapped around him more tightly, going lower than he thought was legal. She shudders against him, saying into his ear with a throaty voice he's not accustomed to hearing, "Soul, pull over."
"What? What's the matter?" And then his meister's hands seek the front of his pants, nearly causing a wreck with an freight truck while turning a bend. He yells at her, hissing and spitting and spluttering, all the while her hands creeping underneath his belt and meeting his dick that's already become treacherously hard no matter how close to eighteen-wheeled death they may have just come.
He pulls into the closest rest area. She drags him into aspens and pines, and it is she who furiously smashes her lips to his like a five year old, asserting her 'dominance' and letting him know that she controls just how much ass would be given up, and when, and only if she felt like it.
"This is necessary," she tells him to his shocked face. "We're both horny and distracted and it's becoming a problem."
"It's only a problem when you grab my junk while we're driving on a RAIL-LESS CLIFF."
He should say no- he knows this is only a path to that magical place known as 'friends-with-benefits.' But here she is, in his lap and trying to pull one booted foot out from the tiny leg-hole in her underwear, the coarse hair between her legs trim and tidy and hypnotically wet in moonlight, so he only uselessly squawks when she grabs his cock with a fumbling, hungry determination.
Hoping for the world to stop being so demanding is probably a lost cause, and waiting for the chance to pursue a relationship with anyone (much less Maka Albarn: She-who-will-never-be-controlled-by-a-man-and-shall-always-desperately-claim-independence) is time spent poorly. Kishin eggs need harvesting, witches need hunting, and the world needs saving.
There's simply no time. So when all of their itches suddenly demand to be scratched, and his meister decides to lose her common sense and virginity in one fell swoop via Quickie-Thirty-Yards-From-The-God-Damned-Interstate, he plays along. Possibly because he's hard as a rock and she's going to fix it. Possibly because as her weapon, he's only an extension of her, and he's used to following her batshit orders. Possibly because he's always loved her, and saying 'no' is the very last thing on his mind.
In the thin, crisp air, their sex life together begins. It's bewildering and awkward, as he wants to be careful with her- she is a girl after all, and his meister on top of it- but she threatens to impossibly castrate him with his own scythe if he doesn't stay still and let her do it. It's definitely more pain than pleasure for her, but she keeps at it until he comes- not like it takes very much.
He's troubled for a time after that- she had bled a little and grimaced a lot, her nails clawing at his arms through his leather jacket to keep him from holding her. He worries about the state of their partnership until she comes to him again after the assignment is over. Just outside of Denver, the hotel room dark and arid, he uses curses that even he isn't sure where he's picked up. He growls and half-heartedly denies her, but his cock is weeping the moment she hauls her nightshirt over her head. She mounts him with an air of a bloody business woman getting ready for a meeting.
"Don't touch," she warns him, not wanting to have to pin him down while trying to figure out how to slide around comfortably in his lap. It seems everything in the whole stupid world is phallic shaped, and she's been sweaty, clammy, and aroused since she jumped him in the forest. They needed to get to business. He argues, flustered and complaining that she's just going to hurt herself again, but he eagerly grips the headboard, just as bothered as she is. Maka grinds the stress out of them both.
He comes before she has the chance again, and it annoys her. It makes perfect sense to suck him back to full mast, encouraged by his shocked yelps at her mouth on sensitive flesh. His hands reach forward and run through her hair in a display of intimacy that frightens her. Suddenly she becomes aware of an enjoyment that doesn't come from physical pleasure alone.
Terrified of this feeling and not wanting him to get any closer, her plan of "stress relief" subtly shifts into one more tinged with the full meaning of "Meister."
She swats his hands away until he places them back on the headboard. "Don't come before I do," she growls at him before inching him back inside. Maka rolls her hips until he gets too close, leaving him frazzled and frustrated. "What did I tell you," she says to him, starting again. She tries not to think about why she's doing this, or worse, why he's letting her do this, carefully taking that thought and shredding it into tiny pieces.
She tortures him until his moans become desperate and raspy; until every other word is either "fuck," or "god," and then even more until all words are "Maka!"
"Good," she pants at him, when her name is the only language he knows and the cheap headboard of the hotel bed complains in his white knuckles. "Good. Now move." She leans forward, resting more weight on her knees to give him room to jerk his hips into hers. He obligingly thrusts, erratic and frantic, until she finds her release. He howls his bliss half a second behind her.
He doesn't dislike the arrangement- she's giving him her body, however limited, and he eventually decides that it's halfway to his overall goal and he'd be stupid to not take up the offer. She does most of the work, anyway. All he has to do is lay still and try not to go insane, and he would get laid by the girl he happened to love. He complies, time and again.
She is like clockwork, getting ready for bed early the same days every week. When he figures this out, he's already hard and stroking himself on those scheduled nights, trained as Pavlov's dog waiting for dinner.
The only time she doesn't come to him is when she's on the rag, and soon, he knows that schedule too. Whenever she is finished with her hellish week of grouchiness and sexual frustration, they next time she takes him is always explosive. On those days, waiting for the night to arrive, he can barely function. Just being near her makes him uncomfortably erect, so he avoids her as best he can until dark. She doesn't seem to mind. She's come to understand that his absence means he's looking forward to her.
Soul knows he's letting this get out of hand. He's addicted, and she's naive as she is demanding- if he doesn't do something soon, they'll be trapped in this alternate life, continually flip-flopping between two drastically different relationships until something shatters.
He's so obedient. He could be a jerk to her all day, calling her Titless and Bookworm and bitching at her when she bashes him in he head with a book, but at night he does anything she asks. She could tell him to keep his eyes shut, and it would be as effective as a blindfold. She could tell him to beg, and he would plead all night in that rumbling voice of his.
She rewards him for his behavior. "Good," she says. "You may touch, but only here," and she places his hands at her breasts. "Now thank me," she tells him, and he gropes and pinches and twists and grasps, fondling her endlessly as she rides through her orgasm.
She doesn't know what makes her want to use him so. She doesn't want to look into it too deeply. They've played this game so long now that the fact that he can consistently pop a boner for her less-than-average body is enough excuse for now. She has no need for anything more. She can concentrate on the important things, like class and battle tactics and Kishin. Distractions? What distractions? She and Soul excel in everything the world throws at them. It's a perfect arrangement.
Maka wonders why there's a lurking doubt in her mind. It's an idea that slowly fills her soaring confidence with lead- that her mother wouldn't be proud of her possessing Soul's loyalty, even though Kami had never kept her father's.
Life slows down. The hard work of Spartoi and the rest of Shibusen pays off. Battles against Kishin-to-be become few and far between. Witches that oppose the Academy go out of style. Soul graduates, and he and Maka end up seeking volunteer work at Shibusen in between his missions with Shinigami-sama. They help out with the new students and doing demonstrations as one of the more powerful pairs in history.
They continue to meet at night, though they're older and no longer controlled by raging hormones and death threats. She rides him while he holds on for dear life until she allows him release. Is it habit for her at this point? Comfort? Addiction? He doesn't know.
Soul is plagued by world peace. There's more free time. More leisure. More options. He thinks it's time to put The Plan into action. She can't have any excuse to deny him now.
He drops hints to her during waking hours- words that imply things if she would only take them for more than face value.
"Are you going to move to the Academy to be closer to Shinigami-sama?"
"No. I'm not leaving you."
When that doesn't work, he does things that can't be mistaken for anything else. He wraps his arm around her when they sit next to each other. He takes her hand frequently, and when they're alone, he kisses it, watching her blush.
She's not dead in there. He knows it. But Maka makes no move to reciprocate his affections. She ignores his flirting and is blind to his 'accidental' touches while the sun is still up. He doesn't understand why she's so stubborn. How little does she think of him? After all this time, is it that difficult to believe he only lives for her? Love is not meant to be this hard.
Frustrated with her selective hearing by day but her continuing domination by night, Soul finds himself speaking with some other girl after a demo at the Academy. Some underclassman thing- skinny, flat, bleached hair, wearing a leather riding jacket similar to his own. He half-smiles. He nods. He says, "I'll think about it."
He's lying. He's not remotely interested, even if there is a spark in her eyes that reminds him of his Meister. His response is eight parts politeness and two parts trying to get a rise out of Maka.
Well, at least it works.
Maka's incensed. She has to break the schedule, attempting to shove him to the living room floor as soon as they get home from the seminar. She forgets that he's stronger in daylight, like a stupid, frustrating, backwards vampire. He merely staggers when she tackles him, sturdy as cement.
"What the hell?" He doesn't even realize she's fuming. She yanks the collar of his jacket aside and sinks her teeth into his neck until he understands. She gives him a hickey the size of a golf ball as he groans, slowly leaning back on the arm of the couch.
"What were you doing," she demands of him, pleased that when she nudges his chest he falls back on the seat of the couch easily. Maka climbs on him, tearing at his clothes and clawing at his belt buckle. "Was that supposed to be me?" He's clearly confused, but still erect and flushed regardless, and she doesn't want to analyze if it's because she's trained him to be hard as long as he's underneath her, or because he actually finds her attractive.
She shoves the crotch of her panties to one side and impales herself on him. She rocks him to his release, and he should be fucking grateful she's that generous. "Do not look at other women," she howls at him as he hooks his fingers into cushions, panting. "Look only at me! Do not look away!"
Soul complies, staring into her eyes as he comes, trying to keep slivers of squinting crimson trained on her. And then he does something out of order, against her will yet again- he reaches out and gingerly feels her face, saying in a curiously amazed voice, "You're crying."
She swats his hand away. "In punishment for touching me, you won't come next time."
Soul does not listen to any more offers from other women, per her demands, but Maka senses a small change in him. It frustrates and annoys her. His eyes never leave her- not even during the daytime. She supposes that maybe this is her error, that maybe he ought to do as he pleases when the sun is up, but the thought of her weapon getting off with someone else pisses her off!
The next night she goes in his room, she keeps her word, demanding to make her come only with his fingers, and then leaving for her own room immediately afterwards.
When she does have sex with him, he keeps touching her, breaching little parts of their agreement with a graze of fingers. She continues to give him punishment, as promised. But even so, he still peeks at her when she tells him to keep his eyes shut, and lets out small moans of her name when she orders his silence. She doesn't like it. It makes her uncomfortable. When she realizes he enjoys her discipline, greedily touching her and licking with pleasure, she's furious. She tells him to turn into a scythe and rubs herself on him, torturing him until she comes, soaking the weapon with her self-gratification. She does this every night for a week, until her period shows up again.
The evening after it finishes, Soul is more obedient. He's starved for release. He doesn't touch her unless she asks, though he still stares into her eyes when he explodes.
Soul's red eyes get under her skin. She doesn't know what that penetrating expression on his face means. But she never asks. She isn't sure she wants to know. It looks dangerous. It calls her heart out to him, and it's getting harder to feel the pinch in her gut that warns her about men and becoming dependent on them.
She enters his room, sure-footed, ever familiar with the path to his bed in the semi-darkness. He's already breathing heavily, anticipating her, arm slowly moving as he idly pumps himself. She smells like soap, her legs freshly shaved and like silk against his skin. Straddling him, she takes his burning cock in her hand, rubbing her folds along his length to make him slick, the movement of her hips smooth and sure like a well-oiled engine.
Just before she eases him inside, she decides to give him a gift. He's been on his best behavior lately- turning down girls left and right, and even declining to go to a party tonight, saying he already had plans, which wasn't a lie. He's only expecting tit-grabbing at the very most, but when she speaks, alien words come out of her mouth instead.
"Since it is Soul's birthday, I will allow you one request."
He tilts his head to the side, warily eying her from his pillow. "I don't understand."
"This one time only, you will be a Meister. Ask me one thing and I will do it."
She looks surprised when he suddenly sits up, his dick stirring inside her as his chest presses against hers. The fading idea of 'The Plan' is suddenly brought into sharp relief, etched in his hopes like volatile acid. Soul looks down her body to where they're connected, and then back to her face with an excitement in him that he usually only reserves for simple moments with her in daylight.
Maka feels a strange thing in her chest, positive that he'll wish for his freedom without her wrath raining down on him in a possessive downpour. She's monopolized this almost-grown man. Her insides twist at the thought, but it's time to put an end to this.
She nods to his question. Maka watches him choose his words carefully, weighing pros and cons to whatever it is that runs through his head. He gives her that look again- the one that is dangerously close to bridging day with night, before saying with a haunting surety, "Pretend you love me."
Confused and bewildered, Maka blinks at him. It's not what she's expecting. She wonders why her face suddenly feels a draft, why his appearance skews and blurs and glistens. She doesn't know what this means. She watches him lean forward, hesitantly placing his mouth on hers.
Ah, that's right. The last kiss she'd had was when she had lost her virginity and presence of mind, somewhere near the continental divide. If all he wanted was a kiss, he could have asked for that instead. What is he doing? He keeps licking her lips, trying to worm his tongue inside her mouth. After awhile, he pulls back from her unresponsiveness saying, "Lovers kiss with open mouths."
What? She confusedly returns his lazy stare. "Like this," he murmurs, taking a thumb to open her mouth and coaxing her tongue to dance with his. Their saliva goes everywhere, and she keeps accidentally biting his finger, but he doesn't seem to care.
Maka doesn't know how to handle the sensation of his breath on parts of her skin that's never been touched by anyone. She's not used to shivering. She's not used to so much stimulation at once. She cries out when his teeth nip at her neck. He sucks tender skin and her breath hitches suddenly.
"What is it?"
"I've never had a hickey before," she hiccups. His rumble of a laugh makes her nerves pang and tingle. She's never felt that before, either. He touches her everywhere, leaving nothing unexplored. When she's tilted to her back, she's face to face with a fear she had been continually burying every night she had come to him. He holds her legs up, winding them about his hips and he slowly, slowly sinks inside, carefully watching her face contort in a feverish, frightened confusion.
Why does this feel so different? Soul smothers her with his body, his chest coming to press tightly against hers, not allowing her escape. She does not want to become some plaything, becoming dependent on that stupid, useless thing called love, and then be abandoned for the next thing with tits that walks by. Betrayed. She had worked so hard for his obedience, and now on the very last night, he cradles her head in his forearms, repeating his terrible, horrifying demand, "Love me, Maka. Just for now, pretend you love me."
Soul informs her that lovers touch each other at the same time, and like magic, her dead arms are brought to life, jerkily coming up to wrap around his neck. Soul thrusts languidly into her, the muscles of his chest and stomach contorting and sliding against her. Her hips twitch in reflex, so accustomed to having to move for herself. His mouth is at her ear now, licking and nibbling with teeth. It's strange at first, and loud, but then she finds that her back is arching, goosebumps exploding from her skin. She's taken by surprise when she comes, not ever expecting to reach orgasm with his slow tempo. She accidentally mashes her head into his shoulder in the process of crying out, shuddering underneath him.
"I'm- I'm sorry," she says, quivering. Soul continues to thrust into her at a leisurely pace, not fazed by her clenching insides. It occurs to her that she may have created a monster.
"What for," he asks, sucking on an earlobe.
"I came before you did," she gasps out.
"I want you to. Many, many more times before I do."
Her eyes still leak, and her heart feels like it's being ripped and crushed all at once. She can not bear his gentleness.
Soul slides out beneath her arms and takes her legs, curiously pulling them up and over his shoulders. Leaning forward again, he buries into her. Maka makes a strangled yelp. He's deeper than she's ever felt, even after all the times she's been with him. "Lovers call out for each other, Maka." His tone is neither commanding nor suggestive, only stating his words as fact. Regardless, it's as effective as all the occasions she's ordered him to beg for her.
It takes everything she has to use her mouth properly. Her voice is raspy and frantic. "Soul..!" He feels bigger. Harder. Hotter. His pace quickens, digging into her, every moment he's in to the hilt making her lungs collapse. She's soaked where they join together, her arousal dripping down to damp bedsheets. He turns his head to the side, kissing the inside of a leg and rhythmically filling her until her vision is noting but blistering stars.
She's aware of his hands, such an infrequent sensation (and her fault for it being such), as he flips her over and pulls her up to kneel in front of him. He enters from behind, the vastly different angle dragging every ounce of coherency she still has down in an undertow of bewildered moaning. His fingers clutch at her hips, making her meet his own with haste- she's forgotten how to use her body. He finds something inside her, something that makes her sob when thrust against, and he's determined to brush it every time. He won't give her time to rest! She's not even done with her orgasm and still he continues. Is this what is was like for him, living through a torture one can't help but relish?
Soul asks if she's feeling good, but Maka can only beg, can only keep her eyes shut, can only whimper his name. He's unraveling her. He's sweating and moaning and clutching her to him, arms constricting around her flushing waist. "Maka," he says feverishly, pleading. "Just for now. Tell m-"
She keens into the dark before he can finish asking her, her throat hoarse and savage. "I love you!"
His seed sears her insides. Maka is unsure if it's sweat that drips from him and on to her back. She pretends it is. She pretends it's sweat that runs down her face as well.
How long had he been suffering without her acknowledgement? She does not deserve to love him after all that she's done. She understands now, why her mother would be disappointed in her.
Soul's birthday comes and goes faster than he'd like. Maka hasn't been to his room since he'd turned twenty. She has ceased her hold over him. He doesn't know why. All he knows is that her absence leaves him aching in every way imaginable.
He'd overdone it. It's the only conclusion he can come up with. He'd crossed the line she'd been re-striping every night they joined together. He thought she'd be fine if he worded it with 'pretend,' as much as it had killed him to say it. He had planned to give her a pretense to hide behind, and thenmake her understand, but he guesses that all those tears were brought out from his prying too deeply, finding a lurking truth that she can't or won't confront in his presence.
He had loved her too much, scaring her away. She acts as if nothing is different, as if she had never shoved her hands down his pants and proceeded to break herself in a hormonal craze that trapped the both of them in a maze of physical comfort and unrequited love. She acts as if she had never cared when other chicks came up to him and then had punished him with possessive tears. As if she had never heard him call out her name in attempts to get her to listen.
Days go by, and weeks, and months. He spends his nights alone. She's not the same even during the day. He can't pursue her, because she'll deny everything, running away with a forced laugh and a barely-hidden, frightened look in her eyes. She can't look at him without regret lining her face. Soul watches guilt eat her away, like termites destroying barriers made only of weak toothpicks.
He doesn't know what to do other than wait it out and hope for the best. He makes it a point to show her that his eyes only follow her. Soul leaves his bedroom door open at night, and leaves his schedule empty.
Even though he had steadied himself to be patient for however long it would take, continually proving to her that he would stay at her side no matter what she did to him, Soul is still surprised when she actually comes into his room. In fact, her body climbing on him- a sensation nearly forgotten- is what wakes him up from slumber.
She's not even naked, but there's no way to stop his erection. It would take an act of heaven to keep it from growing, and even then it might not be effective. Soul freezes, making no move to touch her, in fear of scaring her away. Her calves settle familiarly against his sides. When she speaks, she tries to sound like her old Meister self, but she comes off timid and shaky.
"Because it is my birthday, you will do as I say."
He hadn't forgotten. Soul was sure she had made plans with the other girls to hang out tonight. He beats down his hope at the idea that she had cancelled them for him. Soul only stares at her, not daring to say anything else to keep her from speaking. He nods, swallowing his anticipation.
She's silent for awhile, working up the courage to say whatever the hell it is she came to say. She's shy, her posture hunching and her arms crossing to cover a chest she once displayed proudly before him. "Just for now, you will forgive your Meister for being... so cruel to her weapon, one more time." She chokes on her words. Her guilt has finally overwhelmed her.
It occurs to him that this isn't Night-Maka at all, and he shouldn't be just lying here like a submissive dumbass- the whole Meister-Weapon thing is the only way she knows how to speak to him in the dark. She does her very best to not flinch when he brings his hand to brush her hair from her damp face.
He sits up, cautiously prying her arms away from her chest to wrap them around his neck. She doesn't threaten him with any kind of punishment.
Her breathing is erratic, her body trembling in his embrace. "Just for now, pretend you love me," she pleads more than orders him with a wavering voice. Her walls she had built to protect herself from him visibly crumble.
"No," he says, rejecting her watery demands. "This isn't pretend, and I won't stop, even if you tell me to."