A/N: Just something I thought would be funny. I'm sadly guilty of this XD

I'm Sexy and I Know It

Okay, so maybe Maka practices sexy poses when she's getting dressed just in case Soul walks into her room. That's not weird, right?

But how can she help it, when he's just on the other side of the hall, pulling off or putting on his shirt, letting the fabric fall over his abs and cradle his strong arms, covering the scar she earned for him, covering the chest she loves and would die for, places she wants to memorize through touching and smelling and kissing and….

So, it's entirely possible for Soul to walk in on her, right? She was surprised he hadn't yet.

And especially times when she looked so good, bending over with the sweet curve of her ass, to pick something up off the floor. Or when she was putting on (or pulling off) her shorts, sliding them up her beautiful, soft, long legs, and over her slim, boyish hips. Or even with her small chest, when she climbed out of bed in the morning to pull off her t shirt and exchange it for her school uniform. She saw herself in her mind's eye, cute, boyish little Maka, trying to be erotic. She blushed at the thought—and laughed at herself, too.

Soul doesn't even think I'm attractive anyway.

But by Death, she knew he was. Even though his hair was unruly, and his body still a bit short, he was tanned, muscled, his eyes lazy and seductive, a side-tipped mouth hiding white, jagged teeth.

Oh, Death. Soul was really something.

She wanted to see him as affected by her as she was by him—whenever he touched her, looked at her, when he hugged her those rare, special times. She loved when his face turned beet red all of a sudden (unless it was Blair who caused it), when his words were slurred and slow, and she knew he thought she looked splendid—times when they had parties and she got get all dressed up, and he in his handsome suit with his hand held out to escort her.

At Kidd's last party, Maka had worn a short little number that she knew he loved. It was a black pleated little dress that showed the smooth columns of her legs, and she felt so attractive when she wore it. She was absolutely radiant with pleasure when Soul asked her to dance (the first time in a long time).

Maybe she practiced fainting in his arms in the mirror. A simple little swoon and a pretty little fluttering of the eyes. Or looking surprised when he suddenly kisses her. Her shoulders back and her mouth a little open. Or looking surprised when he walks in on her naked. That had to be her best pose, she agreed to herself. The little quirk of her mouth, the way she would look over her shoulder, baring her entire back and backside, long legs leading to the towel that had just fallen to the floor. Was it conceited of her? Hell, she didn't know and she didn't care. It was all for fun, right? A girl can dream, right?

And she did dream—dreamed of his fiery red cheeks that match his red-moon eyes, as he says, "S-sorry, Maka, I…" or, "Maka, I, I love—"

But she always woke before he could finish, in the middle of the night or in the break of morning. Damn it!

Once, absurdly angry after a fight, she slammed into her bedroom and stripped off all her clothes and threw herself into the bed. She lay there in the dark for a long time, trying to rid herself of the awful ugly ringing in her chest, when she got to imagining again. What if Soul came in to repent? To apologize? And she was lying there, naked and appealing in the moonlight, her eyes closed and her body too supple underneath the sheets. She wondered, what would he do? And she flushed a little, hoping and fearing that he would come in. (He didn't; she fell asleep, and they made up at breakfast.)

Yeah, maybe it was embarrassing and conceited, but Maka needed something! Something to keep her living vicariously through their trembling friendship-love affair. Soul had never admitted to her that he cared for her, but she knew he would die for her. She was his partner, and that was a deep emotional bond, deeper than a relationship to one's parents or siblings. Surely they could equate that with love? At any rate, he was a healthy teenage boy, and she a healthy teenaged girl. Surely, he must find something nice to look at in her.

She turned herself this way and that in the mirror, looking at herself in different lights. Maybe Soul likes her hair down better than in pigtails? Pigtails are a little childish. But what if he would like her to wear a push-up bra? No, he'd probably tease her. She practiced in the mirror with her prettiest bra—a polka dot little thing with lace lining the cups and a bow. She felt so pretty in it; she could not help but hope that he would think so too.

So, she should have performed better when he actually did walk in on her. C'mon, hadn't she been practicing for months?

That night, she had just taken her shower, and she was toweling down in her bedroom, pulling out underwear and pajamas to wear. She'd been thinking hard about a technique that their team needed to practice, hard, tomorrow. It still wasn't quite right, she was thinking, frustrated, as she loosed the towel from her body and began to towel dry her hair. She was thinking, getting a little angrier by the second, and she did not hear the approaching steps, did not hear the knob turn, till Soul was calling out,

"Maka, can I borrow your—"

And he stopped. Soul was in her doorway, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. He only had on shorts, and his chest was bare, the long scar crawling along his skin like a lazy snake. And she was naked, without even her rehearsed sexiness to rely on.

She screamed—"Soul!" and dropped the towel suddenly, then had to pick it back up and wrap it sloppily around her body. But he had seen.

She waited a split second for him to react, to leave in a hurry, red-faced, or to have a nosebleed, or to laugh. Tears pricked at her eyes. He wouldn't laugh, would he?

No, no, surely; he didn't. Soul blinked a couple of times, then slowly, as she watched, came forward. His face relaxed into an easy grin (or leer?), and he never blushed.

"Soul, Soul, what are you doing?" she panicked a little bit.

He did not answer, but put out a hand and touched her shoulder. It flushed under his touch, turning pink and sweet. He looked at his hand on her skin, then met her eyes. When he spoke, his words were teasing, but his eyes were sincere.

"Damn, Maka, you know, you're pretty hot."

Now tears did come into her eyes. Poor confused thing, she mumbled, "W-what?"

Now Soul showed his teeth in his grin. "Bet you've been waiting to hear that, huh?" He reached down and touched a bare thigh with his other hand. He turned her to face him full. "Well, there it is: you're really, really sexy."

In her confusion, she blundered out: "S-soul, aren't you supposed to have a nosebleed or something?"

He looked a bit startled, but he laughed out loud at that. "Damn, girl," he said, and he hugged her close, her soft, wet body against his rigid, dry one. "Trust me, my body knows it when you're there."

She's the one whose face turned beet-red. This kind of thing doesn't really happen, right? "Ah—ah—Soul, you should probably go—"

But he would not let her finish. He cut her off with a quick, smart kiss on her lips, and she jumped back as if stung.

"Oh my god what are you doing you pervert!" she shrieked a little, her face a cherry with blonde hair.

It was then that Soul realized where he was and what he was doing. His face turned a couple shades of red, before he mumbled some lame apology and he rushed out the door. Maka felt shame wash over her, and she quickly pulled on some clothes and followed him. Soul was in his room, sitting at his desk and staring at the wall. She crept quickly into the room without knocking.


He looked over his shoulder and then turned away again, clearly uncomfortable. Then he stood stiffly and looked at her. "S-sorry Maka," he stumbled. "I don't know what got into me—it felt right at the time, but if it wasn't, I'm sorry—"

"I practiced sexy poses for you in my room!" she blurted, then turned as red as he. He stopped, startled into silence. Then her voice was quieter, deeply embarrassed, "So, it's alright with me. I mean, I'm sorry for hurting your feelings."

Soul stared at her for a long time, his face completely drained of color. Then, slowly, his face regained its grin. He cocked his head to an angle and sauntered closer. His eyes were dark and smoldering. "You practiced posing for me?"

Maka's face only deepened in red—she smacked him on the arm and marched away, "Oh leave me alone!" His laugh crowded in her ears, and he called out,

"Want a real audience next time?"

There you have it! Press the button, and review, kids. It would keep the perviness coming. :)