A/N: This is for the SoMa NSFW Week 2014 prompt Bathroom. I played with parallelism in this one, beware. Special thanks to ilarual and rebornfromash for being fantastic readers, as always. THIS ONE IS RATED MA/NSFW FOR EXPLICIT CONTENT. GRAPHIC SEX, people. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
He wasn't supposed to be home yet. He wasn't supposed to be home yet and he needed to get out of here before she realized he was home and killed him for his mistake, but he couldn't. He was supposed to at Star's for another hour yet, but his friend had grated on his last nerve, so he'd cut things short. He had just needed to take a piss, thought it would be safe to take a piss, thought she must be in her room studying, had never imagined the unlocked bathroom would be occupied, that she would be taking a bath. Soul stood, transfixed, utterly enthralled by the sight spread out like a feast before his eyes because his meister was—she was—well, she was in the bathtub, legs akimbo, flushed, eyes closed, hand between her legs, moaning wantonly.
It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
From where he stood, he could see everything, everything. Most of it, he'd seen before in flashes, bits and spurts; they lived together and fought together, they were bound to get a view they hadn't meant to every now and again. Like now for instance. He should leave. A gentleman would leave. He couldn't leave. Maybe he wasn't a fucking gentleman, in the end, because this was—it was mesmerizing. His eyes roved her body, her pert little breasts, flushed with her current exertion, her creamy skin littered with shiny scars, some small, some bigger. Every scar he knew and knew well. Most he had bandaged himself, all he was there for and hated himself for failing her. Symbols of her strength, they couldn't mar her beauty. His eyes trailed to the one part of her he had never seen and lingered there. He eyed her soft, golden curls gathered at the apex of her womanhood, her soft little hand currently embedded in the slit, her index finger working frantically as she gasped and panted and moaned. He could see her own moisture, so shiny and slick, seeping out since that part was thrust out above the water and his own arousal, long since sprung, twitched in need. And then, suddenly, she moaned his name. His name. Fuck, was she trying to make him die of frustration on the spot? But—but—why would she be moaning his name? He almost creamed his pants at the very thought.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed, how long he'd been standing there. It felt like seconds; it felt like hours; it felt like eternity. He wanted to stay and help her. He wanted to leave and help himself. He wanted to be her fingers, soaked with her own arousal, stroking and stroking and stroking her flushed little clit. He wanted, how he wanted, to be the one doing that to her, to be the one making her moan, making her cry out his name in ecstasy. How many times has he imagined it, doing this to her, doing more than this to her, so much more? Fuck he loved her, wanted her, needed her, wanted to jump into the bath with her and have his way with her, let her have her way with him, to chant her name as his mantra, his lifeline, his prayer. He needed to leave. He had to leave, before—before
Her free hand suddenly slipped between her legs, slipped past her occupied extremity, and as two fingers disappeared within her soaked folds, she cried out his name again wantonly. He almost lost it. He was definitely going to cream himself if he didn't leave; he could feel his cock twitch and strain against the fabric that constrained it, his own need almost overwhelming. He suddenly wanted to know very much what she was thinking, wanted to seek her soul, to see what she saw in her mind, to feel what she felt, to know what it was that made her cry out for him. Resonance was closed to him—she didn't know he was there, could never know. He watched, utterly fascinated, as her second hand, her two fingers, moved up and down, up and down, slipping in and out of her, slipping in and out of that part of her he knew was there and wanted so badly to feel for himself. He wanted to be those fingers more than he'd ever wanted anything. Her moans increased and she began to writhe, his name coming from her lips more frequently. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck he wasn't going to make it, could feel himself close to losing it just at the very thought, the very sight, at the cries of his name reverberating through the small, sweltering room.
Suddenly, she went rigid and her voice rang out in ecstasy.
"Oh my DEATH, SOOOUUUUL!"
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—she was coming, that had to be it, she was coming and she came shouting his name. His name. He watched in fascination as her flushed body twitched, convulsed, as her release twisted onto her face, before she finally relaxed, a pleased little smile creeping up onto her lips.
He definitely had to get out of here now. Right now, before she opened her eyes and saw him and his last sight on this earth was of her flushed, wet body as she chopped him into oblivion. Not a bad way to go, really, but he wasn't ready to die just yet, not nearly ready, because she had just screamed his name as she pleasured herself, as she came. Did that mean, could that actually mean, that she wanted him too, loved him too?
He crept out quietly, relieved that she never registered his presence as she remained panting in the bath after, and made a show of noise in the living room to suggest he'd just returned. Finally getting to his room, he clicked the door locked behind him, cranked up some loud jazz, and grabbed the lotion and tissues from his night stand to go to work. After that display, he definitely had some serious business to get down to, namely, taking care of the biggest boner he could ever recall sporting. Fortunately, it didn't take long, the scene he had just witnessed providing him with the best spank bank material he had ever, ever had.
He couldn't get it out of his head, off of his mind. Every time he closed his eyes there she was, flushed and wanton and crying his name. Every time he let his mind wander and much of the time even when he didn't, the image of her, the sound of her, would come to him unbidden. Not having a constant hard on was becoming increasingly difficult, and he had to force himself to think of the most unsexy, unappealing things possible—Spirit in a speedo, a slobbering, drooling kishin in a speedo, Maka and Spirit castrating him in a speedo for the crime he had committed only yesterday. It didn't work as well as he'd like as any and all of these things tended to morph into Maka in a bikini, Maka in her short, short skirt and nothing else using him to cut the offending kishin to bits before using him in other, much more interesting ways, Maka stroking him through his speedo, whispering how hot it was that he had watched.
Yeah, this was definitely a problem. He had, erm, handled himself several more times yesterday and twice this morning and it didn't fucking matter—he was pretty sure this problem was permanent and he wasn't sure how to solve it without her cooperation or, hell, even with it. Not like she was likely to cooperate. At first, he'd had this bud of hope, real hope, that that little scene meant something, but really, he was deluding himself. So she'd thought about him while she masturbated, so what? Might mean she thought he'd look good naked—didn't mean she actually loved him, didn't mean she actually wanted him, it just meant he was good enough looking to make her personal spank bank, which hell, was nice, but not actually meaningful, really. After all, before Maka had become the star of his own spank bank, it had been filled with plenty of randomness, people who looked good enough, but who he'd never touch if given the chance. Definitely not meaningful.
Today, she had double meister class at the end of the day while he had single weapon class and a free period after. Normally, he waited for her, but he told her he was going to go home and take a nap when they parted after lunch and she didn't protest. Really, he just needed to get the fuck out of there.
When he got home, knowing he had a good two hours until she was back, he at first tried to relax, listen to music, literally calm his damned hormones. It didn't work. He kept thinking of the bathroom. No wonder she liked baths so damned much. Well, he supposed, it couldn't hurt to take one himself. He did have a couple of hours and maybe it was just the ticket to get this out of his system before it got out of hand. Yeah, a bath was definitely a cool idea. So he went to the bathroom, stripped down, ran the water, and eagerly anticipated laying where she had lain only the day before
She wasn't supposed to be home yet. She wasn't supposed to be home yet and she needed to get out of here before he realized she was home and freaked out and left her forever for her mistake, but she couldn't. Meister training had let out after only twenty minutes because Marie had finally gone into labor and Stein had to run off to join her, so she was home now, knowing Soul would be home as well. She had just needed to pee, thought it would be safe to use the bathroom, thought he must be in his room sleeping, had never imagined the unlocked bathroom would be occupied, that he would be taking a bath. Soul never, never took baths. Maka stood transfixed, utterly enthralled by the sight opened up like her favorite book before her, because her weapon he—he was—in the bathtub, legs popped on the sides, eyes closed, hand between his legs moving up and down his clearly erect shaft, grunting and gasping.
It was the most intriguing thing she'd ever seen.
From where she stood, she could see everything, everything. Most of it, she'd seen before in flashes, bits and spurts; they lived together and fought together, they were bound to get a view they hadn't meant to every now and again. Like, now for instance. She should leave. She should definitely leave because this was wrong, so wrong, to watch him like this. She wasn't a pervert! Okay, so maybe she really was a pervert in the end, because this was—it was mesmerizing. Her eyes roved his body, his lean, muscled arms, his tan skin, his toned chest bisected with that puckered, ragged scar, a scar she knew well, a scar she was there for. She had held the wound together with her own hands, covered in his blood, so much blood, the wound he'd gotten for her, because of her. She was there and she hated herself for failing him. But it was a symbol of his strength as a weapon, of his devotion to her; it couldn't diminish him. Her eyes trailed to the one part of him she had never seen and lingered there. She eyed his soft, white hair, gathered around his manhood, his slender, long fingered hand currently wrapped around his shaft, pumping up and down, up and down as he panted and moaned. She marveled at how big it seemed, his cock, so thick and long and hard as he moved his hand over and over again. She felt the slickness gathering between her legs increase, felt a hot spike of need ripple through her. And then, suddenly, he moaned her name. Her name. Death, was he trying to make her die of frustration on the spot? But—but—why would he be moaning her name? She almost lost it at the very thought.
She wasn't sure how much time had passed, how long she'd been standing there. It felt like seconds; it felt like hours; it felt like eternity. She wanted to stay and help him. She wanted to leave and help herself. She wanted to run screaming. Most of all, she wanted to be his hand, stroking and stroking and stroking his impossibly swollen manhood. She wanted, how she wanted, to be the one doing that to him, to be the one making him moan, making him cry out her name so desperately. How many times had she imagined it, doing this to him, doing more than this to him, with him, so much more? Death how she loved him, wanted him, needed him, wanted to jump into the bath with him and have her way with him, let him have his way with her, to scream his name over and over again, to be his, wholly his, always only ever his. She needed to leave. She had to leave, before—before—
He bit down on his lower lip, his pace increasing, his hand becoming almost frantic, his free hand suddenly gripping the side of the tub, white knuckled. He cried out her name again, the sound so raw and harsh and full of need that she almost lost it. She was definitely going to come undone completely if she didn't leave; she could feel the moisture between her legs, her panties soaked, could feel the ache for him in her core, her own need almost overwhelming. She suddenly wanted to know very much what he was thinking, wanted to seek his soul, to see what he saw in his mind, to feel what he felt, to know what it was that made him cry out for her. Resonance was closed to her—he didn't know she was there, could never know. She watched, utterly fascinated, as his hand continued to move, up and down, up and down that part of him she wanted so badly to feel for herself. She wanted to touch herself, to alleviate some of the pressure, the raw want building within her. His moans increased and he began to writhe, her name coming from his lips more frequently. She almost moaned in return, the sound of his deep voice rumbling through her in the small space. Oh Death, she wasn't going to make it, could feel herself close to losing it just at the very thought, the very sight, at the cries of her name reverberating through the small, sweltering room.
Suddenly, he went rigid and his voice rang out in ecstasy.
"Fuck, oh fuck, Makaaaaa!"
Oh my Death—he was coming, she knew it with certainty as she saw the white, viscous fluid come out of him, saw his thick cock twitch visibly, rhythmically in his hand as the liquid shot out in spurts. He was coming with her name on his lips. Her name. She watched in fascination as his flushed body twitched, convulsed, as his release twisted onto his face, as his cock twitched and spurted and spurted and spurted before he finally relaxed with a contented sigh, a self-satisfied grin splitting his face.
She definitely had to get out of here now. Right now, before he opened his eyes and saw her and hated her forever. But still, she was so confused, so flustered, so utterly turned on because he had just screamed her name as he pleasured himself, as he came. Did that mean, could that actually mean, that he wanted her too, loved her too?
She crept out quietly, her relief that he never registered her presence as he remained panting in the bath palpable, and made a show of noise in the living room to suggest she'd just returned. Finally getting to her room, she clicked the door locked behind her, cranked up some loud trance, stripped down, and wormed under her covers. After that display, she definitely had some serious business to get down to, namely, dissipating the throbbing, aching heat between her legs. Fortunately, it didn't take long, the scene she had just witnessed the best fantasy material she had ever, ever had.
She couldn't get it out of her head, off of her mind. Every time she closed her eyes there he was, hot and hard and crying her name. Every time she let her mind wander and much of the time even when she didn't, the image of his body, the sound of his voice, would come to her unbidden. By mid morning, her panties were soaked and uncomfortable. She tried to force herself to think of the most unsexy, unappealing things possible, to stem the constant flow—her Papa, flirting with some skeezy woman, a slobbering, drooling kishin, Soul catching her watching and leaving her, never speaking to her again because she couldn't get her damned shit together. It didn't work as well as she'd like as any and all of these things tended to morph into Soul flirting with her, Soul, warm in her palms as she used him to cut the offending kishin to bits before using him in other, much more interesting ways, Soul, not leaving, but asking her to come help him, whispering how hot it was that she had watched.
Yes, this was definitely a problem. She had, um, taken care of things several more times yesterday and twice this morning and it didn't seem to matter—she was pretty sure this problem was permanent and she wasn't sure how to solve it without his help. Not like he was likely to help. At first, she'd had this bud of hope, real hope, that that little scene meant something, but really, she was deluding herself. So he'd thought about her while he masturbated, so what? It was natural, after so long as partners, that he'd have some slight attraction to her, that she might make the line up of girls he thought about as he did his thing. It didn't mean he actually loved her, didn't mean he actually wanted her, it just meant that she wasn't so unattractive that he couldn't use her as fantasy material. In ways, many ways after how long he had declared her total lack of sex appeal, it was gratifying. But good enough to think about while going through such daily necessaries as relieving sexual tension did not mean he actually wanted to be with her. After all, before Soul had become the star of her own fantasies, they had been filled with plenty of randomness, characters from novels who appealed to her on some level but who she'd never touch if they were real and willing. No, it definitely didn't mean anything.
She got through school, flustered and quiet, and was very glad for the plans they each had for tonight; Soul was slated to play basketball with the guys while she went to a movie with their female friends. She cancelled out at the last minute but didn't tell him, unable to stand being out and about for any longer, unable to pull her fragmented thoughts out of the gutter.
When she got home, knowing she had a good two hours until he was back, she at first tried to relax, listen to music, to literally calm her stupid, stupid hormones. It didn't work. She kept thinking of the bathroom. Maybe, just maybe, it was time for her to take another bath. She did have a couple of hours and it might be just the ticket to get this out of her system before it got out of hand. So she went to the bathroom, stripped down, ran the water, and eagerly anticipated laying where he had lain only the day before. She thought about him, watching her the way she had watched him, watching her and wanting to touch her, wanting her like she wanted him. As she slipped into the hot bath she moaned with anticipation, the water mimicking how she imagined the heat of his bare skin would feel against hers. Oh yes, how she needed this.
He had a good couple hours until she returned. Yeah, maybe he was an asshole for cancelling on their friends, but he couldn't fucking care less when he was still battling the mother if all raging hard ons and this ridiculously tempting opportunity to take another bath alone had presented itself. Maybe this time, instead of thinking of her in the bath, he'd imagine her out of it, watching him, wanting him like he wanted her. Fuck. As he got through the door into the house, he stripped on his way to the bathroom, heedless. He could clean his clothes up later—for now, he needed to take care of this.
As he entered the bathroom, he was to the tub and about to look down to turn on the water when he heard the moan. Standing just over the bathtub he looked down only to see Maka, once more splayed out, fingering herself, writhing and moaning.
He blinked, once, twice. He took in a sharp breath. This couldn't be real, no way, no way this happens twice in a row. He must be hallucinating, daydreaming, something. Fuck, oh fuck she looked hot. He wanted to reach out, she was right there, right beneath him, to reach out and touch her, to feel her skin slide beneath his fingertips, warm and willing, to feel her writhing and moaning beneath him just as she was writhing and moaning now. She gasped out his name again and he couldn't help it, couldn't stop it, he groaned her name lowly, the word thick with need.
"Soul?" her voice questioned, her eyes flying open to meet his, her fingers stilling. "Oh my Death Soul!" She was staring up at him, wide eyed, curious and frightened and flushed and still hot as fuck. She shook her head, blinked, shook her head again.
"Must be a dream. I fell asleep in the bath," she murmured.
He just shook his head, no, the next words coming unbidden.
"Is this what you dream about?"
Her stunned look faded, slowly spreading into a smile that was both shy yet, somehow also wanton. "On good days," she said coyly, before surprising him as the hand that had, only moments before, been touching her most intimate areas, suddenly shot out of the bath to softly grasp his overstrained cock. "Only on good days." He moaned at the contact, he couldn't help it, her hot, wet little hand feeling delicious against his most sensitive skin. Fuck, how he'd wanted this, how he'd waited for this—but this couldn't be happening, no way this was happening. She began to stroke him and he stuttered out her name, his eyes slamming shut.
He forced his eyes open, forced himself to look at her. Her smile had faded to a look of concentration, her eyes alight with raw need as she touched him. "Feels so real," she murmured softly. "Too big," she shook her head slightly, in seeming wonder.
Actually, he was pretty average, maybe a little on the thick side, but nothing that was—fuck, he let another moan escape as her fingers continued to stroke and touch and feel. He needed to focus because an alarm was going off in the back of his lust hazed brain, a signal that something was very, very wrong with this picture.
She had said it felt real. She thought—she really thought—this was a dream. Maybe he was dreaming because this had gone from odd and hot as fuck to downright bizarre though still hot as fuck. He reached out to cover the hand currently grasping his shaft, stilling it, sought her eyes again.
"Maka?" he managed softly.
"Yes, Soul?" Her tone mirrored his own.
"This isn't a dream."
"It's not?" She seemed to puzzle over that for a moment, her hand squeezing his shaft, seeking some sort of confirmation.
"No, it's not," he managed, the feel of her hand on him still making coherent speech a challenge.
"Oh," she breathed, eyes widening. She pinched herself with her free hand, shaking her head. "Oh!" she repeated, clearly stunned, her hand shooting away from his cock. He groaned slightly, involuntarily, at the loss of contact because fuck had that felt good, and he was almost kicking himself for disabusing her of her delusion, but he had to. He wouldn't take advantage of her, would never do that to anyone, let alone to her of all people.
She glanced down at his still stiff member, her face flaming. "I—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I sh—shouldn't have—Oh my Death Soul, I'm so sorry!"
"No, don't be," he shook his head, scrubbing a hand through the back of his hair. He had expected explosive anger, the chop to end all chops, not—this. "I, uh—" he was as red as she was, had to be "—really liked it," his voice came out low and broken.
"Y—you did?" her eyes were wide with something like curiosity, something like disbelief.
"Yeah," he grunted, unable to get out more even as he wanted to shout that it was the most fantastic thing he'd ever felt, oh fuck yes, and he'd been dreaming about her doing that for years, and Death, it sucked that she'd stopped.
"Would you like me to, um, I mean, I could do it more, if, um, you wanted." She was even more red, but there was something like anticipation in her eyes, her gaze fixed on the object in question, refusing to meet his and—fuck, was this even a question?
"Please?" he managed, a quiet, desperate word, overwhelmed, because he wanted to shout to the rafters yes, holy hell yes please, please, please yes, she could touch any part of him she fucking felt like it any fucking time she felt like it but especially there, oh fuck yes.
Surely he must really be the one dreaming because suddenly, her hand was back on him, touching tentatively at first, but then, grasping tighter and stroking and stroking and stroking and oh fuck he couldn't take much of this, not like this, not when it was her. Well, fuck, if this was a dream, then he never wanted to wake up.
Her face was intent, focused, as she worked his shaft. He kept looking between her face and her body as she stroked, aching to touch, to tease, to feel her soft little tits, her slick folds, her warm skin, any part of her, every part of her. His fingers twitched with the need to touch her even as he slammed his eyes shut again, gasping her name as she found that little spot where head meets shaft and put light pressure there.
He opened his eyes again, seeking her body, and what he found made him shudder and moan with need. Her eyes were shut and with her free hand, she was touching herself again even as she stroked him.
"Could I—help you?" he choked out, his need thick in his throat.
Her eyes opened and she flushed.
"Y…yes," she managed, removing her hand and sitting up. He took the cue that the space she'd made was meant for him and he sat in the spot provided. They both shifted, legs tangling. She reached out to grasp him again and he closed his eyes and moaned before opening them and meeting his gaze. Slowly, teasingly, he trailed his hand up her leg, up her thigh, to stroke her curls. They were wet and soft and he'd meant to tease longer but he wanted to touch her too badly for that, so as she continued to stroke him, he slipped a finger lower, down into her folds, exploring, seeking. It was hot and wet, her resulting moan tearing from her lips and through his very soul. He couldn't help it, he came right then, the feel of her stroking him, of her wet heat on his fingers, the sound of his name on her lips too much. Her own name tore from his mouth as he climaxed. It was, far and away, the best orgasm he'd ever had, his mind temporarily torn from his deliciously twitching body and into the stars with the sheer pleasure of it before he came down from his high and remembered that he'd promised to help her, remembered how fucking eager he was to fulfill that particular promise.
He opened his eyes. She was eying her fingers speculatively, the warm leavings of his pleasure evident on her hand. When she noticed his eyes on hers she smiled shyly. She opened her mouth to say something, but he didn't want to talk, he wanted to do, so he moved his stilled fingers, causing her to slam her eyes shut and throw back her head as he growled "my turn."
She didn't protest, her hands slipping to her sides, his cooling seed dissipating in the warm water. He began to explore, feeling the textured little nub and beginning to stroke it softly before applying a bit more pressure, much like he'd seen her do two days before. She arched her back and gasped in response, his name coming to her lips. As he stroked with light pressure with his index finger, her moisture hot on his fingers as her body arched her out of the water, he moved forward, settling her bottom on his thighs as she opened her own legs readily, slinging them onto either side of the tub. He groaned at the sight of her so spread before him, so eager. Her head was still back, her eyes still closed as she panted and gasped and moaned with every move of his finger. As he applied just that bit more pressure she gasped his name again and he wanted to moan in response. He remembered how she had used her other hand, how she had slipped her fingers inside herself, and he thought, maybe, she would like that. So he took his free hand and moved below, feeling, seeking, until he found her opening. He teased it, running his finger around the slick heat, and she gasped his name again.
"Can I…please?" he asked, his voice raw, because he would only do what she wanted, what she was willing.
"Yes, please yes, " she whispered, her voice just as raw. He didn't need to be told twice, plunging his index finger inside of her even as he continued to stroke her clit, reveling in her renewed cry of his name. He pushed his finger as far as it would go, moaning at the feel of her tight, wet heat, at the implications of it. He moved his finger out and in, out and in, felt himself hardening again because this was, far and away, the most arousing thing he had ever done. He reveled in the pleasure he was giving her, reveled in every moan, every pant, reveled in doing what he had only dreamt of for so long. She bucked against his hand, panting.
"More," she moaned, and he took her cue, remembering she had used two fingers on herself. He pulled his hand out and slipped another finger in with the first. She tightened around them both as he worked, pumping them in and out repeatedly as he continued to stroke her clit in time, wishing desperately he had a third hand to stroke himself with because holy fuck he was so hard again and he wanted wanted wanted to do more.
He felt her hand on him again suddenly, stroking erratically, and it didn't matter if it wasn't precise because any touch from her was heaven. She continued to buck against his hand and stroke, started crying his name louder even as her pumping of him became yet more erratic, more frantic. It didn't matter; the feel of her tight around his fingers, anything might have made him come. An instant later, as she cried his name, a high pitched wail, as she arched and her body shuddered, as he felt the walls of her pussy convulse around his fingers, he did, moaning her own name brokenly, the feel of it all so much, too much. This finish was as good as the first, his mind numb with pleasure as her hand left his overwrought flesh, as his own hands moved away from her, away from the nirvana they had sought and conquered.
A moment later, he dared open his eyes. He couldn't believe he was here, now, with her. It seemed impossible. It seemed the dream she'd first thought it was, but as he felt her legs warm on his, he knew it was all too real. She was looking at him, flushed with the exertion and with clear embarrassment, but she didn't seem unhappy.
"So," he managed, not sure what else to say because they had just done something together he never, ever thought they would and it was—it was—fucking fantastic.
"So," she echoed, holding his gaze.
They fell into silence, because what could they say? She bit her lip and he couldn't help his fascination with the small, nervous habit, her mouth and her teeth taking on new, delicious possibilities in his head as she still sat naked before him.
"I'd, uh, like it if we, um, tried it again. Maybe. Sometime. I mean, if you would." Her color deepened and he could see the effort it cost her not to look away.
Was she fucking kidding? Could this even be a question?
"Yes," he said emphatically. "Fuck, yes, anytime you want. Any fucking time."
"Um, good. Then, maybe we should, uh, dry off and make dinner, because that needs done, but after dinner, if you want to, we could—maybe—continue."
Oh fuck yes, please. He had surely died and gone to heaven, his soul the dinner for some stray kishin egg, because he was pretty sure his meister was suggesting they get each other off again after dinner and holy shit yes. Just yes.
"That sounds cool," he tried to remain casual, tried not to grin in sheer elation as he stood and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist before grabbing another to hand to her as she stood. She took it and wrapped herself, very clearly still flushed with embarrassment but refusing to let it get to her. He was pretty sure he was red himself but who gave a fuck because they were going to try again after dinner.
They went to their respective rooms, dressed in some pjs, came out, and made dinner. As they worked, Soul couldn't help himself, as she moved from the stove to the fridge to get something, he grabbed her and kissed her because he wanted her to know what he couldn't say just yet—that this wasn't just about getting off. She didn't chop him, or get mad, she just kissed him back, sweetly, and then more forcefully, their noses squashed, yet neither caring because this was fantastic. She broke it off after a minute, shaking her head.
"Don't wanna burn the curry," she scolded. "But," she smiled as she pulled some paste from the fridge. "That's something else we can work on later, okay?"
He grinned back. "Yeah, okay."
Later, they would try again, this time in the bedroom, and they really did practice the finer art of kissing until they got it down perfectly. Eventually, some time down the road, weeks into pushing their physical bond further and further, weeks into doing and touching and not being able to say, they would finally gather the courage to exchange the feelings that went with it all, to say the words that were beneath the deeds, but that would come later, that would come when their repeated physical exchanges cemented for both of them that this was real and mutual and lasting. Just after would come their final physical union, because wasn't that the end they had been sprinting towards all along? And in that moment that everything was clear, in that perfect moment after he and she became we, they would look at each other and laugh, because they both knew how stupid and silly and wonderful it was that it had only happened because of a few accidental encounters in the bathroom.