Had this one-shot lying around in the archives and thought I might post it.

Why not, right?

So I slapped on a slip-shod ending and here we be, darlings.

Anyway. Off I go.

[don't own it.]

The first time it happened (and it was bound to happen again; the fact of it happening at all was a matter more of inevitability than chance or accident) was hardly planned.

It was just this: Soul was watching television (sort of –there was nothing interesting on and he was bothered by the fact that Maka didn't seem to realize that there was another, perfectly good, currently unoccupied couch right across from them), and Maka was reclining against his arm, propped up by a throw pillow and absently twirling a pigtail with her fingers, her eyes flicking absorbedly across the pages of some book he had no interest in discerning the title of.

It was the end of the week, no assignments imminently looming in their future, and laundry day, which was hardly an explanation for his state of undress (boxers and two mismatched socks –normal weekend apparel) so much as it was for her, lazily content in one of his Shinigami-sama disco-themed t-shirts (which, while it had the desired effect of covering all the essentials, only just barely did so; even at sixteen he was barely taller than she was), the hem just brushing against her mid-thigh.

This is not to suggest he was, in any conscious capacity, at all distracted, tempted, or even more than vaguely aware of his meister's arguably suggestive attire; it was just Maka for Shinigami-sama's sake, just a stick of a girl with unimpressive tits and a penchant for brash, spontaneous wrath which, by all accounts, would probably be reflected in his acquiring some debilitating brain malady before he was twenty-five.

And Maka, for her part, seemed wholly unaffected by it all; there didn't seem to be anything that really even existed for her beyond the tome resting in her lap, against her knobby knees. Even from his periphery he could tell she was enraptured by the story (she had that furrowed-brow-pursed-lips thing going on), and briefly he wondered why something as pedestrian as her avid interest in a make-believe world would bother him (almost as much as her inability to relocate to some other piece of furniture, where he didn't have to worry about any adjustments he wanted to make disturbing her –that book looked heavy, and he had no intention to see how well its spine molded to his skull) as much as appeared that it did, but he decided it probably wasn't cool to dwell on such things, so he picked up the remote and started flipping through channels, hoping the mindless action would distract him.

For a while, it seemed to be working; he was less annoyed with Maka and more determined to find something worthwhile to watch, maybe bother her, too, with the intensity of his focus on something other than her. He blinked at that thought and moved immediately past it; he was on a mission, after all.

Then she started fidgeting, first stretching the length of her pale legs (he might have happened to catch the way her toes curled, and if he heard the tiny, involuntary mewl that escaped her as she tensed and flexed, he noted it only as another distraction to be tuned out) until they encountered the opposite arm of the sofa, then scooting and crowding back against him to readjust her position, and the only reason he pulled his arm out from underneath the pillow was because he was tired of being her resting post, damn it, and if she was allowed to get more comfortable, well then, so was he. (Admittedly, the way she squealed in surprise was kinda funny, but the indignant-flustered expression she flashed up at him from her new position in his lap was equally kinda terrifying.)

"Soul…" She began, and he heard the telling dull thud of a manuscript (soon-to-be-weapon) closing. It wasn't panic that made him do what he did next, nor the echoes of what he could only guess must have been the distant relative of preservation instincts (which he had definitely tossed out the window after he'd become Maka's partner, and soon thereafter decided that he himself would suffer grievous injury or death before he allowed even her feelings to be hurt), but there was also no forethought or planning involved, either.

It was just this: one moment he was looking warily down at his meister, unholy fury burning in the dusty green of her eyes, and the next he was impulsively gripping the collar of her (his) shirt, dragging her up and forward, and kissing Maka.

She made a startled sort of noise which he unconsciously compared with the mewling noise she'd produced before, and determined that the sound was an appropriate analogue for enjoyment. He hoped. She wasn't pulling away, braining him, or…well, really reacting at all, and he was just beginning to puzzle over whether or not that was a good sign when a different sort of dull thud sounded beside him (as if a book were being dropped against a sofa cushion) and then there was a tongue in his mouth and thin arms banded around his neck, and the suddenly wonderful-terrifying pressure of thighs against his hips.

He responded with a gravelly sound made somewhere in the back of his throat (he wasn't sure where, exactly, but it made him sound sorta fierce, and very cool), and then he was towing her forward, hands pulling the ties that made the tails out of her hair as she settled her slight weight against him, giggling unexpectedly and breaking the fervor of the kissing when his fingers teased their way up her bare spine. Undeterred, Soul angled right and attacked her neck, which had the equally unexpected (and awesome) effect of abruptly terminating the (admittedly pretty cute) laughter and arching her spine severely, so that the (surprisingly) enticing swell of her small breasts pushed against his chest. Smirking, he dragged his sharp teeth along the ridge of her jaw, feeling oddly light and slightly disoriented when the tension in her thighs released and she dropped back down, firmly, into his lap.

"S-Soul…" She slurred, her hands appearing on either side of his face when he thought he might solve this whole 'shared sofa' situation by throwing her over his shoulder and sprinting into his bedroom—"Maybe we should…maybe we should slow down." He wanted to protest, explain that they'd been taking it slow by not having done this for the past three or four years, but he didn't want to go anywhere she didn't want to go, and if he had to wait…well, he had a perfectly useable shower in the next room, and her encouragingly immediate acquiescence to his assault, he decided, boded well for him in the future. He could wait. He could. Although this would make future laundry days pretty interesting…

"Hn," was what he said, in what he hoped was an appropriately flippant manner, before he leaned forward to kiss her again, this time more chastely, his hands dropping to lightly squeeze her hips underneath her shirt. He was ecstatic at his new privileges, and maybe even eager to explore how many she would afford him, how often she would do so, and in what company, before she smacked him in the face with a heavy book.

He opened his mouth to speak, intending to let her know a few things before she removed the pleasant press of her body against his, and got as far as her name before the door to their apartment smacked open to reveal the most powerful weapon in Death City.

Soul felt the blood drain from his face as Maka's father took in the scene before him, silent and stoic as he appraised the situation. It was the first time he'd ever seen the Death Scythe speechless, and he swallowed heavily as Spirit walked calmly toward them, neglecting to shut the door behind him. At the last second, he remembered to pull his hands out from under Maka's shirt, and then Shinigami-sama's weapon was staring him down from an approximate distance of a millimeter (Maka had leaned right with an absent eye-roll to accommodate this position).

"Papa…" She growled, warningly, right around the time Spirit pulled away and, in a strangely menacing tone of voice, quietly informed Soul that he had five seconds to run. "Papa!" He thought he heard Maka complain, but he couldn't be certain, because he was already half way down the hall.

Hn.

Make love to me sweet, sweet mocha-goodness.