Theme: 29) Effort

Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater.

Silk Tie

A dress? She didn't recall putting on a dress. Her eyes roamed back and forth, but all she could gather was that she was wearing a dress and sitting prettily upright in a high-backed chair.

"Hi, Maka," came a smooth, creamy voice from behind the folds of an unfamiliar ceiling-to-floor-length curtain. A tall, lean figure stepped out from behind them and approached her, his eyes smoldering with . . . with . . .

He bent down, gazing level with her. He took her hand, sending unwanted, icy shivers down the length of her spine. She took a sharp intake of breath, eyes widening, hands tensing. She attempted to stand up, or scoot backwards, but she found herself glued to the chair, utterly immobile.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed, half in panic.

He closed in on her, his breath warm against her florid cheeks. She felt the acute touch of his silk tie drop across her thigh. Illogically, she realized, her blood was rushing.

"Maka," he hummed melodically, "I want to tell you something . . ."

"What?" she demanded, voice grinding to a squeak at the end. "What is it?"

He held her eyes steadfastly, making sure she never looked away. Maka clenched her teeth, and tried hard to shut her eyes. It was seductive. He was being really seductive.

"What?" she whispered weakly.

A sly smile danced onto his lips. "You . . ." His fingers . . . she thought . . . his fingers brushed up against the hem of her dress.

"I didn't mean what I said," he said to her slowly. Then, his voice dropped to the most provocative timbre she'd ever heard. "You don't have thick ankles." She felt him plant a kiss on . . .

Bright, terrifying sunlight.

Maka clutched her head and gave an inward, silent scream. Her eyes jumped from corner to corner, but her room looked absolutely undisturbed. The cropped, pink curtains were drawn apart, allowing the morning rays to stream in. Her chair was the same: short, round, and a minty shade of green; it looked nothing like the contraption that had kept her rigidly clamped down and forced her to sit through that . . . mentally scarring episode.

Just a nightmare. Calm down, Maka. Just a nightmare.

But her face felt hot.

She clambered out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom to slap some water on her face. She reached the door just as he passed out of it. Maka narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him—picking apart his gait, his expression, his everything—as if he had given her that dream on purpose. She couldn't shake her paranoia.

"Maka, you okay?" he asked, brows furrowed in concern over her hunched appearance.

"Yeah," she responded, averting her eyes. He turned around to watch her shut the bathroom door.

Soon, she was staring up at the mirror, the water making trails and collecting at her chin. He hadn't said a word about that old insult in nearly four years. Why did she just have a dream about it? Maka shifted her attention to the topic of sensitivity: her ankles. She pivoted them, observing them closely at different angles. Did they look big?

They're slender, aren't they?

Feeling somewhat foolish, Maka huffily exited the bathroom. Catching sight of him again, her face resumed its stormy features. "Stupid," she muttered inaudibly.

"I got your breakfast," he said, pointing at the pancake-topped plate on the table.

"Let me get dressed first," she shot back. Those words. Those words didn't sound right. Again sensing the blood collecting in her face, she hurried into her bedroom and slammed the door.

"Eeh, Maka, why are you wearing so many layers? It's hot outside."

"Wh-what are you saying?" she remarked. "I'm just wearing a jacket. It's chilly in the morning."

"But you're wearing three jackets, and sweats. We live in Nevada."

She ignored him and jabbed a fork into her pancakes. It was better if she didn't have to try to make sense of things.

"Are they good? I added extra sugar this time."

"Yeah," she muttered reluctantly, "they're good." They sat in an awkward—at least, it seemed to her—silence for the rest of the meal. After she had cleaned her plate and drained her cup of juice, Maka just couldn't contain it anymore.

"Soul. Do I have thick ankles?" She glared hard at the edge of the table, fingers pulling obsessively at a stray thread fraying off the seam of her outermost jacket.

"Huh?"

"Do I?" she repeated, feeling like she was about to choke on her own throat at any moment. To her neverending horror, he dropped to the side to examine her legs underneath the table; they were pressed unmoving against the kitchen floor. After what felt like many, many seconds, he popped back up. "Well?" she insisted.

First, he guffawed, quietly and mostly to himself. "I thought you had tripped or something, but your ankles aren't swollen."

She inhaled sharply. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He propped his elbow on the table and gazed over at her with a strange expression. "They're fine, Maka." He smiled cryptically. "You have skinny ankles."

She shot up and left the table. "Okay," she responded. She felt really warm inside.

fin.

A/N: The idea of Soul seducing Maka in her sleep was too good to pass up. Hurhur. Concerning the next drabble, would any of you prefer another Soul/Maka, or would it be alright for me to post a couple Black*Star drabbles I've had sitting in my computer? Just asking. Thank you so much for reading, and have a pleasant day.