grigori-girl:

me, still SoMa trash after all these years? its more likely than you’d think.

It’s not until she’s down on her hands and knees in the kitchen with a toothbrush and a spray bottle of bleach that she realizes how easily blood gets on fucking everything. Which, yeah, you’d think she’d know this by now, and she does, it’s just that it never sinks in until she does a deep-cleaning like this.

Honestly, she’s not sure if she’s comforted by the fact that at least most of it is either Soul’s or her own.

Maka’s digging the poor, abused bristles into the grout line leading beneath the fridge when she hears a series of swears flow from the living room. She pops her head up, peeking over the dinner table, to find Soul’s ass up in the air as he peers into the air duct half-hidden by their entertainment center.

“What’s wrong?”

Soul pulls off one of his gaudy rubber yellow gloves with a snap, transforms his pointer finger, pries off the grate and sets it aside. The flashlight on his phone blazes to life a second later, and he fakes a gag after shining it down into the gaping hole. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Oh, c’mon. It can’t be that bad.”

He shoots her a glare from under his arm. “Y’know that scene from The Shining, where the doors open and all that blood comes out?” She nods. “Yeah, well, this is what I’d imagine that hallway to look like if they let it sit for a month.”

“Oh, ew.”

“Yeah.”

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