and this is like the most unsatisfying color


You say we’re ignoring the author’s work, but we all remember you ignoring and mocking all the color spreads, poems, quotes and etc. Kubo wrote HIMSELF before he decided to end Bleach like a shit. I don’t understand how you can talk like this. But nevermind, your ship is “canon”, and also like the most hated anime couple of all times.

Originally posted by proinsiascassidys

khaleesimaka  asked:

SoMa and things you said while we were driving please ;u;

tries an old writing style and maybe fails a little 

this is AU, in a way

She has her hair down for the first time in months. It is curled at the ends, like loosened ribbons of sanded-blonde. Her eyes are stuck to the road before them (as if entranced by the double yellow lines) the emerald hue in their corners emphasized by the rampant moonlight. The jacket he draped over her small shoulders swallows her up in the passenger seat of his sedan. He wants to crawl in it with her and forget the night.

Classical music she doesn’t recognize flows from the radio, soft but dark. Sounds to her like something he would play, especially in his youth.

She feels his eyes on her every so often but continues to look forward, unsettled and stomach burning. The taste of his lips lingers like the last notes of the song, stained to her mouth like wine (the color of his eyes). She refuses to speak first, as if the silence in the car is glass and could be shattered with just one word; fragments falling on them, cutting their exposed skin down to the aching bone. The world they’ve formed is the most fragile she has ever existed in.

He turns the knob and changes the station a few more times. Unsatisfied with the funk of Saturday night radio, he chooses silence.

She curls further into his jacket. His scent is in every thread of it: something like November chill and cinnamon.

“Are you cold?” he asks, his hand hovering over the heat dial.

“Sort of,” she responds, her voice tired (sizzling with the aftertaste of champagne and sharp teeth).

“I’m happy for Black Star and Tsubaki,” he continues. “They actually managed to have a wedding without him hanging from the chandelier by the end of it.”

Her smile is faint. “Our childish behavior is far behind us, Soul.”

He wants to say he sometimes still sees it in her: when she throws him her genuine smile, in her bouncing laughter, in her tiny hand in his in the moments she gets anxious and forgets (forgets, especially, the effect it has on him). He chooses silence once again.

She opens the window a crack. The air is like ice.

He can see their home in the distance. He slows down. “Maka,” he says.

She turns to him. Their eyes meet for one quick moment then disconnect (a firefly’s flicker of light, a chord in a song). “Yeah?”

He grips the steering wheel tighter. “What…are we?”

Gray, she thinks. They are gray. They are somewhere between all other colors. They do not fit into any particular category. The happy couple in old photos all torn to bits, maybe burned in places. The pictures are no longer clear. They cannot be taped together because they are so tattered, so indistinct to the human eye. Blurry. Raindrops on a windshield.  Something like storm clouds. Something like sunlight through a butterfly’s wing. There, but not. An illusion. A lot of jumbled feelings; moments of misplaced intentions. They are two people in love who are always being thrown in opposite directions. Something like star-cross’d lovers. Something like not-meant-to-be but wants-to-be.

Their childish behavior, she realizes, is not so far behind them: her dreaded fear of commitment instilled in her from the angry voices of her parents; his inability to tear down his walls for fear of being hurt put on him from a high pressure to succeed, to honor his prestigious family.

“We are what we’ve always been,” she murmurs. She tastes his lips again on her own in memory. She remembers their sudden disappearance at the reception. Their sudden appearance in a broom closet somewhere away from the din of a drunken crowd, riled up and celebrating a meant-to-be and can-be sort of love. The sort of love that can exist outside of dark corners, outside of hidden touches (never mentioned again, only remembered in burning skin and skipped heartbeats) and quiet drives on empty roads.

“Somewhere in-between,” he says, as if stating a well-known fact instead of a sad reality.

Their hands intertwine. Always unspoken movements with them, always natural but with hidden complications.

She follows him to his room. They choose something like silence (and their hands do not unwind).