when it gets cold i'll be yours

soulmaka christmas fluff. you're welcome.

//

Soul hates himself.

He just can't help the way he can't stop thinking about Maka and those big green eyes of hers or the way they light up when she's reading a book or how they're filled with warmth when she looks at him.

He also can't help that warm feeling in his chest that flares up at the thought of his Meister.

Deep down, he knows it's really not cool at all to feel this way about Maka, but for once he decides it's okay to think about it a little.

Just a little, though. He still needs some of his awesomeness.

//

"Soul, look! It's snowing!" Maka cries one cold afternoon, leaping up from the couch and pressing her face excitedly to the glass pane of the window. Soul smiles amusedly. (His stomach is a little fluttery, but is he going to admit that? Hell no.)

"Look who finally tore her nose out of that book." He says, smirking as Maka's head whips around and her hand reaches for the book on the table. Fuck, he thinks, acting on his instincts and ducking. He cringes as his futile attempt to dodge the dreaded Maka Chop fails and his head is bashed in by a book wielded by an incredible girl with incredible strength.

Maka laughs, and Soul refuses to think about how that laugh sounds prettier than any goddamn gospel hymn ever sung on Christmas before. He also refuses to watch her lips as they form that beautiful noise, and how they would feel pressed up against his own. (He thinks about those things anyways.)

He's probably in too deep, but who cares? It's Maka, she's his Meister, and he's never been more in love with her before.

//

"Maka, you're hopeless. Admit it. You can't bake Christmas cookies." Soul says for the fourth time today, rolling his eyes and pressing his lips together roughly to hide the sappy smile threatening to form on his face. "This is the fourth batch you've ruined. You're wasting all our sugar."

Maka scoffs and turns, her eyes glued to the recipe in the cookbook. "Like you could do any better. You drink milk straight out of the carton."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Soul cries indignantly, narrowing his eyes at the blonde. "I'm a much better baker than you."

"Oh yeah?" She challenges. "Do it, then. Bake cookies better than mine."

"Blair could bake cookies better than yours. You've burned every batch. Now, watch the master at work." Soul gloats, smirking at Maka. She makes a face at him and sets down her book, clasping her hands in her lap.

And so, three hours and seven batches of cookies later, Maka is pouting on her stool in the kitchen as she shoves another Gingerbread man into her mouth. "It's not fair," she whines, and Soul has to clench his hand into a fist so he won't think about how absolutely adorable she looks at the moment, childish and grabby. Adorable isn't a cool word anyways; only the whipped use the word adorable. (Fuck, does that mean he's whipped?) "Why are you a better baker than I am?"

"Some people've got it. Some people don't. You, Maka, are one of the ones who don't."

"I hate you," she whines again, and Soul allows himself a small smile.

If using the word whipped to describe his Meister means he's whipped, then feeling whipped never felt so good.

//

"Soul, c'mon! We've gotta pick out a Christmas tree!" Maka shouts happily, dragging her weapon by the hand as they head towards the only Christmas tree shop in Death City.