i was playing around with somes ideas for another story but this idea popped into my head and i just had to write it down and explore/expand on it. i think it turned out pretty good, hope you think so too.
- kunt
He had been busy all evening.
After they got home from training, Maka had gone straight to the shower, barely saying a word. She'd been tense all day, pushing herself harder than usual, and by the time they made it back, her exhaustion was obvious. Soul didn't think much of it—just started on dinner while she cleaned up, letting himself get lost in the motions of cooking. Anything to pass the time.
By the time the food was in the oven, he had cleaned up the kitchen, wiped down the counters, put everything back where it belonged. With nothing left to do, he finally let himself relax.
Now, he's just sitting on the couch, one leg stretched out, his mind drifting as he closes his eyes. Maka had gone to her room a while ago—earlier than usual—but he hadn't thought much of it. Training must've worn her out.
But then, an hour later, she comes out.
He doesn't look at her at first. Just hears the door open, the soft padding of her footsteps as she heads for the kitchen. Nothing weird, nothing out of the ordinary. Except… something feels different. Like an instinct deep in his bones, something subtle and wrong in a way that makes the hairs on his arms prickle.
So he looks. Just a quick glance, nothing obvious. But the second he does, his stomach tightens.
She looks… softer. Looser. Not in a messy way, just relaxed in a way that feels off for her. Her face is a little flushed, her hair slightly out of place like she's been rolling around in bed. Her movements are too easy, too slow, like all the tension she usually carries is just gone.
And that's when it hits him.
His breath catches in his throat, his whole body going still as the realization clicks.
She had been tense when they got home. Stiff, exhausted, frustrated from pushing herself too hard. But then she showered, went straight to her room, stayed in there for an hour.
And now? Now she looks like this?
His pulse kicks up, heat prickling at the back of his neck as his brain connects the dots. She had been in there alone, unwinding, letting herself relax. And the way she looks now? That loose, content ease in her body, the way she exhales like she's still coming down from something?
She relieved that tension.
His jaw clenches. His fingers twitch against his thigh.
Meanwhile, Maka? Completely unaware of his crisis. She just grabs a glass, fills it with water, takes a sip. Normal. Totally normal. But now he's looking too closely—watching the way her throat moves when she swallows, the way her lips part slightly as she exhales, her hand lingering on the glass as she sets it down on the counter.
His whole body feels hot, his skin too tight, and suddenly he's aching. His pants feel too tight, the pressure impossible to ignore, and when he shifts slightly, trying to subtly adjust, his hand brushes against his hard dick.
He freezes. Breath stalling, stomach tensing, pulse hammering in his ears.
Fuck.
His fingers jerk away like he just touched something dangerous, but it's too late. He's already aching, already shifting in his seat, trying so hard to stay still, to stay casual, to not think about how his body reacted before he even meant to react.
Maka doesn't notice. She puts the empty glass into the sink, turns, heads back to her room.
He doesn't move. Just sits there, staring at the wall, barely breathing, hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, like that's going to help him get himself under control. But it doesn't. Because the second he moves, the second he shifts even slightly, he feels just how hard he is, how his dick is pressing against the fabric of his pants, and fuck, it's bad.
He swallows, jaw tight, exhaling slow like that's going to make it go away, like he can just sit here and wait it out. But it's not leaving. Because he's still thinking about it. Still picturing the way Maka looked just now—flushed, soft, sated.
And that's the part that really kills him.
Because his brain is filling in the gaps too well. He can see it—her in her room, sprawled out on the sheets, face buried in her pillow, trying to keep quiet. Her fingers slipping lower, slow at first, just teasing over herself before pressing in, her breath hitching at the first touch. He wonders if she bites her lip to stop any noise from slipping out, if she spreads her legs wider, if she rolls her hips against her own hand, chasing that feeling.
His whole body shudders at the thought, and suddenly, he has to move. Has to get to his room, has to take care of this because it's too much. Too fucking much.
He stands, movements tense, controlled—too controlled, like if he lets himself go even a little bit, he's done for. He makes it to his room, shuts the door behind him, leans against it for just a second, fingers gripping the wood like it'll ground him.
It doesn't.
He tried at first—really, he did. He knew Maka was still awake, still right there, just down the hall. But once he got lost in it? Once the thought of her really took over? Yeah, that careful restraint was gone.
His body is already thrumming, his cock aching so bad it's almost painful, and when he finally drags his fingers down, pushing his waistband lower, wrapping a hand around himself—his breath stalls.
Fuck.
He's already so hard, already leaking, already so worked up from just thinking about her, and that's—that's a problem. But not one he's dealing with right now. Right now, he's just trying to get some relief, trying to fix this, but the second he strokes down, slow, teasing, his whole body jerks.
Because he can see it. See her.
Maka, fingers buried deep, chest rising and falling as she works herself up, brows furrowed in concentration. Maybe she's frustrated, maybe she's not getting there fast enough, maybe she's thinking about something—someone—to push herself over the edge.
His grip tightens, his pace picking up, jaw clenching as he groans, low and quiet. Because fuck, now the thought won't leave. Now he's really picturing it—Maka gasping, body arching, pressing her face deeper into the pillow, fingers curling as she finally, finally tips over that edge, her body shuddering as pleasure crashes over her.
He doesn't stand a chance.
His hips stutter up into his own touch, his strokes getting desperate, ragged, breath heavy and messy, body aching to chase that same high. He's so fucking close, his stomach tightening, his mind spinning.
His body locks up, pleasure slamming through him so hard that his breath catches, a groan slipping out, deep and raw, as he comes hard, spilling hot and thick over his fingers, hips jerking with the force of it.
He barely even registers how the sound carries. Doesn't think about whether or not Maka heard it. Because he was gone, too lost in the high, his whole body still buzzing with the aftershocks.
It's only after—when he's standing there, panting, spent, coming back down—that it hits him.
His eyes snap open. His stomach drops.
Fuck.
That was loud.
Maka wasn't even really paying attention when she heard it.
She'd been sitting on the edge of her bed, knees pulled up, head tilted slightly out the open window, letting the cool night air hit her face. After training, she'd felt restless, like there was too much energy buzzing under her skin, even after she… well. She thought she got it all out of her system.
But even as she sat there, breathing in the crisp air, she was still wound up.
And then? She heard it.
A muffled thud—like something hitting a door—followed immediately by a deep, low groan. Strained. Sharp.
Her head snapped toward the sound, heart skipping a beat.
That was Soul's room.
She froze, listening, pulse picking up. It was muffled from this far away, the sounds outside making it hard to tell exactly what it was, but from where she was sitting? It didn't sound good.
What the hell was he doing in there?
She hesitated, frowning, her stomach twisting with an odd sort of worry. It almost sounded like he got hurt.
Her brows furrowed. Had he knocked into something? Dropped something on his foot?
Without thinking, she slipped off the bed and padded toward the door, barely making a sound as she stepped into the hallway.
Everything was quiet now.
Too quiet.
She hesitated in front of his door, hand hovering near the handle. Should she knock? She wasn't trying to be nosy, but if he had hurt himself, he wouldn't exactly come to her about it. She'd seen him ignore worse injuries before, brushing them off like they were nothing.
She sighed, rolling her shoulders back. Whatever. She'd just make sure he wasn't bleeding out or something.
Raising her fist, she knocked lightly.
"Hey… you okay in there?"
His face burned, shame crashing into him so hard he actually felt dizzy for a second. Here he was, standing in his damn afterglow, panicking like a fucking idiot.
He had to say something. Had to make this normal.
"Uh—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."
Silence.
Too long of a pause. He knows she's still standing there. Knows she's probably frowning in that way she does when she doesn't believe him.
"You sure?" she asks, voice softer now, less teasing, more genuinely concerned. "I heard a noise. I thought maybe you—"
Soul forces out a laugh, still too breathless, too raw, and fuck, he needs to get out of this situation.
"Tripped over somethin'," he lies, praying to every god that she buys it. "It's fine."
Maka hesitated in front of his door, biting the inside of her cheek.
He said he was fine. But the way his voice sounded? Weird. Strained. Breathless.
He must've really knocked into something.
Soul was an idiot about pain. He never wanted to admit when he was hurt. So what if he had hit something and was just trying to brush it off? What if he was just sitting in there, being stubborn, while he was actually hurt?
She sighed. Fine. If he wasn't gonna be honest, she'd just check herself.
Without thinking twice, she pushed the door open.
"I don't believe you. Let me—"
Soul jolts, heart lurching, body moving on instinct before he's even processed what's happening.
He yanks his sweatpants the rest of the way up, fingers sticky, face burning hot—but he barely has time to breathe before she's in the room.
The lights are still off. The dim glow from outside barely illuminates her silhouette as she steps inside, one hand reaching for the light switch.
His stomach drops.
"Don't." The word rips out of him before he can stop it, sharper than intended. Maka pauses, fingers hovering over the switch.
"What? Why?" She sounds confused.
His brain scrambles for an excuse, anything that isn't "I just came harder than I ever have in my life and I'm literally still standing here covered in it."
So he blurts out the first thing he can think of.
"Headache."
Silence.
Then, finally—"Oh."
Maka exhales, her posture shifting, tension easing slightly. Relief. She buys it.
"Is that what happened?" Her voice softens. "Did you hit your head?"
And—oh, fuck. That's what she thinks?
His mouth opens, then closes. He could correct her. He should correct her. But his brain is still fried, and if she thinks he's just in here dealing with some minor injury instead of the reality of what he was actually doing? Yeah. He's not gonna fix that.
"Yeah." His voice comes out too tight, too rough. He clears his throat, forces a more casual tone. "Tripped, just hit the door a bit. 'S no big deal."
She sighs. "I knew it."
Soul swallows hard, trying to stay still. His whole body feels too hot, too aware—of the air against his damp skin, of the way his hands can't move, of the situation he's in.
"You're such an idiot," Maka mutters, stepping closer.
His pulse spikes.
"Hey—" His voice catches when she reaches for him. He flinches back, slamming against the door, panic clawing up his spine because if she touches him, if she realizes—
"Relax." She huffs. "I just wanna make sure you didn't give yourself a concussion."
She reaches up, fingers grazing lightly over his forehead, checking for a bump. Soul stops breathing.
She's touching him. She's touching him.
He knows she doesn't mean anything by it. This is normal for her—checking, making sure he's okay, being overly responsible because he's an idiot who apparently can't be trusted alone for five minutes. But his brain? His brain is still not over what just happened.
He's still standing here, soaked in post-orgasm heat, body still buzzing, and now she's touching him so casually, so innocently, while he's standing here with his hand behind his back, covered in his own cum.
He has to get her out.
Soul is barely holding it together. Maka is making it worse.
"I'm fine," he forces out, voice tight, clipped. "Just tired. Go to bed, Maka."
"Bed?" Maka frowns. "Soul, what are you talking about? We didn't even eat yet, dinner's still in the oven."
His stomach drops.
Oh. Fuck.
He'd completely forgotten about dinner.
His brain had been so fried, so caught up in the moment, in her, in everything, that he'd completely blanked on the fact that there was still food in the oven, that they were supposed to eat together like normal.
Except nothing about this was normal.
And now? Now he has to somehow sit across from her, act like he didn't just get off thinking about her, act like she didn't just walk into his room while he was still coated in his own mess, act like he's not still feeling the ghost of her touch on his forehead.
His jaw clenches.
"Right," he mutters. "Dinner."
Maka narrows her eyes, still studying him too closely.
"You really don't sound fine," she says, arms crossing. "Are you dizzy?"
"No."
"Nauseous?"
"No."
"Seeing spots?"
"Maka, I didn't give myself a fucking concussion," he snaps, and shit, he meant to sound casual, but there's too much edge in his voice.
Maka huffs, unfazed. "Well, you're acting weird."
He freezes.
Oh shit.
His body goes tense, pulse spiking for a whole different reason now. Does she—? No, she doesn't know, she thinks he hit his head, she's just being annoying and overbearing like she always is, that's all.
He forces himself to exhale, tries to shake off the tension.
"I'm fine," he says again, forcing a lazy smirk. "But if you're so worried, you could always wait on me hand and foot 'til dinner's ready."
Maka rolls her eyes—but there's an exasperated fondness in it, and god, that makes everything so much worse.
"Ugh, you are such a pain," she mutters, turning on her heel. "Lie down or something. I'll get you an ice pack."
His stomach twists.
Oh, hell.
She's taking care of him. She's fussing over him. She's being all Maka about it, like this is just another dumb injury of his, like he's not standing here barely keeping it together after what just happened.
He swallows hard, forcing himself to move, forcing himself to go flop onto the couch, forcing himself to breathe while Maka grabs an ice pack from the freezer.
He has to get his shit together.
Because in a few minutes, he's gonna have to sit down at the table with her.
And pretend he wasn't picturing her moaning ten minutes ago