This is a submission to the SoulMaka NSFW week presently being hosted on Tumblr. I'm sure you can guess what the prompt is. (PS, it's not penis size jokes)

I do not own Soul Eater, The Lonely Island, Inception-related internet memes, or Coolsville (if such a place exists).

This Never Really Happens, You Can Take My Word

You're staring at her legs when it happens.

Maka claps her book shut in mild disgust, and you jolt, pulling your eyes away from those shins and thighs and hurriedly moving them to her face.


Act neutral. No, act annoyed because she just made a loud noise and, under normal circumstances, you'd be annoyed and not wondering if you've just been caught staring at her legs. Pull out one earbud with a disgruntled look. "Hm."

"Have you made out with anyone before?"

You can't stop your face from scrunching up. You also don't want to get involved in whatever conversation she is trying to start, because all signs are pointing to you being unable to answer this without getting punched in the dick. You try to put your earbud back in.

"Soul! I'm serious!"

You sigh and close your eyes, the gleam of her legs burned in a colored after-image into your eyeballs. You pause your music. "Whyyy," you say, dubious. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters." Fuck. It matters.

"Then I really don't wanna talk. You'll just hit me or something." Her eyes narrow in warning. "See? It's that face. It means 'concussion'." You should probably stop talking.

Maka places her book to a side table in plain view, disarming herself. "Look, I just wanna know your opinion on it."

"On what," you blurt.

"Making out, I said!"

You fervently miss the life of yesteryear, of yester-forty-five-seconds-ago, when it peaceful and safe, when you could listen to some decent experimental jazz and fantasize about your meister's legs around your hips without immediate threat of death.

"My opinion? What's to think about?" You need to think of more words to say that make sense but also do not incriminate you. "It's ... it's mouths, I don't fuckin' know." Except you do know, but not why you have to explain it because it seems self-explanatory, or why the hell Maka Albarn is so confused about it.

"Is it worth the time investment, because it seems really awkward and gross."

You don't know what to say to this. You stall, scratching the side of your face. "Wh- ...Okay, I guess from a nerd perspective-" you're pushing your luck, "-that's kinda accurate-" good save, "-but you don't... It's not an investment, idiot. You do it because you feel like it, and... shit."

You never were very articulate, were you.

"So, it's pleasurable," she says, or asks, or states, like it isn't as self-explanatory as it should so very obviously be.


"I wouldn't know!" Her legs shift from the arm of the couch, where she'd been dangling them like the eternal cat toy wielded by a sadistic human over a feline for entertainment they are. Your eyes are glued. She doesn't notice, too focused on her tirade. "There's slobber and teeth and bad breath and it just seems like it wouldn't be nice at all."

The falling lilt of her voice is an effective solvent. Your eyes are freed. "It can be not nice, I guess," you admit, thinking of past girlfriends and how bored your non-fluttering heart had been while making out with them.

"You've had bad kisses," she says, or asks, or states.

"Well, yeah."

You have now fallen into interrogation mode, and you can not escape. "What made it bad?" she begins with, signalling the start of the Yes It Matters Inquisition. Slowly, you sink further into the couch. If you could become loose change and lint, you would die very happily.

"I just..." How will you explain this with neither getting punched in the dick nor turning Maka Albarn off to the act of swapping spit with someone else? "Why are we even having this conversation, seriously."

She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. That, or she's sunburned from Spring Break, which is probably more likely. In any case, she dodges your question, because she is the Inquisitor. "What'd you do, bite someone?"

You snap upright, pennies and dust bunnies forsaken. "What? NO. " The nerve. She should give you more credit than that. "When you're not really into the person, it... might become like a chore. Maybe. Fuck, this is the dumbest thing we've ever-"

"Let me kiss you."

You're not sure if inquisitors are allowed to demand such things. You're not sure if you're in the same universe as you were fifteen seconds ago, either. "W... do what?"

Your meister blinks, expectant.

"You're serious," you wheeze.

She rolls her eyes, looking at you with an expression that you know should belong to you: he who had been first in line at the Why Am I Explaining The Obvious To You ride. "You suck at explaining things, and I need to see it to understand."

You need clarification. "You want me to make out with you," you say, or ask, or state.

Maka sits primly in her student posture, ready for a lesson. "Ye- Well when you put it that way it makes me sound..."

Yes, it does make her sound... like something. Something interesting. Something that places phantom legs around your hips.

"Okay, then, uhm." She taps her chin with the tips of her fingers. "I guess make out with the lamp."

"Fuck you, Maka," you say, and you'd say it again given the chance.

"What! That's reasonable, isn't it?"

"I'm not gonna make out with inanimate objects like an instructional video." It's true, you won't. "You're insane." She totally is.

"Well it's a lamp or me, take your pick."
"Why am I not getting a choice, here?"
"I just gave you two!"

You put your face into your hands and will yourself back to your normal dimension. It doesn't work. At the sound of her standing, you worriedly peek through your fingers. You are met with legs. You close your fingers.

"Look," she says, but you don't. "You don't even have to move. Just... just sit there. In fact, I prefer that."

The force of your scowl rejects your hands. "This's gotta be some kinda weapon harassment. Abuse," you complain, while simultaneously being compliant. She moves to stand in front of you, while you remain on the couch, staring at her face because her legs are Bad News, awaiting a deranged kind of knighthood so you can become Sir Accomplice of the Debasement of Making Out through Science and Logic, your bored heart suddenly suffering from decidedly not-bored palpitations.

"Shut up," says the Inquisitor. "I wanna see what it's like."

You want to ask 'why me', but when you think about it, watching Maka watch your mouth and gauging it with her unfathomable specifications, you imagine her asking (demanding) this of someone else. A black with white-striped head (or worse, blue hair) flickers in your mind, adding itself to this equation, and the sum prompts you to suddenly blurt, "FINE OKAY, come here. Shit, I can't believe I'm doing this."

She anoints you like one of those ever-sipping drinking birds, heat-transfer from the contact with your lips pulling her immediately away as if it had never happened.

The lateral distance between your skeptical eyebrows is something worth mentioning to record books. "What are you, a woodpecker?"

"Wh-what's that supposed to mean?" she says, trying to sound mighty. Her hair isn't blue enough for that, though.

What do you mean? What is your reasoning behind complaining about a kiss you had been trying so hard to escape? Hadn't you been trying to weasel out of this situation a minute ago? Do you not recall the lost pocket change and lint you tried to assimilate with? Yet here you are: Knight of the over-analytical table of Queen Albarn the Nerdy, Albarn the Naive, Albarn of the Smoking Hot Legs clan, heir to your testicles' future annihilation. Do you want to make out with her or not?

You do, alright? Shut up.

"What the hell was that?" you accuse, fascinated by that 'sunburn' and how it reaches down her neck.

"Pointless," Maka mumbles, sounding equal parts uncomfortable and disappointed.

Finally, the both of you can agree on something.

"No kidding. Didn't even-" 'use tongue', you almost say, but some primitive aspect of your innate sense of self-preservation informs you that novel-induced brain damage is a very real thing, and if you push your luck any further, you'll be shoving it into the large, Mickey Mouse hands of Death.

Turn the tables.

"You have to enjoy it, dorkus. Here, like, just sit the fuck down in the first place."

As she sits on the couch, her legs fold up daintily beneath her, interlocked in ways you distantly wish were around your face. You situate yourself to face her.

Try your hand at sounding professional, for once, or at least not like you have no idea what it's like to kiss someone you've been attracted to since you were fifteen. "So, pretend for like half a fucking minute that I'm not a piece of silverware to you and that I'm human and have actual feelings." Well, that came out surly and annoyed, which is what you always sound like, so this is an acceptable compromise.

"It doesn't matter what I pretend, does it?" she says, petulant. "It's a chore if you're not... into the other person." As she speaks, her voice slowly goes quiet, soft, and above all things, hesitant, and you can't associate this with Maka Albarn without major headspace readjustment.

But more importantly, "Even making out with a stranger is better than what that peck was." The displeasure in your voice isn't feigned, either, because you still sting quite a bit from your meister's reluctance to do chores, even if she's the one who started this whole thing. It stings like tumbling down a razor-slide and splashing into a pool of saltwater, and as you think about how you're closest to her soul as a weapon but only her guinea pig as a man, you start doing the backstroke.

Maka bristles. It's kind of cute, like a blowfish, and also deadly to the nervous system, like a blowfish. She swims around with you in your Shot Down pool. "You should've done it with the lamp," she grumbles.

The lamp will never be so lucky, thank you very much. You attempt a sigh, because that's what cool people do when they are resigned to fate, because they do not do anything other than become resigned to fate- especially not things like wanting to drown after finding out through the worst demonstration ever that your meister isn't into you and would rather you make out with a lamp.

It doesn't matter, she'd said. Fuck.

Lean in. "It's called affection, Maka. It's what a kiss is." Now put a hand on her knee. "It shows affection." Revel in its smoothness, its warmth. "Shares it," you say, somewhat distracted. Your heart is beating too hard and, fuck, it matters. You've made out with a handful of other girls before, some that look like her and some that look like the exact opposite of her and some that only look a little bit like her and also enough not like her that it only just accentuates how they aren't her, and on none of those (admittedly, seldom) occasions (you never were one for being on top of chores) has your skin ever threatened to take on a not-sunburn.

"Uh. I'm a dude." You are, that's true, good job. "You're a chick." She is, usually, when she's not skull-destruction on legs. Sometimes she's both though, and your heart won't stop giving a shit about that idea, for some reason. "Got it?"

Her eyes are focused intently on yours, and you wonder why she doesn't look half as reluctant and unwilling as a person should look when they've fallen into a situation of their own making that they've realized isn't as interesting as they hoped. You also wonder why she hasn't destroyed you for touching her leg, or even mentioned how your fingers have somehow reached for the fringe of her cutoff shorts, palm sliding up her thigh.

"Got it."

You wonder, as you meet her still, pliant lips, why you're so obsessed with her legs in the first place. In your head you may have named her as the queen of the Smoking Hot Legs clan, but critically speaking they're cankles at one end and intimidating quads and hamstrings at the other, frequently sporting some kind of heinous bruise from work, shins warped from multiple incidents of blunt force trauma, usually two weeks late for a shave, with the silliest combat boot tan lines imaginable. And yet you want them around your hips; around your face is also acceptable.

And you wonder why that is, but then again, you don't, because you already know why that is. And while you are busy musing things that need not be mused, those legs overtake you while your guard is down. Suddenly, your back hits couch cushions, world weighed by meister and legs and mostly legs because your meister is seventy percent legs, and those still, pliant lips are somehow slanting over yours. You realize the teacher is being taught.

Your heart is beating too fast.

She pulls away, but not before shyly seeking out your tongue. A glimmer of determination can be seen under the blush that can no longer pass for a sunburn in any universe, which you're kind of giddy about. You should regroup.

"That's, uh. An improvement."

"Thanks," she breathes, and you get the feeling you've been played, just a little. She takes the remaining earbud out of your ear. "You've been staring at my legs all afternoon."

You open your mouth in denial, but a 'yeah' comes out instead. The Inquisitor still has power over you, evidently.

"Why," she asks, prompting you to acknowledge that if there is ever a prime position to be in for an easy-access punch to the dick, you are in it. Her body shifts as you debate on what kind of answer to give her, and you find that both your hands have made a home on her legs. Glued, really. Glued with truth serum.

As your palms partially encircle each supple thigh, fingers testing the firmness of the flesh near that sacred place known as Booty, you almost blurt things, confess things that you wouldn't admit to yourself five minutes ago: like how you can't not stare at her legs, because they're always, always in your sight no matter how you try to ignore them, and you often wonder what they feel like against you when you're not trapped in demon steel, much like this, actually- thanks for solving that mystery.

But you don't say any of that. You say something much worse.

"'Cause they're yours, probably."

Your name is Soul 'Eater' Evans, Deathscythe of Mickey-Mouse-Handed Death, himself, and you are a square. Turn in your leather jacket; you won't be fooling anyone with that. Leave your Harley at the front gate on your way out of Coolsville.

Your meister places her hands on your chest, her palms a stethoscope you can't escape. She's close enough for her breath to fan across your face. "That was my first kiss, you know. And second." One leg twitches slightly in your grasp. Congratulations, you are now aroused.

The weight of her stretched across your hips is distracting. Or motivating. "Can I have the next one?" you ask, pulse thudding in your ears.

She graces you with the briefest of smiles. The dusty green of her eyes seems to deepen from within, a tone that makes your jeans feel a little less comfortable.

"Depends if you're into me, I guess. Are you?"

You don't think twice. You don't even think once. Craning up your neck to kiss her, your hands hold her body flush against you as you give her one meaningful grind of your hips. She gasps in your mouth, and your head falls back to the couch.

"A little bit, yeah," you say, the corner of your lips steadily approaching Smirk.

Maka huffs, immediately causing you to go slack-jawed when she cautiously, deliberately shifts over your dick. Yes, she's fully aware of what she's doing to you. You have forgotten who is in charge of this inquisition. "Just a little bit?" she fishes, and her teasing, twerpy grin makes you burn, burn, burn.

You glower from beneath your meister. You're defensive as hell. "Big," you deadpan. "Huge, even. A huge bit."

"You're blushing."
"Says the walking sunburn."

In an effort to not talk about how red she is, she initiates her fourth kiss with you. It is a relatively chaste thing when compared against her wriggling body attempting to ignite your jeans via sexually frustrated friction. Kisses five through ten do, in fact, become the conglomerate entity known as Making Out, and it's the sweetest of victories.

It doesn't feel like a time investment, though there is some slobber and teeth and mouths involved. There's also hair in your face and an uncomfortable hard-on, but the sound of her voice in your ear as you kiss across her jaw and find her neck makes up for it. Her delighted squirming prompts you to push her back for kisses eleven through whatever, switching your positions.

You are now fondling your meister on your living room couch. Your hands skirt along her taut torso, mapping out wiry muscles and pretty girlflesh. You are Soul 'Eater' Evans and she is Maka Albarn, and together you are battle-ready in a blink of an eye, and this talent of yours appears to be applicable to other aspects of life, because you've gone from making out to dry humping in under two minutes.

Pulling away from her swollen lips, you try to get your scrambled brain back in order. You've just had her first kiss, as well as her second through eleventh kisses (plus some remainder). Perhaps you should slow down there, Sparky.

Your meister either does not agree with you, or your sudden halt in rubbing against her warm crotch does not agree with her. Two fingers claw into your shirt collar and tug you down.

"Kiss me," she says, and you do.

She reminds you with her tilting hips that you are not paying proper attention to her. Her legs hook around your body and as the universe aligns with a near prophetic clarity, and you groan incoherently into her mouth.

Your hands are magnetized to those thighs. You caress and grope, extrapolation and prophecy merging into one relentless idea from which you can't alter or escape, because you can't get enough of her neck between your teeth, can't get enough of the sound of your name moaned in her voice, captive to the addicting squeeze of her legs wrapped around you. You press yourself so deeply between them that you and Maka both may yet become assimilated with the lost change and dust bunnies hidden in the couch cushions.

Her fingers sift through your hair, her skin trembling under your lips, the sacred lands of Booty now in your hands as you force the both of you together, grinding into her cutoffs. Press your forehead into her shoulder and say her name. Feel your scalp sting with the urgency of her grip. Crash your hips together. Fail to control the fire in your blood when Maka, your meister, your partner, a chick whom you are now making out with, finds pleasure by rubbing her pussy on you.

Your neck is nipped by her teeth, prophecy becomes truth, and you come in your pants like a boy who has never kissed someone he's been attracted to since he was fifteen.

You are mortified. Well, you feel a bit relieved- that one's been backlogged for a couple of days- but still. You feel like you've just woken up from a wet dream (and maybe you have yet to wake up from this one, like some weird dream within a dream, like the dumbest of jizz-in-my-pants-ceptions), and you're still involuntarily shuddering when the High Inquisitor asks the inevitable.

"D-did you..." she says, the rubbing of her hips slowly coming to a stop.

You swallow thickly. "A little bit." A lot. A huge lot. It feels kind of gross and nostalgic all up in your boxers. You pant into her neck, because you're not cool enough to sigh in resignation at your own lack of coolness. That is against the rules of Coolsville, of which you are no longer a resident.

She kisses your shoulder, but she shifts anxiously beneath you, still suffering from girl-arousal and not suffering from premature ej- no, you can't think of that word right now. You refuse.

Wobbly, you pull away from her, cataloguing her not-sunburn and all the far lands it reaches on her body. Her shirt is twisted and askew, and the width of her hips is defined by the stretch of her shorts. Her eyes read both pleased and nervous, both relieved and bothered, and you get what is possibly the best idea you will ever have in your entire life.

"Let me kiss you, Maka?"

Her teeth catch on her bottom lip and she gives you one slow, expectant nod.

You unbutton her cutoffs and slowly grin, your hands skimming down her glorious legs as you peel off her clothes.

Marsh: Special thanks to VictoriaPyrrhi for being as perverted as I am, and also coming up with the title.