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Summary
“Good boy,” Maka sang while smoothing her nimble fingers through one of the fuzzy dog ears planted on the young man’s head.
The words seemed to send a fiery wave of blood circulating across the Deathscythe’s whole body, eliciting him to quickly mutter something about going to go grab them some punch and hope that Maka wouldn’t question his hasty escape.
-in which Soul realizes what those two small words can do to him-