disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: to that burning place in my chest where Daft Punk plays on repeat.
notes: first fic for this fandom. i am so not ready to write for new fandoms, man.

title: just can't get enough
summary: She was half-naked in the dark. — Soul/Maka.

.

.

.

.

.

The crunch of bone and flesh against concrete was the first sickening sound of many, that night.

The Thing was curled in the roots of a tree, claws dug into the dirt and empty eyes and it grinned widely to throw meister and weapon across the street. Glass shattered, tinkling merrily as it blew inward. There was an explosion of dust and pain, bright white flaring behind her eyelids.

A crash, a snarl, an oath.

"You okay?" muttered the Scythe in her hands.

Maka Albarn wiped the blood that trickled from her nose away with a slow grin. Her hand came away dark and glistening in the moonlight, nails biting into her palm to dull the pain of it. She spun her Scythe in front of her, sliding down the building in casual dominance of gravity.

"When am I not okay?" she asked.

The Scythe chuckled and fell silent.

"Let's go hunt ourselves a monster," Maka said, and it was with Soul's cold agreement in her ear that she smiled viciously and went on her way.

/ / /

"Ow," Soul complained, whining as Maka wrapped his arm in gauze.

"You're such an idiot, Soul!" she scolded, pulling the wrap tight to emphasize her point. "You could have died!"

Soul winced. "Ow, Maka, quit it!"

He jerked his arm away, and for a moment, the two of them glared at each other. Maka was infuriated, Soul was annoyed, and neither of them were about to give in.

"Your cheek is still bleeding," Maka pointed out.

"So is yours, stupid."

"What? No, it's not, I—" she said, and raised her hand to her cheek. She brushed at the still-oozing gash with her fingertips, and Soul watched the shock of pain go through her. He would have grinned, but that wouldn't have been cool—it wasn't cool to laugh when a girl was hurt (even if she didn't know it, the stupid idiot).

Soul shoved his hands in his pockets and stood, jerking away from her with a grin.

"I'm going for a walk," he said. "Take care of yourself, bookworm."

On his way out, he grabbed his jacket.

Maka heard him go, and didn't say a word.

Soul closed the door behind him, and wandered down the stairs with his jacket slung over his shoulder. Maka was probably muttering a brain-teaser's worth of expletives underneath her breath right then, like a vulgar encyclopedia.

The thought alone made Soul grin.

He slipped outside. The night's chill was gentle fingers of cold wind down his back, and Soul revelled in it. He took a slow breath in and let it out just as slowly. It came out opaque as a wisp of smoke in the air, curling up and out and finally fading.

He watched it go, and his gaze followed it upwards.

And then:

Maka's silhouette, darkly caught in her golden window. She was small and slender with her hair down her back; loose, for once. Her face was shadowed, but he knew that she wasn't looking out because she was bent down over what was probably a book.

The curve of her spine sent a shiver up his back.

Soul dragged his eyes away, shaking his head. Watching a girl when she didn't know it was uncool and actually sort of creepy. Soul shrugged his jacket on, shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned away sharply.

Maka was going to be the death of him, even if she didn't know it.

/ / /

He didn't get back until three hours later, when the cold had seeped in through his shoes and his jacket, and his bones clacked together like a symphony of sorrow. Soul's fingers were so numb he could barely get the key in the lock—the snick of the deadbolt was loud in his ears.

Soul pushed inside and ran his fingers through his hair. He listened intently for a moment, perfectly still and silent with his head cocked to the side, to see if Maka was still awake.

But there was nothing, and for all he knew, she might as well have closed her blinds.

That was a Maka thing to do, Soul thought with a slow grin.

Soul trudged up the stairs. His steps were slow and even, meant to muffle the sound because Maka was not a heavy sleeper and she'd chop his head off if he woke her up. He turned the corner on the stair, dim light spilling out of her open door.

He shook his head again with a grin.

Bookworm Maka.

He slouched his way to her room, and leaned against the doorframe to stare at her.

She'd moved from her window nook to her bed, legs crossed and humming softly to a broken tune that was off-beat, off-key. She was jangling her foot up and down to the beat that was playing inside her head with her book in her lap, mouthing the words as she read them.

Soul thought that he could have watched her for a very long time and not have to have said a word. Sometime just watching her was enough, he thought. The scratch on her cheek was still dark-red, gone rust-coloured around the edges.

"Oi," Soul said.

Maka blinked and looked up at him. A smile split her face. "Oh, Soul! You're back."

Soul snorted. "Obviously."

"I was waiting up. Sorry, I didn't hear you come in," she said, indicating the book in her lap.

Soul nodded, but didn't move from his spot by the door. "You didn't have to. Not cool, Maka."

Maka rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. "Like it even matters. Are you going to come in or are you just gonna hover there awkwardly for the rest of the night?"

Soul was caught for a minute between the want to please his meister and the knowledge that she made him crazy; because the knowing was a part of the problem. If she was still just Maka then things wouldn't be so bad. But sometimes Soul caught himself staring at her like she was something to consume, and though he was never not hungry, the thought both repulsed and drew him.

He sickened himself, sometimes.

"Soul? Soul? Hi? Alive in there?" Maka asked, staring at him suspiciously.

"'Course I am, Maka."

Maka stared at him for another few seconds, before shrugging and patting the bed next to her. The world tilted and slipped, a little demon whispering in his ear about nothing and everything because she was Maka. She was his even if she wasn't—even if she didn't want to be.

And Soul went.

His hands trembled with the urge to touch her. She was Maka—sixteen, flat-as-a-board, bookish Maka, but in the half-light she looked like something more. Her darkness was an infectious thing, but not infectious enough; Soul wished for it to cleanse him of his own sins, the black blood singing its madness through his veins.

She was half-naked in the dark, a beautiful thing dressed in white cotton and lace and she looked at him with innocent green eyes.

Soul thought that he could have crushed her, had he wanted to.

He softly brushed the cut on her cheek, fingertips flushed from the influx of heat (though he didn't know if it was from finally being back in a warm environment or from the heady feeling of Maka's blood underneath his hands).

"You should get this cleaned up," he said gently.

"Yeah, probably," she agreed.

The desire to do something—anything—grabbed Soul and held him captive. She was so small sitting there next to him, all white nightdress and ash-blonde hair, looking grown-up and serious.

The last thing on his mind should have been making the mistakes that came with growing up. Soul knew that.

Kissing Maka would be one of those mistakes.

Maka grinned at him, the full-toothed smile of a child and looked at him with the eyes of an adult and it was the dichotomy of the two that made Soul force himself to let her go. He couldn't do that to Maka. Not to her.

He'd been dying to keep her safe for so long that hurting her might just destroy him.

Soul slid off her bed, eyes glinting dull and red. He reached down to ruffle her hair. "Bookworm. Get some sleep."

"Hey! Rude!"

Soul retreated to the safety of the doorframe.

"Goodnight, Maka," he said.

"Goodnight, Soul," she said.

Looking at her, sitting there with her legs crossed and her book and her messy hair was almost enough to undo him. Soul ground out a smile and turned in to the dark hallway. He had to get away before he did something that might ruin them both.

The door closed softly behind him.

.

.

.

.

.

fin.
notes2: weird music went into this story. Mostly Cobra Starship and random trance.
notes3: please do not Favourite without leaving a review! :)