1. Ladies in their Sensitivities

Normally, a hot shower is just what the doctor ordered after the completion of a successful mission. She takes advantage of this luxury more often than not, as kishin tend to frequent densely populated areas, wherein lie an abundance of appetizing souls and luxury hotels.

However, the invasion of a small Asian province means the pickings are rather slim. There is only one inn for miles in any direction, and the concept of a hot, steaming shower, let alone a decently-sized bathtub, seems to be a foreign idea to local architects.

There's nothing wrong with oriental-styled hinoki bathtubs. Being small in stature has its advantages, and her petite form has little problem with the inability to fully stretch her legs. But to her dismay, it's extremely difficult to completely submerge, and the sensation of being restricted to pouring water over her head is a less-than-preferable alternative to washing away achy muscles.

The wood of the bath smells like cedar, but she can't get over how small of a space she's been given. It's a fraction of the size of her bathroom at the apartment, and the lack of a secure lock on the paper-thin fusuma door means that almost anyone could walk in and…

"Pee! Pee! Gotta pee-ee!"

Her weapon completely disregards her naked presence, or mentally misses it entirely, as the door is nearly ripped asunder from its track. She's too flabbergasted to utter anything at first, but since the washroom is westernized enough to have a working toilet included in its space-conscious construction, his pants are already down, bladder nearly done evacuating its contents, by the time she gets around to freaking out properly.


The water in the tub overflows onto the floor as she sinks in as deep as she can. Soul realizes he's inadvertently intruded on one of her most private moments, but nature is calling, and his body demands the immediate gratification of certain biological functions over the modesty of his mortified meister.

Besides, he's seen her naked before. Not that he can see much in the reflection of the steamed-up bathroom mirror. Pants around his ankles, the exposure of the scythe's bare buns of steel elicits the most delightfully rosy glow from her cheeks. He smirks in egotistical triumph.

She's fun to get flustered. Like when he shakes his junk once he's finished, and she fumbles for something to cover her face. She settles on a pink loofah, but the hue of it matches the inflammed color of her skin.

He feels better. She takes his deep sigh as a sign that he's finished and about to leave the room. Except, when the water stops running, he's still standing there, gaping intensely at himself in the mirror, rubbing his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"Are you finished yet?"

Her sudden exclamation causes him to jump slightly, but she doesn't see it. Of course he's finished. And normally, he'd leave immediately. But after a restless afternoon of piss-nasty sake and unintelligible sports programming with the owner down in the lobby, he's not immediately concerned with making a hasty retreat. Especially when Maka has forgotten to update his ass on when hers will no longer be clothed, and she's looking absolutely scrumptious from what he can see above the waterline.

He hasn't teased her in a while. He supposes it's as good a time as any.

He pretends to assess the stubble on his face again. It's really not that bad, as he shaved right before they left Death City not three days prior. There's enough of that sandpaper sensation to make him think that needing a shave is a viable excuse, because really, she is always complaining that it feels way too rough on her skin when they kiss.

His maiden likes him smooth. Thus, he will oblige her.

Neither one of them brought razors, as this was intended to be a relatively short trip. However, he's a resourceful bastard, and frankly, who needs a razor when you're a scythe, for goodness sake?

It takes a minute, but Maka's attempts to distract herself from her impromptu company improve when she realizes he's no longer looking at her. He's completely occupied by the task at hand, which involves lathering some floral herbal bath soaps all around the bottom of his face. She decides not to inform him that he'll probably smell of hibiscus and oranges for the remainder of the trip, but the combination of this flowery scent with his personal choice of cologne proves to be not an all-together unpleasant bombardment to her olfactory senses.

Three fingers of one hand transform into a single zigzagged blade. She's fascinated to see him scrape away the suds and the stubble from his cheeks like a pro, and wonders how he's become so adept to not cut himself a million times over. Then again, his entire body is a weapon, capable of becoming solid steel at a moment's notice. She mentally punches herself for forgetting that piece of information and continues to observe in earnest.

She's starting to relax again, and by the time he's finished and wiping his mouth with a wet towel, she returns the smug smirk he shoots her way from across the steamy room. He looks less like a hoodlum without traces of white stubble adorning his features, and she can't help but reach out her hand to demand the first taste of her weapon's hairless face.

He grins when he notices her purposely placed arm blocking his immediate view of her breasts. However, the record shows that Maka's receptivity to his advances increases substantially when he openly cares about his personal hygiene. He hopes that their immediate proximity, and his new-found smoothness, can encourage a particular type of behavior from his favorite female specimen. But sometimes, that's easier said than done.

Her other hand is a raisin, but feels incredibly soft against the fresh skin of his cheek. She doesn't touch him for long, though, because modesty is still one of her greatest virtues. She really should get around to cleaning herself, as sitting in a bath for too long certainly can't be productive to their mission.

"Soul, if you're done, could you-?"

"Let me join you?"

She doesn't have time to respond, let alone think about his proposition, before his clothing is hastily thrown to various corners of the room. He purposely paid extra for the suite for a reason, but if she won't invite him in personally, he'll have to convince her that sharing a steam bath with a Death Scythe can be an excellent...no, invigorating idea.

She really should protest, but somehow, denying a naked and enthusiastic Soul the right to share a bath with her must be a capital offense somewhere in the world. As she's not partial to the idea of doing without "hard time", or regretting the opportunity to appease her growing curiosity at his eagerness to spend time with her, she takes his request to "Move over?" as an invitation rather than an inconvenience.

The tub is small and roughly square. As he lifts one leg into the water beside her, the realization that he's underestimated exactly how much mobility will be afforded them once he's inside rears its ugly head. Sitting with her knees to her chest, Maka alone takes up a great amount of space. She's still blushing and trying to hide the more interesting parts of her body from his field of vision. It's endearing and extremely fucking cute. But how does she expect him to entertain her if she keeps playing the modesty card?

He's just going to have to invade her territory, and hope the border patrol isn't on duty.

He sinks into the water relatively easily, more liquid overflowing the confines of the tub as his body mass takes up its former space. Two muscular legs place themselves on either side of her minuscule form, and the inside of his warm, dense thighs constrict around the outside of hers. He lets out a strangely effeminate sigh as the heat from the water works its way into his tired, taut muscles. She often forgets how much the exertion of battle takes it toll on his body, too, and seeing him let go so unapologetically is something she could definitely get used to.

He seems content to merely sit like this in her presence. That is, until she feels his toes ghost their way to the small of her back, drawing her closer until she's directly in front of the part of him she was trying to avoid until now. It looks weird underwater, and she gulps heavily because it's Soul's penis.Even though said enigma has been inside her on more than one occasion, the fact that she's sitting between his bent knees, so close to the object in question under anything less than passionate circumstances, the entire situation is much more casualthan what she's used to. She's slow like a child, unsure if their mutual nakedness is okay, even though his actions thus far have been everything but supportive of the contrary.

He asks her questions, borderline conversational, as if they are meteorologists discussing the finer points of cumulus formations within the lower troposphere. "How are you feeling?" "Have you seen my bike keys?" "Do you mind if I touch every single accessible inch of your body before I start making unmanly noises?"

The last one is mere speculation, because it is his eyes and not his mouth proposing this specific idea, via openly obvious body language that not even a dog could misinterpret. She can't help but notice the impatience in his eyes, and while he is extremely patient with her, he wants her to loosen up, for goodness sake, because they have all the time in the world.

Her legs are starting to cramp from hiding her breasts like a sissy. Being the astute meister that she's unknowingly trained him to be concerning her emotions, he takes it upon himself to make her more comfortable and provide himself with the view that he so desperately desires. Grabbing her legs in his palms, she momentarily resists the tug of his hands with a whimper before giving in and allowing him to direct the backs of her knees to his broad, comfortable shoulders.

"That better?"

She has to admit that it is, as her legs can stretch completely without restriction. Except, now he can see everything with a literal front row seat to her most intimate and embarrassing places. She can't cover her breasts without making it obvious, nor can she cross her legs without choking him to death. A fine conundrum for someone of her level of intelligence, but she knows better than to deny her weapon's open advances toward her well-being and comfort. Especially when he begins running strong, firm hands up and down the expanses of her legs and arms within reachable distance, making it extremely difficult to think straight or keep the light mewling utterances to herself.

Strong hands stroke her calves, working their way up to soft, supple thighs that she can't help but spread further with each deep caress. He seems to instinctively know the location of all her important trigger points, and she can literally feel the tension, and her sanity, melting away with every pass of deft fingers and eager palms.

He comments on how soft and smooth her legs are, but jokingly suggests that she consider shaving them before she tries to wear a skirt again.

"But I didn't bring a razor, remembe-eerr...oohhh..."

Her declaration tapers off as he spends an increasing amount of time massaging away loose muscles at the apex of her thighs. She's blushing redder than an apple, letting loose inaudible gasps and groans as he draws ever closer to that special place of no return. The one that always turns her to mush; the one she could never hope to hide from those inquisitive and questing hands.

A distraction. That's what she needs. Something to tide him over so she can catch her bearings and regain control of the situation. As quickly as humanly possible, before she falls apart at the seams.

This time, she asks the question. The sound is so weak and small, he asks if she will repeat it again for clarification.

"Can I borrow you for a minute?"

c h a o s v i p e r . t u m b l r . c o m

More by the end of the week (hopefully). I have no practical knowledge of Asian bathing facilities, so if I've used any terminology or concepts incorrectly, please let me know. And most importantly, don't hurt me.