#but it always catches one off-guard when it is shed away to reveal what lies beyond those soft smiles

[shroudkeeper]

08. prompt / shed

To the untrained eye, I would clearly appear to be wandering in this byzantine of monumental trees, weaving between their silhouettes and the dappled light that filtered through. An ominous haze arose to encompass the entirety of this forest, making it difficult for one to find their way, yet the path set before me would reveal itself in time.

With a prayer, I announced myself with the melody of the kanzashi I wore with each languid step taken forward, and with it, the world around me became alive at my feet and from the contours of the landscape, curious spirits were roused from their dormancy. Motes of light the apparitions would appear to others who lacked attunement to the otherworldly, but they revealed themselves to me as freshly departed, ruined spirits.

And there were far more around me than I expected to come across.

I could not be in every single place where death has left an impression, but I make a note to visit them when my task is done, and I will be able to break the chains that have kept them bound here. Perhaps the wind will be one of peace and provide succor, instead of weighing down the heart.

As they slipped from my peripheral vision, the gnarled, twisted branches overhead, groaned as a steady wind gathered at their once verdant leaves, causing a rustling through the canopies. It was a nostalgic, and melancholic sound, which carried a warning as I resumed my approach.

It gathered along the folds of silk, an invisible caress tugged at the ends of my hair, all to draw my attention to where my path would find its end. There stood a lone building, its foundation pillowed by a heavy fog. The shed could easily be mistaken as a place of shelter for the weary who passed through, offering reprieve to the lost. But I knew it well as a clearly placed trap for one to be taken by a ..

❝ . . 食人鬼 ❞

The words formed in my hands and I listened to the clangorous sounds of agreement from the spirits who broke their silence and carried their wails into the ungentle winds. My suspicions proved to be correct.

This variant of malevolence was not unknown to me; I had come across them afore, and the results were very much the same. They violated a mortal's corpse by devouring their flesh, their appetite was insatiable. A feast they would hold with any adventurer or lost traveler who came to find themselves at this unfortunate end of the forest.

But I am no mere adventurer, I am the one who shall cleanse this land of them.

I approached the dilapidated footbridge that led to the very threshold, and upon reaching the poorly hinged doors, they opened suddenly and my quarry presented itself to me.

What I did not anticipate were the forms they had chosen for themselves, nor the fact that I had two to contend with instead of just one. An exceptional ploy; anyone would take sympathy for an elderly couple, one of whom looked as if he was suffering from the burden and toll that old age has brought upon them.

I am accustomed to horrors, and none have struck fear in me, perhaps that aided me in my hunt, for I showed little regard that their faces did not appear mortal to me, but depicted their true nature.

Horrific and malformed.

However, they did not recognize the dark nature that surrounded me, largely due to a veil of hunger that had shrouded them. Far too ravenous they were to be entirely aware of the threat who wore a smile for them. Perhaps they had not met anyone who could overpower them while together, yet.

To them, I appeared as yet another delectable prey, considering how the one masquerading as an elderly woman eagerly welcomed me into what would be my supposed last resting place.

I would play the role they desired to see of me, the delicate flower in need of a night's rest, unarmed, unassuming. I smiled, thanked them in my silence, and prepared myself for what was to come. They had not suspected anything yet..

..but with one touch to usher me into this domain, they find that their fates were already sealed.

[anochuu]

Greed (R18+)

⤷ Genres: fluff, very slight angst, vague smut yall naughty children go bless yourself,

⤷ WARNING: includes non-con(force seduction)⚠️

⤷ Jungkook x Reader (Oneshot)

⤷Summary: (Y/n) is totally fine sharing her man with the whole wide world; But the man himself contend otherwise.

I always believed that the love he gave me are limitless-clearly from all the attentions and acts he has given to me even in the eyes of the public does not stop him from the skinship.

Once in a while his hold screams possessiveness,aggressive that it's painful on me but at times his touch could be so gentle that he is so afraid to break the delicate me,treat me with all cautious and gentleness.

He is the young man i have come to know very well-love by many and fans are obsess with him,everything he does are perfect in their eyes. Always known as the innocent features he have,cute peculiar habits and srunches his nose whenever he laughs or grin. Typical,i must say but he really is very charming.

Dating a now famous idol is a challenge for sure and many i have to overcome but fortunately i am not a person to be fuss over things i do not find it necessary to mind about.So i am good to say.

But not with the opposite latter.

"H-hey!" I gasp when he pushes me abruptly against the wall,the walk-in wardrobe door behind us slammed close and he locks it without even looking behind.

"What was that?" He asks,voice low and his breath brushes my cheek considering the closet fits right only for two people but then again, it was suppose to be one.

"What was..what?" I gaze up at him,quizzicaly.

"I left just for a while for the fan meeting and yet,you're flirting already with one of the crews?"

The creased on my forehead deepens,What is he trying to say? Flirting? What i am just having a normal conversations with his staffs is what he called flirting?

"Jungkook,you're mistaken,he was just-"

"Oh i know," He mutters, "But you're letting your guard down too much,(y/n). You're letting all the men have their ways with you."

"And all men are wolves,do you not know that? Or clearly,i haven't shown it to you enough?"

The shivers ran down my spine when his eyes glowered,his grip tightens around me making me unable to move a muscle.

The possessiveness starts to take over him and easily i suppose;on the opposite side, He can't control his emotions well leading to a sensitive jealousy whenever i am out from his sight.

I sigh when he dips his head down to start placing hungry kisses along my neck,his cold pair of lips that sends a guilty ecstacy but love it; me who is one to be manipulated by him;bewitched.

Jungkook unbinds my hair and in no time at all,he inhales the scent of the locks deep,his skillful hands locked mine in place giving him easy access without my fight.

"Jungkook.."

"Do you have any idea how you're looking at me right now?"

"How i'm...?" I shake my head weakly and he uses that motion to glide his lips up and down of my jawline,carressing my cheekbones with his hot breath.

"You misunderstood,we didn't do anything." I manage to speak between ragged  breathing.

"Oh ,angel, i'm not mad at you." He lets out a throaty chuckle and in this dim closet,i could make out a little what expression he is wearing right now.

"I'm frustrated that you're too easy to be approach by other men.Can't you tell the difference?"

A faint commotion was heard from behind closed door and it made him stiffen for a while,the announcement has been released and we both know who it is cue for.

"I guess that's my cue." He glances over his shoulder,before slowly gazing back into my eyes.

"Wait for me back home," His voice softens, peering down into my face, before placing a deep but short enough kiss to my lips,feeling the slight of his wet muscles upon mine.

"I'll call you." He last said then left the closet,leaving me alone with a burning flared heat rise up to my face and i even need to hold myself up against the wall to prevent me from melting down.

"Wh-what the hell..Jeon Jungkook.."

That night,not having the chance to greet him by the door,exhaustion took over me and i could not help but to fall asleep and even the clock is ticking late when all he did back then,when i recalled was that just to wait for him;didn't really specify when.

That is when i felt a weight over the bed around me,the bed creaks as it sunken down and a figure hovers above me.

The gentleness of the fingers graze upon my cheek causes me to stir slowly awake,coming to my senses.

When i did open my eyes,his breathtaking feature came into view,

"Jungkook.." His name slurred from my mouth,rubbing my eyes to make sure it is really him right here.

"Did i wake you up?"

"No," I lied, positioning myself to fully facing him,

"Did you just got home?"

He hums in respond, already stirred by his needs which is,lust.Jungkook held both my arms up, pinioning them beside my head,butterfly kisses were given to my along my jawline. What makes me awake next when he sucks sharply against my skin and jolted me a surprise,his teeth nibbles on them.

"W-wait—Jungkook-ah.."

"Sorry," He apologizes, "I'm here to keep my promise."

His lips found their way back to latch against mine,each foldings sends a shivers down my spine and i had to tilt my head to the side away from him to catch my breath when he did not given me any.

I sigh when his kisses distracted me,but his skillful hands starts to shed my apparel one by one before i knew it,

"Lift your arms up." He whispers hastily and i obliged in the heat of moment;he then pulls my T-shirt up and toss them aimlessly to the other side of the bed,the cold welcoming my body.

"Are you still mad?" I ask when he lowers himself down to place chaste kisses on my chest and stomach.

"No." He reply,pulling away from me just to peel off his own shirt,revealing his muscular biceps-toned abs and abroad chest where his gymnasium results shown very clearly.

"You know how i am,(y/n)." He hovers above me again,tugging on my shorts,in one swift movement he slids down off of it from my legs.

"You are aware of my possessiveness." He leans down,buried his face onto the crook of my neck and purposely tilted my head to the side giving him full access to it.

"But yet you're still here."

At this point i am utterly confuse; Was he doing all this because of natural emotions ,or is it because of jealousy? Is it because he is the way he is right now and no one can change that? Or is it because he love me too much just by seeing another man beside me infuriates him?

The perplexity turns down my will and mood instantly,my hazy eyes and senses snaps back.

"Jungkook—"

"Turn around for me,baby." He interjected,the lust in his eyes became incisive,and whatever is say now might become pointless to his ears.

When i did not even budge, he grabs my shoulder but gently and flips me around as he wishes me to,my stomach facing the bed and my back facing him.His fingertips trace on my skin, to places i have never been but i am blindly following his joy.

"Ah!" I yelped when i felt the tip of his slender fingers flicks my folds below,my hands curling to fists the bed's mattress beneath us.

"This is—unfair," I writhe; "It's a foul mov—Nnh!" I slap a palm over my mouth,refusing to let out the sound coming out from my lips that even i myself heard it very...uncomfortable.

He inserted one digits at a time,ignoring my pleas and stiffled moans-beads of sweats form around my temples whilst his fingers starts to move in and out sending guilt yet pleasure within me.

He bends down and breathe heavily right on the side of my earlobe,

"Lift your ass up." The last cue he had for me

Through my half-lidded eyes he sent me to the abyss and i am in no strength to refuse his evil invitation. I did not realize the tip of his hot sex meets my entrance,without another word easing himself inside and my body tense instantly. Biting my tongue,i hold back the urge to moan.

"Jungkook-!" I called once more before he can move further,laid my head onto the bed and narrowed my eyes to see him above, the sweats also forms around his forehead,down to his chin.

"I don't want this.." I beg,

"Let's..let's stop this now,okay?" I panted, and finally, his movement stop so as his eyes bored to me.

It is unfair how he can keep his composure and even looks up, while i completely bet i look like a shrimp on a steam of hot water right now,wriggling jittery to get free. Now that i'm looking back, all he did was just to relief his stress on me,using my body as he pleases. The touching never stops even if we are in public despite his status and that scared me so much

Am i drunk in this love alone? With him falling half-way instead? This is too terrifying and risky.

Then i snapped out from my own daze when i feel his fingers brushes my fringe out of the way that sticks onto the side of my face,tucking them to the side,

"You hate this?" His voice hoarse,filled the now silent room.

With my remaining strength,i pull myself up and lean on both elbows, "I didn't said that, i just don't like—the situations."

"Situations?"

"Yes!" I sigh exasperatedly, "Jungkook,let's stop for today,please?"

His eyes darkens for a moment that gives me a genuine fear for once, Is it because i defy him?

"Why now of all times?" He questions quietly,sinking himself deeper instead and the fraction of pleasure sends me collapse on the bed again, a loud moan escapes my mouth this time,

"Do you hate me?" His chest bumps on my back,whispering close to the side of my face;the heat he is emitting is too much for me to handle that i am starting to lose my mind and when i do,there is no going back.

"N-no aahn—!" I writhe,squirming under him.

"Then why?"

His movement is slow,electrifying me as if he is taking his time to devour me. His both hands trails up reaching for my fingers,entertwining them all tightly.

I began to see stars and could not answer him for i am too busy not to get ahead over my own voice,giving him the satisfaction that he really is good in doing this. It takes a few moments longer until he sped up and i can not keep up anymore.The fierce heat takes a hold of me,trapping me down.

"I'm too close.." He murmurs,his teeth nibbles on my exposed shoulders,

"(Y/n)," he breathe out; "Look at me,eung?" He adopted a pleading tone and simply he knows it very well he uses that soft tactic against me who can't refuse whenever he does that.

And so i did,this time his sweat drips on the tip of his chin,his eyes seems glossy.He lowers himself and kisses me fiercely,distracting me from the fact he comes but the heat yet reaches the depth of my body

He pulls away leaving a string of saliva between us. He collapses upon me,each of us trying to catch breaths within our lungs,

"Are you disgusted?" Jungkook breaks the silence,

"What?" I manage to speak up but small.

"Are you going to leave me? Because you're disgusted by me?"

I kept quiet. And he continue,

"I am a very selfish man,i like to keep things close to me when they've become my favourites. What's yours is mine and what's mine is mine,you know that very well,don't you?"

There was another pregnant of silence,

"I broke your wings,if that is what you despise,you may wish to go." He pulls himself away and i froze,whirled around to see him fully in the face.

He stood up and putting on his pants quietly,leaving me thinking to myself. Do i want this? Although most part of my heart knows well i love him so badly that i have to deny that fact.

"I can't control my possessiveness,you're scared of that too,i can see it." He pointed out,still not looking at me

"Jungkook," Without thinking i reach out to grab his hand which caught his attention back to our hands,then to me.

"I don't hate it.." Our eyes intensely bored to one another.

"I'm just..i was just,scared that i might break easily if you hold me too tight and at the same time, i am scared i disappointed you;what if you are possessive over nothing at the end?"

Jungkook spun around, "(Y/n),listen to me.You are not nothing." He cups my face,leaning closer,

"I love you,with every ounces of my being.This side of me,is only shown to you because i am terrified with the thought you will get sick of me some day."  He places chaste kisses on each of my eyelids,

"I went overboard today,i'm sorry. Forgive me?"

His beaming gaze pleads,asking for tolerance this time and my heart skips a beat.

I nod,"Please don't do that again," I wrap my arms around his neck,pulling him down with me until my back hits the mattress once more.

A throaty chuckles slips from his mouth and he kisses me again,this time the tip of my nose,

"I was scared,your grips..." i trailed off.

"I know," He rested his forehead on mine;knowing well what i meant,

"I'm sorry ,baby. I won't do it again."

His lips glided down from my cheekbones to my lips,pulling it into a deep-locking sensation,my eyes fluttering close slowly in the process. His hands roams around my hips,his thumb drawing circles lovingly and i anticipated what's next,

"I can't hold back again if you're this cute." He murmurs,sighing against my lips,

"Then don't"

Jungkook pulls away slightly just to get a good look on my expression, a jolt of surprise in his widened eyes,

"(Y/n)?"

I giggled, "Don't stop,Jungkook." I lift myself up,hugging his neck and my turn this time to bury my nose on the valley between his shoulder

"What's yours is yours,you said that."

It took him a few seconds to digest what i had just uttered, he took my face in his hold once more,

"I love you." He repeatedly whispers between our mingling breaths,sinking back to the bed and i was eaten by his abroad back;his hands traces along my thighs before slowly spreading them open,drawing another circles with his thumbs on the inner skin as if i am his proud masterpiece.

"Something so amazing...so beautiful..all for me.”

[luminouswhump]

Unconventional career paths #2

Part One Here

cw for a slight mention of blood, nothing bad but just to be safe

Just when he thought he was safe, he saw a flash of metal and felt a cold blade across his neck. “Where do you think you’re going? Snooping around the castle like that?” said a voice that bore no signs of being understanding, no matter what Viresse’s answer would be.

“Am I right in assuming that you would not believe me if I said I just rescued your darling prince from certain death?” Viresse inched away from the sword at his throat, no doubt that those in the royal guard made sure their weapons were nice and sharp and ready to cut the throats of people like Viresse. The guards in question responded by politely yanking the elf up by his neatly braided hair. Viresse grunted in surprise and pain, earning him a laugh from the guard whose sword was still at his throat. “You would be correct indeed.” And with that he got roughly forced to his feet and dragged into the palace.

A secind guard took away his bow, dagger and bag. “No! Give those back to me!” Viresse struggled in the strong grip of a guard as he watched his most priced possessions being taken away from him. “Those are mine, you have no right to take them you bastards!” He lurged forward, hoping to break free from the hold, which failed. Instead, he got roughly forced to his knees again. “We have every right, you’re a prisoner now, you own nothing, are nothing and will get nothing unless it so pleases a royal. You should be glad we did not cut off your hand when we found you, and we still might do that right here and now. Do you understand?” He didn’t detect any lies in the statement, which scared him. The elf nodded and his involuntary tour of the palace dungeons continued>

Viresse never really expected to visit the royal palace, but he especially hated the way he was introduced to it at the moment. Guards had no sense of respect or politeness about them. Viresse had always been warned by the people in his village to stay away from royal guards, those red-cloaked bastards took pleasure in picking on the less fortunate. Unfortunately for Viresse, he belonged to that category and had been found in an area of the palace where he shouldn’t have been in the first place. He was dragged through long hallways, the dim light shed by the few torches present cast ominous looking shadows on the stone tunnels. Viresse was good at navigating through the dense woods of the kingdom, he was afraid he could not say the same about the underground dungeons of the royal palace. The tunnels seemed to go on forever, their footsteps and sounds of scared and uncomfortable prisoners echoing around him. The guards finally stopped in front of an empty cell, opened it and roughly shoved Viresse inside. He barely had enough time to catch himself as he fell onto the rough stone floor. Just as quickly as he’d been pushed, a guard was on him again, shackling his wrists to the wall. A well placed punch to the gut had Viresse crumpling to his knees, his arms stretched above him. He spat an elfish curse word at one of the guards. “Is this what I get as a thanks for saving your prince his ass?! Ask him! Check up on him right now! He’ll confirm it for you, you oaf!” Despite being human,the guard spoke elfish. He had been on his way out but turned on his heels, drew his sword and placed it against Viresse’s throat. Viresse gulped at the malicious intent he could see in this man’s eyes. The guard grinned, sending a shiver down the elf’s spine.

“Listen here you pointy eared little shit, I don’t care who you think you are or who you might have saved. Nobody is going to bother prince A'elin about you. You’re simply not worth the trouble. I’d suggest you quickly learn to shut up unless spoken to and learn to take orders. It’d be in your best interest, trust me.” He dragged his sword across Viresse’s cheek, leaving a bleeding gash. Viresse closed his eyes and breathed heavily, hissing in pain but managing to not make a sound. The guard patted his cheek in something that could have been a friendly gesture but definitely wasn’t. Viresse jerked his head away, glaring at the human. “Now I’d sit tight if I were you, and get ready to confess your crimes.” The guard stood up and promptly left the cell, laughing with the others as if Viresse’s imprisonment were an hilarious joke.

As soon as the echoing footsteps were no longer audible, Viresse began to pull on the chains, frustration finally overflowing inside him. He exclaimed in anger at how weak he felt. He never should have helped that stupid prince. The sounds of clanging metal filled his cell, but all he ended up with were strained muscles. He let his head slump, the cut on his cheek throbbing. Viresse couldn’t stand feeling trapped, especially if it was unjust. What he wouldn’t give to shoot those asshole guards in the leg… They’d taken his bow, his bag and his dagger, he felt naked without those. Hours passed and Viresse could feel his limbs start to ache from the position he was in. At one point he must have dozed off since he found himself startled awake at the sound of his cell door being opened. A hooded figure entered his cell, closing the door behind him and approaching Viresse without saying a word. The figure leaned downwards, his face illuminated by a ray if moonlight. Viresse’s heart started racing at the sight. Their face was unnaturally pale, almost translucent, covered in scar tissue on one side, the eyes seemed to be void of irises instead they were completely black. The creature smiled and Viresse could swear he could see sharp teeth and an oddly coloured tongue. The fugure pushed back the hood that had covered their face, revealing a set of horns which curled along their scalp before ending in a point that pointed upwards. Viresse tried to jump backwards but couldn’t, stopped by the hard, cold, stone wall behind him. “Wha-what are you and and what do you want from me?!” There was no point in trying to hide his fear, he knew that much. The creature didn’t answer, they merely reached out to Viresses face with clawed hands. Viresse started to panic “no no no no, stay away!” he struggled against his chains but to no avail. The sharp looking nails grazed Viresse’s face, who was unable to turn his head away. The creature ran their nails across his face and shivers ran their way across Viresse’s entire body. Viresse screamed as suddenly the creature grabbed his head in both hands and started to chant in a language he didn’t speak. “No! Let go of me you horned fucker!” Viresse thrashed, desperate wanting to get away from whatever it was that was in front of him.

Suddenly pain exploded across his head, washing over him through the hands of the demon, he thought now it must be a demon. Viresse screamed in pain, his voice bouncing off of the stone walls of his prison. He tried desperately to free himself but couldn’t get away from the burning hands that clasped his head. “Please!” He managed to croak out through gritted teeth. “Let me go! I did nothing to deserve this please!” His begging fell on deaf ears, the pain increased and Viresse couldn’t help but let out a howl of pain. “What do you want?! Fuck!” A raspy voice boomed through the room, seeming to eminate from nowhere. “You are being judged for your crimes, we are searching your mind for your past failures, I am afraid there are quite many.” Viresse saw memories flash before his eyes. His best friend Yorik and him throwing pebbles from trees at unsuspecting guards, Viresse stealing a loaf of bread for his sick grandfather, his mother hurrying him away from a group of guards that appeared around the corner. His father and mother discussing in hushed voices how they were going to cover taxes. His grandmother telling him stories about the old days when a just and righteous queen ruled the lands. People of noble descent laughing and pointing at Viresse as he helped his father push an old cart with what little harvest they had left to the market. It then shifted to scenes that Viresse hadn’t been a part of.Yorik’s sister being surrounded by humans of noble descent, Yorik sprinting desperately towards them, trying to drag the humans away from his crying little sister. Yorik dragged away by guards, covered in dirt. But his sister was safe. Yorik in meetings with shady figures, hunched over maps. Cloaked figures sprinting through the night, leaving an estate with bloodied knives. Yorik carried away in chains, hands blood which Viresse somehow knew belonged to some royal offical. The scenes shifted once more, to a letter in Yorik’s handwriting, he couldn’t make out what it said but it had been addressed to Viresse. The voice once more filled the room. “You have been found guilty for aiding and conspiring with a member of an illegal assassin’s guild. For this you will be punished.” Viresse’s life had been tainted by the injustice caused by royal rule and now it appeared they saw fit to torture him for that. The pain increased, spreading throughout his body, he wanted to run, to be anywhere but here. He could hear someone screaming in agony before realizing that it was his own voice. He tried to reason with the creature, to tell them that they had it wrong, he’d never wanted Yorik to do what he’d done, he just wanted to be left alone, he just wanted to go home. The pain stopped suddenly, the creature stood up and left, leaving Viresse gasping for breath in his chains, arms outstretched above his head, blood slowly leaking from his nose, his vision swimming and his entire body drained and exhausted.

They couldn’t do this to him, he wasn’t part of the assassin’s guild, he had never killed anyone! A'elin would have to safe him, the prince had to. Please.

[ghost-nabbers-imagines]

Werewolf! Larry x hunter! Reader

I’m sorry it took so long @soulless-lover-333 but here’s the do you requested. I hope you like it. It was a lot of fun to write!

My name is (Y/n) Helsing that’s right just like Van Helsing. I believe he was my great great grandfather if I remember right. We moved to the smal town of Nockfell for our mission. I guess there had been several reports of vampires and werewolves roaming the streets at night. So here we are temporarily moving into yet another smal town to kill these vile creatures.

After we dropped our stuff off in yet another cheap ass motel we made our way over to address we had been given. The building was called Addison Apartments and even though it looked run down this place gave me good vibes. I shut he door to our car and grabbed my small messenger bag making my way into the building’s lobby. A pretty woman with long dark hair was standing there waiting.

“Well hello there you must the Hellsing family. I’m Lisa Johnson I do a bunch of work around here. I’ll be the one showing you all around the apartments.”

My parents had used the cover of us being a family in search of a new home to get a good look around the building. The four of us made our way into an elevator where heavy metal began playing over the speaker. I recognized the band to be Sanity’s Fall one of my favorites. Their band logo was actually on my bag in the form of pins, and patches.

“Oh Larry again seriously? I apologize my son thinks he’s so funny. Actually (Y/n) dear he’s about your age if you want to go down to the basement and meet him and his friends.”

“There you go sweetheart you should go make some friends.”

I just shrugged and allowed them to drop my off on the basement floor. I could hear similar music playing as soon as I exited onto the floor. I tightened my grip on my bag strap as I confidently knocked on the door. A few mumbles could be heard on the other side before the door clicked open revealing a girl with dark brown hair opened the door.

“Hi how can I help you?”

“Uh hello. I’m (Y/n) I just moved to town. Lisa sent me down here.”

“Ah classic Lisa. Well come on in. I’m Ashley Campbell but you can call me Ash all my friends do. Follow me this way.”

I shut the door following her through the apartment to another room where a few other people were. There was a shorter blue haired guy who wore a full face mask and pigtails, a long haired brunette who I could assume was Lisa’s son, a red curly red haired guy with glasses who had what I would assume was his boyfriend’s arm wrapped around him.

“Guys this is (Y/n) Lisa sent her down to meet us.”

“Nice to meet you (Y/n) I’m Larry the son she told you about. The cool dude in the prosthetic is my best bud Sal. And the couple in the corner is Todd and Neil.”

I smiled as he offered out his hand to shake. When I extended my hand I couldn’t help but notice the amount of body hair on his arms and chest. He also had very long, thick, and unruly dark brown hair. And if I must admit he wasn’t the most unattractive person I’ve ever met.

“It’s nice to meet you all.”

We spent the rest of my time their that night listening to music and laughing. It was nice to finally act like someone my age for once. When my parents and I got back to our motel they questioned me about my friends to see if I had noticed anything monster like about them. Not quite sure and not wanting to sell out my new friends yet I lied saying I needed to learn more.

Over the next few weeks after some careful and sneaky observation I had learned that Larry was definitely a werewolf, Sal was a vampire, and Ash practiced witch craft. Usually we would have been out of here a week ago but this group had really taken a hold on me, especially Larry Johnson. They just weren’t like the evil creatures I had met. Today I had made plans with Sal and Larry planning on asking them for sure about who they are.

When I got to the apartments I made my way out to the back of the building. The guys and I had planned to investigate these myserious woods behind the apartments. Larry was already leaned against the tree his treehouse was in. His bag sat by his feet as he puffed on a cigarette. I couldn’t help but notice his defeated and glum body language.

“Hey Larry what’s wrong?”

“Oh hey (y/n). Well um, there’s something I need to tell you but you’re gonna wanna sit down.”

“Oh my god Larry are you pregnant?”

“Shut up you dork just listen ok.”

“Ok talk to me Johnson.”

“Well there’s something you don’t know about me. Something big. And I don’t tell a lot of people this. I always try to make sure I can trust people completely before telling them. But I really really like you. And I feel like I have to tell you this secret. (Y/n) the truth is I’m a-”

“A werewolf? I know. And I also know that Sal is a vampire and that Ash is a witch.”

“What?! How do you know? Is it that obvious???”

“No let’s just say I’ve done a lot of research on the supernatural.”

“And you’re not scared of me?”

“Or me?”

Sal had joined us and stood timidly next to Larry.

“No I’m not scared of either of you. And Larry I like you a lot too.”

Larry smiled widely and Sal let out a relieved breath. The three of us hugged tightly before we went off into the woods to do some exploring. Larry linked his hand in mine as we walked in between the huge trees and through the thick shrubbery. We spent hours out there having fun while the guys should me cool tricks they could do as monsters. Eventually Sal made his way back home leaving Larry and I alone. After it was well after midnight we made our way back to the apartments. Larry In wolf form put me on his back as he quickly raced through the woods.

“I really meant it earlier (Y/n). I’m kinda falling hard for you.”

“I could say the same for you Johnson.”

When we got back to the building he transformed into his normal self. He carefully sat me down keeping his big arms wrapped around my waist. Our faces slowly grew closer till I felt his lips press against mine. We stayed just like that till we needed to break for air. When he pulled away he had the biggest toothy grin on his face.

“So you’ll be my mate then?”

“Yes Larry I’ll be your mate.”

“Even if I smell like a dog and shed everywhere?”

“Yes Larry Even if you smell like a dog and she’s everywhere.”

He stepped back a bit pumping his fist in the air before letting out a long happy howl. I was so busy laughing at his excitable state that I didn’t notice the metal cage falling from his treehouse till it was too late. We both watched helplessly as the bottomless meal cage surrounded him. Larry reached out touching the bars only to recoil in pain. I’d recognize the cage anywhere. The bars were infused with silver and holy water. My dad moved from behind the other side of the wall dragging a tied up and lightly beaten Sal with him. My mom jumped from the treehouse aiming a super soaker I knew to be filled with holy water at Larry.

“Good work (Y/n) dearest.”

“Mom dad!? What are you guys doing?! Let them go!”

“Why would we do that sweetheart you know as well as we do that they’re disgusting monsters who need to be taken out just like all the others you’ve helped us slay.”

“(Y/n) what are they talking about?”

Larry looked at me so pained now. His big brown eyes laced with betrayal and anger. Sal was shaking with fear as he watched my father aim a machete at his neck.

“(Y/n) is a hunter. Just like us. In fact the three of have taken down quite a few of both your kinds.”

“You fucking liar. So everything you’ve said tonight was a fucking lie then? You don’t give a shit about me or Sal.”

“Larry that’s not true I promise! I didn’t know they were gonna do this!”

Larry snarled his teeth looking away angrily. I watched helplessly as my dad forced Sal onto his knees readying to swing the machete. Trying to think quickly I ran to Sal’s side shoving my dad as hard as I could catching him off guard enough to drop the machete.

“Sal go! Run!”

Sal looks from me to Larry not wanting to leave his best friend behind but also knowing he’s not in good enough condition to help.

“Go Sal. Have mom help you I’ll be fine.”

Sal transformed into a bat and took off into the apartments.

“Really (Y/n) you’ve fallen for their spell huh? Guess we’ll have to take care of the werewolf first then the vampire.”

My father angrily grabbed my by the collar of my shirt dragging me over to my mom’s side. She aimed the gun right towards Larry’s head as he watched the ground. Tears began to spill down my cheeks as I squeezed my eyes shut tight not wanting to see him get hurt because of me. When I instead of hearing a gunshot I heard my father start choking I opened my eyes to see him holding his throat as blood poured out of his mouth. I looked towards the trees to see Ash hidden with her spellbook in one hand her other hand raised towards my father. My mother seeing his state repositioned the fun back towards Larry and pulled the trigger. Before she did though I pulled myself from dad’s grasp and jumped in front of her. I heard the shot go off and some yelling before I fell to ground and blacked out.

~Time Skip to next morning~

My eyes fluttered open to see I was in a brightly lit hospital room. My body felt slightly numb but I could definitely feel someone holding my hand. I turned my head to see Larry’s head restiv in the bed his hand clutching mine. Lisa and Sal were both asleep in nearby chairs. I reached my hand down lightly push Larry’s hair out of the way. He slowly opened up his eyes waking up. When he realized I was awake he shot straight up standing by my side.

“Y-you’re awake. How do you feel.”

“Pretty numb. I’m so sorry Larry I didn’t mean for-”

“Shhh you don’t need to apologize for anything love. I just want you to focus on getting better.”

His hand lightly carressed my cheek as he smiled lovingly at me.

“Is Sal ok?”

“He’s fine just a bit bruised. About Sal. There’s something I need to tell you. When the paramedics and cops finally got there you had already lost too much blood. They brought you hear but said there wasn’t much we could do except wait. But one doctor kept telling us to prepare for the worst. So Sal had to um. He had to well bite you.”

“Bite me?! So like I’m a vampire?!?”

“Yes I’m so so sorry but it was the only way to save you. And now it’ll be the three of us forever.”

“That doesn’t sound that bad. And you guys are gonna teach me about how to be a vampire?”

“Hell yeah we are!”

“I think I could live with that.”

Larry smiled at me placing a gentle kiss to my forehead. Lisa and Sal has both woken up now and joined Larry by my side.

“How are you feeling dear?”

“Much better. Thank you Lisa. And Sal I am so so sorry for what they did to you.”

“It’s not your fault. Besides you saved us. I’m sorry you’re a vampire now though.”

“It’s ok. Although I’m not sure how well the homeless vampire is gonna work out. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

“Homeless? Sweetheart you can move into the building with us. You can either share a room with Larry or I can see about using one of the vacant studio apartments.”

And that’s exactly what happened once I was released. I moved in with Lisa and Larry in Addison Apartments where I got to spend all my free time with my boyfriend and best friends. Sal was teaching how to be a good vampire and how to live without people’s blood. All in all it was a happily ever after.

[jarmes]

Into The Forest

There’s only one real rule at the farm: stay out of the forest.

There’s only one real rule at the farm: stay out of the forest. Sure, ma and pa get mad when we said curse words or forgot to wash up before dinner, but anger over those things quickly fades. Some other things, like going in the cellar and spying on the present truck, can make them get really angry, but the only way to make them scream is by going into the forest.

I remember one time Benny ran a few yards into the forest to get a ball. Ma hit him so hard he couldn’t walk for a week. ‘Course, I don’t blame her. Everyone knows people who go into the forest don’t come back.

The forest pretty much surrounds the farm. On the north side of the house, there’s a rickety gate guarding a dirt road through the forest, but we aren’t supposed to go there either. I don’t know where that road leads, but I know it must lead somewhere other than the forest, ‘cause the present truck comes to the farm using that road.

Ma and Pa tell us to stay in the house when the present truck comes. We aren’t even supposed to look out the windows. One time, Benny watched the present truck pull up and Ma locked him in the shed for three days as punishment. Still, everyone knows about the present truck from the stories the older kids tell us.

The present truck brings us everything we can’t make ourselves. Books, pans, tools, that kind of thing. Ma and Pa keep everything the present truck brings us in the cellar. Us kids aren’t allowed down there. Going into the cellar is up there with spying on the present truck on the punishment scale. Of course, it’s nothing when compared to going into the forest.

One night, me and Benny were in our room when we saw a bright light outside our window. Benny peaked his head out and gasped. “It’s the present truck!” he said.

“Come on Benny,” I said. “You know what Ma and Pa’ll do if they catch us spying on the present truck. Besides, we're supposed to be asleep.”

“That’s why this is such a good opportunity, Bill! The truck never comes at night. Ma and Pa think we’re asleep, so we can spy on the present truck without getting in trouble.”

I peered out the window and, for the first time in my life, got a good look at the present truck. I’d never seen anything quite like it. It was like a small box on wheels, covered in rust and windows. There were two glowing eyes beneath the windows that shined yellow light on the house. Attached to its rear was this big silver box.

“What do you think it is, Bill?” Benny asked.

“I heard it’s a demon. The older kids say that if you stare into the lights of its eyes it steals your soul,” I said.

Pa walked out of the house and a man popped out from inside the present truck. “It isn’t a demon, Bill,” Benny said. “It’s just a small house?”

“Then how does it move?” I replied.

Pa and the truck man started grabbing boxes from inside of the silver box and moving them to the cellar. The truck man tripped while carrying one of the boxes, spilling these small silver rectangles all over the ground. He quickly shoved them back in the box and carried it down the stairs into the cellar. Pa shook hands with the man. The man drove off and Pa came back into the house. Benny and I jumped back into our beds and pretended we were asleep. We didn’t want Ma and Pa to catch us spying on the present truck.

Aside from Ma and Pa, there are twelve of us at the farm. The oldest, Danny, is sixteen. He and the other old kids help Pa do a lot of the farm work. Us younger kids spend most of our time in the house, learning about shapes and numbers and stuff from Ma. Me and Benny are special ‘cause we’re both nine. Danny says we were born at the same time, and that Ma got really sick when she was pregnant with us. I think that’s why she isn’t very fond of Benny.

The night after the present truck came, we got up at seven to get our schooling from Ma. She tried to teach some multiplication tables to Benny, but he didn’t get it, so she made him go outside so he wouldn’t interfere with the rest of the class. At lunch, I went out to see how he was doing.

He was sitting in the yard, throwing a ball in the air and catching it. I plopped down next to him and asked him what he was doing. “Just playing catch,” he said.

He looked left and right, making sure that nobody was watching us, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver rectangle. “What is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I found it on the ground,” he said. “I think it’s one of the things that man dropped last night.”

“You mean, one of the things from the present truck? We should tell Ma and Pa about it.”

“They’ll just get mad at us for spying on the Truck. Besides, aren’t you a little curious about what it is?”

Benny started picking at the rectangle, unwrapping its metal foil and revealing the smooth brown object residing within. Benny stared at the object for a few seconds, sniffed it, and took a bite. His eyes lit up. “It’s sweet!” he shouted.

He handed it to me. “Come on, take a bite,” he whispered.

“But Ma and Pa’ll get mad,” I muttered.

“They don’t need to know.”

I slowly bit into the rectangle. It was incredibly sweet, with a hint of bitterness that made my tongue water. Benny and I gobbled the rectangle up. Benny crumpled up the foil wrapping and buried it in the yard so we wouldn’t get caught. I went back to class and Ma yelled at me for staying outside for so long.

A few hours later Ma let Benny come back inside for dinner. Before we could eat, Pa came storming up from the cellar, fuming. “What’s wrong, Pa?” Danny asked.

“Shut up,” Pa shouted.

He looked around the room, looking each of his children in the eye. “Which one of you brats went down into the cellar?” he asked.

Nobody spoke up. Benny looked at his feet. Pa slammed his fist down on the table. “I said, which one of you brats went down into the cellar?” he yelled.

Pa sighed. “Going into the cellar, that’s one thing,” he said. “But lying about it? I thought I raised you kids better than that. Out there, beyond the forest, people spend all of their time lying to one another. I decided to raise you kids out here because I was so sick of all the lies.”

“What did they take?” Ma asked.

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, they went down into my cellar, stole my food, and then had the gall to lie to me about it.”

“Yeah, but if we know what they took, maybe we can figure out who took it.”

Pa sighed. “The truck came last night to deliver some provisions,” he said. “Among those provisions were twenty bars of chocolate. The dark kind that I like. I was down doing inventory before dinner and there were only nineteen bars in the box.”

Ma shot a glare at me and curled her lips. “When Bill came back from lunch today, he had some chocolate on his lips,” she said. “At the time, I thought he’d just ate some mud again, but now I know that he was eating chocolate.”

Pa walked behind me and placed his hand on my shoulder. He tightened his grip and I started crying. “Bill, did you sneak into the cellar?” he asked.

I blubbered out some gibberish and Pa tightened his grip. “Now, Bill, I need to hear you say it,” he said. “Did you go into the cellar then lie to me about it?”

“It was me!” Benny shouted. “I found the chocolate on the ground and made Bill eat it. I’m really sorry-”

Pa smacked Benny in the face, knocking him out of his chair. Pa dragged Benny outside by the ear and locked him in the shed. A few minutes later, he returned and sat down at the table. “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

Since Benny confessed, Ma and Pa were nice and only made him spend one night in the shed. The next day, they decided to punish us by putting us on Isaac duty for a week. That morning, Benny walked into the house, with one eye black and bruised and the other bloodshot from crying. He grabbed some cleaning supplies and the two of us went up to the attic.

Isaac was up there, like he always is, sitting in his chair staring at the walls. A bit of drool was dripping from his lip and onto his shirt. He didn’t try to wipe it off his chin. He never does. He never does anything, come to think of it.

Isaac is fifteen years old. He’s the second oldest of us, behind Danny. He’s a living example of why you never go into the forest. Unlike the other big kids, Issac doesn’t help out with farm work at all. He just sits up in his attic, staring at the walls.

Me and Benny get put on Isaac duty a lot, mostly because Benny keeps getting us in trouble. It’s always really annoying. First we have to wipe off his drool, then we have to feed him, then we have to undress him and give him a sponge bath before redressing him again, then finally we have to change his bandages. For some reason, Ma always makes us read Isaac a story before we leave. I don’t know why, he never reacts to anything we say anyway.

The worst part about Isaac duty is the smell. Isaac forgot how to go to the bathroom after he went into the forest, so he pretty much just goes wherever and then expects us to clean it up. Everyone hates doing Isaac duty, for obvious reasons. Sometimes, I think Ma makes up reasons to punish us just so she can have someone else take care of Isaac.

I was six when Isaac went into the forest. Back then, he could talk and walk and go to the bathroom and everything. He was always a bit mischevious, even more than Benny. One night, we all showed up at dinner but Isaac wasn’t there. Ma checked his room and found a note he wrote saying that he was running away.

Pa freaked out and he and Danny ran into the woods after Isaac. A few hours later, they came back, Danny dragging Isaac over his shoulder. Pa told us that a monster had attacked Isaac and that we should all be thankful that he was still alive.

I still remember how Isaac looked when Pa and Danny brought him back. The right side of his face was covered in blood and his eyes were closed. He looked like he was dead. Danny cried as he dragged Isaac’s unconscious body back home. Pa’s hands were covered in bruises and blood. I guess he got attacked by the monster, too.

I don’t really feel that bad for Isaac. Ma and Pa had told him time and time again the only real rule: don’t go into the forest. After all, everyone knows people who go into the forest don’t come back.

[poeticsandaliens]

In Dreams

Rating: Mature

Genre: Set post MS IV, but really an introspective fic.

Summary: The life of Dana Scully as described by her dreams. Some are smutty, some of horrifying, some are beautifully mundane. Many of them are of Mulder. This is another of my Barns-Courtney-album based fics (really, that album is inspiring), set to Golden Dandelions. 

Consider this another one of my late night ramblings, as I procrastinate multiple papers. Apologies to Jess Mabe who I do not know for referencing her fic but I couldn’t help it. It was too good a chance to pass up.

Tagging @today-in-fic.

As a child, Scully dreams novels—legendary things, epics worthy of the ancient Greeks, brimming with pixie dust. She dreams a cherry tree with a different woman’s face on each blossom, a plethora of talking dragons, web-footed fey creatures that catch flies on their tongues. She dreams the looming sorcerer of her nightmares, with three fingers on each hand and a scarlet cape. The names of knights spill over her tiny lips, and when she wakes up, she’s sorry if she can’t recall them.

She hardly remembers the dreams of her adolescence. Maybe she’s too tired; maybe she can’t distinguish them from reality. Her teenage years are a blur of spiked jackets and Marlboros, making out with Larry Monsoon on the roof of her parents’ house and Missy taking credit for the condoms Ahab finds in the car. There are at least a hundred dreams of tests, more anxiety-inducing than the exams themselves. Sex dreams a plenty, probably more pleasurable than the sex she’s having at the time. Every once in awhile, a puff of mysticism, to counteract the strict diet of rebellion and heart-guarding rationality she keeps to in her waking hours.

More memorable and certainly more nagging are her dreams of Mulder. The wet dreams, the wild fantasies from their earlier days of working together. Restraining herself at work, she goes home to a ten-dollar vibrator and errant thoughts of her partner. When she dreams, it is sensual and extravagant; it is of parts of him. Taut pectorals, ripe lower lip, hazel eyes that never stop seeking. Hands before hips. Hips before hands. Once, after she watches Mission: Impossible, she dreams that he walks into their office in that red speedo, abdominals glistening, leans in to kiss her—and then whips off his Mulder-mask to reveal Assistant Director Skinner. After the Eddie van Blundht incident, she shoves that dream to the back of her mind.

However wild her sub-conscious fantasies become, they never measure up to the real thing. It’s worth noting that after they finally cave, when she smashes her mouth to his in the front seat of a shitty rental car, when they fuck in some dingy middle-of-nowhere motel, she dreams of him markedly less often. No. That’s not true. She still dreams of him, but her dreams settle comfortably in the mundane. She dreams of him popping a giant gum bubble and its pink splatter getting on her paperwork. She dreams Skinner calls them onto a case in the middle of a tropical vacation, and the hassle of catching a flight home wakes her. She dreams of facing him at the altar, wearing emerald green, and then running away before she can give her vows. She dreams that he forgives her, and they drive off into a desert sunset and live happily ever after in unwed sin. Sometimes, in the ever-changing narrative of her dream-life, Mulder dies of cancer, but sometimes it’s Scully in the coffin, watching him grieve for her and seeking the words to describe him like an omniscient narrator. She hates being the mournful storyteller more than anything.

When she’s pregnant with William, sleep is a reprieve. Going through the motions at work, she yearns to cast herself onto Mulder’s vacant couch, palm pressed against her growing son, and retreat into the world her brain creates for her. Scully has always been confident in her mind’s ability to provide what she needs to survive, so she pretends her dreams aren’t making things worse. Her dream world, once a land of magic and heroes, restricts itself to a green, loose-shingled house on the edge of an empty planet. There, the leaves are always blotted auburn and muted yellow; the wheatgrass is always dry and rustling in an autumn breeze. The dragonflies are always overgrown, swarming in clouds of violent blue and indigo, the sheen on their backs so bright she almost has to avert her eyes. A worn swing-set rocks gently in the front yard. A gangly, red-haired boy in a plaid shirt chases beetles the size of rats. Mulder is there, some nights a wise face etched into the only oak tree, dispensing loving words to his family, some nights tossing a baseball to his son, on the best nights turning dust into fireflies with a touch of his palms. Scully watches them from the rickety porch—always the porch—and marvels at the setting sun. The sun is always setting. The sun never sets.

On the run, she dreams of the fountain of youth spilling liquid gold, and Spender emerging from it with a lit cigarette between his fingers. She dreams of monsters, always monsters, babies with the black eyes of aliens and her own dry skin shedding into copper scales. She is surprised these dreams never caught her earlier, while she was neck deep in the X Files and her rational reality chipped away. Mulder’s arms sooth the assault of distorted creatures, but she still dreams of horns sprouting from William’s soft baby-skull and a dragon’s muzzle from his snout. She still sometimes imagines Mulder’s arm around her shoulders wrinkled and rotted and turned to dust in a matter of minutes, then turns in the mirror to find her own body reduced to a bonesack with a head of red hair and a cross dangling into her ribcage.

When she leaves him, it’s all sex dreams again. The wacky ones from her youth, intermixed with something more tender and mature. There’s more stroking in these fantasies, greater exploration and less hammering into the headboard. Somewhere, filed in the recesses of her brain, is a pegging dream that still makes her blush, but it’s the one where he fucks her in an empty airport Chili’s until she cries out his name that jolts her awake with an orgasm she isn’t prepared for. That’s the one that leaves her wet and aching for him, after all their time apart. She’ll never admit it, but that’s the one that makes her cry.

She stops dreaming when she sees him again. Except for one night, when a picture of their home in the dead of winter appears clearer than if she were actually seeing it. Inside, she is reading the newspaper; he is smoking a curved pipe. A deerstalker hat sits on their kitchen table. She turns to him and asks, with all sincerity, “do you mind if I practice my violin?” It doesn’t matter that she’s never played the violin in her life. It is an urgent matter. Outside, she hears the scuff of a horse and carriage in the snow. She tells him later, and he tries to convince her that no, he’s the Sherlock Holmes in their partnership more than she is, since she’s a medical doctor and keeps his feet grounded in reality. Scully calls bullshit. She is always Holmes, and Mulder will never be one hundred percent grounded in reality. It’s one of the reasons she fell in love with him.

She has a hazy summer, rosy and heavily pregnant with their daughter. The August heat is unbearable; her tank tops are too small, so she fans herself all day and in the evening lets their baby feel Virginia sunlight. Her shoulders are tan. Her belly is smooth as a skipping stone. She lies on their sky-blue adirondack chair for hours on end in a sort-of half-conscious state, listening to the hum of dragonflies. If her eyes close for a few seconds, she dreams of rivers and wildflowers. The murky Potomac, a slender brook, a roaring mountain cascade with her mother’s face etched into the current. Where she sits, facing the setting sun, fey creatures rustle in the untamed grass—little girls with freckles, Mulder’s eyes, and butterfly-wings, wearing skirts sewn of autumn leaves and carrying thumbtack swords in their hands. She dreams of weatherbeaten horses the color of ripe buckeyes galloping towards her. Fox Mulder rides to her in a suit of armor, shaggy and noble, his stubble greying but beautiful as it ever was. He takes off his gloves and presses his cheek against her rounded abdomen. He tucks a dying dandelion behind her ear. On the other horse is her son, a ranger-boy—a wiry, green-caped adolescent Jackson who hasn’t yet solidified his place in the world. Elfish ears stick up through his hair. She notices—from both their backs sprout the wings of crows, for they have died and lived to tell the tale. She embraces them.

[chezzkaa]

Cinders - Chapter 32/36

A/N: I’ll be posting a song immediately afterwards that goes really well with this part. I hope you enjoy it! 

All Chapters

SUMMARY: And it all comes crashing down

WC: 1992 

The water doesn’t sting as much as you’d expected. Steam clagging in your throat as you breathe it in, swirling in your lungs and clinging to your ribs. The spray thuds rhythmically against your shoulders, massaging away the tension and smoothing out the knots. Pooling by your feet the day lingers between your toes, running crimson while you stare down at your legs, a perfect complement to the incessant throbbing of the bright red lights humming along your calf and shrinking into your ankle. Each drop of water tracing along the curves of your body drags you down within yourself, slumping against the wall in exhaustion. The only thing holding you up are his strong hands, gentle as they run through your hair and wipe away the blood matting it down against your scalp. Soap trickles down your neck and between your breasts, mingling with the dark matter twirling against the tiles and seeping into the drain. With each cascade of water pushed through your hair you lose yourself, mind wandering through nothingness to the sound of Ryan’s steady breathing.

How you wish you could stay in the strange world of intoxicating steam forever, let the swirling mist and dewing droplets take over your body and subdue you into tranquillity. A world where the days would just wash away, Ryan’s stroking away the pain with every pass his hands made through your hair. Carefully he turns you to face him. Your eyes fall on the angles of his feet and curves of his legs, water streaming through the hair and past his large thighs to disappear down the drain. You move with him, chin following the finger angling your face upwards to meet his warm kind eyes. The tentative tugging against your cheek swipes away the black and gold you’d hidden behind, shimmer clinging to his eyelashes as he rubs away the drunken sleep forcing his lids to flutter. Everything feels bruised, your skin beneath his working fingers tender and sensitive. Still he continues to shed the Cheshire from you, meticulously removing every trace until you stand before him; drained and vulnerable. He draws a final thumb across your cheek, your face rolling into the touch of his palm and letting the warmth sting against your lips.

It’s harder for you to help Ryan wash away the sins tangled in his hair. He lowers himself down to the floor of the shower, water parting around his body as he crosses his legs, eyes burning into his hands. Moving over him you kneel, cupping the relief and rushing it through his locks until the blond begins to shine. Each pass loosens his shoulders, lulling him into some form of momentary peace. Working on his body you try to scrub away the Vagabond. Wanting desperately to remove the bruises blooming across his skin and find the Ryan you’d known all those years ago, buried just beneath the exterior. He tilts his face up to yours, resting the top of his head against your chest while his eyes mourn with shifting guilt. Gently your fingers work away the face paint smudging across his cheeks, expelling the Vagabond with the trails of black, white and red dripping over his stomach and catching by his feet. Panic flutters when you can’t seem to remove the mask, your pressure growing increasingly forceful through your desperation to find him – afraid. Finally his creamy skin breaks through the barrier, granting you purchase and shedding the rest of the paint to reveal his face; soft and defeated.

Sinking into sitting your thighs press against the tiles, back shuffling into the wall and legs coming up to your chest. Ryan mirrors your position, joining you against the side of the shower and brushing his arms against your own, heat burning through your body. Neither of you speak, leaning your heads together and staring into the world of ethereal steam that shielded you from yourselves. Blocking out everything the white mist creeps across your bodies, leaving you with nothing but each other. Breathing peacefully until the water runs cold.

Once the freezing stream jars you back to reality the knob is turned until the flow subsides, leaving you both to sit side by side and let the world rematerialise around you. Still no words are spoken, instead the gentle circles his thumb rubs into your knee saying enough to encourage strength. Standing is difficult, body complaining and creaking in protest as you rise to face what lies outside the door. Offering a hand out Ryan takes a moment before accepting it, letting you direct him upwards until he sways beside you, shoulders slumping under the reluctance of the world flitting through his eyes. Intertwining your fingers you squeeze reassuringly, taking the first step and leading the two of you out of the glass walls that had protect your vulnerability, towards the towels stacked atop the counter. With a stinging dissatisfaction you pull apart to wrap yourselves up before returning to one another, your head rest against his booming chest while his arms wind around your waist. You stay there until your hair begins to dry and stick to his skin; the room becoming painfully clear, no longer an isolated sanctuary.

Ryan is the first to move this time, shrugging you from his chest and into his waiting hand. Fingers careful around your tender bruised knuckles. You don’t have the nerve to cross the floor and open the door, fearful of the outside world that would seep and engulf you again, overwhelming and fractured. Ryan feels it too, the anxiety radiating from your warm skin and dancing with the exhaustion flaunting in your eyes. Letting his towel drop he removes the fabric from you, shudders rippling through the goose bumps bubbling across your cooling arms. Slowly, deliberately, he bends to lift you, cradling you to his chest like he had during the rescue, and like he had so many years ago in a lighter moment. Somehow he convinces himself to move, unhurried in his advance towards the door before exhaling a deep sigh and letting it swing open.

Despite the familiarity of the room you still flinch into him, not wanting to see the journals scattering the surfaces, refusing to acknowledge the way the walls trapped you. Still Ryan forges a path forward, pulling up to the bed and carefully setting you down on it, mattress hugging your curves and sinking beneath your weight. He leaves your side reluctantly, ghosting to the closet and rummaging through the bottom draw of the inbuilt wardrobe, its contents having been hidden from the world for 3 years. He pulls out one of the old baggy t shirts he’d left in your room, collecting another and a pair of chequered pajama bottoms. You watch the sluggishness dictating his movements while he returns to you on the bed. Directing your arms upwards he slips the shirt over your head, the fabric rustling softly against your skin, intense comfort accompanying the sight of Ryan shrugging into his nightwear.

You don’t need help settling into bed, body falling in slow motion against the pillows and working the covers up around your shoulders. No sooner do your eyes drift closed do Ryan’s arms snake around you, face burrowing into the nape of your neck. You can feel every angle of him against your back, the softness of his stomach tracing the curve of your lower back and thighs, knees flush against the inside of your own. With what little effort you have left you brush your hand against his, fingers curling around to hold him close against you, pressing a gentle kiss against his knuckles. The bed shifts as Tilly hops up, meowing lightly and balling up in the nook Ryan’s legs had created.

Eventually the sound of breathing levels with one another to create a smooth and steady rhythm that responds to the identical beating of your hearts, dancing in slow exaggerated spins beneath the blankets. If you close your eyes for long enough you can focus on Ryan as opposed to the turmoil the world had thrown you into, desperately willing the years away. How long had it been since you’d curled together in bed without a care? You wish harder than ever that you could go back and feel the early morning sun dusting against your back as you splay across Ryan’s chest, his lips parted in sleep and doused in splintered light. You wish you could hear the pitter patter of tiny feet running through the marbled hallways and the squeals of delight that would always come with the jingle of Tilly’s bell. But now nothing but silence rings in your ears. An intense and heavy emptiness. You would do anything to see her eyes outside of your nightmares, to feel her tiny hand tug on your hip. You can almost feel her hair against your finger tips, working flowers into her braid while she sings, the smell of Saturday morning pancakes having drifted through on the summer’s breeze and Ryan’s hums.

“She’d turn 8 next month,” you choke quietly over Ryan’s peaceful breathing, body having sunken into sleep whilst Amber played through your mind, “she always loved birthdays.” A deep sadness swirls in your chest to scream over the slumbering Cheshire, unable to stir through the exhaustion saturating every muscle in your body. “Were we good parents?” the crack of your words catches you off guard, the thought materialising audibly and slipping past the Cheshire unnoticed. The question hangs in the air, shaking with each of Ryan’s exhales and billowing between your bodies. Wanting to escape it you shift in his arms, turning to bury your face in his chest only to be caught by his blue eyes – brimming with a belief that pools over into your never ending pit of crippling grief. Arms tighten around you, his gaze intent and certain while the tears tremble down your cheeks, your own eyes searching his face desperately for an answer that would stop her screams from bouncing inside your head. You need an answer that could wipe away the blank stare trapped inside her coffee eyes that had embossed itself against your eyelids, resurfacing to drag you down every time Ray looked at you with eyes so similar it hurt. You need him to take the weight of her lifeless body from your arms and keep you from continuing to cradle her broken soul against your chest. “You are Amber’s Mom, and she loved you,” his words do little to ease the agony tearing through your chest to force strangles sobs into his t shirt. They smash through the barriers the Cheshire had constructed, crumbling around you to open the flood gates for sadness to rush towards you. Gulping for air and drowning in Ryan the Cheshire swirls with the rage nagging at the tattered shreds left behind; but she can’t be heard over your mourning. Instead you give yourself over to the pain and anguish, letting it beat against your ribs and strangle in your lungs, finally allowed to feel the loss of your daughter.

Ryan pulls you close, his own tears falling into your hairline as he presses his lips to the top of your head, chocking on his sorrow. Your shaking doesn’t stop, Amber’s face swimming behind your closed eyes, bright and overjoyed in the sprinkling sun. You don’t want to open your eyes and leave her, desperately wanting to pull her into your arms one last time. But staying in the moment is an agony you’d never been granted the opportunity to feel, stealing your breath and burning through your veins as a frantic gasp forcing your eyes open to stare at your fingers clutching Ryan’s shirt. His hands soothingly pat your hair down, tears soaking into it as the words work through your constricting throat, “you are a good Dad, Ryan. She was so proud of you.” “I love you.” “I love you.”

[cleanlittleniche]

Hi, can you write cute fluffy AngexPrincess hanging out (at an amusement park, or a shopping district, AU or not, whatever works for you)? You don’t need to include this, but maybe one of them gets lost or something (would be funny if both of them get lost but think the other one is the one getting lost)?

– @titiuv

The day had started clear and bright, warm enough that many had thought they could go outside without the suffocating gear of winter, but then the clouds had come to prove them wrong. Charlotte’s impromptu purchase of a hat, scarf, and coat served two purposes: first, to protect her from the falling cold; second, to disguise her in the crowd. With the coat hiding her dress and the hat and scarf covering her hair and as much of her face as possible, she focused on staying a safe distance behind the target without losing sight of her among the other pre-Christmas shoppers.

Ange’s breath formed puffs before her mouth, and the light snowfall dusted her already grayish hair, but she appeared unbothered as she made her way down the street. Every now and then, she would stop to consider the display in a store’s window, and Charlotte would be quick to act as if she was looking at anything else but Ange until she began her walk again. The excitement of this slow chase made Charlotte’s heart thump, and her grin hid behind the scarf. It was great fun to act on her own like this with no one to guard or guide her–just her instincts and the training Ange and Dorothy had given her. When Ange stopped at a street corner and waited for traffic to clear, Charlotte also stopped a few steps back, tucked her hands in her coat pockets, and turned her face away to look down the street.

“What are you doing, Princess?”

Charlotte froze–Ange hadn’t looked at her, so maybe if she pretended she hadn’t heard the question, her cover would remain intact–but then Ange stepped back to stand beside her, and with her gaze trained forward, she said, “You’ve got a lot to learn about tailing people.”

Charlotte poured a sigh through her scarf. “All right, you’ve got me.” She took the hat off to let her hair fall free and pulled the scarf down from her mouth. “How did you know I was following you?”

“Spies must always be aware of the people around them, even in a crowd.” Ange’s eyes slid toward her. “Why did you leave me in that store?”

“I wanted to practice my sneaking and following skills.” Charlotte looked at Ange and put on her brightest grin. “Who better to try them on than a master spy herself?”

“Next time, try to be at least a little more subtle with your escape routes. The cashier had to call a locksmith to get the women’s bathroom open because of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That got a reaction, at least–Ange’s eyebrows furrowed, and she gave Charlotte a quick look before crossing the street. Ange’s pace gained speed until Charlotte had to trot to keep up, and just as she wondered if Ange was hurrying because of the cold, Ange stopped again. A bright doorway further down the street beckoned them with promises of warmth and rest.

“Do you want some hot cocoa?” Ange said.

Charlotte perked at the offer, but then the lightness in her wallet deflated her. “Well, I’ve already spent all the money I brought with me…”

Ange raised an eyebrow at her before heading towards the café. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll pay for us.”

Once they’d gotten their drinks and found a table, Charlotte shed her warmer clothes. The coat rested on the back of her chair, and the scarf and hat nested together to one side of the table. The taste of chocolate made her grin as the drink warmed her stomach and pulled color to her face, but when she noticed Ange’s stare, she lowered the mug. “What is it?”

“What’s the real reason for why you left?”

Charlotte’s fingers twitched against the mug. Of course, Ange could tell when she was being given something less than the truth. New lies flicked through her head, but her skin was starting to burn from the cool look Ange was giving her, and one simple thought emerged from the flurry–who knew how much more time they would have together? She set her mug on the table and reached for her coat. “Okay, I’ll show you, but you have to close your eyes first. I want it to be a surprise.”

Ange’s eyes flicked around the room, probably searching for potential threats, but after a few seconds they returned to Charlotte and closed. Charlotte stuck her hand into her coat’s pocket and drew out the box she’d hidden there–a simple red case longer than it was wide. The box opened to reveal a necklace with a silver pendant made of two wings crossed into a heart shape. Pulling the necklace free, she stood from her chair.

“Your eyes are closed, right?” Charlotte circled the table to stand behind Ange. “No peeking?”

“I’m not peeking.” Ange flinched when fingers brushed the back of her neck, but she held still until Charlotte had fastened the necklace’s clasp.

“Okay, now you can look.”

Ange’s eyes snapped open and dropped to the wings resting just under the bow at her neck. “What…?” Touching the pendant with her fingertips, she turned in her chair to look up, and Charlotte clasped her hands behind her back.

“It’s an early Christmas present. Do you like it?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful, but…” Ange glanced at the pendant. “…are these bird wings?”

A giggle burst from Charlotte’s mouth before she could catch it, earning her a small pout from Ange and quick glances from some of the other customers. “No, silly, they’re angel wings.” She leaned down to get a better look and nodded. “Yep, just what I thought–it looks great on you. Now my angel has her wings.”

Ange’s blank expression had cracked when she saw the pendant, but now it melted entirely into a blushing smile. “Thank you, Princess.”

“Merry Christmas, Ange.”

[oc-avalanche]

Shelter

Inspired by this song ---> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_pEiTSW4UI&index=1&list=FLKwpeS62mdgd_bNoMlvd3OQ

Kaidan is not mine, he is a mod created by the amazing Liv. Highly recommended.

Ren smiled gently, warmly, like a caress. “You’re a good man, Kai. You can’t expect yourself to always be perfect.” The breton stood, the height change not much. The book he was reading earlier lies in his hand, pushed against his chest. “The only thing you can do to try and redeem yourself is learn from your past mistakes, but in my opinion you have nothing to redeem.” He held out his hand towards Kaidan who looked down at it with slight amazement. Ren’s hand looked smooth except for the long scar on the palm, a residue of the Thalmor. “Let’s go, it’s getting late and I think we deserve and nice bed for the night.”

Kaidan took his hand and stood up from the log he had situated himself on. “Thank you, for,” Kaidan paused a sense of embarrassment swelling his tongue. Ren just shrugged, his smile still on and radiating a warm aura. Hand in hand, Ren lead them towards the nearest town which just happened to be Windhelm.

They had gone out to do something, something college related. At the beginning, when Kaidan found out about Ren’s preference for magic, he couldn’t help but get a foul taste in his mouth. He tried his best to place a wall in between them, to prevent from last time, but damn that Ren, damn him for causing the warmth to rise in Kaidan’s cheeks. To catch the warrior off guard was unnerving to him and no matter how many walls, the many preventions, Ren still found a work around. All it took was a smile, the reach of his hand, the calm look in his eye and Kaidan knew that he wouldn’t be judged.

“Every object has multiple purposes, swords can be used to kill or protect, magic to heal or destroy. It’s the humans who have the true power to create good and evil. Magic in the hands of a necromance is just as inherently evil as a sword wielded by a bandit.”

The words, Ren’s words, echoed in Kaidan’s ears, they tortured and mended him. Just as holding the male’s hand was torture just as it was comfort.

Ren turn his head, looking over his shoulder at Kaidan, the burn marks noticeable from the shadows that fell on the small breton. Kaidan resisted the urge to touch, to caress, to comfort. He imagined the skin to be rough, strangely warm still as if the fire never left, it would have it’s own pulse, it’s own heat. Like a heartbeat in a way. To many it was an ugly mush of skin, burnt and scarred, nothing to be cherished or praised for, but they didn’t really see. They didn’t look.

“One room is fine, thank you.” Kaidan hardly noticed the entry into Windhelm nor the words of the person who ran the inn. No, it was the one room that caught him off guard.

They stepped into their room shedding off their bags and any unnecessary equipment. For Kaidan it was his armor, feeling a bit weird to be in only his underclothes. Ren only shedded the long jacket, his lightning bolt like scars now revealed, a consequence to his magic using. The burns on his left arm were there too, tempting Kaidan to touch.

From upstairs music started to play, the energetic kind that got some of the people to start laughing wildly. “Let’s go get something to eat!” Ren’s words were happy, cheering on as the thin male vanished from the room, followed by the muscular Kaidan who let out a small laugh.

There was a table in the corner that was free and from there they ordered a bowl of warm soup and nonalcoholic beverages. Ren sat in the corner seat, his back protected from any attack from behind, this fact made Kaidan relax a bit as he watched Ren’s face.

Ren’s eyes were on the bard who was singing, her words captivating him. A book sat closed in front of him, in front of him one hand was laid out open while the rubbed over the scar. To people who didn’t know him, he look absolutely in love - they’ve never seen him with a new book - but Kaidan knew better. Kaidan looked deeper, into the brown eyes that first comforted him in that prison, the same ones that held no judgement as he told his past, and the same ones that held an abyss of mixed emotions as Ren spoke of his scars.

“My mother use to sing this song, especially after my sister and I had some stupid fight and she would drag us both dancing while she sang, totally off beat and let’s not talk about how my mother could not hold a note.” Both men chuckled.

Their food arrived shortly after the songs end and they at, conversing about happier topics, Kaidan’s eyes occasionally falling to Ren’s moving ones or to the scars on his palms following the lightning flow, which was sometimes disrupted by the burnt flesh, and to the burn on Ren’s cheeks. Ren was speaking of happier topics, his time at the college during his younger years, the trouble he and his fellow students got into, Kaidan appreciated the warmth on Ren’s face, the happiness that was infectious. By the end of their meal both of them were laughing and sharing stories, drinking to themselves and watching the occasional bard show in silence.

Eventually it became silent in the inn, the music kept coming and Kaidan listened and watched while Ren went to his book, a small mix of expression coming over his face as he slowly delve into his book, strands of his brown hair fell from his bun, soft and tempting. Kaidan was about to suggest they think about going to bed when two men came towards them, faces red from alcohol. They were nords, it was obvious by their built and fair hair.

“You’re a mage.” The shorter of the two stated, sounding pleased with himself.

Ren didn’t even look up from his book, his face completely undisturbed. “Thank you for noticing.”

The small nord scowled. “It wasn’t a compliment!” Ren’s only reply was a shrug and the nord began to step forward.

Kaidan stepped in between the two, him towering the poor sod with an intimidating expression. Ren put his book down. “I wouldn’t take another step closer if I were you.”

It was the tall nord who took a step forward meeting Kaidan eye to eye. “If I were you, I would get out of the way.”

“Unlike you, I’m not a milkdrinker.”

There was fast movement, the guy swung his fist, Ren stood up, Kaidan’s fist made contact. Now there was contact, Ren’s hand on Kaidan’s arm, the smooth one, the unburnt hand. The book was laying unceremoniously on the ground. “Kai, let’s go to our room.” A demand more than a suggestion, hidden well. Ren was not look at Kaidan when he said this, his brown eyes held a straight gaze on the two nords, his emotions and thoughts unreadable.

Kaidan allowed himself to be lead away, watching the two nords closely. That’s how he saw the movement of the smaller one, his eyes squared on Ren. “I’m not done talking with you, mage!”

Instinct took over Kaidan as he pushed Ren behind him and moved his own fist which made contact with the side of the smaller nords face. He stumbled back and leff over the edge, landing on the stairs. The only sound he made was a groan. The bigger nord ran towards his buddy and helped him up. “You’ll regret this!” He claimed like a horrible villain in a corny book and left.

Ren sighed. “Let’s get some rest.” He grabbed his book, which he had left lying on the floor. He looked up at Kaidan and noticed the heavy look on the tall man’s face. Ren smiled and touched his arm, comforting and warm. “It’s okay. They’re the ones who started it anyways, you were just doing what you felt was right.” With that the male took Kaidan’s hand and left the upstairs area.

As soon as they were in the room, Ren pushed Kaidan to the bed, sitting him down and looking him over. “What are you doing?” Kaidan question, allowing the small touches from the Breton, from both hands this time. No answer and no more questions as Ren investigated, his eyes scrutinizing.

When he was done, Ren sat next to him and smiled. “No, wounds to heal up. You’re fit as a lute.”

Kaidan looked at Ren, then subconscious too a quick glance at his hands. “You shouldn’t do that. No matter how badly I’m hurt.”

Ren looked away, his gaze towards the way. “It’s not your decision.” His tone was soft, not derogatory or hurtful. He was right, Kaidan had no control of his actions, but Kaidan knew better.

Quiet hung over them, comforting, wrapping them up in a solitary blanket. Ren rubs one of his palms. Kaidan looks over, it’s the burnt hand that lays palm up. There’s a soft smell of smoke, or a memory of it. It takes all of his strength not to take Ren’s hands, to face the wounded palms towards him, to trace the marks that crawled on the breton’s skin.

“Let’s get some rest.” As Kaidan said those words he began to stand up, but a hand grabbed him. A soft unburnt hand. He look over at Ren.

“It’s cold and the floor is hard.” Kaidan stood frozen, looking into Ren’s eyes. Brown and warm, he wanted to look into them forever. There was no reply as Kaidan took his seat back. “Thank you,” relief, that was the sound that those words made. “Let’s get to sleep.” Ren laid down, his movements undisturbed, emotions kept in check, it was like second nature. Kaidan waited till he was settled before doing the same, laying face to face with him. “Sweet dreams, Kai.” The male could not reply, his words caught up as he watched Ren closed his eyes, his body feeling incredibly small compared to his.

Kaidan laid there, listening to Ren’s soft breathes. He tried to keep his eyes closed and for a time he was successful, he was almost asleep when he felt movement towards him, soft shuffling, arms wrapping around him. When he opened his eyes, Ren was closer than before, nuzzling his face into Kaidan’s chest. Kaidan froze, he knew what to do, he had done it before, but this was different, completely different. It took a moment of calming down before Kaidan finally wrapped his arm around Ren, feeling more of the breton’s warmth.

If this was all the touch he could have, even in this moment, Kaidan felt that he could die happy with this moment in the back of his head.

Let my heart be your shelter

Let these bones be the giver

Let this soul be your whisper

You can take it all, you can take it all

Let my heart be your shelter

[briannaslist]

Driving Miss Crazy

A Pretty Little Liars Recap (7x17)

Ezra and Aria take salsa lessons, so we’re subjected to them awkwardly dancing. When the class is over, Aria sees that she’s missed three blocked calls. Is AD not a stalker who knows everywhere they go? Call at a better time. Ezra is thinking she’s acting weird because of his brother being demanding about the wedding and tries to reassure her that it’ll be okay. Ezra leaves and Aria calls AD back. AD finally reveals what’s in the file: it’s a police report Aria filled out (but obviously never submitted) about the relationship she had with Ezra years ago, when he was her teacher.

Furey pays a visit to Hanna, probably hoping she’d be less annoying to talk to than Spencer. He was wrong. Caleb is there too. Furey says a witness saw them both at The Radley the same night that the basement flooded. Caleb’s like, “Of course they saw us, I live there.” Furey notices that Caleb is drying his hair, having just come out of the shower, and asks why he showers there. What a silly question to ask when he’s obviously dating Hanna. He asks Caleb why he lives at the hotel and Caleb says that Ashley offered him a room there in exchange for setting up the security system. Furey thinks that’s interesting since the system failed and asks Caleb who else has access to the system. Caleb tells him he’d have to ask Ashley Marin. But Ashley and Furey have already talked.

Emily is helping Spencer pack up her house. Alison isn’t in this episode because she went to visit Jason. How come she’s the only one that gets to leave town? Hanna texts Emily saying they need to play the game again. The girls get together to tell Hanna to calm down. Hanna asks why Aria still hasn’t had a turn. It’s not fair if they don’t all get tortured; what is fair is that Hanna wants her best friend to also endure some torture. It’s what friends do.

Mona comes in and Hanna tells them that Mona knows about the game. Spencer for what whatever reason decides to be bitchy about that. Mona says she’s staying involved since she’s the one who replaced the windshield, making her an accomplice to a crime that never needed to be committed because it was an accident but okay. She says she’s not leaving her fate to them (because they’re all really stupid and a surefire way to go to prison).

Since Caleb was reminded that he lives at The Radley, he decides to go back there, where he runs into Ashley. She tells him all about the detective and the questioning and asks him if Hanna’s in any trouble. She’s been investigated by the police multiple times…what do we think Ashley?

Aria goes to the Hasting’s house with food for them. Veronica thanks her and asks her if she can stay, but Aria says she can’t. When Veronica leaves the room, Spencer asks Aria how she feels about the Mona thing; Spencer clearly doesn’t like it. While Spencer’s back is turned, Aria connects a phone to their speakers via Bluetooth and hides the phone in a box. After she leaves, a recording is played over the speakers of Peter talking to Mary about Jessica’s murder. Peter comes down frantically trying to figure out where it’s coming from and unplugs the speakers.

Emily is on the phone with Ali, while Mona gets settle in the kitchen. Before Emily hangs up she says a quiet “You too.” Mona says, “You can tell Ali you love her in front of me. I’ve known since Brownies.” Mona has a gift for them; she found the fertility doctor who performed Ali’s procedure and made an appointment to see him. They’ll pose as a couple. Now do one better, Mona, and expose that guy so he loses his medical license because he shouldn’t be a doctor.

Caleb and Hanna are at The Brew, openly discussing their plight. Ezra comes over with coffee for them and asks what they’re stressed about. They don’t answer and Ezra says he’s feeling stressed too with all this wedding stuff. He just wanted something simple and now everyone is making the thing all about themselves. Just then, Aria walks by. Ezra asks if she can join them and she says she’s tired

Mona and Emily go to the doctor. Mona says Alison referred them. He’s startled by the name. Mona asks for more information, but he says to find another doctor. They leave and Mona shows Emily a magazine that she stole from the office that has his home address listed. For whatever reason Emily is scandalized that Mona took the magazine. The girl who helped bury a body, shocked by the theft of a magazine.

Hanna goes to the shed where they found shovels to bury the body. A security guard finds her there and she says her car is stuck, so she was looking for shovels. He says that they were confiscated because they may have been used in a crime.

Spencer finds the phone in a box tells Aria about it. Spencer’s parents think Mary did it. She wants to tell her mom about the game and Aria tells her to hold off and wait for Mona to make some headway. Ezra comes in and Aria hurries off the phone. Ezra wants to brighten Aria’s spirits and tells her he found a song that he thinks will work for their first dance. He plays it, but Aria is unresponsive. He thinks her behavior is because she has reservations about marrying him because of his actions in the past. However, he thinks they’re stronger for having weathered the storm. I’m not even gonna touch that one.

Spencer goes to her car, only to see Marco there waiting for her. He tells her that he didn’t know about her dating Caleb and thinks maybe she was embarrassed to share that; he implies that’s why she pursued him and that she was trying to get a cop in her corner. She tells him he’s confusing personal with professional and says any further conversations can be in his office. He drives away and she gets surprised by Mary being in her car.

Mary has her drive to the Lost Wood Resort and tells Spencer they can talk inside. But Spencer is a little scared, since Mary greeted her by putting a hand over her mouth and telling her to drive. Not a good approach. They talk in the car.

Flashback: Mary went to the Hastings’ house hoping to see Spencer. Peter tells her that she’ll never see Spencer. Then Jessica comes in and says she thought they were taking care of Mary. Present day: Yes, they were conspiring to kill Mary. Peter wrote the prescription and Mary found out and switched it with Jessica’s medication. She asks Spencer if she would consider staying with her; great segue after admitting to murder without any prompting.

Hanna gets home and loudly talks to Caleb about the police having the shovels and spending the last four hours having Lucas’s car detailed, all while Caleb is trying to get her to stop talking. Ashley comes into the kitchen having heard the last part and asks why Hanna was having Lucas’s car detailed. Hanna lies and says she’s been using the car as an office and has dirtied it. Caleb starts getting some wine for them because everyone on this show drinks constantly to remind us they’re “adults”. Ashley asks if Emily moved out. Hanna tells her that Emily went to live with Ali and Ashley asks if that’s so Hanna and Caleb could be together. Nah, Ashley, that one was all for Emily’s benefit. Why all the forced questions?

Caleb says he’s there when he’s not at the hotel, but it isn’t permanent. Ashley asks him what is permanent. It’s all very weird. Caleb launches into this sappy thing all about how much he loves Hanna and wants to marry her. Ashley says they have something to toast. But they also could have just toasted in acknowledgement that Ashley still exists. And a better question would have been trying to figure out why Ashley and Caleb always look like they’re super into each other whenever they see each other.

But nothing is as strange as Aria’s dream sequence musical number with her getting married in toilet paper wedding garb in a prison to Ezra, who is in prison attire and is getting beat up, while Mona, dressed as a cop, sings Jailhouse Rock. Why is this happening and why is it so long? Then they walk up to the “alter” to see that Veronica Hastings is going to perform the ceremony. Aria starts apologizing to her and asking for forgiveness and Veronica calls her a selfish bitch and says she wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire. That’s enough to wake Aria up. Both she and Ezra fell asleep on the couch while watching a movie. She sees that AD texted her, telling her that the reward is downstairs. Aria goes downstairs to The Brew and tries to look for the “reward” discretely. She’s not doing a great job though.

Mona and Emily go back to the doctor. They found the cash he was going to get for doing the procedure on Ali. They’ll return it in exchange for names. He says he doesn’t have names, but he does have the donor’s ID number.

Mona manages to do all that, go to The Brew, get a cup of coffee, and see Aria finally find her envelope. Aria took that long. She and Aria make eye contact and Mona gives her a little wave. Aria waves back and hurries off.

Spencer comes home to see that her parents found the letter Mary wrote for her when she was a baby. Peter says it’s all a manipulative ploy. Peter isn’t apologetic about what he tried to do to Mary; he says he was trying to protect his family from a deranged psychopath. Seems a bit excessive Peter. He walks out and Veronica gives Spencer the letter back. She says they can start unpacking; they’re not going to Harrisburg and she’s giving up her senate seat. Spencer tells her that Mary wasn’t out to hurt them. I don’t care anything about the Hastings household.

Caleb and Hanna go to a tent in the woods and she asks him if he meant what he said earlier. He tells her he’d marrying right that second. Hanna takes the paper rings off some cigars. She puts one on Caleb’s finger and he does the same to her. Then they have sex in the tent because that’s their thing.

Spencer goes to see Mary and tells her that she can’t leave her friends or her mom. She catches herself on calling Veronica her mom and starts to apologize, but Mary cuts her off and says that Veronica is Spencer’s mother and that Spencer is lucky to have her. Everyone but the main characters are so rational. Let’s watch a show about them instead. Mary tells Spencer that she hopes that she can forgive her someday. But Spencer has already forgiven her; she says that Mary now needs to forgive herself.

Aria wears the black hoodie and connects the puzzle piece AD left her. It’s a good thing no one walked in at that exact moment. It’s like she wants to get caught. After she connects it, the game says the grand prize is behind her. Aria finds the police report.

Emily goes to see Mona to give her the phone that Spencer found in the box. She has some ideas and cautions Mona to take care. Mona says they can talk more in the morning and goes inside her apartment. After locking a million locks and watching Emily walk away, Mona sits at her computer and we see that she has all these pictures of the game board on her wall and the missing shovels in the corner of her apartment.

[essenceoffilm]

Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry and the Peculiar Alliance of Film and Life

The surprising, out of the blue ending of Abbas Kiarostami’s Palme d’Or winning masterpiece, Taste of Cherry (1997, Ta’m e guilass) might catch the spectator off guard, or even startle them, as it seems very contradictory, almost an inconsistent flaw, in the whole of the film. Such an evaluation caused by a moment of aesthetic confusion is only seemingly valid, however. To anyone familiar with Kiarostami’s work, the ending is anything but contradictory to the logic of his cinematic poetry. During his impressive career, Kiarostami excelled in crafting an original cinema that was always questioning itself as it questioned life. While his camera perceives, records, and articulates, it also structures and constitutes, which is something Kiarostami’s cinema meticulously reflects on in a self-reflective or meta-fictive fashion. If the protagonist of Taste of Cherry contemplates suicide because of the meaninglessness of his life -- the lack of reason why he was brought on earth without anyone consulting his opinion about it --, it is surprisingly natural for Kiarostami’s cinema to do the same; that is to say, to ask the question “why cinema?” which also inevitably entails the question “what is cinema?”. In this essay these questions shall not be answered but only raised again and again, while trying to grasp a wonderful film like Taste of Cherry.

Taste of Cherry begins with a middle-aged man driving around Tehran, offering to give passersby a ride to their destination. To each of the three people who take his offer, he proposes to give a large amount of cash in exchange for a peculiar service. He asks them to aid him in committing suicide. The aid required for this act of self-annihilation means shoveling soil on his body after he has taken an overdose of sleeping pills. He has already chosen the place for his burial: a pit under a lone cherry tree at an excavation site in the outskirts of Tehran where a lot of construction is going on. The first passenger, a young Kurd soldier, is shocked by this proposal to the point that he runs away in horror. The second passenger, an Afghan student visiting Tehran for a seminar tries to reason with the man, but since he declines to help the man, their paths go different ways. The third passenger, an aging professor, who has personal experience with suicidal thoughts, tries to comfort the man and assure him of the good things in life. Disappointed by the man’s disinterestedness in changing his mind, the professor still agrees to help the man in order to finance the medical operations his ailing daughter desperately needs. As the night falls, the man lays down on his open grave to gaze at the pale Moon peeking behind clouds in the sky. In terms of telling a story, Taste of Cherry has an open ending, which leaves the fate of the protagonist open for interpretation, as Kiarostami famously cuts from this last moment to behind-the-scenes footage of him and his crew making the film. 

Not far from the three previous films Kiarostami had made earlier in the 1990′s, Close-Up (1990, Nema-ye Nazdik), Life, and Nothing More... (1992, Zendegi va digar hich), and Through the Olive Trees (1994, Zire darakhatan zeyton), Taste of Cherry lies securely on familiar ground in Kiarostami’s cinema which is often meta-fictive by nature. The word “securely” should be juxtaposed with its negation, too, however, since it is precisely by questioning itself that Kiarostami’s cinema finds a unique poetics between confidence in itself and the readiness to suspect what it affirms and articulates. Due to its structure, Taste of Cherry discloses its poetic alliance to the three films mentioned above only towards its very end, but in order to understand this alliance, one must grasp what the film is about.

Typically for Kiarostami, Taste of Cherry begins without giving the spectator background knowledge of where the protagonist is coming from and what is he thinking, nor does it really ever explain why is he contemplating the dead-serious questions that he does. The narrative tendency to throw the spectator into the fictive world of the film without giving these clear frames of reference reflects Kiarostami’s “neorealist” ideals of chance, continuity, and authenticity which manifest themselves more strongly on the level of style (the use of on-location shooting and the long take, for example). Such narrative gives the spectator slowly information about the protagonist. His suicidal plans are disclosed to the spectator only when they are revealed to the first passenger, the young Kurd soldier. In this way, narrative does not really focalize into the protagonist’s point of view which, once again, reflects Kiarostami’s “neorealist” ideals of anti-psychologizing story telling. It also, however, resonates with the protagonist’s subjective experience regarding the fact that first person access about one’s own experiences is insurmountable, meaning that another person can never access the thoughts and feelings of someone else. The protagonist explains to the second passenger that others could not understand his intentions even if he tried to shed light on them because others “could not feel what I feel”. In turn, the third passenger claims that matters look worse than they are to the protagonist merely due to his subjective point of view, but the banal alternatives the third passenger offers to the protagonist receive no response in the protagonist’s more or less blank stare. In other words, Kiarostami’s narrative, which refuses to focalize, reflects the protagonist’s experience of the phenomenological notion of the primacy of first person access as it, so to speak, respects his privacy without trying to uncover the innermost of his self-hood.

Nonetheless, it would still strike one as odd to characterize Kiarostami’s narrative in Taste of Cherry as “purely objective” or “purely mimetic” (in the sense that mimetic narrative refers to third person narrative which merely recounts what happens without drawing attention to the fact that it is being narrated: the most classical cinematic narrative, that is). The reason for this oddness is that there are shots in Taste of Cherry which could be categorized as point of view shots, indicating internal focalization. For example, there are reverse shots of the passengers in the car, working as counterpoints to the reverse shots of the protagonist, there is a shot of a truck dropping gravel down a hill which the protagonist observes from the nearby watchtower, there is a shot of boulders dropping irregularly down to a machine as the protagonist casts his shadow on them, there are landscape shots of the hills, there are shots of marching soldiers in the distance, and shots of children playing football accompanied with medium close-ups of the protagonist looking to their direction. Then there is, of course, the long shot of the moon being concealed by vague clouds in the night as the protagonist lies in his open grave.

These could be seen as point of view shots, which one might further characterize as examples of internal focalization (without, however, the deepest form of such focalization, that is, the use of voice-over), but I would beg to differ. In Kiarostami’s “neorealist” or phenomenological aesthetics they are rather a cinematic variation of free indirect discourse, a form of narrative that locates between mimetic (the act of narrative is transparent and the fictive events are “directly” shown) and diegetic narrative (the act of narrative is highlighted as the fictive events are “indirectly” told). Free indirect discourse in the cinema could be a shot which both is and is not a point of view shot. This seeming paradox seems to strike true notes in Kiarostami’s cinema -- as well as many others who excelled in postwar cinema (Antonioni, above all).

Kiarostami’s use of cinematic free indirect discourse is most evident, I believe, in the scene where the protagonist climbs up to a “watchtower” of a lone guardian at the excavation. There is a brief moment where the protagonist looks at gravel falling down a hill. First, there is a low-angle shot from the protagonist’s direction where a truck drops gravel on the edge of a hill and exits the screen space. Second, there is a long medium shot where the camera is situated inside the watchtower, showing the protagonist behind a window, outside on the exterior of the watchtower, reflections from the off-screen space on that window, and the gravel on an even deeper plane. The first shot is -- or so it seems at least -- a point of view shot from the protagonist’s perspective, but at the same time Kiarostami’s narrative does not seem to show the gravel as anything peculiar or filtered through subjectivity. To be overly blunt about this, there is nothing surreal in the falling down of the gravel. In the sense of free indirect discourse, narrative shows the things themselves (the falling gravel) through the protagonist without focalizing into his subjective point of view.

In literature, an alternative technique could be for a third person narrator to first tell that “person A thought about X” and then to shift into a perspective in between of third and first person where a line, a single line perhaps, would make a claim about X, for example, “X was beautiful” without narrative adding the conventional “said A” or “thought A,” to close the sentence. The reasons to do this are plentiful, of course. In most cases, however, it seems to be used to articulate an interface between consciousness and reality or their mutual entanglement (think of the wonderful novels of Virginia Woolf, for one). It is almost as if Kiarostami’s narrative was affirming that there is no way to know what a person is thinking because of the primacy of first person access even for narrative, but narrative can show something through someone without reducing the “what” into the “how”. Narrative can, in other words, embrace this interrelation between consciousness and reality without, however, identifying the one with the other in any absolute sense. 

But what do these shots of gravel, dirt, and soil mean? Most of Taste of Cherry takes place at the excavation in the outskirts of Tehran, maybe a construction site, where people work with gravel, other people collect items, soldiers march, and children play at. Gravel, boulders, sand, and soil are central elements in the film. The presence of construction taking place might be seen as metaphorical for psychological reconstruction, which might be most evident in the scene where random people come to the man’s help when a tire of his car gets stuck in a small pit, but, in my opinion, the chosen milieu designates something more primordial. The protagonist even says that “everything good comes from the soil” and evaluates the excavation landscape beautiful. He has appropriately chosen this as his graveyard. The soil thus signifies both life and death. Life comes from it and everything returns to it. In the end, it is soil where the protagonist lays himself on as he descends to his open grave. 

The landscape of gravel is almost a character itself in the film. The gorgeous long shots of the protagonist’s car curving in the narrow roads of the hills recur. Even the title of the film, in one sense at least, refers to the aesthetics of the soil. As the third passenger enumerates banal reasons not to kill oneself such as the beauty of sunrise and sunset, he adds the taste of cherries to the list. These reasons are banal, but they are banal because they are material reasons (in contrast to, say, cosmic reasons such as a deity) and as such they are no more banal than any other raison d’être because all of them are ultimately material, belonging to the primal world of the soil. In Kiarostami’s existentialism of facticity, there are no cosmic reasons to exist; there are only cherries, gravel, and bad quality behind-the-scenes footage. In this sense, I believe, the free indirect discourse shots of falling gravel or the dropping boulders in Taste of Cherry are not so much metaphors for the protagonist’s experience, though they can echo his thoughts and vice versa (think of the cast shadow on the movement of the boulders), but rather metonymies for being itself belonging to the material reality depicted.

To further illustrate this, the same point about Kiarostami’s style in Taste of Cherry can be made in terms of his use of sound. Kiarostami uses no non-diegetic music which only enhances the unmistakably materialist soundtrack. At times, the characters’ dialogue is inaudible below the din from the traffic or the noises of the playing children nearby. In every scene by the place reserved for the protagonist’s grave, off-screen sounds of dogs whining are heard. They are diegetic sounds, in the sense that they seem to belong to the fictive world, but their source is also characteristically in the off-screen space since the dogs themselves are never seen. Due to repetition and this emphasis on their concrete absence, the spectator might see the dogs’ whining as symbolic for the protagonist’s pain and suffering, but, the way I see it, however, these sounds are -- like the falling gravel, the dropping boulders, or the rolling empty spray can in Close-Up (see the previous entry in this blog) -- metonymies for the facticity of being. They belong to the (diegetic) reality and do not as such represent anything alien to themselves; for one, they can hardly be interpreted as signs of so-called point of hearing, another mark of internal focalization.

Kiarostami’s “neorealist” style, which emphasizes the impression of continuity, includes a slower editing rhythm. This manifests as something that one might phenomenologically call horizontality. Although Kiarostami uses the conventional shot reverse shot device in scenes with dialogue, he does not use analytical editing. That is to say, there is never a clear, predictable pattern from larger shot scales to smaller ones. Kiarostami’s shots are lingering -- if not strikingly long in the extreme sense of slow cinema -- both in medium shots and in long shots. The camera often follows the car driving from a distance, thus resisting the narrative temptation to cut as the object leaves the frames of the screen space.

These cinematic means of editing and cinematography result in narrative that is horizontal by nature like human perception in general. The horizontality of perception is a phenomenological notion from philosopher Edmund Husserl by which Husserl tries to characterize the spatio-temporal width of perception, the fact that one always intends (or directs one’s mental states to) more than is immediately seen. Horizontality means that there is always more present to a perception of any object than its immediately apparent aspects; for example, a perception of the front side of a house also seems to implicitly entail the possible or forthcoming perception of its rear side. Husserl writes that “the perception has horizons made up of other possibilities of perception, as perceptions that we could have, if we actively directed the course of perception otherwise: if, for example, we turned our eyes that way instead of this, or if we were to step forward or to one side, and so forth.” (Husserl 1999, 44, italics by Husserl).

In the case of Taste of Cherry, Kiarostami’s horizontal narrative enhances the width of presence both in terms of what lies beyond the frames of the screen space and in terms of what will soon be seen in the subsequent shots. By really emphasizing this aspect of cinema, Kiarostami not only echoes André Bazin’s idea of cinema as centrifugal but also comes close to Cesare Zavattini’s neorealist dreams of cinema in real time. With regards to both temporality and spatiality, Kiarostami’s aesthetics of continuity achieves a node of the spectator’s and the film’s time in “objective” space where the screen and the theater meet; it is a rendez-vous of implicated further perceptions belonging to the horizontal systems of every perception. To Husserl’s concept of horizontality, there belongs the idea that one never perceives the other as a mere physical body but always also as a mental, living being. Husserl writes that “I experience others as actually existing and, on the one hand, as world Objects (...). On the other hand, I experience them at the same time as subjects for this world, as experiencing it (this same world that I experience) and, in so doing, experiencing me too even as I experience the world and others in it.” (Husserl 1999, 91, Husserl’s italics). This is another reason why I think the objective elements (the gravel, the boulders) in the potential close-up shots which might reflect the protagonist’s thought processes ought to be seen as a metonymies rather than metaphors; that is to say, consciousness is not wholly separable from reality but an integral part of it. Thus Kiarostami’s realism is phenomenological realism which highlights the interrelation between subject and the world; it is realism of a profound kind, facilitating the ability of Kiarostami’s cinema to achieve intimate truths of human existence which, nonetheless, lie on the surface of the reality of the Lebenswelt, the life-world.  

An intriguing example of not only such realism but also specifically its notion of a constitutive interaction between consciousness and reality manifests in Kiarostami’s choice of milieu. In this case, I am not talking about the gravel landscape but rather the dominant space in Taste of Cherry, that is, the car. The car is, of course, a space with its own history in Iranian cinema. Many directors of the so-called Second Wave of Iranian cinema (after the new wave of the 60′s) preferred the car as a location for their films because the car allowed a concrete sense of privacy from officials as a film could be shot while moving around in a city, thus providing a potential escape as well. Kiarostami often films in cars -- think of the prolonged traffic jam sequence in Life, and Nothing More or every shot in 10 (2002). In Taste of Cherry, the car is a closed internal space in contrast to the open external space of the wide landscape. Yet its run-down tires keep scratching the surface of the soil in a fashion that enhances the material nature of Kiarostami’s soundtrack. Therefore, the car is, rather than being isolated, environmentally embedded and engaged. It is, to continue speaking in phenomenological terms, actively dynamic since its movement depends on its driver, whereas the movement of objects in the external space is passive since it does not depend on the driver. As a dynamic interlocutor in a quiet dialogue between the world and the subject, the protagonist’s car turns into a metaphor for the protagonist’s isolation which is not total -- as the earlier discussion on metonymies might have implied, and as it was further elaborated above in the discussion on the horizontality of perception -- as he is a worldly being. The car is the protagonist’s mobile grave which is constantly searching for its final resting place, a space to humanize, space to call one’s own, a space to carry something even vaguely meaningful.

In the end of Taste of Cherry, the protagonist lays himself on such a resting place. He lies on the soil. A storm starts to break. As the man is seen lying on his back in his open grave in the night, Kiarostami cuts from this facial close-up to the Moon hiding behind clouds in the dark sky. The spectator might shed a tear for this subtle passive movement in the environment, but the Moon is not exactly a symbol (say, for virginity, as it is classically seen). The shot is once again an instance of cinematic free indirect discourse where narrative shows something through the protagonist without succumbing into his inner perspective. The subsequent close-up of the man’s face is followed by a cut to black. The storm is breaking and the dogs are howling. Both sounds are essentially diegetic but their origin lies in the off-screen space since the on-screen space is nothing but darkness. In a word, there is no on-screen space. The screen space becomes the grave, an open grave in the sense of the centrifugal nature of the cinema, pointing beyond itself in terms of horizontality. The screen becomes nothing.

This leads us to the iconic ending of Taste of Cherry which was mentioned in the beginning of this essay. The foregoing discussion on narrative, Kiarostami’s use of metonymy, and the phenomenological nature of his cinema was required not only to contextualize but also to truly grasp the ending. It is an ending which has puzzled many and, probably, seems contrary to all reason when it comes to making films, but it is, I believe, a true stroke of genius from Kiarostami. In fact, it seems so contrary that the last time I saw Taste of Cherry in a cinema, I heard one spectator wonder whether the final sequence was a part of the film or not. 

The cut from the open grave to the black screen lasting for some thirty seconds could be the end of Taste of Cherry, but in a totally unprecedented manner Kiarostami cuts after roughly half a minute of darkness to 8 mm film footage of behind-the-scenes material of Taste of Cherry. In this footage, the actor playing the protagonist of the film is seen alive and well, Kiarostami and his assistants are seen shooting marching soldiers, and finally the crew drives away from the camera. If the last cut to black from the shot of the protagonist lying in his open grave killed the diegetic space, as the screen space became nothing, then now narrative moves beyond that space into what one might call extra-diegetic space, which, of course, becomes one level in the diegetic universe of the film (and no one can say, for sure, if this sequence was totally staged, for instance).

The spectator could interpret this ending as a metaphor for the character’s death -- precisely a metaphor indeed and not a metonymy, in this case, as we are talking about a cut, a transition from one space via nothingness to another rather than objects in the screen space. Maybe he lied down to die, the darkness of the screen marking the moment of his death, and the resurrection of the screen space in the world beyond marking the detachment of his soul from his body -- either imagined or “real” in terms of narrative. On the other hand, the spectator could interpret this ending of the film as a metaphor for the protagonist’s survival as the man playing him is seen alive and well, a triumph of hope in tone, so to speak. The ending remains open.

Regardless of how one interprets the ending, it seems to articulate another banal raison d’être worthy of adding to the list of sunsets and tastes of cherries: that is, the creation of cinema or art in general. After a heavy story about a man contemplating suicide and people trying to convince him of the worthwhileness of life, Kiarostami opens his hands, so to speak, and embraces the absence of absolute answers. Although apparently contrary to the logic of narrative and dramaturgy, Kiarostami’s cut to the behind-the-scenes footage is a true stroke of cinematic genius. His existentialist humility and his human gesture of admitting the ambiguity of the questions asked and the answers proposed is essentially meta-fictive. In fact, it must be meta-fictive because Kiarostami’s cinema always questions life and cinema simultaneously since they are interrelated.

There are many ways to approach these questions, but I think one useful tool is provided by a set of categorical distinctions by film scholar Richard Neupart. According to Neupart, there are four possibilities to end a film (see Neupart 1995, 33). The first and most conventional possibility is to close the film’s story as well as the film’s discourse. In this case, there is a closure to the story which coincides with the closure of discourse, that is to say, when the story ends, so does narrative. The second possibility is to leave the story open but to close the discourse. This is the classical open end: the film ends but the story lacks a closure. The third possibility is an intriguing one: to close the story but to leave the discourse open which means that the story ends, though the discourse still keeps going. The typical example of this third possibility could be the use of behind-the-scenes footage during closing credits or the famous eight minute ending of nothingness in Antonioni’s The Eclipse (1962) after the story concerning the main characters has elapsed. The fourth possibility is even more obscure: to leave both the story and the discourse open. To Neupart, this concerns films which are meta-fictive by nature; they are films which question the whole process and the notion of making cinema. Neupart’s example is Godard’s Weekend (1967), which ends with the famous continuation of the traditional “fin” at the end of a French film: “fin... du cinéma?”

When it comes to Taste of Cherry, some might argue that it represents the third possibility. In this sense, the story of the film ends but the discourse remains open as Kiarostami continues to show behind-the-scenes footage which, nonetheless, seems connected to the rest of the film in terms of discourse. On the other hand, some might argue that it represents the fourth possibility. In this sense, the story of the film remains open (after all, the spectator cannot be sure whether the protagonist dies or not; that is to say, the central conflict driving the whole dramaturgy remains open) as does its discourse. I believe this is the case in Taste of Cherry. Its story remains open because the dramatic conflicts in the diegetic world remain unsolved. Its discourse remains open because the proposed questions remain unsolved. As it turns out, doubt is cast on the whole meaningfulness of these questions themselves. What is more, this openness of the conflicts and the questions turns into a meta-fictive, non-verbal question addressed toward the film itself and cinema in general -- what is cinema and why cinema? -- both of which remain unanswered, dangling in the semantic void of material reality whose banal facticity both startles and pleases us.

In this way, there is sadness to the end. Whether the protagonist dies or not, it seems that his life or death do not receive any sublimity by means of cinematic means (say, an uplifting piece of music or the ubiquitous darkness in the end without the subsequent behind-the-scenes footage), but rather they collide with something utterly un-romantic. They return to their material being as artificial artifacts, emphasized by the poor picture quality of the 8 mm film used for the epilogue sequence.

So what remains to be said? More and also nothing. Perhaps, as many great thinkers have said before, the act of asking a question is more important than answering it. Taste of Cherry asks profound questions of life without ever even formulating them in a verbal form banal enough to allow intelligible answers to them. It also points these questions to cinema and art by questioning itself. One feels a need to conclude, the enduring desire of all writing about cinema, but at this point it seems trivial. One could say something along the lines “Taste of Cherry is a masterpiece about the absurdity of the will to live,” but maybe, this time, one could accept that Kiarostami’s film is actually so good that it does not need to be forced into something, to be categorized as something. Does this mean I have only wasted my time as well as yours, the reader? Perhaps. Or maybe this is another mundane instance of what one might call the taste of cherry.

References:

Husserl, Edmund. 1999. Cartesian Meditations: An Introduction to Phenomenology. Translated by Dorion Cairns. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. [Original text in French from 1929]

Neupart, Richard. 1995. The End -- Narration and Closure in the Cinema. Detroit: Wayne State University Press.

[readbookywooks]

26 Out in the hall, I find Paylor standing in exactly the same spot. "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asks. I hold up the white bud in answer and then stumble past her. I must have made it back to my room, because the next thing I know, I'm filling a glass with water from the bathroom faucet and sticking the rose in it. I sink to my knees on the cold tile and squint at the flower, as the whiteness seems hard to focus on in the stark fluorescent light. My finger catches the inside of my bracelet, twisting it like a tourniquet, hurting my wrist. I'm hoping the pain will help me hang on to reality the way it did for Peeta. I must hang on. I must know the truth about what has happened. There are two possibilities, although the details associated with them may vary. First, as I've believed, that the Capitol sent in that hovercraft, dropped the parachutes, and sacrificed its children's lives, knowing the recently arrived rebels would go to their aid. There's evidence to support this. The Capitol's seal on the hovercraft, the lack of any attempt to blow the enemy out of the sky, and their long history of using children as pawns in their battle against the districts. Then there's Snow's account. That a Capitol hovercraft manned by rebels bombed the children to bring a speedy end to the war. But if this was the case, why didn't the Capitol fire on the enemy? Did the element of surprise throw them? Had they no defenses left? Children are precious to 13, or so it has always seemed. Well, not me, maybe. Once I had outlived my usefulness, I was expendable. Although I think it's been a long time since I've been considered a child in this war. And why would they do it knowing their own medics would likely respond and be taken out by the second blast? They wouldn't. They couldn't. Snow's lying. Manipulating me as he always has. Hoping to turn me against the rebels and possibly destroy them. Yes. Of course. Then what's nagging at me? Those double-exploding bombs, for one. It's not that the Capitol couldn't have the same weapon, it's just that I'm sure the rebels did. Gale and Beetee's brainchild. Then there's the fact that Snow made no escape attempt, when I know him to be the consummate survivor. It seems hard to believe he didn't have a retreat somewhere, some bunker stocked with provisions where he could live out the rest of his snaky little life. And finally, there's his assessment of Coin. What's irrefutable is that she's done exactly what he said. Let the Capitol and the districts run one another into the ground and then sauntered in to take power. Even if that was her plan, it doesn't mean she dropped those parachutes. Victory was already in her grasp. Everything was in her grasp. Except me. I recall Boggs's response when I admitted I hadn't put much thought into Snow's successor. "If your immediate answer isn't Coin, then you're a threat. You're the face of the rebellion. You may have more influence than any other single person. Outwardly, the most you've ever done is tolerated her." Suddenly, I'm thinking of Prim, who was not yet fourteen, not yet old enough to be granted the title of soldier, but somehow working on the front lines. How did such a thing happen? That my sister would have wanted to be there, I have no doubt. That she would be more capable than many older than she is a given. But for all that, someone very high up would have had to approve putting a thirteen-year-old in combat. Did Coin do it, hoping that losing Prim would push me completely over the edge? Or, at least, firmly on her side? I wouldn't even have had to witness it in person. Numerous cameras would be covering the City Circle. Capturing the moment forever. No, now I am going crazy, slipping into some state of paranoia. Too many people would know of the mission. Word would get out. Or would it? Who would have to know besides Coin, Plutarch, and a small, loyal or easily disposable crew? I badly need help working this out, only everyone I trust is dead. Cinna. Boggs. Finnick. Prim. There's Peeta, but he couldn't do any more than speculate, and who knows what state his mind's in, anyway. And that leaves only Gale. He's far away, but even if he were beside me, could I confide in him? What could I say, how could I phrase it, without implying that it was his bomb that killed Prim? The impossibility of that idea, more than any, is why Snow must be lying. Ultimately, there's only one person to turn to who might know what happened and might still be on my side. To broach the subject at all will be a risk. But while I think Haymitch might gamble with my life in the arena, I don't think he'd rat me out to Coin. Whatever problems we may have with each other, we prefer resolving our differences one-on-one. I scramble off the tiles, out the door, and across the hall to his room. When there's no response to my knock, I push inside. Ugh. It's amazing how quickly he can defile a space. Half-eaten plates of food, shattered liquor bottles, and pieces of broken furniture from a drunken rampage scatter his quarters. He lies, unkempt and unwashed, in a tangle of sheets on the bed, passed out. "Haymitch," I say, shaking his leg. Of course, that's insufficient. But I give it a few more tries before I dump the pitcher of water in his face. He comes to with a gasp, slashing blindly with his knife. Apparently, the end of Snow's reign didn't equal the end of his terror. "Oh. You," he says. I can tell by his voice that he's still loaded. "Haymitch," I begin. "Listen to that. The Mockingjay found her voice." He laughs. "Well, Plutarch's going to be happy." He takes a swig from a bottle. "Why am I soaking wet?" I lamely drop the pitcher behind me into a pile of dirty clothes. "I need your help," I say. Haymitch belches, filling the air with white liquor fumes. "What is it, sweetheart? More boy trouble?" I don't know why, but this hurts me in a way Haymitch rarely can. It must show on my face, because even in his drunken state, he tries to take it back. "Okay, not funny." I'm already at the door. "Not funny! Come back!" By the thud of his body hitting the floor, I assume he tried to follow me, but there's no point. I zigzag through the mansion and disappear into a wardrobe full of silken things. I yank them from hangers until I have a pile and then burrow into it. In the lining of my pocket, I find a stray morphling tablet and swallow it dry, heading off my rising hysteria. It's not enough to right things, though. I hear Haymitch calling me in the distance, but he won't find me in his condition. Especially not in this new spot. Swathed in silk, I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon awaiting metamorphosis. I always supposed that to be a peaceful condition. At first it is. But as I journey into night, I feel more and more trapped, suffocated by the slippery bindings, unable to emerge until I have transformed into something of beauty. I squirm, trying to shed my ruined body and unlock the secret to growing flawless wings. Despite enormous effort, I remain a hideous creature, fired into my current form by the blast from the bombs. The encounter with Snow opens the door to my old repertoire of nightmares. It's like being stung by tracker jackers again. A wave of horrifying images with a brief respite I confuse with waking - only to find another wave knocking me back. When the guards finally locate me, I'm sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, tangled in silk, screaming my head off. I fight them at first, until they convince me they're trying to help, peel away the choking garments, and escort me back to my room. On the way, we pass a window and I see a gray, snowy dawn spreading across the Capitol. A very hungover Haymitch waits with a handful of pills and a tray of food that neither of us has the stomach for. He makes a feeble attempt to get me to talk again but, seeing it's pointless, sends me to a bath someone has drawn. The tub's deep, with three steps to the bottom. I ease down into the warm water and sit, up to my neck in suds, hoping the medicines kick in soon. My eyes focus on the rose that has spread its petals overnight, filling the steamy air with its strong perfume. I rise and reach for a towel to smother it, when there's a tentative knock and the bathroom door opens, revealing three familiar faces. They try to smile at me, but even Venia can't conceal her shock at my ravaged mutt body. "Surprise!" Octavia squeaks, and then bursts into tears. I'm puzzling over their reappearance when I realize that this must be it, the day of the execution. They've come to prep me for the cameras. Remake me to Beauty Base Zero. No wonder Octavia's crying. It's an impossible task. They can barely touch my patchwork of skin for fear of hurting me, so I rinse and dry off myself. I tell them I hardly notice the pain anymore, but Flavius still winces as he drapes a robe around me. In the bedroom, I find another surprise. Sitting upright in a chair. Polished from her metallic gold wig to her patent leather high heels, gripping a clipboard. Remarkably unchanged except for the vacant look in her eyes. "Effie," I say. "Hello, Katniss." She stands and kisses me on the cheek as if nothing has occurred since our last meeting, the night before the Quarter Quell. "Well, it looks like we've got another big, big, big day ahead of us. So why don't you start your prep and I'll just pop over and check on the arrangements." "Okay," I say to her back. "They say Plutarch and Haymitch had a hard time keeping her alive," comments Venia under her breath. "She was imprisoned after your escape, so that helps." It's quite a stretch. Effie Trinket, rebel. But I don't want Coin killing her, so I make a mental note to present her that way if asked. "I guess it's good Plutarch kidnapped you three after all." "We're the only prep team still alive. And all the stylists from the Quarter Quell are dead," says Venia. She doesn't say who specifically killed them. I'm beginning to wonder if it matters. She gingerly takes one of my scarred hands and holds it out for inspection. "Now, what do you think for the nails? Red or maybe a jet black?" Flavius performs some beauty miracle on my hair, managing to even out the front while getting some of the longer locks to hide the bald spots in the back. My face, since it was spared from the flames, presents no more than the usual challenges. Once I'm in Cinna's Mockingjay suit, the only scars visible are on my neck, forearms, and hands. Octavia secures my Mockingjay pin over my heart and we step back to look in the mirror. I can't believe how normal they've made me look on the outside when inwardly I'm such a wasteland. There's a tap at the door and Gale steps in. "Can I have a minute?" he asks. In the mirror, I watch my prep team. Unsure of where to go, they bump into one another a few times and then closet themselves in the bathroom. Gale comes up behind me and we examine each other's reflection. I'm searching for something to hang on to, some sign of the girl and boy who met by chance in the woods five years ago and became inseparable. I'm wondering what would have happened to them if the Hunger Games had not reaped the girl. If she would have fallen in love with the boy, married him even. And sometime in the future, when the brothers and sisters had been raised up, escaped with him into the woods and left 12 behind forever. Would they have been happy, out in the wild, or would the dark, twisted sadness between them have grown up even without the Capitol's help? "I brought you this." Gale holds up a sheath. When I take it, I notice it holds a single, ordinary arrow. "It's supposed to be symbolic. You firing the last shot of the war." "What if I miss?" I say. "Does Coin retrieve it and bring it back to me? Or just shoot Snow through the head herself?" "You won't miss." Gale adjusts the sheath on my shoulder. We stand there, face-to-face, not meeting each other's eyes. "You didn't come see me in the hospital." He doesn't answer, so finally I just say it. "Was it your bomb?" "I don't know. Neither does Beetee," he says. "Does it matter? You'll always be thinking about it." He waits for me to deny it; I want to deny it, but it's true. Even now I can see the flash that ignites her, feel the heat of the flames. And I will never be able to separate that moment from Gale. My silence is my answer. "That was the one thing I had going for me. Taking care of your family," he says. "Shoot straight, okay?" He touches my cheek and leaves. I want to call him back and tell him that I was wrong. That I'll figure out a way to make peace with this. To remember the circumstances under which he created the bomb. Take into account my own inexcusable crimes. Dig up the truth about who dropped the parachutes. Prove it wasn't the rebels. Forgive him. But since I can't, I'll just have to deal with the pain. Effie comes in to usher me to some kind of meeting. I collect my bow and at the last minute remember the rose, glistening in its glass of water. When I open the door to the bathroom, I find my prep team sitting in a row on the edge of the tub, hunched and defeated. I remember I'm not the only one whose world has been stripped away. "Come on," I tell them. "We've got an audience waiting." I'm expecting a production meeting in which Plutarch instructs me where to stand and gives me my cue for shooting Snow. Instead, I find myself sent into a room where six people sit around a table. Peeta, Johanna, Beetee, Haymitch, Annie, and Enobaria. They all wear the gray rebel uniforms from 13. No one looks particularly well. "What's this?" I say. "We're not sure," Haymitch answers. "It appears to be a gathering of the remaining victors." "We're all that's left?" I ask. "The price of celebrity," says Beetee. "We were targeted from both sides. The Capitol killed the victors they suspected of being rebels. The rebels killed those thought to be allied with the Capitol." Johanna scowls at Enobaria. "So what's she doing here?" "She is protected under what we call the Mockingjay Deal," says Coin as she enters behind me. "Wherein Katniss Everdeen agreed to support the rebels in exchange for captured victors' immunity. Katniss has upheld her side of the bargain, and so shall we." Enobaria smiles at Johanna. "Don't look so smug," says Johanna. "We'll kill you anyway." "Sit down, please, Katniss," says Coin, closing the door. I take a seat between Annie and Beetee, carefully placing Snow's rose on the table. As usual, Coin gets right to the point. "I've asked you here to settle a debate. Today we will execute Snow. In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths. However, the suffering in the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship. However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this." Through the water in the glass, I see a distorted image of one of Peeta's hands. The burn marks. We are both fire mutts now. My eyes travel up to where the flames licked across his forehead, singeing away his brows but just missing his eyes. Those same blue eyes that used to meet mine and then flit away at school. Just as they do now. "So, an alternative has been placed on the table. Since my colleagues and I can come to no consensus, it has been agreed that we will let the victors decide. A majority of four will approve the plan. No one may abstain from the vote," says Coin. "What has been proposed is that in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power." All seven of us turn to her. "What?" says Johanna. "We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children," says Coin. "Are you joking?" asks Peeta. "No. I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown of your votes will be kept secret for your own security," Coin tells us. "Was this Plutarch's idea?" asks Haymitch. "It was mine," says Coin. "It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life. You may cast your votes." "No!" bursts out Peeta. "I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!" "Why not?" Johanna retorts. "It seems very fair to me. Snow even has a granddaughter. I vote yes." "So do I," says Enobaria, almost indifferently. "Let them have a taste of their own medicine." "This is why we rebelled! Remember?" Peeta looks at the rest of us. "Annie?" "I vote no with Peeta," she says. "So would Finnick if he were here." "But he isn't, because Snow's mutts killed him," Johanna reminds her. "No," says Beetee. "It would set a bad precedent. We have to stop viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No." "We're down to Katniss and Haymitch," says Coin. Was it like this then? Seventy-five years or so ago? Did a group of people sit around and cast their votes on initiating the Hunger Games? Was there dissent? Did someone make a case for mercy that was beaten down by the calls for the deaths of the districts' children? The scent of Snow's rose curls up into my nose, down into my throat, squeezing it tight with despair. All those people I loved, dead, and we are discussing the next Hunger Games in an attempt to avoid wasting life. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change now. I weigh my options carefully, think everything through. Keeping my eyes on the rose, I say, "I vote yes...for Prim." "Haymitch, it's up to you," says Coin. A furious Peeta hammers Haymitch with the atrocity he could become party to, but I can feel Haymitch watching me. This is the moment, then. When we find out exactly just how alike we are, and how much he truly understands me. "I'm with the Mockingjay," he says. "Excellent. That carries the vote," says Coin. "Now we really must take our places for the execution." As she passes me, I hold up the glass with the rose. "Can you see that Snow's wearing this? Just over his heart?" Coin smiles. "Of course. And I'll make sure he knows about the Games." "Thank you," I say. People sweep into the room, surround me. The last touch of powder, the instructions from Plutarch as I'm guided to the front doors of the mansion. The City Circle runs over, spills people down the side streets. The others take their places outside. Guards. Officials. Rebel leaders. Victors. I hear the cheers that indicate Coin has appeared on the balcony. Then Effie taps my shoulder, and I step out into the cold winter sunlight. Walk to my position, accompanied by the deafening roar of the crowd. As directed, I turn so they see me in profile, and wait. When they march Snow out the door, the audience goes insane. They secure his hands behind a post, which is unnecessary. He's not going anywhere. There's nowhere to go. This is not the roomy stage before the Training Center but the narrow terrace in front of the president's mansion. No wonder no one bothered to have me practice. He's ten yards away. I feel the bow purring in my hand. Reach back and grasp the arrow. Position it, aim at the rose, but watch his face. He coughs and a bloody dribble runs down his chin. His tongue flicks over his puffy lips. I search his eyes for the slightest sign of anything, fear, remorse, anger. But there's only the same look of amusement that ended our last conversation. It's as if he's speaking the words again. "Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other." He's right. We did. The point of my arrow shifts upward. I release the string. And President Coin collapses over the side of the balcony and plunges to the ground. Dead.