“Oh my god…why is everything on fire?”

     “Black*Star---don’t even ask. Go home.”

    ❝ COULD’VE TOLD ME THAT BEFORE HAND! ❞

     “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US–I thought that Death’s child knew better than this. THIS is how you do it! Fire in moderation!”

     “PUT THE FUCKING FIRE OUT!!”

       ❝ TREES CATCH FIRE A LITTLE QUICKER THAN I EXPECTED- ❞

     “WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU ACTUALLY SET THE FOREST ON FIRE?”

Embarrassment Meme

Keep reading

     Mifune shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets with a casualty unfitting for the conversation. Truthfully, he was surprised that had worked so well, but he couldn’t let it show. No, now he had to keep playing the threat to drive home his point.

     “I don’t recall seeing any rule saying I couldn’t,” he countered, “And if they do question me I’ll just tell them she was here. Who do you think they would believe, a new, upstanding teacher, or a known delinquent and meister who likes to make her own rules?” Alright – that was an exaggeration. He would never actually go to such lengths just to punish a student. He felt bad even threatening to do it. But Soul didn’t know that.

     “I guess you need to decide what’s worse: disgracing yourself and your meister, or not drinking on the weekend. I’m sure it’s a tough decision, so take your time.” 

     Mifune had a point. It wouldn’t be the first time a teacher’s voice won over a students. After all, if any teacher could bark louder than Black*Star, they were a force to be reckoned with. It looked like Mifune had the bite to match, and that was most definitely not working in Soul’s favor.

     Moving upward, he pushed himself off the ground and onto his feet, his hands finding their way into his pockets as he kicked the six-pack of canned beer toward the new professor. He was hiding it by sitting in front of it, but it was a pointless battle at that point. Wasted money and a pinch into his pride wouldn’t be as bad as disgracing him and Maka in front of the whole school, right? The idea reminded him of when he was stripped naked over the answers to a test. Nope--not letting that one happen again.

     “Whatever. I’m leaving.” 

     Tch--he’d just keep any alcohol at home next time.

It was dumb of her to run so feverishly in the early morning. Tears streaked down her cheeks in a gentle, empty cascade. Breaths. She could feel his hard, labored panting from five yards away. Why was it always that he chased her so intensely after she’d shot several rounds of insults & lies? For what reason did he constantly look for her, searching for her, running for her–why would he do something so strange & unnatural? She was never able to understand it. Nearly every time she ran away he’d come after her. Even when she thought she finally got away, his Soul would appear within arm’s reach, barely holding up his stamina as he glared at her, eyes saying: “What the hell is your problem?”–or something similar.

     That way he tried to hide his exhaustion would have made her laugh & poke fun at him–she’d say something like: “You’re already panting? How uncool,” while smiling and lightly punching his arm. The way he tried to make his breaths transparent–especially towards her, who could tell the slightest change in his disposition, was especially cute. It’s funny how something that would normally endear her could make her hurt so bad. As if he were hiding something from her. As if he were trying to hold back on something he couldn’t tell her. He didn’t trust anyone; what made her think that he’d trust her?

     …Served her right.      She wasn’t exactly the most honest person, after all. She apparently likes the cold.

     … Maka wasn’t thinking much at all. She took a deep breath and held herself in her arms, back towards him, watching the dust dance on midnight colored cobblestone. It was almost romantic–a girl, hair undone, standing midst a wide street donning nothing more than a white dress shirt & short skirt as a boy stands behind her, talking into a glass wall; sounding desperate. Sounded like a chick flick she once made him sit through. “I’m–I’m not running!” she was escaping. “I just! I–I’m… not running.” Death Scythe; Death Scythe; Death Scythe. She’ll make him a Death Scythe / He’ll stay with her to become a Death Scythe. Arguing, poking fun at each other, walking to class while cracking jokes at each other … she knew that it was more then “I’ll make you a Death Scythe,” “You’ll make me a Death Scythe.” She knew that, but it made her blood boil. “I’m not running away from anything. I’m not ‘stuck’ in anything…!”

     What’d she want out of following the footsteps of her mother? Why did she want to surpass her father so badly, so desperately, so… meaninglessly? She’d forgotten. Whilst arguing at air, she forgot why she was doing all of this in the first place. Without drive, she was nothing more than a girl in ribbon’d twintails trying to dress up as someone capable. Bare hands dug themselves into her arms. It hurt. “There’s no problem! I told you I just needed some fresh air, that’s what I said, wasn’t it!? You ought to listen sometimes, Soul!  This is why I can’t stand it when you look at me! It feels gross. Leave me alone!!” scream, “What’s with you, anyways!? I don’t even know anything about you; how can I possibly make you a Death Scythe? Can’t you see it!?” her voice became hoarse. “’What the hell is your problem–!?’ I don’t understand it. I don’t understand you, Idiot.”

     He ran after her every time she tried to escape. He pulls her back into sanity when she’s almost too far gone. He held her, lent her his warmth, carried her when her ankle sprains and gives her his jacket when she’s cold; it doesn’t make sense to her, how he’d watch, paralyzed with that same, strange expression of his. She didn’t know how to comprehend it. She didn’t know what emotions he was feeling and what he was thinking or why he was doing it. “You come after me but you don’t even have anything to say. What’s up with that? It’s like I’m the weird one!! And, and–it’s not like I have to be the one! What makes you think I can!? I can’t. If I could, it would have happened already, wouldn’t it!? I can’t make you a Death Scythe, Soul.”

     … What was she saying? It all became incomprehensible. Her legs were burning (logic was going up in flames), lactic acid attacking at her calves; she felt like shaky gelatin. Her throat was dry–she hadn’t drank any water since lunch. Like an abandoned puppy; like a shaking kitten; like a shivering child throwing a temper tantrum–she was all of those things and frankly didn’t know who was right and who was wrong. It’d be nice if she were right; then he’d leave her alone and he’d go home and do his thing, and he’d forget all about her, and she’d do something like camp out at the school as it all boils over, and then they’ll forget about it when 8:00 AM comes. It was the worst time to cry. She didn’t want to cry.

     Honest, truth, she wasn’t running. She didn’t have any more strength to run. Stupid Soul.

     What was the fire burning for?

     A question Soul found himself asking in reference to his meister very often. What was the anger? What did it stem from? Was it justified? Could it change? Soul was very familiar with the idea of Maka’s father and what he did to their family in a selfish act of promiscuity. From the day he met her, she was wary of him and did not trust his actions, despite his feverish attempts to show her that he would lose his own life to keep her safe. What did he have to do? Prove it? What would happen of her then? Hah--he knew the answer to that already. Blame herself; she always did. It was another one of her quirks, one that he couldn’t put a stop to if he tried. She was a bundle of emotions, and he needed to be a bundle of contentment or else their resonance would break. His indifference helped quiet her loud mind but it also put a wall over her issues. They built up high enough to seep over that wall, and they were stuck at the crossroads once again. She had to know all the faith he put in her. She just had to---right?

     Wrong.

     “Are you serious?” He could have laughed. He almost wanted to. The edges of his lips tilted upward as he scoffed at her, scoffed at the idea of Maka not knowing him. What an idiot, really. That couldn’t be the center of all the tension between them the past few days. She could read him as fast as she could read one of her books. She knew he was in a bad mood before he knew he was in a bad mood. What kind of excuse was that? What’d she want to know that she didn’t know already? No--she didn’t know everything. But she didn’t need to. His family, his music, and whatever other mysteries were too internal to bring forward. It wasn’t that hard to understand. Before he could counter her accusation of not ‘knowing’ him, she was firing off other reasons that he should leave her alone before saying it outright.

     It made his blood boil.

     “Damn it, Maka, shut the Hell up already! Don’t you get it?! I didn’t partner up with you because I thought you’d be a dead-end. You know we’ll make it--stop throwing our hard work away--”

     The tears forming under her eyes was what cut him off, breaking off his sentence into a large sigh as his demeanor changed into something less harsh. His shoulders slumped, his angry expression lessening as a silence grew between them. The night was somber enough already; he didn’t mean to make her cry. 

     “---If that’s whats bothering you, you can just ask,” he said suddenly, breaking the temporary silence as his jacket slid off his shoulders. He took a few steps toward her, before draping it over her shoulders. He looked at her again, before dropping his hands back to his sides. His arms were almost awkward in their placement, since he had given up the pockets to slide them into. They laid there at his sides, as if he was unsure of what to do next. “It’s not like I’m keeping any secrets.”

       Okay, she’s gotten the reaction she wanted; so common sense would indicate she will finally dress up and be done with it. Except not, because she enjoys his panicking way too much. Yes, it’s rather mean, but that’s how cats can be, right? Besides, she doesn’t mean any harm, so it’s okay; just innocent teasing, nothing to be angry about.

         Blair watches his reaction with an amused countenance and a few chuckles leaving her lips. It’s a good thing they’re friends, otherwise he might’ve gotten really angry. Or, at least, that’s how she sees it: they’ve grown closer to each other, thus, it doesn’t matter if she teases him, because she does it out of affection.

      “You don’t need to go~ I don’t mind at all. Besides, it’s your room, right~?” crossing her legs, she pats the vacant spot on the bed. “Come on, sit with me for a while so we’re more comfortable~”

     Soul swore she enjoyed teasing him; ever since he fell face first into her chest when he was planning to kill her and consume his hundredth soul, she latched on to the idea of messing with his “cool” until she broke him down. Unfortunately for her, it never worked. Obviously. He just had a nose-bleeding problem. It was chronic, passed down the generations, or whatever. It wasn’t because she plastered the idea of touching her in his head that made blood run out of his nose. It was... genetic. Yeah.

     Stupid cat.

     “Don’t you have fish to eat?” He countered, his body still facing away from her. He could feel the blood seep through his fingers, and his eyes slid closed as a partial sigh left his lips. Blair could really use a job, or some other friends, and especially other hobbies. “Or a store to shop at... or something.”

    His head turned slightly, his body shifting to deepen the turn as his eyes opened into slits to see the bare minimum of his room. With his free hand, he flicked off the light to his room. It wouldn’t bother Blair, of course; as a cat, seeing at night was no problem. The little flick of the wrist that turned the room dark were to shield his own eyes from the unfairly sexy cat. Those “chronic” nose bleeds were a hassle.