#Anna moves to the Black Mountain

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 12

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)

Chapter 12: Ghost in the Machine

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter go on a date while grappling with the past, present, and future.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 8.7k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, insecurities, mirror, angst, fluff, acting career things idk, awkward/nervous speech patterns, cocaine use, past infidelity, suspicion, dissociation, argument, abuse mention

Notes: Chapter title from "Ghost in the Machine" by SZA featuring Phoebe Bridgers. Howdy! If you want the taglist, or AO3 link, head on down to the masterlist. If you want a link to the spotify playlist for this chapter, let me know and I'll send it to ya.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Every window in the house sits ajar, welcoming a warm cross-breeze that tickles your skin. It carries an earthy scent from further up the hill, giving faint whiffs of sage and dirt. 

Dieter moseys around the house in his boxers, voyaging between his kitchen sink and potted plants, watering can in hand. He mumbles sweet little affirmations to his green dependents, checking in with each in a hushed voice, saying shit like, “Now, how are we doing here? Thirsty?” or “Looking great today,” or “Wow, someone needs a haircut.” 

From your place nestled into the couch, you alternate between watching him and studying the white wisps of steam that swirl off the surface of your coffee cup. 

This morning, while peaceful, has you feeling off-kilter. Your mind keeps wandering to the interview with DIRT. To your mom. To Dieter. 

Overnight, the dust began to settle in your mind, providing more clarity. Details started to surface shortly after you woke. Things you heard yesterday, but didn’t understand or deem important in the moment. 

Like David’s statement: “Dieter has had a lot of big changes in his personal life this past year as well, with his divorce to Anika, and the scandals surrounding it.”

Like your mother saying: “He had a problem with drugs, you know, big problem, had other women, too,“ and, “I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?”

Like Dieter saying: “No, I definitely deserved that.”

In each still, calm moment, they replay. Every time you look at Dieter and your heart aches with love and adoration, your memory blindsides you with this information. 

Is your mom right? Did he cheat on Anika? 

Or is she just trying to drive a wedge between you?

Wouldn’t he have told you when he had the chance?

You know you could do a web search to look into it, do your own research into the matter. Hell, you could even just fucking ask him. But the prospect makes you itch. 

Because what if she’s wrong and he thinks you don’t trust him? Or, worse, what if she’s right? 

Fuck, what if she’s right? 

Your blood starts to buzz hot and rapid through your veins. You look around for an escape hatch and see a bookshelf, then set your coffee cup down to approach it. 

Among knickknacks and a few small plants housed on the solid oak shelves, you find titles you expect to see, like 1984 by George Orwell, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann, and at least a dozen art reference books. You also find a few things you weren’t expecting, like Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, half a dozen Julia Quinn novels, and, most importantly, a first edition of Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book. 

You pull the cookbook out and examine it, running your fingertips along the frayed corners of the faded red hardcover, then flip it open, asking, “Why do you have this?”

Dieter looks up from an unruly Monstera, “Have what?”

“This cookbook,” you answer, padding across the living room’s black and white striped rug to show him. 

He frowns as you hold it up, shaking his head, “Must’ve been Annie’s. She left some stuff behind when she moved out.” 

“My grandma had this one,” you murmur, glancing up at him, “Is—is it ok if I look through it?”

He scoffs and shrugs, “Not like she’s coming to get it,” then returns his attention to the Monstera. 

You settle into the couch, thumbing through the yellowed pages, reading recipes, tips, and instructions compiled for housewives of the 1950’s. Dieter finishes grooming his plants and plops down at your side, curling an arm around your shoulders, “Betty giving you any inspiration?”

“Fun fact: Betty Crocker isn’t an actual person,” you smirk, turn the page to the section on custard pies, and inform him, “In the 1920’s, a flour company noticed they got a lot of homemakers requesting baking advice, so they adopted the moniker Betty Crocker as a pen name for the people who answered the questions.”

“Huh,” he blinks, “Interesting.” 

“Listen to this,” you flip to a dog-eared page towards the back of the book and start reading from it, “If you’re tired from overwork, house chores you’re bound to shirk, read these pointers tried and true, and discover what to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Tips for housewives who are fucking miserable,” you tell him, then read another excerpt, “Get outdoors every day. Take a walk, do some gardening, take the children for an outing, or pay your neighbor a short visit,” and another, “Harbor pleasant thoughts while working. It will make every task lighter and pleasanter. Notice humorous and interesting incidents to relate at dinnertime, etc.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You want to tell him that the page was bookmarked. Its connection to the spine, well-creased. Referenced often. The comment lingers at the back of your throat. 

When you backtrack your place in the book, trying to resume your study on custard pies, a white index card slides from between two pages.

“Oh,” you pluck it out and furrow your brow at the ingredients, measurements, instructions printed in a precise script, “It’s a recipe for banitsa. You ever had this?” 

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s like a flaky cheese pastry… phyllo, feta, yogurt,” you murmur, then glance up at him, “What do we have going on today?”

“Reservations at 7, and Darlene’s gonna stop by later, but other than that,” he grins and shakes his head, “Nada.”

So, the two of you smoke a joint on the patio while Lincoln picks up the called-for ingredients Dieter doesn’t have on hand. After Lincoln drops them off, you sanitize the sun-drenched quartz of Dieter’s kitchen countertop, all sparkling rainbows in the light. Dieter spreads a paint-splattered drop cloth across the no-man’s land between the dining room and kitchen, sets up an easel, equips it with a canvas, then rolls a little yellow file cabinet out next to it. 

He puts on a mix of music described as roller-rink 1978. As the funky tunes play over the sound system wired throughout his house, you attach a bread hook to his matte black stand mixer and sift bread flour into its 7-qt bowl. 

Then you go to work. 

You concentrate on the task at hand in each given moment, taking it step-by-step. Measuring, mixing, and kneading. Trying not to think too long about the romance novels lining the bookshelf, or the recipe’s delicate handwriting, or the dog-eared page, or Dieter’s baited breath after he recounted why he and Anika split, or your mother saying, “I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?” Or David Alterman asking, “Do you worry that those patterns are bound to repeat themselves?”

Instead of these things, you try your hardest to occupy your hazy, pot-laced brain by separating the dough into equal pieces while humming along to ABBA and Elton John and Electric Light Orchestra. 

When the recipe calls for the dough to rest for an hour, you clean your workspace, throw together the banitsa filling, and wash the dishes. 

Then the timer tells you: seventeen minutes left. 

You turn your attention to Dieter. His bare feet move fluid from side-to-side, paintbrush flitting between the palette and canvas as he lip-syncs along to “Hollywood Swinging” by Kool & The Gang. A grin stretches across your face. 

They cannot be right about him. This is not the kind of man who has affairs. No fucking way. This man is an angel. 

I’ve been fooled before. 

You banish the thought with a quick shake of your head, then try to distract yourself by asking, “Do you still see ghosts?”

He looks up at you, then back at his work-in-progress with a shrug, “I don’t usually see them per se, it’s more like a, uhh… an understanding. Or a knowing, I guess. Like a picture in my head with a feeling attached to it.”

His features twitch animatedly as he talks, accenting his words, dark eyes glancing between the canvas and your face. 

“It’s like… have you ever had intrusive thoughts?” 

“Have I ever,” you snort.

“It’s like that,” he explains, “Like a flash of something. Not like that kid in the Sixth Sense, seeing them fuckin’ uhh… walking around and shit.” 

You hop up onto the kitchen counter and inquire, “Where’s the most haunted place you’ve been?” 

Dieter pauses mid-brushstroke and scrunches his face up as he thinks about this, resuming when he says, “Well, hotels are always the worst. They’re so transitive, you know, all this energy coming and going constantly. And the people stuck there… they usually went intending to have a good time, a vacation or party or whatever, and something happened to them. That, or… they went in with an intention not to come out and succeeded.”

The implication unfolds in your brain, and you nod. 

“Either way they seem to have unfinished business,” he shrugs and squints at the canvas, smudging paint with his thumb, “Usually they’re harmless, so it’s pretty easy to ignore,” he pauses here, clears his throat, then continues, “But in terms of the worst vibes I got, like, uhh… how scared it made me feel, it was definitely Ethan.”

Blood drains from your face and extremities, leaving you cold and dizzy. 

“I—I thought—wait, really?”

He squints up at the ceiling, like he’s re-evaluating his statement, then levels his eyes with yours with a nod, “Yeah. At first, at least. Like the first night I was there, I felt him and it was,” he furrows his brow and drops his gaze to the floor, “Dark. Really fucking dark. And I was already in a bad way, y’know, I went to your place straight from the airport and you were—”

“A fucking disaster?”

“A beautiful trainwreck,” he corrects with a persuasive smile. It falters as soon as he continues, “And I just had this big fight with Annie about the divorce and, uhh, stuff, and hadn’t used blow in a day or two, just… not great,” he swallows, then shakes his head, “I think maybe… he could sense that about me. It was a warning. I remember knowing that’s what it was.”

“Oh,” you breathe. Look down at your hands. Start picking at your cuticles.  

“It was hard to stay. So… I left.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad. I’m sorry. I mean, he told me that he liked you—”

“It got better, really, love. It’s fine,” he assures you, then frowns, “Wait, he told you he likes me? Did you ask him about me or something?”

“Well, yeah,” you drop your gaze to the floor, “I just wanted to—I don’t know, see if he approved, I guess.” 

His head jerks back and he blinks, “Oh.” 

“Yeah—he, um, told me that he always liked you,” you tilt your head at your dangling legs and chuckle, “Told me you were a triangle guy.” 

Dieter lets out a light puff of laughter. 

“He asked if you make me happy,” you tell him, so quiet it’s almost a whisper, then look up to study his reaction. 

He pulls his paintbrush from the canvas and stares at you, his eyes soft and searching, “And?”

A soft scoff flees your lips, and you say, “Of course you do, Dee.”

“Yeah?” 

This crooked smile spreads across his face and makes your heart ache. 

“Obviously,” you chuckle, grinning in return. 

Dieter seems to think about this, pink tongue rolling along his bottom lip as his eyebrow quirks. He sets his palette down on the little yellow file cabinet, drops his paintbrush into a cup of water, then crosses the room towards you. 

The way he looks at you seems to take a physical presence on your skin, making you shiver before he even reaches you. When he does, his hands slide up your bare legs, fingertips dipping under the hem of your jean shorts. His hips nudge your knees apart. 

You hook your arms around his neck as he tugs you closer, brushing his nose against yours, “You make me happy, too.” 

He kisses you, gentle for only a moment before your tongues meet. 

It’s so soft and wet it makes you gasp. A rumble sounds from his throat and his grip tightens. You arch your back, balling his shirt in your fist

He guides your hand to the bulge in his sweatpants, “Do you feel that? How happy you make me?” 

“That’s pretty fucking happy,” you grin, wrapping your fingers around his girth, over the soft fabric. You start to work him and he tosses his head back with a moan. 

Your lips meet his again, finding depth. It’s a slow heat, the way you take your time with his cock in your grip and your tongue in his mouth. Drives him crazy. His breaths carry strained groans that tickle your throat and make your cunt throb. 

When you roll your thumb against the damp spot in his sweatpants, he gasps, “Fuck–”

You hook a finger under his waistband, “I wanna see it.” 

“Oh yeah?” he chuckles, pausing to drag his tongue against yours, earning a whimper from you, then says, “Any time, any place, he’s all yours, baby.”

And right when he starts to pull down his pants, the front door swings open. 

You both jump and look towards the noise. 

In walks Darlene, cell phone pinched between her ear and shoulder, talking to someone on the other line, “Yeah, I just got to Dieter’s house, I’m going to tell him—Yeah, I will—Ok. Ok.”

Dieter rearranges himself and meets your eyes, murmuring, “To be continued,” before turning to approach her. 

“Yep, bye,” she tosses her phone in her designer bag and sighs, looking between the two of you, “Did I interrupt something?”

Your mouth gapes open. You shake your head and hop down off the counter, “We, um–we–”

Dieter cuts in, thank fucking god, responding, “No. What's the news?” 

Darlene raises an eyebrow at him, then you. She leans back against the dining room table and crosses her arms, “Well, I raised hell at DIRT. David Alterman is on disciplinary leave. The interview will be published without the phone call tomorrow. So… we will see what happens.” 

“Oh, that’s good!” you grin, glancing at the back of Dieter’s head, then to Darlene, “Thank you so much. And—and I’m sorry, you know, you had to deal with that.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Darlene nods, flashing you a wane smile, then looks to Dieter, “Can I steal you for a sec? I have to talk to you about something.” 

He clears his throat and nods, “Yeah,” then follows her outside. 

You release a little chuckle and smile to yourself. 

The timer goes off. 

Dieter slides the door closed behind him, following Darlene around the centerpiece of his patio: a sprawling oak tree. He looks up into it as he trails behind, admiring all the twisted innards of the beast. When they step out of its shade and into the hot afternoon sun, he grimaces. 

She plugs a cigarette between her lips and lights it, asking him on the exhale, “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” he takes a step forward and leans against the steel railing, peaking over the edge to look down the cliffside. 

“How’s she doing since yesterday? That was a fucking mess,” Darlene leans on the railing beside him. 

Dieter scrunches his nose up, shrugging, “Kind of hard to read, I guess. She seems fine. But–but I don’t know, she’s just,” he pauses here and frowns, “I think I would be freaking out if I were her, you know? But she’s not? And I don’t know what to do about that.” 

She flicks her cigarette and raises her eyebrows, then sighs, “Actually, Dieter, that’s what I wanted to talk about with you.” 

“About what? Lua? What about her?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you serious about this girl?” 

“Jesus Christ, Darlene,” he groans, dropping his head, “Yes, I’m fucking serious. I wouldn’t be doing all this bullshit for just anyone.” 

“It just seems like there’s a lot you haven’t figured out. Maybe some things you haven’t discussed,” she takes a drag and looks him up and down, “What if I got some intel that says she’s still selling drugs?”

He plays along, inquiring, “What kind of drugs?”

“Edibles. Pot brownies, shit like that.”

“I’d say your intel is bunk. She’s straight.”

“Well, I looked into it,” she blows a plume of blue smoke out into the canyon, “She has no online presence, no license, sells out of her apartment—I mean, it fucking reeks, Dieter. How’s she able to make enough to live in that area with no marketing?”

“She doesn’t make a huge profit. I mean, this month I helped her with rent—”

“You’re fucking kidding me. So she’s using you—”

“No, she’s not. I had to beg her to let me help. It’s not like that,” he maintains, shaking his head, “I mean, who’s your source? Why are you even looking into this?” 

“I don’t trust her, Dieter! Something isn’t right, it’s not adding up.”

He pushes off the railing and pushes non-existent sleeves up his forearms, “Let’s say you’re right, and she’s selling edibles,” he stops for a beat, then scoffs, “Who fucking cares? Fucking pot brownies? Who gives a shit.”

“Movie studios care. The public cares. Doesn’t matter if it’s crack or pot, she’s a fucking drug dealer.”

“She’s not a fucking drug dealer, Darlene,” he snaps.

She stares at him. Takes a drag off her cigarette. 

He kneads his neck, shifting his weight from one foot, to the other, before throwing his hands out in exasperation, “I need you to just believe that, for once, someone loves me and is good for me. Please.” 

Darlene’s lips purse, “That’s what you said about Anika.”

“That—that’s different,” Dieter drops his gaze to the ground. 

“Is it, though?” she blinks at him, “You swore that was it, that she wasn’t a gold digger, and yet… now she’s ex-Mrs. Dieter Bravo. Walked away with almost half your estate in return for not selling your secrets. She’s a rich woman now.”

“Yep,” Dieter sighs, skidding his toes against the mahogany deckboards, “I’m just a big fuck up, you got me there.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she asserts, “I just want you to really think about this before doing anything… rash.” 

“I’m not going to run away and fucking marry her the first chance I get, ok?” he sneers, “Just—chill the fuck out.” 

“Dieter, let me be perfectly honest with you,” she drops her cigarette and crushes it with the toe of her beige pump, “I worry it’s more than you just being cunt-struck again.”

His head jerks back and he scoffs. 

She lowers her voice to a pleading tone, “Look, you’re falling headfirst into a serious relationship with this girl, she used to deal drugs, there’s all this shady stuff with her business, and… I just—I worry, are you, you know… are you ok?” 

“Am I ok?” he repeats the question, drenching it with incredulity, “What the fuck do you mean, am I ok?”

She studies his face, crossing her arms. A meaningful tilt of her head tells him everything he needs to know. 

His jaw gnashes from side-to-side and he shakes his head, “I’ve been clean for months, Darlene, because of her.” 

“Alright,” she raises her eyebrows and blinks, “Good.”

“Do you believe me?”

Darlene shrugs, “If you say you’re ok, you’re ok.” 

Bullshit.

“I am,” he confirms, his voice firm and final. 

“Great,” she nods, then pulls out her phone and looks at the screen, “Alright, well, I’ll keep an eye on things after the interview drops and let you know how it goes.” 

She stomps past him, the click-clack of her heels echoing out behind her, and exits out the side gate. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, shaking his hands out at his sides, rolling his neck as he starts towards the glass patio door.

Dieter walks beside you as the hostess leads the way through the busy restaurant. Everything around him is white noise. It doesn’t matter at all. 

All that exists is his palm on the small of your back. His whole universe has boiled down to you, right now, draped in this white, flowing chiffon dress that Kelly picked out for tonight. You, all starry-eyed and dolled up, gawking at your surroundings because you’re just so damn excited to be at another fancy-schmancy restaurant.

Earlier today, while wrapped up in his sheets, you told him all about the menu, and haute cuisine, and French culinary history, and Escoffier. He closed his eyes and held your warm body in place next to his, content to listen to you chatter on as long as you’d allow him.

He loves that about you. How passionate you are in everything you do. How you slow to appreciate beauty in things like snowstorms, and layers in croissants, and even the subtle timbre of a cello woven into his favorite song. 

“Listen close,” you told him when you pointed it out, “It’s fucking incredible.” 

He did. 

He felt the chords vibrate through him, resolute and melodic. It gave the music new meaning, and he couldn’t believe he’d never noticed it before. He notices every time he hears it now. 

But that’s what you do. 

Everything seemed so fucking boring before you. Meaningless. You opened his eyes to what was right in front of him and gave it new life. Gave him new life. 

The hostess comes to a stop and gestures to a square table, laying a menu on either side of the white linen. You sit across from him and meet his gaze, face all lit up with that gorgeous fucking smile that makes his chest tighten. 

“Do you have a strategy in mind here?” he asks, leaning forward onto the table, rubbing his hands together, “Food, wine, dessert, the whole nine yards?”

“I love that movie,” you comment mildly, “Bruce Willis is hot.” 

He raises his eyebrows. 

“What?” you laugh.

“Bruce Willis, really?”

You study him, clearly very entertained, “Why, are you jealous?”

He scoffs at this, “No—I’m just saying, though, he’s never even been nominated for an Oscar—”

“Oh, well in that case,” you roll your eyes and let out this dramatic sigh. 

Dieter laughs and shakes his head, “Wow.”

“Ok, but really,” you turn your attention back to the menu. As you survey it, you tilt your head back and forth thoughtfully, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth. A mischievous smirk plays on your lips and you ask, “Did Darlene say we were allowed one glass or one bottle of wine?”

Dieter taps an index finger to his chin and grins, “I recall her saying bottle, don’t you?”

“Mmmm, yep, now that you mention it, I’m like… 99% sure she said bottle,” you agree conspiratorially. 

He smiles up at you, but his breath hitches when something behind you catches his eye. 

Or, someone, rather. 

A bright tangerine dress tight around her petite, curvy frame. Loose chestnut curls flowing down her back. Glowing brown eyes locked onto his. A small smirk plays on her plump, shiny lips. 

His spine straightens and he mutters under his breath, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

You frown and follow his gaze to Lilly Stokes just as she pushes her chair back and starts towards the table. 

“Dieter, hiiii,” Lilly croons, squeezing his forearm, “How are you, Pookie? It’s been a minute.” 

Dieter watches your eyes flick between Lilly’s hand on his suit jacket, and her face, and Dieter’s face. He watches the gears turn. The light bulb turns on. Your eyebrows shoot up and you meet his gaze, then immediately drop your eyes to the tablecloth. 

“Fine,” he answers and leans back in his chair, pulling his arm from her grasp.  

Lilly glances back at her table, then to Dieter, “I’m here with Jay—you remember Jay, right?” 

Dieter blinks at her, thinking, “We’ve been inside you at the same time, of fucking course I remember Jay.”

But what he says is, “Yeah.” 

“Oh, duh,” Lilly waves off the obvious, then wets the seam of her mouth, eyes dragging along Dieter’s body, “We should merge tables so we can catch up.” 

“Oh, no—” Dieter shakes his head and gestures to you, “We’re—”

Lilly finally seems to notice your presence and turns towards you, “Oh my god, Dieter, she’s so cute, are you two on a date?”

“Yeah,” he meets your eyes for a moment before telling Lilly, “This is Louella.”

“Lou-el-la,“ Lilly repeats, enunciating each syllable like she’s trying to commit it to memory, “You don’t mind, do you, beautiful?” 

You stare at her for a beat like you’re trying to figure out what she’s asking, then stammer, “Me? Wh—I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s ok if we join you?” Lilly nods, batting her false eyelashes. She asks this in a condescending way, slowing her words down like she’s asking a toddler. 

Your throat croaks as you look from her, to Dieter, who’s mentally pleading, “Please no,” then back to Lilly, “Uhh—I mean, sure?”

He deflates as Lilly calls Jay over and pulls out a chair. You mouth, “Sorry.”

Jay Blackburn, who looks like a poor man’s Alexander Skarsgård but six inches shorter, saunters over, a lopsided grin plastered on his smug face, “Bravo. Long time no see.” 

“Yeah,” Dieter responds, shifting in his seat at the reminder. 

Across the table, you gnaw away at your bottom lip, eyes downcast, your bubbling excitement replaced with this raw, nervous energy. He soaks it up like a sponge. It trickles down his backbone and seeps into his bloodstream as he wrings his hands together. 

“Who do we have here?” Jay asks, dragging his eyes along your body, drinking in your beauty with zero fucking shame. 

Dieter’s jaw clenches and cocks to one side. His leg starts to bounce. 

“I’m Louella.”

A warm smile crosses your face and you extend a hand to him. 

Jay takes it in his like a baby bird and presses a kiss into your knuckles, then releases you, “Jay Blackburn.”

“Oh—um, nice to meet you,” you say, glancing at Dieter, then at Lilly, “And you are?”

Lilly bristles at this, huffing a little before her mask of sweetness goes back up and she responds, “Lilly Stokes.” 

“So nice to meet you,” you look from her to Jay, “Are you guys actors, too?” 

“Um, no,” Lilly lets out this half-chuckle, half-scoff, “That’s so funny. No. Well, maybe someday. But for now I’m just a makeup artist, content creator, brand ambassador for Wowie Zowie Cosmetics, and model,” she counts each role on her fingers, then adds as an afterthought, “Jay is a wellness guru.”

You furrow your brow, “Wellness… guru?”

“Lifestyle coach,” Jay corrects, “Shepherding people to wellness through mindfulness, yoga, and nutrition.”

Dieter rolls his eyes. 

“Ohhh,” you nod, “Wow, you’re both, like, really popular on the internet?” 

“I have over 10 million followers,” Lilly advises, “So, yeah.”

“She didn’t know who I was, either, if that makes you feel better,” Dieter teases, casting a smirk your way. 

You wince and shrug, “Yeah, I, umm… live under a rock, I guess. Sorry.” 

“I like that,” Jay says, still eyeing you up like you’re a piece of fucking meat, “It’s refreshing. We should all be so lucky to be sheltered from the world in such a digital age.”

You raise your eyebrows, “I mean, I read the newspaper every day, so I’m very much aware of what’s going on in the world—“

“Right, but,” Jay starts.

“—Just, you know, stuff that matters.” 

A stunned sort of silence falls over the table for a moment, then laughter erupts from Dieter’s throat. You grin at him, and Jay must think you were kidding, because he joins in on the laughter. 

“You’re funny,” Lilly flashes this smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, then lets out an exasperated sigh and looks around, “Are we going to get some fucking service here or what?” 

Throughout the meal, you remain quiet. 

You don’t share your thoughts on the cuisine, or the wine, or the world-renowned chef. Your face stays painfully neutral as Lilly and Jay dominate the conversation, going on and on in a masturbatory fashion about their busy lives. 

More than anything, Dieter wants to tell them to fuck off. He wants to tell them that neither of you fucking care about subscribers or algorithms or sponsorships. He wants to comment on the restaurant’s heavy-handed use of bear décor and kiss you and tell you he loves you. 

But Darlene’s warning to be on his best behavior rings in his head. 

Despite this, the one bottle of wine you agreed upon is easily negotiated up to two. 

After the plat principal is cleared from the table, Lilly leans towards Dieter and asks “So, what’s new with you? We haven’t heard from you in, what,” she turns to Jay for confirmation, “Months?”

“Summer, I think?” Jay supplies. 

“Yeah,” Dieter nods and looks up at you, watching the way you wiggle in your chair and look down at your lap. He shrugs, “I’ve been keeping busy.”

“I see how it is,” Lilly pouts, glancing between his eyes and mouth, “Pookie gets a girlfriend and forgets all about us.”

Heat rises to his face. Every muscle in his body clenches. A hundred violent images flash through his head. The words shut the fuck up wrestle their way up his throat. 

“How did you all meet?” you ask, plastering on this polite smile. 

Lilly combs her long fingernails through her hair, “I met Dieter at some fundraising gala last year.”

Dieter’s leg starts bouncing. He leans his elbows into the table and presses his closed fist against his lips, watching you absorb this information. But he can’t get a read on you. 

“She introduced us,” Jay nods to Lilly, “Yeah, we were at this party, it was fucking wild—”

“Lua doesn’t wanna hear about that,” Dieter cuts in, dropping a hand to the table.

“It’s fine, Dee,” you chuckle, then take a big swallow from your wine glass. Unconvincing. 

Jay ignores Dieter’s protest, “It was one of those nights where everyone got very well acquainted with one another, if you know what I mean.” 

Your fake smile twitches. 

“Sounds… hot,” you offer. You empty the remaining pinot grigio in your glass down your throat. Dieter mirrors the action, taking the wine like a shot of hard liquor. 

Lilly sips her martini and lets out this wistful little sigh, “Soooo hot.” 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you announce as you push your chair back, then hurry away from the table before anyone else can respond. 

His blood boils. 

He glares between Jay and Lilly, well aware of the slew of insults percolating at the tip of his tongue, held back by his awareness of the public eye surrounding them.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Lilly says.

Dieter grits his teeth and warns, “Lillith—”

She waves him off and starts towards the bathroom. 

“Dieter,” Jay smirks, tilting his head, “You seem upset.” 

“What an astute observation,” Dieter mutters, crossing his arms over his chest, “Fucking incredible.“ 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Oh, fuck off.”

Jay raises his eyebrows, “So we’re touchy, ok. Is it because I told the story?” 

Dieter says nothing, just grinds his teeth together. 

“She doesn’t know about your more salacious hobbies, I take it?” 

“She sure as fuck does now,” Dieter grumbles, “Thank you for that.” 

Jay scoffs, “What, is this your first date or something?”

“No.”

Jay hums and takes a sip from his cocktail. 

Dieter shakes his head. Scrubs a hand over his face. 

Then he sits up and points at your empty seat, “If she’s going to hear about that shit from anyone, it should be me. Not some fucking ghouls just trying to get a rise out of her.” 

“Then why didn’t she hear it from you?” Jay questions, pausing a beat before he sighs, “You know, you gotta own your demons, man. It’s not my fault you didn’t tell her—”

“Yeah, I fucking know, ok?” Dieter snips. He leans his elbows against the table, looking towards the women’s bathroom, “What’s taking them so goddamn long?”

Behind the roar of the flushing toilet, you hear the bathroom door open, followed by the sharp click of stilettos against ceramic tile. You open the stall door to find Lilly leaned up against the marble slab countertop, pulling a tiny silver canister from her clutch. 

She looks up at the mirror and makes eye contact with you, “Hey, girl.” 

“Hi,” you smile politely and approach the sink. 

While you wash your hands, you watch Lilly through the mirror as she cuts two thin lines of coke right on the countertop. She fishes a short straw out of her purse and holds it out to you, “Do you want any?”

The ghost of cocaine’s allure sends your heart racing. It’s tempting, but you decline. She shrugs and leans over the counter. You look away and hear the two deep, short breaths through the straw. You swear you can feel the rush vicariously. 

She sits up straight and keeps one nostril plugged closed, taking a few sharp inhales, making sure she got it all to the brain. Her eyes flutter and throat hums with contentment, “Fuck, that’s good. You sure you don’t want any? 

“I’m fine,” you assure her, but don’t go to leave. You lean one hip against the sink and cross your arms, “Did you and Dieter, like… date?” 

Lilly releases a chuckle, a sniffle, then rubs a fingertip against the white marble countertop where her blow was cut, “Oh, no. We fucked, like, a lot. But no, we never dated per se. It was more of a fuck buddy arrangement. No biggie.” 

She scrubs her finger against her gums, then turns to the mirror to assess her appearance. 

“Was that while he was still with Anika?” 

“Well, yeah, that’s how it started. He asked if I could be their third,” she sniffles a few times as she examines her nostrils, “I know Kate Ridley was seeing them for a while, but that must’ve fallen through. Anyway, we all fucked around and it was fun. I brought Jay with a few times. Then Anika got turned off or something, she didn’t wanna get together anymore. Jealous I think, probably. He reached out to me for some one-on-one time.” 

The information hits you like a slap in the face. A kick in the gut. A fist closed around your windpipe, squeezing tighter and tighter.  

You can’t breathe. 

“And of course I said yes. It doesn’t hurt to cozy up to a guy like him, with his connections and all. Good career move. Plus, he’s so good in bed. Fucks like an animal,” Lilly giggles, “Not that I have to tell you, right?”

Your face heats and lips part to respond, but she continues without regard. 

“If you ever wanted a third, I’d be happy to step in. Jay, too, I’m sure of it. He was checking you out. You’re hot, you know, in a non-traditional kind of way. How long have the two of you been going out?”

She stares at you, waiting. Your throat croaks and you hear yourself say, “A few months, officially.”

“Oh, are you two, like, serious?” 

You bring your hand to your throat and nod, “Yeah.”

“Weird,” she murmurs, “After what happened with Anika, I thought he was done trying to pretend he was like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… monogamous, you know. He told me he’s a free spirit, doesn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again, all that. Then he disappears and re-emerges in a supposedly serious relationship, no offense, but it’s just confusing.” 

“Oh,” you breathe, frowning down at the floor, “Well, maybe he changed?” 

“The man is almost 50, I doubt that,” she scoffs, checking herself out in the mirror, then glances over at you, “Or, I mean, maybe? Hopefully?” 

You nod solemnly and swallow the knot in your throat, “Should we go back?” 

“Sure,” she shrugs, then leads the way out of the bathroom, into the dining room. 

When you meet Dieter’s eyes, his annoyed expression goes slack. You lay one hand flat, palm facing the ceiling, balling the other into a thumbs up on top, and raise both hands. The signal he taught you back in your apartment before this clusterfuck started: Help. 

Once seated, you keep your eyes low, trying to keep the steady hum in your chest from amplifying. Everything seems fuzzy and out-of-focus.

It’s too much. Too much noise. Too much information. Too much change at one time. You want off this fucking ride. You want to be home in bed, hidden under the covers where no one can reach you. 

“We should go,” Dieter announces from far away. 

Your body is cement. Limbs frozen. Lilly’s words play on repeat at a deafening volume: 

I thought he was done trying to pretend he was like that.

He’s a free spirit, doesn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again. 

“Oh, come on, Pookie–”

“Stop fucking calling me that,” he growls, then softer, in your direction, “Are you ready, love?”

You nod, then look from Lilly to Jay, your smile wavering, “It was nice to meet you both.”

Dieter leads you past blurry tables of shiny, well-to-do patrons, his hand at the small of your back, burning through your dress. You can feel his gaze glued to your profile, trying to assess the damage. You can hear the words queued up behind his closed lips. 

A restaurant employee holds the door open for you. The cool night air kisses your heated, buzzing skin. 

“Hey, are you ok?” Dieter asks, his thumb working against your spine. 

You look down at the sidewalk and open your mouth to tell him, but it’s all a jumbled mess at the base of your tongue. Fire rises up your throat and tingles behind your eyes. You just shake your head and smother the sob in your chest. 

Tears bloom in your eyes and drop to the cement. You croak out, “I’m fine.”

He scoffs. 

The valet rolls up in Dieter’s cartoonish, pea soup-colored two-seater and tosses him the keys. 

Once inside, you clasp the seatbelt. Grip the leather upholstery. Stare out the side window as the landscape starts to move. 

“Louella” he coos, glancing between you and the road. 

The car clunks a little as he shifts gears. You grip the seat tighter. Watch the city lights fly by. 

He tries every once and a while to talk to you, but you can’t make yourself respond. 

You’ve been here before. 

You know what happens if you make a sound. If you vocalize the protest in your lungs.

What happens next is acceleration. 

Car horns. 

Impact. 

Those vacant black eyes. 

Darkness.

The second the car pulls into Dieter’s garage, you’re unfastening the seat belt. 

When he shifts to park, you yank on the door handle and scramble from the vehicle. 

The entryway door slams in Dieter’s face as you kick off the stupid high heels you never would have picked out for yourself. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” his voice booms through the house when he opens the door. 

By now, you’re halfway down the hall, making a beeline to his en suite bathroom, leaving a trail of jewelry behind you like breadcrumbs: the left earring, the right earring, bracelets, a necklace. All these brilliant ornaments Kelly loaned you to make you look more refined.

Dieter’s footsteps sound from a few paces behind as you turn into his bedroom. 

“Louella, come on. Why won’t you talk to me?”

The edge his words carry make your heart jump and your feet move faster. You hurry into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind you.  

He jiggles the handle, “What the fuck is this? Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask. 

“That I slept with Lilly and Jay?“ he scoffs, “I didn’t think it mattered who I fucked before you—”

“That’s not what I mean. You know that’s not what I mean,” you press your forehead against the door and squeeze your eyes closed, “When I asked you what happened with you and Anika, you said the two of you grew apart. That—that she was resentful—like it was her fault–”

“Open the door so we can talk about this,” he says in a low voice, “Please, baby.”

You shake your head, whimpering, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

The door handle jiggles again, “Come on, Lua, open the door.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, just unlock it—”

“Answer me.”

“GodDAMNIT–” 

A hard thud shakes the doorframe. 

You jump back and yelp. 

“This is so fucking stupid,” he seethes, “Lock yourself in my fucking bathroom instead of talking to me. You realize how fucking stupid that is, right?” 

He hits the door again. You scramble away from it, watching the doorknob rattle. 

“Stop it, Dieter,” you cry out, backing yourself up to the wall, “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring you?” he scoffs, his words still steeped in red, “Do you really think I would fucking hurt you?”

You slide down the wall and collapse into a pile, covering your head. All you can hear are your own shattered breaths. 

A few quiet moments go by. 

When his voice comes again, it’s a plea. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

You look up at the door and sniffle, wiping your eyes. 

“I—I wanted to tell you. I mean, I was going to tell you. I swear to god. It’s just,” there’s a soft thump against the door, and you can picture him on the other side, forehead pressed up against it, “Do you know how hard it is to admit that you’re a piece of shit?”

You don’t say anything, just watch his still shadow beneath the door. 

“Do you know how hard it is for me to willingly show you that? I mean, fuck. How–how are you supposed to trust me now?” 

What follows is silence. Broken up by occasional sniffles and wet, labored breaths. Your chest aches.

Slowly, you rise to your feet and pad across the cool tile floor. 

When you reach the door, you don’t say anything, just press your palm against the barrier where you think his heart is. And you swear, if you concentrate hard enough, you can feel its steady rhythm.

“How are you supposed to love me now?” he whispers, “You won’t even look at me, Louella.”

Your eyelids clamp shut and you take a deep breath. Then you step back and turn the doorknob, pulling the door open. 

And there he is. 

Dieter Bravo. The man you love. 

His eyes all puffed-up and red-rimmed, cheeks streaked with tears. Every handsome feature laced with remorse. 

You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his suit jacket. He envelops you in a warm embrace and squeezes you tight. 

“I’m–I’m sorry for yelling,” he tells you in a hoarse whisper, petting your hair, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, I lost it.”

You swallow hard and rub his back, a silent kind of reassurance. 

“I would never hurt you, Lua,” his voice cracks, “I’m not him. I’m not him.”

Instantly, tears flood your eyes. 

“I know, love,” you croak out, pulling him closer, “I know.”

Dieter kisses the crown of your head with reverence. Then your forehead. He tilts your chin to face him dead on, grazing his nose against yours, “Wanna talk about this more in the bath?”

You nod and weave your fingers through the curls at the back of his head. His lips meet yours, lingering for a tender moment before he pulls back and makes his way over to the soaking tub. 

While you wash the makeup off your face, he fiddles with the water temperature and crumbles a magenta bubble bar in the stream. The sweet scent of blackcurrant fills the air. You glance up in the mirror and see him shucking off his suit jacket, eyes trailing down your spine. His breath heats the nape of your neck when he draws close and unzips your dress, his movements gentle and slow as he slides it off your shoulders. 

The dress falls at your feet. You turn to face him, murmuring, “Look up.”

He does, and you set to work on his shirt buttons. When you’re halfway down his chest, he asks, “Will you tell me what she said?”

“She, um,” you pause to bite down on your bottom lip, then sigh, “She told me you and Anika would fuck around with her and sometimes Jay. Then, you know, just her.”

He hums in acknowledgment. 

You reach the end of his button-down, then spread the shirt apart. As he takes over tugging it off, you ask, “Was that something that you wanted, or…?”

“We both wanted to try it,” he shrugs. Your hands move to his belt buckle and you unfasten it. He continues, “Thought it would reignite that passion. It was fucking stupid because it just made us both jealous.”

He pauses to kick off his slacks, then ushers you face the mirror again. You watch him unclasp your bra and toss it aside, glancing up when you recount, “She said you didn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again.“

He nods, diverting his gaze, “Yeah. Well, that’s true. I didn’t,” then his eyes return to yours, “But then you came along. Fucked up all my big plans to be lonely and miserable forever.” 

You can’t help but grin. 

He casts a backwards glance at the tub, “I think it’s ready.” 

Dieter gets in first, groaning as he lowers himself into the bubbles. You sit on the opposite side and tip your face to the ceiling, stretching your legs across him, then sink down to your shoulders. 

The water burns your skin a little, but you like it. It feels real. 

“Hey,” Dieter rumbles. 

You swivel your head down to look at him, but can only see bubbles.

“Holy shit,” you giggle, then sit up and meet his eyes, “What?”

“Come here, doll,” he reaches out to you.

You slide your feet under the water and crawl over to him, closing your eyes as you lay your cheek on his shoulder and relax against his body. He wraps his arms around your waist, snuggling you like you’re his favorite teddy bear. 

One of your hands occupies itself by absentmindedly tracing the edges of his jaw. The shell of his ear. That one silver hoop earring he refuses to part with. Your nails work into his hairline and play with his damp curls. 

“Were there others?” you ask him. 

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he admits, “Yeah. A few. Just hookups, really. Lilly was the most consistent, and that was still, you know…”

“No strings attached?” you smirk. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why did you do it?” 

Your spine arches as he draws a big breath in, then releases it, “All the reasons I said it didn’t work. That was true, you know. I was gone a lot. Filming, meetings, press stuff. A few days here, a week there. There was one stretch where I was gone for two months. I’m not drowning in work or anything, but it adds up. I don’t think she realized that being with me meant being away from me that often. And. Yeah. 

“At first, it upset me a lot. I thought she would be supportive and loving. Compassionate, you know. But she turned so cold when she was mad. Completely ignored me. Acted like I didn’t exist. Even when I begged for her reassurance, for her to show me she still cared and noticed me, but she wouldn’t react. I felt like a ghost. It-it kind of reminded me—”

He pauses here for a moment, holding his breath, then releases a soft, sad chuckle. His Adam’s apple bobs. When he starts again, his voice is watery. 

“It reminded me of what it was like for me growing up. If I didn’t please my dad, he would ignore me completely. I would act out, be loud, push him until he exploded. Because then… then at least I knew he could see me. It was something, you know?”

You blindly cup his cheek and graze your thumb against his beard to let him know you’re listening. He nuzzles into the touch, a small rumble sounding from his throat. 

“Maybe I was acting out with Annie? Or maybe just trying to… fill that emptiness, loneliness. Or numb out. Forget that my wife didn’t love me anymore. I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. I started using again. Heroin, oxy, bars, morphine, adderall, booze. Whatever I could get my hands on, really. But blow has always been my favorite. It makes me feel…”

“Powerful?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah. Powerful. And with other people I actually felt… desired. Plus, they were both a rush. I felt alive. When I was home I was hollow. I stopped groveling for her affection when I started fucking around. Neither of us wanted to work on the hard things. The whole fucking thing, you know, it metastasized. And—and our relationship died.” 

“Fuck,” you grimace. 

Dieter cranes his neck to look at you, “Too bleak?”

“No, it’s not that,” you tell him, “It’s just… familiar.”

Adrenaline spikes your bloodstream. Your mouth opens to say more, then you close it and hold your breath. 

He rests his cheek on your head. Squeezes you a little tighter. Like he’s prodding you so say more. 

“Do I make you happy?” you ask him. 

“Do you make me happy?” he repeats, disbelief raising his voice an octave. 

You nod.

“I told you earlier,” he kisses your hairline, “You make me so happy, Louella.” 

“But will you feel the same tomorrow?” 

“Obviously,” he lets out a little snort of laughter like he thinks you’re kidding. Silence settles. His body seems to tense and he adds, “Really, love, I mean it.”

Your teeth catch your bottom lip. Brows lace together. Then you ask, “What about a month from now?”

“Don’t do that, come on—”

“A year from now? Or—or longer, even—”

“Lua,” he huffs, then pulls you up to face him. His eyes are soft and pleading. He brushes his knuckles against your cheek, “Look, we won’t be happy every second of every day. You know why?”

A sharp pain radiates across your chest. You wince and shake your head. 

He tilts your chin up to meet his eyes and says, “Because it’s fucking impossible. If we do this thing right, which I fully intend to, sometimes we’re going to be scared, and frustrated, and–and we might want to take an easy way out. But I’m telling you that I will not do that. Because I love you.” 

You search his face and only find sincerity. Your stomach flips in a freefall so violent it makes you gasp, “Fuck, I love you.”

He smirks, gaze flicking between your eyes and lips, “And I’m going to love you tomorrow.” 

Your heart skips. Heat creeps up your neck. 

He cups your cheeks and locks his eyes onto yours, “And the next day, and ten years from now, and all the way until my next fucking life, ok?” 

“Ok,” you nod. Tension liquifies and drains from your body. The corners of your mouth upturn and you ask, “What then?” 

“What then?” he snorts, shaking his head with amusement, “What do you think? Hmm?”

You grin and shrug, pressing the tip of your tongue to your front teeth. 

His eyes drop to your mouth and he pulls you in for a kiss. When you part, he murmurs, “I’ll fucking find you in the next life and fall in love with you all over again.”

The words electrify you. You hook your hands behind his head and press your forehead against his, “Promise?” 

“Cross my heart,” he murmurs, and kisses you again.

[lady-villain-imagines]

Dead By Daylight Ladies & Cuddling

The Artist

Surrounded by the cawing of crows roosting all around, You were in the middle of the enormous nest in the middle of the Artist’s realm, the Eyrie of Crows. You were not alone, as the Artist herself was laid besides you. She was on her side, carefully brushing and playing with your hair as you were on your back looking up at her. Others would find her shiny black eyes boring into them intimidating, but there was only warmth when it was for you.

Her lack of words never bothered you, she was expressive in everything she did. With the way she was tenderly preening your hair and the soft clicking coming from her throat every now and then while she moved her needle like claws across your skin it was easy to see she had affections for you.

Carmina, as you had found out was her real name, carefully laid her head on your shoulder. Nestling her nose into your neck, soft murmurs came from her throat. You could feel the ink from her mouth and eyes dripping on your skin, leaving thick dark trains in its wake. As her lithe body pushed against your side, she pressed kiss like tar to your collar bone that would surely stain you for days. Not that you minded.

The Huntress

To say Anna was bigger then you would be an understatement. The woman was a mountain, which made it all the better when she pulled you on top of her to cuddle. She didn’t hesitate to hoist you up with her onto the cottage bed and settled you on her. It was serene to be wrapped in her thick, warm arms in such a cold and dreary forest.

A deep hum came rumbling from above you, you felt the vibrations run through her chest . It was a song that struck fear into everyone else, and admittedly it used to do the same for you. But now it only comforted you as Anna ran her hand up and down your spine, her uneven and claw like nails sending shivers through you. It was both soothing and threatening to known those strong hands that held you so close to her body could easily break you, but she chose to just rub them across your back instead. The soft lullaby sent you both into sleep, you truly felt the safest you’d ever been in the arms of a murderess.

The Pig

The couch was uncomfortable at best and it was cold as usual in the meat plant, but the warmth coming from your side made you try to get even closer to the woman next to you. Amanda let you, her arm around your shoulders as you leaned heavily into her with your arm around her torso.

The two of you were just quietly listening to the rock music Amanda had provided, the noises of the machines endlessly pumping in the background. She’d wordlessly taken off her usual robe and put it around you to keep you warm before you’d both gotten comfortable on the dingy couch that was the only remotely comfortable thing in the entire building.

Amanda’s arms were spread across the back of the couch, letting you embed yourself into her side. She was stiff at first, eventually forcing herself into relaxing. No one else could get away with how close they were to the woman behind the Pig mask. She even pulled you into her more when you tried to adjust yourself, clearly not entertaining the idea of you getting up anytime soon. She had you caught in a much more domestic trap than her usual ones.

The Plague

She was… hesitant, when you brought up trying to cuddle. For obvious reasons, physical touch was very dangerous for you considering the sickness that radiates from her. But you were adamant, you wanted to show her you weren’t scared of her (and those fountains were there for a reason, right?)

Adiris relented, but insisted that she always be facing away from you just in case she vomited on accident. It wouldn’t be very romantic to have puke all over you. That just meant you wrapped your own arms around her, holding her to your body. This surprised her, your willingness to be so close to her despite her condition worried her for your well-being but the lonely, selfish part of her after all these years couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of human contact.

Pressing your face against her back, you felt her let out a contented & slightly wheezing sigh as she relaxed against you. Her considerable height made it look a little silly to try to wrap around her as her long legs stretched far past your own. The simple act of it, however, made her feel so loved. Cuddle her more.

The Spirit

Cuddling her was difficult to say the least. Cutting yourself or impaling yourself on shards of glass was not what either of you wanted. Outside of trials, of course. Instead, Rin settled her head in your lap, her hair floating upwards towards you as she looked up at you. Playing with her hair will have her slightly icy exterior melting immediately. Not to mention it’s very fun to mess with the wild, flowing tendrils as they tickled at your face.

A little trial and error and some med kits were used but eventually you reached a way for Rin to cuddle you back. You rested your head on her abdomen, a hand curled against her rib cage. It was one of the only places without many glass shards to rub against you. Her ghostly hand detached from her arm ran over your skin, goosebumps immediately breaking out wherever her freezing fingers touched. She will put her cold hands on the back of your neck to make you jump.

[pumpkin-patch-cat]

Mirror Mirror

Gavin x !FemReader drabble I've sat on for entirely too long.

A/n: Pardon any grammatical errors!

Warnings: Language and implied intimacy.

"You'll catch cold if you keep coming out in the rain like that, Officer." You smiled warily at the man standing across your room. In his hand, a towel moved swiftly to dry his damp, chesnut hair; a direct result of the current downpour battering your patios' surface outside of your apartment.

"Eh, I've been caught in worse. Besides, I wanted to see you. Hope that's okay?" One golden eye peered at you from beneath a corner of the towel. All you could do was smile.

"Of course."

That made him grin, too.

"Your papers there seem to have gotten wet too. Work stuff?" You pointed out.

Gavin nodded and sighed before draping the towel over his shoulders. He too glanced at the pile of damp papers and folders he reluctantly brought with him.

"I didn't want to, but this case is really giving me a hard time. We can't seem to catch a lead, but I know we're close. I just needed a break, but I figured I'd pick them up while I was here at some point..." Gavin trailed off with his brows furrowed, seemingly lost in thought while you watched on from your place at your desk, subconsciously admiring the man clad in a black t-shirt, grey sweats and white socks.

'He works so hard... yet still makes time for me.'

Feeling your cheeks flush, you immediately turned back to face your own mountain of work. Gavin moved to the side of the bed, opening a couple of folders.

"I hate to do this, but since you're busy yourself..." he continued. "...mind if I take a look at these before I pull my hair out?"

The laughter on his voice was evident, but you knew he was determined. That's just how Gavin was. You glanced back at him and shook your head.

"Gavin, fighting!" You gave him a thumbs up, to which he replied with a wink, then flopped on your bed.

Within the hour, silence had engulfed the room aside from the pitter patter of rain, soft grunts and the occasional frustrated groan from the cop who sat completely surrounded by paperwork and folders atop the bed.

You weren't sure when, but all the words on your laptop screen had started to run together the longer you read on. Scripts, proposals, a group chat with Anna, Willow, Kiki and Minor, a handful of emails - including one very condescending email from a certain LFG CEO, which you lacked the energy to deal with right now.

You rolled your eyes, practically begging for mental reprieve when the reflection in your small, desktop mirror caught your attention.

Behind you, Gavin still sat on your bed, only he had reclined back with one arm resting behind his head against your headboard and held a single sheet of paper in his other hand. His one leg lazed off the side of the bed while the other was folded beneath it.

You tilted your head in awe, admiring how statuesque the man looked, especially with his shirt riding up over his lower stomach, giving you a nice view of his abdominal V. You chewed your pen top.

Without him noticing, you continued to observe quietly. Each time he shifted, you swore his sweats slipped lower on his hips.

'Did he take his boxers off when he changed...?'

You swallowed hard at the thought.

From his position on the bed and how he held the paper, Gavin couldn't see the building curiosity in the your eye as you watched on through the mirror - or so you thought anyways.

Paper still in hand, Gavin yawned and stretched, allowing his shirt to ride up higher, practically giving you a half view of the bottom row of his abs. You nearly choked.

'Fuck, what am I doing? Focus, girl!' You cursed to yourself upon averting your eyes, completely missing the smirk that graced Gavin's features. He wasn't usually one to tease, but your reactions were simply too cute to pass up. What else could he do?

Reaching for a new set of papers, simply to look busy, Gavin changed positions. This time, he slouched a little further down on the bed, his folded knee now bent up straight, body now angled a bit toward you while supported on his elbow. He kept his gaze downward at the text in hand while his free hand played with the drawstrings of his sweats just below his navel.

With your efforts proving futile, your gaze had succumbed to the silent call of his reflection in the mirror where you resumed watching the show.

Feeling your eyes on him once again, Gavin's slim fingers had "absentmindedly" began to toy with the hem of his shirt where before long it was lifted slightly to reveal another row of perfectly sculpted abs; his fingers grazing over them slowly.

You dropped your pen and shifted awkwardly in your seat, causing the chair to creak loudly. This time, Gavin looked up, nearly catching you in the act.

"You good over there...?" Mild concern and amusement graced his features, but he hid it well while awaiting your answer.

"...ahem, fine fine....just fine. Work just being a pain is all. Nothing new..." You did your best to keep your voice steady and spoke with your back turned.

'Breathe, breaaaathee'

"Ah...take a break if it gets to be too much." He chided as a matter of factly

"Hmm, you too..."

You quickly composed yourself to the best of your ability, refusing to succumb again. However, the subject in the mirror had other plans.

The reflection stretched again, only this time he stretched in such a way that allowed for the perfect outline of something...interesting...to show at the front of his sweats.

'Oh...my...fuck'

You shifted again in your chair, unsure if somehow the rain from outside had managed to soak your panties.

Your sudden, odd movements allowed him to catch the exact moment your gaze switched back to the mirror where he greeted you with a silent, mischievous smile.

"Crap..."

Too embarrassed to look away, you apologized with your eyes. Gavin accepted that apology by biting his lip and chuckling softly when you finally hid your beat red face.

"Uh huh, that's what you get for spying on people. If you wanted to look, y/n -hey...look at me for real now..."

When you turned, his hand slipped down from his abdomen to the half growing bulge beneath his sweats and squeezed.

"-all you had to do was ask."

"Gav-"

"Come over here," he beckoned with a now outreached hand. "-take a break. You look like you could use one. I sure as hell could."

[demiurgic-warrior-chael]

Braindead || Daniel Soldati

It was extremely tragic, what happened to Daniel. He was in his twenties and just starting to settle into a life with the girl of his dreams. She had turned his life completely around.

When Daniel was sixteen, he had grown wings. His mother told him it was punishment for his horrid lifestyle, that he was becoming a demon for his sins and he would never see heaven.

She had beaten him until one day he was old enough, she had backed him into a corner with a knife and he had grabbed the nearest object and hit her over the head.

The blow shouldn't have been enough to do anything but knock her back, but she stumbled to the top of the stairs and she didn't survive the fall. He barely did.

His wings molted, black feathers growing in their place, and they burned. He tried to seek help with the church but the priests condemned and hunted his kind and they tried to kill him.he resorted to a life of petty crime to survive as he ran.

Eventually, it was too much and he was ready to give up when he prayed as he did many times before for relief and comfort.

His prayers were answered when he met Anna. She was the daughter of a hunter that had passed away. She nursed him back to health and they fell in love.

His wings were growing brighter and brighter as they lived together and got to know one another. Eventually they married.

He started to get strange dreams and foreboding feelings when they would go out together.

One night it became too much, he begged her not to go to work that night, and when she reassured him it was fine, he insisted on driving.

If she had been driving that night, it would have been her in the driver's seat as the tree limbs came through the windshield.

Another truck had t bones then and pushed them into the woods.

He fell into a coma, but as he lay there, she slowly noticed his feathers turning white again.

***

Ten or so years had passed, and Anna couldnt stand to look at Daniel anymore. He looked perfectly fine, like someone sleeping, even as he aged. You wouldn't know that he was considered brain dead.

She left him on the machines to keep him alive, but she stopped visiting. Eventually, she moves to another state. She continued to fund his care but she left him behind.

***

Daniel jolted up in the bed in a panic, his eyes glowing blue as his feathers started to burn and char. He pulled the trachea tube from his throat and vomited bile when he did.

Alarms went off all around him as he started pulling IVs and other medical attachments off.

He fought the nurses and eventually overpowered them. He stole clothes from a nurses locker he busted into and he flew until he couldn't any longer.

Eventually in the distance he could see it, sitting in the valley between mountains.

The Asylum.

After some searching, he found a way in and slipped past some staff, wandering the halls and looking at the many doors, but hiding from whoever he could until he found the door he thought was the right one.

Then, hesitantly, he knocked on her door.

@denarius-quart-of-wheat

[sugalaritae]

griddle's march reads

end of the month means 2 things - it's a new month soon and i've made a list of all the fics i've read!

this month was absolutely fucking insane and i don't know how i did it but i read over 30 fics. a lot of them were mxm (and new ships that i've never read before) but i also read several mxr!!

as always, please pay attention to all the tags in these fics as some of them were very very smutty and some of them were dark. (all summaries are from the authors)

and here we go!

touch: an intermission - anna (pineconepickers) ksj x knj - f2l, roommates Seokjin returns to Korea after a decade abroad and (temporarily!) moves in with his old university friend Namjoon. On paper, however, this seems like a poor decision: Seokjin is struggling to get back on his feet, while Namjoon has his hands full with his ten-week-old baby. When Seokjin thinks about it, the two of them were never that close either – living together is unlikely to turn out well. read on AO3

you and me. next level. - anna (pineconepickers) ksj x knj - idol, pwp Amidst comeback chaos, Namjoon goes to Seokjin’s apartment to hang out and ends up getting seduced. Welcome to PWP land. read on AO3

a breach of protocol - anna (pineconepickers) & tragicamente ksj x knj - bodyguard, seokjin is an actor Actor Kim Seokjin’s love life has always been the subject of wild rumours but he has never been caught in a scandal. Behind closed doors, however, he is going through a rough breakup. Namjoon, as the Head of Close Protection, does not expect to pick up the pieces, yet here he is: standing at Seokjin’s door at two in the morning, about to make the biggest mistake of his life. read on AO3

model behavior - @bangtanintotheroom kth x reader - idol, smut Helping with photoshoots brought you stress, excitement and a sense of validation. Today, you experience a new and unexpected emotion, thanks to the man at the center of it all. read on tumblr

verified amateurs [online now] - beebalm myg x knj - roommates When you're broke, camming is a totally valid way to pay the bills. So what if Namjoon is giving up all of his gay firsts to his best friend every Saturday and broadcasting it to the world? He's 99% sure that it's going to be chill. read on AO3

sweetest perfection - beebalm knj x jjk - idol, pwp Wow, thighs – the fic. read on AO3

the one you think about - beebalm myg x jhs x jjk - exes, pwp Yoongi runs into Jungkook at a party. He's as beautiful as ever, even on another man's arm. read on AO3

1+1=3 - beebalm myg x jhs x knj - idol, pwp Yoongi always knew he would end up with either Namjoon or Hoseok eventually, when he finally made up his mind. It never occurred to him they might get tired of waiting for him to decide. read on AO3

black and blue and pink all over - beebalm myg x jjk - idol, pwp Jungkook always has his hands on somebody’s ass. Yoongi doesn’t even think about it anymore. Not until those hands stop being gentle. read on AO3

bleeding love - beebalm myg x knj - idol, supernatural It's not that Namjoon is hurt Yoongi only ever wanted him for a one night stand. And he doesn't have a crush. He just wishes they didn't have to keep seeing each other all the time. read on AO3

brooks to rivers, feathers to wings - beebalm knj x jjk - single dads Yesterday, Namjoon was an anxious single parent whose kid had just started preschool. Today, on top of all that, he’s got a crush on one of the school dads. As if life wasn’t already complicated enough. read on AO3

in the dark - beebalm knj x kth - idol, pwp Namjoon never meant to touch himself with Tae sleeping in the same room. And he definitely never meant to get caught. But here they are anyway. read on AO3

lights too bright for you and i - beebalm myg x knj - idol, pwp Somewhere in Japan, on the tail end of a long tour, sadness catches up to Namjoon. Yoongi stays right next to him. read on AO3

full bloom - beebalm myg x knj - s2l Reasons why Kim Namjoon is spending his summer at Jin’s house in the mountains: 1. To finish his book 2. To get away from the routine of Seoul life Definitely NOT reasons why Kim Namjoon is spending his summer at Jin’s house in the mountains: 1. Because Jin claims the mountain is magic and grants wishes 2. To fall in love with Min Yoongi read on AO3

winter in busan - booooin myg x pjm - s2l, dystopia, mafia (?) This fic is about environmental imperialism and the struggles of decolonization. read on AO3

rain again tomorrow - cloudko myg x kth - s2l, roommates yoongi can't sleep. he's overworked yet still short on money, and can't seem to find a roommate. then taehyung (who must be from heaven) moves in, and yoongi finds that as he opens his heart to someone and starts to feel safe and cared for, sleep comes more easily. read on AO3

illegitimi non carborundum - @hesperantha kth x reader - idol, smut Everyone except you seems to be madly in love with your boyfriend’s new hairstyle. But really, just how many unspoken words can a few inches of hair hide in a relationship like yours? read on tumblr

constellate - justawordshaker ksj x myg - powers, fluff The world would say that Min Yoongi and Kim Seokjin are Gifted. When Yoongi writes music, people feel it. Sometimes, Seokjin will say something and it will come true. It's never felt much like a gift to either of them. Yoongi's music hurts the people he cares about most. So he runs away. Seokjin's words give him more knowledge than he ever wants to bear. He has no choice but to leave. This is how they find each other. read on AO3

summer bbq (3tan) - @kithtaehyung myg x reader - brothers best friend the summer cookout at your place is fun as hell despite the way you have to avoid yoongi looking like sin incarnate. but when he gets asked an unavoidable question, you suddenly feel exposed. and very, very cold.  read on tumblr

confessions of a dirty mind - @minisugakoobies bang chan x reader - roommates, smut The absolute last thing you want is for your roommate to find out just how much you want him. Right? read on tumblr

every kind of way - Oh_Hey_Tae knj x jjk - f2l, roommates Jungkook adores everything about Namjoon except that the man can't catch a clue. read on AO3

here is what i know - Oh_Hey_Tae knj x jjk - soulmates, uni There are flowers growing on Namjoon’s arm. read on AO3

oh darling - Oh_Hey_Tae myg x kth - s2l Yoongi works at a record store. Taehyung doesn't go there for the music. read on AO3

memories, like fingerprints - @reliablemittenmyg x reader - magic, f2l read on tumblr

silent running - Sharleena myg x pjm - dystopia, steampunk the inherent homoerotism of delivering encrypted info in a dystopian society by jumping from roof to roof. read on AO3

only breathing - Sharleena myg x pjm - drug lord yoongi x sex worker As a drug lord, Yoongi knows the rules: -you don't ask questions; -whatever the client wants, you sell it; -you don't do loans; -you don't fall in love with a customer's whore. Yoongi knows the rules. And because he knows them he also knows when he's about to break one. read on AO3

ghosts that we knew - sharpa ksj x myg, myg x knj/kth/jhs - time travel, immortality Or as they crash together across five turbulent centuries, Yoongi and Seokjin fight and bleed and eventually love read on AO3

slow rain - sharpa myg x knj - soulmates, magic It's been raining in Seoul for thirty-seven days. Namjoon and Yoongi are trying to learn how to love. read on AO3

and i fall - spudcity myg x kth - supernatural, magic, constantine movie Or, the Constantine AU no one asked for, where Yoongi is a bitter exorcist crushing on magic store-owner Taehyung, with no idea how to deal with his feelings. Plus demons. read on AO3

turn up your light - spudcity myg x pjm - fantasy Yoongi needs to secure a marriage to save his people. read on AO3

how to mend with gold - spudcity myg x kth - taehyung is a model Taehyung has a list of things to do to become a better person, and that's how he ends up volunteering at a queer youth centre. There’s only one problem – Yoongi works there. The same Yoongi who rejected him years ago and hasn’t given him the time of day since. read on AO3

a gilded world - smiles ksj x myg - arranged marriage, chaebol Jeon Seokjin has exactly four weeks to stop the impending engagement of his younger brother, doomed to a loveless marriage. The only way to stop it is to make a better match, more advantageous, more lucrative for the Jeon family. It's impossible. It's his only option. Min Yoongi does not want, will never want, will never ever even consider, marriage. It's not in the cards. He's stubborn enough to achieve the total ban on marriage talks. Except maybe his grandmother is a little more stubborn than he is, and maybe she's determined to see him march down the aisle. The chaebol arranged marriage au that exactly one and a half people asked for. read on AO3

soul on fire - @vyduanksj x reader - touch soulmates, idol What happens when you find your soulmate accidentally at a gala and he’s international superstar Kim Seokjin of BTS and you are both engaged to other people? Or the soulmate touch AU that no one asked for but I absolutely had to write.  read on tumblr

tell me what you want - @wwilloww myg x reader - f2l, smut Yoongi teaches you how to ask for what you want. read on tumblr

if any of the authors mentioned above do not want to be included on these lists please let me know or if there is anything you would like me to change please let me know 💖 

[hakodate-division]

"If it wasn't difficult, everyone would do it. It's the difficulty that makes it great."

Introduction

Kokomi Morozov is the third and final member of the Hakodate division rap battle team, Kuma no ie. She is often called by her MC name, Snegurochka. After fleeing her home country to get away from her overbearing and materialistic father, this Russian snowboarding champion is taking a break from snowboarding professionally. She now simply wishes to use her board for fun as she enjoys this new and wonderful land called Japan.

To say that Kokomi is a work of art would be putting it mildly. Even before she become a famous celebrity, she was already well-known for her beauty. She has pale white skin, which is due to her Russian blood, but also maybe because she has spent the majority of her life in Russia. She has crystal blue eyes that are slanted showing off the Japanese in her. She has lipstick on, giving her ruby-red lips, and a birthmark beneath her right eye. Her most astonishing feature is her long silver hair, which is natural.

For her attire, outside of formal events, Kokomi simply wears the winter gear that she uses when she goes off snowboarding or skiing. She wears a simple black long-sleeved T-shirt with a red and white jacket over it. She wears a pair of matching-colored sweatpants and black snow socks and snow boots. She also has a bear charm on the collar of her jacket. She'll often have a long faded pink and white scarf around her neck, but doesn't wear it when snowboarding. She also wears a pair of blue and gold snow goggles.

Name Meaning

Kokomi (心結) - 心 meaning heart, mind, spirit, heart radical (no. 61). / 結 meaning tie, bind, contract, join, organize, do up hair, fasten.

Morozov - The surname comes from the given name Moroz, which in turn derives from an Old Russian word meaning "frost."

Aliases

"The Reincarnation of Snow White"

"A Modern-Day Snegurochka"

"The Silver Surfer"

Koko - Ted

Kokomi-san - Katon

Anna

Biographical Info

Gender - Female

Age - 30

Birthday - December 21st

Ethnicity - Half Russian, Half Japanese

Hair Color - Brillant Silver

Eye Color - Crystal Blue

Height - 178 cm/5'10"

Weight - 73 kg/160 lb.

Star Sign - Sagittarius

Piercings - Gold stud earrings in both of her earlobes.

Markings - A large faded scar on her right leg which she obtained during a practice run.

Family

Mother (Deceased)

Father

Voiced By - Masha Hima (Rapping)

Fun Facts

MC Name - Snegurochka

Occupation - Winter Athlete

Division - Hakodate

Position - Third Member

Favorite Food - Beef Stroganoff

Least Favorite Food - Indigirka Salad

Likes - The snow, the mountains, bears, vodka, snowboarding, skiing, Russian legends, cold mornings, thinking about her mother, trees, fishing, winning, cloudy days

Dislikes - Weak alcohol, thinking about her father, being used, injuries, hot mornings, being made to be someone she isn't

Hypnosis Microphone

Kokomi's Microphone is a handheld microphone that is colored light blue and white, making it look like freshly-fallen snow. It is also decorated with carefully drawn white snowflakes.

Her Speaker takes the form of a light blue and white spectral lady with a hood on her head, surrounded by wind, snow, and ice. Floating and flying around her is a group of speakers.

Her rap ability, Deep Freeze, allows her to temporarily "freeze" her opponent solid, forcing them to bypass their turn. She can use this move twice per battle, but doing so uses up some of her stamina.

Kokomi's rap themes are centered around her love for the snow, her love for the mountains, and her life as a whole. On serious matters, she'll often rap about how one should be allowed to live life as they choose without the pressures of society or parents bearing down on them. She also talks about how success feels, and that one shouldn't get caught up in one accomplishment, as there are many more to fulfill.

Personality

A cheerful and good-natured young woman from Russia, Kokomi is one who tries to live each day to the fullest, if possible. She enjoys the sights and sounds of her mother's homeland of Japan, citing it as far different from her homeland of Russia. Though she was, at first, nervous about visiting a place that was unknown to her, she has come to really love the city of Hakodate, as well as the people that live there.

When it comes to most things, she tends to be fairly calm and laid-back. When it comes to activities in the snow, such as snowboarding or skiing, she's greatly determined and frequently puts her life at risk, ignoring self-preservation for the act of fun. Though she can be a bit of an air-head at times, when she is interested in something and wants to know more about it, she tries to learn everything about it. This made learning how to snowboard easy as she quickly mastered everything about it in a span of two years at a very young age.

As stated, Kokomi tends to be a bit of an air-head at times. Despite being half-Japanese, she was raised in a Russian household and doesn't fully know how to act. Thus, she tends to accidentally do things that most people would find inappropriate or rude. She also has little to no subtlety or tact, meaning she says things that can be both rude and offensive without meaning to be.

Despite that, Kokomi is a good person who means well. She cares deeply for her friends and wants them to succeed as does she wish for herself to succeed. She is a good friend to Kotan, and tries to remember to be more respectful and courteous with him so as not to insult him or his people. She cares and likes Ted very much, and enjoys spending time with him and his son.

One key aspect of Kokomi is that she dislikes being made out to be something that she knows she is not. When her snowboarding career kicked off, her father, in an effort to get her name out there and increase her publicity, began giving her a number of aliases and nicknames, which caused everyone around her to put her on a pedestal. Eventually, the weight of it all became too much for her and she eventually broke down under the pressure. As such, though she takes pride in her accomplishments, she doesn't like people lording it over her or making her seem to be bigger than she is.

Background

*Coming soon*

Trivia

Despite being half Japanese, she doesn't know how to speak it fluently since her dad always forced her to speak Russian.

She is not really coordinated when walking on flat land, preferring to walk on elevated services or the snow.

She always cites that the bears in Japan are quite smaller than the ones in Russia.

She chose her MC name because Snegurochka was her favorite fairytale character as a child. Her mom frequently likened her to Snegurochka because of her appearance.

Though she owns her own house in the city, she rarely lives there, preferring to rent a room in Ted's chalet where she can be closer to the snow and him.

She is acquainted with Katsumi Kenzaki since they both have competed in the Olympics.

[szottesfolditanyak]

Olga Kharitidi,

'90-es évek, Novoszibirszk, pszichiátriai intézet.

" Later, as I was completing my paperwork and dreading the long bus trip back to my little apartment, the phone rang in my office. I picked it up and heard "Hello, Olga!” in a voice I recognized immediately as Anna’s. Anna was a medical doctor, and we had been close friends for many years. I had become adept at sensing the many different moods of her complex personality through the sounds and rhythms of her voice. Today she sounded tired and worried.

As usual, for a while we chattered about nothing and everything. Anyone listening to us might have found our conversation trivial, but every time we talked, even about simple things, I rediscovered the importance of our friendship. There was always a phrase, an emotion, or simply a surge of energy between us that left me feeling joyful and alive. I knew it was the same for her.

The main reason for her call today became clear when she asked if I could make time to see her neighbor, who feared he had a serious mental problem. I couldn’t refuse her request, so I asked her to send him to my office the next day at three o’clock. Anna had never visited me at the hospital, so I gave her directions and I marked the appointment in my calendar. We made a date to see each other soon and then said our good-byes.

The next day, at exactly three PM., the day nurse brought a young man to my office. He stood hesitantly in my doorway.

“How do you do, doctor. I am Nicolai. Your friend, Anna Anatolievna, referred me to you.”

Nicolai was a young Siberian with a handsome Mongolian face. With age, faces such as his were often dominated by a hard masculine strength. This man was still young enough to show hints of shyness and sensitivity, both of which were particularly apparent at the moment. He was clearly embarrassed and ill at ease to be standing in a psychiatrist’s office.

Apart from his nervousness, the young Siberian standing in front of me certainly didn’t look mentally ill. Still, I guessed he must have felt he was in serious trouble to have taken Anna into his confidence and then to have come here of his own free will. In my professional experience, I had discovered that very few people were willing to seek psychiatric help on their own. There was a tremendous stigma attached to any hint of mental abnormality. This not only dissuaded people from getting help but also led those who did so to try every means possible to keep it secret. If their situation became known by their friends or colleagues, it inevitably created social discrimination.

Nicolai moved forward and stood in the middle of my small office, still looking awkward and unsure of himself. I told him to make himself comfortable, gesturing him to the chair in front of my desk. I watched him as he went to it and sat down. He looked like a factory worker. He wore a neat dark gray suit, white shirt, and black tie. I could tell he perceived our meeting as a very official event. He sat nervously on the edge of the chair. I didn’t hurry him but simply waited for him to tell his story. After a short silence to collect his thoughts, he began.

“Thank you for seeing me. The reason I am here started about a month ago.”

He spoke Russian with a slight mountain accent I found pleasant. Anna had told me he came from Altai, an isolated, ethnically different region with its own language. I was not surprised to hear him give a typically Russian name, for all native peoples were given Russian names when they applied for internal passports from the Soviet state. It was a purposeful evil, intended to hasten the destruction of their cultures by deliberately erasing the heritage that lived in their names.

Nicolai didn’t look at me as he spoke. It was clear that he still felt very embarrassed but that he had made a commitment to himself to talk to me and was determined to fulfill it. Undoubtedly it was difficult for him to open up his mind to a stranger, and he feared my reaction to what he was about to say.

“This thing began for me when my mother asked me to come home to my village in Altai.” The expression on his face showed that he was reluctant to speak about his village. This was common. Many youths who came to work in the city preferred to hide their country origins for fear of being ridiculed. He continued slowly.

“My uncle, Mamoush, had become very sick, and my mother needed me to help nurse him. We were his only relatives, and he had lived alone, apart from the other people of the village. I had never been interested in spending any time with him, but I could not refuse my mother’s request. I had no choice but to take a vacation without pay and go home.

“I spent ten days there. My uncle died on the fifth day. He was eighty four years old, and like most of our people of his age he knew his time had come. He had no interest in trying to live any longer. In our village we believe that anyone of his age has already lived a complete life and would want to die. I had never had much love for my uncle, so I had no desire to change anything unless it was to help him move on quickly so I could return to my life in the city.”

As Nicolai went on, his voice trembled, and he paused longer and longer between sentences. All the while, he continued to emphasize that he had never been close to his uncle. I couldn’t help wondering why he was still so nervous. His sensitive personality wasn’t enough by itself to explain being so affected by the death of an aged relative he had hardly even known. I knew his story didn’t fit together yet, but I didn’t ask questions or interrupt. My job for now was just to listen and let him continue his story in his own way.

Nicolai continued to ramble, telling me how difficult it had been for his mother to take care of his dying uncle and what he, Nicolai, had done to support her. Then he shared some opinions with me about the nature of his uncle’s disease, switching from one possible malady to another. I could see that his fears were getting in the way of his desire to be healed and that he was trying to find the courage to tell me the real essence of his story.

I finally decided to interrupt him, in an attempt to bring him back to the reason he had come here. “Nicolai, you suggested that whatever it was that you wanted to talk to me about began about a month ago?”

He agreed without either speaking or looking at me, simply nodding his head up and down.

“What happened after your uncle’s death?”

“Well, it is a strange story. . . .”

“I have heard many strange stories. What is so strange about yours?”

“Do you believe in shamans?” he asked tentatively.

Now it suddenly struck me that perhaps I, not he, might be the one in trouble. I knew almost nothing at all about shamanism. The word shaman had a very negative meaning in our society, as an unhealthy symbol of primitive cultural and spiritual beliefs. I had to be very careful with my answer.

“Unfortunately, I know only that shamanism had to do with the old religion of the Siberian peoples, long before Christianity. That is all I know. But I believe in the existence of people called shamans.”

Gradually, still without looking at me, he seemed to understand that I was accepting his words without judging them. His body relaxed into a softer posture, and his voice sounded less nervous.

“My uncle was a shaman,” he continued. “Because of that, I did not like to spend time with him. He lived in solitude on the edge of the village. Many who lived there believed he had very strong shamanic powers, but nobody was sure he used these powers only for the proper things. And maybe they were right. People were afraid of him, and they avoided him except when they needed his help for their problems and diseases.

"I never was interested in such things myself. From the time I was very young, my only wish was to leave him, and even my village, as soon as I could. You know there is nothing to do in the country, especially in the winter. It is cold and boring. I never doubted that I would go to the city right after I graduated from high school. I wanted to serve in the army but didn’t pass the medical examination. My vision is terrible. So, you might understand how happy I was to find my present job. I have been working here for almost a year now, and I have already been promised an apartment for next year. It is rare to have this happen so soon. For now, of course, I still live in a dormitory.”

I knew that as soon as young men and women got jobs at a plant, their names would be put on a waiting list to get their own apartments. Sometimes it could take up to twenty years for a name to come to the top of the list. Occasionally a name might even get lost, and the happy reward of a private place to live might never happen at all. These unfortunate people would live out their working lives in dormitories where three or four people shared a single small room. Sometimes as many as fifteen or twenty rooms would share one small kitchen area, one shower, and one toilet. I understood how much it would mean to Nicolai to be promised an apartment so soon.

Nicolai continued, “I have a girlfriend, and we are planning to get married. So, you could say that my life’s dreams have started to come true. Now I am afraid everything may be lost. I really need your help, doctor. I am ready to do anything, to take any medicines to restore my health. To restore my sanity.”

He looked at me with a desperate hope I rarely saw in my patients. It was still difficult for me to piece his story together. His shamanic uncle had died, and now he feared he was mentally ill. His problem was not yet clear to me. I tried to postpone a conclusion of some kind of psychosis, even if what I had heard so far of his story tempted me toward such a conclusion.

Hesitatingly, he resumed talking. “I fell sick the day after my uncles death. While he was dying, he had asked me to spend time with him alone. I was not happy about this at all, but I agreed because it was his last request. He lived in a small dark house without electricity. He had a collection of very strange things there: half-dead plants, stones (some with pictures on them), his drum, tattered clothes. Everything in his small house was unusual. I was frightened, yet I felt I had no choice but to spend his last days alone with him.

“Then my uncle began to speak to me about power — shamanic power. The first time, he talked more than two hours about it. I was not attentive. It sounded to me as if he was having some sort of dying fantasy, so I simply tried to be polite to him. We had many other conversations. I don’t remember much except the very last one.

“It happened late one night. His illness had grown worse and worse, but he hadn’t let me invite anyone else to be with us. His breathing became rapid and heavy. His speech became interrupted, and he seemed confused. I knew his end was near. Finally, he asked me to come close to his bed. The room was dark. Only the corner where his high, narrow wooden bed was placed was dimly lit by the flame of a single candle, burning on a small table amidst strange amulets and dried herbs.

“My uncle lay covered by a warm blanket made from multicolored scraps of different fabrics. When I drew near, he grasped my hand roughly in his own hot dry hands. From somewhere, his voice suddenly found great strength and clarity. He stared at me intensely. His whole being had changed so dramatically that for a moment I actually thought he had rid himself of his disease.

“Slowly and with great concentration, as if he might have been trying to hypnotize me, he said, ‘Shamanic powers live with us in this world, and they must be left in this world. I am dying, and my power won’t follow where I am going. I give it to you, because this is what has been decided by the spirits.’

“As he spoke I experienced a severe cramp in the hand he was so desperately holding. It felt as though a fire flashed through my body. I was too stunned for a moment even to notice that in that same instant my uncle had died. My state of mind was completely strange to me. I could not, and still cannot, fully describe what happened. I understand that this might be necessary for you to diagnose what’s wrong with me, but I don’t know what else to say. I tried to throw light on my problem by reading some books about psychiatry, but I had to give them up. It was much too difficult for me to understand the words.”

He had almost been reliving his experience as he described it. His left hand had seemed to cramp when he talked about it. His face was now sweating, as if he had heard his dead uncle’s voice again while talking to me.

“Let’s take a little break from talking about your uncle. Maybe you can tell me a little more of your life in the city?”

He accepted my suggestion with obvious relief. “What would you like me to tell you?” He shrugged his shoulders indecisively.

“Tell me about your work, the workers at your plant. How do they relate to you?”

“Well. Very well.”

I looked at him silently. He was motionless, sitting very straight on the edge of his chair. His posture showed a great deal of tension.

“They are good people, but they are very different from the people in my home village.”

“What are the differences?”

“Well, it’s difficult to say. I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve just felt it. They drink a lot, even at work. My people also like vodka, but they would never be as rude after a few drinks, or even after many drinks.”

I imagined this sensitive young man among his coarser fellow plant workers. Well, at least part of his dream of moving to the city hadn’t been as lovely as he had expected.

“Are you trying to be like them?”

“No, I don’t think so. I realize that I have to get used to being here, though. It was my wish to live in a big city, but I expected a lot more from it. I guess I still believe it can be a lot more. I only need to get used to being here. And I need to be healthy.”

After a brief pause, which seemed to help him collect his strength, Nicolai continued.

“After my uncle's death I had a very high fever for five days. I did not eat, I did not speak. I did not even remember who I was. In my delirium I saw him all the time. Thanks to a local district doctor, who came to see me and gave me some injections, I recovered from the fever. I forgot everything that had come to me in my sickness, and although I still felt very weak, I returned to work.

“Then I got better and better physically, but at the same time something began happening to my mind. I started to hear my uncle’s voice demanding that I remember my dreams. Now his voice comes to me without warning, anytime, anywhere. It comes when I am speaking with people, and when I am on the bus among strangers. I become deeply frightened when this happens, and I know I must seem crazy. I feel panic and want to run away. It is becoming so bad, I am afraid I may be fired from my job.” After a long, deep sigh, he asked if he might smoke.

Normally I would not let a patient smoke in my office. In Nicolai’s case, I decided to break the rule. I felt it would help him be comfortable and open up. He took a pack of cigarettes without filters from his suit pocket and frantically looked for his matches, his hands moving quickly from pocket to pocket without finding them.

I stood up and went to the corner of the room opposite my desk. From the top of the refrigerator I took the matches and the tea saucer that occasionally substituted as an ashtray and handed them to him.

The small hinged opening at the top of my window was too high for me to reach, so before going back to my desk, I used a long pine stick to open it a little bit. The stick had a carved human head at one end. It had been made for me a few years earlier by an elderly patient who for twenty years had believed he was God and who had tried incessantly to create people from wood. The man had died the year before, old and alone like so many of our patients. There were no relatives to bury him, so the hospital sent his body to the medical school to be used for studying anatomy.

I remembered that when I began medical school, one of the hardest things for me emotionally was having to dissect the old, thin, often decrepit corpses. Eventually, I had no choice but to relate to them as tools for science, trying to forget that they had once been people who had lived the ends of their lives alone, with no one to care for them or give them comfort at the moment they died. Even at the medical school, where they became objects in the name of science, their lifeless bodies were denied respect.

Freezing cold air burst in through the windows narrow opening and swirled through my office. Nicolai moved his chair away from my desk and smoked with deep inhalations.

“What am I going to do with this man?” I wondered. I knew I had all the resources I needed to begin an effective psychiatric strategy to diagnose and treat him. If Nicolai had been an official, legally admitted patient, I would have been more or less required to order a series of laboratory tests that would tell me if he suffered from the aftereffects of some unknown fever, manifested through a residual organic psychosis, with possible episodes of seizure. But in this case I could be more flexible, so I decided to try something different first. I would do what I felt was correct for Nicolai. Depending on the outcome, I could always use a more traditional psychiatric therapy later.

I asked him if he was willing to try an experiment. He nodded his head in agreement, and I asked, “Do you think you could hear your uncle’s voice again, in my presence?”

He inhaled deeply again, and it was obvious that the cigarette had made him more comfortable. "I think I can, but I don’t know how to make it happen. It always comes by itself, without my willing it."

“Perhaps we can do it together.”

“I agree to try.”

I pushed the hidden button on the floor near my desk, signaling for the nurse to come into my office. The button had been put there originally for emergencies with violent patients, but we usually used it as a form of communication between different stations in the hospital.

When the nurse arrived, I asked her to walk Nicolai to the hypnotary, the room where we carried out hypnosis, and to wait for me there. He put out his cigarette, stood up, and took his short black sheepskin coat from the nurse.

I watched them from the window as they walked through the snow to the hypnotary. They were talking to each other, and I wondered what about. The nurse was a professional. She had retired a few months ago but then had decided to return to work to help support her three daughters. It was common for parents to help support their children even after they started working at their own jobs. This nurse, who was both conscientious and frugal, managed to buy new clothes for her daughters almost every two months. It sometimes cost more than half her salary to do this, yet she did it willingly. I was glad she was back.

I had just finished filling out and signing ward papers and was about to go to the hypnotary when the doctor on duty called me from the reception ward. “Olga,” he said, “I am admitting a very serious patient to your women’s ward. She has been coming here periodically for twenty years. The diagnosis is schizophrenia. She was last admitted to our clinic two years ago. Now she is in the last degrees of cachexia [physical exhaustion]. It appears she hasn’t really eaten in more than a month because of the voices that fill her mind. I’ll prepare all the prescription orders for the nurses tonight, but I'd really like you to see her and her husband before you leave today.”

“When will she be at the ward?” I asked.

“In an hour and a half,” he replied.

I agreed to see her and was relieved that I would still have time to work with Nicolai first.

Our doctors had put a lot of their own efforts into creating the hypnotary. It had already been built when I began working at the hospital, and it was a miracle that it existed at all. Over and over again, I had heard the stories of the dedicated doctors who had made legends of themselves by supplying the equipment, supplies, furniture, and carpeting to create this important facility. It could never have been done through government channels. The hypnotary was crucial to my work, and I always felt comfortable there.

I entered the darkened room quietly, the plush carpet allowing me to move with soundless steps. A small red lamp sat on the floor in each corner of the room. The room’s silence and the faint red glow of the lamps helped me make the necessary mental and emotional trip beyond the sounds and images of the world outside.

The nurse had already prepared Nicolai. He was reclining in a soft, deep armchair in the middle of the room, wearing only his white shirt and pants. His suit jacket, tie, and boots had been taken to another room by the nurse, who would have them waiting for him at the end of the session. He looked relaxed and did not even notice my arrival. I quietly walked over to him and slowly let the back of the armchair down.

“We can start now, Nicolai. I need you to answer my questions honestly and as accurately as possible. If you don’t have an answer, don’t try to think one up. Our success does not depend on the number of questions you answer. It depends on a different quality. And we don’t have to discuss what that is but only trust it, knowing that it is already present and true for us and that we may be guided by it.” My words were deliberately obscure, because I needed to confuse his mind in order to create an opening for my words to enter his unconscious.

Nicolai closed his eyes, and his facial muscles became more relaxed as I consciously spoke to him in a deeper and deeper voice, speaking more slowly and quietly with each word.

“Now I am going to ask your body a question that doesn’t require your answer, Nicolai. You don’t even have to listen. I need to get an agreement from your body that it will help protect you from stress during our work. Now I’m speaking directly to your body, asking it to cooperate with us in protecting you. And I'm waiting for an answer.” His left hand gave a small tremor, and I knew from my experience that it was a sign of agreement.

“Thank you,” I responded in acknowledgment.

I continued, “Nicolai, in the past there have been many times when I have tried to recall an important memory but found it impossible to do so. The more I focused, the more unavailable my memory became. I tried again and again, until I became absolutely exhausted. Then I gave up and relaxed. Shortly thereafter, the image I sought came to me from my unconscious. This phenomenon was what first led me to understand the power of the unconscious mind and to realize that it can help us immensely if we learn how to communicate with it.

“As I speak to you now, you may not understand some of the things I talk about. Don’t be concerned. It is not necessary for your conscious mind to know the meaning of my words, so don't interrupt the calm and relaxed state that is expanding inside your mind and body by trying to understand them. Your unconscious will know. I want to enlist the support of that power that has been speaking to you in order to teach you something important. This may not make sense to you yet, but my intention is to help you understand."

“Do you remember the last time you heard your uncle’s voice? Please answer yes by moving your left hand or no by moving the right one. Was it on Monday?”

Nicolai’s right hand moved slightly. “Tuesday?” No. “Wednesday?. . ."

When I reached Friday, the left hand moved.

“Place yourself where it happened. Is it dark where you are?”

No.

“You are in a well-lighted place. I think this is your workplace. You are speaking with a colleague.” Carefully observing the response from his hand, I continued as it made little movements of agreement. “The time now is just before your uncle speaks. You can remain calm and relaxed, because we are in charge of this experience and nothing had can happen.

“You are at the point in your memory where you can hear the voice of your uncle. No one from your work notices anything. The colleagues you were talking to go away, dissolve. Your attention shifts from them to your uncle’s voice.”

Nicolai’s face became tense. He breathed more deeply and quickly. I reached forward and placed my hand on the middle of his chest, saying, “Now my hand breathes together with your lungs, and we can bring this rhythm down, slowly and calmly — gradually, together.”

He calmed down, and said softly, almost in a whisper, “I hear him. . . .”

“Listen to everything his voice tells you. Be calm and sure. My hand is here with your breath, and you can get help from me or stop any time you want. But you won’t need to stop, for you are protected and safe.”

Nicolai spoke softly, “He is not frightening me now. He is different from before."

“Stop talking to me, Nicolai. You did not come here to speak. You came to listen. So do it now. I appreciate your sharing with me, but not right now. We will do that later. For now, just try to remember everything your uncle says, and he open to it."

I stood over him in the reclined armchair for half an hour, my hand on his chest. It was fairly dark in the room, but I could see his face. It was relaxed, and at first it looked as though he was sleeping. Gradually, as he began to relive his memory, his expression became more active. His eyes began to move quickly under their closed lids. He was obviously seeing intense images. All the emotions he was experiencing were reflected in his face. I saw him wondering, expressing curiosity at first, then deep sadness, and I thought he might start crying. I sensed he was very far away experiencing something important in his memory. I guided his breathing with my hand, slowing him down, prepared to wake him up if his emotional state appeared dangerous. Otherwise, I would let him return on his own when he was done.

Finally, he took a long, very deep breath and announced, “I have completed my journey. I am ready to come back now.”

His voice sounded stronger and more sure of itself. I spoke to him again.“Now I ask you to be attentive to my words, Nicolai. Gradually you will recall how we first met this afternoon, when you came to the hospital. You probably feel very different now, because you have a new memory inside you. When you return from your journey and come back to my office, you will notice these changes. Then you will remember what happened to you, and you will tell me about it. When I take my hand off your chest, you will open your eyes and be present here again.”

I noticed his left hand was tightly squeezing the armrest, and I touched it softly to help him relax. I walked to the wall, turned on the overhead light, and pressed the button to call in the nurse. The red lamps turned off automatically.

I could now see the paintings that had been donated to the hospital by the Siberian Gallery of Fine Art. It was always a small miracle to me that such fine paintings had found their way to this unlikely place. There were some beautiful landscapes on the walls, but the most special painting to me was an oil portrait of a young woman with hair parted in the middle who was wearing rich, lace-trimmed clothes from some past century. She had a kind, reassuring face, and when I worked there, I felt almost as if she supported me.

The nurse helped Nicolai stand up and put his jacket back on. I threw my fur coat over my shoulders and began the walk back to my office. I was quite satisfied with the session. It had gone very well, and it felt right to have tried to resolve Nicolai’s inner conflict without pharmacology. I hoped the experience would prove to be what he needed to settle this family relationship that had appeared to him in such a mythological-religious form.

Nicolai entered my office looking serious and somehow different. Part of his transformation was that now he seemed completely relaxed, not even caring how he looked. He held his tie in his hand and sat at ease in the same chair he had occupied so nervously before.

“I want to thank you for your assistance. I was given a very important message. It changed many feelings inside of me.”

I listened attentively, noticing at the same time how my own feeling of self-esteem was growing. I started to think I was a very lucky therapist to hear such words from my patients so often.

“I was glad to help you. I hope it will allow you to live your life more easily and be successful.”

“But everything has changed, doctor. I think that I must become a shaman.”I was stunned. I sat immobile in my chair, trying to keep the same blank expression on my face as I listened to him. But my feeling of self esteem plummeted lower and lower, turning into shame. How could I have let this happen? This man had come to me for help, and instead I had acted unprofessionally and only reinforced his delusions. I had failed him, and I suddenly felt sorry for both of us.

Nicolai began to explain. “I truly communicated with my uncle. There was no sense that he had died. He seemed fully alive, and he spoke to me like a real person. He argued with me, and I found I could not disagree with anything he said. In the end, he persuaded me.

“Somehow, he showed me a complete history of our people in a way that I had never seen before. It became clear to me how difficult it is for my people living in Siberia. I saw how they had lost their religion and power because of the tremendous pressures from the outsiders and evil spirits among us. I saw some of my friends who have taken jobs that required them to become Communists. I saw how their souls had left them, and how they had become tools of evil.

“I journeyed again and again with my people from winter to winter, without hope, without joy, frightened all the time. They were even afraid to pray quietly to their ancestors and protectors, because they could be sent to prison if anyone even guessed they were doing it. Doctor, this vision you enabled me to see has opened up something inside me that has always been closed off. Now it is accessible.

“My uncle left me no choice. He told me I really have to become a shaman. If I don’t do this, my sickness will increase terribly. He says I’m the only one who can do this, and that my people’s time of lost faith will end. It is toward this goal that I am to work for them. I still don’t know what to think about it. I know nothing about being a shaman! But at the same time I feel it is my true way of life. I will need time to understand exactly what I am going to do.”

It was strange that I didn’t fear his words, for they were very dangerous. In a time only recently past, we could both have been put in prison for them. Even now, with the declaration of perestroika and new thinking, the wrong person hearing his words could still cause much trouble for us.

But I was not afraid. I found that I related to many of the things he was talking about. I didn’t know much about the suppression of native peoples, but I knew what it meant to have to hide one’s religious beliefs. I had been secretly baptized in the Russian Orthodox Church by my grandmother in Kursk, and I had often been confronted with my inability to express my strong attraction for the teachings of Jesus Christ. My daily life did not offer the possibility of going to church or communicating with holy people. Owning religious or esoteric literature of any kind, including the Bible, was forbidden. If found, such books would threaten the security of one’s home in a moment.

As I felt Nicolai’s strong feelings, they changed my own. I no longer cared to evaluate my therapeutic abilities in the context of Nicolai’s treatment. I felt that something important had happened, and what I wanted most was to understand it.

Nicolai interrupted my thoughts, saying, “I was asked by my uncle to give you a message.”

The idea seemed so crazy to me that I did not respond.

“Mamoush said to me, "Tell this woman that very soon she will meet the Spirit of Death. Tell her not to be frightened.’”

I didn’t like these words at all. I had never appreciated predictions of the future, especially dire ones like this. I stared at Nicolai’s clothing. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and he lacked a tie. It helped me to remember that he was not an oracle but only a factory worker who was the friend of a friend.

My experience told me our session was essentially over, and I also remembered that the newly admitted woman still needed my attention. I decided to wrap up my meeting with Nicolai quickly. “I don't know anything about a message from your uncle, Nicolai, but I want to wish you success in whatever you choose to do. I believe you have the ability to make all the correct choices, but if you need additional help, please feel free to call upon me. Right now, though, I have to see an emergency patient who has just been admitted.”

Nicolai also seemed ready to finish. “That’s fine, doctor,” he replied. ”I appreciate your time and your help. Perhaps we will meet again. Good-bye for now.”

As soon as he left my office, I quickly crossed the small room to stop the frigid air still pouring in through the open window. For a few quiet moments, I stood and looked down at the grounds below. My session with Nicolai had been unusual and would require time to understand and integrate into my experience. I watched Nicolai as he walked through the hospital grounds toward the bus station. His quick and decisive steps were those of a man certain of his purpose. I closed the window using the same stick with the human head carved by 'God'.” "

Olga Kharitidi - Entering the Circle, 1996

[charlesandmartine]

Wednesday 28th June 2023

Three surprises: firstly the Australian Pinot Grigio was ok, secondly an error message came up on the Toyota telling us we have a slow puncture, possibly, and thirdly it was 34 degrees today! In Canada!

Naramata was founded in 1907 by a highly successful Irish born soft fruit farmer, John Moore Robinson. He was offering acreage to people interested in fruit ranching. The new town was to be built for people of good character, no riff raff. And that is by all accounts pretty much the way it still is today. It is the thinking man's Penticton; large town down the road.

About the same time as all this, the Kettle Valley Railway was being constructed linking Naramata to Hope where we came from yesterday. The name of the town has a interesting story behind it. Our John Moore Robinson had a bit of an interest in spiritualism and the wife of the local postmaster, Mrs Anna Gillespie, was a prominent medium. In a seance she channelled the voice of the Sioux Indian Chief Big Moose. The Chief spoke of his dear wife 'Narramattah', calling her the 'Smile of Manitou '. Robinson was moved by all this and the name stuck. Naramata, not Big Moose. Interesting thing was that Mrs Gillespie was caught up in the San Francisco earthquake, so she clearly didn't see that one coming!

Well enough of all that. Naramata is a cumly little town and anyone with a few bob would find it highly agreeable. We just needed a few things to do in the short time we are here. The local museum equipped us with a little map and a few ideas. We rejoined therefore the Kettle Valley Railway trail just up the road and walked 7 km along it as far as the tunnels and then 7km back. A British engineer, Andrew McCulloch, apparently designed it in 1910 but the really impressive part of it is that a) it was built at all and b) the skill and sheer hard graft involved in building it. Men came from Italy, Scandinavia and central Europe and it is said it took black powder and muscle to build it. Today it is a fantastic recreational facility so high up above the Lake Okanagan with such great views across it. We were regularly overtaken by cyclists buzzing along the wide gravel avenue of Apache Pines. It felt very Mediterranean as the sun beat down and we were engulfed by the strong perfume of the pine forest which hung heavily on the breeze and all in peace and total silence save for the scrunch our feet made on the gravel path. Unlike the Mediterranean, there were no Cicadas chirping in the undergrowth.

High scores for bird watching. Red Tailed Hawk, Pileated Woodpecker, Barn Swallows and a female Hummingbird!

Bryson, who always has high praise and a passion for Great Britain says that we might be a very small, over populated country but we all too often underate what we have. He says that we might not have the highest mountains, the largest lakes, the longest rivers, but what we have is an awful lot of fantastic stuff packed into a very small space. What we have witnessed here is a sort of Great Britain on steroids. Huge mountains, massive lakes and vast rivers. What we have seen so far is totally mind boggling and we can't wait to see even more.

ps. We went to get some more of the Australian Pinot Grigio from the local very expensive store and they've run out, completely!!!! So now we are down to cheap Australian Riesling!!! Not sure how Martine will cope with that!

We will have better economic choice when we can get to a saver supermarket.

pps No bears on the trail, but apparently we have something else to worry about now. Rattlesnakes have been spotted! I don't know about anyone else, but sucking venom from a third party backside would truly make it a memorable holiday.

[libraryleopard]

August reads

Mistress of Lies by K.M. Enright

Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones

Under a Dancing Star by Laura Wood

Covenant vol. 1 by Lysandra Vuong

Swift River by Essie Chambers

When Among Crows by Veronica Roth

When the Tiger Came Down the Mountain by Nghi Vo

Don’t Let It Break Your Heart by Maggie Horne

Midnight Rooms by Donyae Coles 

Dragonfall by L.R. Lam

Outlawed by Anna North

Into the Riverlands by Nghi Vo

Don’t Be a Drag by Skye Quinlan

Horror Movie by Paul Tremblayy

The Swifts: A Gallery of Rogues by Beth Lincoln

Four Squares by Bobby Finger

Let’s Go Let’s Go Let’s Go: Stories by Cleo Qian

Gentlemen of the Road by Michael Chabon

Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle

A Short History of Trans Misogyny by Jules Gill-Peterson

Heed the Hollow by Malcolm Tariq

What Does Israel Fear From Palestine? by Raja Shehadeh

Division Bells by Iona Datt Sharma

Mammoths at the Gates by Nghi Vo

Consolation Songs edited by Iona Datt Sharma

Goldenrod by Maggie Smith

Don’t Let the Forest In by C.G. Drews

Something to be Proud Of by Anna Zoe Quirke

A Hundred Lovers by Richie Hofmann

Flamer by Mike Curato

Ask the Brindled: Poems by No’u Revilla

Miss Major Speaks: Conversations with a Black Trans Revolutionary by Toshio Meronek and Miss Major

Social Queue by Kay Kerr

Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night by Iona Datt Sharma and Katherine Fabian*

St. Martin's Press title (is there still a social media boycott on this publisher?)

[canyouplzjust]

Tull

I didn't want to go to Tull. In game I had no basis on which to refuse the trip, but all day I was dreading it, leading up to the game. I knew it was coming, and even if I didn't know what was waiting for us there, I knew it would hurt. Max told us that he needed us to go there to take care of something, and that sooner was better. I begged to have an hour to prepare and he relented. I looked at Les and just nodded; he went upstairs to work things out with Cyph. He was the one who really needed the hour, but he was never going to ask for it. I wish I could tell you that Les walked into that room and beheld his damaged lover, holding back equal parts fear and compassion. I'm sure he didn't want to show the fear because Cyph was still too delicate, but he couldn't really hide it. It probably came out sideways when Cyph started to panic. The room after a suicide attempt is the fucking worst, everyone wants you to be okay because they just found out that you weren't, but you still wish you were dead. I wish I could tell you that Les picked up the pieces of Cyph when he told him he loved him, and that Cyph was fortified by it. But I wasn't there, so your guess is as good as mine. But I hope it went something like that.

We asked Jake to stay at the KO Saloon and watch Cyph while we were gone, and Les pressed a gold coin into his palm, and told him to only use it if he needed it. It was at least an hour until dawn, and the rest of the mountain of Fair gold was fast burning a hole in Les's pocket, so he teleported all of us to the entrance of Tull: Les, me, Didi, Rory, Max and Hardy. Some of us tolerated it better than others. Outside of Tull was a sign: Population 58. At least 5 of them were kids, according to a scan Les ran from our distance. Great. He also got a map of the little town, that is going to come in handy shortly. Max led us into the city and into a saloon I was surprised to find anyone inside of. It was so late, or early, but people were there, drinking and working. Inside Hey, Jude was playing and there was a nice looking woman tending the bar. I think her name was Anna, and she seemed skeptical of us at first, but Max was certainly familiar to her. He was familiar to everyone in the bar, so he felt safe leaving us there to wait for him. He did note that it was a pretty stupid thing to ask of us, an adventuring party, to stay put and do nothing, but he made it clear that he had no choice. So, we waited for him while he went down to the church, and as soon as he was out of sight I asked Anna if her and Max were like, together. She tried to side step the question, but it was pretty clear: they were an item. I think Max basically lives here and Saragossa. We sat quietly for a short time, while Didi got up and played some music with the piano man. Out of the range or plane of my hearing, The God of Death whispered in Rory's ear, "Do not hesitate," and she let that sink in while we avoided trouble.

Max came back into the saloon after half an hour or so, wearing all black. In character this meant nothing to me. Out of character, this was a huge deal but I kept my big mouth shut. Max approached us and Rory just let loose. Out of nowhere she brandished her scythe and sliced his torso open in one swift move. Max fell backwards and started bleeding on the floor of the saloon. It took another hit, but then he was dead before I had time to scream. It was enough time for everyone in the bar to pull their weapons out. When we looked up they had their guns and bats pointed at us. I tried to calm them down, as I heard Rory whisper that this body wasn't Max, I had to trust her, but the Voice on the crowd had zero effect. I think we all looked at Les in a panic, and he used that Fair gold to teleport us from the bar to behind the church, and we took the body with us. We spun around, trying to figure out what was going on, where Max was, and who the shit we just killed. High Power Les reported that there were two people inside the church, and one of them appeared to be Max. The body had a strange genetic signature, and he confirmed that it was not Max. Rory was talking to a giant boulder behind the building, Les and Didi were trying to keep us calm, and I was taking my henchman to barge in through the back door at the next sign of trouble.

Jara was starting to freak out because she had figured out that we were going to have to kill everyone in Tull, but she had no way to confirm it in the game. I looked at her across the table, and I nodded. "I think you're right, but I also think its gonna suck," I told her. And then we were back in the scene. She's so good at cryptic shit, so when the God of Death came back, and he delivered the same message as before, "Do not hesitate," Rory was sure now. She glanced at the body of not-Max just in time to see it wink at her and disappear into thin air. A second later we heard a gun shot from inside the church that Hardy and I were breathing down the door of. We burst into the back room and rushed into the sanctuary in time to see Max standing over the body of an elderly woman, gun still smoking in his hand. I was stopped in my tracks by a cold fear and I didn't know what the fuck to do. I waited until the rest of my party caught up with me, but before I could take another step, the corpse of the old woman started to jerk. I wasn't moving towards that shit. I watched as it levitated off the ground as a demon started to rip its way out of the pile of skin and bones. A 7 foot tall demon stepped out of nowhere, with black eyes and full body wings, but I didn't flinch. It also had ears, and I knew I could do something with those. Let's get it on.

The Villagers started pouring into the church armed with guns and clubs, and Didi and Max turned around to deal with the ones coming through the back door. Hardy and I squared up against the demon, and I could see the world bend around it as I dictated its reality. The fear I felt below my stomach multiplied exponentially as it rose up through my torso, and I could feel my blood chilling in the small cells in my lungs as I breathed out, "Go back to the hell you came from!" The floor of the church broke and a jagged circle around the demon sank a few inches into the ground. It wasn't enough, but it was a start. I got some advice that the demon couldn't handle contradiction, so while Hardy wacked at it with his big sword, I summoned all the power I could find and I bellowed at the demon. "Go back to the hell you came from, go to the heaven you were cast out of, go west and follow the darkness, LEAVE THIS PLACE," I screamed at the winged demon and watched as my words took control. Its wings pulled towards the vaulted ceiling and its knees bent towards the floor. I could see the hole in the floor glowing and growing deeper, it was being pulled apart before my eyes. Hardy was there with his sword and saw his opportunity: he swung sideways and cleaved the demon in half, and the winged half flew up to the church's ceiling before it fell to the ground like the rest of the meat. I turned to Max, who was killing his fair share of crazed villagers, and told him, "Get us out of here." He glared at me before he put his head down; the exhaustion no longer showed in his gait as he kept moving towards the door. He also kept firing his gun, without flinching this time. Hardy moved in front of me, slashing at the bodies filling the back room, but I stopped short of telling him to kill the murderous child running at us. I was sure my death touch would work on it, so I got it ready.

Rory was deep in thought, troubled by her holy burden, when she turned her face towards the heavens yet again. She called the God of Fire to measly little Tull, and it nearly burned her for doing so. She asked it to consecrate the ground with fire, and to protect her friends from it. It balked, but it couldn't refuse a chance for a debt. It dug its cinder claws into her shoulders deep enough to leave un-healable scars, and so mote it be. A red hot fire engulfed the building and incinerated the villagers left alive. We had managed to kill about 14 of them with just bullets and swords and robotic arms, but they were all now burned where they stood. Even the boy in front of us, he was dead too. I was glad for it.

I don't think I've ever used the Voice on Max, and he wasn't happy about it. What else could I do? He was slowing down when the enemy was speeding up. Its like a buff they can't refuse.

Covered in the ashes of a broken church and the population of a broken town, we wandered out to the road where we came in, stunned and silent. The sun was coming up and the Fair gold was gone. Les used the last of what he had going to teleport us back to Saragossa. The day had just begun.

[fandomsareforlife]

Life's Too Short To Even Have You In It

Summary: Echo's brother froze the world after his coronation went horribly wrong. Echo needs to see if he is willing to come back and get rid of the eternal storm, even if everyone calls Zane a monster now.

OR

Frozen AU with Zane as Elsa and Echo as Anna

A/N: I wrote this for NWOD's Who Wrote That a while ago, and am now finally posting it to tumblr! The prompt was ""Write a ninjago pairing, romantic or platonic, in a fairytale setting."

READ ON AO3

Echo took a deep breath, wincing at the cold that entered into his lungs. His boots crunched under the snow as he walked up the mountain which led up to the magnificent castle. It truly was a breathtaking sight, with massive towers that looked as though they were made out of ice. If Zane truly was cursed with ice powers, at least they were being used to create beauty.

Echo would make sure his brother knew he would never hate him, no matter what curse he was inflicted.

Reaching the doors to the castle, Echo raised his arm up and knocked on the door, waiting patiently for his brother to come down. When he heard footsteps, his tired body perked up, excitement filling him up at seeing Zane again.

However, the door was not opened by his brother but rather...a dragon? The dragon was as large as a horse, its body white, black and purple. Its wings were so massive, they looked like they would engulf Echo if he angered the beast.

The dragon chirped and backed up, flapping its wings rapidly. Echo clutched his bag closer to his chest, but the dragon didn't attack. Instead, he ran further into the castle. Taking a deep breath, Echo forced his trembling limbs to move inside the castle.

The castle was even more grand inside, with everything a shade of blue or purple. There were massive windows overlooking the mountains. Echo smiled weakly. His brother was always interested in architecture.

Looking around, Echo spotted the dragon at the bottom of a truly massive staircase, which seemed to be covered in snow. The dragon was tilting its head towards it, as though to indicate something to Echo. It was showing him the way to Zane, Echo realized.

Making his way to and up the staircase, his boots clanged against the icy floors. Echo shivered from the cold. (He was not shivering from fear. He would never fear his brother. Not even when the world told him to.)

At the top of the staircase, there was a door, which unlike the rest of the palace, was not massive. Echo couldn't tell if it made it more or less unsettling. The dragon nosed at it, pushing it open slightly. It let out a chirp, like it did earlier, and rushed in. Echo hesitantly followed.

Inside the room, Zane was sitting in a giant ice throne facing away from the door, holding a staff in his hands. The dragon bounded up to him, and Zane laughed. 'Hello, Boreal."

"Zane?" Echo called out shakily, catching the armored figure's attention. "Echo?" That was Zane's voice, but only if it was distorted.

Echo didn't like what that implied. He stood up from his throne, turning to face Echo. He had pale blue armor and helmet, looking more like a samurai rather than a king. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see you, of course." Echo's voice was lighter than he felt, but Zane tensed at his words.

He gripped his staff tighter, and took a step towards Echo.

"Why? Have I not been deemed a monster? Why did you come, really?"

"I don't care if you're a monster! You're my brother!" Echo desperately cried, "I just want you back!" Zane growled, jagged ice forming under his feet. "Why would I want to go back? The kingdom has condemned me, hasn't it?"

Echo took a step closer to Zane, pulling his cloak closer to him. "You can come back! You can explain everything, like how you were cursed and-"

"Cursed?" Zane yelled, enraged. Boreal tensed up, preparing for a fight. "I was born with these powers!"

"What? And you-you never told me?" Betrayal coated Echo's words. Zane sighed and turned to look at the window, Boreal rubbing against his leg.

"Father said not to. Said I could hurt you again, and myself. However,' Zane paused for a moment, "he was wrong. It feels right to use them." His voice was cold, contempt coming through as clear as anything.

No, no Zane must be lying. The curse was making him crazy-

A hazy memory came into Echo's mind. A memory of two brothers playing with snowmen, inside, and Echo being hit in the head, falling unconscious-

"You hurt me." Echo's voice cracked.

Zane sighed. "I did. That is why I want you to go. So I can never hurt you again."

Echo felt tears pricking at his eyes. "S-so you won't come back?"

Zane shook his head. "I'm sorry, brother, but I must keep you all safe, and you'll be safer away from me." He sounded bitter about it.

"Can-can you stop the storm?" Echo pleaded.

"I'm not sure," Zane turned back to Echo, making Echo look at the ground again. "Please, go. You'll be hurt for associating with me." His hand, as cold as the ice surrounding them, was suddenly on Echo's shoulder. Zane smiled.

"I give you my blessing to marry Morro. You're going to be king now." His words were dull as dirt.

Echo yanked his shoulder out of Zane's grip. "I can't believe you're just giving up, without even trying," he growled.

Before Zane could respond, Echo stormed out of the castle.

He had other things to do, like figure out how to run a whole kingdom that was going to forever be in winter now.

He couldn't help but wish he could save Zane.

[xxmyhomexx]

BRUTAL BIRTHRIGHT: Phone Call

I am re-reading a couple of books in the Brutal Birthright series, and it gave me this idea about a phone call between Nessa and Riona Griffin. They're some of the characters I really like!

I picture Riona working in her Tennesee home one Friday night, sitting in the dining room with doors connected to the wrap around porch of their five-bedroom home. The patio is huge, and Teddy, Cole, Creed and Marshall are with Raylan on the backporch with their Bernese mountain dog Sasha.

Teddy plays a guitar, and all three of his brothers are singing while their father sits in a chair with a smile on his face. Riona is relaxed as she hums to the song her sons sing, her gaze scanning the papers until her phone rings. Picking it up, she sees it's her sister Nessa.

Riona is delighted and she asks how Anna, Cara and Whelan are doing.

"Amazing," Nessa is happy. "I called because I have some big news."

Her voice is careful, aware of her sister's reaction. "Anna just received an acceptance letter to Kingmakers."

Kingmakers, the school where the children from some of the deadliest mafia families go to take their place in the underworld. You can't call, email, or text your child because of their strict rules, including no internet, only letters. You can't leave the island with the exception of going to the city, and you cannot return home for holidays like Christmas. The only time you can leave is during the summer.

"She did?" Riona turns to the patio and sees her sons still immersed in their guitar sessions, closing the door behind her with the phone close to her ear and a hand over her chest.

"Yes," Nessa nodded. "And she's adamant on attending. She was accepted into the Heirs division."

"An heir?" Riona's eyes widen. "So Mikolaj is going to make her his successor?"

"That was always the plan," Nessa's tone doesn't change.

Riona hisses through her teeth when she thinks of her eldest niece. Anna Wilk was Nessa and Mikolaj's eldest, a stark contrast to her mother and a twin of her father. She shared Nessa's love for dance while she bonded more with Mikolaj's emotional appeal, but they both loved her just like she did her own sons.

"Riona," Nessa catches her attention. "Did...did the boys get any letters?"

Riona sucks in a breath and shakes her head. "No, and they don't know about th school."

If there was one thing that she vowed as a mom, Riona kept her children away from the mafia life. They were more well aware of went on between their families, the history of the Griffin and Gallo feud up until their current alliance. They understood their families had enemies, but they could hold their own and her boys were strong fighters and protectors.

A part of her was relieved that her redheaded boys had no knowledge of Kingmakers, and she wanted to make sure it stayed that way.

"Now I know why Dante moved to Paris with Simone," Riona inhales. "He wants to keep his family safe."

"Riona..."

"My decision is final, Nessa," Riona's voice is calm, not offending or clipped. "My boys will never know about that school, and I don't want them to be in danger and away from us on some island with kids from the most dangerous families."

She is unaware that a familiar face enters through the living room, her sister-in-law Bo. She has blossomed into a taught, strong but graceful lady, her long black curls pulled up in a bun as she crosses her arms and leans against the door frame. She watches as Riona smiles, nodding while Nessa talks on the phone.

"Thanks for calling, Nessa," she smiles. "Talk to you soon."

As she hangs up, she jumps when she sees Bo standing there. The woman is wearing a black tank, withered jeans and socks. She lives with her husband Duke at Silver Run, the ranch owned by the Boone family, but drives out on weekends to see her nephews and older brother. She has her arms crossed as she smiles at Riona.

"That phone call sounded serious. Was it about that school again?"

"Yes," Riona stretches. "My niece was accepted as an Heir."

Bo stays silent before speaking. "You lied, though. Creed also get accepted."

Riona shook her head. "It was a recommendation letter, and Raylan tore it up and threw it away. I'd rather die than have any of my boys at Kingmakers."

Bo sighs and uncrosses her arms, walking toward the patio doors and seeing them still on their guitar. The muffled hollers and laughters flit across the evening, and she hears Raylan telling them to quiet down. Riona looks out the windows as well.

"Y'know they'll be eighteen soon," Bo reminds her. "What if...they want to be more involved with the other side?"

"That's their choice," Riona agrees. "But they can from family. They'll be safer if they're close to allies instead of unknown families."

"What if they're safer at Kingmakers?" Bo asks. "Isn't there some sacred rule about no killing?"

"I tell you too much," Riona narrows her eyes. "And stop listening to my phone calls."

Bo holds her hands up in surrender. "Ok, got me there."

Riona rolls her eyes. "Maybe you should let Waya go."

Waya is Bo and Duke's son, and the look she gives her is exactly the same one Riona had when Bo mentioned Kingmakers.

"You have a death wish if you think I'm letting him attend mafia school."

Both women giggle as they watch the men still strumming along the guitar. Riona smiles as she watched Teddy pluck the strings, each brother singing their own country rendition of "Sharp Dressed Man" by ZZ Top. She places a hand over her heart as Bo wraps an arm around her shoulder.

"For a woman who never wanted children, you did good raising them."

"Yeah...I did." Riona admits.

[bookclub4m]

Episode 171 - The Moving and Management of Books

This episode we’re talking about The Moving and Management of Books! We all own a lot of books. And we’ve all made big moves! We talk about when we leave books behind, how we choose the ones we keep, and more!

You can download the podcast directly, find it on Libsyn, or get it through Apple Podcasts, Stitcher, Google Podcasts, or your favourite podcast delivery system.

In this episode

Anna Ferri | Meghan Whyte | Matthew Murray | Jam Edwards

Media We Mentioned

Wonderland, vol. 6 by Yugo Ishikawa

Links, Articles, and Things

Count Duckula (Wikipedia)

Ero guro (Wikipedia)

28 Family Sagas by BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Colour) Authors

Every month Book Club for Masochists: A Readers’ Advisory Podcasts chooses a genre at random and we read and discuss books from that genre. We also put together book lists for each episode/genre that feature works by BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Colour) authors. All of the lists can be found here.

Celestial Bodies by Jokha Alharthi

An Unlasting Home by Mai Al-Nakib

Salt Houses by Hala Alyan

The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

These Ghosts Are Family by Maisy Card

America Is Not the Heart by Elaine Castillo

Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros

The Antelope Wife by Louise Erdrich

Woman of Light by Kali Fajardo-Anstine

Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia

Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi

Calling for a Blanket Dance by Oscar Hokeah

And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini

The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri

We Measure the Earth with Our Bodies by Tsering Yangzom Lama

Kintu by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison

Things We Lost to the Water by Eric Nguyen

The Mountains Sing by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai

Evening is the Whole Day by Preeta Samarasan

A Kind of Freedom by Margaret Wilkerson Sexton

Memphis by Tara M. Stringfellow

Cane River by Lalita Tademy

The Valley of Amazement by Amy Tan

Daughters of the New Year by E.M. Tran

The Strangers by Katherena Vermette

Black Cake by Charmaine Wilkerson

Give us feedback!

Fill out the form to ask for a recommendation or suggest a genre or title for us to read!

Check out our Tumblr, follow us on Twitter or Instagram, join our Facebook Group, or send us an email!

Join us again on Tuesday, April 4th when we’ll be discussing the genre of Domestic Thrillers!

Then on Tuesday, April 18th we’ll be giving our Spring 2023 Media Update!

[3thurs]

Third Thursday events and exhibitions for March 16

The next Third Thursday — the monthly evening of art in Athens, Georgia — is scheduled for Thursday, March 16, from 6 to 9 p.m. All exhibitions are free and open to the public. This schedule and each venue’s location and hours of operation are available at 3thurs.org.

Georgia Museum of Art, University of Georgia

Yoga in the Galleries, 6 p.m. — Join us for a free yoga class surrounded by works of art in the galleries. Led by instructors from Five Points Yoga, this program is free and open to both beginner and experienced yogis. Sanitized mats are provided. This program is available both in-person (spots are available on a first-come, first-served basis; tickets are available at the front desk starting at 5:15 p.m.) and via Zoom (register at https://zoom.us/meeting/register/tJIqcuqopz8uHtcLlSBmOvBJchlq0fQ6JCWg).

Pop-Up Exhibition: “Wonder Women” — Celebrate the power of women in art with a special Women’s History Month pop-up exhibition in the Shannon and Peter Candler Collection Study Room. Stop by to check out a selection of works by woman artists from the museum’s collection, selected by museum interns.

On view:

“‘Art is a form of freedom’” — This exhibition results from a collaborative project that brought works of art from the museum’s collection into classrooms at Whitworth Women’s Facility, a prison in north Georgia. The incarcerated women there selected the works in this exhibition and wrote prose and poetry in response to them.

“Object Lessons in American Art: Selections from the Princeton University Art Museum” — This exhibition features four centuries of works from the Princeton University Art Museum that collectively explore American history, culture and society. 

“Sky Hopinka: Lore” — Images of friends and landscapes are cut, fragmented and reassembled on an overhead projector as hands guide their shape and construction in this video work stemming from Hollis Frampton’s 1971 experimental film “Nostalgia.”

“In Dialogue: Henry Ossawa Tanner, Mentor and Muse” — This focused exhibition highlights Black artist Henry Ossawa Tanner’s impact on several younger artists: Palmer C. Hayden, William H. Johnson, William Edouard Scott and Hale Woodruff.

“Decade of Tradition: Highlights from the Larry D. and Brenda A. Thompson Collection” — Selections from Larry and Brenda Thompson’s gift of works by African American artists.

“Power and Piety in 17th-Century Spanish Art” — Works by premiere Spanish baroque painters such as Francisco de Zurbarán, Bartolomé Murillo, Pedro Orrente and others, on loan from Bob Jones University Museum & Gallery.

The museum’s days of operation are Tuesday – Sunday. Reserve a free ticket and see our policies at https://georgiamuseum.org/visit/.

ATHICA: Athens Institute for Contemporary Art

ATHICA@675 Pulaski St., Suite 1200

2023 Members’ Showcase — Over 40 artist members of all ages and affinities have work in this energetic, wide-ranging and accomplished exhibition with all types of media, including sculpture, photography, painting and more.

ATHICA@CINÉ Gallery

No exhibition during March 2023.

Lyndon House Arts Center

48th Juried Exhibition —Maria Elena Ortiz, curator at the Modern in Fort Worth, Texas, reviewed 682 works of art by 245 Athens-area artists and selected 154 works by 107 local artists.

The Athenaeum

“Kara Walker: Back of Hand” — This is the first solo exhibition to be held in Georgia of the work of this internationally renowned artist. It displays a series of new works on paper that examine themes such as complicity, racism, misremembered histories and the violence that undergirds the legacy of the South. Walker moved to Stone Mountain from Stockton, California, when she was 13 and attended college at the Atlanta College of Art and Design.

tiny ATH gallery

Pop-Up Exhibition: Oil paintings by Anna Marie Ruch — Anna Marie’s works highlight places she’s visited and things she finds beautiful in the natural world.

The Classic Center

Closed for this Third Thursday.

—

Third Thursday was established in 2012 to encourage attendance at Athens’ established art venues through coordination and co-promotion by the organizing entities. 

Contact: Michael Lachowski, Georgia Museum of Art, mlachow@uga.edu.

[p3achyl3monm3lon]

Yellow 01

Happy yellow / radiate your soul glow / Can be mellow like runny egg yolk / but we like the sunny side/up bright almost light dazzle us in summery delight / million dollar smile of this child/’s colour zings, suck on a lemon and feel your blood sing / pineapple tipping your tongue fuzzingfizzing you can’t help but happy grinning

//

‘And in the strange

country fitfully lit by the inward-turning suns of her yellow

eyes, such alien trees shake out moist leaf

and the seed-crusted ferns uncoil with a slow

blindness

in the rich fruit-cake of her dark recesses where the wrinkled

intuitions of her summer roses stir and tremble in their sleep

for spring is coming and the fat buds buldge.’

Angela Carter, My Cat in Her First Spring

/

‘and a fragment of a human voice tore itself out and came past, it seemed 

already long ago, trailing

a bad dust of its dream which touched his skin. He thought of women. 

What is it like to be a woman

listening in the dark? Black mantle of silence stretches between them 

like geothermal pressure. 

Ascent of the rapist up the stairs seems as slow as lava. She listens 

to the blank space where 

his consciousness is, moving towards her. Lava can move as slow as

nine hours per inch. 

Colour and fluidity vary with its temperature from dark red and hard 

(below 1,800 degrees centigrade)

to brilliant yellow and completely fluid (above 1,950 degrees centigrade). 

She wonders if

he is listening too.’

XII. LAVA

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red 

/

‘When the black and white clouds come together, they create man. When the blue and yellow come together, they create woman. The woman tries to reach the man three times. On the fourth try, she finds him. He invites her to live with him. She agrees. As they sit by the fire of their newfound home, a coyote, a family Canidae visits, he says he was born from an egg. He brings witchcraft to the world, the first thing people need. Witchcraft is magic and so is fire and so are words. They sat by the fire, telling stories of the second, third and fourth world so that by so telling came to be.’

Nicole Walker, The Egg came First, Egg

/

‘the first yellow beam of the sun struck through the innumerable prisms of an immense and exquisitely chiselled diamond - and a white radiance was kindled that glowed upon the air like a fragment of the morning star.’

F. Scott Fitzgerald, X, The Diamond as Big as the Ritz

/

‘That was all. The wind died along the tall grasses of the valley. The dawn and the day resumed their place in a time, and the risen sun sent hot waves of yellow mist that made its path bright before it. The leaves laughed in the sun, and their laughter shook until each bough was like a girl’s school in fairyland. God had refused to accept the bribe.’

F. Scott Fitzgerald, X, The Diamond as Big as the Ritz

/

‘put up his hands to shield his sight. Before their eyes the whole surface of the mountain had changed suddenly to a dazzling burning yellow, which showed up through the jacket of the turf as light shows through a human hand’

F. Scott Fitzgerald, X, The Diamond as Big as the Ritz

/

'A light flowered yellow in the blue dusk'

Anna Kavan, Ice

/

‘Yellow oblongs stained the pure white in front of the windows. In the air the snow was transformed into a showering gold as it passed the lights’.

Anna Kavan, Ice

/

‘white stationary shadows beyond the moving fabric of falling white. Snowflakes turned yellow like swarms of bees round the lighted windows.’

Anna Kavan, Ice

/ 

“She turned to the sunlight    And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor:    "Winter is dead.’

A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young

//

‘YELLOW - HOPE

Yellow is carefree and confident. It’s not on the defensive. It acts as a shield against despair and feelings of humiliation. It’s eager for our attention, like a happy child delighted to be at the centre of things. At times, its energy can be oppressive, but like its most famous ambassador – the lemon – there are few things it won’t enhance. The German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe loved yellow, considering it to be the colour of a gently hopeful attitude to life. He owned a collection of twenty yellow waistcoats, which he always twinned with white trousers – for he loved a little serenity as well.’

Journal 2, THE PSYCHOLOGY OF COLOUR: MUSINGS FROM THE BOOK OF LIFE

[bharathitalkies]

பிரிவின் வெளிச்சம் 🔆🌻

இருபதாம் நூற்றாண்டின் மாபெரும் உலகக் கவிஞர்களில் ஒருவர், அன்னா அக்மதேவா Anna Akhmatova (1889 - 1966) இரஷ்யாவைச் சார்ந்தவர். இவர் எழுதிய இரங்கற்பா (Elegy) வகை கவிதைகள் மிகப் பிரபலம்.

Acmeism என்ற இலக்கிய அமைப்பின் தாக்கத்தில் உருவான கவிஞர். இரசியாவில் 1912 ல் உருவான ஒரு இலக்கிய அமைப்பு இது. இதை நிகோலோய் குமிலேவ் மற்றும் செர்கை கொரோடெட்ஸ்கி ஆகியோர் தொடங்கினர். இதில் நிகோலோய் குமிலேவ் அன்னா அக்மதேவாவின் முதல் கணவர்.

Acmeism என்ற இலக்கிய அமைப்பு மனித உணர்வுகளை முன்னிறுத்தி படைப்புகளை படைத்து வந்தனர். கிரேக்க சொல்லான άκμη (ákmē) என்பதில் இருந்து உருவானது இந்த அமைப்பின் பெயர். மனிதர்களின் காலம் எனப் பொருள்தரும் சொல் அது.

அக்மதேவா வின் கவிதைகள் காதல், உறவு பற்றியதாக இருந்தது. காதலும் துயரமும் தான் இவர் கவிதையின் பாடுபொருள்.

In Dreams

Black and enduring separation

I share equally with you.

Why weep? Give me your hand,

Promise me you will come again.

You and I are like high mountains

and we can't move closer.

Just send me word,

At midnight sometime through the stars.

.

தமிழில்: பாரதி ஆரா

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