soma?

myrkks:

warnings: blood, injury
word count: 700

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“You’re an idiot,” Soul tells her, a lump in his throat; his fingers skirt light across the length of her shin, minding the large, bloody slice that’s been cut out of her leg.  She’d been deceptively fine on the walk home, if quiet, too quiet, but now — he swallows, leaning back on his heels.

“There was no avoiding it,” Maka retorts, leaning back against their cabinets.  She looks like a queen from her place on their dirty kitchen counter, surrounded by unwashed mugs and the coffee grinds he’d spilled by accident this morning.  There’s that same air to her as always: perfect, untouchable, unclaimable.  She can’t be his.  She couldn’t be.

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