Written for springkink; prompt: Scar fixation, "he got that scar because of her, she knows this is only way to move pass that pain and guilt."

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It was a little odd at first, but Soul got used to it. Maka clothed and in the other room, was nothing compared to Maka naked, snug against his side sleeping like an angel.

At the moment, her hand was splayed out across his chest, right over his huge scar, running neat as a row of diagonal piano keys nearly shoulder to hip. He knew she hated it, but she couldn't leave it alone.

Hell, he hated it, but what was done was done. Sometimes though, it seemed like she couldn't leave it alone. She'd kiss him down that long and wicked line, make love to the shiny puckered flesh. Perhaps she felt like she could make it disappear if she loved him hard enough.

Which was why Soul couldn't complain; Maka wanted him to be hale and whole and unsullied. She'd go down and down the diagonal length his chest, abdomen, his hip, kissing, stroking, licking at the ugly mark, until every one of his nerves was tingling, waiting in agony for her touch. He let her do it, he enjoyed letting her do it, let her do her penance, her worship. He wasn't sure if he should call it love.

It took a while to convince her, but eventually she let him do something similar to her, though she had no scars only perfect, creamy white skin. He'd drag the points of his teeth over the tips of her small breasts and she'd cry out or hiss at him, but never tell him to stop. He was careful to never leave a mark.

Soul always took over once they played out their little rituals. He'd roll her to face away from him, never entering her until he couldn't see her eyes, regardless of where they had started. If they were going to do this, let it go this far, it had to be this way. If he let her on top to ride him or permitted her to see his chest at all, she'd just stare at the damn scar the whole time instead of taking her pleasure. This limitation wasn't necessarily a bad thing - he really liked fucking her no matter what position, but he hated that anything about himself might give her anguish or regret, but especially guilt.

Maka was always forgiven no matter what she believed; he'd take a hundred-thousand swords to his heart before he let a single one strike her. It didn't hurt, however, to know she wanted to, wouldn't hesitate to do the same.