#tgfemslash

[pseudocitrus]

matsumae x itori aesthetics

aloofness. counter-aloofness. smiles that persevere despite never quite being returned. how the aura of such a stuck-up woman can practically give you a rash, and how one time, to check the quality for her master, matsumae uncorks a bottle herself with such finesse that itori finds herself annoyed that one of her own betrayed her.

“Perfect,” matsumae remarks, with zero enthusiasm.

the clown in her that sees such a flawless being and feels the urge at once to crack it. how she licks her teeth as if to file them, and how her laughter bursts, over-ripened, when she finally goads matsumae into taking a taste and that stone mask turns ruby almost instantly.

how too very easy it is, and the wave of discomfort that follows the realization that the joke was a little too much, that she poured matsumae full like a glass without realizing quite her emptiness. the burn of her chest and how itori collapses beside matsumae on itori’s own bed, winded by the effort of dragging all that heaven-forsaken suited muscle to relative safety.

how matsumae’s hair is disheveled the next morning, and how it’s so short that itori holds it back for her in the bathroom.

apologies. “Sorry about all this! I had no idea...”

apprehension. “I...I didn’t, either.”

her first time. how much itori laughs at the realization of it, and how matsumae quietly reddens, again, and silently washes her mouth with water and mouthwash and coffee.

“Well,” itori says, “the only way to get over it is to rest,” and this turns out to be a first as well, matsumae accepting the blanket and the lineup of movies easily enough, but twitching the entire time, and checking her phone even after permission has been granted.

one movie after another. shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. night falling, still without what itori had assumed would be inevitable. how easy it is to whisper something that soothes matsumae out of her suit.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry...if you’re going to stay again, you can borrow something of mine.”

how extra hilarious it is, when it turns out that none of her lingerie quite fits, in a good way. itori laughs and laughs -- “Uncross your arms, come on, come on, come on! Pleaaase?” -- and when matsumae does it, itori leans back, sipping appreciatively.

“Perfect,” itori says, smiling.

and matsumae smiles back.

[tgfemslash]

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[varicosevines]

Day 7

Prompt: (Free Day) Pain

Pairing: One-sided Hinami/Eto

Notes: Much angst. This idea punched me in the face when I saw the calendar illustration with Eto’s hand painting Hinami’s lips. Somewhat vague, as even though we have a pretty good idea, we still haven’t been shown exactly what Hinami has done in Aogiri. Only how she got there and who she is now. Nor have we seen much of them interacting directly. Written before :re 59. Weird, stylistically un-stylish format. Also operated on the belief Hinami knows Takatsuki is Eto. I think it’s safe to take that from her diary, though if she knows Eto is the Owl, I’m unclear. And inclined to believe not quite. But I digress.

Hinami does not regret any of her choices. Life is composed of goods things, bad things, things to learn, and things to lose.

Her freedom is lost to her now. Perhaps her freedom was lost the moment she took Takatsuki’s card. Reality has embraced the metaphor in the form of her Cochlea cell.

Yes, life is…Life is a tapestry threaded by light and dark. Her mother told her to live. That includes facing the dark parts, trying her hardest and feeling everything.

Hinami thought she was lonely before. In Cochlea the loneliness eats away at her from the inside out like some kind of cancer. Onii…Sasaki-san keeps it leashed somewhat. When she sees him, she can feel the worth of her not quite intentional sacrifice. He seems okay too. Maybe a little dented, a little misassembled, but okay.

He spends time with her. Nonetheless, he’s still lost to her in many ways. Lost to who he was. In any case, he can’t stay. She doesn’t hold it against him.

Hinami isn’t the girl Kaneki nurtured anymore, either. Not totally. She is better for this, she believes in her bones. She’s sharpened her senses and steeled her resolve. She chose to be warped to match this spinning-nowhere world. She gave herself to the pain and the shadows (and the bandages), and they encased her in a cocoon (especially the bandages).

She endured this metamorphosis that dragged every ugly thing into her consciousness and bled all her weakness into the open. Exposed. Malleable.

(thank you, Takatsuki)

She’s emerged stronger, far stronger, though never strong enough. For everything taken was something gained even so.

(Eto…)

Whatever progress was made, Hinami is still a beast in a windowless cage. One day they will come to harvest her kakuhou. She’ll become a quinque just like her peaceful, undeserving parents.Terror laces her every waking moment. Which are frequent, naturally. She’d never sleep if it weren’t for the suppressants that sap her vigor.

She bears her fears all alone, a void yawning inside of her. The list of those she misses is endless.

The list of those she craves is much shorter. The person who smells like green apples and crisp ink. The person who took her hand and let her to where the sidewalk ended, pushed her off the crumbling cement with a kind face.

“You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman, Hina-chan,” Takatsuki had said with a slight smile strung by spades.

Hinami had only closed her eyes in response, and in turn her lids were dusted over in coral powder.

“You could be a character in one of my books, Hina-chan,” Takatsuki continued as she brought a brush to Hinami’s lips. “You’re a lovely specimen. You wear your sorrows like a shawl and carry on even though this world has broken your spirit. Your gaze has become as dim and cold as a winter sky. The somber current of your voice sweetly drips all your struggles.”

Hinami slowly opened her eyes. “Would I be a main character?”

“Of course. Readers would devour every word of you.”

Takatsuki skimmed the brush over her lips and back again, the bristles soft as she coated them in black. Hinami watched submissively, playing hide and seek with thoughts she wasn’t proud of in the corners of her mind. The space between them was full and intimate in the absence of everyone else.

Hinami clasped it, resigned to the fact that this was the closest she’d ever get to a kiss from the author. At least logically it was better this way. Safer.

“All of your main characters die, Sen,” she sighed.

“Oh my,” Takatsuki giggled airily. She didn’t pause in her task. “They do, don’t they, cheeky Hina-chan?”

The memory replays in Hinami’s mind, every detail vivid. Takatsuki’s motions so methodic, the oily film filling the cracks of her lips. She isn’t particularly sure why she wanted that kiss, nor why she wants it still. Why she still touches her own fingers to her currently unpainted lips and imagines a pair that taste like ice.  

Perhaps she feels like some of Takatsuki’s power would transfer to her. No matter how strong she becomes or how many things she gives up to gain an upper hand, she will never possess that level of power.

Maybe because as depressing as it is to admit, she longs for the sense of direction Takatsuki instills in her. When there was nothing, every option a diluted shadow, there was she at least. As long as Takatsuki was there, there was a path to follow. A guidebook to the end. A guidebook nonetheless.  The tragedies she wrote write were hardly exclusive to her novels. Hinami couldn’t hate her for it if she tried.

So, really, really…She wants her now more than ever because…

Really, it’s because Hinami has been hurt. By everything. She’s been hurt over and over and over again.

Her parents were snatched away from her. Her sister is unreachable to her now with a home her own choices have left her no place in. Her brother looks at her from behind the glass like she’s some sad stranger. She lost her companions along the way. She has become something she didn’t want to have to be. Pain taints her memories and tows her along her the route her days have taken, razoring her edges.

She knows pain in every shade.

HInami knows pain has painted Takatsuki’s heart as black as Takatsuki painted her lips. No matter how powerful she is, she can smell it reeking off her.  

Yet Hinami also knows she’s beyond any comfort she could offer, far too likely beyond wanting it altogether, too high on all that bitter power…but all the same, something inside her wants to ease that pain. Soothe and be soothed. To hold onto her because she too understands, to interlink fingers stained in blood and kiss away the hurt that’s soured one soul and staled the other.

It’s stupid. It’s a pipe dream at best, justification for an attraction she has conflicted feelings about at worst. It’s not as though Takatsuki behaves remotely like anything wounded. It’s not as though trying to ease her Onii-chan’s pain was ever successful either.

[varicosevines]

Day 6

Prompt: Time

Pairing: Saiko/Hairu

Notes: No NSFW content, but one somewhat suggestive scene present.  I feel like this should have a ship name.

Saiko lunges for Hairu and strikes out toward her jaw with the heel of her palm, fingers curled tightly inward. Hairu sidesteps to avoid the blow and counters with a swift kick toward her stomach. Saiko barely manages to scrabble away and stumbles clumsily, breath puffing through her teeth.

Hairu grins and springs like a cat, tackling her down to the practice mat. Saiko struggles under her, pushing at her shoulders and vainly trying to wiggle free. Hairu grabs both her wrists in one hand and pins them behind her head.

“I win again,” she declares sunnily.

“Ugh.” Saiko goes limp with defeat. “Of course you do. It’s no fair, you’re bigger and stronger than me.”

“Nope,” Hairu says, teasingly poking Saiko in her button nose. “Not an excuse. Since you’re smaller than me you actually have a lower center of gravity. If I knock you down you’re less likely to be injured and more likely to get back up.”

“Well I can’t get up at all when you’re on top of me,” Saiko murmurs, her lips curving up in a playful smile.

Hairu pauses. Their sessions always seem to end like this. Saiko pinned to the mat underneath her, her face flushed with the effort and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Cornflower tresses falling out of their pigtails as soft pants leave her petal like lips…

“Hairu?” Saiko prompts with a curious tilt of the head.

“You don’t seem to be in a hurry to make me move,” Hairu says carefully.

Saiko’s lashes flutter. She shyly casts her gaze to the side and when she speaks, her voice is as quiet as a blossom drifting to the grass but the smile remains with rapt edges.

“I’m not…”

Hairu takes her chin with a much gentler touch than the punch she’d cracked it with not even an hour ago, tilting it up. She lowers her own until their lips skim.

Saiko reciprocates hastily, warm and tasting like the salt and grease on the potato chips she’d eaten earlier.

Hairu tentatively draws back. This is new…nice, but new.

Saiko’s puckered lips melt into a smile, roses blooming in her cheeks. This is new for her too.

Before they can talk about what just occurred, the door swings open and Haise steps over the threshold with Shirazu on his heels.

“Oh,” he blinks at them, surprised. “I didn’t realize you were back again, Ihei. Would you girls like to train with us too?”

“I’ve had enough exercise for one day,” Saiko declines, shifting her gaze back to Hairu. “Wanna come over and play Mortal Kombat tomorrow?” A hopeful glint glitters in her depths.

“Yeah.” Hairu smiles and finally gets off of Saiko. She stands up and extends her hand to her. “Of course.”

Saiko takes her hand and Hairu hauls her up to her feet. A few moments pass and she lets go even though she doesn’t want to.

So they were interrupted. It blows, but it’s okay. They have tomorrow. They have time.

“Fatality,” gloats a guttural voice as the all-caps letters flash across the screen dripping animated blood.

Saiko cackles victoriously and pumps her fist. “And that’s how the Yonebayashi does it!”

Hairu sighs petulantly and sets down the controller. “That’s the third time in a row you’ve beaten me.”

“You’ll get better with practice,” replies Saiko. “But good enough to beat the Yonebayashi? Well…” she trails off, chuckling darkly like a cartoon villain.

Her lips look too pretty lifted up in that easy smile. Before Hairu knows it, she’s kissing them again. Saiko responds like that’s what she’s been waiting for all day. She closes her eyes and deepens the kiss, tilting her head as she slips her tongue between Hairu’s teeth.

Bubbles of delight tickle Hairu’s chest as she eagerly lets Saiko suck her breath away, sliding her hands over the shorter girl’s hips. Saiko tenderly cups the nape of Hairu’s neck in one soft, pudgy palm and threads her spare fingers through her hair.

They break the kiss in unison, a thread of saliva connecting their mouths. It severs as they incline their foreheads to touch. For a moment they simply breathe together.

“I drew you,” Hairu murmurs. She’d had an art block for awhile. Sketching Saiko had finally pulled her out of it.

“I drew you too,” Saiko says. “As a magical girl.”

Hairu laughs, flexing her fingers on Saiko’s hips and then squeezing affectionately. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup. You have a lightning wand and your color scheme is peach and pink. You got your powers from an elemental sprite.”

“I want to see it.”

“You will,” Saiko promises fondly. “When it’s done.”

“I can’t wait.” Hairu brushes her lips over Saiko’s cheek.

Saiko hums a small noise of contentment. “So what do I look like in your drawing?”

“Well you aren’t a magical girl,” Hairu admits. “I drew you giving me a thumbs up. You’re my motivational girl, Saiko.”

Saiko flashes her the gesture in agreement and Hairu pushes her lips to the pad of her thumb. Saiko then wraps both arms around her neck and flops back to the cushions. All of a sudden Hairu is on top of her and it’s the end of their sparring matches all over again.

They’re nascent in this currently undefined intimacy, wading in the waters of a shared sparkle.

Looking into Saiko’s face, Hairu slowly slides her knee between her legs. Saiko’s lips part with the delicacy of a butterfly’s flutter and then her teeth press to her lower lip. She splays her fingers and runs them down Hairu’s shoulder, across her collar. She cups her breast and gives it a tentative squeeze.

Before they can explore each other any further, a door down the hallway opens and shuts. They separate as quickly as possibly, throwing themselves to the opposite sides of the couch as footsteps tread closer.

Mutsuki appears, offering a nod of greeting as he winds his way around to the kitchen.

“Saiko, do you know if there’s anything in the fridge?”

“Hmm, not sure,” Saiko calls. She offers Hairu a sheepish smile.

So they haven’t figured out their relationship yet. That’s okay. They have time.

Hairu’s funeral is a small, quaint thing with more white camellias than attendants.

She doesn’t matter as much now that she’s a corpse. Ui is there. Arima makes a brief appearance. Mutsuki accompanies Saiko for support.

She thought sobbing over Shirazu had dried up every tear left in her, but Hairu’s closed casket unleashes a fresh flood.

She sobs until her throat is gummy and ropes of snot dangle from her nostrils, the smell of incense and bouquets recycled in her gulping breaths. Mutsuki holds her stoically and lets her unravel.

All sensations of Hairu hit her at once in a violent backlash. The harsh sting of her sparring kick, the Hokkaido dialect in her relaxed drawl, the taste of melon bread she’d kissed off her lips, the surprising warmth of her lithe embrace.

They hadn’t even started yet and the time had already run out.

[varicosevines]

Day 5

Prompt: Smell

Pairing: Touriko

Notes: Written in second person POV. Pretentious, stylistic punctuation mistakes. Mild, brief mention of gore. A sloppier version of this was on my dA but I thought it fit the prompt better than anything else I could come up with so I edited it and moved it to here.

She told you once that you smelled sweet.

You were pressed right up against her on the train, your soft and somewhat too big body (in your eyes, never hers, she’d noticed your lack of confidence and hit you over the head, called you stupid. You were the cutest girl she knew and you blushed and teased her when she did the same, feeling fantastic about yourself for the first time in ages) crushed against her compact, athletic one on the outskirts of the crowd.

The small swell of her breasts smushed against your collar bone, the long side of her bangs tickling your cheek in a way that was kind of annoying and itchy and kind of pleasant at the same time. It was too hot to be so close like that, but there wasn’t room to be anywhere else and you didn’t mind it a bit. You still remember explicitly how it felt because now it’s that feeling you miss the most.

And she, she looked at you.

She looked at you like she was looking at something strangely beautiful and dangerous. Like an exotic frog. Pretty pretty colors, picture perfect venom.

And you said her name and tipped your head just a little bit, equal parts concerned and confused.

“You smell sweet,” was how she answered and you almost didn’t quite hear it and almost weren’t sure what you heard because the train was so loud and her voice was anything but, dewdrops on shamrocks and dusty bewilderment.

“Huh?” was your immediate reaction.

She blinked and it seemed like she only then realized what she’d said. She cleared her throat and shook her head.

“Nothing! We should’ve waited for the next train. It’s way too stuffy today!”

You giggled because she was embarrassed but you’d always known there was softness beneath her porcupine exterior, softness for you at least. She seemed tough as nails and offhand, scratchy like steel wool with a three-second fuse, but the smiles she saved for you were warm and subtle as sunbeams.

She wore the scarf you knitted her to match yours. She wore it even though those weren’t her colors and she told you it was her favorite. If anybody dare insult your knitting, she would certainly destroy them.

Yeah, she was soft for you.

And so you leaned even closer to her on that impossibly crowded train and inhaled a deep, deep lungful.

“You smell good too,” you chirped happily. And sometimes when all is still you close you eyes and you can still smell her almost as well as you could on that day, her scent of coffee beans and something else implacable but a bit like alfalfa.

And she’d looked almost startled that you’d said such a thing and defensively called you dumb as roses unfurled in her cheeks. She grabbed your own cheek and gave it a reproachful squeeze and you chuckled and didn’t even care that it did hurt a little because she was just so funny. You loved it. You love that memory, you love her.

But now…

Now she’s gone…

And now you know that when she said you smelled sweet, she didn’t mean sweet like cotton candy or spring lilies, or ripe red strawberries.

She meant sweet like barbecue sauce. She meant sweet like juicy, raw, red red meat.

Your aroma was not perfume, your aroma was delectable. It was her nature to tear you apart with crimson irises in umbra-dyed sclera, her nature to feast on your flesh and shear your fat from your sinew and gobble on your organs like a nightmarish beast.

She was a predator like you’d been seeing so much about on the news. She was a brutal demise for you in dining under the prettiest human guise you’d ever seen.

And yet…

That was okay. Because that was just how she was born, it was just who she was. That was who she was and whether it was in her nature or not, she would not rip you apart and devour you. For you, she was soft.

No matter what she was, above anything else, she was your most precious friend. She wouldn’t hurt you and after the shock of finding out trickled from your system, you realized you knew that as well as you knew the back of your hand.

She was who she was and that was okay. You were her friend anyway, you, you— you loved her anyway.

Yeah, you loved her anyway.

So you waited anyway. If she’d showed up, maybe you would’ve told her just how much. You checked your phone again and again. You sent her messages with emojis and vaguer promises, conveying this much at least, hey I miss you.

And you still miss her. Three years later and you still miss her so much it makes you ache. You try to find her still. You bake and bake, sip coffee critically with all of your cafe creations to deliberate which ones are worthy enough to accompany the caffeine bean.

You need to find the perfect one so she’ll just have to sell it in that little coffee house she wanted to have. Maybe she already has it. If she doesn’t, you’ll help her build it.

You want to tell her that too.

You want to tell her everything. Because once you got past the prickly parts, she was always the easiest person to tell everything to.

And maybe she doesn’t love you the way you love her, maybe she loves that boy you saw and maybe he’s like her. Or maybe they broke up and maybe it was your kindly intended stew that drove him away. Maybe she found a new ghoul boy, but as long as she’s happy you’re okay.

You want to tell her that too.

You know she’d love you for what you are just like you love her for what she is, even if she wouldn’t love you in the same way.

You like to think that she still thinks about you sometimes, wherever she may be. You like to think she still wears that scarf. And if not, you’ll scold her for being insensitive and knit her a new one. Maybe you’re too old for that kind of behavior now, but you miss her so much and if you’re going to look the other way while she eats people who aren’t you, you get a little bit of rein to be immature.

You’ll find her one day.

You’ll search the whole world if you have to.

[varicosevines]

Day 4

I don’t have anything for Day 3, so I’ll just post 4 early. I can’t believe it. In a series that revolves around eating and cannibalism, I have zilch for the prompt ‘taste.’ I feel so stupid OTL

But anyway.

Prompt: Touch

Pairing: Matsuhai

Notes: Canon divergent AU wherein Matsumae and Hairu survive the ETO, but Shuu and Ui are killed. Crack. Ugly pacing. Awkwardness. Weak transitions. Strange blend of hate/comfort sex. NSFW content.

After the blunder that the Exterminate Tsukiyama Operation was, Hairu is on recovery leave for nearly two months.

She spends the first two weeks in the hospital, her sternum repaired with plates and screws, her veins pumped full of donated blood, her flesh sewn, cut, and sewn some more. She brushed Death, they tell her. Her soul was dancing between the Grim Reaper’s fingers but he didn’t quite pinch it.

She’s lucky, they say. It was so close, they inform her. If she had been rushed to the hospital just a minute later, or if she had been impaled just a centimeter more to the left, or if she had lost just a drop more blood.

It would have been her funeral, they say.

And would anyone have come?

Hairu hears all about how fortunate she is and lets it play through her head over and over like a catchy song that’s gone out of style. She has the time. Arima visits her just once. He wishes her well and admonishes her in the same monotone breath and it is not what she wants, but it is something at least.

No one else ever visits. She’s mostly sure she doesn’t care. She has time to mull over her almost untimely death and bounce her musings off herself. Her arms are tethered to IVs and her back is supported by an impersonal pillow far too puffy. White, scratchy sheets agitate her restless legs. A thin blanket that reeks of antiseptic is drawn over them.

In the quiet isolation, more than anything else they tell her, it just hits that Koori is…

Well, pondering distracts Hairu from thoughts like those. The ones that stab the throat and swallow up everything else. The ones that tempt tears but never quite deliver.

It doesn’t take very long to come to the conclusion that it wasn’t luck that saved her from the brink. It wasn’t luck, or a divine gift, or anything of the sort.

It was that ghoul. That ghoul could have killed her. It gained the upper hand and Hairu couldn’t bounce back fast enough. Her quinque fell from her grasp. She slipped in blood and folded like a fallen file as its kagune pierced through her.

She doesn’t recall the pain, if there was such a thing. She recalls the moment. The way it drew out. The way her blood seemed to burst fourth in a slow motion geyser. The way a matter of seconds dragged on like a boring movie and all the commotion around her was muted as a sole crimson rose bloomed on her wedding-white uniform coat.

At that time the fight was already won. That ghoul could’ve killed her. For some reason it didn’t.

Why?

Just why?

It doesn’t make any sense. Ghouls and humans are natural enemies. Hairu was actively putting her all into bringing that one down. What’s more, her team had already killed many of its allies.

She simply can’t comprehend it. No matter how much time she has to replay the scene of their battle, it never adds up right.

It takes her three months to find the ghoul. Its residing in an abandoned garage in a cluttered neighborhood where its found a job as a janitor. With the physical description, the area on high alert, and everyone else focusing on Aogiri it really takes no time at all.

Comparatively.

Haru keeps this information for herself.

The ghoul only looks up from its ratty mattress when Hairu quietly enters through the side door.

“You again,” it states simply. It doesn’t appear surprised. It’s pale with fatigue. its slightly longer sable hair looks somewhat messy. It doesn’t even seem interested in her presence.

“Just me this time,” Hairu says. She’s never had a conversation with a ghoul before. The closest she got was feeding back into the banter this one had thrown at her.

“Go ahead and kill me,” it breathes, bowing its head like its been taken to the guillotine. “I won’t fight you.”

“Why not?” Hairu asks even though that is not what she came to ask and killing hadn’t been on the agenda at all. “You’re pretty tough.”

“There is no point to my life anymore. I lived to protection someone. I failed in that duty. I thought living on alone might be my punishment for doing so, but you’ve sought me out. Feelings are what make you stronger, Dove. Devotion, love…Without him to fight for, I will lose.”

“What human things to say,” Hairu muses without any weight attached. It is an idle realization, a passing interest.

“Sentiment isn’t exclusive,” the ghoul declares, absent of warmth.

“Well,” Hairu tosses up her hands. “I didn’t come here to kill you. I came here because I need to know something.”

The ghoul tiredly raises its head. “If there are any secrets the Tsukiyama have left, I won’t reveal them.”

“Nothing like that.” Hairu tents her fingers together and inhales slowly. “You didn’t kill me. You could have and you didn’t. So why didn’t you?”

The ghoul tips its head back and fixes its gaze upon the ceiling. “I considered it. However, I’d already failed my duty. My master was slaughtered under my guard. Killing you would have been a pointless affair.”

“You could avenge him,” Hairu says. “Right here. Right now.”

The ghoul suddenly stands and cups her cheek. Its— her palm is warm, her touch a bit too human for comfort. “You didn’t kill him. Just your kind.”

Hairu sputters, entirely baffled. Not once had it ever even had the inkling to cross her mind that there might be a difference.

She jerks back from the ghoul’s hand like it’s scalding water and slaps it away for good measure.

The ghoul blinks her nearly fully obsidian gaze and smirks bitterly.

Hairu turns away and takes her leave without another word.

No matter how hard she tries, Hairu cannot forget the sensation of that ghoul’s palm so soft on her face.

Nor can she forget the strange, jarring idea of differentiation between she and other investigators. Obviously fighting styles varied, abilities varied, assignments varied. Ranks and squads reflected all that.

But when it came to the mechanics of battle, ghouls were simply ghouls and investigators were simply investigators. It should be no different whether it was Hairu who landed the killing blow, or Haise, or K…

It just.

Hairu wraps her arms around herself as she struggles to make sense of their encounter yet again.

It just wasn’t different. At all.

Why the ghoul seemed to think so, she can’t begin to comprehend. It’s a puzzle with crooked pieces. But why should she try to understand the thoughts of a ghoul anyway?

Hairu is not proud of herself for winding back up in the rusty, ramshackle garage. Her superiors have always irritated her for the most part, taking her credit and the like. But she’s never disliked it enough to betray them. Betraying them is exactly what she’s doing when she’s seeking out a ghoul, a known dangerous, formidable ghoul, without intent to capture or kill.

She’s on the bed again, a book in her lap. There is a quiche on the cover and the title is something French.

“You’re back, Ihei?”

Haru pauses. “You know my name.”

The ghoul shrugs. “Know thy enemy.”

“Do you know about the Sunlit Garden too?” Hairu lifts a brow.

“I assume you’re not referring to the piano piece. Now that, my master used to play often. I rather liked it.”

“So ghouls listen to music…”

“Is there any particular reason we wouldn’t?”

“Well I guess not.” Hairu huffs a sigh and shifts her weight from foot to foot.

“Are you here to kill me this time?” asks the ghoul.

“No.”

“Are you distracting me so one of your fellow Doves has an opening?”

“No. I…I didn’t tell anyone about you,” Hairu adds, quieter.

The ghoul saves her place with a bookmark and snaps it closed. “What else do you want?”

“Well for starters, why are you reading a book about food you can’t eat?”

“I find it interesting.”

“Okay…So when was the last time you did eat?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“You killed a human then.”

“Naturally.”

Hairu saunters closer. She stops when her shadow falls over the bed. “Do you like killing humans?”

All of a sudden the ghoul grabs her by the hands and swings her down onto the mattress. Hairu is too caught of guard to do anything. She bounces softly, a gasp of surprise leaving her lips. The ghoul lets go but her touch echoes in warm, crackling circuits of energy.

“I won’t be looked down on by you,” she declares simply.

Hairu sits up, fixing her with a wry simper. “I’d watch it. Just because I didn’t come here to kill you doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“And I’ve already told you it doesn’t matter if you do,” the ghoul states flatly. “And no, I don’t particularly enjoy killing normal humans. Most often I target the ones that irritate me. Doves, on the other hand, I do find some satisfaction in killing.”

“But you still didn’t kill me,” Hairu says.

“We’ve discussed that.”

“I don’t get you.”

“I’m aware.”

“I like killing ghouls,” Hairu admits the next time she inevitably winds up in the ghoul’s garage. This time she plops down on the mattress of her own accord.

“I got that impression,” the ghoul murmurs.

“I like the adrenaline rush of the fight. I like the looks on their faces when I get the upper hand. I like ripping into them with my quinque.” Hairu hums lightly and flexes her fingers. She can imagine gripping the handle of Aus. She can remember the moment its weight disappeared as it slipped from her hand. “I like killing ghouls with interesting kagune best. They make the coolest quinque, of course.”

The ghoul does not reply.

“Your kagune would’ve made a really cool quinque. Haise has your master’s, by the way. It’s pretty cool but yours would be far more unique.”

Immediately the ghoul bristles, incensed. She slaps Hairu across the face so hard Hairu’s ears ring as she topples over on her side. She touches her cheek tenderly once she sits up again, smirking. It’s going to leave a mark. She can practically feel the handprint swelling.

“Looks like I struck a nerve.”

The ghoul swallows audibly, her brow quivering with distress. She abruptly turns her face away.

“It’s Matsumae, right? Isn’t that what your other friend called you before Kijima split him in half?”

Matsumae remains turned rigidly away. Her back even stiffens another fraction.

Hairu waits for a lash of a sharp tongue that never comes. After a few moments Matsumae’s shoulders tremble faintly, only just perceptible to Hairu’s trained eye. Matsumae’s next breath is audible and the shaking intensifies so slightly.

She stands up with robotic, straight movements and readies to walk away. Hairu grabs her by the wrist and yanks her back before she can take a step.

Tears gush out of her unusual eyes in generous supply, wetly clumping her lashes together and creating slick tracks down her cheeks. She gives Hairu a misty glance and then closes them. She buries her face in her hands and nearly shudders as she suppresses sobs.

Not once in her life has Hairu ever offered a comforting touch. To anyone. Ever.

Now she places her hand on the small of this ghoul— Matsumae’s back. She rubs it in small, chary circles. She won’t apologize. Not verbally. Maybe her touch isn’t even an apology at all.

Hairu thinks about Koori, wonders with a sting what her senpai would say if he could see her like this. See her taking a crack at soothing a crying ghoul. He’d be beyond disappointed and certainly pissed off.

Hairu looks at Matsumae. Trembling, purposeless, broken Matsumae. Matsumae who eats arbitrarily irritating humans and has a kagune that would make an exceptional quinque. Matsumae who missed her heart and didn’t bother to take aim again.

She rubs her back until she stills and is somehow only mildly surprised when Matsumae bonelessly slumps against her.

“Your master killed my partner,” Hairu states in a voice full of stale melon bread and tacky bus seats. “But you didn’t. And you didn’t kill me, either.”

“I didn’t,” Matsumae agrees.

“I’ve killed four ghouls this month,” Hairu tells her. “An S-rated bikaku. A koukaku far less impressive than yourself. And a pair of rinkaku twins that were likely affiliated with Aogiri. I was supposed to kill one and capture the other one, but it was fatally injured defending its sibling.”

“You’re vicious.” Matsumae cooly sips her coffee.

“You haven’t changed the way I think,” Hairu continues.

“I haven’t tried to.”

“But I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll protect you.”

Matsumae tips her head. “And keep visiting me?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you don’t seem to care much for my company, Hairu.”

“Well I don’t. To tell you the truth, Matsumae,” Hairu chirps as her lips stretch in a wide, goblin like grin. “I despise you.”

Matsumae pauses and sets her cup down. “You despise me?”

“I hate you so much I can’t put it into words.” Hairu grins even wider, baring her teeth. Because for the first time she has questions. Matsumae hasn’t changed the way she thinks, no (not yet) but their interaction simply isn’t right. Hairu is not supposed to be here and she keeps coming back, drawn in by this gravity and all these questions she’s devoted her entire life internalizing nonexistence relevance.

Matsumae stands up and very purposely unbuttons her collar. She stares Hairu right in the eyes as she takes the ribbon holding back her ponytail and yanks it free.

“Then don’t put it into words,” she declares firmly.

Hairu breathes in the undertone and flings herself at Matsumae before she can regret it, smashing their lips together so hard their teeth clack. It sends pain rattling up to her skull. She forcefully rips Matsumae’s shirt open as Matsumae paws furiously at her coat.

“I hate you too,” Matsumae exhales as her teeth graze Hairu’s earlobe. “You always show up here, reminding me of the worst night of my life and using me to work out your problems.”

“I knew it,” Hairu laughs as she opens Matsumae’s pants and snakes her hand down her underwear. Short, soft hairs tickle her fingers as she curves her wrist and gruffly rubs along her entrance.

Matsumae backs her up against the wall and raises her leg, pressing her knee against Hairu’s hip both to cage her and give her easier access. She dips her head down and trails her tongue along Hairu’s now exposed breasts as the investigator jams her fingers inside.

“Fesso,” she hisses against Hairu’s flesh. The foreign curse sends a hot shiver up her spine. “You’re a puppet. You don’t know true loyalty, what it means to pledge yourself to something that matters. You follow orders because it’s all you know how to do.”

Hairu brings her free hand up and tangles it in Matsumae’s tresses, tugging hard. She continues thrusting her fingers in and out of her, palm vigorously rubbing her clit in the roughshod rhythm.

“And you,” she gasps as Matsumae bites around her nipple like a cookie-cutter, hard enough to draw a circle of blood. “You’re just so damn senseless. Nothing about you adds up! You hate me so much, but you let me live? You know I, a First Class Investigator, know where you live and where you hunt and you don’t run away?”

A low, sultry groan pushes through Matsumae’s lips. She slurps her way up Hairu’s collarbone and slides her own hand past Hairu’s panties.

“You don’t understand anything,” she grunts as she knuckles Hairu’s clit. “Zoccola.”

She nips Hairu’s bottom lip and Hairu swipes her tongue over her mouth to get a stringent, metallic taste of her own blood. Matsumae’s touch has her entrance throbbing wetter by the second and her heart racing like she’s in the thick of battle. Hairu clings onto the frustrated release like a lifeline and at last, a tear slips free.

[varicosevines]

Day 1

Prompt: Sight

Pairing: Nutcracker/Saiko

Notes: Just a ‘what if’ scenario had Saiko encountered Nutcracker alone. I took canon to mean that Nutcracker was a lesbian since she expressed attraction to that female investigator and possibly kissed her before erm, devouring her face. Also, I’m aware Saiko actually looked pretty fierce before attacking Nuts in that unseen panel. But considering her later encounter with Shikorae, I don’t believe she would’ve been as battle pumped had she been alone and had Nuts not been weakened via impalement first. Warning for some moderate gore.

All the thoughts running rampant in Saiko’s head slam to a halt. Laid out before her is the sight of pure carnage. Blood splatter decorates the walls and limbs are strewn across the floor like macabre confetti, some still twitching. Shreds of white coats adorn lumps of bitten meat and red splashes. Not a single investigator left.

“But…but where’s the ghoul?” Hayashimura exclaims urgently.

Right. The ghoul. Nutcracker. They’re here to exterminate it.

Saiko gulps heavily, her sweaty hands trembling. Her quinque suddenly feels twice as heavy. “Did it leave?”

“I don’t know. But stay back from the walls, Yonebayashi, they’re dange-“

Hayashimura has no time to complete his sentence as a an acrobatic figure launches herself over one of the upturned desks, her bikaku skewering him right through the middle. She curves up its tip and yanks him toward her in a fluid sequence, wasting no time at all.

Her black teeth pierce his throat before Saiko even has time to process what’s happening. His cry of pain turns to a gurgle as the ghoul tosses him to the ground. He’s already dying as she violently stomps his groin with her blunt high-heel, his artery squirting like a high pressure fire hose.

Saiko drops her quinque, her whole body shaking like a raindrop on the lip of a petal. Nutcracker turns and fixes her with a striking raptorial kakugan. Saiko is irresistibly struck by the sight of her demise in tangible form, crimson-splashed Death walking toward her in confident strides as styled, silken soot bounces softly against its slender shoulders. Beautiful, is a thought that races across her frazzled mind too bizarre to miss even against the animal panic that notches her pulse up to a raging pace.

Unbeknownst to Saiko, Nutcracker is equally awestruck. She stops when she’s close enough to watch the sweat catch in the girl’s eyelashes, catch the quiver in her chapped lower lip. She cups her face softly, smearing blood across the skin.

Nutcracker finds the girl desirable. She’s round and soft, her stout legs and her pudgy stomach evidence of how well fed she must be. She must have decent money to be eating that well. Nutcracker lets a smile play on her lips and squeezes cheeks as pleasantly spongy as cake.

“You don’t want to fight,” she purrs.

The investigator gulps, complexion drained whiter than powdered sugar.

“N-No,” she declares breathlessly. Her eyes wide enough to span the room and back again, glittering with utter fear.

Nutcracker hums lightly and removes her hands from her face, opting instead to play with her hair. Pigtails. They’re cute, girlish.

“I,” she begins as she twists her fingers through the soft threads, “am full. I won’t eat you. I could kill you here and now just to kill you. But I don’t have to do that, do I?”

Saiko considers her options. Lack thereof, rather. Nutcracker’s lips stretch in an onyx grin, red accenting her dyed teeth. The ghoul is cradling her face and so close in proximity she can feel the body heat coming off of her.

Even if she were to release her kagune, it isn’t suited for striking targets multiple times, nor is it apt to this torridly close range. If she missed, she has no backup. She’s at Nutcracker’s mercy. And the ghoul was right. She doesn’t want to fight. She’s never wanted to fight. She doesn’t want to be here at all. It wasn’t her choice to become an investigator.

Nutcracker reads the footnotes in her aura, the way her shoulders are not straight with pride and duty, but rigid with apprehension. The unmotivated stance, her feet too close together. The fraught, tired gaze that doesn’t vehemently accuse her of being a monster as all the rest of them do.

“I thought so.” Nutcracker softly kisses the girl’s forehead. Her lipstick leaves a perfect imprint.

Saiko holds her breath as Nutcracker whisks around and saunters away, her shapely hips swaying. She falls to her knees and watches the ghoul’s back until she is gone, knowing she’s just tread on the edge of death and been spared only for whatever prompted that fleeting kiss.

[kakujaeto]

tg femslash week; day 1

prompt: sight pairing: rize/touka rating: gen length: ~1100

Rize is beautiful.

It’s impossible for Touka not to notice, with the way she sweeps into Anteiku each day.

She steps through the door and all eyes are drawn to her, to the way she glances at the floor and pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear, to the way she clutches her book to her chest like a shield, to the way her skirt sways with her steps as she crosses the room to her usual seat in the far corner. She flattens her dress as she sits, tilts her legs to cross one ankle behind the other, and carefully opens her book, seemingly unaware of the way she has captivated everyone in the cafe.

But Touka knows better. The dazed looks on the faces of the other customers make her want to pull her hair out, because how can they not see it?

Rize is beautiful, and she knows it.

She holds her back straight and her head high, looking down at those around her even as she pretends to avoid eye contact. Each movement is made with confidence, without a hint of hesitation. She plays with a lock of hair to highlight her cheekbones. She adjusts her glasses to draw attention to her large eyes. She leans forward and crosses her arms in her lap and acts like she doesn’t notice when eyes drift down to her chest.

It pisses Touka off.

She can see it. She can see the act, see that her every movement is calculated to draw people in, and that the real Rize is nothing like the image she displaus to others. It pisses her off that Rize is obviously using her looks to her advantage, and people still fall all over her feet at her slightest whims.

Touka watches Rize reel in another victim, another fool who falls for her act completely. She watches him fumble over his words and Rize giggle politely at his unfunny jokes. Touka can’t believe it’s happening, even after all the times she’s watched this same scene play out before.

Then the pair stands to leave, and Touka grips the cup she’s washing so tight that it cracks.

Touka curses, and the noise draws Rize’s attention. She glances back over her shoulder, and Touka’s heart beats faster as she watches Rize’s gaze move slowly toward her.

Their eyes meet, and the world stops. Just for a moment -- long enough for Rize to narrow her eyes and send Touka a smug smirk -- before Rize slips out the door with her prey obediently trailing behind her.

Touka grimaces, and tries not to think about what that smile meant.

-

A few disasters and six months later, and Touka has come to terms with the fact that she’ll never see Rize again. She's got more pressing concerns at the moment.

Touka’s gone numb from crying, only half listening when Yomo tells her they need to make a stop before they can leave the 20th ward. Her life has fallen apart, she’s lost her home, most of her friends, her place to belong, all that she built for herself after she’d already lost everything once. She’s lost and hopeless and doesn’t know what to do, because what is there to do? How does someone move on from something like this? How many times does she have to lose everything important to her?

And then suddenly there is Rize. Huddled on the ground in a shipping container, sobbing for someone to feed her, looking nothing like Touka remembers.

Her hair is dirty and stringy, with none of its shine. Her eyes are swollen and sunken, her cheeks pale and thin. She looks tired, starved, and hopeless. The confidence Touka remembers, the power Rize exuded -- it's all been stripped from her.

She’s lost more than Touka.

“We have to take her with us,” Yomo says, and Touka agrees. It's easy enough to see. And after all, that's why Anteiku existed.

-

It takes weeks, but gradually, Rize returns to herself.

She stops lunging for food and begins eating slowly. She looks at Touka and Yomo when they enter the room. She stops screaming and starts speaking again.

But the fire is still gone. Her confidence, her strength, the things that made her dangerous, the things that made her Rize. That hasn't quite returned.

Her eyes are dull when she looks at Touka, and it takes effort for Touka not to react to her empty gaze.

“Here,” Touka offers, holding out a new bag of books. “For you.”

Rize smiles, or tries to, and takes the offering.

“Do you need anything?” When Rize doesn't answer, Touka stands to go.

“Wait,” Rize calls, and Touka does. She hesitates. “Maybe some water?”

Touka nods, and crosses the room to fetch a cup from the cabinet, and fills it with water. When she returns to Rize, she crouches on the ground beside the couch where Rize sits.

“I saw,” Rize croaks, voice cracking in her dry throat.

Touka offers her the glass, holds it up to her lips to help her drink. “Saw what?”

Rize swallows and licks her lips, and tries again. “I saw the way you looked at me. Back then.”

Touka freezes, then lowers her hand to place the glass on the table beside them. “That was a long time ago,” she answers softly.

“You don't look at me that way anymore,” Rize continues.

Touka is silent. It's true.

Rize looks away, and suddenly seems so much younger than she is. She looks vulnerable, and Touka is reminded again how much she lost, how much was taken from her.

-

The bell chimes through :re, and Touka turns to greet their new customer, but stops before the words leave her lips.

There, standing in the doorway, is Rize, and she's glowing.

The last Touka had seen her, she'd grown strong enough to feel restless and caged, and after everything she'd been through, Yomo and Touka didn't have it in them to try to keep her. So she left, and Touka had watched her go.

It seems like ages ago -- has it been years, now? Touka wonders.

But Rize looks just the same as she remembers.

She holds her head high as she crosses the cafe. Her hair shines in the light from the windows, and fans out behind her as she moves. Her eyes shine, and hold just a hint of that dangerous energy Touka knows is lurking beneath the surface. Rize’s grin is sharp enough to wound.

She is deadly and beautiful, and she knows it.

“Welcome back,” Touka sighs, and Rize's smile softens just for her.