#they were an unnecessary twist so maybe the aftertaste is still there

[rustygateofme]

I gotta be honest, I’m not a big fan on the idea of “the turtle’s long lost sister”. Never consumed any tmnt media where the trope was shown and it always felt off since this sibling bond that the brothers have is one of my favorite aspects of the franchise, especially in Rottmnt. But I have a feeling that the rottmnt writing staff would’ve sold that idea to me incredibly fast.

That’s how much I trust these people to have a good written story. That’s what rise is about, mixing up the formula and doing it right.

[dw-writes]

32 for henry sturges :3

so, for anyone who doesn’t know, Henry Sturges is a character played by Dominic cooper in the movie Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, and one of the main characters in the novel by the same name, while being the main character in the sequel, The Last American Vampire. sadly, the author of those novels is The Worst (TM) and i am now claiming this character as my own and will treat him kindly

i love him so fucking MUCH

I HOPE YOU ENJOY LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK

Saying “I love you”....in a way that I can’t return.

There were parts of your memory that were hazy – days that were missing as you tried to remember why you were in pain, why you were tired, when you had fallen asleep. You remembered the better parts – the parts where you accepted a new job as a personal assistant, where you met your stupidly rich boss, where you found him weird and obnoxious and meeting every cliché that you had ever read about.

You especially remembered the part where you discovered that he was a vampire. That was important.

You shifted, the smooth surface of expensive sheets sliding against your skin. They were soft, and smelled lovely, and you recognized the scent as the one that Henry used for everything that could be washed. It was an older scent, one that wasn’t really made anymore, that he got from a little store on the other side of the city. It was one of the few things that he did personally.

Burying your nose into the pillow, you let out a sigh. At least you knew you were home, and comfortable.

A damp washcloth traced over your temple, down your cheek, and around the back of your neck.

“You’re alright,” whispered a familiar voice, one tinged with accent so faint it could never be placed, “You’re safe.”

You dreamed about that vivid memory of discovery. Henry Sturges had centuries of practice of keeping his identity a secret, something that, if you had been more observant, you would have noticed at lot sooner. But even someone with centuries of experience under his belt was prone to forgetfulness, and that was something that plagued him that day – he had forgotten his own set of keys to the house when he had set off on his usual journey across the city. He’d only realized it when he was too far gone and had called you to get the keys for him.

“If you could,” he had added, “If you aren’t too busy.”

“Of course,” you replied, “I’ll bring them to you.”

You failed to tell him that you, too, were on the opposite side of the city, and that it would take you longer than expected to take the keys to him. That was why you had arrived at the store after closing time, found it unlocked, and discovered Henry hauling a man clean off the ground with one hand, while bearing a mouth full of gleaming shards of bone. He dropped the man when you shouted at him to stop, failed to see you grab a pipe to swing at his skull.

(The memory bubbled up in your dream, descending upon you as though through a fog.)

You held the pipe with both hands, standing between Henry and the stairs leading up into the convenience store. Henry held his head between both hands, groaning, doubling over his knees. The other man, the store own, was still crumbled on the ground, unharmed, but unconscious.

“You hit me!” Henry shouted, “You actually hit me!”

“What do you expect?!” you snapped, “You? What are you?!”

He stumbled as he straightened, examining his fingers, then touched his head again. He stepped towards you.

You lifted the pipe over your shoulder, ready to strike again, yelling out nonsense.

“Don’t hit me again!” he cried.

“Get back!” you shrieked, “Get? Back! And answer my question!”

“Put the pipe down,” he said instead.

“Answer me!”

“Put the pipe down!”

“Answer the fucking question, Henry!” you paused, “If that’s your real name.”

His mouth dropped open with a scoff. You brandished the pipe as he stepped closer, stuttering out a disgusted, “I can’t believe the distrust! The suspicion!” He was on you in the literal blink of an eye, gently prying the pipe from between your clenched fingers like it was nothing. He tossed it away. The comical hurt he had previously worn was gone as he said, “I’m a vampire.” He squeezed your shoulders and set you on the steps. “Stay here a moment? I’ll be right back.”

(He’d left the poor store clerk – Seth, you remembered his name being – with a stack of journals, then swept you away back to his home – your home, the place where he provided you with a room of your own and asked for no rent at all – to sit you down and explain what he could.)

A hand gingerly pressed against your cheek, turning your head enough towards the owner to allow them to drip a warm liquid between your lips. It was bitter, with an aftertaste you couldn’t describe, and you twisted your head away from it.

A warm sigh tumbled across your face. “This is something you’ll have to get used to,” whispered a familiar voice, “And it won’t be easy, I can promise you that. But I’ll be there every step of the way.” A word caught on his voice, scratching in your ear as he cleared his throat. A pair of lips brushed over your temple.

Those words were so familiar. It took you a moment – a moment in which you fell back into a deep slumber – but you recalled where you’d heard them. You had said them, years before, when Seth had approached Henry about a biography. You remembered finding him pacing the first floor of his town house, reading over a letter that you assumed was from the author in question, swearing beneath his breath as he wore a path in the floor.

You told him so as you leaned on the banister, giving him an easy smile. He merely stared at you – you would have called it a glare if you hadn’t known him so well – and waved the paper in your direction.

“He wants to interview me,” he grumbled.

“I think that’s been done before,” you countered.

Henry crumbled the paper and tossed it in your direction. You ducked the projectile with a laugh, almost missing his scathing comment about your mocking. “That was a terrible joke!” he said with a huff, “Awful.”

“You’ll have to get used to it,” you said as you sat on the stairs, “Especially if people take what you say to heart – what the book says to heart.” Henry sat on the stairs, leaning back against the wall to look up at you. You reached out to run your fingers through his clean, un-styled hair. “It won’t be easy; I can promise you that. But I’ll be here for all of it. If you want.”

He leaned into your hand with a miniscule, unnecessary sigh. “I cannot imagine anyone else helping me with this,” he whispered.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Not even the man you trusted your beloved Abe’s journals to?”

(The quip earned you a gentle pinch, and eyeroll, and a smile only you were truly welcome to.)

You had rolled in your sleep, or had been moved, into a position that was startlingly comfortable. You turned your face further into the soft fabric under your cheek.

“Are you awake?” asked Henry, his voice surprisingly close to your ear while whatever you laid on rumbled with his words. Your eyes fluttered. A finger brushed over each of them, brushing the crust from your lashes. You wrinkled your nose. “You are awake,” he whispered, “Take your time. You’ve been through a lot.”

“What happened?” you croaked. You smacked your lips together and groaned; your mouth tasted awful. You rolled away from Henry’s tender hold, burying your face back into the pillow beyond his arm. “How long have I been asleep?”

He didn’t answer you. Instead, he appeared at your side again, the bed bending beneath his weight, and he held a glass to your lips. “Drink,” he murmured. His hand slid behind your head to help you.

The strange taste bloomed across your tongue as you sipped – bitter, and warm, and tangy as it rolled down your throat. You wrapped your fingers over his hand and gulped the concoction down, whatever it was – it soothed an ache you hadn’t noticed. You pressed your knees against his side as you sat up, tilting the glass further towards your face, draining it of everything it had, even going so far as to lick the brim clean before you opened your eyes.

He was watching you. His thumb brushed the space behind your ear while his fingers trailed down your neck. You rolled your lips together as you tried to gather what remained of your drink. You watched him in return: how hadn’t you noticed how beautiful he was before? You could count the freckles across his nose and cheeks in the low light of the bedroom with how vibrant they were against his skin; his swept back hair held various shades of brown, and a scant few strands of silver – from the stress of crossing over from England, you figured, before he was turned, or maybe they’d gone grey during the run from Crowley shortly after; and then there were his eyes, which skipped across your face before holding yours.

The blood that ran through your body – the blood that wasn’t yours anymore – ran cold.

You dropped the glass.

Henry managed to catch it before it hit the wood floor, depositing it on the nightstand at your elbow.

You rubbed your throat as the missing memories returned, first in patches, then like a film playing behind your eyes: someone had broken into the house. You had been downstairs, labeling the few bottles of blood that Henry kept hidden in his fridge, frowning at the unfamiliar sounds of another human in the home. It hadn’t taken you long to react, either – your father had taught you well before he died, had made sure that you would be ready to live on your own when the time came.

You pulled a knife from the butcher’s block and stepped out of the kitchen.

Your view from the hall to the front door was unobscured. Behind you, however, was a puff of hot air as someone growled, “You’re really real, aren’t you?”

A door upstairs slammed open.

You stepped away and twisted around, lifting the knife between you and the intruder, filling the hall as best as you could. You had only seconds before Henry would be down the stairs, before the man, who stared at you with a crazed glint in his eye and held a wooden stake above his head, would be able to figure out who was really the vampire in the house and hurt him instead. Maybe even kill him.

He would kill Henry.

He couldn’t kill Henry.

You wouldn’t let him.

You remembered answering him with a breathless, “Yes,” before the stake splintered your ribcage and plunged down into your heart.

Thumbs rubbed circles over your cheeks. You blinked slowly as the memory fell into place, neatly outlining a time before you were asleep – dead, you supposed – and when you woke up.

Henry whispered your name. You finally met his gaze once again. He let out a deep, unnecessary and dramatic sigh as his forehead fell against yours. “You know that ‘I love you to death’ is only a saying, right?” he asked, “And that was a very dramatic way to say it.”

Your face flushed. “Who said that I loved you?” you squeaked.

“You did, when you went and took a man’s stake to the heart for me!” he shot back.

“Maybe I was just there and he wanted to kill us both,” you argued.

“Hm, and that’s why you said you were the vampire, is it? That you were real?” he asked.

You pressed your lips together.

His fingers trailed down your jaw and under your mouth, gently holding your chin. “There’s not a single way that I can think of that can match that, you know,” he sighed against your lips, “This will have to do.” He said a lot as he kissed you, making sure that you knew how much he loved you, that he’d loved you for an awfully long time, that it probably started when you first walked through his door, and you hoped that the kiss you gave in return said as much as your death did – that you loved him.

That you love him.

That you will always love him.

[cctinsleybaxter]

2019 in books

The year’s contenders for the good, the bad, and the rest. I used to make a list of the ten best books I read all year, a tradition encouraged by my mom as far back as high school, but out 2019′s twenty-six mediocre offerings it didn’t really come together. Instead I’ve decided to break my ‘honorable mentions’ category into three subsections that I hope you’ll enjoy. In order of when read, not in order of affection:

Honorable mentions [books I liked; 3+ star material]

The Fifth Season by N.K Jemisin was given to me as a Christmas present last year, and I wasn’t sure how much I would like it since I don’t really do high fantasy. Rules need not apply; I loved the world building and narrative structure, and the characters were so much better than I’m used to even when their arcs seemed familiar at first glance. I guessed what was going on with the formatting maybe a little too quickly, but even then it was emotionally engaging and I was eager to keep reading and see what happened next. Haven’t devoured a book that way in years.

The Periodic Table by Primo Levi has been on my list for a while; as a memoir told through short stories it’s hit-or-miss, but so worth it. I especially loved getting to read his early attempts at fiction, and the chapter Phosphorus regarding his first real job as a chemist in 1942 (his description of his absolute disgust at having to work with rabbits, the feel of their fur and the “natural handle” of the ears is a personal favorite.) This excerpt is one I just think about a lot because it’s full of small sweet details and so kindly written:

“[my father] known to all the pork butchers because he checked with his logarithmic ruler the multiplication for the prosciutto purchase. Not that he purchased this last item with a carefree heart; superstitious rather than religious, he felt ill at ease breaking the kasherut rules, but he liked prosciutto so much that, faced by the temptation of a shop window, he yielded every time, sighing, cursing under his breath, and watching me out of the corner of his eye, as if he feared my judgement or hoped for my complicity.”

Slowing Down from Mouthful of Birds by Samanta Schweblin is a one-page short story, but I’m including it because it’s the best in the book and one of the better stories I’ve read in general. I won’t spoil it for you since it’s more poem than anything else (and you can read the whole thing here.)

A Short Film About Disappointment by Joshua Mattson deserves to be lower in the order because it’s like. Bad. But I couldn’t help but have a self-indulgent kind of love for it, since it’s a book about white boy ennui told through movie reviews. It definitely gets old by the end (one of those things where you can tell the author lost steam just as much as his leading man), but parts of it are so well-written and the concept clever. 80+ imaginary movie reviews and psychosomatic possession by your traitorous best friend. 

The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway has one of the greatest twists I’ve ever read in a novel, and no that’s not a spoiler, and yes I will recommend it entirely on that basis. It does its job as a multi-year sci-fi epic; reminds me a lot of Walter Moer’s early stuff in that it’s a bit Much(tm) but still a good mixture of politics and absurdity and absolute characters. Tobemory Trent was my favorite of the ensemble cast (but also boy do I wish men would learn how to write women.)

My Only Wife by Jac Jemk is a novella with only two characters, both unnamed, a man describing fragmented memories of his wife. It has me interested in Jemck’s other writing because even though I didn’t love it she writes beautifully; reading her work is like watching someone paint. The whole thing has a very indie movie feel to it (no scene of someone peeing but there SHOULD be), which I don’t think I’ve experienced in a story like this before and would like to try again. 

Mentions [books I really wanted to like but my GOD did something go wrong]

Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou is the most comprehensive history we have of Elizabeth Holmes and her con-company Theranos. It’s incredibly well-researched and absolutely fascinating, but veers into unnecessary pro-military stuff in one chapter (’can you believe she tricked the government?’ yes i can, good for her, leave me alone) and carries an air of racism directed at Holmes’ partner and the Pakistani people he brings onto the company. Carreyrou works for WSJ so I don’t know what I expected.

Circe by Madeline Miller was fun to read and goes down like a glass of iced tea on a hot day, but leaves a bit of an unpleasant aftertaste. It says a lot of things that seem very resonant and beautiful but ultimately ring hollow, and the ending is too safe. Predictable and inevitable. 

I was also bothered about Circe’s relationships with Odysseus and Telemachus as a focal point, not because they’re father and son (Greek mythology ethics : non-committal hand gesture) but because it’s the traditional “I used to like bold men but now I like... sensitive men.” Which as a character arc feels not unrealistic but very boring. You close the book and realize you’re not nine and reading your beat-up copy of Greek Myths, you’re an adult reading a New York Times Bestseller by a middle aged straight white woman.

Reservoir 13 by Jon McGregor could have been the best thing I read all year and I’m miserable at how bad it ended up being. The concept is excellent; a thirteen-year-old girl goes missing in a rural English village, and every chapter chronicles a passing year. I knew it would be slow, I like slow, but nothing happens in this book and it ends up it feeling like Broadchurch without the detectives. Plus, McGregor, you know sometimes you can take a moral stance in your story and not just make everything a grey area? Especially with subplots that deal with things like pedophilia and institutional racism?

Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea Lawlor is about a twenty-something who moves from Iowa to San Francisco in the 90s and explores gender and sexuality through shapeshifting. It was something I really thought I would like and maybe even find helpful in my own life, but I couldn’t stand a single one of the characters or the narration so that’s on me! It does contain one of my favorite lines I’ve read in a long time though:

“And anyway, weren’t French boys supposed to be like Giovanni, waiting gaily for you in their rented room and actually Italian?”

Dishonorable mentions [there’s no saving these fellows]

The Butterfly Garden by Dot Hutchinson was supposed to be a fun easy-to-read thriller and what can I say except what the jklfkhlkj;fkfuck. It very quickly goes from ‘oh hey I read books like this when I was 15’ to ‘oh the girl who intentionally gets kidnapped by a wealthy serial killer is accidentally falling in love with his son and can’t stop talking about his eye color now huh.’ I felt like I was losing my mind; why did grown adults give this 5 stars on Goodreads.

The Beautiful Bureaucrat by Helen Phillips is supposedly surrealist horror fiction about working an office job in a new town, and reminded me of that rocky third or fourth year when I really started hating Welcome to Night Vale. All spark no substance, and even less fun because you know it’s going nowhere. I’ve also realized this past year that I cannot stand stories about women where their only personality trait is the desire to have children. People will throw the word ‘Kafkaesque’ at anything but here it was just insulting. 

The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai alternates point of view between Yale, a gay man living in Chicago in the late 80s and watching his friends die, and Fiona, the straight younger sister of one of those friends now looking for her erstwhile daughter in 2018. It was nominated for the 2018 Pulitzer, and part of my interest was in wondering how we were going to connect the plot lines of ‘the personal cost of the AIDS crisis’ with ‘daughter lost to a cult.’

The answer is that we don’t. The book is well-researched and acclaimed beyond belief, but it is SUCH a straight story. Yale’s arc is fueled by the drama of his boyfriend cheating on him and infecting them both, Fiona is painted as a witness to tragedy and encouraged to share their stories with her own daughter. “You’re like the Mother Theresa of Boys Town” one of the men complains bitterly of her, and the claim goes undisputed. It’s a story that makes a lot of statements about love and families and art that I feel we’ve all heard before to much greater effect.

[sky-scribbles]

Kaas City shines in the rain.

The Republic news always shows it as grim and forbidding, endlessly smothered by floods. But anyone who’s lived here knows the city was built to be beautiful in a downpour. Gutters made of strengthened glass, refracting light into shining patterns as the water courses through them; funnels and spouts that catch the rain it trickles down buildings, channelling it into fountains.

Lana shines in the rain, too. But then, Lana always shines.

Neyna doesn’t bother to hide her smile as she leads Lana out onto the balcony of her apartment. This feels like the right place to talk: appropriately dramatic, what with the drumming of the rain on the canopy above their heads, and the city a shimmering artwork all around them. And here, she gets to see Lana in the light of the city. See the highlights and shadows thrown over her face. It’s a breathless experience – even though her robes are soaked and her hair’s sticking to her face – and Neyna very badly wants to kiss her.

She wonders if Lana has noticed her repeated glances towards her lips. Probably. Hopefully.

‘You didn’t have to come here in this downpour,’ Neyna says, leaning against the parapet. ‘Or if you did, you could have taken a taxi with a roof.’

‘I took the first one I saw as soon as I learned you were home.’ Lana smiles, and stars, Neyna will never get over what that does to her insides. ‘I wanted to see you as soon as I could. Besides, you didn’t have to buy me flowers, either.’

She’s still holding them, a explosion of amber-coloured petals – which, Neyna is delighted to see, match her eyes perfectly. ‘I did, really. It seems like the least kind of apology I can make for apparently-dying on you. And for taking so long to let you know I was alive.’

Lana is silent for a moment, her fingers twining around the flower stems. Then she says, ‘I missed you.’

Thunder crashes somewhere, and Neyna’s stomach clenches. The clouds hide the view of Zakuul’s blockade, ships in the thousands hanging above Dromund Kaas’s turbulent sky. She thinks of how those ships dropped out of nowhere, how she ran in a panicked dash to escape the Knights and droids that poured from them. Months spent dodging skytroopers as she battled towards home. Nights in cramped foxholes, lightsabre clutched to her chest like a child’s toy, thinking, Lana would know what to do. Lana would have made it home by now. I wouldn’t be anywhere near this scared if Lana could just be here with me –

She swallows, and her fingers clench over the edge of the balcony wall. ‘I missed you too.’

‘No. I –’ Lana’s voice catches in a way Neyna has only heard from her once before, when she was huddled on the ground on Ziost after trying to fight Master Surro. Blood in her hair, blood across her face. So much of it.

Neyna pushes the memory away, and focuses on the way Lana moves as she trails a fingertip over the edges of one of the flowers. Focuses on her voice. ‘I missed seeing you come into work with paint stains on your arms. I missed seeing you play with that bad-tempered kell drake of yours. I hated relying on stealth generators because I didn’t have you to cloak me with the Force. I hated sensing the empty space where you were meant to be at my back. Even –’ She stops, closing her eyes for a moment. ‘Even the Force felt wrong without you around. I won’t feel that again.’

Neyna steps closer. ‘You won’t have to.’

Lana doesn’t say anything. But she smiles. And there’s silence for a few seconds, broken by the sound of rain clattering on the canopy and on the streets and on a million artworks made to catch the water.

There’s no need to say anything more, Neyna decides. She and Lana both know what’s between them, it’s rippling across their Force bond with every second. How unnecessary words seem, and how foolish all those hesitations and missed chances feel, now the entire galaxy is going to change. Now they need to leave this shining city, leave the Empire. Now each of them is the other’s only still point.

Another sound joins the rain: Lana’s fingers drumming on the balcony in a very restless, un-Lana-like way. ‘I suppose we should probably talk about –’

Neyna can’t help the smirk that steals onto her face. ‘About the messages you sent me while I was missing? Your dramatic declaration of love?’

Lana looks equal parts annoyed and awkward, and Neyna shouldn’t be as amused by that as she is. But everything inside her feels too bright and warm right now, and she’s felt that way ever since she read Lana’s last message. My love, Lana called her, and Neyna cried, clutched the datapad until her fingers hurt, laughed in a way she hadn’t since the Eternal Empire came, then cried some more.

The sound of Lana’s voice breaks in on her thoughts. ‘We don’t need to talk about it now if you don’t want to. You’ve had a hard few months, and things are about to change a great deal. And you’ve never exactly made your feelings clear –’

‘I haven’t?’ The words turn into incredulous laugh. ‘Maybe I never said it in so many words, but – stars, Lana, didn’t I make my feelings clear when I said I’d walk through fire if you asked me to? When I gave up my own life essence to heal you on Ziost? When I forced myself to live when it was me against the whole Eternal Empire, just so I could find my way back to you?’ That bright feeling is growing stronger, and Neyna decides to follow where it leads. ‘Then let me make my feelings abundantly clear, Lana Beniko.’

And she steps forward and –

And she kisses Lana.

Finally.

It’s almost laughably easy, after all those months of watching Lana and wanting Lana and saying nothing. Take her face in both hands and lean in, find Lana meeting her halfway, pull her in close and bunch fingers into her hair and don’t let go, oh Force, don’t let go. Feel their bond in the Force flare up like an explosion, all of Lana’s surprise and delight and wonder hitting her in a punch. And something deeper. Something hot and fierce that’s both hers and Lana’s, something that makes Neyna hold on even tighter. Linger a little longer.

Lana’s eyes stay closed as Neyna moves back. Her lips twitch into a smile. ‘You’re squashing the flowers.’

Neyna pries them from her hands and set them down on the rim of the balcony. ‘You can collect them later.’

Because she’s not stopping at one kiss, not when she’s wanted this for more than a year, not when the reflections from the city walls are dancing on Lana’s face. And Lana’s eyes are open and it should be illegal to have eyes so vividly amber, and oh, Neyna is lost now if she wasn’t already, if she wasn’t the first time Lana ever smiled at her.

Neyna finds she’s very, very all right with being lost.

Because kissing Lana again and again is like the shock of a static spark from metal, the rich aftertaste of alcohol, the thrill of hearing music rise to a crescendo. It’s electric and it’s hungry and it’s joy in its rawest form, and there’s not a metaphor in the universe that’s strong enough right now. They told her back on Csilla that she would corrupt anything that touched her – and here she is with the most beautiful creature in the galaxy in her arms, and she’s laughing as she breaks the kiss, laughing with the triumphant glee of it.

So she nearly misses what Lana says. ‘Perhaps we should go inside.’

‘Must we?’ Neyna smiles the words against Lana’s lips. ‘You look beautiful in the rainlight.’

‘Rainlight? This is why I – ’ Lana doesn’t finish the sentence, just leans forward to kiss Neyna again. Soft. Warm. ‘I’ve never met anyone who sees the world the same way you do. Always seeing beauty.’

‘I know,’ Neyna says, looking at Lana in the least subtle way she can manage, and Lana laughs again. ‘But maybe you’re right. Maybe we should go inside. Somewhere nice and private.’

She would like to add, because I want you to myself and I want you as close as I can get you and quite honestly, I just want you and I have for so long. But she settles for grinning, a grin that’s definitely too smug, and Lana lets out a huff. ‘You’re insufferable.’

Neyna just keeps grinning, because she saw a familiar edge creep into Lana’s eyes. A look that says she’s seeing a challenge. Accepting it. And Lana can’t find her that insufferable anyway, because she keeps kissing Neyna even as they step across the doorway, not stopping as Neyna leads her to her room, only stepping back when Neyna turns the light down to a soft golden glow with a flick of her hand. Stars, she loves being a photokineticist. She turns back to Lana, and –

Oh.

There’s no awkward restlessness in Lana’s face now, no hesitation. The glow of her eyes in this lighting is downright ferocious, and Neyna feels her insides jolt so violently that she has a vague feeling that they might not even be in her body anymore.

Lana’s hand closes around the front of her robe. Pulls her close. Closer still. Close enough to slip Neyna’s scarf off with a single twist and hook purposeful fingers into the front of her robes.

‘I am done,’ Lana hisses, ‘with having distance between us.’

Which is absolutely fine, as far as Neyna is concerned.

And very soon there’s no distance between them at all.

[talesfromtheindigoghost]

Good Intentions

I never remember how I get here. Not at first, at least. 

It’s always the same, yet it feels like it’s the first time this has ever happened.

It’s heaven. Maybe. If you took any little kid out of sunday school and asked them what heaven looks like this is probably going to be about it. You would probably get an even better idea if you handed that same kid a package of crayons and a blank piece of paper and asked them to show you.

An enormous land of clouds, existing right in the middle of an unbelievably vast blue sky. The sun shines in the distance, brightly, yet softly. It’s a warm, secure kind of light. Golden rays of god’s love illuminates a land of angels and goodness. Honestly, even with the way I feel about everything, it’s breathtaking.

Nature, in its most mysterious form.

Until you spot the clearly man made gate made of shimmering golds and silvers, spun into the gaudiest, flimsiest fences you’ve ever seen. Next to it, and far more disappointing, is the small booth labeled “ENTRANCE TO HEAVEN” in even more unnecessary, self-congratulating dazzle.

The light sings, filling the air with its musical splendor only for it to resonate uncomfortably along the hollow metal structures and decorations.

It’s alarming how familiar it is, despite it being the greatest single mystery man can never solve without a dire commitment.

The man in the booth and I meet eyes as I approached the booth. I can’t tell for sure, but he gives me a look that immediately tells me we’ve met before and that it wasn’t a good experience.

“Hey Peter.” I don’t know why I said it, but it feels right and it comes out of me with all the casual ease of greeting the guy that works at your post office. I’m sure of it now. He recoils at first, but then catches himself and stays firm.

“SAINT Peter. Saint.” He corrects me. I’m not sure why, I KNOW why, but I don’t quite know why, but I grin like an asshole. I nod, of course, of course. “Lucky I was Catholic, huh?” The proud agent of heaven, grand and noble arbiter of whether or not you get through the obnoxious gates, adjusted his blue polo shirt and vest and pulled a small walkie talkie from the pocket of his khaki cargo shorts.

He brings it to his cheek and lets it press against it for half a moment, he gives me the kind of glare you always get any time a retail worker has to call their boss. We both know it was inevitable but it’s still such a hassle. “It’s different for everyone. This is what you know.” Saint Peter exhales the words out like a tired sigh, one moment of freedom before they have to pretend to be a perfect professional.

I already knew that, I thought, but it felt like I learned it for the first time.

The small toy chirped as he pressed down the button.

“He’s here. Yes, HIM.” We locked eyes as I heard static crackle from the speaker. “Yes, again. Yes, the same way.” I wiggle my eyebrows as I jokingly adjust the noose around my neck. “He was turned away, as I SAID- ” we both catch him getting angry, I shake my head. “- mentioned. Mentioned in my previous memo.” it chirps a final time as he lets go of the button.

We’re both waiting for a response, but I can tell he’s sweating. We both know this is a tense situation. I can already tell by the look of future regret on his face, the strained exhale and closed eyes, what his boss had to say.

That’s alright, I told myself. I knew this was a strong possibility.

“Sorry.” I can tell the guy means it by the way his shoulders slump and the word seems to weigh a ton. He hooked the walkie talkie back onto his pocket and sighed. “The boss says you’re not allowed in and you know why.” I should be pretty pissed off, but I gave him a pretty tired smile and waved it off.

“It’s alright, I get it. I’m not gonna shoot the messenger.” Watching him relax a little after I said that made me feel a bit better about the situation. I hold the dangling rope for a moment so it doesn’t hang as I lean over the desk and spot a mini-fridge right by the corner of the booth.

He shoots me a grin and bends down to take something out of it, a single cold can of cherry cola that tings quietly as he sets it in front of me. I popped it open and took a grateful sip as he opened his own can of ginger ale.

“It’s different for everyone.” He said again, but much sadder this time. I closed my eyes and took another sip. The pleasant taste turned sour as the crisp chill of cold bubbles was replaced by the warm, flat taste of some kind of beer I’ve never cared to get too familiar with.

I opened my eyes to find that the radiant clouds of comfort were now the toxic miasmas of suffering. The gentle music dancing in the air distorted into an unease that vibrated through your very soul and rattled you from the inside out.

I spot a red, handsome young man sitting on a stool next to the kind of podium you see at the entrances of fancy restaurants of night clubs. The pretty jerk with the incredibly important job of checking a list of names to see if you’re on it and who would never let you forget how socially important his job is. I knew he was smug incarnate before he even opened his mouth.

I double check the can in my hand and see it’s the same cans I remember seeing littering the whole place after any given sleazy party. I take another sip out of sheer spite as I approach the guy in front of a shattered portion of an old brick wall, blocked off by a single velvet rope suspended between two poles made of flesh and stone, much like the wall itself.

He locks eyes with me, pulling a rose gold encased smartphone from the pocket of his trendy suit with one hand and raising a finger with the other as if I’m too stupid to understand the concept of someone needing a moment to make a phone call as they’re already making the call.

He gives me a silent expression of “Well? Don’t you see I’m calling?” along with a headshake before he looks down and notices the can in my head and curls his lip in disgusting. I take another sip, just to appreciate the disgusted look he gives me.

It tastes like blood.

“Yes, sir? He’s here, just like you said.” He smiles brightly and his voice has that same forced kind of asskissing tone the smile does. “Right like always, sir! You truly are smarter than God!” He shoots me another dirty look, as if he’s daring me to say something about his obvious brown nosing. I scoff and raise my hands in that universal gesture of “I didn’t say anything.”

He lowers the phone and cocks his head towards me. “Do you know why they sent you down?” I loosen the rope around my neck. “No idea.” He starts to say something but then realizes I’m messing with him. I can tell he’s pretty pissed off that I got him with that, even just for a moment as he gives me a venomous smile.

“Yes, same as last time. No, I’ll tell him, but we both know he’s not going to be happy about that.” I laugh a pretty snotty laugh, slipping the rope off of my neck and casually tossing it towards the red punk just hard enough to gently slap across his face as it went over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir. I will let him know.” He says the words through clenched teeth and annoyance, the call comes to an abrupt end. I catch a brief glimpse of an older, more powerful looking man in a much finer suit leaning from behind the open door just beyond the broken wall. He disappears the moment he notices I’ve seen him.

I take another tip. It tastes like blood.

It’s alarming how familiar this is.

The pretty little twerp squirms in place, acutely aware that he’s been left alone out here with an awkward message to give. “Boss says you’re not allowed in yet. He doesn’t know how this is all going to play out just yet, so grats, you get some more time to mope about it.” There’s something about the way he says it all that tells me that me showing up here just ruined his chances of a promotion anytime soon.

“Whatever.”

I look down at the can again and shake it just enough to see how much is really left in there. By the sound and feel of it, just about a quarter full of whatever it was at this point. Without even thinking about it I suddenly found myself throwing the can at the foot of the podium hard enough to splash all along it and most of the man’s pant leg.

I turned around, closing my eyes before he has the chance to say or do anything in response.

I wake up in my bed a moment later as if I had simply caught myself daydreaming, the tang of blood and the cloying aftertaste of off-brand cherry cola reminds me what I was just doing.

As far as I can tell I’m alive and well, save for being intensely hungry.

I look across my bedroom and notice my corpse hanging from one of the rafters along the ceiling. I watch his arms swinging weak as his dead, white eyes weep thick tears of tar like blood.

This reminds me that everything was real, as it always has been.

My heart beats faster in fear, an indescribable sensation of terror and anxiety that can only be felt by seeing your own dead body. The kind of unknowable horror that can only be experienced by watching as your dead body twists and distorts into something less than human. Its fingers turning into claws of splintered bone and tar, its jaw turning into a maw of blades that clatter in grostque threats.

To watch as its flesh blackens and corrupts before your very eyes.

I stand helpless as its newly reshaped feet plant firmly onto the ground, allowing it to tear the noose from its neck and let out a deep, vibrating noise from its rumbling body in a feral hunger.

I should be terrified of the monster in front of me, the monster threatening to put an end to this story for good.

I can’t think straight. My heart beats even faster as he begins to awkwardly lumber towards me, each step seeming to teach it to walk better, faster and with more purpose.

It occurs to me that I should run but something seems to be stopping me.

I’m so hungry.

[nahmooste]

take it all until there’s nothing left of me

pairing: Kazuchika Okada/Female OC warnings: swearing, almost alcohol abuse a/n: angst and smut, two things i write the best; more chapters incoming soon. kinda enemies to lovers trope. let me know if you want to be tagged in the rest :) 

Part 1

They hate each other; of that, she is completely sure. He hates her tattoos, mocks her every time he sees them— “unnecessary and, frankly, would suit someone else much better.” He hates her in-ring style, calls her brash and reckless, like he’s not the exact same when it’s him between those ropes. She hates his smug grin, arrogance seeping through every pore of his body, and she hates the way he thinks he owns everything he sees. She hates the fast cars, the obnoxious noise every time he rocks up to a meeting or a show. Emily hates him, mostly, because, even with all these things, even with him belittling her, she can’t stop thinking about him.

Kazuchika Okada, who has the world at his fingers, hates her because he can not have her. Hates her because she wears her tattoos like they mean something more to her than he ever could. Hates her, because then it means everyone else will, too. She hates him for that. Blames him for her lack of connections, even outside of the wrestling world, even when she knows she’s one of the best to ever step foot in that ring.

She hates his stupid Rainmaker lariat, the entire gimmick. She hates that he calls her weak. She’s not.

“You’re like a child, small and annoying.”

“And yet you’re the one who finds me.”

“I need to make sure you never forget.”

She wants to punch him in the face, but settles for giving him a look that makes the smirk fall from his mouth. “C’mon, princess,” he says, kneeling in front of where she’s stretching out. “You know I’m only joking.”

“I know you’re only being an asshole.”

Kazuchika rolls his eyes. When he starts to walk away, she lets out a heavy sigh. “Okada,” she calls, and he turns back to regard her with an eyebrow half raised. “You call me princess one more time and I’ll slap you so hard Gedo will feel it.”

He smirks at her, eyes cold. “I’ll call you whatever I want, princess.”

They’re in a secluded part of the training area, because she can’t go anywhere without eyes watching her and can’t train when she’s knows everyone’s looking. She doesn’t know how she’s still employed here if Okada’s opinion controls it all— maybe he wants her to feel so singled out she’ll leave on her own. It’s tempting.

She stands and stalks towards him, eyes burning, but her hand never makes contact with his face. He grabs her arm midair and turns her, crushes her body between his and a wall.

“You’re really going to strike the Rainmaker?”

“I’ll do more than just strike you,” Emily quips in English, struggling to free herself, half her face pressed against solid wall, arm twisted awkwardly behind her back. “Fucking get off me, you piece of shit.”

Kazuchika hums in her ear, drums his fingers next to her head. “For someone who prides themselves on being smart, you’re very naive, aren’t you?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“If you took one second to look outside of yourself instead of in, you’d notice that my actions are made for a reason.” Okada leans in and presses his mouth to her bare shoulder. “You think I wait for you to mock you? To tease you? Big picture, princess. What do I want?”

She hisses at the wall and tries to shove him off again, succeeds only in bashing her knee into his. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, what I want is for you to let me go before I press charges like sexual harassment and assault.”

He laughs at her. Laughs. She hates him for that, too.

It isn’t until well after he’s let her go and well after she’s finished a gruelling, rage induced workout that she lets herself think about what he said. She doesn’t spend too much time on it— he wants to get into her head and she’s not going to let it happen. She hates that it happens even when he says nothing.

The only person that comes near her as she’s walking out is Io. “Are you okay?”

“I need a drink.”

Io Shirai, the only Japanese woman that will talk to her, says that Emily is almost dependant on alcohol. She blames Okada. “The girls were thinking about going out later, as well. Do you want to join us?”

She gives Io a sidelong glance. “Do they know you’re inviting me?”

“No. They won’t care if they’re getting drunk.”

She’s not convinced that she’ll be welcome, but she doesn’t really want to disappoint Io again; the Japanese woman had invited her to many things, and she’d cancelled on her too many times already when she was only trying to be inclusive and supportive. She knew there would be other women going who would talk to her, at least, but the fact that she knew she was outnumbered by the people who stayed away from her because of Okada… she hates him for it.

So she goes. Puts on a little dress, the top half a dark red, the bottom half a floral skirt, and heels that will make her tower over the rest of the women going.

They stare at her with something close to apprehension— she’s attractive, and they know she knows it. Some want her to stay well away from them so their boyfriends won’t even look at her. Some want the attention that comes with being around her. And until the alcohol starts flowing more freely, conversation is strained. But then one shot becomes two, a drink turns into many more, and their laughter starts to turn her lips up. Io nudges her shoulder, almost a told you so. She wants to hug her.

She starts to enjoy herself. She laughs with the women and flirts with the bartender to get them free drinks, and more importantly, she forgets about her burning hatred for Okada.

Drunk enough, she pulls Io out towards the dance floor, laughing when the woman wants absolutely nothing to do with it— she’s no choice but to accept her fate when Emily starts shimmying against her. She laughs with the Japanese woman, grabs her hands, finds herself letting loose because she wants to.

But when they leave the crowd in search of the other girls, she stops short.

“Emily Maki, what a surprise!”

She wishes she could fade away into nothing. “Okada,” she finds herself replying, ducking past his gaze and heading straight for the bar. Frustration bubbles up inside her. She feels hot tears burning at the back of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Io says. She hadn’t even noticed that the woman was beside her once more. “I didn’t know he was coming, I promise I would have told you—“

Emily shakes her head. “Not your fault.”

“Do you want me to—“ but Io stops dead, words falling short even over the sound of pounding music. She knows without looking that Okada is behind her. “I’m— I’ll talk to you soon, Emily.”

Even with her heels on, Okada towers above her. She turns and has to arch her head back to look at him, and then she’s taken aback by how attractive he looks in what he’s wearing. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, an eyebrow raised. Her hatred simmers for a moment. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“You’ve not thought about what I said.”  It isn’t a question.

“No.”

Kazuchika purses his lips and steps towards the waiting bartender, asks him for three shots of something she doesn’t quite catch. She quickly learns that two of those are for her. “Drink,” Okada commands, and she stares at the shot glasses for a long moment. He grabs one and holds it out for her, and now she stares at him. His eyes are dark, asking her for something she doesn’t know she can give. The glass touches her bottom lip.

She wants to tell him to fuck off.

Instead, she covers his fingers with her own and tips the shot back, reaches straight for the other one and tips that back, too. It burns going down, but is sweet enough to not leave her gagging on the aftertaste. Then she watches as Okada swallows his own shot, can’t stop herself from looking at the way his arms strains against his shirt.

“Dance with me?”

She shorts at him. Even drunk, she’s sound of mind to think better of it. “So you can hold another thing over my head?”

He leans towards her and curls an arm around her waist, pulls her in against him. His breath is hot on her ear and she can feel it crawl down her spine. “I’m not asking.”

The two shots hit her while she’s dancing. One minute her head is fuzzy, words slurring, and the next all she can focus on is the way the beat of the song moves through her chest. There are so many bodies around her, so much noise, and she retreats into the one thing she’s familiar with, even if she would never do it sober. She steps closer to Okada and stares up at him with eyes half-lidded. Thin hair sticks to the back of her neck.

All the inhibitions she has when she’s sober, all the barriers she builds to keep him out— it all comes crashing down when his hands touch her waist. A gentle pressure drawing her closer, hot breath against her hair, and Emily’s hands twist into his shirt more gently than they ever had.

“Emily…”

Her head tips back and rolls to his muscled shoulder and now his mouth is at her neck. She revels in the feeling of hot lips and hot tongue pressing to her skin, revels in the feeling of strong arms and strong grip holding her against him. And then she starts laughing.

“You know I hate you? I hate you so much. You make my skin crawl and you fuck me around like I’m nothing. And you hate my look, who I am, what I wrestle like, and you make me feel so small and insignificant and disgusting,” her words are slurring, but Kazuchika’s stopped kissing her neck now, holds them still in a moving crowd. “I hate you and you hate me and this is what this is and who we are. I wrestle my best matches to spite you, and then you tell me you’ve never seen worse, you insult me because you enjoy it and it makes me so angry because no matter how you hurt me, no matter what you do, I can never stop thinking about you.” Emily laughs then, opens her weary eyes to finally look at him. “You, Kazuchika Okada, are an asshole. You think you own Japan. You think you own me. But let me tell you a secret— you don’t own me, and you never will.”

Emily pats his chest, content with what she’s said and how she’s said it, and then pushes away from him. She finds Io and tells her that she’ll see her tomorrow. Stumbles down stairs, nearly breaks an ankle, and pushes her way out onto streets that she’s unfamiliar with.

Okada almost collides with her back. “Emily—“

She groans at him, the noise drawing attention from people walking by. “Don’t you get it? I just want you to leave me alone, please.”

When he grabs her wrist, the movement grounds her. Had she been swaying? “I’m driving you home.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“One shot.”

“Pussy.”

Okada rolls his eyes at her.

Things blur as he drags her through Roppongi streets. She wants to rebel against him and swear at him, but she’s drunk and stumbling and can’t defend herself enough if he were to turn around and call her pathetic.

Next she knows, she’s in the front seat of a sports car, Kazuchika leaning across her to buckle her seat belt. His neck is at her mouth, skin subtle, soft— he smells good. Her eyes drift shut. “I’ll sleep.”

“Matte, Emily—“

Had she been speaking English? She doesn’t care. She’s asleep within seconds.