A/N: Hi guys I'm back! I've deleted all my old works and will look into editing them. Until then have this soul and maka fluff! It's unedited so please ignore any grammatical/spelling errors and such. It's just a little bit of word vomit! Thank youuu!
It starts as something small, nothing serious. Maka waves the feeling off and just continues about her day.
Boots press to the ground and make noise with every step she takes through the halls of the DWMA. The beautiful architecture surrounding her is nothing new. Soul groans next to her and she risks a glare. What does he have to be sighing about now?
"What are you groaning for?" She exasperates. Her arms still wrapped tightly around the heavy books. One of her pigtails is sliding, now. Fuck.
His arms fly into the air, hands resting behind his head as he ruins his posture. Cracking a smile when she's not looking, he ponders. The air is cold and somehow full of life. He can see the frustration building on her face. She always gives herself away with the pout.
"I dunno, Maka, you tell me."
He feels it before he sees it. A book smacks the top of his head with a force otherwise unknown to man. It hurts and she's going to be pampering him with a massage later and complaining the whole damn time. His hair is messed up now, too. White locks stick up out of place with a dent straight down the middle of his perfectly styled hair. Shoulders shuddering, he winces.
"Jesus FUCK woman, are you trying to kill me?" He spits. Their walking comes to a halt when they reach the exit.
Turning to her, the sun beats down on the two of them. He sees lips pouting and brows furrowed. She hates him, he's decided. But she's drowning his glare out with confusing thoughts she never wanted to deal with.
Why does she have to get all mushy-gushy ? Soul is stupid. He's a butthead. He has way too many snarky remarks, a giant scar on his chest he's started bragging about, and he named his motorcycle. Fuck him.
"Maybe if you weren't such an idiot I wouldn't have to knock sense into you." She thinks she's won this round.
Maka is incorrect.
Later on, Soul is slaving away in the kitchen with a colorful apron on and humming. The scent of fresh pork cutlet bowls fills the air and they soak it in. A beep sounds, followed by Soul's grunt of approval as he turns off the rice cooker and scoops some out into each bowl.
He pads across the floor, two bowls in hand, making his way to Maka. She's sat on the couch, hair down and a stupid book in her hand. His eyes narrow into thin lines and a grunt falls from his lips.
Round, deep olive eyes break away from the thick novel in her hands. She looks at him with an upturned brow. It takes exactly 3 seconds for it to click in her head that he has food.
She pops up like a daisy. The book is suddenly tossed to the side and she smiles brightly, bouncing.
"Yes! Gimme-" She opens her hands.
"Nah uh- Where's my thank you? I slaved in the kitchen for this, you know. All while you sat here reading your book. I think I deserve more recognition, after all, I did nearly die while cooking." Soul whines, taunting her with the bowl of pork cutlet. And veggies. Veggies are important.
"Soul just- ugh you! Thank you, now give me the damn bowl!" She sputters, mind derailing at the thought of showing gratitude to an octopus head.
He chuckles and finally hands over said bowl. She begins shovelling the food into her mouth quickly, while he slowly takes bites. A sigh starts to tumble again and this time she peeks at him with worried eyes.
"What's wrong?"
A dangerous question, in her mind.
"Well, I'm tired because we trained for hours today. We have exams coming, I just cooked dinner and you knocked the hell out of me with a book at least three times today."
Guilt slowly washes over her but before she voices it, there's a smile on his lips and he relaxes into the too soft couch. His back is going to hurt if he falls asleep on it. She can feel it building again in the pit of her stomach, bubbling to the top of her throat and making her feel like she's floating. Goddamnit.
The tv hums as the two of them eat their dinner, making occasional comments about what they're watching. The old, too soft, brown sofa seems all too comfortable to the both of them now. With full stomachs, a couch, and a throw blanket adding to the fire. Soon, the time of the clock ticking seems to slow. They begin to transition from sitting next to each other to laying halfway on top of one another.
Maka can count on one hand how many tick's she's hearing from the clock. Her eyes close, allowing the warmth of his nerd ass being halfway on top of her and a nice blanket to swallow her. Both of them will be complaining tomorrow morning about their neck and back killing them. They'll blame each other, she thinks.
The next day is just like clockwork. Soul wakes to the smell of pancakes and vanilla wafting through the small apartment. He sits up, cracking his now sore neck and looks over. Maka is dancing in her pajamas, humming a song he doesn't know, and his face turns red.
"Fuck, my neck hurts. This is your fault, you know." He moans, arms stretched above his head as he begins padding through the living room to the kitchen.
"My fault?! How about yours ! You're the one who fell asleep on top of me!" She shoots back, turning around with a spatula in her hand.
"I wouldn't have fallen asleep on top of you if you didn't play with my hair! You know that!" He's sitting at the bar now, shooting daggers at her with his eyes.
"Well you said you were hurting from being hit with the books so I thought-"
She drops a pancake trying to get her words out and he laughs at her. He's an idiot octopus head, she hates him. She's decided she absolutely hates him.
"Shut up, Soul. Your hair looks like you rubbed your hair on an old TV. Go brush it, dummy."