#(juxtaposed by the family that is forged between all the companions)

[kyndaris]

“Not Like Other Girls”

Despite sitting down and having a proper heartfelt discussion about the pressures of ‘continuing the family line’ and ‘finding a significant other,’ my mother is once again hoping that I will somehow befriend a man that I met only twice and exchanged about five minutes total of actual dialogue. Both she and my grandmother are worried about the ticking biological time bomb that is my reproductive system. And while they are also concerned that I’ll die alone, without family or friends, it’s more the former that seems to encompass their thoughts. Why? Well, it’s tradition. It’s the ‘normal’ way of life.

To be honest, I can see where they’re coming from. Yes, it’ll be nice to have a companion besides a body pillow or a strong protector to hold me in their arms...

But I would also like to think that if I decide to go it alone, it should be accepted. Why do I have to fit the mold? Be normal? 

My thoughts have turned back towards this because even at work, one of my colleagues is also hoping to help me ‘settle down.’ Nearing thirty, it’s the ‘expected’ thing to do. And as she strove to support me by offering possible love interests, she also, bless her heart, recounted the days of her youth when she had been a ‘tomboy,’ scarpering over roofs and fixing cars. It was only in her later years that she changed. In truth, it’s hard to envision the woman before me, with her mauve cardigan, loose white blouse, pencil skirt and perfectly coiffed hair as a rambunctious tomboy playing in the mud with scraped knees and elbows.

Growing up, I never could properly fit myself into the ‘girl’ stereotypes that were on TV or in films. There were times that I wondered if maybe I was actually a ‘boy’ trapped in the body of a ‘girl.’ After all, my interests always skewed towards the boyish: playing make-believe as knights, channeling my inner Saiyan and delving into the world of video games like the nerd I am. Lego, rather than Barbie, was what caught my eye. Chess instead of make-up. Pants instead of skirts and dresses. Of course, juxtaposed with these tendencies were my love for books and horses (my second favourite animal behind wolves). 

Unlike those that have taken the step to have their gender reassigned, undergone hormone treatment or have come out about their gender identity, I’ve never felt the intense body dysmorphia that often leads to this realisation. True, I’d prefer it if I had a thinner physique and the inherent ability to backflip or kip-up like those cool people in parkour or martial art videos, but there has never a vast disconnect between who I am and the face I see in the mirror each day.

I mean, what girl hasn’t bemoaned the periods that come every month? Or the discrimination that comes from trying to be the best at sport or hunting or computers or engineering. That’s not to say that dolls and frilly dresses and make-up is a bad thing. Some people are drawn to the prospect of raising a family, of wearing flowery dresses that have no pockets.  But others, such as myself, aren’t as inclined. In fact, my fashion sense is a little more conservative with collared shirts and scoop neck shirts that don’t plunge down to my non-existent cleavage (admittedly, throughout high school, I always hoped that my breasts would never develop and I’d be as flat as a washboard. Alas, it never happened. And the tradition of wearing bras has always chafed. As for the men that go around shirtless...WE DO NOT NEED TO SEE YOUR NIPPLES EITHER! TAPE THEM UP FOR GOODNESS SAKE! Or wear a man bra! Nobody needs to see those pecs. Abs yes. But you can wear a crop top for that).

Unfortunately, in the nearly three decades that I’ve been alive, the toy aisles are still gendered. Though women play video games on an equal level as men, it’s still considered a hobby relegated to angry white men that have the emotional range of a teaspoon. While there have been some strides in evening up the level playing field, I know quite a few people that still echo the sexist sentiments of the past. But, if you don’t want companies to have a quota of female staff, perhaps address the underlying perceptions in the society we live in. 

Being a man or a woman should have no impact on whether one is good at mathematics or the arts. There are plenty of men that would be great at nursing or serving as primary school teachers. Likewise, there are a whole host of women that would be excellent as video game programmers or construction workers.

That said, if a woman doesn’t feel the need to follow tradition and want to forge their own path, that should also be accepted. I’m so sick and tired of being hurried along the hetero-normative corridor, loaded down with the expectation that I should be married by twenty-five and have two children by the time I’m twenty-eight. All, of course, under the guise of love from a worried parent. It’s fine. I’m not lonely. And I’m certainly not something that needs to be pitied. 

There are times that I wonder if there’s something about me that intimidates the men around me. Or maybe they can sense something about me that I haven’t yet discovered. Alas, I can’t be sure. For now, I’ll just fantasise about all my good boys. The question is: do I get a body pillow of Riku (in his Kingdom Hearts 2 attire), Legoshi or best waifu Ignis.

In any case, I’m essentially ‘not like other girls.’ For one, I don’t know how to make-up. What even is shaving legs or armpits. And I like books and video games too much to ever ‘grow out of it.’ If that’s not what you’re looking for, well, please look elsewhere. As for any others that might be possibly interested in a person such as myself, and are looking to apply to be my SO, I have a form ready and waiting to be filled out.

I mean, is there any other way of separating the wheat from the chaff in this day and age? 

Fair warning: my standards are HIGH. And like I said, no nipples. Even Tumblr says ‘no.’

[cruelfeline]

A couple of weeks ago, I made a post discussing some of the similarities between Adora and Hordak. It was a nice post. Y’all should peek at it if you haven’t already.

Today, though, I want to focus on a major difference between them. More specifically, I want to focus on juxtaposing how they confront their “masters” at the end of season four. It’s an interesting, if sad, comparison, and I think it nicely demonstrates how different they are in terms of growth stage at this point in the story, along with highlighting the thematic weight the writers place on friendship and healthy emotional support.

Let’s start with Adora. The last few episodes of season four see Adora finally learning the true history behind Mara and the First Ones, discovering her actual role, and coming to terms with what she has unknowingly been training for this whole time. She finds out that she, as She-Ra, has basically been designed as a glorified gun trigger, groomed by Light Hope to fulfill a purpose far removed from what she’d originally expected. Rather than having suffered and sacrificed in order to save the world, she’s put in all of this effort to essentially become a weapon of mass destruction. 

This is obviously soul-crushing news, but Adora prevails. She prevails because, while she’s been training hard to be She-Ra, she has also been forging bonds with Bow and Glimmer and everyone else. She’s been developing a sense of self outside of She-Ra, something that she originally had trouble with but managed to do with the help of her friends. She’s been understanding and managing the trauma of her past with Shadow Weaver and Catra. Slowly but surely, she’s been healing. She’s been gaining a sense of self-confidence and validation outside of bowing to destiny. And so she rebels.

She is able to use all of the strength she has developed over the last few seasons, strength developed with the help of her found family, and she is able to do what even Mara couldn’t: she is able to break the sword. She is able to fight back against this terrible role that she’s been unknowingly playing, regain her agency, and make her own decision, for better or for worse.

Adora ends the season in an uncertain place: the sword is broken, and her role without it is yet to be revealed. She and all of the Etherians are now facing the greatest challenge they have ever seen, and none of them really know how they are going to come out victorious against someone as powerful as Horde Prime. However, while the situation is uncertain, Adora herself is not. Things have irreversibly changed, and perhaps the next season will see her going through some sort of emotional crisis before righting herself again, but as things stand now, she knows who she is and what she wants, and she is confident in herself and in her companions. Despite the serious obstacles currently present, our last shot of Adora finds her making a confident declaration: they are going to win.

Now, let’s do our complete 180 and focus on Hordak. Unlike Adora, Hordak does not meet his “master” and rebel against him. He does not establish himself as separate from the plans Horde Prime has for him. He does not exhibit any show of inner strength upon reuniting with his brother. Instead, Hordak immediately tries to ingratiate himself to Prime, emphasizing how hard he has been working to return to his brother and fulfill his appointed role. 

Hordak shows no interest in defying Horde Prime. He doesn’t reject his role as a cog in the Horde machine; rather, he tries his hardest to embrace it, to prove to Prime that he can rise to the destiny that his brother had originally fashioned for him. There is no declaration of independent, personal will (despite what Horde Prime seems to hear). There is no drawing on internal strength created by  established friendships and nurturing experiences. There is only desperation and fear and the pathological need to win validation by fitting into an exploitative mold. 

The season’s last image of Hordak is very different from that of Adora. There is no grim confidence, no inspiring words. There is just... well, an empty husk, because Hordak has been reformatted and stripped of his mind. He has failed in the worst way, and has thus been destroyed. Why?

Because unlike Adora, he has not had numerous seasons’ worth of internal growth and loving support to help him establish enough strength to break from Horde Prime. Oh, he had the chance for it, for like five minutes, before Catra barged in and sabotaged his relationship with Entrapta, taking away that crucial source of emotional connection. Had that remained intact, he could have had something to fall back upon. Instead, during season four, he reverted, further miring himself in his own lack of self-worth and need for Prime’s validation. Thus, when the time finally comes, Hordak can’t break free. Instead, he loses himself to the very system he should have been trying to escape.

The showrunners did a great job showing this fundamental difference between our “main hero” and what was once our “main villain”: how one has attained an impressive level of growth, while the other continues to struggle with his own demons. This juxtaposition of their two outcomes, one a successful exercise of independent will fostered by forged bonds and confidence, the other a depressing loss of self born of loneliness and massive insecurity, really exemplifies the show’s emphasis on the importance of personal connections and emotional support.

it also made me cry, but that definitely surprises no one

[namelesspharaoh]

The Star: What are their hopes and dreams? What makes them feel uplifted? What do they become defensive about? Why?

Tarot Card Based Asks 〘𝓧〙 | Not Accepting | @starbrightbakura

What are their hopes and dreams?

Although Atem’s ambitions adapted a lot throughout the course of his prolonged life time, ultimately, Atem’s existence was driven by two primary aspirations. First and foremost, his  overall objective is to leave the world a better place than he was born into .

Atem was born into the lap of luxury and never mind a silver spoon, he had a gold one. His birthright as prince entitled him to inherit the crown to a kingdom, reign sovereign over its people, and draw profits off its vast riches & resources. Eulogized as the chosen one & living link between the gods and mortal men from the cradle, Atem was groomed to believe he wasn’t like the rest, but above them by both blood & divine right.

While this played a big part in the development of Atem’s fatal flaw — his insurmountable arrogance — it didn’t deter the flourishing of the true gold he possessed: his heart. Although Atem took a great deal of pride in his royal heritage, his kinship with the deities, and the history of his accomplished ancestors that built up their kingdom; he did not believe his life itself held more value or importance than anyone else’s.

More than social ladders or caste systems determined a person’s place, Atem felt character and integrity were deciding factors of one’s worth. Turning his head away from the teachings of his elders in what was decreed ‘youthful naivety,’ Atem’s heart led him to foster a nondiscriminatory sense of right & wrong and a moral code black & white as night & day. Abuse of authority, exploitation of others, corruption, bribery, coercion, physical abuse, & unequal treatment were all wrongs that made Atem’s blood boil.

To Atem, being ceded the crown was an honor in what he hoped to give his people, not get from them, and was equally a commitment as it was a privilege. His earliest ambitions were to eventually reign as a just, fair, and kind king much beloved by his people, just as father dearest had before him. Atem had been fed stories since boyhood of his Father’s legendary altruism and mighty heroic deeds as both war hero and peace-bringer, all of which Atem idealized and was inspired by to carry on that baton of greatness.

But those dreams were shattered abruptly when it was revealed to Atem his father was not what stories, statues, wall-carvings, or even his epitaph made him out to be. The crown passed down to him was not one promised to him of plated-gold, but rather, riddled with thorns of family secrets. With the boons of the throne, came the burdens of its misdeeds. 

His father had been greedy, selfish, cruel. Despite sharing equal claim to the throne, he’d hoarded the merits of his birthright and made way for rift and resentment to come between he and his adoring  twin brother. When war threatened to overcome their kingdom, rather than trusting it to the gods or vying for their protection, his father felt there was no better alternative than to turn to the dark forces to guard them from harm.

Atem’s uncle betrayed the gods and delved into the very spell book of darkness their family had been charged by the divine to protect. Lured by promise of power and vengeance against his brother, Aknadin paid the price of pools of innocent blood of their citizens, and forged golden trinkets that would grant power unlike any other.

Together, the combined wrongs of the brothers unleashed the deity of darkness.

The Millennium items had always been regarded as blessings bestowed upon them by the gods to pull through a perilous, war-torn time, but the whole time, the high court spoke lies to mask those forbidden objects of darkness and guise them as items of divine authority so to make off with using them as tools of extortion and tyrannical enforcement. The Pharaoh, who was meant to act in accordance with the just voice of the Goddess Ma’at, was now ruling a corrupt courtroom of chaos that crossed their deities and defied their principles. And the ignorant inheritor of that courtroom had been none other than Atem.

Atem’s motivations shifted. He became convinced that evil that ran in his veins, rather than the greatness he’d blindly believed. The luxuries his kingdom had acquired were not the hard-earned spoils of war or blessings bid to them by the gods they were lauded as, but the blossoming crops watered by innocent blood and betrayal too ungodly to admit.

And so, Atem became fixated: if his father had been evil, did that same evil permeate his blood? If it was not the citizens who were prone to wrong doing and in dire need of judgement and oversight, but those that ruled over and judged them, then surely he could not trust his own judgement. After all, his inheritance was only of vices, never virtues. 

But virtue was a choice, and Atem made it. When ominous clouds stirred and war began to brew, Atem turned to the gods and beseeched them for their aid. Despite the betrayal of his blood line, they chose and entrusted him to command their power. As a young boy his same age that called himself ‘the thief king’ made his family’s same mistakes in turning to the darkness to reign judgement on his foes rather than entrusting it to the gods, vice was a choice, and he made it. Atem knew this cycle of shadows had to be put to an end.

He’d dreamed to be a noble and kind king, and he would follow through with it. He’d feared being the weak link in the chain, but suddenly, he wished only to break away from it. If there was nothing to be proud of in being his father’s son, then he would be someone he could take pride in. To atone for his father’s mistakes, Atem paid in his own blood. He sacrificed his mortal body & butchered his soul, so to seal the dark one away; juxtapose to the actions of his uncle, who’d slayed innocents to summon him. Before parting the world, he settled the rift between father and uncle and entrusted the kingdom to his cousin.

To deviate from his legacy, Atem chose to leave none behind him. He entrusted his successor, Seto, with removing his name from every crypt wall, smashing every single statue, and ensuring he be remembered only as the ‘nameless pharaoh.’ For Atem did not want to be remembered for the great that he was; but the great he had done. To showcase his resolve, he shattered the millennium puzzle, the symbol of his father’s kingship.

Atem gave his all to do good, but in the end, saving the world couldn’t satisfy him.

Deep down, the war Atem yearned to resolve was one within himself. However tranquil he might’ve left the world, inside him, inner peace had yet to be found. Atem’s place in the world had always been predetermined by a higher power or factors outside his control, whether as a king or puzzle-bound spirit. An ambition he acquires after sating his first is a place to belong. For once, not somewhere he’s meant to be; but somewhere he chooses. Furthermore, not who he has to be; but who he chooses. 

For Atem never wanted to fight & die alone; oh, how he wishes for friends.

What makes them feel uplifted?

Any sliver or shape of a reminder whatsoever he is not alone.

Blatant and spontaneous displays of unwavering loyalty; “I’m here for you,” are the most revitalizing words an ally could offer him. Subtle gestures, such as a slight squeeze to either his hand or shoulder, speak volumes with Atem. Oaths run deep for him, and tying words such as ‘I swear’ or ‘I promise’ comfort him, especially when coupled with ‘to remain by your side’ or ‘to love you no matter what.’ Sentimental gestures made to prove a bond, such as Anzu’s marker smiley or matching accessories, are precious to Atem.

What do they become defensive about? Why?

Having his persona (particularly his pride) criticized, having his judgement challenged, or being defined by his past. This is somewhat due to the fact Atem is condemnatory of what he perceives as disapproval coming from a companion. However, for the most part, it’s because  Atem would rather be taken as he is and as he does than for what he is and what he’s done. He does not feel his mistakes define him, only teach him who he’s not. 

Above all else, Atem becomes defensive when criticized. 

Atem knows that he has weaknesses & flaws. On the battle field, enemies will pick them apart and scavenge for a soft spot in his heart that might cave with pressure. Rather than running from one’s weaknesses, Atem believes it is better to face them head on and accept oneself and those flaws. In Atem’s mind, a flaw only holds someone back if they let it, and choose to view it as a setback rather than a fundamental part of who they are.

For Atem, an ally should not be the one to pinpoint his imperfections. They should be the rare few that accept them, and rather than trying to fix him, embrace them. As far as Atem sees it, criticizing a friend’s flaws is advising a book be rewritten, because there’s too many bad parts. More powerful than criticism is support, because things will get better in future chapters, if only the reader is willing to stick it out until the end.

What comes second, is the subject of judgement. 

Once again, Atem is not perfect. His pride does not indicate his overconfidence in his strengths, but his content in his weaknesses. Atem trusts his judgement and relies on his instincts to navigate his environment and make decisions. He understands and accepts that his judgement is equally as faulty and capable of becoming clouded as anybody else’s, but does not believe that mistakes made in judgement on his part should cause him to question or abandon his intuition altogether. Atem believes wrong calls are an essential part of calibrating one’s judgement and sharpening it for future reference. 

Last but not least, his past.

As with all else, Atem knows his past is not without its faults; but he believes his past is a pivotal part in his identity and a vitality for the realization of his present and his future. And if he is worth anything now, or if he will be worth anything in a hundred years, then he was worth something then, even should he have made some shameful mistakes. 

Every good story needs its beginning, even if it’s rough. The first few pages do not dictate the outcome of the final ones, and a book shouldn’t be judged for its initial chapters. Atem is someone who takes people as they are, not as they’ve been; and expects the same in return. The past is just another aspect of oneself, best accepted than ostracized. 

[dreamofcentipedes]

Red Lotus Blooms: 7 - Blood and Water

Summary: A monster is forged in flame. As light burns out, red leaves unfurl. Under the new lights of Tokyo, Tatara's feral existence is disturbed by the appearance of a girl calling herself a god.

Characters: Tatara, Eto, Noro

Rating: Teen Words: 5, 749 Link to AO3

Link to Table of Contents

The Japanese air suited Tatara well. An unfamiliar air to an unfamiliar place, hostile and unwelcoming, where he was unknown and undesired. A bad place to live, a good place to die.

That was Tatara’s life here – an extended death. A quest for death, inspired by death, suffused with death, seen through the eyes of the dead man walking, who had no home to return to and nothing left to defend. He was the agent now rather than the victim. He had encountered the reaper and left with the scythe.

This was the tale the devastated bodies of countless Tokyo ghouls testified. A year and a half had passed since the refugee conned his way aboard an aeroplane and came to the Japanese metropolis, where the futuristic sheen of neon lights and towering concrete was juxtaposed against remnant wooden shrines and their ghosts of gods and nature. It was a modernity forever in the shadow of the ancient, a living past well suited for his zombie-like existence. In those eighteen months he had set about cannibalising every ghoul he could get his hands on. He did not know the rules of territory, and they did not matter to him. The big fish ate the little, and Tatara had yet to encounter any fish bigger.

Nor did the birds pose any threat. Excessive eating habits like those Tatara was exhibiting typically attract the attention of the local doves, but the years he spent in Chi She Lian had taught him the art of stealth. He made sure to leave nothing left of his prey – if he was interrupted, the intruding element would join his meal. When a ghoul syndicate of the size of Lian had floated past the CCG like ships in the night for years, masking the presence of one ghoul using their techniques was child’s play. He still did not understand how the Chinese CCG ever managed to find Yan. They could not find him, though – no-one knew Tatara Huo was in Japan.

His days were spent sleeping in alleyways and his nights prowling the dark. He had none of the comforts he was used to in his old home, but comfort, or home, was not what he was looking for. This was atonement. He would master his kakuja and kill Kousuke Houji. That was all.

It was the kind of lifestyle that made little in the way of allies and much in the way of enemies. It was on one night in a brisk winter, within which even the ascetic Tatara could not abide sleeping outside, that he came across a dilapidated hideout and discovered it was occupied. This was not much of a deterrent as he slaughtered every ghoul inside. They were stronger than he was used to, but it was hardly an even match. After sleeping there for two nights, he heard a knock on his door in the morning.

His white cloak, now stained with dirt and blood and sewer water, dragged along the ground as he moved to the shattered window and peered out with tired eyes. The ancient house was detached in an old industrial area that was mostly abandoned but had become a common haunt for ghouls. He knew what kind of visitors they would be.

A short girl who looked around his age stood out front in a burgundy robe and a green-haired bob cut with some kind of accessory. She was flanked by a tall and sinister figure wearing a similar robe and sporting a black ponytail that stuck straight out of the top of his head. Most notable, however, was his mask. It was pale, with the emblem of a toothy mouth and no discernible eye holes. Tatara felt as though he should be careful of this one. Shortly, he lumbered down the stairs and swung open the door.

“What?” He asked charmlessly. Japanese had been one of the languages Chi She Lian had taught him. The Huo family had been big figures in the Chinese business world, so knowing the language of their closest trading partner, together with English, was necessary to retain their influence in the sphere of human politics.

He could see now that the accessory on the girl’s head was a red lotus flower, not unlike the kind that had floated among the fish in the old pond at Yangshuo. It soured his already grim mood to see a stranger so casually appropriate his memories. He could also pick up their scent at this range. The masked man smelled as ghoulish as he looked, but the girl had a curious scent he could not quite place. Her big eyes beamed with a salesman-like enthusiasm.

“Hello sir, we’re here to talk to you about Our Lord and Saviour -”

Tatara swung the door shut. He made to leave, but he saw the door open again. The girl had caught it just in time.

“Ah…you’re definitely going to hell for that one.” He heard her grumble cheerily.

“I’ll send you to hell if you don’t leave now.” Tatara threatened, looming over the dwarfish woman with a glower. He had always been tall for his age, but he had come to equal Yan’s stature in the past year. Her silent companion matched him for height, however, dampening the threat.

“Mmm, I doubt that.” She retorted with a wink.

Tatara’s patience ran out and his kagune raced out. As soon as his eyes reddened, so did one of hers – just one - and she instantly blocked the blow with a bizarre-looking kagune of her own. It stretched out from her upper back and was swollen and bloated with an array of tiny arms and fully-fingered hands growing out of it. The masked man did not seem to react at all beyond leisurely moving back a few steps to give the girl some room.

After Tatara glared at her some more and she responded with a smug grin of her own, he swung his kagune back to his side and she lowered hers.

“So you are a ghoul. Or some kind of mongrel.”

“How rude, a lady has feelings!”

Tatara narrowed his eyes.

“Okay, okay, Mr Grinch.” The girl complained, and lightly rapped her knuckles against the man standing next to her. “Couldn’t you tell from my buddy here? He sticks out a bit. Kind of like you, with your chin-mask and your period dress.”

“I knew about him.” Tatara snapped. “It’s you who I was unsure of. You stink.”

The girl clutched her imaginary pearls again in affected wide-mouthed shock. She had a major talent for getting on his nerves.

“And I made an effort to look nice and everything. Here, do you like it?”

She tugged on the flower perched on her head. There was no denying that the girl was pretty, but her personality quickly poisoned any appeal she might have. Not that Tatara had any interest in such frivolous matters in the first place.

“Why are you here?” He growled. “To fight? You want the building?”

“Well, that’s one way this could go down.” She mused with a knowing smirk. “We want the building back. You’re squatting in my territory.”

Her territory? So the masked man wasn’t the leader? It was this runt? Tatara could not help but scoff. Well, he was here to eat ghouls anyway. He was hardly going to complain if they presented themselves at his doorstep. No matter how strong they might be, Tokyo had no ghoul organisation anything like Chi She Lian. He was a big fish in a small pond.

“You’re not getting it back.” Tatara asserted menacingly as he poised his kagune above his head in striking position.

“Oh, you can keep it, I just want it back.”

…What on earth was this woman saying?

“This is the other way of going about things.” She touched her nose in confirmation of secret knowledge.

“And what’s that?” Tatara asked warily.

“We talk about our Lord and Saviour.”

Tatara swung the door shut.

“Wait, seriously!”

She caught it again.

“I’m serious. I think we could all do with a bit of God in our lives. Without a God to look up to, we’re lost, confused. We might as well just be stumbling around in the dark.”

The girl was sounding frustratingly earnest now. He preferred it when she was mocking him, instead of saying such ridiculous things to him in all seriousness. He was torn between killing her and just walking away.

“After all, if there’s no God…hmm. What was it Shakespeare said? ‘Humanity must perforce prey on itself like monsters of the deep’.”

Tatara froze. How much did she know…?

“You’ve been eating a lot of ghouls, haven’t you? Those hits, the reason it’s so dangerous for ghouls to go out at night now – it’s you, isn’t it?”

“And what if it is?” His returning whisper was sharp as a dagger.

“Well, some of those people are my people. You’ve been making things veeery difficult for me. But, if I can avoid fighting someone as scary as you, that would be swell. Especially if that rumour is true.”

The rumour that cannibalisation makes ghouls stronger, he assumed. Tatara knew this to be a fact, but it was not common knowledge.

“It is. So go home, and stay out of my way.”

“But here’s the thing,” The girl yammered on, “I think this can all be settled peaceably. I can’t let a ghoul like you keep making trouble for my baby organisation. However, a great threat could also make a great asset.”

Tatara watched her expectantly. She stretched out her hand.

“Be happy, Hannibal Lecter. I’m offering you a job.”

He met her with stony silence.

“You’d get to keep the pad, of course, as company accommodation. Besides, aren’t you tired of living like a wild animal? Aogiri Tree can give you roots. Stability. Purpose.” She looked up at him with a wicked and unstable smile that made her suddenly seem much more dangerous than she had initially appeared.  “Let me be your God.”

The cold wind whistled down the early morning alleyway. Their cloaks fluttered in the breeze.

“I have a God.” Tatara answered icily. The severed head of Kousuke Houji. “Do you want to fight here?”

The girl looked down in disappointment, and then heaved out a sigh with a shrug of her shoulders. “Ah, I really thought you would agree. What a pain. Well, no, we’ll probably kill you in your sleep or something. Until then, think about my offer! The name’s Eto, this guy’s Noro. Don’t call us – we’ll call you.”

She turned and began walking away with the tall man following behind her. Tatara was hardly going to let a threat like that slide by. He shot his kagune silently through the air towards the girl’s back.

In an instant, an eldritch, carmine kagune with a maw of enormous jagged teeth burst out of from the lower back of her companion. It smashed back Tatara’s bikaku and slipped right back into his body. Neither of them missed a step.

What a strange pair, Tatara thought. He did not mean it fondly.

He knew he would have to be all the more on his guard henceforth. But perhaps, if he grew strong enough to defeat that silent spectre, he would be strong enough to defeat Houji, too.

--

It was not long before the Aogiri assaults began.

It started with minor assassins that Tatara made short work of. He was no heavy sleeper, alert from his feral lifestyle and plagued as he was by nightmares of burning buildings. He knew he could be free of his unwanted guests if he just left the old shack. The nights had not gotten any warmer, but if necessary he could always get hold of a place occupied by less persistent ghouls. However, he had no intention of giving that brat the satisfaction of victory, and besides, he was grateful for the free meals and prey he could play with like the catfish in that pond he was feeling nostalgic for. He had kept a collection of heads now that he had somewhere to hide them, mostly just to keep count.

The more time passed, the more assailants came. Clearly this Eto did not like that her drones were not coming back. As the waves kept coming, Tatara began to notice some disturbing features. One set of heads he collected had their mouths completely stitched up. Others, their eyes, groping about entirely by smell. If she was hoping to win the battle of psychological warfare, she had picked the wrong target. Horror was his habitat now, and burnt bodies all looked the same.

He could feel his power growing with every discoloured limb he forced down his throat. On the rare occasions he needed to activate his kakuja, he noticed it had grown taller, wider, stronger. His firepower was now hot enough to rage in blue. It was not enough to simply become like Yan: he must surpass him if he ever hoped to defeat his killer. So he welcomed the nightmare more than ever when it came to his doorstep in full force.

A light snow was falling that night, but the heavy snow from the night before had already swamped the ground in velvety frost. Trudging through the snowfield, the small army knew they could not approach quietly, so they compensated by making themselves horrifically visible. Monstrous masks replaced their faces and their kagune stretched out on full ghastly display. They yelled war chants and beat their chests and stamped their feet with ferocious intensity until they came to a halt outside Tatara’s self-made abode.

He examined them from the window. Something like a hundred ghouls were amassed beyond his walls. Not bad for a fledgling organisation, though he had certainly never heard of Aogiri Tree before. He noted with caution the presence of the masked man, Noro, among them. His kagune was freakish, like nothing Tatara had seen before. Perhaps it would be wisest to take him out first.

As for Eto, he could not see a green head of hair among them. Leaving it to the grunts. How insulting. Or so he thought, when he heard a familiar voice pierce the dark.

“Tatara? Tatara Huo?”

He backed away from his vantage point in shock before hurriedly pressing himself up against the aperture. He could see a small figure wrapped head to toe in bandages, wearing a short burgundy cloak with a colourful neckerchief and a hood with protrusions like rabbit ears. What a grotesque appearance. Was this Eto in full ghoul flare? More importantly, Tatara thought, grinding his teeth, how does she know my name?

“I see you, Tatara, come on down!”

Tatara placed his hands on the windowsill and looked down disdainfully.

“Come in, I insist. I’ll make it nice and warm for you.”

“Somehow that doesn’t sound too inviting.” Eto objected from below. “It still doesn’t have to be this way, Tatara. You can make up for all my people you’ve killed. Join us, and we’ll give you a blank slate.”

“There are no blank slates.” Tatara shot back cynically.

Eto giggled. “No, maybe not. We’re never really free from our pasts, are we? Not until the wrongs are righted.”

A brief silence fell upon them amid the tension and snowfall.

“You know,” Tatara told Eto through hostile eyes, “I’m getting tired of your indirectness.”

“I’m telling you that I can take you to Kousuke Houji.”

A longer silence passed as Tatara gripped the rotten wooden windowsill like a liferaft. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears as blood pulsated through his brain. Houji. She can take me to Houji.

“I told a friend of mine about you, and apparently he knows you. He knew about China and Chi She Lian. He knew about the Huo family and their extermination, and the operation’s shining star: First Class Kousuke Houji. Ah, or that should be Special Class now. He did so well they bumped him up two ranks when he got back home.”

He’s here. In Japan. In Tokyo? If Eto could take him to him, then he could not be too far away. Tatara’s head was flooded with a rush of memories like acid. Fei’s stupid nicknames for him. The pride on Yan’s face when Tatara told him about his first kill. A burning building, an interloping whale, and, out of the corner of his eye, the cold professional face of Death. A solemn admission and an agonised howl.

“I also heard a story about a half-kakuja escaping their grasp. Apparently, they never found the middle child either.” Her bandages crinkled in an impish grin. “So how about it, Tatara Huo? Join us, and he’s yours.”

“No.” Tatara responded immediately.

“…No?” Came Eto’s confused reaction.

“No.” Tatara asserted in a firm voice coloured by the anger surging through him. “Here’s what we’re going to do instead. You’re going to tell me where he is or I’m going to kill every last one of you.”

Eto stood silently as snowflakes settled on her cloak.

“You’re alone against a hundred of my best ghouls. Do you really think you’re in the position to make an ultimatum like that?” Her face, expressionless behind her bandages, rose. A single red kakugan gleamed in the black hollows of her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

“No. And by the time I’m done with you, no-one will.”

Tatara reached into a storage space and threw something out onto the snow. The ghouls instinctively leapt back, but when they saw it was not explosive they inched closer and turned it over. The head of a would-be assassin graced the midwinter floor elegantly, the blood long too black and congealed to stain.

As soon as they looked back up at him, Tatara left the windowside and retreated inside to prepare. No more negotiation. This would be no Xuhangli, he affirmed to himself: Eto would follow the Longxia into the graveyard of over-reachers.

--

It was a matter of seconds before the first wave of Aogiri ghouls had broken down the door. It was a matter of seconds before their bloody carcasses decorated the desolated apartment.

They had instantly began running up the stairs, knowing that Tatara would not have had the time to descend, only to find strange burning balls tumbling down the stairway. On impact, the long red cloaks of the ghouls were set alight, and they immediately turned around to quench the flames in the moistness of the snow. A turned back made an easy target for Tatara’s kagune, snaking down from the top of the stairs to zip in and out of head after head like a fine scalpel, sparing no time stuck in the flesh but seizing prey after prey after prey.

All the while, in his hands Tatara began to hurl the flaming balls directly at the backs of his victims, knocking them to the ground and catching them in between the fire on their back and the fire on the floor: as the balls from before were still rolling about, spreading fire in their wake. To burn alive caught between two walls of flame while looking at the stitched eyes of your fallen comrade staring up at you sightlessly, the flames melting their face and yours alike…

How’s that for psychological warfare?

The warriors in the first wave who survived the initial onslaught left screaming in a mad panic, deserting into the darkness and ruining the Aogiri formation as other ghouls broke off to stop them. There was a brief pause before Eto sent in a second pack of wolves, but it was a hesitant, demoralised bunch. As they inched into the kitchen just through the entrance, their heads swung round at a flaming object sent hurtling towards the old gas cooker.

Those heads were jerked back at lethal angles in the force of the explosion that resounded throughout the ground floor. It was left blackened and smoking without a single survivor from that second wave. Tatara had sprinted back up the stairs just in time to avoid the blast himself and rolled to the floor to avoid being spotted through the window. Peeking up outside, he could see more desertions ensuing. Suddenly, a kagune smashed down right in front of his face.

He leapt back as a ghoul pulled itself up onto the window frame. Eto must have sent out two waves at once, he realised with irritation, one for the door and one for the windows. Before the ghoul could break its kagune free from the house’s brick exterior, Tatara rammed it outside again with his own kagune. He realised that now, however, Eto would have an accurate read on his location.

Several other ghouls quickly followed, clambering up the windows into multiple different rooms. As soon as Tatara knocked one off he would find another entering through a different window, and while he managed to keep the windows in his immediate range clear, he could not defend windows in separate rooms at the same time: which meant that an increasingly large numbers of ghouls did manage to get into the house, posing a much larger threat and taking much longer to kill. And the longer it took to kill those ghouls, the less time he could spend defending the windows, until he found himself becoming overwhelmed.

The space was too small. It had worked to his advantage before, but this time he needed open space. Charging towards an invading enemy, he kicked her out of the window and jumped.

Cracking out his kagune, he anchored himself to the wall of the house and scampered vertically towards the roof. As he ran he noticed that the assembly of the main force below was completely gone, while clamberers were everywhere. He even had to kick a few off just to make it to the roof. Eto had clearly recognised which strategy was superior. Somewhere, she must be among them.

He climbed up on top of the roof in little time and saw that, for now, thankfully, it was clear. It was flat and tiled, making it ideal as a non-flammable battleground – it would be no good if the roof collapsed beneath him. As clamberers made their way up to him, he activated his kakuja.

It had reached colossal proportions. A scaled silver beast, nigh identical to Yan’s. The old anger coursed through him now, savage, relentless. With a sweep of its gigantic arm, the clamberers fell right back down into the snow; the cushioned fall meant nothing when their bones were shattered instantaneously.

The titan peered over the ledge. The scalers were struck with terror, one so badly he fell off immediately. The others joined him when their lives were scorched out of them by the firestorm erupting from Tatara’s throat. He kept the blast going like a red waterfall, moving along one side of the building, then another, roasting every climber who dared advance. They plummeted to the ground like ashen comets. Tatara had lost track of how many scores of people he had killed now, but he knew there was only one side of the building left.

Before he could turn around, he was knocked severely off balance by an intrusive wormish kagune. His flames puttered out as he skidded along the rooftop, but managed to remain upright. The kagune bit into the tiles and, propelled by its forward motion, a man burst into the sky like a rocket, before landing on the rooftop with perfect form. The eyeless mask stared at him. It was a confrontation Tatara had been waiting for. He was ready to incinerate him on sight, before something emerged from his back. Relinquishing her clutch on Noro’s robe, Eto hopped down to join them.

“If you were going to destroy the house, you might as well have just left.” She complained.

Her words were just meaningless noise to Tatara in his kakuja’s mental state. It lived to kill, not to talk. With a roar like a hurricane, Tatara barrelled forward.

Noro’s kagune with its rows of shark teeth bit at Tatara’s legs, but his armour sustained the blow. Hauling his great weight into the air over the ankle-biter, he slammed his chest into the empty space where Noro and Eto were standing just a second before. They had split in opposite directions, Eto perched on a corner of the roof, enjoying the show, while Noro stood directly behind Tatara, his kagune already poising, rising, striking.

Just in time, Tatara managed to block the great serpent with his appendage. The tension between the two forces continued for some time before Tatara flung off the kagune to the side, but it wasn’t long before it was circling back around towards him. He unleashed a jet of flame that sent the kagune rearing back to its owner with its blind head singed and seeming to scream. Tatara continued to defend himself with the blaze of protective blue fire as he pummelled his pillars into the rooftop to right himself. When he was standing and blew the fire out, Noro was gone.

Immediately the kagune smashed into his back, and Tatara thrust his appendage forward to prevent his weight from being used against him again. The kagune was fast, hitting his back like a machine gun, first here, then there, constantly moving and leaving nothing unscathed. Tatara could feel his armour weakening and his pain rising, but while he was under assault from behind, he could not turn to face his foe, rendering his firepower useless. Each hit made his anger burn more furiously. Eventually, Noro’s teeth cracked through the armour and sunk into the kakuja’s exposed flesh.

It was the opening Tatara needed. Now that Noro’s kagune was firmly attached to him, he hauled his bulk around with all his strength, and dragged Noro with him. As the kagune’s teeth clung onto Tatara’s flesh, Noro was flung upwards into the sky and twisted around by Tatara’s circling movements. The stress of the motion made the kagune finally give way and broke off with a chunk of kakuja flesh, and Noro went flying off the side of the building and plunged into the snow beneath.

Tatara lumbered towards the edge, stinging from the sheet of missing skin. Through the spiderlike eyes beneath his helmet he could see that Noro had landed on a bricky outcrop in the snow from which a small leafless tree stood up limply. Or rather, his head had. Blood stained the bricks as his cranium was twisted at an unnatural angle. This battle was over. He made to turn to Eto and crush her next.

But before he could, he saw a strange spasm out of the corner of his eye, and turned back to the body. There was no way he could be alive. And yet, with sudden recoil like an elastic band, the head spun rapidly back into place. The vacancy of its white plaster face stared up at him, expectantly.

What kind of monster was this?

The body begun bleeding, but not blood. His body was bubbling with a boiling red tar that oozed and squelched around him in a mad cthonic dance. As the crimson mass grew and grew, more and more mouths grew out of it, littering the tendrils racing at Tatara with tongues and teeth. Tatara swung out his appendages to defend himself, but the teeth of the chattering, moaning wall of crimson midnight bit into them and tugged, throwing Tatara off his balance and towards the snow, toward the nightmare abominable.

A rocket of flame lit up the bloodlike darkness and set the creature curving backwards as its many mouths shrieked and gnashed their teeth in hatred of the light. The snow melted beneath Tatara’s feet as he stomped forward and vomited fire, pouring out of his helmet in an incessant stream of incendiary viscosity. The alien entity loathed the heat, and its tentacles surrounded Tatara and assaulted his back relentlessly as its main body desperately retreated further from the flames with each step Tatara took.

The force of the assaults were far worse with Noro in kakuja form, and his many arms flooded into the hole his kagune made earlier, ramming and tearing at the exposed skin of Tatara’s kakuja. Yet Tatara persisted, even while his legs stumbled and his body grew weary, and his earholes ached with the cacophony of screeching sound and pain multiplied in him like a virus. The vaccine of hatred soothed whatever torments hell could unleash upon him. This thing was getting in his way, just like the Whale had back at Xuhangli. Standing between him and Houji. Between vengeance. Between salvation.

He would not forgive that.

As chunks of Tatara’s armour were torn off and shattered on the ground, as blood poured from his wounds and his legs gave way, Tatara dragged himself across the floor, inching closer and closer to the noctal horror until he could grab it by its fleshy, slimy surface and hold it still so its central, largest, mouth, tongue lashing out like mad dog, could face the judgement of fire.

It screamed at a pitch that rent the human ears before disappearing into the supersonic as the moisture was drained, sucked, stolen from the once-slobbering tongue. The flames burned right through the protective wall of teeth, exposing the creature’s innards to the full agony of the scorching of the flames that warped the tongue and shrivelled it to a cinder. Its tendrils writhed around uselessly as its mind was subsumed by torture. Before the judgement could conclude and Tatara rule death on the hellspawn, another interfering voice cut through the silent noise.

“Stop it, Tatara. That’s enough. You win.”

The flames guttered out and the aberration lay dazed, its many visionless heads paused mid-motion, jaws wide or clenched or thrown back. Tatara tore himself out of his ruined kakuja and dropped into the snow, battered, bruised and bloody, but far from broken.

Eto was standing in front of the house not far from them, her small form smaller in defeat. To make sure, Tatara blasted his hulkish kagune towards her. She had no time to react and was quickly caught with a yelp inside its stranglehold, crushing and squeezing her like a boa constrictor. Tatara walked closer as he hoisted her into the air.

“You’re going to take me to Kousuke Houji. Understand?” He informed her in a voice colder than the night now warmed by the inferno.

She eked out a response like “Yes” as she battered at the kagune with her small arms, struggling to breathe.

“I will have full control over you and your organisation until such a time that he lies dead at my feet. Do you understand?”

She hacked out an affirmation like a wheezing cough. He had not been opposed to working with Aogiri, but merely working for them. The last scion of Chi She Lian was not going to follow a petty gang leader around like a lapdog. They might make for convenient puppets, however, so long as he pulled the strings.

Tatara relaxed his grip for a moment so he could get a clear answer out of her for his next question. She gulped down air like an oasis in the desert.

“Where is he?”

Eto was still focused on her heavy breathing. He made his point in a sudden constriction, and she screeched out an answer at the night sky as her back was jolted up again.

“Cochlea! He’s in Cochlea!”

Cochlea, huh…Tatara had heard via eavesdropped conversations from ghouls and doves alike about the maximum security ghoul prison in the 23rd Ward. What, had he become a glorified guard dog? It was about the worst, most difficult to access place he could be. But with Aogiri at Tatara’s disposal, assuming he had not already killed all the ghouls they had enlisted, it might just be possible to squeeze open a breach and find his way inside. Making his way out again was not important. All that mattered was that Houji dies.

He cast his gaze over the smoking husk of the Noro kakuja. Its owner was just now tearing himself free, come back to his senses, with his cloak tattered and singed and looking much worse for wear. If he could defeat a monster like that, win a battle of a hundred to one, and bring the head of a sizeable ghoul organisation to heel within the same half-hour, then he was ready to face Houji. He could feel it in his heated blood. After a year and a half of this bestial existence, he could finally fulfil the promise he made to those ghosts so dear to him.

He pulled the barely breathing mummy closer to him so his glare singed her bandaged face.

“You’re going to break into Cochlea for me. No objections.”

Before her solitary red eye could make any response, he released her from the hold of his kagune the hard way. She was flung into the snow and rolled along its dunes, until she finally came to a halt and shakily began to lift herself up. Noro strode over to help her with a quickened pace.

A second, ethereal sunset fell in the sky as the night was illuminated by the glow of the red and blue flames coating the house which had led to all this chaos. Just as the roof caved in, ten or so survivor ghouls crawled hurriedly out of the ruin to freeze before the triumphant Tatara. They dropped to their knees when they read the situation, as did the eight ghouls who had left earlier to unsuccessfully round up deserters.

The remainder of the ghouls that had come there that night lay out in a litany of charred corpses. Together with the remains of the great black kakuja, they stood out in sharp contrast against the septic whiteness of the snow. They had made quite the spectacle here, and a great deal of noise too. It would be good to leave before the doves caught wind of it.

As the reluctant ghouls led Tatara to the Aogiri base under the menace of his kagune, he looked back on the scene with a pride like elation. Here was one burning building that burned for him. Nothing was taken from him in these flames - only from his enemies.

Cochlea would be next. He was so close now. So close.

[frostywindmademoan]

You Up For An Adventure?

A fic in which Michael is actually kind of romantic (I hesitate to call this an AU but it might as well be cause my boy is actually a sociopath)

Michael intently stared at the petite (Y/H/C) girl sitting at the bar who had a man on either side of her, leaning in, clearly captivated by whatever it was she was saying. She had a smart twinkle in her eye and the shadow of a smirk on her lips that juxtaposed the sour look that was plastered on Michael’s face. “What’s wrong with this one then?” John nodded towards Michael. “Been starin’ at (Y/N)  for nearly 10 minutes now.” Arthur gruffly responded. “Poor fucker.” John sighed. “I can hear you, you know? You’re both standing right beside me.” Michael snapped his eyes away from the girl at the bar to give his cousins a scathing look.

“The way you pine after her is pathetic mate. You young Blinders have a whole gaggle of silly girls who are looking for a bit of danger who chase after you lot, and yet it’s her you got it for.” Arthur slurred. “He’s right mate, it makes no sense. That girl ain’t after danger, she is danger. She’s got every man she walks by wrapped ‘round her little finger and she plays ‘em all. Men are a game for her. Girls like that’ll break your heart and laugh about it!” John berated him. “You think I don’t know that? She’s one of my best mates. I’ve seen first hand how she treats fools like those two at the bar with her right now.” Michael and (Y/N) had become close friends after being introduced about 3 or 4 months ago. Her older sister had been Ada’s best friend growing up, so all of the Shelbys were close to (Y/N), her sister, and her two older brothers. The whole family had handsome genetics, thus little (Y/N) grew up to be a beauty. Michael had met her as a result of Tommy needing a rival fooled into playing right into the Shelby’s plot by an innocent and pretty looking face. (Y/N) was cast by Tommy to play the role of the innocent, pretty face. Being around the same age as her had given Michael the chance to become her friend, but he quickly developed deeper feelings. Feelings he’s been trying to hide for months, but he was growing less, and less subtle as time marched on. He knew fancying her was ridiculous. She saw him as nothing more than a friend, but maybe that’s what made her so appealing. These days Michael rarely encountered a girl he wasn’t able to make swoon. (Y/N) was different, though.“Give it up mate. She ain’t interested in a relationship with you, or anyone for that matter.” John clapped Michael on the back before wandering off to the private booth, shortly followed by Arthur. Michael returned his attention to the bar.

(Y/N) happened to glance up and see Michael looking in her direction. She didn’t pay much mind to the angry look on his face or what that expression might mean. She had seen that look cast towards her so many times that she assumed that that must be the natural form of Michael’s face. (Y/N) had grown bored of the two blokes, whose names she hadn’t bothered to make note of, so she slipped down from the stool she had been perched on. “Thanks for the drink and the chat boys.” (Y/N) said as a means of excusing herself before walking off towards Michael. The two men shared a bit of a shocked look in response to the way she had so casually snubbed them. “Evening handsome.” She flashed Michael a dazzling smile. Handsome was her pet name for Michael. It was a play on what all those swooning Blinder chasing girls would whisper and giggle about as he walk by. Michael knew (Y/N) only called him that sarcastically, as a joke, but it still brought him great pleasure. She called him handsome instead of her usual go to term of endearment, ‘darling.’ She used ‘darling’ with everyone. It was part of her charm and helped rope people in. Having a different pet name made Michael feel special, sarcasm be damned. “No need to abandon Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum over there just for little old me.” Michael grinned. “What does that make you then? The Cheshire Cat?” she scoffed. “And you sweet little Alice.” This was one of the things Michael most enjoyed about (Y/N), the way she could give easy and witty banter. (Y/N) appreciated the same thing in Michael. All the other men who chatted her up seemed to assume that she was some sort of airhead. It was partially why she enjoyed yanking those men around so much. Michael was different, he held conversations of substance with her. “You up for an adventure handsome?” She asked. Michael’s lips spread into a wide smile. From time to time (Y/N) would suggest they go on an adventure, as if they were little kids playing make believe. (Y/N) made Michael feel innocent again. Around most people (Y/N) had an alluring nature. She was sly in the most irresistible of ways. The sprightly, almost whimsical, side of her was similar to the term handsome. It was exclusively reserved for Michael. “C’mon then.” She took his hand and pulled him out the door.

“Where we goin’ then?” Michael asked as (Y/N) continued to lead him by the hand through back streets and allies. She somehow knew all the little passage ways and out of the way places. “Not much farther now.” She replied. (Y/N) led him directly to a dirty and decrepit looking building. It looked like a place no one had paid any mind to for years and years. No one but (Y/N), that is. “Here we are!” She happily exclaimed. “Here? You must be joking.” Michael looked the building up and down. It looked as though it might completely fall apart at any moment. “Stop being a baby.” (Y/N) darted to the door that had been haphazardly boarded up. Her small frame easily slipped through a gap between two of the poorly placed boards. “Fuck it.” Michael sighed. It was in situations like this that Michael had first begun to fall for (Y/N). Running through abandoned streets, free and wild like this, was a stark contrast to the poised, decisive, and almost pernicious way both she and he acted around others. Michael had to pull one of the loosely nailed boards out of the way so that he could fit through the door. By the time he got inside (Y/N) had already begun ascending a winding staircase within. “C’mon!” She yelled. “This doesn’t seem safe!” Michael wearily eyed the broken down stairs. “You’re being a baby again!” She laughed. This was the true and genuine (Y/N), loose and unrestrained. When the war broke out she was still young, but all the men in her family had been shipped off to France. Even her brother who was a year shy of being of age. He forged documents so that he could enlist just like everyone else. He wasn’t even supposed to be in France. He never came home. None of the men ever made it back. Her mother, sister, and herself had to fend for themselves. Her childhood abruptly ended when her family was cut in half. This warped and skewed her view point. She saw men as fleeting things that would violently leave her life. (Y/N) never let them close enough for their inevitable departure to hurt her. Michael was somehow different. He was a companion to her, and she felt she didn’t have to hide from him her desire to make up for that lost childhood. In a way, Michael also had a desire to regain the innocence of his childhood. (Y/N) was an escape from the world of violence he had entered after reconnecting with his family. They were a good fit for each other.

Once Michael had finally caught up with (Y/N), it was all the way up the stairs and onto the roof of the rickety building. Michael was hesitant to place his full weight on the feeble looking roof, but all hesitation disappeared when he saw (Y/N) lying on her back, gazing up. Her sleek hair seemed to glisten in the moonlight and was splayed out all around her, almost forming a halo surrounding her head. Her expression was relaxed and content. The ghost of a smile hung to her lips. Michael relaxed at the sight of her and followed suit, laying down next to her. The smog of the city made it hard to see many stars, but the full moon still shown vibrantly. “Isn’t she lovely?” (Y/N) hummed. “The moon is a she?” Michael turned his head to look at the profile of (Y/N)’s dimly lit face. “Yes, don’t you think so? ‘Mother moon’ has a nice ring to it.” She also turned her head to face Michael. She was close enough that she could see a sparkle in his eyes, despite the lack of light. She realized that they were merely an inch shy from being nose to nose. Suddenly, (Y/N) turned her head back to face upwards. Something in that moment had made her remember that Michael wasn’t some childlike companion, but a man. A handsome man at that. The way the Blinder girls giggled about him made sense. It was lucky that it was so dark, or else the flush that had spread up her neck and into her cheeks would have been seen. In that brief moment of closeness Michael’s heart had begun to race. He worked hard to not let it shatter when she turned away. “The sun is a man, eternally chasing after her.” (Y/N) continued the conversation about the moon. “She’s like you then. Always outrunning the men.” Michael said. Faintly, he could see her lips form into a smirk. “They’re pathetic, aren’t they? Those men who chat me up, thinking they can succeed where others have failed. Audacious fuckers.” She chuckled. “It’s cruel, what you do to them.” Michael now turned away from her to stare up. The irony of Michael of all people calling her cruel was not lost on (Y/N), but she chose to not draw attention to it. “Maybe it is cruel, but I’d rather be cruel than weak and hurt.” (Y/N)’s smirk fell into a hard line. “Is that what you think? That getting close to someone is weak?” Michael once again looked at her, baffled. “Not necessarily getting close to someone, but loving someone, yes. Placing your happiness in another person is ridiculous. People are fickle. They float in and out of your life and it’s stupid to become too attached.” Her tone was almost one of disgust. As if the very idea of love repulsed her. “People may leave, but what you shared with them stays forever.” Michael was a far cry from being a romantic, but it crushed him to hear (Y/N) speak this way. “You ever been in love?” She asked him. “I think so, yeah.” He whispered while staring intently at (Y/N), willing her to realize that he was referring to her. “I hear it hurts. That true?” She questioned him. “Yeah it’s true, but in a really great way. You’ve never been in love?” Michael was a bit shocked. She was an adult, surely in all her years she had fallen in love at least once. “No, never.” (Y/N) flatly responded. Michael’s heart grew heavy. It’s one thing to be a tease like everyone thinks (Y/N) is, but it’s an entirely different thing to be opposed to love entirely. Suddenly a thought came to him. “It’s an adventure.” He told her. “What?” She turned to face him. “Love. It’s an adventure. There is a chance that this whole building will crumble and hurt us, maybe even kill us, but we’re still here because the view makes it all worth it. Love is the same way.” Michael reasoned. “You make a decent point, handsome.” She couldn’t deny how marvelous his metaphor was. “How ‘bout it then? You up for an adventure?” Michael asked. (Y/N)’s heart began to pound. She didn’t know if she was up for it or not. She stared at him for awhile. Her eyes flit up and down as she examined every inch of his demeanor, as if the answer to the question was hidden somewhere in his face. Michael grew increasingly nervous as her silence continued. He had just as good as admitted to loving her. He feared that he might have scared her away. It was in the crease between Michael’s eyebrows that had folded with worry that (Y/N) found her answer to the question. To double check and make absolutely sure, she then examined his lips, pursed together in response to the tension that hung between Michael and herself. His lips were chapped and far from perfect, yet beautiful all the same. This is what assured her that she had indeed found the correct answer in him. “Yes, I’m up for it.” (Y/N) nearly gasped her answer. She hadn’t realized, but she had been holding her breath while looking at him. The heaviness within Michael’s heart lifted as it began to skip and jump. With a surge of confidence he closed the small distance between them, pressing his chapped lips against her smooth painted surface of her own lips. Michael placed a gentle hand on her cheek, willing her to stay in place within that perfect moment. (Y/N) shifted to be closer to him, grabbing ahold of the fabric of his shirt. “You won’t leave, will you?” She whispered against his lips. “No love, I’m not going anywhere.” Michael smiled. “Good, cause I’ll kill you if you do.” (Y/N) briefly matched his smile before placing her lips back onto his.

*feedback is greatly appreciated*