A/N: No more trolls and back to work! Actually, this story has been in progress over at Grigori Wings (the awesome SoMa forum), so if you want any WIP spoilers, go check out the fanfiction section on that site.

HOTEL XXX

Chapter 1

"FORD! Get your ass up here and fix this fuckin' thing for me before I break it into pieces!" She nearly shatters her headset from the sheer volume of her voice, then lets her light weight sink into the lush carpeted floor as she falls into a cross-legged sitting position, not caring that her black pencil skirt hikes up in a very unlady-like manner. Her slender fingers rake her ash blonde hair, reaching for the elastic tie that holds her bun neatly in place, to finally let the strands loose as if it would somehow ease her frustration.

She looks like a dishevelled mess, but she doesn't give a rat's ass in this moment because when Maka Albarn was pissed off, her wrath surfaced like a rogue that could breathe fire, and she didn't hesitate to burn everything in her path. Poor Ox Ford. The tech hadn't done anything at all, but since he was in charge of the hotel's equipment, he unfortunately had to be on the receiving end of her flaming tongue.

It only takes a few minutes of wait before the diligent mule makes his appearance, bursting open the mahogany door and strutting in like a pumped up hero ready to save the day. She chuckles at his ridiculously serious demeanour, and her mood somewhat lightens when she realises that her reaction may have also been absurdly dramatic for such a trivial matter.

Nevertheless, the equipment pissed her off. Or more specifically, she wanted to destroy that fridge.

"So what's wrong with it? Cuz if there are any electrical problems, I should probably call Éclair instead." He inspects the accursed object with minutiae, but quickly frowns when he can't immediately find the problem.

"The shit doesn't fit," she points at her cart containing the stock that she is supposed to replenish, "I don't have time to fool around. Get me a new fridge cuz this one can't hold what I'm supposed to put in it."

"Whoa there, Albarn. That's not possible because it's not like we have spares just lying around, but we can work with what we have." He pulls out a screwdriver and gets to work on fiddling the height of the shelves. "See, it's just like a game of tetris; you gotta cram as many pieces in without wasting an inch of space."

"Ox, I don't have time to play tetris!" she grits her teeth, feeling her impatience rise once more. "I've got eight more floors of minibars to check, and I'm alone on the job."

"Well then, you better learn how to curve cuz there will be more fridges with different models, so let me just show you what you can do because it is possible." He grabs a few items from the cart and proceeds to fill things in like a jigsaw puzzle, or tetris as he prefers to call it. "The tall bottles don't need to be in a standing position, so it's okay to lay them flat like this, but I've adjusted the shelf so it's not an issue right now. Oh, and these Red Bulls are the best, use them to your advantage; the shape is compact and people are always thirsty for energy drinks…"

He sure can be insanely nerdy at times, but Maka appreciated his efficiency as he completed the job with ease, slipping in more advice and keeping their interaction professional. It calmed down her nerves, but only by a tad.

"I just don't get it. We're supposed to be a five-star hotel, but they can't even afford to staff more people!" she complains, inserting the last piece to their now complete puzzle.

"They didn't anticipate so many check-outs for the low season. But the company's just a cheapskate, regardless of their so-called prestigious rank…I've met the CEO before, this guy named Excalibur and he's really an infuriating douchebag." He narrows his eyes in utmost disgust. "Anyways, time's ticking, so you better get going on the rest. Good luck!"

Ox was right: she really needed to rush her ass off because the remaining rooms had to be replenished before the assigned check-in time, which roughly left an hour for the next eight floors. But she could do it, even if she had to bully time itself to stop, she would succeed because she was Maka Albarn.

Her revitalised body pushes the cart back into the hall, ploughing forward like a zealous soldier on a mission, or just a crazy tousle-haired hotel pawn that was fuelled by any sort of challenge. She doesn't have time to complain about her life and how it was outrageous that Shibusen Academy's top grad student had to put up with such unfair labour to makes ends meet, but at least the pay was better than average and it could support the cost of living alone.

The hour passes in a flurry, and before she can even feel the blisters erupting on the balls of her tired feet, she finally arrives at the last room, the Grande Suite on the penthouse floor. She suddenly feels her body collapse, perhaps at the sight of the comfy king-sized bed that seems so inviting with its luxuriously soft duvet and the myriad of pillows that look like clouds floating in her green eyes. Sitting never did any harm, so her legs relax for a bit, kicking off the shoes that were binding her poor heels.

She really regrets taking Tsubaki's shift which was scheduled after this one, in another six hours. Her co-worker friend had called last-minute and it was the first time that she asked for a favour, so Maka felt obliged to accept since she nevertheless had a soft heart, despite her fiery temper. She should probably get some homework done; that was what she had originally planned for her long break, but the exhaustion was starting to blur her thoughts.

Maybe it would be okay to rest her aching back for a few minutes on this sinfully comfortable bed. The Grande Suite probably wasn't even booked because it was reserved for the big shots that stayed at the hotel for longer periods of time, and there was usually a lot of hype among the staff when a famous rich-ass was scheduled to stay. Five minutes of shut-eye would suffice. Only a little power-up, a mere five minutes, she assured herself before closing her lids to block off the outside world.

"Wes, you're an idiot. What I need right now is sleep; not a fuckin' escort. I'm hanging up. Later." Shoving the cellphone into the pocket of his leather jacket, he lets out a deep sigh that momentarily catches the cab driver's attention, but his menacing ruby-red eyes reflecting in the rear-view mirror are enough to ward off the nosy stranger who immediately averts his gaze back onto the road.

He really was exhausted from the long hours of travelling and all he wanted to do was get some decent sleep in his hotel room, so that he could be fully rested for the stupid piano concertos he was assigned to play in the subsequent days. If it weren't for his damn brother's minor injury, he could have avoided this situation entirely; Wes had pleaded him on bended knees, emphasizing that he was the only resort and that their family's reputation was on the line if he didn't accept the job. It really left him no option, not by the prospect of tainting his surname, but only because he was inexplicably weak to his brother's words and felt too guilty to decline.

Visiting Death City nevertheless had its perks, namely their thriving jazz scene that he was eager to check out when his energy would return, which was definitely not any time soon. Indeed the night was young with the clock only striking eight, but his mind somehow couldn't focus properly; he totally just tipped the nosy cab driver way too much, and as his slouching posture makes its lazy way to the hotel's front desk, he finds himself committing yet another blunder.

"Sorry for the delay Mister Eater, but we cannot find your name in our system," the strict-looking receptionist politely announces, still frantically searching on the computer's reservation database.

"Oh shit, did I just say Eater?" he answers back, realising that he had just given his stage name without even realising it. "I meant Evans; it should be under Soul Evans."

And of course, by the mere sound of those magical five letters, the hotel staff rushes to remedy the situation, apologizing profusely for the mix-up even though it was Soul's mistake in the first place. Before his hazy mind can process his surroundings, he finds himself with the keycard in hand, standing in front of a mahogany door on the dead-silent penthouse floor of this high-class quarter. He swipes the card and enters the dark chamber, eager to finally conk out on the bed.

But after flicking on the lights, he is confronted by a surprise, or actually, it wasn't all that unexpected in hindsight. Stupid Wes. He always knew that his brother had connections, but this was downright impressive. It had only been twenty minutes since their conversation, but Wes somehow managed to order an escort in that very little time frame, unless he had it planned much in advance and only let his tongue slip at the last minute.

Regardless, she seems rather weird for an escort. Dressed in a modest knee-length black skirt and a prim button-up blouse, the lanky woman lies haphazardly on the bed, teasing his desire to sleep as her serene face comfortably rests among that cloud of pillows. He wonders if he should just wake her up and tell her to get the fuck out because he was not in the mood for entertainment, but when he hears the soft dozing breaths along with her expression in a peaceful bliss like some sweet innocent angel, he instead feels the urge to taint her, to strip off her wings and damn her from this sleeping sanctuary.

Weren't escorts supposed to be awake and ready to serve their client? Yet this oddball was slacking on the job. The sight irritates him and his well-hidden sadistic dark side resurfaces momentarily: he would have to teach her a lesson for trespassing his heavenly quarter.

Pianist fingers tug at the buttons of her shirt, easily opening up the first barrier that hides her small lumps of treasure. He doesn't bother unhooking her bra and instead slides his palm under the second wall, sneaking inside and aiming for the little trophy at the top of the mound. He gives her nipple a little pinch and she immediately reacts with a slight squirm, but soon eases into the sensation as he continues to massage it with care and lets his other hand grab the twin trophy on the mirror end.

He nudges her bra upwards, and the treasures come into full view, reflecting ceremoniously in his mischievous red eyes. She wasn't stacked abundantly, but the shape looked tasteful and those hard nipples invited his mouth to dive in for a bite, which he doesn't spare even a second of hesitation as he quickly latches onto the prize and sucks it with a satisfying pop. She unconsciously lets out a moan and he suddenly doesn't feel that tired anymore.

His hands dig for more gold, venturing lower to cup her firm ass while he continues to caress her breast with his tongue. He searches for an opening and finally finds the zipper that unlocks this other vault; he pulls it down to reveal boring white cotton panties and she shifts in her sleep from the rough movement. Maybe he gave his brother too much credit because this escort was likely a last-minute choice. Sure she had a pretty face, but her prude attire didn't seem to fit the image of the industry, and he wonders if this was yet another prank planned by Wes. But he doesn't give a shit because she lets out another enticing moan, and his adrenaline picks up at the sound; his ears were always sensitive to pleasant music and her voice certainly riled him up.

With his newfound energy, hitting up some jazz would be perfect right now, but he settles for the beats of this hot piece of ass that continues to wriggle wantonly under his touch. His strong digits rub against her moist sexe and he can see the heat creeping up on her now rosy cheeks. Her lips part open as her breaths become increasingly heady, and he desperately wants to steal a kiss, to feel its softness against his.

All the while continuing his ministrations, he leans in closely to her delicate face, letting their noses collide when he slowly shortens the gap between their steamy mouths. But in the split second that it takes to finally reach his goal, her large eyes flutter open, alas waking up from her supposed wet dream.

She shrieks. So loudly that his sensitive eardrums feel like they are going to explode, he takes a step back and covers his aural assets with his palms to muffle out the damage. Her green eyes are clouded with utter confusion: she stares at him, then to her ravaged chest and finally to her skirt that has been semi-discarded. But when she realises the moist pool staining her panties, she looses it. And then shrieks hysterically once more.

He simply can't take more of the piercing noise, so he leaps onto her and clamps a hand on her mouth.

"Quiet the fuck down!" he yells while she continues to resist, still screaming and now flailing frantically to escape. He pins her down firmly with his masculine strength against her tiny frame, but Maka manages to free one of her legs and knees him in the gut instead of in the balls that she was aiming for. It nevertheless does its job, since he falls down to clutch the pain, and she frees herself from his grasp.

"B-b-back the fuck away…you…you rapist!" she accuses loudly, awkwardly sliding off the bed, then reaching into the side table drawer that only contains a leather-bound bible and not a handgun like in the movies. He's still winded from her previous hit, but manages to look up and make eye contact with her fiery gaze.

"Rapist?" he chokes out between pants. "Is this all part of the act? Cuz I certainly didn't sign up for any BDSM."

"B-b-D…sign up…Just who the fuck are you?" she shouts out, holding the book protectively against her chest while she fumbles to get her skirt back on her hips.

"Who am I?" he says incredulously, still out of breath. "What kind of lousy escort doesn't know the name of her own client?"

"ESCORT?" Her voice pounds straight into his poor eardrum and he winces from the pain. She lets out a shrill warrior cry that stuns all movement, charging straight at him with her arms raised like a bloodthirsty killer on a rampage.

And before he can even register the image of her bare chest no longer hidden by the book, the testament comes crashing down on his skull, like the hand of God inflicting divine punishment and sending his soul straight into the white light.

All is silent when he passes out unceremoniously on the bed, and Maka rushes to fix her attire, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her headset along with the cart of replenishments for the minibar. She clumsily scurries away and hopes that he doesn't miraculously revive like the immortal Devil that she assumes him to be.

But dammit. She still has another shift, another seven hours of work in this infernal hotel, so she prays that she wouldn't have to step foot in this god-forsaken penthouse floor.