Greetings to you all, dear readers. I am both exceptionally excited and incredibly nervous about posting my very first fanfiction on the web. I've never attempted to write any sort of fanfiction before, but I sincerely hope that some of you will find my writing enjoyable and the storyline interesting. Do be easy on me, as this is my first story and I do not have a beta reader. I do welcome constructive criticism, of course, but tread softly because you tread on my dreams...

I simply could not fight the urge to write this. My fingers practically itched with it after I really got into Soul Eater, and this idea would not go away.

Full Summary: He was a Deathscythe now. It was their dream, their passion, to make him such, so why do they suddenly feel so…hollow? She misses the feel of him in her hands. He misses her gloved touch. But when a new threat is unleashed upon the world, something stirs within Maka that has not been seen in centuries. Even Shinigama-sama did not foresee her transcendence. A single word is going to change the flow of the world, and only Maka Albarn holds the key to salvation. If she is going to save the entirety of humanity, however, she is going to need a Deathscythe. Perhaps Shinigami-sama is not the only one that must wield such a weapon after all?

Rating: M for Language, Violence, Crude Humor, Innuendo, Lemons (Yes, it's going to be pretty dirty. XD)

Advance-Lunge. Cut. Retreat. Parry. Recover. Riposte. Disengage. Glide. Double.

The terms echoed in the woman's mind as her body performed them effortlessly, her footwork precise and breathlessly perfect as she moved against her opponent. Each calculated step forced her rival backwards, the boy's arm growing heavy under her practiced attacks. With a flick of her blade, his clattered to the ground, and he had no choice but to bow to her in conquered respect. The woman before him smiled slightly, inclining her head graciously to her defeated adversary. Even in victory, she was dignified, though her olive-hued eyes gleamed with a fierce triumph. "You are certainly improving, Mr. Kaiko, I shall give you that." She offered with a smile, absently twirling her blade once and then settling it point-down at her side with a sharp cut. "Izumi must be proud of her meister."

With a smile of his own, the boy couldn't help but bask in her praise, bowing again respectfully as he watched his fallen blade transform into a lean brunette. Izumi didn't speak, but she didn't have to. The satisfaction in her eyes was clear enough without words to accompany it. With a wave of her hand, the woman dismissed them both, watching as they fell back in line with the rest of her class. "That's enough combat for today. Practice your stances." The woman announced, and each meister broke away from the rest, allowing themselves plenty of room to move without incident. With a small, satisfied sigh, she turned and deposited her rapier onto the weapon-rack, the length of steel only a cold blade, and nothing more. Her own weapon was currently at Shinigami-sama's disposal, and so she fought with instruments made of soulless metal and hardened leather.

Maka Albarn then turned, her pretty eyes surveying the students under her charge with a sharp, piercing stare. Nothing escaped her notice. Her gaze fell onto a certain pair to her right, the boy still in his human form and his meister wringing her hands nervously. With a sympathetic smile, the woman moved towards them quickly, her swift, sure steps maneuvering her about the other students with practiced ease.

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He never got tired of watching her do that. Soul's eyes followed his meister's figure as she expertly disarmed her opponent with fluid, graceful movements, each of her attacks and steps combining into a effortless, accomplished dance that could be deadly when she so wished. The weapon smirked to himself as she wound between her students, pausing occasionally to offer advice to those under her charge. Her mossy eyes were sharp and quick as they raked over the fledgling meisters, and each apprentice seemed to latch onto every word she said as if it were gospel. The deathscythe had to grin at their ready adoration. She certainly had the hero-worship of the little brats, didn't she? Although, honestly, he wasn't much better.

Maka was nothing special upon first glance. Her hair was a common color, her body lean and trim from constant exercise, and her face still retained a measure of baby-like softness that was undoubtedly charming, but not quite beautiful. Yet, her olive eyes were large and expressive, her hips flared dramatically in relation to her lithe build, and her slender legs were a mile long. She rested comfortably in the 'definitely cute' territory, teetering between pretty and gorgeous, but her commonplace traits ended there. No matter how common her appearance, Maka would never be anything less than extraordinary.

Responsible, mature, tough and resilient, the woman's inner strength belied her girlish figure, her unwavering spirit and impossible drive to succeed pouring together to create an unconquerable resolve. She was a juggernaut of will, a practical force of nature that nothing could stop when she applied herself to a task. Yet, she was also quite considerate and kind, a gentleness in her voice and hands that she reserved for her friends alone. It was fitting of a grigori soul, he mused with a little smirk, though her frequent bouts of violence that usually ended with a book cracking over his head wasn't exactly angelic. Still, despite her frequently boring, bookworm ways, Soul couldn't deny the truth.

She had him wrapped around her pretty little gloved finger.

Most of the students at Shibusen, and hell, even most of the staff, looked upon Maka as a beacon of strength and valor, her skills as a meister both impressive and deadly. She had faced Asura and Arachne without losing her courage, and that was something he doubted even most three star meisters could do. She wielded countless weapons with ridiculous ease, her natural talent and hard-earned expertise resulting in a deadly combination of instinctual movement and practiced efficiency. And while Soul admired her for it, his affection for the girl went far beyond simple respect for her talents. Maka had been his meister for years, and she was the first to accept him just as he was, pointed teeth and aloof attitude notwithstanding. She questioned nothing, but merely took it all in stride, devoting herself to making them both stronger. He owed her…everything. It was because of her that he was now a deathscythe. It was because of her anti-demon wavelength that he no longer feared the black blood. It was because of her that he had moved past his family's shadow and had a bright future for himself. She had risked her own life, and her own sanity, time and time again for his sake, and he owed her more than just his life in return.

Why wouldn't he adore her?

But he would never tell her these things. Soul Eater Evans was way too cool for kind of sappy, starry-eyed nonsense, and there was no way in hell he was going to—WHAT was that supposed to be? Relaxed stance forgotten, he leaned over the railing of the balcony he currently stood on, his crimson eyes narrowing and zeroing in on Maka as she paused beside two of her students. One, a boy who looked to be around seventeen, shifted closer to the meister and murmured something that caused a little feminine laugh to bubble from her lips. The albino weapon glared daggers at the kid. There was something about the way the boy stood, the way he looked at Maka that just didn't sit right with the deathscythe. With a smile, the boy stepped back and proceeded to change into weapon form, a quick flash of green light accompanying the movement as his body shifted.

Soul gritted his teeth. The kid was a scythe, though his appearance was drastically different from Soul's own, and the girl behind him caught the weapon with inexperienced hands, fumbling slightly as she did. Maka inclined her head to the young meister, stepping closer to speak softly before the scythe was handed to her eagerly.

Soul was not happy.

With practiced ease, Maka swung the weapon behind and around her lithe frame, her experienced hands sure and steady as she moved through a few of the more remedial stances that would help the girl's obvious lack of control. The scythe was handled expertly, and with a final, effortless flourish, presented once more to his meister. Wide-eyed, the girl retrieved her weapon from Maka, nodding vigorously and quickly attempting to repeat the steps demonstrated to her. She was hesitant and her form was sloppy, but a few encouraging words from the older, blonde meister appeared to lift her spirits, and she continued to practice as Maka moved on to the next pair with a little smile.

Soul was not smiling.

He never enjoyed watching Maka wield other weapons, even though it was in her job description as combat class instructor, but somehow, seeing her handle another scythe was…maddening. She was his meister, after all; didn't that give him the right to be a little selfish?

Except they rarely went on missions together these days. Lately, she was his meister in name only. The thought depressed Soul somewhat. With his new position as a deathscythe, not much had changed at first. He was still partnered with Maka, and they had grown even stronger together in Spartoi, discovering new abilities and conditioning their old ones to become even more potent. Yet, that was two years ago, and now, as they both stood on the cusp of adulthood at nineteen, everything had become different. A numerous amount of new responsibilities were introduced to the white-haired man, and he was sent on missions with other, three star meisters at Shinigami-sama's command. Maka was exceptionally powerful in her own right, of course, but she still had a few ranks to climb before she herself could claim that title. Yet, despite being wielded by other, more experienced warriors as a deathscythe, he never felt any sort of connection with them. He might have been forced to accept them as technicians, but she was the only one he would ever consider to be his meister.

With a disgruntled snort, the weapon pushed away from the railing, eyeing his watch as he strode through the halls of Shibusen. The day was nearing it's end, and he was more than ready to get his meister away from her students and back at his side where she belonged. Honestly, Soul generally liked the kids in her class, even showing up occasionally to demonstrate Witch Hunter for them, or so Maka could show them what a true, perfectly synced Soul Resonance could do. However, something about what he had witnessed today just…threw him in a way he couldn't explain. He didn't like it, and he certainly didn't like the way that boy had looked at Maka when she laughed.

But he wasn't jealous, of course. Cool guy didn't get jealous, and since Soul was definitely the epitome of cool, he didn't have the capacity for such an emotion. Yet, as he rounded the corner of the courtyard and found Maka engrossed in a conversation with the same boy, he abruptly decided that being jealous was, in fact, extremely cool, because he was definitely still cool, and he was also quite definitely jealous.

However, since he had a reputation to maintain, Soul resisted the urge to stomp up and break the kid's jaw, instead opting to approach nonchalantly and eye the other weapon with an insulting amount of indifference. "Ready to go, Maka?" He asked, bored tone at odds with the sharpness in his crimson eyes.

The meister turned slightly at the sound of his voice, a smile on her lips as she greeted him. "Hey Soul." She replied, and he was slightly gratified by how her words seemed to turn up an octave on his name, as if just seeing him made her happier. It was a nice thought, anyway. Yet, his nicer thoughts went out the window as she focused her attention back on the student, nodding to him encouragingly. "We'll work on that more tomorrow, Conner." Maka assured the scythe, flashing him a quick smile. "And don't worry about Kaida. She just needs to build confidence in herself before she can wield you properly. Just give her some time." She then began to step away, but much to Soul's irritation, the brat spoke again.

"Miss Albarn?" He asked quickly, his earnest green eyes pleading for her to wait and hear him out. There was something he needed to say, and he needed her to listen. With a perplexed expression, Maka paused at Soul's side, nodding for him to continue. Conner seemed to take a moment to gather his courage, and then his words suddenly came out in a rush. "It's just that…well…Kaida is a great lass, to be sure, but she isn't exactly up to weildin' me, at least not properly. She's got potential, but I dunna think she can handle me."

Soul inwardly groaned. Great, anther upstart with a god complex. Wasn't Black Star enough? His bloody eyes slid discreetly to the side, watching the blonde purse her lips thoughtfully before replying. "Are you requesting another meister?" She asked pointedly, resting one hand on her hip as she stared at the scythe in a piercing manner. He could tell she didn't like the thought of him dumping Kaida when she was trying her best.

Conner was silent for a moment. "I'm askin' if you'd want to be me meister." He ended on a soft note, his hopeful expression begging her to say yes.

That did it. Soul was beyond pissed. He knew there was something he didn't like about this little prick, and for the first time in a long time, the weapon was dangerously close to losing his cool. "Are you blind, kid? Or are you just stupid?" The deathscythe snapped, his crimson eyes flashing dangerously as Conner's gaze slowly swung to meet his. "I'm her weapon. What the hell does she need with you?" That Irish bastard was asking for it.

With a weary sigh, Maka pulled a book out of nowhere and delivered a painful blow to her weapon's head, watching with a small amount of satisfaction as he staggered backward and fell to the ground unceremoniously. "Maka-chop." She deadpanned, seemingly accustomed to and bored of the exercise. With a little huff, she returned her attention to the boy, appearing freakishly composed for someone who had just potentially put their friend in a coma. "I apologize for Soul's behavior, Conner, but he is right. He's my weapon, and I honestly can't imagine being meister to another. Though I appreciate the offer, I must decline." With a little smile, she placed her hand on the scythe's shoulder. "Kaida will be a wonderful technician. Just have patience with her."

For a moment, Conner dropped his head and stared at the ground, the muscles in his jaw working. The blonde waited patiently, her hand still resting upon his shoulder in a comforting grip. Finally, the boy spoke again, but his eyes remained downcast. "If you dun mind me sayin', Miss Albarn, I disagree."

The meister froze at his words, her hand quickly snapping off his shoulder to hang stiffly at her side. "Disagree with what?" She asked sharply, a new glint in her eyes. As she did, Soul finally managed to stagger back to his feet, groaning softly and rubbing the top of his head. Son of a BITCH that hurt. Glaring at the back of the woman's head, he crossed his arms and scowled, even more irritated at the little bastard than before. If it wasn't for him, the deathscythe wouldn't have gotten slammed over the head with a book three times the size of the damned uniform commercial code. Still, the albino was slightly curious about the course of the conversation, his ears figuratively pricking as the stupid Irish ass replied.

"I dunna think Soul is fit to be called your weapon anymore, Miss Albarn." He replied softly. The boy almost seemed apologetic as he did, raising his rather stunning green eyes to her own hard, olive stare, gently begging her to understand. "He's never here for you to wield, and you haven't been on a mission with him for months. If you pardon me boldness, Miss Albarn, I think you'll agree he canna protect you properly as a weapon ought. Not like that."

Soul bristled at the words, and his fingers flexed instinctively, every muscle in his body coiling tightly in anger. He was ready to knock the scythe flat on his ass for talking to Maka like that, but the weapon knew better than to speak again. The last thing he wanted was another damned fracture in his skull. However, a glance at her face made the deathscythe stiffen, her silence nearly as frightening as the shocked expression on her features. He could only stare at her as she drew in a soft breath, watching her hands slowly curl into fists. Why was she acting like this?

The truth suddenly hit the weapon harder than one of her Maka-Chops. It hurt her, because it was true. She was in pain. He couldn't help but swallow nervously, half-afraid she was going to take the boy up on his offer. Soul gazed at her, waiting for her reply with anxious eyes. He tried to keep his posture as aloof and indifferent as ever, but he could feel the tenseness in his shoulders, the way his muscles jerked reflexively with the stress. His calm demeanor had worn thin by the time she finally spoke again.

A small, pained smile crossed the woman's lips as she replied. "I'm sorry, Conner. Soul might not belong only to me anymore, but he's still the only weapon I want to wield." Inclining her head, the meister turned, walking away with a quiet dignity that silenced both of the men she left behind.

Wow. Even Maka could be cool.

Despite her reassuring words, however, Soul felt like the scar on his chest had just burst open. He couldn't forget the raw expression on her features, or how strained her voice sounded as she spoke. Something Conner had said touched a nerve within her, and the deathscythe couldn't deny that it had touched one within him as well. Without a second thought, Soul took off after his meister, not caring how uncool he probably looked running after her. "Maka!"

At his call, the woman paused, though she did not turn around. Slowing as he reached her, Soul stepped in front of her, his red eyes dropping to her hands. They trembled gently, and the weapon knew that he wasn't imagining the small sparkles of tears on her lashes. "You're shaking." He said simply, his jumbled thoughts making speech difficult.

"Am I?" She asked, her tone distracted as she pressed her palms together tightly to stop the involuntary movement. "Probably just tired." She added half-heartedly, trying to brush it off as nothing important. Soul was not convinced, but he let it slide, deciding it would be best to talk about it at home.

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The ride was an uncomfortable one. The weapon was used to his meister wrapping her arms around his waist without hesitation, her cheek pressed against his back as she sat behind him. But not today. He missed the comforting and familiar touch as he guided them home, the noise of the motorcycle doing nothing to distract him from his grim thoughts. There was an uneasy air about them, emphasized by Maka's apparent reluctance to touch him, leaning away from his back and barely wrapping her slender fingers in his jacket.

She still didn't speak when they reached their apartment, appearing lost in her thoughts as she headed straight for her room without a word to him. Soul could only stand in the hallway, staring at her closed door, half worried and half pissed. He definitely didn't like what was happening here. The woman finally emerged a few moments later in shorts and a tank top, her olive eyes distant as she headed towards the kitchen. Didn't she see him standing there? "Maka?" Soul asked, scowling when she flinched at the sound. He certainly wasn't used to seeing her like this, and it unsettled him.

"Yes, Soul?" She asked, still seemingly distracted. The weapon, finally, lost his patience. He let out a strange sort of strangled growl, and the meister raised her brows as she turned to face him fully. "Something wrong?"

Gritting his teeth, the deathscythe attempted to keep calm, telling himself that yelling would only cause her to clam up even more. That was the last thing he wanted. "Don't pull that shit, Maka. You know there is." He hissed, unable to keep all of his frustration out of his voice. "Something that bastard said really got to you. What was it?" He knew, of course, but if he couldn't convince her to admit it, they wouldn't get anywhere.

Maka stared back at him, her olive gaze so heavy and level the weapon found himself unsettled by the weight of it, the sensation enough to make him want to fidget. He didn't of course, since he was too cool to act like that, but he definitely had to work to quell the instinct. At last, she sighed. "Nothing is wrong, Soul." She said evenly, leaning against the back of the couch as if suddenly too tired to stand on her own. "It's just I hadn't really thought about you no longer belonging only to me as my weapon. I guess it just hit me a little hard, is all." His meister shrugged, attempting indifference but failing when her shoulders shook. She had to look away. "I'll be fine. I always am, aren't I?"

Her voice betrayed her. She wasn't fine.

The weapon felt his anger drain completely, replaced with a soft concern for his meister. "That's not true, Maka." He insisted, stepping closer to her. Something about this whole situation was throwing him off. Majorly. Soul simply couldn't keep his cool, and his voice dropped to a soft murmur, his words too quiet, too pleading. "I'll always be your weapon. I'll always belong to you." He said, a hand drifting to her shoulder and squeezing gently to emphasize his words. She sighed again.

"That's not true." She echoed, though she smiled gently as she did. Maka patted his hand before shrugging out from under his touch, her olive eyes a little too dull for his liking. "I know you mean it, Soul, you really do. But it's just not going to work like that anymore. You're a deathscythe now, and whatever my feelings might be, Shinigami-sama can call you away from me whenever he wishes. It doesn't matter if I like it or not." Here she fell silent, and the weapon felt frozen, unable to speak or think properly as the blonde slowly lifted her hand and placed her palm flat against the scar over his heart. She met his gaze. "I'll always consider you my weapon, Soul, and I'll not be meister to another. But I have to face it. You aren't just mine anymore." Her hand dropped, and Maka turned, heading into the kitchen to make dinner.

Soul couldn't move. He could only stare after her as he stood there, rooted to the spot and hearing her words echo through his mind over and over again. Today just wasn't a cool day.

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Dinner wasn't cool either. They both sat in brooding silence as they ate, neither of them really paying any attention to their food as they stared off and avoided looking at each other. It was uncomfortable as fuck, and Soul found himself growing irritated with the situation. He glared at the table in a huff as Maka began clearing their dishes, suddenly finding himself wishing he had never become a damned deathscythe to begin with. This shit wasn't worth it. The clatter of plastic pulled the weapon from his depressing thoughts, and his crimson eyes immediately found his meister kneeling to retrieve the plates she had dropped. As she did, the woman hissed, putting a hand to the small of her back with a sour expression. "Back hurt?" Soul asked, eager to latch onto any topic that would get her talking again. Maka nodded.

"I think I pulled a muscle." She grimaced, setting their dirty dishes in the sink and rubbing the tender spot on her back. Pursing her lips, she turned to her weapon with a wry expression. "I must be getting old." The blonde said, her tone self-depreciating.

With a chuckle, the albino stood and smirked in reply, somewhat relieved to hear a bit of her usual confidence return to her voice. "Must be." He agreed, quirking a brow as she stuck her tongue out at him and turned around, grabbing the dishwashing soap. That was more like the Maka he knew. He frowned, however, as he watched her, her eyes squinting slightly in discomfort every time she moved her back. "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" The man asked, red eyes quickly narrowing as he approached her.

"Washing dishes, what does it look like?" She replied dryly, blinking up at him with a small amount of irritation.

Soul forced down a sigh. Well, at least they had returned to some semblance of normalcy. "I mean, why are you working when you are hurt?" The weapon stressed, speaking slowly as if she couldn't comprehend his words. Maka, predictably, bristled.

"It's my turn on kitchen duty." She replied stiffly, and he could tell she was starting to get pissed off. Good. As she reached for the sponge, the deathscythe clicked his tongue reprovingly.

"Don't care." He stated coolly, grabbing his meister's hand and turning her so quickly she dropped the sponge in surprise. Soul ignored her confusion and angry sputters, practically dragging her into the living room and plopping her down soundly on the couch. He could tell that she was fuming, but right now, he would definitely take her anger over the quiet somberness she had exhibited all afternoon. Dropping beside her, the weapon grabbed her shoulders and gently turned her away from him, rather surprised that he still hadn't received a Maka-Chop for his actions.

With a little sigh of irritation, the blonde cocked her head and looked at him over her shoulder. "What are you doing?" She asked flatly, pretty eyes trained on his. Her weapon scowled.

"Trying to help. Would you just chill?" He asked, glaring at her until his meister finally turned around with a little huff, acquiescing but clearly miffed about it. He couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes once and grumbling. Holy shit, did she have be high-strung about everything? Yet, Soul pressed his palms against her back gently, talented fingers working over the woman's muscles and drawing a hiss from her. Maka arched, leaning forward to brace her hands against the couch as Soul worked the knots in her back loose, sighing in contentment one moment then groaning in pain the next when he moved to a new spot. The weapon grinned slightly to himself, a pointed tooth showing as he watched his meister go from a spitting cat to a purring kitten under his practiced hands. His fingers, just as adept at playing her as any piano, slowly smoothed the coiled muscles with his touch, and Soul had to admit he was surprised she hadn't expressed any more pain than she did. Her back was a wreck.

"You know, you don't have to—Ah!—do this." She managed around hissing and sighing, again glancing at him over her shoulder.

Soul frowned. "I'm your weapon, aren't I? That means I take care of you. Now shut up and let me." He demanded, snorting softly to himself as she shook her head and gently returned her gaze to the couch in front of her, fingers twitching whenever he hit a particularly painful, or pleasing, spot. The deathscythe returned his attention to her back, hoping she didn't see the faint tinge of red in his cheeks. Those gorgeous olive eyes of hers had managed to look unbearably sexy as she looked him, slightly foggy from relief and half-lidded with pleasure. He was probably going to spend a little too much time in the shower tonight.

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Maka sighed, this time in pleasure, as she slowly felt the pain in her back ease. Her weapon's calloused, adept fingers danced over her stressed muscles, and he knew just much pressure to use to soothe the knots away. The woman knew there was no arguing with Soul when he got like this, when he went into what she generally called 'loyal weapon mode.' He insisted upon catering to her every need and desire, growing irritated with her when she wouldn't allow him to dote upon her. Finally, Maka had just accepted his attentions, finding it was easier to let him do as he pleased rather than argue over it. Aside from that, a part of her secretly enjoyed receiving so much dutiful consideration from him, though she kept that to herself.

Finally, the woman felt her back just melt, Soul's long fingers banishing the stress and fatigue that had coiled her body tighter than a spring ready to snap. He was definitely a musician, she reflected with a pleasant shiver, hyper-aware of how practiced and sure his hands were as they played her skin. Maka rewarded her weapon's efforts with a hum of pure bliss, leaning back into his touch as he pressed his palms against her shoulder blades, moving slowly but strongly. "Mmm, that's much better." She mumbled, suddenly finding herself flushing slightly as he chuckled deeply behind her.

"Good." He replied, rubbing down her back one last time before standing. "Go take a shower and relax. I got the dishes."

She turned her head just enough to watch her weapon stand and make his way towards the kitchen, striding off in his usual, nonchalant manner. Maka quirked a brow as he stood at the sink, grabbing the sponge and attacking their dirty dishes with that, easy, unaffected air that was all Soul. She had to smile. Standing, the meister headed to the bathroom and tossed her discarded clothes onto the counter, unable to keep her mind off the white-haired man as the hot water hit her skin. Just an hour ago, she was wallowing in pity for herself, trying to come to grips with the fact that her weapon was no longer solely hers. The blonde hated sharing him with other meisters, and she even hated sharing him with Shinigami-sama. Yet, her dark mood had lifted, her back tingling pleasantly with the ghostly memory of fingers playing gently down her spine. Maka shivered. Somehow, it no longer mattered how many technicians wielded him, or even that he left her alone for days at a time when he went on missions without her. Soul had banished her fears with his tender hands. How many people did he treat that gently?

Just her.

With renewed vigor, the woman attacked her hair with shampoo, her somber thoughts gone. It didn't matter that she had to share Soul with other technicians. She would always be his meister, and he would always belong to her alone.

I hope you enjoyed it, lovely readers. Please do review and let me know if you would like to read more. As I said, I am extremely nervous about this, but I honestly hope some of you will like it enough to want more chapters. There will be much more happening next chapter as well—I had to set the stage for their interaction in this one. :)

Fair winds and fair skies,

~Captain Jules~