So I found a Vincent snippet in my collection which I was actually never going to use but decided to revive and expand in the end for the Vincent birthday project of @midnight-in-town
Note: It’s a bit stupid.
“All Phantomhives were the same – cunning, cursed, and always attracting danger.”
“I’d hate to kill a pretty girl like you.” His expression was full of unhinged mockery though his eyes did gleam with a hint of regret.
Why did beauty have to be so vicious?
She was unperturbed, even whilst lying on her back, the jagged cut on her lower left thigh continuing to gush blood. “Funny.” She chuckled, full chest heaving as she took in a deep, needed breath. It was such a pretty sight.
He smirked. “How so?”
“I’m not exactly giving you that option.” In one sweeping motion, she managed to propel herself up and before he could even laugh, the girl landed one breathtakingly injurious kick to his chest before backflipping away, high heels clicking as she vanished into the night.
He coughed, smile widening. Oh-ho, he was right.(Above him, the pale moon gleamed silver.)She was fun.
Ciel and Elizabeth are reincarnated over and over but in each life time they still struggle to happily be together. I’m feeling so melancholy lately.
Ciel eventually becomes immortal and finds Lizzie over and over, but loses her earlier each time.
Okay this is more depressing than my original thought *loud sobbing*
Or maybe sticking with the season 2 ending and as a demon he finds her every time but he decides not to get involved with her life because he doesn’t age and he can’t grow up with her so he just watches her life go by until the next life time.
The first time he sees her, it’s a shock.
“It’s not her,” he thinks. “It can’t be. She died decades ago.”
But then she looks up, and there’s no mistaking those big green eyes, looking at him in slight confusion. “Hey,” she says, “this is a strange question, but do I know you?”
He can’t find a way to answer her, other than, “How are you here?”
She laughs, and tells him she’s been studying to become a nurse. The conversation is quiet, and feels impossibly right.
Then World War 1 hits, and Lizzy Bennet disappears, going under a false identity into battle. She doesn’t return home.
He’s lost her twice now.
He’s going to lose her more.
The second time, he tries to stay away from her. If he can just stay away, he won’t lose her. It’s harder than expected though, as he watches her lose everything to the Depression, and be turned out of her house.
It’s only after her parents have died, though, that he can’t take her suffering anymore.
“Elizabeth Abrams.”
Defiant green eyes look up at him. “How do you know my name?”
He stops. “I… Can’t say. But please, let me help you.”
She doesn’t trust him for a long time, but the need for food and shelter forces her to give in, and slowly, she begins to open up. She’s a trusting soul, even after the hardships of her current life.
One night, after having dinner, she asks for a kiss. He can’t refuse her.
Two weeks later, there is a car crash, and Elizabeth Abrams dies.
The third time, she sees him first. He’s not sure how it happened, but one moment he’s reading, and the next, a girl is kissing him, before pulling away with a smirk. “My friends dared me to,” she says, blushing rosily.
He stares up at her. “Things sure have changed,” he mutters under his breath. Ten years ago, no woman would ever have just walked up and kissed a man, but now, in 1968, it seems almost commonplace.
“What was that?”
“Nothing at all. Just amazed that such a lovely girl saw fit to grace me with her lips,” he smiles. He tried to stay away last time, and that didn’t work out in his favor. This time, he’s at least going to attempt to be happy with her.
She giggles, and glances over her shoulder at her friends, who are watching intently. He waves, and they nearly shriek in excitement.
“Nice friends you’ve got,” he raises a brow.
“What can I say? You’re attractive, we’re single women.” She bites her lip, and he asks her to meet him at the pier.
It’s only two months of bliss before she’s diagnosed with leukemia, and exactly three months after their “first” meeting, Liz Walker dies in the hospital.
The fourth time he meets her, she’s dancing at a rock concert, and she literally falls into his arms. She looks up, and smiles. “Oh, it’s you,” she laughs. “Thanks for catching me.”
“You… know me?”
She looks him over. “I think so. A part of me definitely does.” Their eyes meet. “I know I want to.”
He smiles, trying hard not to show how her words shake him. “Do you use that line on every guy you crash into?”
“Why, is it working?” she smirks.
“Perhaps…”
“Then dance with me?” she extends a hand. For a second, he’s twelve again, and she’s arranged a ball just for the two of them, forcing him into that outfit, and attacking the mansion with bows and frills. Then he takes her hand, and the memory lifts, but the new moment is just as magical.
“I love you,” he tells her at the end of the night.
Her smile widens. “After one night?”
“After a hundred years of falling for you, time after time.”
“You sure know how to talk a girl up,” she pokes his chest, giggling. Then her smile grows softer. “Thanks though. You gave me the best night of my life.”
He watches her eyes, and he knows.
It’s 1982, and Lizbeth Monroe already knew she had a few weeks left to live when she met him.
The fifth time he meets her, she’s sitting alone under a tree, in the dark. Tears are streaming down her face, and he realizes that she’s summoned him.
Not him, the man, him, the demon.
“What happened, Elizabeth?”
She looks up at him, scared, but determined. “You know my name. Right. I want to make a contract.”
“What?”
“I want to make a contract.”
He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Whatever you need, I’ll do it,” he tells her. “Please, don’t cry…” he reaches out to wipe her tears, and she jumps back.
“Don’t try anything, demon,” she whispers, her voice horse from crying. “Just save Aaron, and you can have my soul.”
“Aaron?”
“My brother was kidnapped. They want revenge on my parents. Save him, and you can have my soul.”
Ciel looks down. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that.”
“What?”
“I can save him, if that is your wish. But I will not take your soul, Lizzie.”
“Don’t you call me Lizzie,” she snaps. “Just save him, please!”
He bites his lip. “Alright. In exchange for a kiss.”
She nods. “Deal.” The mark burns her wrist.
After saving her brother, and killing those who took him, the demon will not leave her alone. He hasn’t collected yet, and he’s been doing everything she asks for a week.
At the end of the week, a lone survivor of the massacre shoots her.
“Ciel!” she screams, and he appears, ripping the man in half… but the damage is done.
“Elizabeth, hold on, please hold on!” he begs. “I haven’t collected yet, dying is a breach of contract. You can’t die. Not again.”
“C-ciel…” she whispers. “Kiss me.”
He’d be crying if he could, but at the moment, all he can do is obey his mistress as she takes her final breath.
It’s 1999, and Elizabeth St. Ryan is dead a week after contracting a demon.
The sixth time he sees her, she’s watching the sky.
She’s lying under a tree, hands behind her head, in a pink dress, looking almost like he remembers her, albeit with a skirt to her knees instead of the ground.
He sits beside her. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she says, not looking away from the sky. “I’ve been missing you.”
“Have you?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
She stretches out a hand, and he takes it, feeling the softness of her fingers. “Lady Elizabeth?”
She smiles slightly. “It’s just Lizzie.”
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he says quietly. “I want to keep you with me.”
She turns her face to him, and her eyes are shining. “I’ve been dreaming about you for the past year. If this is another dream…”
“I promise, it isn’t.”
“Ciel.”
“Yes?”
“How did you do it?”
He knows what she’s talking about. “A contract. Not mine, but another’s.”
“Could I do the same thing?”
He strokes her hair. “I don’t want you to.”
“It’s that or I die in a few days, right? Maybe tonight even.” She looks away. “It’s this or we lose each other over and over, forever.”
He looks down at the blue flower on his hand. She’s always been there, for as long as his memory goes. He doesn’t want to lose her. “Are you certain, Lady Elizabeth?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. I will make you like me. In return, I ask for your hand.”
“You don’t have to ask, Ciel,” she smiles. “I’ve been your fiancée for over a century. I’d be honored to be your wife.”
The seal appears in pale pink on her left eye, and at last, the two kiss, finally together in eternity.
It is 2016, and Lady Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford-Phantomhive’s life has only just begun.
Claudia walked confidently across the ballroom; feeling the weight of eyes scrutinizing and approving of her appearance. She recognized that she was an attractive woman, which was to be expected of the Phantomhive line. There were times, however, she felt her looks were a bit of a disadvantage. She was expected to simply be pretty, dainty, and weak; a proper ornament for a husband, but those things were impossible for her. She had to be more.
She was the queen’s watchdog.
The title and responsibilities had been passed down her family, but she was the first woman to hold the title. Although she had been spared the dirty details of the job in her youth, she had the distinct feeling that it was even more difficult for her as a woman. She had much more of a balancing act because she still had to be a lady.
A dashing gentleman stepped forward and held out his hand to request a dance. With an appropriately modest nod, she walked towards him to accept his request, but then her eyes looked past the man to fall upon Tanaka. Her butler held up a familiar white envelope in his gloved hand, and she knew precisely what that meant.
She slipped past the man who had wanted a dance as she quietly left the ballroom. All eyes were still on her as she left, and she knew what they wanted to see. They wanted to witness the moment she transformed from a lady to a watchdog.
They had a long wait as there was no such transformation. She always had to be both. That was her job.
Hey! It’s fine, it’s fine! I didn’t give any set rule for prompting after all 🙂
So, as for the fic: it came out shorter than the others, but I hope you can enjoy it anyway. What follows is an introspection that tries to put together everything above. Hopefully I managed to do Seidou at least a bit of justice since I love him so much
Fanfiction Giveaway – Fourth fill. (Read the others)
Takizawa wonders what the hell he’s still doing here.
He looks at the clock hanging on a wall and frowns, his eyes darting out of the window at the far end of the room from where Mado’s bed is placed just to give himself something to do. Minutes tick by, and the sky beyond the glass doesn’t change shade. It’s still stuck on a deep blue, as dark as the blackened ends of his fingers, where nails should have been hadn’t he nervously picked them off. He curses under his breath, then aloud, then subtly glances back at the clock. Five after midnight. He taps his fingers together. He swears he’s been idly sitting in that cramped chair for days, instead of hours.
Mado’s slow breath rings in his ears, too loud in the silence of the room, and he tries to ignore it.
Okay so, first of all, thank you very much for writing this prompt since you really didn’t have to!
Second thing is, well, I enjoyed it immensely and I think you did Seidou justice. I find him to be an extremely compelling character but because of this he can prove to be difficult to write, which is why I think you did an amazing job because A+ characterization throughout the story.
Besides, I didn’t give you such a simple prompt since I left it all to your imagination and I’m really happy you chose to address the complicated feelings Takizawa had for Akira while supposing on what hers could be from Seidou’s point of view!
Finally, you included the fact that he indeed tried to kill her and that it probably plays on his mind and on how he feels about her (since in no way he’d be able to dismiss that fact), and I’m glad you remembered that “detail”, since I find people tend to put a lot of focus on Akira shielding him when the fact that he did try to kill her is a big deal I hope they’ll bring up again in canon (if just so they can both move on).
So really, between all this and Banjou’s cute cameo, I have to say, A+ job!! Thank you so much for writing this! (^3^)
Warnings: None. Seidou and Akira are fluffy and gross with each other though.
Notes: This is it!! The first Seiaki fic! I’m super hype for it. I wrote this all of yesterday and some of today, and I only went through and edited it once, so I hope it’s okay!
Dedications: To hidebot, who is the most splendiferous of the splendiferous, and always cheered me on with my seiaki, and shipped it right alongside with me since the beginning. ❤
Also to senju-swag, who made the first seiaki fanart yesterday, and is OTP’ing this as hard as I am. We’ll take care of this sip together and convert everyone, Lee.
Summary: Seidou and Akira have a horror movie marathon, and Akira attempts to convince her partner to try some gummy spiders.
A/N: Oh gosh, you have no idea who delighted I am that there’s an appreciation month for Diedrich going on ^-^ anyway, here’s a little fic I wrote concerning Diedrich/Francis in their youth. It’s a little romantic but a lot nostalgic 🙂 thank you so much for this!!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The domed pentagon of the enormous painted ballroom is colored in lavish, expensive hues melding, in their splendid decor, into an effusive dream of pale blue and heavy gold. With its dense theatricality and low crystal chandeliers that are the size of small carriages, the room demands veneration and applause. A direct contrast, some might think, to the severe austerity of the German nobleman who owns this castle.
The angled folds of the room are decorated with pillars of stucco work marble, all complete in hues of red, white, and yellow, as if to connote Poseidon’s sea nymphs and their waterlily hair. Lady Francis Phantomhive strolls its outer premises, a flute of French champagne in hand while her sharp jade eyes take in the subtle preening of Europe’s aging aristocrats and the inconspicuous business transactions bankrupting soul and spirit around her. It is an overwhelming sight she has grown accustomed to, though, tonight, she was not supposed to be here.
Vincent—that silver tongued, honey eyed serpent—had lambasted her to agitation until she’d agreed to accompany him on a “brief trip” that somehow became a week long stay in the German countryside. She loved, loathed, and wished to pummel her brother in equal measure. That sly, sneaking bastard.
“Sister dearest, it seems providence has called and I’ve now just found myself wracked with responsibility—“
“You lying, irreparable charlatan.”
He grins, beautifully insincere. “You’ll have to go in my stead. Diedrich will be dreadfully upset if a Phantomhive doesn’t make an appearance.”
“I want to drown you in the River Thames.”
“Ah, fairest Francis—“
“No.”
He takes her hand in a dreadfully cliche manner. “Do me this one favor sister dearest and I will forever be in your debt.”
“You ought to write that statement on your forehead.” She scowls. “It’s the fourteenth time you’ve said it.”
“You’ll like Diedrich.”
“I don’t even know what the man looks like!”
“Tall. Stately. Fine German dog.”
“If he likes you then I’m inclined to dislike him.”
Vincent—her lying, deceitful, aggravating brother—feigns shock. “But you mustn’t! Otherwise he’ll never let me hear the end of it. Don’t you know how many hearts you’ve broken in England, sister dear?”
“Yes, well, if I’m half as talented as you say I am then I’m tempted to try and devastate you as well.”
Vincent presses a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “It’s only for an hour, Francis darling.”
Her eyes narrow.
The earl grins—he knows he’s just about secured victory.
“And Francis—do try to smile while you’re there. I won’t be responsible for your eminent spinsterhood.” Quick as those words leave his mouth, Vincent ducks out of the room right as Francis—with her marksman’s aim—throws a glass vase at his head.
And now she is here, wandering around a heavily stylized German ballroom, champagne in hand, and feigning boredom while listening to the select chatter of sirs and ladies whose station has drawn the attention of the Queen’s Watchdog. She has a good ear and can speak over five languages, including Danish; this incongruous show of magpies offers more wisdom than even the most frenzied torture session.
She continues circling the ballroom in between small sips of sickly sweet champagne until she spies a tall, dark haired man standing in the most aloof manner in a distant, shadowed corner. He is military, Francis knows this on instinct—the straight, tensely erect posture is an impressive sight and his black uniform, finely pressed and without fault, is the plainest and most dignified thing in this entire room.
Francis approaches without hesitation.
“Sir.” She gives a shallow but perfectly polite curtsey.
He glances towards her, expression cold, severe, and perfectly German. It only takes him half a second to give her a nod in return.
“Fräulein.”
“Countess, actually.” Francis corrects, moving to stand by him. Her title matters very little to her but she’s always been a woman of propriety, etiquette, and nobility. It will not do to make exceptions for any one man.
He arches a brow though his expression remains unchanged. “Pfalzgräfin.”
“I am not from Palatine.”
“Na richer. But gräfin does not suit the English ear and I know how dearly you English value your phonics.”
Phonics.
The corner of Francis’s lip twitches, a smile threatening to blossom on her usually downturned mouth. “You must have had an encounter with a very particular Englishman.”
“Ja.”
“Shall I guess who?” Her eyes flit towards the ballroom and then back at him. “It would be an amusing game to pass the time—unless I am keeping you from other company.”
“No.” He returns, shoulders firm, countenance grim, and hands clasped behind his back. “I find myself in a position of temporary leisure.”
She almost comments on his deliberate statement but chooses instead to sip at the still bubbly champagne. “May I posit that this Englishman is part of her majesty’s court?”
He gives a slight, imperceptible nod.
“And that he is of a derisive nature, with the sort of sanity that causes you to wonder why he has not been committed?” Her voice is light, almost playful, and Francis blames it on the champagne.
The tall German officer tilts his head towards her and she is suddenly struck by the darkness of his eyes. They burn, repressed with emotion and fiery contemplation and, suddenly, in one brief, mad moment, she wants to ask him every question under the sun, no matter how simple, just to hear the passion in his answers. Francis manages to shake herself out of this strange stupor to catch a fleeting glance of his strong, angular jaw and high cheekbones.
There is also, she notes, a facet of surprise in his stoic expression—as if he did not expect to be even mildly amused but habit dictated he display nothing to the contrary. Instead, the German gives another nod—this one slightly more noticeable than the one given previously.
“Shall I now astound you with my capacity for deductions?”
His lips press together, as if holding back a smile. “I am of an unambiguous nature. If you so wish to unveil your choice, so be it.”
“Are you always so acquiescent?”
“I see nothing in your statement that is inherently disagreeable.”
Francis relents, and a half-smile appears on her mouth. His eyes, dark, mysterious, and burning, are temporarily drawn to it but he recovers with a speed Francis is not at all satisfied with. He is, within seconds, looking straight ahead again.
She counters with a verbal riposte—
“Vincent Phantomhive.”
—and with a certainty bred by familiarity, he looks back down in her direction and she decides that yes, this must be the Diedrich her brother spoke in riddles about.
“I think he is most disagreeable.” She offers and he looks tempted to chase her offer with a nod of agreement but restrains himself from such truth. “If you wish to say a statement that might bolster his image…”
“I believe his confidence could use something of the opposite effect.” He returns with a huff of indignation that Francis finds both humorous and charming.
“You’re very rude you know.” She says matter-of-factly.
This catches the man by surprise. “Pardon?”
“I have spoken with you for an indecently long time and have yet to learn your name. You would be desecrated in English society for such a folly.”
He blinks. “Indeed?”
“Oh yes.”
He frowns and looks away, as if the dancing patrons before him could answer all of life’s mysteries though, in the end, he merely glances at a crystal chandelier before returning his gaze unto Francis once more. “Apologies.” He nods stiffly. Then, in one sharp, swift moment, gives her a formal bow. “Diedrich Weizsäcker of the same barony.”
She is unsurprised.
“We are in your castle.”
“Indeed.” He confirms and proffers nothing else—no show of false modesty or blue-blooded history.
Francis finds his abstinent behavior refreshingly direct and most welcome against this backdrop of superfluous wealth.
They stood there then, in a moment of silent contemplation not at all disconcerting—in fact, if she wished to name the strange sensation that calmed both her rigid distaste and her discriminatory eye—she might say it was amiability. Or something of a warmer feeling though that was far too sentimental for someone like Francis Phantomhive.
“Countess?”
She glances towards him. “Sir?”
“An English waltz will next be played.” Francis does not ask how he knows for Diedrich, Baron Weizsäcker, and owner of this magnificent castle, looks oddly uncomfortable. He stands with even more formality than before. “If you would…?”
She refuses to budge. “Finish your thought.”
He looks at her—surprised, pleased, and faintly amused. “You are a very forthright woman.”
“If you missed that observation then I would have no choice but to blame myself for talking to a cinderblock.”
He laughs then—a faint, quiet chuckle that would have been missed by someone of a fainter heart—though there is surprise infused in the sound, as if Francis had, by virtue of her ingenuity, tricked him into it. He turns to face her fully and, this time, she thinks she can denote a hint of affection in his burning eyes, one that is new and starving, desiring cultivation and familiarity.
“My lady.” He addresses and somehow, these words sound uniquely intimate when said in his voice, tinged with a slight German accent. “If I may?” He offers her his hand, waiting.
And Francis, propelled by momentum and something else she cannot describe, takes it.
They are mid-waltz when Diedrich agrees that Vincent Phantomhive is an insufferable brat but that she is a beautifully unique exception to the bloodline.
Thank you for the wonderful submission! It was a beautiful story that’s perfectly in character, with enjoyable interactions and a lovely grasp of Diederich’s (and Frances’) character. I would 10/10 recommend this to all Diederich/Frances shippers or romantic!Dee fans. Bravo!
For a few days, I’ve had this very short idea of something from Claudia’s point of view concerning ‘meeting’ Undertaker. I have no idea if I’ll ever expand this or leave it as a ficlet. If anyone would like to expand the idea, they are welcome.
I knew him before he introduced himself. I had seen him many times in my childhood; gliding by with his silvery locks trailing behind like some sort of ethereal cape. I had heard his chuckle dancing down the halls or the tapping of his long nails on a polished surface, yet we had never spoken before that night. I had never really considered the matter in all honesty until I saw him make his way across the crowded ballroom.
He bowed before me like a gentleman; his hair cascading down his shoulders as he did so, and smiled at me. I couldn’t see his eyes through the thick fringes of his banes, but I had the distinct feeling those irises were sparkling with mischievousness. As he stood, he took one of my gloved hands in his. Even though the fabric, I could feel the coldness of his touch.
You are looking lovely tonight,” he said, “and this is an important night after all. I don’t believe we’ve every been formally introduced. I am…”
“Death,” I interrupted, although I had no real idea of where that had originated. The thought had never really occurred to me before my moment, but the word had slipped from my tongue before it could be stopped. Even so, it felt fitting hanging on the air between us.
His smile slipped almost imperceptibly and there was the briefest of pauses, but then he recovered quickly. “I wasn’t going to say that,” he said with a laugh. He gestured towards the open floor. “Shall we dance?”
A small part of mind noted that he hadn’t denied the accusation, but I accepted his invitation and joined him on the floor. He began to guide me about elegantly, and I could feel the weight of eyes upon me, although this was not a new sensation. I had kept my title and had planned to continue the work of my family. Despite being born a woman, I had always been destined to be the Queen’s Watchdog.
Just as I had always been destined to dance with death.
As an intelligent child, one of the few female investigators of the CCG, and the daughter of Kureo Mado, Akira had heard countless attacks on her femininity. She’d been called cold and sexless. Demanding and uncompromising. An ice princess in one breath, manly in the next, but always ALWAYS uncaring.
(She’d cried about it to her father once when she much smaller and much less stubborn. He’d petted her hair adoringly, gentle like she wasn’t something firm and unyielding, and asked her what she cared about...)
Growing up without a mother had taken its toll on her. Not because her father had failed her or any intrinsic need for two parents. Rather, her nature was always attributed to a lack of maternal care. Well-meaning teachers had offered themselves as mother-figures to fill a ‘void’. They’d used gentle words: they wanted to correct her behaviour. She could be such a sweet girl! They wanted to teach her how to be a woman so she could raise children of her own.
(Akira refused to think about children. Would she be able to be gentle? Would she survive this line of work? Would she ever be able to want someone again, knowing what it did to her father, knowing what it did to-)
No one had ever called her maternal. No one had ever wanted her to mother a person. When the prodigal Washuus asked her to fill the void in Haise’s life, knowing about the ‘void’ in her own, she had thought it was a joke.
Just for a moment, she thought they were mocking her.
(It had gripped her heart where all the freezer-burn of her past lay solid and cold. She was a woman, wasn’t she? She should be able-)
However, if Akira had been taught one thing in this line of work, the best revenge for a joke, the best revenge for an unreasonable assignment, was to do it. Do it and be good at it. So she agreed.
She…had been a fool. Anyone, anything, could’ve been a mother to Haise. He would’ve accepted whatever scraps he’d been given.
She should’ve just given him scraps.
When she was given Haise (like a gift or an unwanted pet), Akira had seen an empty shell. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Haise aimed to please, but there wasn’t any conviction behind it. He simply didn’t want to be hurt.
It was disgusting. It was pathetic. A monster avoiding pain for the sake of it.
She taught him how to use a quinque with a softer hand than Arima. She let her words hurt him instead of her body.
Like an abused dog, Haise always came back. He came back to Arima, too. He brought books, soft words, and tears in his eyes whenever he killed another ghoul in the streets.
She couldn’t take pleasure in his pain. Instead, she told herself it was necessary. She told herself Haise was a weapon.
She told him that, as well.
Haise was advancing through the ranks at an alarming pace. Her lessons with him no longer needed to be as strict. To fill the time, Akira taught him about profiling. She taught him about how to form logical connections, how to accept wrong conclusions for what they were, how to start again.
When Haise tried to show off his newfound knowledge in their next case, eyes sparkling with the same old ‘does this please you? I hope this pleases you!’ look, Akira felt a sudden pang of empathy. Because Haise was feminine and he was other. Revealing his desire to please…
Needless to say Haise’s suggestions were completely ignored. No one in the room reacted to his speech. They talked over him (like he wasn’t even there, like it wouldn’t effect him, like he wasn’t worth the time).
Later, Akira taught Haise how to be underhanded. How to behave humbly when necessary. How to own the place he had earned.
They weren’t the lessons her peers said mothers would teach. However, they were how Akira learned to be a woman.
“He’s attached to you.”
The Washuus said.
“Like a duckling, like an animal, like a creature begging for scraps.”
They didn’t say.
(Akira wasn’t a mother. A person would be able to see that)
“Can I have a hug?”
Haise asked, stepping down from the podium after receiving yet another medal (stained in blood he didn’t want to spill, filled with things that didn’t please him, things that pleased his keepers).
She said no, then. It would be cruel to give something once she wasn’t willing to give again. It wouldn’t be right.
(She didn’t want to know how Haise would feel in her arms. She didn’t want to acknowledge that he would let her cradle him, that he took comfort from her presence even when others were willing to praise him)
They wanted Haise to become the head of a squad. Young, inexperienced, naive Haise (not that naive, not that inexperienced, Akira he is not a child). She was meant to guide his way and undermine his ‘emotional concerns’.
“You are good at that,”
They’d said,
“Always quick with a logical argument.”
Haise was worried about children taking on his life. He was worried about the bias they’d face, the othering they would experience, and the risk to their health and safety.
“This girl,”
He said to her, ranting like he so often did (pacing the length of her office whenever she let him in),
“Her family basically sold her! Her mother is using her! She doesn’t want to be doing this! It’s cruel. It’s wrong.”
Every word hit Akira like a physical blow. Could Haise recognize that because of his experiences with her? He was highly empathetic, but bad at visualizing contexts he hadn’t experienced.
“Perhaps this is a good thing.”
She argued back, mouth moving on autopilot as her mind whirled,
“She can leave that family situation behind and be resituated in a new one. If she doesn’t do this, her mother will simply sell her elsewhere.”
Haise fixed her with an unnerving stare. He rarely got stubborn, not with her, but he often had to…reorganize ideas in his head. Change the meaning of what somebody said to prevent conflict. He always looked particularly mutinous when doing so, making her uncharacteristically nervous in the meantime.
“I’ll replace her mom then.”
Haise finally mumbled. He glanced at her, reading every little twitch of her face (she hated that she knew, she KNEW, that Haise could see through her), and his voice gained confidence:
“I’ve been taught by the best, after all.”
As the guardian of the Qs, Haise caused a lot more trouble. The blankness she had first seen in him was fading. He was still meek, still eager to please, but…he had opinions.
Or maybe he always had opinions and she had been too uncaring to notice (no, that wasn’t true, she had been unwilling to see because that would mean-).
Haise had enemies now. Enemies that weren’t entirely based in his ghoul-nature. Oddly, when Haise employed her lessons on diplomacy (or destroying your enemies by just being better) he no longer looked to her for approval. She could see the way his shoulders shook, though. She could see the fear trembling down his arms and into his hands.
She wanted him to look to her.
Squad 1 talked too much shit. They were preventing the Qs from growing into all they could be. They were making her fail at her job.
Yeah, that’s why she backed Haise up. That’s why she lectured him after.
Haise kept falling apart at the seams. It was obvious to her that one day he would crack. As much as she talked about profiling, excelled in it, she continued submitting half-truths in Haise’s file. There was another person in Haise’s head who wasn’t another person at all.
He was afraid of them. Haise knew that his life was a lie. He knew and he still…
Fuck.
He still cared. Anyone could’ve taken her place, but he cared about her. He cared about Arima. He cared about his stupid ‘kids’ and the fact that they called him Mom and called her Grandma when they thought she wouldn’t hear…
(Haise wasn’t an empty shell. He was a person. Fuck)
She’d always known that Haise was Centipede. She’d never been able to hate him with any kind of fervour because of Amon’s strange attachment. She hadn’t liked him though. She hadn’t told him a single thing about Amon.
She hadn’t thought he deserved to know (she hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable).
But here and now, when Haise was doubting his very personhood, she couldn’t deny him this little window into her life.
She gave him the journals.
Do mothers cry with their children?
Do they draw support from their children?
Do their children recognize the sadness within them?
Though he liked to pretend, Akira knew Haise wasn’t taking his medication anymore. She knew he was trying to learn more about the monster inside his head. That he was desperate to be stronger.
She taught him about the justice Amon tried to instil in her.
She hoped it would be enough.
Haise had adopted a ghoul. Of course he had.
Haise stepped off the podium, eying the medals around him with distain. Urie wanted to be promoted so badly, but all the others seemed to shy away from the idea. At least some of Haise’s children took after him.
He spotted her, his fluffy hair swinging as he walked towards her, and Akira tried not to smile (she’d styled it herself. It reminded her of when her father did her hair). His eyes sparkled, though not in the way they used to (he knew she was pleased now).
He asked her for a hug.
She didn’t refuse.
Do mothers fear for their children?
Do they agonize over their choices in raising them?
Do they change for them?
Haise’s past was hunting him. He’d had friends once.
Akira accepted the idea so readily that she was startled awake much later. Ghouls shouldn’t have friends…shouldn’t have family…shouldn’t have people still looking for them.
She went to see the ghoul Haise had adopted. Akira was troubled by the girl, the one who had defended his life but still called him ‘big brother’ as if he was unchanged.
“He’s not who you think he is.”
She had told the girl, letting a cruel smile (half-hearted, warmer than it should be, God why?) cross her face. The girl cocked her head in consideration, then sighed at Akira’s expression,
“I know he’s not my big brother. I also know he has pieces of him, like the books he brings me or the way he says my name. I’m willing to take him however he is.”
She sounded far more mature than her face implied. Akira squinted at her, scrutinizing the tired tilt of her shoulders and the heavy bags under her eyes.
“I don’t want to be here.”
The girl said,
“But I don’t regret what I did.”
When Akira left the ghoul’s cell, she let the hatred bubble up inside of her. How could this girl have no regrets? She’d saved somebody who replaced the person she loved. She’d gotten thrown in jail. Haise could barely look at her.
(Akira had regrets)
(She had many regrets about Haise)
(A softer hand than Arima’s wasn’t actually soft)
(Haise should have trouble looking at her)
“You’re back!”
The girl exclaimed a week later, dropping her book in surprise. Akira schooled her face into something chilly and turned to the guard.
“Leave us for an hour. I have some questions that relate to the current case.”
Akira ordered the guard, dismissing him easily as he barked,
“Yes, Investigator Mado!”
Once he was out of sight, the girl made a high-pitch sound. It was strangled and cut-off (filled with dismay).
“Mado?”
She choked, gaze roving over Akira’s face. Akira nodded and opened her mouth to speak when the girl interrupted,
“He was married. I saw his ring on the riverside. Are you his daughter?”
Akira left without a word.
Shirazu died and Haise left the Qs. There was something deeply wrong with him, made all the more obvious by his failure to visit his ghoul (the one her father had been-). Her mind was a constant snarl of worried thoughts and possible outcomes.
She couldn’t calm down. She couldn’t be rational.
That was why she went back to Cochlea.
“You killed my father.”
“He killed mine.”
Akira stormed away.
Fueguchi was asleep when she came next, late into the night, so Akira simply left.
She returned with a book and placed it in the guard’s hands. She said it was from Haise (it should’ve been).
“My mother wanted me to live. Living isn’t an affront to human existence. I eat to live, but my family never killed anyone. Your father didn’t need to kill mine to live.”
Fueguchi said in leu of a greeting.
“Ghouls killed everyone he ever cared about. Ghouls kill and eat people every single day. Their existence necessitates suffering.”
Akira responded, crumpling the paperback she’d brought with her. It was part of the book subscription box that was still delivered to the chateau, though Haise was no longer there to receive it.
“Your father cut off my mother’s head after she surrendered to him. He did that in front of me. He made her think she could say one last thing to me, then interrupted to kill her. What is suffering, Investigator Mado?”
Fueguchi questioned, her soft tones somehow lacking in the condescension Akira kept expecting to find in them. It reminded her painfully of Haise and she snapped,
“Well, your friend killed him, so I guess neither of us have parents. Maybe that’s suffering.”
As Akira swept out of the room, she heard Fueguchi whisper,
“Yeah, maybe it is.”
“Big brother was a human once, you know.”
Bile rose in Akira’s throat, violent and thick, causing her to stagger from Fueguchi’s cell. Haise had always been a half-ghoul. Though there was research based off of-
She wretched.
She vomited.
Akira didn’t go back.
Rushima was a mess. Cochlea was a mess.
There was, indeed, something wrong with Haise.
God, she HURT. Everything hurt and Amon was there and he was changed and Seidou was there and he was changed even though she’d been pretending because he hadn’t wanted her to see and she hadn’t wanted the CCG to know-
Fuck, fuck, fuck why did she save him why did Amon want to save them, why was Kaneki Ken what he was and when would her friends stop leaving her-
What is suffering, Investigator Mado? What is suffering? What is it? What?
It’s right here. It’s right now. It’s losing and losing and losing-
It’s a mother and her child. It’s a realization made too late. It’s too many words left unsaid, too many assumptions made too early, too many errors, God had her father been a murderer-
Darkness. There was only darkness. Akira was going to die. She almost wanted to.
She deserved to go to Hell if what she suspected was true.
She could hear Fueguchi’s voice sometimes. She could hear Hai-
Kaneki Ken.
He still called her mother.
Fueguchi called her grandma.
They thought she didn’t deserve to die. Seidou was clutching at her hands. A ghoul was trying to heal her and she didn’t have all the data. She needed to be better. She needed-
“When we all thought he was dead, I waited for him. Sometimes that is all you can do, Investigator Mado. You wait. We all lose things, humans and ghouls, and we lose them because of each other. You don’t have all the answers now, but…we are willing to wait for you if you are willing to wait for us.”
If there was a reason for all this, Akira was willing to wait for it.
Thanks for the rec Anon 😉 I’m not really into “naughty reaper fun times” (except Grelliam sometimes, but with an unrequited affection from Grell so nothing particularly naughty because Will isn’t interested for now -> yeah I know my tastes in fanfics are complicated and gotta fit how I see the characterization), but in case someone is into this, I hope they see your message :))
midnight-in-town 