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justforbooks · 1 month

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Paul Auster

Author of The New York Trilogy who conjured up a world of wonder and happenstance, miracle and catastrophe

The American writer Paul Auster, who has died aged 77 from complications of lung cancer, once described the novel as “the only place in the world where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy”. His own 18 works of fiction, along with a shelf of poems, translations, memoirs, essays and screenplays written over 50 years, often evoke eerie states of solitude and isolation. Yet they won him not just admirers but distant friends who felt that his peculiar domain of chance and mystery, wonder and happenstance, spoke to them alone. Frequently bizarre or uncanny, the world of Auster’s work aimed to present “things as they really happen, not as they’re supposed to happen”.

To the readers who loved it, his writing felt not like avant-garde experimentalism but truth-telling with a mesmerising force. He liked to quote the philosopher Pascal, who said that “it is not possible to have a reasonable belief against miracles”. Auster restored the realm of miracles – and its flip-side of fateful catastrophe – to American literature. Meanwhile, the “postmodern” sorcerer who conjured alternate or multiple selves in chiselled prose led (aptly enough) a double life as sociable pillar of the New York literary scene, a warm raconteur whose agile wit belied the brooding raptor-like image of his photoshoots. For four decades he lived in Brooklyn with his second wife, the writer Siri Hustvedt.

The fortune that drives his stories played a part in his own career. City of Glass (1985), the philosophical mystery that launched his New York Trilogy and his ascent to fame, appeared from a small imprint after 17 rejections. Though the novel helped build his misleading reputation as a cool cult author, a moody Parisian existentialist marooned in noir New York, it had a pseudonymous forerunner that shows another Auster face.

Squeeze Play, published under the pen-name “Paul Benjamin” in 1982, is a baseball-based crime caper. Its disconsolate gumshoe, Max Klein, muses that “I had come to the limit of myself, and there was nothing left.” If that plight sounds typically Auster-ish, then even more so was the baseball setting. Auster adored the sport and played it well: “I had quick reflexes and a strong arm – but my throws were often wild.” In a much-repeated tale, he failed aged eight to get an autograph from his idol Willie Mays, of the New York Giants, because he had not brought a pencil. Auster “cried all the way home”.

Auster’s work is more deeply embedded in the mid-century national culture that fuelled the novels of his elders, such as Philip Roth and John Updike, than some advocates appreciated. His fables of identity-loss and alienation have emotional roots in the mean, lonely city streets he knew when young. He once insisted, to fans and scoffers who labelled him an esoteric “French” or European coterie author, that “all of my books have been about America”.

He was born in Newark, New Jersey (also Roth’s hometown). His parents, Queenie (nee Bogat) and Samuel Auster, children of Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe, set him on a classic American path of upward mobility through education while remaining, to their son, opaque. The Invention of Solitude (1982) was Auster’s haunting attempt to imagine the life of his impenetrable father. Ghostly fathers would pervade his work. As would sudden calamity. When, aged 14, he witnessed a fellow summer-camper struck dead by lightning, the event became a paradigm for the savage contingency of life, “the bewildering instability of things”. His later novel 4321 (2017), which revisits this formative trauma, cites the composer John Cage: “The world is teeming: anything can happen.” In Auster’s work, it does.

At Columbia University in New York, he studied literature, and took part in the student protests of 1968, before moving to Paris to scrape a living as a translator of French poetry (a surrealist anthology was his first published work). He lived – literally in a garret – with the writer Lydia Davis, and returned in 1974 with nine dollars to his name. Back in New York, they married, but were divorced in 1978, a year after the birth of their son, Daniel. Poetry collections followed, but Auster’s thwarted efforts to secure a decent livelihood meant that he gave his ruefully funny 1997 memoir Hand to Mouth the subtitle “a chronicle of early failure”.

In 1982, he married the novelist and essayist Hustvedt (who recalled their courtship as “a really fast bit of business”). She became his first reader and trusted guide; they had a daughter, Sophie. Husband and wife would work during the day on different floors of their Park Slope brownstone, and watch classic movies together in the evening. Auster wrote first in longhand, then edited on his cherished Olympia typewriter.

The New York Trilogy (Ghosts and The Locked Room followed a year after City of Glass) made his stock soar, and attracted both celebrity and opportunity.

Auster wrote gnomic screenplays for arthouse films (Smoke, Blue in the Face, both 1995), even directed one (The Inner Life of Martin Frost, 2007). But it was the enigmatic, hallucinatory aura of his fiction – in 1990s novels such as The Music of Chance, Leviathan and Mr Vertigo – that defined his sensibility. Sometimes this trademark style could veer into whimsy or self-parody (as in Timbuktu, 1999, with its canine hero) although stronger novels – such as The Brooklyn Follies (2005) – always pay heed to the pulse, and voice, of contemporary America. Keenly engaged in current affairs, Auster held office in the writers’ body PEN, deplored the rise of Donald Trump, and spoke of his country’s core schism between ruthless individualism and “people who believe we’re responsible for one another”.

Auster the exacting aesthete was also a yarn-hungry storyteller. If he edited a centenary edition of Samuel Beckett – a literary touchstone, along with Hawthorne, Proust, Kafka and Joyce – he also compiled a selection of unlikely true tales submitted by National Public Radio listeners. They revealed the strange “unknowable forces” at work in everyday life. In his epic novel 4321, the formal spellbinder and social chronicler meet. It sends a boy born in New Jersey in 1947 down four separate paths in life: an Auster encyclopedia, ingenious but heartfelt too. Bulk and heart also characterised his mammoth 2021 biography of the Newark-born literary prodigy Stephen Crane, Burning Boy.

The ferocity of fate that scars his work gouged wounds into Auster’s life as well. Daniel succumbed to addiction, accidentally killed his infant daughter with drugs, and died of an overdose in 2022. Auster’s cancer diagnosis came in 2023. Prolific and versatile as ever, in that year he still published both an impassioned essay on America’s firearms fixation (Bloodbath Nation) and his farewell novel, Baumgartner. Its narrative hi-jinks dance smartly over a bass chord of grief.

Auster populated a literary planet all his own, where the strange music, and magic, of chance and contingency coexist with love, dream and wonder. In Burning Boy, he wonders why Crane’s output now goes largely unread, although “the prose still crackles, the eye still cuts, the work still stings”. After 34 books, so does his own.

Auster is survived by his wife and daughter, and a grandson, and by his sister, Janet.

🔔 Paul Benjamin Auster, writer, born 3 February 1947; died 30 April 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Paul Auster #in memoriam

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non-un-topo · 2 months

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13 Books Tag Game

Was tagged by @disregardandfelicity Thank you! This is really getting me back into the spirit of reading. I needed this <3

1) The last book I read:

Coma by Alex Garland. I love him as a director, and I just recently found out he's also written some books. It was fun and mind-bendy, sort of reminded me of the stuff I try to write. Also really fast. I think I finished it in one or two hours.

2) A book I recommend:

Moving Forward Sideways Like a Crab by Shani Mootoo. I recently formed a little book club around this book because I just think it's so special. And almost no one has heard of it, which is such a shame! Everything this author writes is just stunning. Heartbreaking, guttural, sometimes disturbing, but always always stunning.

3) A book that I couldn’t put down:

Pillars of Light by Jane Johnson. Became one of my all-time favourites almost immediately, and I plowed right through it. I've been itching to read it again, actually. Oh, John the sad gay foundling, I miss reading from your pov...

4) A book I’ve read twice (or more):

For some reason I've read Room by Emma Donoghue twice. I wouldn't be able to stomach it now, but I guess it did something for me at the time. If anything, it's a fast read once you get used to the five year old's voice.

5) A book on my TBR:

So, soooo many... After the book I'm currently reading, I was hoping to pick up White Noise by Don DeLillo or Foe by Iain Reid.

6) A book I’ve put down:

Cloud Atlas, for now. Just sort of fell out of it by accident.

7) A book on my wish list:

And Then She Fell by Alicia Elliott. I've read her other book, A Mind Spread Out on the Ground, and I genuinely think it's one of those must-reads for any Canadian (or non-Canadian) interested in Indigenous lit.

8) A favorite book from childhood:

I was partial to The Spiderwick Chronicles. In earlier childhood, though, it was The BFG by Roald Dahl.

9) A book you would give to a friend:

The Solitude of Prime Numbers by Paolo Giordano. I know what you're thinking --- kind of a depressing book to give to a friend. And yes, it is depressing and very rough. But it opened something in my heart, idk. I felt comforted by it. I would also give a friend The Bonesetter's Daughter by Amy Tan. Basically, books that have made me cry and hug them after I finished them.

10) A book of poetry or lyrics that you own

Can't remember the titles off the top of my head, but I have some Neruda. My partner is the poetry reader.

11) A nonfiction book you own:

Oh, sooooo many. I used to only read non-fiction for the longest time. But I'll go with the one that makes me look the most pretentious: Gender Trouble by Judith Butler. Found in the special little book sale room at the library I work at.

12) What are you currently reading:

The Kite Runner, for the first time. It's as gorgeous and heartbreaking as promised.

13) What are you planning on reading next?

Essex Dogs by Dan Jones. I bought a copy last year, got a few chapters in, then gave it to my dad for Christmas because we're big Dan Jones fans and I couldn't find another copy anywhere. I waited months for my new copy, so I have to read it now!

Hmm, tagging @spacegirlsgang @raedear @captainshakespear @maddielle @polarcell @knoepfchen but no pressure ofc

#i can't remember which of y'all read a lot forgive me #this was really fun and made me want to read. i though i barely knew any books but i kept coming up with multiple answers

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cassianus · 11 months

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Can the Ladder, a work written by a hermit monk who lived 1,400 years ago, say something to us today? Can the existential journey of a man who lived his entire life on Mount Sinai in such a distant time be relevant to us?

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

After 20 Catecheses dedicated to the Apostle Paul, today I would like to return to presenting the great writers of the Church of the East and of the West in the Middle Ages. And I am proposing the figure of John known as Climacus, a Latin transliteration of the Greek term klimakos, which means of the ladder (klimax). This is the title of his most important work in which he describes the ladder of human life ascending towards God. He was born in about 575 a.d. He lived, therefore, during the years in which Byzantium, the capital of the Roman Empire of the East, experienced the greatest crisis in its history. The geographical situation of the Empire suddenly changed and the torrent of barbarian invasions swept away all its structures. Only the structure of the Church withstood them, continuing in these difficult times to carry out her missionary, human, social and cultural action, especially through the network of monasteries in which great religious figures such as, precisely, John Climacus were active.

John lived and told of his spiritual experiences in the Mountains of Sinai, where Moses encountered God and Elijah heard his voice. Information on him has been preserved in a brief Life (PG 88, 596-608), written by a monk, Daniel of Raithu. At the age of 16, John, who had become a monk on Mount Sinai, made himself a disciple of Abba Martyr, an "elder", that is, a "wise man". At about 20 years of age, he chose to live as a hermit in a grotto at the foot of the mountain in the locality of Tola, eight kilometres from the present-day St Catherine's Monastery. Solitude, however, did not prevent him from meeting people eager for spiritual direction, or from paying visits to several monasteries near Alexandria. In fact, far from being an escape from the world and human reality, his eremitical retreat led to ardent love for others (Life, 5) and for God (ibid., 7). After 40 years of life as a hermit, lived in love for God and for neighbour years in which he wept, prayed and fought with demons he was appointed hegumen of the large monastery on Mount Sinai and thus returned to cenobitic life in a monastery. However, several years before his death, nostalgic for the eremitical life, he handed over the government of the community to his brother, a monk in the same monastery.

John died after the year 650. He lived his life between two mountains, Sinai and Tabor and one can truly say that he radiated the light which Moses saw on Sinai and which was contemplated by the three Apostles on Mount Tabor!

He became famous, as I have already said, through his work, entitled The Climax, in the West known as the Ladder of Divine Ascent (PG 88, 632-1164). Composed at the insistent request of the hegumen of the neighbouring Monastery of Raithu in Sinai, the Ladder is a complete treatise of spiritual life in which John describes the monk's journey from renunciation of the world to the perfection of love. This journey according to his book covers 30 steps, each one of which is linked to the next. The journey may be summarized in three consecutive stages: the first is expressed in renunciation of the world in order to return to a state of evangelical childhood. Thus, the essential is not the renunciation but rather the connection with what Jesus said, that is, the return to true childhood in the spiritual sense, becoming like children. John comments: "A good foundation of three layers and three pillars is: innocence, fasting and temperance. Let all babes in Christ (cf. 1 Cor 3: 1) begin with these virtues, taking as their model the natural babes" (1, 20; 636). Voluntary detachment from beloved people and places permits the soul to enter into deeper communion with God. This renunciation leads to obedience which is the way to humility through humiliations which will never be absent on the part of the brethren. John comments: "Blessed is he who has mortified his will to the very end and has entrusted the care of himself to his teacher in the Lord: indeed he will be placed on the right hand of the Crucified One!" (4, 37; 704).

The second stage of the journey consists in spiritual combat against the passions. Every step of the ladder is linked to a principal passion that is defined and diagnosed, with an indication of the treatment and a proposal of the corresponding virtue. All together, these steps of the ladder undoubtedly constitute the most important treatise of spiritual strategy that we possess. The struggle against the passions, however, is steeped in the positive it does not remain as something negative thanks to the image of the "fire" of the Holy Spirit: that "all those who enter upon the good fight (cf. 1 Tm 6: 12), which is hard and narrow,... may realize that they must leap into the fire, if they really expect the celestial fire to dwell in them" (1,18; 636). The fire of the Holy Spirit is the fire of love and truth. The power of the Holy Spirit alone guarantees victory. However, according to John Climacus it is important to be aware that the passions are not evil in themselves; they become so through human freedom's wrong use of them. If they are purified, the passions reveal to man the path towards God with energy unified by ascesis and grace and, "if they have received from the Creator an order and a beginning..., the limit of virtue is boundless" (26/2, 37; 1068).

The last stage of the journey is Christian perfection that is developed in the last seven steps of the Ladder. These are the highest stages of spiritual life, which can be experienced by the "Hesychasts": the solitaries, those who have attained quiet and inner peace; but these stages are also accessible to the more fervent cenobites. Of the first three simplicity, humility and discernment John, in line with the Desert Fathers, considered the ability to discern, the most important. Every type of behaviour must be subject to discernment; everything, in fact, depends on one's deepest motivations, which need to be closely examined. Here one enters into the soul of the person and it is a question of reawakening in the hermit, in the Christian, spiritual sensitivity and a "feeling heart", which are gifts from God: "After God, we ought to follow our conscience as a rule and guide in everything," (26/1,5; 1013). In this way one reaches tranquillity of soul, hesychia, by means of which the soul may gaze upon the abyss of the divine mysteries.

The state of quiet, of inner peace, prepares the Hesychast for prayer which in John is twofold: "corporeal prayer" and "prayer of the heart". The former is proper to those who need the help of bodily movement: stretching out the hands, uttering groans, beating the breast, etc. (15, 26; 900). The latter is spontaneous, because it is an effect of the reawakening of spiritual sensitivity, a gift of God to those who devote themselves to corporeal prayer. In John this takes the name "Jesus prayer" (Iesou euche), and is constituted in the invocation of solely Jesus' name, an invocation that is continuous like breathing: "May your remembrance of Jesus become one with your breathing, and you will then know the usefulness of hesychia", inner peace (27/2, 26; 1112). At the end the prayer becomes very simple: the word "Jesus" simply becomes one with the breath.

The last step of the ladder (30), suffused with "the sober inebriation of the spirit", is dedicated to the supreme "trinity of virtues": faith, hope and above all charity. John also speaks of charity as eros (human love), a symbol of the matrimonial union of the soul with God, and once again chooses the image of fire to express the fervour, light and purification of love for God. The power of human love can be reoriented to God, just as a cultivated olive may be grafted on to a wild olive tree (cf. Rm 11: 24) (cf. 15, 66; 893). John is convinced that an intense experience of this eros will help the soul to advance far more than the harsh struggle against the passions, because of its great power. Thus, in our journey, the positive aspect prevails. Yet charity is also seen in close relation to hope: "Hope is the power that drives love. Thanks to hope, we can look forward to the reward of charity.... Hope is the doorway of love.... The absence of hope destroys charity: our efforts are bound to it, our labours are sustained by it, and through it we are enveloped by the mercy of God" (30, 16; 1157). The conclusion of the Ladder contains the synthesis of the work in words that the author has God himself utter: "May this ladder teach you the spiritual disposition of the virtues. I am at the summit of the ladder, and as my great initiate (St Paul) said: "So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love' (1 Cor 13: 13)!" (30, 18; 1160).

At this point, a last question must be asked: can the Ladder, a work written by a hermit monk who lived 1,400 years ago, say something to us today? Can the existential journey of a man who lived his entire life on Mount Sinai in such a distant time be relevant to us? At first glance it would seem that the answer must be "no", because John Climacus is too remote from us. But if we look a little closer, we see that the monastic life is only a great symbol of baptismal life, of Christian life. It shows, so to speak, in capital letters what we write day after day in small letters. It is a prophetic symbol that reveals what the life of the baptized person is, in communion with Christ, with his death and Resurrection. The fact that the top of the "ladder", the final steps, are at the same time the fundamental, initial and most simple virtues is particularly important to me: faith, hope and charity. These are not virtues accessible only to moral heroes; rather they are gifts of God to all the baptized: in them our life develops too. The beginning is also the end, the starting point is also the point of arrival: the whole journey towards an ever more radical realization of faith, hope and charity. The whole ascent is present in these virtues. Faith is fundamental, because this virtue implies that I renounce my arrogance, my thought, and the claim to judge by myself without entrusting myself to others. This journey towards humility, towards spiritual childhood is essential. It is necessary to overcome the attitude of arrogance that makes one say: I know better, in this my time of the 21st century, than what people could have known then. Instead, it is necessary to entrust oneself to Sacred Scripture alone, to the word of the Lord, to look out on the horizon of faith with humility, in order to enter into the enormous immensity of the universal world, of the world of God. In this way our soul grows, the sensitivity of the heart grows toward God. Rightly, John Climacus says that hope alone renders us capable of living charity; hope in which we transcend the things of every day, we do not expect success in our earthly days but we look forward to the revelation of God himself at last. It is only in this extension of our soul, in this self-transcendence, that our life becomes great and that we are able to bear the effort and disappointments of every day, that we can be kind to others without expecting any reward. Only if there is God, this great hope to which I aspire, can I take the small steps of my life and thus learn charity. The mystery of prayer, of the personal knowledge of Jesus, is concealed in charity: simple prayer that strives only to move the divine Teacher's heart. So it is that one's own heart opens, one learns from him his own kindness, his love. Let us therefore use this "ascent" of faith, hope and charity. In this way we will arrive at true life.

Vatican, Feb. 11, 2009

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cecilyacat · 4 months

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BBC Big Read List

Many years ago, I first started tallying the books from the BBC Big Read list, seeing how my reading and interests correllate. I don't take it as the "one truth" on which books are worth reading or "good", I just find it interesting which ones I agree with. Let's go!

Out of the BBC's "The Big Read" list from 2005, which ones did you read, plan to read or started to read, but didn't finish? The ones I read are fat, the ones I still want to read are in italics, the ones I started but didn't finish are crossed out and all the other ones I have either never heard of before or never wanted to read them.

1. The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien 2. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen 3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman 4. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams 5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, JK Rowling 6. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee 7. Winnie the Pooh, AA Milne 8. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell 9. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, CS Lewis 10. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë 11. Catch-22, Joseph Heller 12. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë (and I thought it was horrible. But I wanted to finish it!) 13. Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks 14. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier 15. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger 16. The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame 17. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens 18. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott 19. Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres 20. War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy 21. Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell 22. Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone, JK Rowling 23. Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets, JK Rowling 24. Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban, JK Rowling 25. The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien 26. Tess Of The D'Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy 27. Middlemarch, George Eliot 28. A Prayer For Owen Meany, John Irving 29. The Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck 30. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll 31. The Story Of Tracy Beaker, Jacqueline Wilson 32. One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez 33. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett 34. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens 35. Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl 36. Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson 37. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute 38. Persuasion, Jane Austen 39. Dune, Frank Herbert 40. Emma, Jane Austen 41. Anne Of Green Gables, LM Montgomery 42. Watership Down, Richard Adams 43. The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald 44. The Count Of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas 45. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh 46. Animal Farm, George Orwell 47. A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens 48. Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy 49. Goodnight Mister Tom, Michelle Magorian 50. The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher

51. The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett (and I love it) 52. Of Mice And Men, John Steinbeck (didn't finish it in school but want to try again) 53. The Stand, Stephen King 54. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy 55. A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth 56. The BFG, Roald Dahl 57. Swallows And Amazons, Arthur Ransome 58. Black Beauty, Anna Sewell 59. Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer 60. Crime And Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky 61. Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman 62. Memoirs Of A Geisha, Arthur Golden 63. A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens 64. The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCollough 65. Mort, Terry Pratchett 66. The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton 67. The Magus, John Fowles 68. Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman 69. Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett 70. Lord Of The Flies, William Golding 71. Perfume, Patrick Süskind 72. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell 73. Night Watch, Terry Pratchett 74. Matilda, Roald Dahl 75. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding 76. The Secret History, Donna Tartt 77. The Woman In White, Wilkie Collins 78. Ulysses, James Joyce 79. Bleak House, Charles Dickens 80. Double Act, Jacqueline Wilson 81. The Twits, Roald Dahl 82. I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith 83. Holes, Louis Sachar 84. Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake 85. The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy 86. Vicky Angel, Jacqueline Wilson 87. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley 88. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons 89. Magician, Raymond E Feist 90. On The Road, Jack Kerouac 91. The Godfather, Mario Puzo 92. The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel 93. The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett 94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho 95. Katherine, Anya Seton 96. Kane And Abel, Jeffrey Archer 97. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez 98. Girls In Love, Jacqueline Wilson 99. The Princess Diaries, Meg Cabot 100. Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie

101. Three Men In A Boat, Jerome K. Jerome 102.Small Gods, Terry Pratchett 103. The Beach, Alex Garland 104. Dracula, Bram Stoker 105. Point Blanc, Anthony Horowitz 106. The Pickwick Papers, Charles Dickens 107. Stormbreaker, Anthony Horowitz 108. The Wasp Factory, Iain Banks 109. The Day Of The Jackal, Frederick Forsyth 110. The Illustrated Mum, Jacqueline Wilson 111. Jude The Obscure, Thomas Hardy 112. The Secret Diary Of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾, Sue Townsend 113. The Cruel Sea, Nicholas Monsarrat 114. Les Misérables, Victor Hugo 115. The Mayor Of Casterbridge, Thomas Hardy 116. The Dare Game, Jacqueline Wilson 117. Bad Girls, Jacqueline Wilson 118. The Picture Of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde 119. Shogun, James Clavell 120. The Day Of The Triffids, John Wyndham 121. Lola Rose, Jacqueline Wilson 122. Vanity Fair, William Makepeace Thackeray 123. The Forsyte Saga, John Galsworthy 124. House Of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski 125. The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver 126. Reaper Man, Terry Pratchett 127. Angus, Thongs And Full-Frontal Snogging, Louise Rennison 128. The Hound Of The Baskervilles, Arthur Conan Doyle 129. Possession, A. S. Byatt 130. The Master And Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov 131. The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood 132. Danny The Champion Of The World, Roald Dahl 133. East Of Eden, John Steinbeck 134. George's Marvellous Medicine, Roald Dahl 135. Wyrd Sisters, Terry Pratchett 136. The Color Purple, Alice Walker 137. Hogfather, Terry Pratchett 138. The Thirty-Nine Steps, John Buchan 139. Girls In Tears, Jacqueline Wilson 140. Sleepovers, Jacqueline Wilson 141. All Quiet On The Western Front, Erich Maria Remarque 142. Behind The Scenes At The Museum, Kate Atkinson 143. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby 144. It, Stephen King 145. James And The Giant Peach, Roald Dahl 146. The Green Mile, Stephen King 147. Papillon, Henri Charriere 148. Men At Arms, Terry Pratchett 149. Master And Commander, Patrick O'Brian 150. Skeleton Key, Anthony Horowitz

151. Soul Music, Terry Pratchett 152. Thief Of Time, Terry Pratchett 153. The Fifth Elephant, Terry Pratchett 154. Atonement, Ian McEwan 155. Secrets, Jacqueline Wilson 156. The Silver Sword, Ian Serraillier 157. One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey 158. Heart Of Darkness, Joseph Conrad 159. Kim, Rudyard Kipling 160. Cross Stitch, Diana Gabaldon 161. Moby Dick, Herman Melville 162. River God, Wilbur Smith 163. Sunset Song, Lewis Grassic Gibbon 164. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx 165. The World According To Garp, John Irving 166. Lorna Doone, R. D. Blackmore 167. Girls Out Late, Jacqueline Wilson 168. The Far Pavilions, M. M. Kaye 169. The Witches, Roald Dahl 170. Charlotte's Web, E. B. White 171. Frankenstein, Mary Shelley (I've read excepts for uni) 172. They Used To Play On Grass, Terry Venables and Gordon Williams 173. The Old Man And The Sea, Ernest Hemingway 174. The Name Of The Rose, Umberto Eco 175. Sophie's World, Jostein Gaarder 176. Dustbin Baby, Jacqueline Wilson 177. Fantastic Mr Fox, Roald Dahl 178. Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov 179. Jonathan Livingstone Seagull, Richard Bach 180. The Little Prince, Antoine De Saint-Exupery 181. The Suitcase Kid, Jacqueline Wilson 182. Oliver Twist, Charles Dickens 183. The Power Of One, Bryce Courtenay 184. Silas Marner, George Eliot 185. American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis 186. The Diary Of A Nobody, George and Weedon Grossmith 187. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh (I stopped after the toilet-scene. Too disgusting) 188. Goosebumps, R. L. Stine 189. Heidi, Johanna Spyri 190. Sons And Lovers, D. H. LawrenceLife of Lawrence 191. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera 192. Man And Boy, Tony Parsons 193. The Truth, Terry Pratchett 194. The War Of The Worlds, H. G. Wells 195. The Horse Whisperer, Nicholas Evans 196. A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry 197. Witches Abroad, Terry Pratchett 198. The Once And Future King, T. H. White 199. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Eric Carle 200. Flowers In The Attic, Virginia Andrews

Read: 57 Want to read: 60

Some of the books to read I know very little about except the title and that they're classics, some others I know a lot about (and I even have "Men at Arms" on my TBR pile for when the mood strikes me next). I like reading classics once in a while, but especially older ones I can't read too often, I need to be in the right mood for that style of writing.

The last time I updated this was in 2015 and I had read 44 and wanted to read 72 - so 15 books in 9 years xD Like I said, it's not a challenge or a goal to read all of them, just a convenient way of keeping track of which classics I want to read eventually.

#my actual life #bbc big read #books

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pistolenprinz · 3 months

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RDR2 CHARACTERS AS THE MAJOR ARCANA (PT. 3 OF MANY)

I've been really digging tarot lately, and finding a lot of comfort/joy indulging in the universe's energies, so I figured I would try my hand at assigning each of the main gang (with some exceptions) to one of the major arcana, as well as giving my personal interpretations of how it fits. Note: For this post, I've dipped into my own deck (Raven Rogue's Tarotorial), and will be pulling the imagery-specific elements from them. I will cite things as such "Insert text here [Source Name]." Regardless, the actual applications to the plotlines and characters is my own and is my opinion. To cut down on the length of these posts, I've privately paired up gang members that I either think provide a good foil for one another, or those that I just think pair well in terms of discussion. This section will be copy-pasted across all the posts in this series for sake of clarity.

ABIGAIL MARSTON (NÉE ROBERTS) - THE HIGH PRIESTESS

The High Priestess is a formidable force of mediation and balance, sitting between the Pillar of Establishment (Jachin, right) and the Pillar of Strength (Boaz, left). This card offers the balance between masculine and feminine, good and evil, negative and positive [Tarotorial; Card Imagery].

If Abigail has no fans, then I am dead. Listen to me. Listen to me right now. She is a moving force within the gang's dynamic, and I will not let anybody tell me otherwise. And no, it is not because "we all had her", Dutch lied and tried to paint her a villain by weaponizing her previous experiences. But back to Abigail. Like John, there are two things that pull at her: the gang, and her family. Those are her two pillars. She tries, so hard, to balance them and keep them both above the water. Like… She tries to stop John from putting himself at unnecessary risk for Dutch's goals, but also encourages him to do proper work with Dutch and the rest of the gang so that he can provide for Jack. She tries to get through to him via Arthur, but also tries to get through to Arthur with John (knowing their conflict and their former closeness).

If any of you are familiar with the God of War franchise (which is a current fixation of mine), I see her role within the plot comparable to Lady Sif's. And can see the parallels between Sif's relationship with Thor and her relationship with John (and further: Thor's dependency on Odin being comparable to John's dependency on Dutch). That's the vibe I get from it.

MOLLY O'SHEA - THE MOON

The Moon shows a wolf and a dog standing on either side of a path -- these creatures represent the dualities of our wild and civilized sides. Two towers flank the path which seems to present two possible outcomes. Each side has a consequence [Tarotorial; Card Imagery].

Molly is distant from the rest of the gang. She orbits around them, though sits much higher than them. However, she is not unlike them in terms of her complexity. I really think Molly's characterization and her background tends to get overshadowed, and I think those are relevant to her being a representation of The Moon. She comes from "civilized" life. She was born into wealth, and sought adventure through her moving to America. She experienced that "wildness" of the Van der Linde gang, particularly through Dutch, and switched her path to see what it was all about. Unfortunately for her, it led her down a path that is isolating and full of conflict. This is shown in her interactions with other gang members, and through her own words (re: her poetry; "I sit in solitude and scrawl […] I've nothing left. I gave you all.") And, in a way, the imagery surrounding The Moon is isolating. The two sides of a person's nature, split and separated by the towers and winding path. She is alone in her status and in her life within the gang. And try as she may to confide in others (particularly Arthur), the only person that could save her is herself.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #abigail marston #abigail roberts #molly o'shea #headcanon #characters as major arcana #// we are so back babey

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breedaboyd · 8 months

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Day 18 ~ Wolf at the Door

Prompt: Olfactophilia (Scent Kink).

Pairing: John McBride × Ezra May (M!OC).

Word Count: 3k+

CW: Anal sex, cumflation, knotting, outdoor sex, scent kink, semi-public, teasing, throat-fucking.

The grand hall is a swirl of opulent fabrics and sparkling chandeliers, a symphony of voices and laughter that fills the air. Detective May navigates the crowd with a grace that belies the turmoil beneath his composed exterior. The occasion demands decorum but the proximity of John, the magnetic pull between them, is an irresistible force.

John, standing tall in his impeccable suit, is a pillar of composure. His canine senses, ever vigilant, detect the subtle changes in the air. He catches the undercurrent of Ezra's scent, a heady mix of arousal and heat, swirling hot and sweet around them. It's an intoxicating cocktail that stirs something primal within him.

As they exchange pleasantries with other guests, Ezra's touches, though seemingly innocent, are anything but. Fingertips brushing against John's arm, a subtle graze of their hands; it's a dance of temptation, a silent invitation that hangs between them. John's breath catches, his eyes fixed on Ezra's lips, aching to close the distance. He senses the primal part of him, the wolf within, stirring, its instincts urging him to claim what's his. He fights against it, the battle evident in the tightening of his jaw and the controlled tension in his body.

Ezra's laughter rings out, a melodic sound that reverberates. It's a siren's call, drawing him ever closer to the edge of restraint. He imagines sweeping Ezra away from the crowd, finding solace in the private chambers of his thoughts. Their eyes meet and, in that shared gaze, there's a spark of recognition, an acknowledgment of the tension between them. It's a silent understanding, a secret pact that thrums beneath the surface of polite conversation.

As the night wears on, the pull between them intensifies. Ezra's scent, now heavy and enveloping, weaves a spell that threatens to shatter John's control. He can't help but picture it; shoving him against the wall, growling and panting, as he slides inside, jamming his hips up against Ezra's, hearing him whine and beg...

He excuses himself, needing a moment to collect his thoughts, to rein in the feral instincts that threaten to consume him. The cool night air hits him like a pail of cold water, grounding him. He makes his way to a stone bench, breathing in deep, trying to clear his head. But even in the solitude of the garden, he can't escape Ezra's scent, lingering like a seductive promise. It's a maddening torment, the battle between restraint and desire, duty and want...

The night air hangs heavy with the scent of blooming roses and damp earth. Ezra's footsteps echo softly on the cobblestones as he wanders through the moonlit garden, the flickering lanterns casting long, dancing shadows. He's drawn to the stone bench nestled beneath an ancient oak tree, a hidden sanctuary.

As he approaches, he senses John's presence before he even sees him. The air seems to hum with a strange energy, a shift in the atmosphere. And then, there he is, perched on the bench, moonlight pooling around him like a shroud.

John looks up and his eyes gleam, two molten pools of gold that catch the moonlight, a stark contrast to the night sky. It's a sign; a warning. The beast within him is close to the surface, instincts threatening to break free. Ezra settles beside him and there's a charged silence, a palpable tension that hangs in the air. He can feel the weight of John's gaze on him, the hunger in it, and it sends a delicious thrill through him.

"You should be inside." John's voice is low, a rumble that seems to vibrate through Ezra's lean frame. Ezra turns to look at him, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"I needed some fresh air. Besides, the company in there was...lacking." He says, his tone teasing. Lacking what, Ezra? Lacking what? John's jaw tightens, a flash of frustration crossing his face.

"You're testing me, Ezra." He warns, his voice strained. Ezra's smile widens, a boldness taking hold of him. He shifts closer, their thighs brushing, and the scent of John washes over him, strong and savoury and animal. It's a potent cocktail, one that stirs something deep within him.

"I wonder, John." Ezra's voice is a sultry purr. "What about me tests your patience? Is it the way I touch you or maybe the way I look at you?" He asks, batting his bright emerald eyes at the older man. John's breath hitches, a dangerous edge creeping into his gaze. He's on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing control.

"Ezra..." He warns again, his voice a low growl. But Ezra presses on, a fire burning in his eyes.

"Or is it the way you can't help but react to me? How your beast longs to be set free? Because I belong to you and you can't bear to see me close to someone else?" John's fingers clench on the edge of the bench, his knuckles turning white. He's struggling, the battle within him evident in every rigid line of his body. Ezra leans in, his lips brushing against John's ear, his breath a warm caress. "You're so close, John. I can feel it. Can you?" The words hang in the air; a challenge, a taunt. The scent of their arousal mingles, thick and delicious, and Ezra can almost taste the tension.

The spark that ignites the explosion is subtle, a taunting glint in Ezra's eye, a seductive tilt to his lips. John's control finally snaps. He lunges at Ezra with a feral growl and they crash onto the soft grass, the impact knocking the breath from them both.

Ezra lands on his back, John on top of him, a wild, untamed hunger in his eyes. His mouth finds Ezra's neck, and he attacks with a rabid fervour, nipping, biting and licking as if he can't get enough. The sensation sends shivers through Ezra's body and he can't help but arch into John's touch.

"John...!" He gasps, his voice a heady mix of desire and need. John's hands are everywhere, gripping Ezra's shoulders, his hips, his thighs, as if he's trying to anchor himself to reality. But his control has shattered and there's a desperation in his touch that Ezra finds intoxicating.

Ezra's fingers tangle in John's hair, nails scratching at his scalp. He leans in, lips brushing against John's ear and whispers teasingly. "Doesn't it feel so good, John? To let go and finally give in?"

The words only seem to fan the flames of John's feral desire. He moves lower, his lips tracing a burning path along Ezra's collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt-sweet skin at the hollow of his throat.

Ezra's voice is a sultry purr as he continues to tease, his fingers carding through John's hair and scratching him behind the ear in a way that makes John shiver with delight. "You're gorgeous like this; wild and feral for me."

John's response is a growl, a sound that rumbles through Ezra's chest. He surges forward, capturing Ezra's lips in a kiss that's fierce and consuming. It's all tongue and teeth and sweet, sweet, wanton need. John's eyes gleam with a fierce intensity, the primal beast within him clawing at the surface, demanding release. John reaches up with shaking hands and the sound of fabric ripping tears through the air as scraps of fabric flutter onto the grass.

Ezra's breath comes in quick, shallow gasps, his heart pounding with a heady mix of desire and trepidation. His suit, once impeccable, lies in tatters, testament to John's relentless need. John moves closer, his movements predatory. He doesn't ask, doesn't seek permission; he simply acts.

His hands, powerful and unyielding, find the remnants of Ezra's suit and with a low growl, he tears it away. Buttons scatter like leaves in the wind, fabric shreds like paper, leaving Ezra exposed and vulnerable. "John..." Ezra gasps, a mix of desire and surrender in his voice. John's lips brush Ezra's ear as he snarls possessively, his words a raw declaration of ownership.

"Belong to me." He murmurs, his voice low and commanding. "Have to claim you." Ezra's fingers dig into the grass beneath him as John's mouth blazes a searing trail down his neck. The sensations are a whirlwind of pleasure and pain, sending sparks of electricity dancing across his skin.

John's hands roam Ezra's body, rough and hungry, mapping every curve, branding his touch into Ezra's memory. They trace lower, grabbing Ezra's cock in a powerful grip. Ezra's body arches, a helpless plea for more as he surrenders to John's exploration, to the primal force that consumes them both.

"John, please..." He groans, his voice a fervent whisper. John's lips move lower, igniting a wildfire in their wake. He breathes hot and ragged against Ezra's skin, the urgency of his need driving him to the edge. Ezra's fingers clutch at John's hair, urging him closer, deeper into the maelstrom of sensation. He's lost, utterly consumed by John's desire, by the relentless hunger that seizes them.

As John continues his descent, tracing a fiery path down Ezra's body, his words become a desperate mantra.

"Mine. Always." He growls, the word a declaration, a promise of possession. Ezra shudders, his body trembling with need, with the desire to belong. John's hands continue their feverish exploration, rough and unyielding, marking Ezra as his own.

"Always." Ezra echoes, his voice a heady mix of surrender and longing.

John flips Ezra over on the grass, one strong arm wrapped around the smaller man's midsection to keep their bodies pressed flush together. The young man doesn't have to be a detective to feel the huge bulge pressing against his backside, only contained by John's drawers and suit pants. A jolt of arousal shoots through him as he grinds back against John, earning himself a low rumble in response. John reaches down to tear open his pants and his cock springs free, thick and pulsing. Ezra can't help but lick his lips at the feeling, and John shivers as he slicks the shaft with pre-cum. He rocks his hips forward, grinding against Ezra's hole and spreading the slick over his tight rim.

"Ready?" He growls, the tension and barely restrained desire evident in his voice. Ezra nods frantically, aching to be filled, to be claimed. John thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke, Ezra's hot body taking him all the way to the top of his knot. The sensation is almost too much, the sudden stretch and fullness making Ezra gasp and writhe beneath him. He grabs at handfuls of grass, tearing it from the soil, as he feels John fill him to the brim. "You smell so good..." John groans, his voice a heady mixture of desire and surrender. Ezra's scent is intoxicating, drawing him deeper, already pushing him towards the edge.

He begins to move, setting a punishing pace, the intensity of his need driving him wild. Each powerful stroke grinds against Ezra's prostate, sending waves of pleasure crashing through him. His fingers claw at the earth, desperately seeking purchase as he's swept away in the tide of sensation.

"Christ, John...!" He gasps, the primal fire consuming them both. John buries his face in the crook of Ezra's neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and warm flesh. Oh, how he longs to dig his teeth into the skin, deeper, deeper... The scent of him is intoxicating, sweet and heady, and John can't get enough as he fucks Ezra into the lawn, hard and fast.

Ezra moans wantonly beneath him, each thrust eliciting a new, delicious sound. John's knot begins to swell, stretching Ezra's tight hole even further. The sensations are overwhelming, pushing them both to the brink. "J-John, I can... God, I can feel you in my belly..." The older man's hips buck forward, filling Ezra's body over and over, burying himself in the tight heat of his body. Ezra trembles beneath him, the intensity threatening to tear him apart.

But then, before John can finish, he pulls out and the smaller man's body feels so empty as he's lowered down onto the grass. He turns over to look at John. Gold rings the older man's eyes, a sign of the beast breaking free. "Why... Why did you stop?" He asks and John shakes his head slowly as he reaches up to grasp Ezra's jaw.

"Because I want to use that sweet mouth of yours, darling." He purrs and Ezra's eyes widen in a mix of fear and excitement.

John moves into position, dragging the head of his cock along Ezra's lips, the young detective's body laid out before him, exposed to the cool night air.

"Open for me, love." He orders, voice low and smooth, and Ezra finds himself obeying before he can register it. John slowly slides inside Ezra's mouth, the sweet-salty taste of him making Ezra shudder with pleasure. "Good boy." John growls, his hand wrapping around the younger man's neck, feeling how his cock makes the young detective's throat bulge. Ezra shudders as John slides in, inch by inch, slowly cutting off his air supply, especially with the large, warm hand wrapped around his neck.

The sensation is overwhelming; the taste of him, the weight of him, it's all too much. John's eyes gleam golden hue, a wild hunger in his gaze. "Now, keep that mouth open." He surges forward, fully fucking Ezra's mouth with a primal intensity, claiming him, possessing him, in a way that no-one else ever could. Very few could take John's size, especially in their mouth, but Ezra has had practice. Still, the older man relishes in watching the way his pretty, emerald eyes roll back into his skull, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he gags.

John's eyes dart between Ezra's legs, the way his cock is twitching and leaking lets him know that the young detective is enjoying every second of this; the cock deep in his throat, the lack of air, the feeling of the grass against his bare skin, the exposure and John... Just John... John everywhere. "Fuck, Ezra... Such a good little whore for me." He grunts, hips bucking forward, sliding in and out of Ezra's abused throat. He can feel the young detective swallowing around him, and the wet, hot, velvety pressure sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through him. But John knows he can't last much longer. He can feel the beast clawing at the surface, the primal need overwhelming. He can only stave off the beast for so long...

But then he's out. And John is lost in the feral lust of the wolf. He drives his cock deep into Ezra's throat, his knot pressing against the younger man's lips, not quite slipping in just yet. The sounds rising from the green are sloppy and wet, desperate and depraved. John leans over, bracing his hands on the younger man's chest as he bucks his hips against Ezra's face, hard and fast and deep. Ezra's hands rise to grab at John's thighs, nails digging into the flesh, clinging to him as the older man uses him for his own pleasure.

The beast roars to life, a wild, untamed hunger surging through him. He ruts against Ezra's mouth like a wild animal, a primal need driving him forward. John's hips buck forward, grinding against Ezra's face, his knot pressing against the young detective's lips, slick with spit and pre-cum. "Going to...spill straight into that belly of yours, love... Fill you to the brim..." He snarls, growls bubbling up in his throat as he loses control. Ezra's throat is slick and syrupy-soft around his cock and the younger man, he's almost certain, has passed out but he's getting so close. So, so close...

Finally, John reaches his peak and he works his knot into Ezra's mouth, anchoring himself in the smaller man's throat as he pours everything he has straight into Ezra's belly. Wave after wave of thick, hot cum fills Ezra's body, John's knot ensuring that none of it can escape. The sensation is overwhelming and the young detective's body shudders, his own release spilling across his stomach as he twitches. John's fingers tangle in Ezra's hair, gripping tightly as he rides out the aftershocks. He can feel Ezra swallowing around him, the sensation milking every drop from him.

He can feel Ezra's pulse, slow and weak, against the head of his cock, the young detective still desperately clinging to consciousness amid the lack of oxygen. "Not much more, Ezra, love..." John pants, his voice a heady mix of ferocity and tenderness. Ezra's emerald eyes are unfocused, glazed over with pleasure, the beast having stolen away his senses. John can feel the beast receding, the primal need sated for now. Finally, the beast is satisfied and John pulls his spent, over-sensitive cock from Ezra's throat, knot and all.

Slowly, Ezra blinks awake, his body trembling with exhaustion. His throat is sore, his lips swollen and his belly full.

"God, John..." He tries to sit up but his arms feel like jelly, collapsing under him as he lands back on the grass. John tucks himself away and takes off his jacket, draping it over the younger man's exposed body. "I... John..." He murmurs, gently palming at the swell of his stomach and feeling it swollen with copious amounts of John's thick semen.

"Shhh, Ezra, love. You did so well..." John purrs and moves closer, scooping the young detective up into his arms. Ezra's head lolls against the older man's chest, his emerald eyes closing again. John holds him close, his words a soft, soothing murmur. "Let's get you home." He whispers and Ezra smiles faintly, his voice a heady mixture of desire and surrender fighting with a contentment he's never felt before. John lifts him up and begins to walk back down the path towards the grand hall.

He'll deposit the young detective in his carriage before returning inside to say his goodbyes. Then, John will get them both back to his house, where they'll spend the rest of the evening curled up in his bed, whispering sweet nothings in Ezra's ear and holding him close. John's eyes gleam golden hue, a fierce intensity burning within. His beast has been sated, for now. But Ezra is his and his alone.

Always.

#character: john mcbride #source: the cursed #misc: chariot writes #type: oc #misc: boydtober 2023

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orthodoxydaily · 11 months

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Saints&Reading: Thursday, July 20, 2023

july 20_July 7

VENERABLE THOMAS OF MT. MALEON (10th c.)

Saint Thomas of Mount Maleos (Maleós) was a military commander before becoming a monk. Strong and brave, he participated in many battles and brought victories to his countrymen, for which he won much glory and honor. But, striving toward God with all his heart, Saint Thomas forsook the world and its vanity and was tonsured as a monk.

With great humility, he visited several Elders, asking for guidance in the spiritual life. After several years, Thomas received a blessing to live a solitary life in the wilderness. According to his biographers, Saint Thomas said that he was led by a pillar of fire to Mount Maleos by the Prophet Elias, while in an ancient Syaxarion of Constantinople, it is written that Saint Thomas also appeared as a pillar of fire when the Holy Prophet Elias seemed to him, whose zealous way of life he emulated.

Dwelling in complete seclusion, Saint Thomas fought with invisible enemies with as much courage as he had displayed against the visible foes of his country. Reports of Saint Thomas's holy life could not be concealed from those living there. People began to flock to him seeking spiritual guidance, and those who suffered from sickness recovered since he received from God a blessing to heal their infirmities.

He was always helping others because even during his solitude, he prayed for everyone, and he trained himself to become a worthy instrument of God for the benefit of his neighbor.

Many of the faithful received help through the prayers of the Righteous Thomas. Even after his repose in the X century, he continues to heal those who seek his aid, from every passion and sickness.

Some of the Saint's Holy Relics are in the Metropolis of Monemvasia and Sparta. He is particularly venerated in Lakonia (Lakonίa)

VENERABLE AKACIUS OF SINAI (6th c.)

Saint Acacius of Sinai lived during the sixth century and was a novice at a monastery in Asia. The humble monk distinguished himself by his patience and unquestioning obedience to his Elder, a harsh and dissolute man. He forced his disciple to toil excessively, starved him with hunger, and beat him without mercy. Despite such treatment, Saint Acacius meekly endured the affliction and thanked God for everything. Saint Acacius died after suffering these torments for nine years.

Five days after Acacius was buried, his Elder told another Elder about the death of his disciple. The second Elder did not believe that the young monk was dead. They went to the grave of Acacius, and the second Elder called out: “Brother Acacius, are you dead?” From the grave, a voice replied, “No, Father, how can an obedient man die?” The startled Elder of Saint Acacius fell down with tears before the grave, asking forgiveness of his disciple.

After this, he repented, constantly saying to the Fathers, “I have committed murder.” He lived in a cell near the grave of Saint Acacius, and he ended his life in prayer and meekness. Saint John Climacus (March 30) mentions Saint Acacius in THE LADDER (Step 4:110) as an example of endurance, obedience, and rewards for these virtues.

Saint Acacius is also commemorated on November 29.

Source, all texts: Orthodox Church in America_OCA

1 CORINTHIANS 7:24-35

24 Brethren, let each one remain with God in that state in which he was called. 25 Now concerning virgins: I have no commandment from the Lord, yet I give judgment as one whom the Lord in His mercy has made trustworthy. 26 I suppose, therefore, that this is good because of the present distress that it is suitable for a man to remain as he is: 27 Are you bound to a wife? Please don't want to be loosed. Are you loosed from a wife? Please don't look for a wife. 28 But even if you marry, you have not sinned; if a virgin marries, she has not. Nevertheless, such will have trouble in the flesh, but I would spare you. 29 But this I say, brethren, the time is short, so that from now on, even those who have wives should be as though they had none, 30 those who weep as though they did not weep, those who rejoice as though they did not rejoice, those who buy as though they did not possess, 31 and those who use this world as not misusing it. For the form of this world is passing away. 32 But I want you to be without care. He who is unmarried cares for the things of the Lord-how he may please the Lord. 33 But he who is married cares about the things of the world-how he may please his wife. 34 There is a difference between a wife and a virgin. The unmarried woman cares about the things of the Lord, that she may be holy both in body and in spirit. But she who is married cares about the things of the world-how she may please her husband. 35 And this I say for your own profit, not that I may put a leash on you, but for what is proper, and that you may serve the Lord without distraction.

MATTHEW 15:12-21

12 Then His disciples came and said to Him, "Do You know that the Pharisees were offended when they heard this saying?" 13 But He answered and said, "Every plant which My heavenly Father has not planted will be uprooted. 14 Let them alone. They are blind leaders of the blind. And if the blind leads the blind, both will fall into a ditch. 15 Then Peter answered and said to Him, "Explain this parable to us." 16 So Jesus said, "Are you also still without understanding? 17 Do you not yet understand that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and is eliminated? 18 But those things that proceed out of the mouth come from the heart and defile a man. 19 Out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies. 20 These are the things which defile a man, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile a man. 21 Then Jesus went out from there and departed to the region of Tyre and Sidon.

#orthodoxy #orthodox christianity #easternorthodoxchurch #originofchristianity #spirituality #holy scripture #gospel #bible #saints #ascetism

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audioscience1986 · 11 months

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In a world where hearts intertwine, there exists a bond that defies time and language, a testament to the extraordinary connection between humans and dogs. In this creative exploration, we venture into a realm where wagging tails and loving eyes speak volumes, where paws leave indelible imprints upon the soul.

Picture a tranquil afternoon, where sunlight dances upon emerald fields. In this idyllic scene, a young child runs freely, their laughter echoing through the air. And by their side, a faithful companion, a dog with a coat as golden as the sun itself. Together, they embark on adventures, their spirits entwined in a dance of joy and unspoken understanding.

The child and the dog share secrets whispered amidst tall grasses, their voices carried away by the wind. With every bound and leap, they chase dreams and seize the fleeting moments of childhood. The dog, a guardian of innocence, guides the child through unknown territories, a steadfast presence in a world teeming with uncertainty.

As years unfurl like ribbons of time, the child becomes an adult, yet their bond remains unbreakable. Through the highs and lows, the dog becomes a pillar of strength, a source of comfort in times of sorrow and celebration. Their gaze, filled with a wisdom beyond words, reassures the weary soul and rekindles the flickering flame of hope.

In moments of solitude, the dog becomes a confidant, their eyes filled with unwavering empathy. They listen intently, their silent understanding a balm for the burdens carried by their human companion. No judgment lingers in their gaze, only unconditional love that envelops the weary heart and offers solace in the darkest of nights.

Through the seasons of life, the dog becomes a teacher, imparting invaluable lessons in loyalty, resilience, and forgiveness. They embody unwavering devotion, reminding us that love knows no bounds and transcends the trivialities of the human world. With every wag of their tail and every gentle nuzzle, they teach us the power of connection, of embracing the present moment, and finding joy in the simplest of pleasures.

In the twilight of their lives, the dog becomes a beacon of gratitude, reminding us to treasure the precious gift of their companionship. Their once-energetic steps may falter, but their spirit remains unyielding. They have witnessed the tapestry of our lives, woven with laughter, tears, and moments that define who we are. And as they depart this world, their paw prints forever imprinted upon our hearts, they leave behind a legacy of love and devotion that echoes through the corridors of our souls.

So let us celebrate this extraordinary bond between humans and dogs, an enduring connection that transcends time and space. For in their eyes, we find a reflection of our own humanity, an unwritten language that speaks volumes. In their companionship, we discover the true essence of love—unconditional, steadfast, and eternally cherished. May we forever be grateful for the profound gift of their presence, a testament to the enduring power of the human-dog bond.

XoXo,

Patrick John

#my dogs #furbaby

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sheetmusiclibrarypdf · 1 year

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Kenny Barron - New York Attitude (1984) Jazz

Kenny Barron - New York Attitude (1984) Jazz Please, subscribe to our Library. Thank you!Tracks: Kenny Barron. "The poetry of the piano" (Jazz) Best Sheet Music download from our Library. A long and intense journey: musical biographyGenerous educator

Kenny Barron - New York Attitude (1984) Jazz

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qsxrr90ChPw Tracks: 1 New York Attitude 00:00 2 Embraceable You, Take 2 06:00 3 Joanne Julia 11:51 4 My One Sin 17:31 5 Bemsha Swing 22:56 6 Autumn In New York 29:49 7 Lemuria 37:51 8 You Don't Know What Love Is 43:03 9 Embraceable You, Take 1 49:32 Credits: Bass – Rufus Reid Drums – Frederick Waits Piano – Kenny Barron Recorded December 14, 1984 at Van Gelder Recording Studios, Englewood Cliffs, N.J.

Kenny Barron. "The poetry of the piano" (Jazz)

For a jazz pianist, facing the piano face to face is an intense exercise in reflection, a reckoning with his baggage in music, a profound internalization process and, above all, a conversation with himself or Conversations with Myself (Verve, 1963), the famous album by Bill Evans, the jazz impressionist, an experience that he would repeat on albums such as Further Conversations with Myself (Verve, 1967), Alone (Verve, 1968), Alone Again (Fantasy, 1975) or New Conversations (Warner, 1978).

Keith Jarrett, a great fan of this kind of face to face with the piano to the point that it could be said that it was his usual mode of expression, has left us excellent albums, among others, The Köln Concert (ECM, 1975), the monumental Sun Bear Concert (ECM, 1978) or the recent Budapest Concert (ECM, 2020) recorded in 2016.

But this tour de force in front of the piano has a rich tradition in the history of jazz and all the great pianists walked this solitary path that allows an inner exploration with infinite possibilities, a continuous process of improvisation in which the usual question / answer happens in the limitless imagination of the musician. Just a few examples of pianists who throughout the history of jazz plunged into the creative solitude of the solo piano. The recognized virtuoso and master of all those who came after Art Tatum in the compilation Piano Solo (Capitol, 1972) that includes various sessions from 1949 —memorable version of Dvořák's “Humoresque”—or in the series The Tatun Solo Masterpieces Vol 1 (Pablo , 1953). He also did numerous takes on the great Fats Waller collected on the Fats Waller Memorial 5 Lps Casket (RCA Victor, 1969). Bud Powell, seminal foundation of bebop and modern jazz on numerous tracks on The Genius of Bud Powell (Mercury, 1956). Another of the basic pillars of modernity like Thelonious Monk in albums like Solo Monk (Columbia, 1965) or Piano Solo (Vogue, 1954). Mainstream pianists ( also wanted to confront themselves in solo dialogue: Mal Waldron — Searching in Grenoble: The 1978 Solo Piano Tompkins Square, 2022) or All Alone (GTA Records, 1966) —, the elegant and lyrical Tommy Flanagan — Solo Piano (Storyville, 1974) or In His Own Sweet Time (Enja, 2020) recording rescued from a concert at the German town of Neubur in 1994; Kenny Drew, Everything I Love. Solo Piano (SteepleChase, 1973); Ray Bryant, Alone with the Blues (New Jazz, 1958); Errol Garner in the series for Decca, Errol Garner playing Piano Solos or Hank Jones, Have You Met Hank Jones (Savoy, 1956) are just a few examples. But also contemporary pianists like Paul Bley, Solo Piano (SteepleChase, 1988); Fred Hersch —the triple album Songs without Words (Nonesuch, 2001) and Solo Piano (Palmeto, 2015)—; Brad Mehldau, Solo piano. Live in Tokyo (Nonesuch, 2004); Marc Copland, John (Illusions Mirage, 2020), tribute to guitarist John Abercrombie who died during the pandemic or the historic German pianist Joachim Kühn, Touch the Light (ACT, 2021) reviewed his jazz musical influences but also classical and pop music and nationally pianists such as Tete Montoliou, Solo piano (Timeless, 1989) compilation of the albums Y yellow Dolphin Street (1977) and Catalonian Folksongs (1978) or the young and versatile Marco Mezquida, La hora fertile (Whatabout Music, 2013), among many others.

And the great Barry Harris, custodian and champion of the bop tradition, could not be missing from this brief account —some consider it a kind of compendium of three of the most influential representatives of modern jazz: Parker, Monk and Powell and a renowned educator of jazz. so many talents that in albums like Listen to Barry Harris: Solo Piano (Riverside, 1961) or the most recent Solo (September, 1990) recorded in the Dutch Studio 44 and in which he makes an extensive tour of the modern jazz tradition through 15 songs, three originals (That Secret Place, So Far, So Good and Tribute to the Duke), readings by Monk (Monks Mood, Ruby my Dear and Blue Monk), by Powell (Hallucinations) and well-known classics by Rodgers, Youmans, Kern or Noble. Harris precisely quoted Kenny Barron when asked about a young pianist he liked, they insisted on being young and reiterated, "Barron, of course!" Finding out soon after, Kenny was pleased that he will think of him as a young pianist, "even though I'm my years now, even though Barry is a lot older than me." Together they led the great album Confirmation (Candid, 1992) as a quartet with Ray Drummond and Ben Riley in the rhythm section, a gathering of teachers recorded at the Riverside Park Arts Festival on September 1, 1991. Facing the piano alone could well be that feeling of “feeling that you are in the zone , a special place where everything works, heart, mind and technique”, as Fred Hersch wrote in the Solo album liner notes . And, of course, Kenny Barron wanted and knew how to sink in front of the lacquered mirror of the piano, with all the respect that a dialogue of such magnitude implies: «The solo piano has always scared me. That is number one. But the only way to deal with it is to deal with it, you know! It's an opportunity for me to challenge myself at every concert and, at the same time, be aware that I'm not Art Tatum. Because sometimes that's in the back of your mind. At the human level. Maybe I'm not doing enough. Maybe I'm not bright enough. That's still on your mind. So I'm trying to get to the point where that's like a noise I can forget about. Don't even worry about it. Worrying about that kind of thing, or how to stop worrying about it. But then again, the only way to stop worrying about it is to face it all the time. Just tell my story, whatever it is. And I think people respond, if you're honest." Interview by Peter Hum, Ottawa Citizen (06.20.2017)

An impressive number of recorded albums —“about 500 as accompanist, or maybe 400”, he once said, and fifty as leader or co-leader—… and yet it is surprising that he has only recorded two solo piano and forty years apart. The first, At the Piano (Xanadu, 1982), includes an excellent mixture of jazz classics and originals that, then, when he was in his forties, were part of his musical spirit baggage. Seven songs for his solo piano debut, three of his own —“Bud-Like” as a tribute to the seminal Bud Powell, the rapturous “Calypso”, perhaps a Rollian wink and a memorable “Enchanted Flower”— and the rest are a must. Fulfillment for any pianist, the timeless ballad “Body and Soul”, the necessary Ellington-Strayhorn path in “The Star-Crossed Lovers” and, of course, Monk, another of his great influences: “Misterioso” and “Rhythm-a-Ning”. ”. High point, then, in his recording career, Robert Taylor pointed out in Allmusic . Now, at eighty and forty years later and, perhaps, in a sort of reckoning or testimonial legacy, The Source (Artwork, 2023) leaves us, recorded in July 2022 at the Theater de L'Athénée Lousi Jovert from Paris. As in At the Piano, it includes well-known own compositions —“What If”, “Dolores Street”, “Sunshower” and “Phantoms”), readings by Monk (“Teo”, “Well You Needn't”), revisits the Ellington-Strayhorn duo (“Isfahan,” “Daydream”) and a Great American Songbook classic (“I'm Confessin'”). On both albums, Barron establishes a lively connection with the listener to offer a musical discourse that is not forced, oblivious to any sense of pretense, in order to navigate various stylistic currents with the utmost elegance and virtuosity —from straight ahead jazz, classics, blues , bossa nova and even free improvisation—which attest to why he is considered one of the masters of jazz in history. "Album that could have been titled Kenny Barron: All The Things You Are ", Ed Enright has written in Downbeat (January 2023)... Indeed, everything that is.

A long and intense journey: musical biography

Eighty years old is Kenny Barron (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1943). He began playing the piano at the age of six — "it was compulsory at home and my mother made me study classical piano until I was 16" — among his teachers, Vera, the sister of Ray Bryant, also a pianist and a native of Philadelphia, a prodigal city in jazzmen : Benny Golson, Tommy Bryant, Philly Joe Jones, Bobby Timmons, Archie Shepp, Lee Morgan, Hank Mobley, among others. See the good ear or that he was good at it... «I became interested in jazz thanks to my brother Bill, a saxophonist, who had records by Charlie Parker, Dizzy, Dexter Gordon... And in Philadelphia there was also a 24-hour jazz station. My brother took me to my first concert with his band when he was 14 and we played standards and pieces from the big bands. Then I moved to New York in 1961, which was a fantastic place at the time. That's how it all started." While still in high school he worked with drummer Philly Joe Jones. And at the age of 19 he moved to New York starting a dizzying career as a freelance , accompanying musicians such as drummer Roy Haynes, trumpeter Lee Morgan or flutist and tenor sax player James Moody, after he heard him play at the Five Spot. Requested musician condition that he attributes: «They call me because I can play well, empathy and the interpretation that one makes of the musical intentions of others also influences, I try to make everything easy, or so I think» Key to his career was his entry in 1962 into trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie's band on the recommendation of James Moody and without Dizzy hearing him play a single note. With Dizzy, in whose group he spent four years, he absorbed and developed a great knowledge and experience of the jazz language as well as an appreciation for Latin and Caribbean rhythms that he would later reflect on albums like Sambao or Canta Brasil . «I joined his band at the age of 19, what am I going to say, he was a great human being and one of the greatest learning experiences I have had . Foremost, Dizzy was very easy to get along with. He wasn't a dictatorial boss type, just a really nice guy. And he was very generous with his knowledge. He knew a lot about chords and harmony, and he was very generous. He always shared. 'Why don't you try expressing this chord this way?' He taught me things on the piano. And some nights, if the last set wasn't full, he'd get me off the piano and play a song or two with Moody. He wasn't a great soloist, but he did know the voices and things like that. And he also knew a lot about rhythms, especially Brazilian rhythms and Latin rhythms, and where they came from. What region of Cuba or what region of Brazil. And also nonmusical things about how to treat people. He always treated people with the utmost respect. In the four years that I was with him, I never saw him get angry. After leaving Gillespie's band, he worked with Freddie Hubbard, Stanley Turrentine, Milt Jackson and Buddy Rich. In the early 1970s, Kenny worked with the great saxophonist Yusef Lateef, whom Kenny credits as a key influence on his improvisational art. I knew Lateef from before, when he was still living in Philadelphia and with whom he had just finished high school, he played several concerts and contributed, not as a performer but as a composer and arranger, to their album The Centaur and the Phoenix (Riverside, 1960) with the original “Revelation” and an arrangement of the standard “Ev'ry Day (I Fall in Love)”. It was Lateef who encouraged him to combine touring with a college education, earning a degree in music from Empire State College (New York). This is how Kenny spoke of Lateef: "He was honest. When he said something, you could believe it. Musically, it was open and very liberating. He was not specific with the instructions. Just be on time and no drugs." His recording debut took place with the album The Tenor Styling of Bill Barron (Savoy, 1961) directed by his brother Bill and which included also with the trumpeter Ted Carson, the bassist Jimmy Garrison and the drummer Frankie Dunlop who was followed by others along with his brother such as Modern Windows or Hot Line . About his brother (1927-1989): «My brother and I used to talk about music. He wasn't a pianist, so he couldn't teach me piano. But we talk a lot about music. We talked about some of the concepts of him and who he liked. He leaned a bit more to the left , in the sense that he liked Cecil Taylor, classical composers like Webern and Stockhausen. So he was into some experimental stuff. That was his musical inclination ». A year of great independent recording activity was 1967. He co-directed the album You Had Better Listen with trumpeter Jimmy Owens and participated in recordings with trumpeter Freddie Hubbard and saxophonists Joe Henderson, Stanley Turrentine, Tyrone Washington, Booker Ervin and Eric Kloss. His ever-expanding discography continued to expand into the '70s, featuring sessions with saxophonists and flutists such as Moody and Lateef, bassists Ron Carter and Buster Williams as well as musicians such as Carl Grubbs, Marion Brown and Marvin 'Hannibal' Peterson. Throughout the 1970s he continued to work regularly with prominent musicians, broadening the stylistic range of his collaborations—Stan Getz, Chico Freeman, violinist John Blake, trombonist and singer Ray Anderson, and drummer Elvin Jones.

It was also the decade that marked the beginning of his career as a leader. Sunset to Dawn (Muse, 1973) their album His debut as a leader featured, among others, bassist Bob Cranshaw and drummer Freddie Waits and his own compositions such as “Sunset” or “Dolores Street”. It was followed by albums such as Peruvian Blue (Muse, 1974), Lucifer (Muse, 1975), Innocence (Wolf Records, 1978) or Togheter (Denon, 1979) in a duet with pianist Tommy Flanagan and in which both maestros interpret six jazz classics. with a language loaded with swing and moments of improvisational brilliance. For Kenny Barron, Tommy Flanagan (1930-2001) was one of his great influences: "My biggest influence was actually Tommy Flanagan, who I first heard during high school on a recording. What got me about Tommy was his touch and his lyricism, those two things. He had this very light, delicate touch, and when he touched it it was very, very logical. It was like speaking in sentences, with punctuation and all. That was my biggest influence. And then I discovered the influence of him, Hank Jones. So that particular style, that's what got me." During the eighties he maintained his intense activity, touring and collaborating with other musicians and publishing twenty albums in various formats, among others, his first recording on solo piano — At the Piano (Xanadu, 1982) —; a duet with bassist Buster Williams — Two As One. Live at Umbria Jazz (Red Record, 1987) and with Red Mitchell — The Red Barron Duo (Storyville, 1988)— Also a duo but alternating on double bass Ron Carter and Michael Moore — 1+1+1 (Blackhawk Records, 1986); a trio in Autumn in New York (Uptown, 1985) with Rufus Reid and Frederick Waits; in Scratch (Enja, 1985) with Dave Holland and Daniel Humair or in Landscape (Baystate, 1985) with Cecil McBee and Al Foster. In the excellent Whatat If? (Enja, 1986) he performed as a quintet with trumpeter Wallace Roney, tenor sax player John Stubblefield, and Cecil McBee and Victor Lewis in the rhythm section including originals like "Phantoms," "What If?" or "Voyage." He also founded the Sphere quartet with tenor saxophone Charlie Rouse, Buster Williams and Ben Riley, whose objective was to celebrate the music of Thelonius Monk and which remained active until Rouse's death in 1988, publishing albums such as Four in One (Elektra , 1982 ), whose recording coincided by chance with the day of Monk's death and therefore was not planned as a commemorative tribute and in which they perform outstanding readings of Monk's classics. It was followed by albums in which, although they do not cover Monk, their spirit is present, such as Flight Path , Sphere on Tour, Pumpkin's Delight , Four for All and Bird Songs released the same year as Charlie Rouse's death. The group met again with the alto sax Gary Bartz publishing the album Sphere (Verve, 1997). Read the full article

#jazz #sheetmusicdownload #sheetmusicscoredownloadpartiturapartitionspartitinoten楽譜망할음악ноты

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nickynicknick · 3 years

Text

TW ed, ana, restriction

hello there! I’m nicky. this is my first time posting, but I thought I’d write a quick kinda-sorta-not-really thinspo story for y’all in search of some tasty fall/winter vibes. it’s kind of just based on my life at the moment (18, female, she/her, brown university student, ana). no clue how it’s gonna be but thanks for even making it this far in!~

—-

she wakes up at a quarter past five in the morning, not to the sound of an alarm but the dense silence of a winter’s first snowfall. Her small dorm bed, covered in a thin black comforter and soft sheets, is dusted grey with the cool morning light. for just a second, she cannot see the shape of her legs under the covers, and believes she is still asleep. she rises slowly, so as not to disturb the lingering stillness in her chest from her refreshing slumber. outside: delicate diamond flakes from a quilted woolen sky; a cardinal lofting on a stone pillar.

it is thanksgiving break. despite studying being her favorite pastime (the John Hay library, with its intricate marble walls and eerie copper busts, bring her history reading to life), she found the four days off to be a welcome period of relaxation. having seen off the last of her friends on their journeys home, she was left to roam the sprawling campus alone, to spend hours in solitude on the fourth floor of the Rockefeller library, to climb an icy fire escape and watch the smoke from her cigarette melt into the moon.

Her feet anticipate the sudden chill of the dorm room floor as she stands to dress herself. the first few months had been a blur, and she had feared for a moment that she would lose the angular form of her bared skeleton. but as she adjusted slowly to the full days of research, class, and reading, she found a routine which made her feel like herself again.

morning: two cups of hot black coffee (three, if she had stayed up reading the night before) and a bagel (she preferred poppy seeds, but blueberry on days she knew she would need more energy)

evening: one cup of earl grey tea brewed strong, one fistful-sized portion of beans, vegetables, and chicken or turkey, and a side of greens

her breakfast perfectly satisfied her while running from class to class. her dinner ensured that she would have the focus to study, which was the one thing she found entirely relaxing. the small but whole portions made her feel light, yet energetic. the very slight desperation and hunger she felt before her evening meal made her study frantically, to make the time pass quicker. with all the reading, combined with the passion she felt for her classes, the satisfaction of enriching her mind, rendered her body but a vessel that carried her from building to building, place to place. the hollowed, the lighter, the more gracile her vessel was, the more focus she could devote to her studies. physical weight, to her, burdened her mind more than her muscles.

she came up with a plan for the day, one that made her feel grounded. plans made her days more productive, her diet more efficient.

1) dress

2) chores

3) breakfast on Thayer Street

4) read at the Anthropology library

5) research

6) evening meal, with ingredients from the local grocers

7) study at the Hay library

8) return to dorm, shower

9) sleep

First, to dress herself. as she stood, she placed her frail hands on her lower back and stretched, hearing the satisfying pops which indicate a good night’s rest. her hands searched around the base of her spine for any excess fat, but found only taut skin, warm to the touch. her hands moves to her upper arms, and felt only the hard swell of atrophied biceps over bone. she stood there exposed in the cool air, running her bony fingers over the peaks of her shoulders, her star-shaped sternum, the back of her elegant neck, her long beautiful stomach. her legs quivered slightly, thin and pale. she rocked back and forth on her toes, and found herself appreciating how her thighs did not touch once.

if she didn’t dress quickly, she would be cold for hours. opening her wardrobe, she laid out the day’s outfit; thick wool socks, ‘skinny’ faded black jeans (which now hung silly off of her withering waist, and bunched at the thighs when she sat), two old cream lace tank tops, a soft pale-green henley she stole from an old boyfriend. a cardigan, and another larger cardigan to be sure. she added a silver necklace (to make it all look intentional), some emerald-green woolen gloves, and a pair of dreadfully-worn black high-top converse.

dressing herself was a ritual now. standing in front of the mirror that leaned against her wall, she even listened to the sound of her jeans against her legs as she pulled them up, the ease with which they slipped over her thighs. pulling on the layers of her shirts, she loved how each layer made her look smaller and smaller. how she could pull the sleeves of her henley over her balled-up white knuckles, and how the placid green of the shirt matched the thin veins in her hands. the demure beauty in her hallowed cheekbones, big brown expressive eyes, long cocoa hair, pale skin, full rose lips, had only been revealed after her drastic 20lb weight loss of the last month. October as a whole had been harrowingly beautiful.

the potential the day held was what kept her going. with the crushing weight of her physical form all but gone, she could devote her focus to what she loved. food had become background noise, and what little she did eat she savored with every bite. hunger, like the stinging cold of a Rhode Island autumn, had been cloaked in a lingering peace, leaving only its dulled outline under the snow that accumulated softly, ever-faster.

#thinspo #thinspo imagine #winter thinspo #fall thinspo #thinspiration #thinspo writing #thinspo story #tw food #tw #tw ed mention #tw thinspo #tw thin #tw weight loss

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casxmorgan · 3 years

Text

Books Books Books

100 Years of Solitude

11.22.63

120 Days of Sodom

1491

1984

A Brief History of Time

A Canticle for Leibowitz

A Child Called It

A Clockwork Orange

A Confederacy of Dunces

A History of the World in Ten and a Half Chapters

A Land Fit for Heroes Trilogy

A Little Life

A Naked Singularity

A People's History of the United States

A Scanner Darkly

A Series of Unfortunate Events

A Short History of Nearly Everything

A Song of Ice and Fire

A Storm of Swords

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments

A Thousand Splendid Suns

A Walk in the Woods

A World Lit Only by Fire

Accursed Kings

Alice in Wonderland

All Quiet on the Western Front

All the Light We Cannot See

All the Pretty Horses

America, the Book

American Gods

American Psycho

And then There Were None

Angela’s Ashes

Animal Farm

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

Anna Karenina

Anything Terry Pratchett, But, Mort is My Favorite

Anything Written by Robin Hobb

Apt Pupil

Artemis Fowl

Asimov's Guide to the Bible

Asoiaf

Atlas Shrugged

Bartimeaus

Batman: the Long Halloween

Battle Royale

Beat the Turtle Drum

Behind the Beautiful Forevers

Belgariad Series

Beloved

Berserk

Bestiario

Black Company

Blankets/habibi

Blind Faith

Blindness

Blood Meridian

Blood and Guts: a History of Surgery

Bluest Eye

Brandon Sanderson

Brave New World

Breakfast of Champions

Bridge to Terabithia

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: an Indian History of the American West

Calvin and Hobbs

Candide

Carrie

Cat's Cradle

Catch 22

Cats Cradle

Chaos

Child of God

Choke

Chuck Palahniuk

City of Ember

City of Thieves

Cloud

Collapse

Come Closer

Complaint

Confessions of a Mask

Contact

Conversation in the Cathedral

Cosmos

Crime and Punishment

Dan Brown

David

Dead Birds Singing

Dead Mountain: the Untold True Story of the Dyatlov Pass Incident

Delta Venus

Die Räuber (the Robbers)

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep

Don Quixote

Dragonlance

Dune

Dying of the Light

East of Eden

Educated

Empire of Sin: a Story of Sex, Jazz, Murder, and the Battle for Modern New Orleans

Enders Game

Enders Shadow

Escape from Camp 14

Ever Since Darwin

Every Man Dies Alone

Everybody Poops

Everything is Illuminated

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Fahrenheit 451

Far from the Madding Crowd

Faust

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S Thompson

Feet of Clay

Fight Club

First Law

Flowers for Algernon

Flowers in the Attic

Foundation

Foundation Series

Foundation Trilogy

Frankenstein

Freakonomics

Fun Home

Galapagos

Geek Love

Gerald’s Game

Ghost Story

Go Ask Alice

Go Dog Go

Godel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid

Goldfinch

Gone Girl

Gone with the Wind

Good Omens

Grapes of Wrath

Great Expectations

Greg Egan

Guards! Guards!

Guns Germs and Steel

Guts (short Story)

Half a World

Ham on Rye

Hannibal Rising

Hard Boiled Wonderland

Hatchet

Haunted

Hawaii

Heart Shaped Box

Heart of Darkness

Hellbound Heart

Hellraiser

Hell’s Angels

Helter Skelter

His Dark Materials

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Hogg

Holocaust by Bullets

House of Leaves

How to Cook for Fourty Humans

How to Win Friends and Influence People

Huckleberry Finn

Hyperion

I Am America, and So Can You

I Am the Messenger

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

I Was Dr. Mengele’s Assistant

In Cold Blood

In Search of Our Mother's Gardens

Independent People

Infinite Jest

Into Thin Air

Into the Wild

Introduction to Linear Algebra

Invisible Monsters

Ishmael

Jacques Le Fataliste

Jane Eyre

Jaunt

Job: a Comedy of Justice

John Dies at the End

John Grisham

Johnathan Livingston Seagull

Johnny Got His Gun

Jon Ronson

Journal of a Novel

Jurassic Park

Justine

L'histoire D'o

Lamb

Last Exit to Brooklyn

Les Miserables

Lies My Teacher Told Me

Life of Pi

Limits and Renewals

Little House in the Big Woods

Lockwood & Co.

Lolita

Looking for Trouble

Lord Foul’s Bane

Lord of the Flies

Lyddie

Malazan Book of the Fallen

Maldoror

Manufacturing Consent: the Political Economy of the Mass Media

Man’s Search for Meaning

Mark Twain’s Autobiography

Maus

Meditations

Megamorphs (series)

Mein Kampf

Memnooch the Devil

Metro 2033

Michael Crichton

Middlesex

Mindhunter

Misery

Mistborn

Moby Dick

Mrs. Dalloway

My Side of the Mountain

My Sweet Audrina

Nacht über Der Prärie (night over the Prairie)

Naked Lunch

Name of the Wind

Neuromancer

Never Let Me Go

Neverwhere

New York

Night

Night Shift

Norwegian Wood

Notes from Underground

Nothing to Envy: Real Lives in North Korea

Of Mice and Men

Of Nightingales That Weep

Ohio

Old Mans War

Old Mother West Wind

On Heroes and Tombs

On Laughter and Forgetting

On the Road

One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest

One Hundred Years of Solitude

One of Us

Painted Bird

Patrick Rothfuss

Perfume: the Story of a Murderer

Persepolis

Pet Sematary

Peter Pan

Pillars of the Earth

Poisonwood Bible

Pride and Predjudice

Ready Player One

Rebecca

Red Mars

Red Night (series)

Red Shirts

Red Storm Rising

Redwall

Replay

Requiem for a Dream

Revenge

Riftwar Saga

Ringworld

Roald Dahl

Rolls of Thunder, Hear My Cry

Round Ireland with a Fridge

Running with Scissors

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

Sapiens, a Brief History of Humankind

Scary Stories to Read in the Dark

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

Schindler’s List

Sein Und Zeit

Shades of Grey

Sharp Objects

Shattered Dreams

Sherlock Holmes

Sho-gun

Siddhartha

Sisypho

Skin and Other Stories

Slaughterhouse Five

Smoke & Mirrors

Snow Crash

Soldier Son

Sometimes a Great Notion

Sphere

Starship Troopers

Stiff, the Curious Lives of Human Cadavers

Storied Life of A.j. Fikry

Stormlight Archives

Story of the Eye

Stranger in a Strange Land

Surely, You're Joking

Survivor Type (short Story)

Suttree

Swan Song

Tale of Two Cities

Tales of the South Pacific

The Alchemist

The Altered Carbon Trilogy

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

The Art of Deception

The Art of Fielding

The Art of War

The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation

The Autobiography of Henry Viii

The Autobiography of Malcolm X

The Beach

The Bell Jar

The Bible

The Bloody Chamber

The Book Thief

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

The Brothers Karamazov

The Call of Cthulu and Other Weird Stories

The Cask of Amontillado (short Story)

The Catcher in the Rye

The Chronicles of Narnia

The Clown

The Color out of Space

The Communist Manifesto

The Complete Fiction of H.p. Lovecraft

The Count of Monte Cristo

The Curious Case of the Dog in the Night Time

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime

The Dagger and the Coin

The Damage Done

The Dark Tower

The Declaration of Independence, the Us Constitution, and the Bill of Rights

The Devil in the White City

The Dharma Bums

The Diamond Age

The Dice Man

The Discworld Series

The Dresden Files

The Elegant Universe

The First Law Trilogy

The Forever War

The Foundation Trilogy

The Gentleman Bastard Sequence

The Geography of Nowhere

The Girl Next Door

The Girl on the Milk Carton

The Giver

The Giving Tree

The God of Small Things

The Grapes of Wrath

The Great Gatsby

The Great Gilly Hopkins

The Hagakure

The Half a World Trilogy

The Handmaid’s Tale

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

The Hiding Place

The History of Love

The Hobbit

The Hot Zone

The Hunchback of Notre Dame

The Hyperion Cantos

The Jaunt

The Jungle

The Key to Midnight

The Killing Star

The Kingkiller Chronicles

The Kite Runner

The Last Question (short Story)

The Lies of Lock Lamora

The Little Prince

The Long Walk

The Lord of the Rings

The Lottery (short Story)

The Lovely Bones

The Magicians

The Magus

The Martian

The Master and Margarita

The Metamorphosis of Prime Intellect

The Monster at the End of This Book

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

The Music of Eric Zahn (short Story)

The Name of the Wind & the Wise Man's Fear

The Necronomicon

The New Age of Adventure: Ten Years of Great Writing

The Night Circus

The Nightmare Box

The Odyssey

The Omnivore's Dilemma

The Orphan Master’s Son

The Outsiders

The Painted Bird

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

The Phantom Tollbooth

The Picture of Dorian Gray

The Pit and the Pendulum

The Plague

The Prince

The Prince of Tides

The Princess Bride

The Prophet

The Queen’s Gambit

The Rape of Nanking

The Red Dwarf

The Republic

The Rifter Saga

The Road

The Satanic Verses

The Screwtape Letters

The Secret History

The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel

The Selfish Gene

The Shining

The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer

The Silmarillion

The Sirens of Titan

The Six Wives of Henry the 8th

The Solitude of Prime Numbers

The Speaker of the Dead

The Stars My Destination

The Stormlight Archive

The Story of My Tits

The Stranger

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck

The Suspicions of Mr. Witcher

The Tao of Pooh

The Things They Carried

The Time Machine

The Time Traveller’s Wife

The Tin Drum

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green

The Wasp Factory

The Wind Up Bird Chronicle

The Wind-up Bird Chronicle

The World According to Garp

The Yellow Wallpaper

Their Eyes Were Watching God

Things Fall Apart

Thirsty

This Blinding Absence of Light

Tiger!

Time Enough for Love

To Kill a Mockingbird

To Say Nothing of the Dog

Toni Morrison

Too Many Magicians

Traumnovelle

Tuesdays with Morrie

Tuf Voyaging

Undeniable

Under Plum Lake

Universe in a Nutshell

Unwind

Uzumaki

Various

Village Life in Late Tsarist Russia

Walden

War & Peace

War and Peace

Warriors: Bluestar’s Prophecy

Watchers

Water for Elephants

Watership Down

We Have Always Lived in the Castle

We Need to Talk About Kevin

Wheel of Time

When Rabbit Howls

Where the Red Fern Grows

Where the Sidewalk Ends

Why I Am Not a Christian

Why People Believe Weird Things

Wizards First Rule

Wool

World War Z

Worm

Wuthering Heights

You Can Choose to Be Happy

Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

#some of these are fucked up #but #all the better

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dothwrites · 5 years

Text

15.07 coda--where no words abide

Sometimes, the things that are felt the most are expressed between two souls over the distance and over time...where no words abide. And others may speak freely, live with one another freely, express themselves freely--just like everyone else, but then there is you...you have no words for proof of reassurance, no tokens of professed love, but you have something. Something worth keeping.--C. Joybell C.

---

Dean burns the bar.

Dumps tequila and whiskey and gin and rum and whatever other rotgut he finds behind the counter over the floors, the pool tables, the bar itself, the walls--He splashes alcohol over Lee, carefully not looking at his face, at--

Dean swallows down his disgust, his rage, his grief. He pushes it down into the seething mass of his stomach and walks towards the exit. At the door, he turns around. If he turns his head just the right way, he can see the dark lump of Lee huddled against one of the pillars. Dean turns his head the other way before he flicks his lighter.

He tosses it into the room and leaves as the wave of heat slaps him across the face. He walks away to the sound of flames licking against the walls.

He puts the burning building in his rearview and he never looks back.

On his way out of town, he glances at his cellphone. When he sees that Cas called, his heart does a sick little lurch and jump. He fumbles several times over the screen before his thumb swipes at the message.

When he hears what’s in the message, his foot presses down on the gas pedal until the tires are squealing against the asphalt.

---

He drives straight through the evening and into the night until his tires crunch over the gravel outside the bunker. His mind is churning with the sound of Cas’ voice on his phone, his words Sam is hurt and then the more desperate, angrier, Where ARE you. The sound of three missed calls spurs him onward, because Cas can never just answer his damn phone, because apparently it’s fine when Dean calls Cas and Cas doesn’t answer, but heaven forbid Cas call Dean and not get an immediate answer.

It’s a small, mean thought, brought on by fear and helplessness, and the knowledge that there’s still a little smear of Lee’s blood ground into the skin of his thumb. Dean grits his teeth and pushes on and when he gets to the bunker, his heart does a little skip-thump when he recognizes Castiel’s truck parked outside.

He drives faster than the recommended into the garage and parks the Impala crooked. Grabbing his duffel, he hurries through the hallway into the war room. The sight of movement is enough to make him jog the last few steps until he bursts into the room to find--

Cas looks up at him, eyes wide and startled. Dean thought that his heart did a weird little lurch when he saw Cas’ name in his phone and truck in the driveway, but it’s nothing compared to what’s happening now, his heart is dancing a damn tango against his lungs and ribs and he’s powerless to stop it, he’s caught in the riptide of Cas, back in the bunker, Cas, back where he belongs--

“Dean,” Cas says. At the sound of Cas’ voice smoothing over the letters of his name, something in Dean’s chest shatters. Cas’ voice is unfathomable, soft and bitter and unreadable.

For weeks, Dean’s practiced what he would say to Cas. In the quiet moments between cases, in the solitude of his room or the shower, in the ceaseless churn of his tires against pavement, he’s confronted Cas thousands of times. Sometimes he’s angry, sometimes he’s desperate. Most of the time he begs Cas to stay. Sometimes, in his fantasies, Cas even says yes.

But for all those scenarios, Dean forgets how words work when confronted with the reality of Cas in front of him, the glory of seeing the impossible become possible. He gropes for something, anything to say, and can only come up with, “Sam. Is he, uh...”

“He’s fine,” Cas says, too quickly, his eyes darting around the room at anywhere except Dean.

A chasm opens up in Dean’s chest, wide as ocean, wide as the table that separates him and Cas, wide as the years that separate them, wide as the span of his fingers that want to reach out and clutch the tails of Cas’ coat.

A sigh of relief blows out of Dean, the ever-present clamoring of Take care of Sammy, Take care of Sammy appeased. Something complicated passes over Cas’ face when Dean says, “Good, that’s good,” except Dean doesn’t see what it is since Cas is already turning away from him.

“Yeah,” Cas says, already moving, always moving away. Ten years and Cas has never stopped moving away, has never stopped walking out of all the doors in Dean’s life. By now, Dean is so familiar with the sight of Cas disappearing out of doorways, that he sees it in his sleep.

“Good,” Dean breathes, past the pained twist in his chest. “Good.”

---

Dean is back. Castiel thought that he was prepared.

He was not.

He thought that he had managed to exorcise Dean Winchester out of him, the same way that humans used to burn out fevers, the same way that addicts sweat through withdrawals, but all it took was one look, one short conversation and Castiel realizes that Dean Winchester is a fever he can’t sweat out, the worst kind of drug. He’ll never be able to scour Dean Winchester out of him, never be able to clean out all the fingerprints that Dean has left on him.

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, the swift brush of his gaze, but Castiel keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Sam, on the ground, on the wall--on anything except for Dean. Dean is the moon and Castiel is the tide, pulled by his relentless whim, but he can’t...He can’t.

It’s a flimsy plan, but it’s still a plan, and Castiel allows himself to imagine what it would be like, for just a moment--To be cut free, set adrift. Untethered from all his connections. There’s a wild sort of joy in the thought as well as a desperate sort of despair.

Castiel doesn’t want to be alone, but he doesn’t see a way in which he gets to reclaim what he’s lost. That door was slammed shut, the key thrown away, the way back lost. That idyllic future, whatever it might have been, was erased, sure as footprints on the beach.

He walks out of the infirmary, head like a tornado. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Eileen running after him until her fingers close around his elbow. “Are you ok?” she asks.

Not for the first time, Castiel wonders at the innate kindness of some humans, the selfless urge that sends them running after people they only met mere hours before.

“I’m fine,” Castiel answers, wondering if he’s ever been fine, if he’ll ever be fine. Hard-pressed, he can’t come up with a definitive version of what the word fine truly means. “I just need--” He waves his hand in a gesture meant to encompass the world.

“Ok.” Eileen’s face is a roadmap of doubt, but she releases him. Castiel walks away from her, into the solitude of his room.

He sinks onto the bed, hands gripping his knees. If he could burn Dean Winchester out of him then he would, but he’s addicted, he’s hopeless. He has been ever since the first time his grace spanned across the realms to brush against Dean Winchester’s soul.

---

Unable to sleep, Dean wanders through the bunker. He’d tried, he really had, but every time his eyes drifted shut, all he could see was Lee’s face, twisted in pain as Dean shoved the broken pool cue into his stomach. Or worse, Lee’s face back when he was still a fresh-faced youth with sparkling eyes and a grin that beckoned the devil himself to dance.

Dean had almost loved him once.

He’d never been able to take that final step, never been able to cross the space between possibility and probability. Under John Winchester’s eyes, the possibility had withered, until all that was left was the empty space of might have been and the vague regret of the road not taken.

There had been the nights, fueled by too much beer, too many hormones, and too much adrenaline, where he and Lee had mapped out the contours of each other’s mouths, where Dean had discovered that he loved the feel of fingers twisting in his hair, nights that had left him with stubble burn on his chin and his lips swollen and raw.

And it had never turned into more, because...Because...

Dean moves down the hallway without conscious thought, only the memory of Lee’s mouth on his and Lee’s empty, staring eyes, to fuel him. How many things has he lost because he was willing to just let slip by? What opportunities have slipped through his fingers?

What might he have become if he hadn’t had Sam and Cas all these years? Lee is the road not taken, the divergent path in the woods--We Are, Cas said, when Dean asked what was real. Why do you care so much? Lee asked, and somehow, those two things are related in his mind.

Dean cares. He cares so goddamn much that sometimes he thinks that he might rip apart from the agony of it. He cares about Sam, about Eileen, about the weird little extended family he’s managed to build. He cares about the people that he’s lost, the family that he’s watched burn into nothing. He cares about the civilians that they save and the ones that he doesn’t. He cares about the bad calls that he’s made, he cares about the roads that he might have walked down.

He cares about Cas.

It’s more than that of course; it always is when it comes to Cas. For the first time in weeks, Dean acknowledges that, allows himself to really feel it, as he stands outside Cas’ door and raps his knuckles against the door.

There’s a pause after Dean drops his hand down to his side. Years of hunting allow him to hear the soft sounds of a body shuffling inside, the moment when a body makes a decision. The doorknob creaks as Cas opens the door.

And once again, Dean forgets how to speak, forgets how to form words, because now he’s looking at a Cas dressed in sweatpants that are slung a little too low on his hips and a t-shirt that stretches just a little too tight across his chest. His socked feet shuffle as his eyes look beyond Dean.

“What?” Cas asks flatly. His jaw is set, immovable and eternal, but Dean won’t let that stop him. He can’t. Why do you care? Lee asked, and Dean couldn’t pretend any more that he didn’t care, that he didn’t feel everything deep and personal and godawful painful.

“Can I...Can I talk to you?”

For a wild moment, Dean thinks that Cas is going to slam the door in his face. He sees the jump in Cas’ jaw when he considers it, the flex of his fingers on the door. Then, without a word, Cas steps backward, allowing Dean into his room.

Dean’s eyes dart around the space, taking in the little details, the tiny stamps of Cas’ personality on the blank space. One shelf has dozens of rocks on it, worn smooth by time and Cas’ thumb scraping over the surface. Cas’ coat is slung over a chair, along with his suit jacket. His shoes are stacked haphazardly near the door.

“So what is this, casual Friday?” Dean asks, when the silence between them stretches into crushing.

Cas doesn’t answer as he retreats to the opposite side of the bed. Always something between them, every single time--the Apocalypse, Purgatory, Leviathans, angels, Lucifer, Jack, Michael--always something there, as desperate as the end of the world, as simple as a bed.

“What did you want?” Cas finally asked. Now that he’s looking for it, Dean hears the thin tinge of exhaustion in Cas’ voice, sees the shadows underneath his eyes. There’s weariness in the way that his fingers pick at the blanket, frailty in the tiny holes around the collar of his shirt.

“I...” It would be so easy to give up. To retreat, to let whatever the fuck this is between him and Cas wither into nothing. To watch another road disappear in his rearview, to close the door on yet another opportunity. All he has to do is leave. All he has to do is keep quiet.

Why do you care so much?

“It’s not your fault,” Dean blurts.

His eyes are on Cas’ face, so he catches every second of his reaction--the startle, the widening of his eyes, the convulsive twist of his fingers in the blankets. He sees the intensity of Cas’ stare as it focuses on the bedspread, watches the tension put his spine into a ramrod position.

“You...you’ve been there for Sam and me when no one else was, and if you’ve messed up...Well, it’s no more than either of us have done. You’ve always tried Cas. Every single time, you’ve always been trying to help us, to do the right thing.” Forty years well up in Dean’s chest, nights on the beach spent with the possibility hanging heavy on him, his father’s disapproving stare, years of walking away from what he wanted, years of watching Cas walk away from him. Years of pushing away the probability. years of swallowed words. They push up in him, until he’s coming out with--

“It’s why I love you.”

Cas’ eyes, wide and fearful, light on Dean. His mouth falls open in an ‘O’ of surprise, and Cas never learned how to play it cool, never learned the art of apathy. Dean might care, but so does Cas, and it seems impossible that their two magnets are eternally repelling each other.

"And I want you around just because.” The words come easier but don’t erase the apprehensive tilt of Cas’ head, the slight glimmer at the edge of his eyes. “And I know that it wasn’t your fault, I know that--And I know that we’ve got this Chuck bullshit hanging over us, but it’s...”

Here Dean falters. Here his words die, because he doesn’t want to admit to Cas what he already knows--that even though he loves Cas with every ounce of emotion his miserable heart can squeeze out, he’s still a son of a bitch who will punch first and ask questions later, and whose first response to any kind of pain is to find the thing that hurt him and hurt it worse. People like that can’t be in relationships. They don’t deserve relationships.

But maybe Lee was just the tiniest bit right when he asked Dean if they didn’t deserve some kind of happiness in compensation for all the pain.

“Anyway, if you want me to go, then I can...” Dean gestures towards the door, which finally sparks Cas into some kind of motion.

Slowly, like he’s moving through liquid or a dream, Cas stands from the bed and makes his way to Dean. Dean forces his body to remain still, even as Cas stands in front of him. One hand reaches out and Dean doesn’t run, he doesn’t flinch, not even when Cas’ hand lands on his left shoulder.

Something in Dean sings with joy.

“It’s late,” Cas says. His voice is calm but he can’t quite suppress the edge of awe that’s creeping around the edge of his words. “And I need to sleep.”

“I can--” Dean jerks his thumb towards the door, but Cas looks up and finally, finally, meet his eyes.

“You need to sleep,” Cas says, in the same even tone, but his fingers grip Dean’s arm.

With careful motions, Cas walks them backwards towards the bed. He’s slow, giving Dean every opportunity to back away. And part of Dean wants to, part of Dean wants to run and hide behind his facade of anger and betrayal, part of Dean wants to get in the Impala and drive as far away as he can, because, at the heart of it, he knows that this is never going to work, that the second he gets any kind of happiness, something come along to snatch it away.

But Cas’ mattress is soft and welcoming, and Cas’ eyes are gentle at the edges as he looks at Dean with a hint of his old reverence. “Sleep,” Cas says, and it’s not forgiveness, it’s not what needs to happen, but at the moment, it’s close enough, which is all Dean’s ever really asked for.

Cas folds himself into bed behind Dean. He lays, there, immobile and radiating heat and Dean freezes, clutching the blanket around him. The back of his neck prickles with the weight of Cas’ eyes and the world holds its breath in anticipation of what’s to come.

Cas lays one careful hand to the back of Dean’s neck, right above his shirt collar, at the first knob of his spine. At the first brush of his hand, Dean’s muscles go lax as he sinks into the mattress. After a long moment, Dean rolls over. He presses Cas’ hand to his heart, keeps it there with one of his.

Lee’s blood is still caked underneath his nails. Chuck is still out there, along with Lilith. Danger hangs over Sam’s head, and as always, the world seems one short step away from plunging off the edge of the abyss. There’s a fragile peace between him and Cas that could shatter with a moment’s carelessness and there are mountains still between them.

But here, in this liminal space of the night, he and Cas exist in a place without words, in a place where words are extraneous. Here, there’s only the press of Cas’ fingers to the soft thud of his heart, the slow sweep of Dean’s thumb over Cas’ knuckles. Here, there’s just the two of them, pressed close enough together that their knees knock, staring into the other’s eyes until Dean’s eyelids grow heavy.

“Sleep,” Cas says, blinking slowly. Dean would move the earth for him, would take the whole of heaven, hell, and purgatory and burn them into nothingness if it meant that Cas would be safe.

He already knows that Cas has done the same for him.

“I’ll be here in the morning,” Cas tells him.

Dean sleeps.

---

Things were falling apart. We just could not slow down. We were evolving into something greater, perhaps too much for our own good. And one thing always remained as I moved on. I saved a little bit of love just in case you would ever return home.--Robert M. Drake

#spn spoilers #supernatural #destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fic #dean winchester #castiel #spn15 #spn season 15 #15.07 coda #15x07 coda #coda fic #fare thee well spn #welcome to the end #dothwrites

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bjsmall · 4 years

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23.06.20

We watched Ice Age 5 Collision Course (2016)

IMDb link: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt3416828/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0 Ice Age 5 Collision Course was released at the Sidney Film Festival on June 19th 2016. It was again produced by Blue Sky Studios and featuring all the usual voice actors, including the return of Simon Pegg as Buck. The film starts with Scrat attempting to bury his acorn again. He falls into a frozen cave only to discover that it is a flying saucer. This send him outer space causing several asteroids to head towards earth. I will let Wiki describe the rest of the plot... While attempting to bury his acorn again, Scrat ends up falling in what appears to be a frozen cave. He then discovers that the "cave" is actually a giant flying saucer, which he propels to outer space, accidentally causing several asteroids to head towards Earth during the process. At Earth, Manny and Ellie are preparing upcoming marriage between their daughter, Peaches and her clumsy, good natured fiancé, Julian. Diego and his wife Shira want to start a family, but their fierce appearance tends to scare kids. Sid is dumped by his girlfriend, Francine, just as he is about to propose to her, and he laments his solitude. During Manny and Ellie's wedding anniversary party, asteroids strike the place and The Herd barely escape. Meanwhile, at the underground lost world, Buck returns a Triceratops egg back to its rightful owner after it was stolen by a trio of flying dromaeosaurs named Gavin, Gertie, and Roger. Buck discovers an ancient stone pillar and takes it to the surface, where he meets The Herd. Buck explains to The Herd that according to the pillar, the asteroids had caused two extinctions of "horseshoe crab-looking thingies" and dinosaurs in the past and with a massive one still incoming, he believes that the only place they could find a clue to stop it is on the site of the impact of the previous ones, as according to its engravings, they always fall at the same place. Wiki link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ice_Age:_Collision_Course Ice Age 5 features a location called "Geotopia", a community of immortal animals formed inside one of the asteroids that have fallen long ago, where Sid meets Brooke (Voiced by Jessie J), a female ground sloth who falls in love with him.

The concept of Collision Course originates from a scene in the first Ice Age film where Manny and his friends are walking past a space ship that is encased in ice. The ''Figaro's Aria'' sequence, which involved Buck saving an egg from a trio of dromaesaurs proved to be the most difficult for Blue Sky animators. The sequence is two minutes long, but the team could only produce three or four seconds of footage a week. The film score was composed by John Debney, but elements of the soundtrack from previous Ice Age films were also used. The featured song in Ice Age 5 Collision Course is ‘My Superstar’ by Jessie J. Compared to the other four films in the franchise, the 5th film under performed at the box office. It was the first Blue Sky film to receive negative critic reviews and the worst reviewed film in the Ice Age franchise. The story line feels confused and erratic, particularity when compared to the previous films. In my view, this is the least favourite of the Ice Age films, although i do acknowledge the animation production is excellent. There has been some talk of an Ice Age 6, although it seems more likely a mini series for Disney+ channel could be in the works.

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cassianus · 1 year

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Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Vatican, Feb. 11, 2009

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juleswolverton-hyde · 5 years

Text

A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning | 01

Genre: Smut, Romance, Angst, Stepbrother AU

Pairing: Stepbrother!Namjoon x English student!Reader

Warning: Appearance of a jealous Namjoon, rutting

Summary: Love comes in many shapes, but does not always have a prosperous fate. However, whereas parents might have found it, all the children can do is live in kalopsia.

Forbidden yet denying the mourning of the path chosen for them by Fate.

Author’s Note: Kalopsia (n.): the delusion of things being more beautiful than they are.

Also, my brain descended further into madness, deteriorating fast thanks to exams about poetry and linguistics, thus producing this fanfic which was originally meant to be a one-shot. Yet, here we are, and it would be a lie to say I am not secretly living for this.

Masterlist / Next part

Preface

As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say The breath goes now, and some say, No: So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did, and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined, That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun. John Donne, Songs and Sonnets, 1633

Happiness can occur in life in all sorts of shapes in places both expected and unexpected, easy to reach or lying at the end of a rocky road. Sometimes it is a physical thing or activity that brings joy - a cup of coffee or tea on a dreary morning while reading a good book that university does not obligate you to read - and sometimes it is a person.

Dad found it in a foreign woman after divorcing Mom, steadily building a relationship from the ashes of the one that had just been burned to the ground, leaving only a daughter just finished with high school as the last steady though crumbling pillar. It could have collapsed had she not accepted the woman and the son who had flown over from a week earlier from the country she herself had left behind and managed to remain friendly despite the thirty-hour jetlag upon seeing the extended welcoming committee upon arrival. Even able to continue to do so in spite of insecurity, crazy working hours draining every last bit of humanity at times and - nowadays fairly decreased - social anxiety arousing suspicion around every unknown person.

At times it remains hard due to the cultural differences, but shared moments like dinners and helping with setting up the rooms for the new inhabitants has only strengthened the bond so that it has become like the days of the old marriage. In fact, travel stories alongside common interests form another source of daily bonding regardless of being busy with university and complaining about it.

Nevertheless, it is a form of love: family. And there is a gladness it has been restored to a formerly broken man trying to create the best life for an insecure though growing lass with wanderlust who likes to be more often absent than present.

Withal, these days the need to escape is grander thanks to a new reason.

Another love in the form of a person.

A big man who is five years older with the beautiful mind of an old soul and the brains of a proper academic, speaking with a silver tongue without lies and baritone tone reminiscent of the days spent by the sea during travelling in the gap year before giving university a chance forms a source of joy in this particular case. Habits like the patting of the head accompanied by encouragements and hugs coloured with a mixture of protectiveness and assurance before setting off on yet another adventure somewhere in the world when the educational and work schedule allows it or before stressful tests increasing the pressuring anxiety bring more comfort than they ought. How curious to see the rise in intimacy in comparison to the polite cold handshakes at the very start of the second journey during twelve careless months.

The sense of amenity has especially become more prominent after a particular night filled with terrors which occupied every dream, making the unconscious body futilely attempt to fight the horror. Joon came bounding up the creaking attic stairs and burst through the door, making sure everything was alright after urgently waking a girl he barely knew safe for what her father and his mother had told him, refusing to go downstairs to the simply furnished bedroom also functioning as a studio and office they built up together. Instead, the one-person bed had to be shared as a harmless bear lay down beside a koala and held her all throughout the night to form a guard against any evil that would dare disturb the calm.

How cruel Fate is.

To send a person who unexpectedly had brought joy to a formerly bland existence filled with self-growth and a lonely road of which the emptiness was denied for surely the scenery made up for the lack of company.

But what of the local cafés for breakfast and coffee breaks, to scan through the taken pictures, show off any proud results to a companion? What of the bookstores to wander in for hours on end, the recommendations that cannot be given to a fellow bookworm?

No one is there.

Nothing but the empty shape of the man with adorable dimples and unique laugh that strangely captured the heart from the start.

All there is, is a sole pair of sneakers that are still a tad dirtied by Scottish mud when stubbornness resulted in being stuck in the hills, too afraid of falling to come down rapidly.

If Joon had been there, big hands would have guided us both down towards the beginning of Holyrood Park safely.

Been held while walking The Royal Mile and wrapped around a warm cup of freshly made cappuccino with impeccable latte art in the form of a Smeraldo flower as the rain poured from the ashen heavens yet we were sheltered from it by Miss MacIntyre’s cosy café.

If he had been there.

Thus, the girl who denied the loneliness is regardlessly left in solitude, lost among stories that can solely be shared with the one person who already loves another in the way the lone wolf loves him.

Because the bond of stepsister and stepbrother is in the way of pursuing a beloved who makes even the stressful days easier and who speaks with the distinct deep voice that can both rap and sing poetry, an odd contrast given the important day job requiring a suit, giving the genuine encouragements needed to see the hours through when everything becomes too much. Whose clothing style shows off the secret duality and sometimes becomes part of the self-developed one after coming home on a rainy day. Definitely becomes part of it if the temperatures are low and worries about potential sickness triggers the stubborn guardian inside the clumsy giant.

Namjoon makes the world not feel as if Atlas has handed over the burden. Instead, he selflessly lifts it.

And yet the truthful smile fades when low and more high-pitched murmurs and giggles on the other side of the bedroom door are heard during passing through the hallway to the attic in the evening, for it is undeniable Heungji, a beautiful onyx-haired girl on the other side of the world in a country - the place of his roots - as gorgeous as the fox herself, will keep the bear’s heart even if miles separate love. At least there is still the digital highway to connect and keep the relationship standing.

All we have are moments like these wherein the friendliness is painfully obvious while going out for a hot beverage together or lunch depending on the time of the seminar and his function as a debtor manager for the bank allows a break, even if the day has not gone awry. Nonetheless, today it has as the linguistics exam did not turn out as well as expected and the sole source of comfort - a cup of joe - cannot be paid for since everything which is necessary for the day was transferred from the bag used for the job as a retail worker to the backpack that was decidedly a better option, except my wallet.

Fortunately, the exchange student within our seminar group and also one of the loved friends made along the way, Changkyun - who goes by the name of Daniel to make it easier for the professors and likely evade embarrassment at the hand of wrong pronunciation - has offered to pay since he, too, needs a break from studying old literature. Moreover, there was no escaping the offer since the hazelnut-haired lad with a sly hint to a stoic look knows how much depends on caffeine in this student’s life and the salary earned at the supermarket in the mall would be deposited today anyway. Besides, spending some time with a fellow student, a rare occurrence outside lectures and regular class, might bring some peace of mind to the rampant mental chaos.

A buzz shaking in the back pocket of dark skinny jeans that do all but hold out the icy winter weather signifies the arrival of a message, the name upon checking who exactly sent it immediately bringing a sliver of a smile to thin lips desperate to cry out in frustration yet remaining silent. ‘Hey, how did it go? Did the practice we did last night do you any good?’

After dinner, Namjoon tried to help with the development of the skill of being able to distinguish between prescriptive and descriptive grammar as we sat in the corner of the stone-shaded L-shaped couch with the printed twenty-five page summary of all that needed to be learned. Before it would never even have occurred to the mind to lean on the broad shoulder offered so freely and embrace the strong arm which also functioned as a stress outlet whenever answering a question wrong. Joon did not mind it, merely asked in a laughing manner not to separate the limb from the body by squeezing.

It perhaps would have been after hearing yet another Skype call with Heungji.

It is silly, being so infatuated with a person who can never be held dear in the desired manner if they were ever fated to be with the lover from afar at all. But that is the way of the world: nobody can always get what they want. At least the parents who raised us have found happiness in each other, a virtue which is more important than the selfish desire for a grey-haired man who holds the middle between a wolf and a bear.

Withal, the same words spoken by the unattainable hidden philosopher when the first doubts about the study and everything surrounding it echo in the faded buzz of companions conversing with one another while waiting for the last party member: just because it is a bad day, does not necessarily mean it is a bad life.

Eager digits foolishly in love with the hallucination firmly cloaking them, refusing to lift the veil, type out a reply speaking the not so pretty truth. ‘First part went fairly well: 68/100. Guess I’m a grammar nazi, after all. The second part proved I, apparently, cannot use grammar in the normal sense. Completely screwed that up: 58/100. Hoping for an average above the 5.0.

‘Anywho, I’m going to forget about it for a wee while with Changkyun and a cup of coffee. Forgot my wallet, but he’s paying so it’s all good. Free coffee!’

An odd uncharacteristic response comes a split second later, the tone of the text containing a harshness which would normally never be associated with the kind giant regardless of the seemingly harmless proposal. ‘I’ll pay. You know what, let’s get lunch together. My treat. I’ll come to pick you up and we’ll go to your favourite restaurant near the convention centre.’

‘Joon, it’s fine. I’ll eat something at home and get back to studying. Besides, it’s only coffee before returning to the study of 1100 years of literary history and I’m sure you’re busy.’ Normally, the chance of sharing a meal after a late morning seminar would not be skipped, certainly not at the Asian fusion restaurant nearby the station and grand cinema, but it is nice to do something with someone else for a change.

Eyes widen in surprise at the determination and silent sternness colouring the turn the conversation has taken, unbelieving of the attitude Namjoon has suddenly taken on. ‘Seeing as I’m texting you, I must not be very busy. Let me take care of you. What was the address of the building where you have class again?’

‘Is this a Korean thing or just you being a very insistent gentleman? Don’t make such a deal out of it and get back to work.’ In the beginning and even nowadays there is a noticeable difference in culture as the wolf simply does not permit me to pay for my own food when the city allows repose from obligation and we should share a meal as family.

As stepbrother and sister.

The role of the latter becomes harder with the day, but the sole audience who gets to see the actress perform remains blind to the woman underneath the makeup due to the performance which crumbles behind the scenes.

The argument is completely disregarded in favour of the behaviour laced with curious possessiveness. ‘Oh, never mind. I remember now. In fact, I’ll be there in ten.’

‘Un-fucking-believable.’ With a defeated sigh and shake of the head, the phone is tucked back into the pocket and music softly sounding through crisp white earbuds turned on again. It is the variety of upbeat Korean pop songs mixed with indie artists and symphonic metal that keeps the blood boiling enough without acting in a rash impulse. Hands are tucked in the pockets of the leather jacket lined with fake wolf fur to trap all bodily warmth. Nonetheless, there is a fleeting, spiderweb-thin, unknown emotion adding extra heat to the body despite the apparent need for control. Something different than the amorous sensation normally provoked by the tall man.

‘Y/N, you okay?’ The baritone voice making one assume the lad speaking is older than the truth dictates, makes a mocking focus shift from sneakers forever engraved by adventures in Scotland and lined with sheep’s wool lightly kicking the ground to the face of the boy who has been a friend since the beginning of September. The hero of this awful day. Wearing the same style as on the matching day, raven locks parted in the middle to make the same-toned baggy hoodie appear more fashionable than it actually is and golden-rimmed glasses framing bright almond-shaped eyes the colour of the earth in autumn set above a tall nose, Changkyun stands waiting patiently for an explanation for the change in behaviour with crossed arms. ‘You already said the test didn’t go too well, but now you seem even more pissed off. Did something happen?’

‘My stubborn... brother.’ The last word comes out with difficulty for lately the situation has grown complicated due to emotions and actions both parties show and undertake, cloaking the relationship in a confusing veil outside of the eyes of loving parents. ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately, but his behaviour has changed and not exactly always for the better. In fact, Joon is somehow completely against us getting coffee. Just two weeks ago he wouldn’t have minded because he knows you’re a good friend of mine, but now he’s acting even worse than I do when The Red Dragon is around.’

Withal, even before the mentioned period of change, some uncharacteristic tweaks in attitude that would soon be made part of the self had been noticeable.

The most obvious one was the curious shift from jealousy which was tried very much to be hidden underneath a calm listening expression to almost undeniable relief at hearing the male coworker turned into a good comrade on the first day of work at a new job picked up a month or so ago at the local mall as a retail worker already has a girlfriend.

A little while later, mayhaps in the week that followed, a similar rapid storm of emotions passed behind the wizened gaze of the bear who was reading Me Before You by Jojo Moyes as Dad and Jeongja, the gentle lovely woman who raised Namjoon and now also has a daughter to care for, spent the evening by watching series on Netflix. The slight cramping of slender caramel digits around the bright crimson sides of the novel showed everything that secretly flashed by in the eyes partially obscured by the top side of the book at hearing a few fellow students, the sole individuals who have been deemed genuine and fun company, dropped by the store for a brief visit before heading home via the station just across the plaza. Changkyun’s name - the sole male one among the fellowship - triggered the quiet rage. The rest form no problem since they are lasses, but the stoic boy who could make an advance that would deepen the current friendship to a more meaningful bond was in the unspoken opinion seething on the stone-toned sofa.

Still is, judging from the tiny tenses of fingers or other easily dismissible negative quirks that appear after accounting having made a linguistics or literature seminar more fun than it truly was by goofing around - in a respectful manner that did not disturb the professor, of course - with a mere companion.

Another sign of transformation are the touches in the early morning when preparing the first cup of coffee of the day, the necessary beverage to get through the following hours, and a small bowl of soy yoghurt. First, it was simply digits muzzling extremely dishevelled but clean ash blonde locks which looked as if having withstood a tornado or gentle petting if they had fallen into a messy though charming bedhead look. Then those touches turned into big warm palms wrapping over the shoulder bared by the baggy shirt functioning as sleepwear, apparently a “convenient” point of support for getting something from the cupboard - being kindly slapped with a sachet of instant coffee on the head - or fridge.

None of it has been minded thus far since it casts a mirage which only adds to the forbidden longing for the tall man who can never be had and the fact Namjoon is the sole person who is allowed any kind of showing physical affection in the morning without being grumbled at. Mayhaps this is how siblings behave in Korea, showing more affection than here in Europe.

However, the intimacy to which they have grown alongside the farewell and welcome-back hugs at the airport or after a long tiring day, certainly will make any outsider curious as to what lies beneath the surface which allows the touches to this degree.

Nonetheless, in those instances, out of the sight that would surely question and judge the skinship, the world is a bit less harsh and the day easier on the psyche.

In those delusional meaningless moments, we are more than stepbrother and sister.

I am his and he is mine.

Regardless, what was minded and continues to bother the consciousness anew after being butchered by grammar and now once again tries to find a plausible explanation for the half-slumbering given excuse which bore no conviction, is this morning’s suddenly very intimate gesture. Perhaps it was an accident because there surely is no other justification for the paradoxical situation that unintentionally formed a prelude to today’s troubled train of thought.

Withal, the sensation of feeling a warm chest containing a wildly beating heart pressed against the spine while a hardened heat source pushed with the same pressure against the behind, the intention of the sensual action clear, and having arms wrapped around the shoulders in an inappropriate intimate embrace as thick grey locks appeared in the corner of barely though immediately alert vision cannot be easily let go of. Just like the full lips drowsily murmuring undecipherable statements against the shoulder blade while one hand travelled down to grip the hip and guide it to feel the slow barely noticeable rhythm set in by the wolf.

When remarking upon the fairly awkward situation, perversely wishing to remain a bit longer like this - even going as far bringing the pleasure suddenly sought after, yet not wanting to ignite any futile hope with the desire-filled images rapidly flashing by in a mental thunderstorm - Sense returned from wherever it went in an instant and the bear tainted with the traces of slumber muttered a poor excuse about not being fully conscious, having had a difficult conversation the night before with Heungji and therefore not being in the right proper mindset.

That it was just a lucid dream.

After all, we are siblings.

It meant nothing.

Simply an accident.

A bittersweet moment of actually feeling wanted as more than the sweet girl by the poet bound to an onyx fox in the land of tigers.

But it is uncertain what Heungji would think of the recent obvious displays of jealousy. Surely, it would not be much appreciated if a lover so clearly is affected by the actions of another, basically not allowing them to be with anyone who is not approved of aside from themselves. In fact, the situation a wolf and koala are in is one of cheating.

Then again, there is too much distance between the two and things are easily left unspoken.

Mayhaps I am a mere distraction.

Worth nothing.

Howbeit, if one thing has been learned from the relatively brief time together, it is that cold false games like that are not Namjoon’s way and would be an unbelievable attempt at hiding the genuine nature underneath the sometimes intimidating exterior. Henceforth, something must have happened which has triggered the change. After all, how difficult was that conversation last night and was it the first or another addition to a series of multiple? Furthermore, there are still the kind-hearted soft female giggles and sonorous chuckles resonating from the other side of the door, although not quite so often as they used to do.

It is frustrating how the self cannot let go of Hope and let Sense lead it down another, less painful, path. That there is no progress from the dream keeping the mind captured.

What would not be given in order to escape the kalopsia.

‘He is likely just concerned for his little sister. I know I’d be if my sister would go out, even for just a coffee, with a guy despite claiming they’re merely friends.’ A small smile forms on roseate lips, promising there is nothing to worry about and this is merely natural behaviour. ‘He’s simply being a good brother, Y/N.’

‘Changkyun, you don’t- no, never mind.’ At the last second, the intent to use the accident as an argument is repressed, deciding it is too much information to share with somebody regardless of the bond with them. ‘Let’s just keep it at that he’s simply being weird but, as you said, a good brother.’

A lie which has to be believed every single day in order to move past the fantasies romanticizing reality and keeping the conscious blind to the all too eager harshness which would so like to make them crumble into tiny irretrievable shards.

To keep breathing when the salt shed in privacy has dried and Namjoon still is not there.

To just keep going.

‘Whatever you say, Y/N. Whatever you say.’

For a few more minutes, we simply stand basking in the warm scent of the building’s coffee corner while waiting for the last party member to return from the awful linguistics test, spending the time in silence disturbed by melodies only a sole pair of ears can hear. The music calms the nerves standing on edge with the for once negative anticipation of seeing the recently grown odd stepbrother appear in the doorway to fulfil the promise that could not be refused.

There is always a choice, you tell me that time and again when rock bottom is close or times are generally hard but not desperate. However, why is there not now? Why can’t you let me pick?

‘I’m so glad that’s over! All I want to do is go home and forget this bloody test.’ Golden straight locks round the corner in a whirlwind of temporarily gradually fading worry, held together by a caramel-toned hair tie. Judging from the tiredness dimming the normally bright - albeit tainted with stress more often than not - crystal blue stare, Monica is well and truly done with the day. ‘Let’s get out of here. I need to go home to study for tomorrow’s exam.’

‘Go take a break with us.’ The need for a brief repose is barely able to be dismissed from even the slightly happier expression breaking the stoic façade of the pale hazelnut-haired fellow caffeine addict. ‘Y/N and I are going to get some coffee anyway so join us.’

‘It’ll do you some good. Studying can wait until later.’ Fingers remove the headphones providing rest for a chaotic mind, the sounds of the world flowing in after melodies fade. A hand stretches out, tempting another soul into procrastination. ‘Or you’ll end up like Donne, obsessed with death. Death by studying. Come on, Mon. Let’s go.’

Withal, it cannot be taken nor a step set towards the exit of the edifice before an all too familiar baritone voice growls in warning. ‘How about you come with me?’

So far for escaping the sole person who wanted to be evaded at all costs to merely enjoy the rare occasion of doing something with friends, unrelated to university.

Because in the doorway and thus barring the way, clad in a neat onyx turtleneck and same-coloured pants underneath a trench coat which is a lighter shade of black, the outfit put on for work as a debtor manager this very morning, stands an intimidating wolf instead of the kind book-loving bear who helped with studying last night. And since there is no help, there is also no possible tactic that can be employed to still succeed in circumventing the six-feet-tall blockade.

There is no way to avoid Namjoon, raging with jealous menace.

#BTS #BTS smut #kpopwonderlandtag #btssmutclub #btsguild #armyofwriters #BTS x Reader #Namjoon #RM #Kim Namjoon #Joon #Stepbrother!Namjoon #A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning

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