ds_flashfiction | No more stalling...

Okay, it looks like I can't put this off much longer. Many thanks to Halimede for her suggestions and her patience. This is the first thing I've posted for myself, so I'm just hoping I've got these cut tag things set up right.

**********

Stella had a weakness for scented soaps. Pretty, girly, flowery soaps. The kind a guy could buy as a gift for his girl, but never use for fear of being laughed out of the city. So early on they’d come to an agreement; he’d buy her whatever pretty soap she wanted and he’d stick with his Ivory, thank you very much.

Tonight, though, his bar was just a sliver and he was way too tired to go searching for more so he just grabbed hers and got on with it. Wouldn’t hurt just this once.

Except... rubbing it between his hands, he found himself getting lost in the scent of it; in the scent of her, gently drifting up to him. It made him think of her.

It made him hard for her.

Eyes closed, he slowly ran his soapy hands over his chest, coating his skin with her. Ran them over his neck, down his sides, over his hips. Reached for his cock, feeling the blood surge as he stroked. He imagined her there with him, holding him. Felt her hands on his body, guiding him into her. Heard his labored gasps and hers mixed in with his. Felt the sensations rising as he thrust and thrust and the wild burst of pleasure as he came.

And then, knees trembling he rinsed and dried and slid between the sheets, the scent of her still surrounding him.

****
After that, on the worst of the long, lonely nights when she hadn’t come home yet, he found himself more and more often reaching for her soap.

And when she threw him out (asked him to leave) he packed up in some sort of a daze. If a bar of her soap got mixed in with his things, it was just by accident.

And if, every so often, he was walking through a store and picked up another bar of her flowery soap, it was just force of habit. Like buying her favorite cereal, or the brand of toilet paper she liked the best.

Although sometimes, when he realized what he was doing, he forced himself to stop. To put the soap back and pick up a different brand instead. Something that didn’t remind him of her at all.

****
Then, late one night, after a long day spent living someone else’s life, he reached for a new bar of soap without looking, and it wasn’t until he’d started lathering that he realized it wasn’t Ivory. And it wasn’t flowery, either. It smelled... sharp and woodsy. Like Fraser. It made him think of Fraser.

He stopped and stared at the soap for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he lathered his hands and closed his eyes.

**********

451 words