#it’s bad enough for me to complain incessantly but not enough to go to the ER (yet) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

archiveofmyownatsixinthemorning · 4 months ago

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Catharsis

His leg bobs incessantly. Even now, as he sits next to Armie in the car. His head lowered, Tim looks at his fingers, which are permanently playing with the rings on his hands or are nibbling over the skin. He is ashamed. But he thinks it's the only thing that helps. Why did it have to come so far, why did it have to come to this again? Hadn't he known all along what was going to happen. Why did it feel so horrible anyway? _Don't let it get to you. If only it were that simple. He hadn't said no, he couldn't complain now, he had to go through this alone now, it was as it was but still... it pulled him into abysses he had never seen before. And always with the awareness that he was only doing this because he had to suppress certain things that were not wanted in the world he was living in. He was not wanted if they all knew who he was. And who he was with. It tore him apart. Sometimes he felt like he just didn't have enough body mass to take it all. He did things he wouldn't do if he could be who he was.

He has to keep telling himself that.

He has choices to make that others don't have to make. Sure, even straight actors had their PR, their obligations... The world wanted to be entertained. And he made a living out of it. A good one. He couldn't complain, he could have said no. If this had not triggered a much worse feeling in him. The feeling of having made the wrong decision, the feeling of having failed, the feeling of not making it far, the feeling of not being able to achieve what his goals in life were. Because what was his life without acting? Just do it, it's good for your career, they said. More income, more money, more success, more offers, more choices.... The choices were important. For the roles he wanted to play. What cis man would care about his vulnerability if he wasn't screwing a hot chick on the side. That was the only thing that mattered. And all the negative press? Cis men don't read comments, let alone write them. They go to the movies with their wives and smile when their wives talk about PR relationships. PR relations? Absurd. But you know what, I think this hot outfit his girlfriend wore would look good on you too.

And the rest? Looked at it shallow anyway. Ah a photo of them, making out, ok, got it, they are together.

At least that's how the PR people saw it. That's how it would be. And if not? There was no right nor wrong. No one could predict the future for him. Wasn't it better to take the safe side then? Which everyone around him claimed was the right one? His PR people would for sure rub his nose in the "right" numbers. Look, things are going well! And yet... Fellow actors who made fun of him.... _Ignore it. So he acted as if none of it mattered to him, as if he didn't care. Even though the whole world saw that he did. But it was only a few minutes of his life, so what was the problem, right? A few minutes that showed the whole world an image of him that he wasn't and that he didn’t like.

The fog in his head gets thicker day by day, a heavy feeling in his stomach. He eats very little, loses his appetite, in his stomach is a heavy indigestible lump. Everyone asks him if he wants to talk about it. But he isolates himself. What is there to talk about? Is he a bad person? Is he a weak person? Because he wants to live his life with his love? Unjudged? It tears him apart.

He doesn't want all that, and yet he can't give up his dream, his destiny, his purpose in life. He just can’t. So, he grits his teeth.

_Please talk to me about it.

But he can’t. Everything is racing inside him. He tries to numb it. But the drugs that the doctor had prescribed do not help. Weed often helps. But when weed doesn't help anymore, this is the only thing that will help. Even if he wishes it didn't.

He's glad Armie wasn't with him the whole time. He doesn't want him to worry about him, he wants to go through this alone. He needs to go through it alone, he's chosen to.

But now he feels like he is wrapped in tar, now he has to put himself back to zero, to be able to breathe again. It's the only way out. He knows if he doesn't do something about it now.... _ The most important thing is that it helps you. Yes, it helps. Now Armie is by his side and he's grateful for that. Because without him, he couldn't take this step. He couldn't have talked to anyone else about it. What he needs now, what helps him now. _Do you think I'm sick? _No. No. They live in Hollywood, they'd both seen sicker things.

Armie pulls into the parking space and turns off the engine. He turns to him slightly, strokes his cheek gently. There is nothing to say. They just look at each other. Then they both get out, Armie takes the bag from the back seat.

A dark back entrance, and even though no one is here, Tim feels the need to pull his cap deeper into his face. Armie presses the buzzer on the door, enters the code, a click and they can go in. Dark, black-painted hallways, dimly lit, purple, pink glints of light reflecting on the floor. He walks behind Armie, who already shields him by his size like a bodyguard. Then once more around to the right and Armie puts the keycard into the slot from the door. It is the same room as last time. He had forgotten again how cold it is in the room. It's a good sign that it's been so long, isn't it?

Armie puts the bag down on the only chair. Tim slowly undresses until he is naked. Armie takes his clothes and puts them over the chair, opens the bag and the first thing he pulls out is the cloth. First, because Tim wants it that way.

One last look, gently, and Armie blindfolds him. Then the shackles on the wrists. This time on the back. Armie had not allowed it the first time because he felt it was too dangerous. Tim feels Armie's practiced grip, Armie's hands restraining him confidently. For a second, he wishes he were home, just having good sex with him. But that wouldn't improve his condition. He has to do this, reset himself, everything else had time. He hears Armie pull the gag ball from the bag, the buckle clatters. "Open your mouth," Armie's voice is nothing more than a sad whisper and it tightens his chest. He thinks he can feel Armie getting angry with himself for forgetting: No more words when we're in the room. He opens his mouth, feels the ball against his lips and lets Armie push it into his mouth. After Armie tightens the buckle, he still feels Armie's index finger and middle finger sliding across his cheek before he leaves. Leaves him here alone, as Tim wants it. Needs it.

He squats on the cold floor, feels the cold stone, while his nose takes in the smells of the room. Cleaning supplies, plus the rancid smell that probably never goes away from rooms like this. He listens to his breath. Hears distant loud, excited voices, scattered clacking, sounds of equipment. Then the door opens again and two men come in. He knows there are two of them. That's the deal. They waste no time, he feels a hand grab him hard on the chin. "Look at that, the pretty boy, thinking he's such a smart and handsome boy, when he's just a pathetic little wanker" and so it goes on, they're nasty, they're mean, humiliating him, twisting his limbs.

His face is pressed to the floor, his heart races, he has trouble breathing, he is afraid, even though he knows that nothing bad will happen, at least nothing that will endanger his health. He is spat at, he is kicked. The face is spared, of course. He can't tell how long it all lasts, it feels short and eternal all at once. His body aches, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his thighs. His soul longs for comfort and tenderness. He doesn't want any of this. He wants it to be over. But he knows it's not enough, not enough. One of them removes the gag ball, yanks his hair, "I know what you want, you little faggot" and then he has the guy's cock in his mouth, he tries to squirm away, but he is held down. "Come on now, suck my cock you little whore". The other guy is behind him pushing something big between his butt cheeks. He starts to panic. Nothing is going to happen and yet the fear is there. What if they don't keep their end of the bargain? He doesn't want that! His whole body is in a state of emergency, it tears him apart, he is so incredibly scared, he screams, bloodcurdling, and then, then the tears run.

The guys immediately let go of him.

He slumps, falls to the floor, his head on the cold cement. And cries and howls. Letting it all out, saliva running from the corner of his mouth, tears soaking the blindfold. He notices one of them take off his handcuffs, hears the door open and close, but all he can do is keep howling. He tightens his body, wraps his arms around his knees. And cries. The valve is open.

The hatred for himself, the sorrow for himself, everything flows through his mind and soul with the tears out of his body.

He cries until he has no more tears, until there is nothing left, nothing left inside him.

And then he feels nothing. Only emptiness.

He is nothing.

Nothing good, but nothing bad either.

Everything has vanished. Reset. Very slowly, his breathing calms down again. His pulse regulates itself. The fog in his head is still there, but slowly, very slowly, it lifts.

Then the door opens again, he feels Armie take off his blindfold, his hands, big and gentle, caring. He is too weak, his body is too weak, he can do nothing, he lets Armie put a blanket around his body and take him in his arms. With his last strength, he wraps his arms around Armie’s neck and buries his face in the crook. And now he has to laugh a bit, because it's so corny. His man, his love, his hero. None of the shit he has done he would have done if they hadn’t asked him to. He isn’t proud to know that he will do it again.

But he is so grateful to have Armie. Armie carries him to the car, lets him get in, gets in himself and they drive off. Soothing music by Nils Frahm plays and he snuggles into his blanket. The fear is still on his neck, but now he has Armie by his side again.

They say nothing, but Armie smiles gently at him from the side. He's glad it's over, too, but Tim can still see the sadness in his face. _I'm sorry to put you through this. _You don't have to be sorry, I just want you to be okay.

Armie is struggling with the fact that he can't help him with this. It gnaws at him, he knows that.

At home, Armie takes his hand and leads him up the stairs to the bathroom. His whole body aches, but he is home, here with Armie, and it feels good. The water in the bathtub is already halfway in. Armie turns on the faucet and runs warm water to it. Then he starts to light the candles that are around the bathtub. Tim watches him do it and smiles. He couldn't do this reset if he didn't have this incredible sense of security from Armie afterwards. He is so incredibly grateful for that. He so wishes he could take away his sadness. After he gets in the tub, Armie starts washing him with a sponge. First his face, then his body, every inch, "Lean forward...", nothing of what happened earlier should stick to him anymore. "Lift your leg..." Armie's face is serious, his eyelids twitch when he sees the bruises, but he doesn't say anything, just keeps going. Washes his hair, rinses it with the shower. When he's done, he puts a glass of gin in Tim’s hand. Not his favorite drink, but he finishes it in one gulp. The burning in his throat does its job. He coughs. And then takes Armie's hand, places it against his cheek, kisses the inside surface. Looks at him. "You're helping me. I couldn't have done what helps me most without you, so you help me. Your understanding helps me. Your kindness helps me. Your love helps me. You know that, right?" Armie bites his lower lip and nods slowly. Tim slowly leans forward and gently presses his lips to Armie's. "Bed?" Armie nods again. Rising, he hands him first the towel to dry off and then the bathrobe to put on. In the bedroom, Armie takes off his jeans and they lie on the bed, tightly embraced. That's all. He breathes in Armie's scent, feels the stubble on his face, on his lips.

He's not naive to think he won't take a remnant of it all with him, but the remains are so small and scattered throughout his body that they can't hurt him anymore. His body, his soul want to live, to the fullest. "Thank you," he whispers to Armie. Armie holds him even tighter. They kiss, slowly and gently. They caress each other, slowly and gently. And then Tim lets his hand slide between Armie's legs. "You don't need to do that..." Armie whispers. But he has to get Armie out of there, he has to make him forget what was, he wants to get back to the place where they were happy, just them. It tingles in his belly. So, he sits on Armie's chest with a flourish, looks at him with a provocative smile and reaches for the cock behind him. Armie closes his eyes in shame. "Don't..." But he continues, asking gleefully, "What? Don't you like it? Doesn't look like it?" The cock in his hand stiffens and Armie bites his lips. But that's not enough. "Please, stop..." Tim laughs. "Um, no intention, sorry. But you can do something too if you want." He takes Armie's hand and puts it on his own cock. "Here, you have something to rub too. You'll see, it's fun. We can have a contest to see who's the better rubber." And then Armie has to laugh against his will and a stone falls from Tim’s heart. Exuberant and happy, he kisses Armie on the mouth and Armie laughingly kisses him back, throwing him onto his back so that he is now lying underneath him. They look at each other.

Armie is serious again. "I love you," he says. And though it's not the first time he's heard it, Tim has to swallow. "I love you, too," he says back. And then they make love. Very gently, very tenderly. Tomorrow they will start all over again, fighting the rest of the world. But today, today they don't have to do anything but to be themselves.

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n0v4r3d · 6 months ago

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3/100

07.26.24

Day 3 of 100

THE 100 DAY PLAN

~ FEAR ~

I often reflect on the scene in “Donnie Darko” in which the health teacher makes the case that all human motivation stems from love or fear. The film takes a swipe at this notion, opting for a perspective that human beings are infinitely more complicated than this simple dichotomy. And in a way, that’s true. The irony is that the perspective comes from a teenager. Someone who thinks they have a more profound understanding of the world than those who came before. And while there is much nuance to the argument (and film as a whole), I’ve reversed my assessment of the scene all these years later. I scoffed at the “lesson” of the teacher. How could someone so fundamentally fail to give credence to the existential cacophony of existence? But the truth is that our motivations, from instinctual to logical to emotional, all stem from some variation of these two concepts.

The nuance of it all lies in the fact that “love” and “fear” are merely words. They are neat little categories, oversimplified, to showcase that the idea of the spectrum of human experience is infinitely more than simply “this” or “that.”

But what I’ve learned after three and a half decades, surviving suicide attempts, getting sober, having loved and lost, and fine-tuning a sense of hope and purpose on this earth is that the essence of the teacher’s message rings true.

As human beings, we are indeed complex. Because we make it so. We are exposed to a incalculable onslaught of information and experience to make sense of on a daily basis. This has only been compounded by the advent of the internet. I don’t have the patience to dive into it all here, but what I can say is that every negative experience I’ve had, every regret, selfish action, and bad decision is somehow rooted in a misplaced form of “fear.”

Inaction itself stems from this. Fight, flight, or freeze. I used to flee. Now I freeze. Not sure which response is worse.

The way out is through. I’m not naive enough to think anything is overly simple in a “just get over it” sense. Emotions dominate. But so much of my emotional turmoil stems from a variation on what is essentially the concept of fear. Exposure therapy seems to be the way forward. It is impossible to escape life without regret, remorse, uncertainty, and an unhealthy dose of “could’ve/should’ve/would’ve” hindsight thinking. But this is useless. To make lemonade from lemons, I must assess every decision, every action, every experience, and apply a lesson learned. No matter how big or small, how painful or easy, there is something to be gained in the form of experiential knowledge.

If I keep touching the hot stove, convinced that one time it won’t burn me, then I have rejected the opportunity to learn. This metaphor applies across life as a whole. There is no inherent justice or rightness in this world. It is shaped by trillions of variables created through the actions of billions of people at any given moment.

Kicking and screaming into the void is no way forward. That is the existential death. A living hell.

Instead, what I must recognize is that every source of discomfort I experience stems from something based in fear. Fear of purposelessness, fear of losing hope, fear of failure, fear of not being enough, fear of the world collapsing around me. The list goes on and on and on.

All I have is the present moment and a sphere of influence no larger than my wingspan.

I have no more tolerance or patience for “holier than thou” attitudes. There is an epidemic of people who think they have it all figured out. Who consider themselves “happy” while complaining incessantly. Endless judgment, a total absence of empathy, main character syndrome, and grudge-holding.

None of us asked to be born. A little grace and humility goes a long way. Creating imaginary enemies based on arbitrary assessments is a pretty miserable way to go about life. Finding purpose and fulfillment in the suppression of others is bafflingly backwards.

We need a death bed study to get the views of those facing down mortality. I’d wager the vast majority would advise everyone to not take everything so seriously, to hold their loved ones close, and to do all of the things they’re delaying until that hypothetical “tomorrow” that never seems to come.

I am afraid. But I will not let it stop me. Not anymore.

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rianafying · 7 months ago

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dear diary

i haven’t written in here in a while partly because i’ve been busy, partly because i’ve been talking to actual people, partly because i’ve been talking to chatgpt (it talks back to me), party because i’ve been writing in my notes app (i don’t have to even briefly think about what i can and cannot reveal about my life such as names of people or the stories and details of my life). but i feel like venting here fulfils a different need than doing all those other things. oh and i’ve also been using this app called clarity that’s mostly free and lets you do mood check ins and guided thought analysis journal and gratitude journal and guided breathing exercises (i can never spell this word right the first time) and an episode of meditation. there’s more stuff behind a paywall but i’m happy with the free stuff for now. that said, i have not been very happy lately. i haven’t been very productive lately, the way that i was for a brief period before when i signed myself up for anything and everything and now it’s all a bit too much. there’s this class im doing that has become a little too important to me, and the desire to do a perfect assignment paralyses me, keeping me from doing an assignment at all. i had to get a week long extension and im really disappointed in myself, and i’ve let down my favourite teacher. but i guess life goes on. right now it’s 5am and i’ve been up all night trying to clean my appartment (i will never not lose my mind about this and complain incessantly). anyway i’m just rlly scared and anxious because cleaning really stresses me out and after 5 hours of intense cleaning it barely looks like i’ve done anything. im thinking i should take my third and fourth painkiller of the day to combat my neck and shoulder pain from anxiety and lack of sleep. i have to remember a few things: 1) when cleaning, it doesn’t look clean until the last bit which is to dump things into boxes, what i mean is, the room doesn’t start to look until im 90% through the process. i would say at the moment im 30% in. another 30% would be the bathroom, 20% for folding and sorting clothes, 10% vacuuming/scrubbing floor, 10% throwing the bags out. 2) gamifying the process makes it more bearable for my adhd brain, and other things like filming a timelapse of me cleaning, and having a video on the side (i’ve been watching anthony padilla interview people, and he’s such a good host). 3)it’s not the end of the world, the worst case scenario is that my family loses respect for me, which they have very little of anyway, so it’s not much of a difference. 4) even though it’s really hard, i’ve done it before and i can do it again.

i’m thinking i might have to go to woolies or aldi in the morning to get some power cleaning sprays and bleach. but that’s so exhausting. also, i wanted to treat them to my favourite halal food which is also affordable but im too broke and overwhelmed at the moment to do anything at all other than trying to get my place cleaned. i’m scared that i’ll run out of time and they’ll be here and they’ll be horrified. but yeah. i’m also rlly hungry and should get something to eat and take a shower. i don’t have enough time. i’m so sleepy and tired. but this is my fault. i can’t do things until it’s too late.

i think the most important thing is to remind myself that nothing is actually wrong. and it’s going to be okay. i can power through this. nothing actually bad is going to happen to be from anxiety. it’s just anxiety. a few hours of cleaning is enough to get my tiny studio apartment into shape. regardless of how messy/dirty it is. my strategy rn is to shove stuff into boxes. i can deal with it all later. however bad it may feel right now, i am not going to actually die from anxiety.

#journal entry #a terrible one #but that’s the truth #personal

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giffingthingsss · 1 year ago

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Men Must Endure

If only people (including myself: I also have fears) were still brought up with the idea that life is a battle where death and wounds await us at every moment, so that courage is the first and most necessary of virtues. - C.S. Lewis

I have seen you shine brighter than any son of man - Joy

"a power of hating with an almost incredible intensity"

Lewis says that his life really began with the death of his mother when he was nine ("all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and reliable, disappeared from my life."). Then came the boarding schools. He once wrote in reply to a young reader:

I was at three schools (all boarding schools) of which two were very horrid. I never hated anything as much, not even the front line trenches in World War I. Indeed the story is far too horrid to tell anyone of your age.

Lewis was sent to the first school, in another country no less, within two weeks of his mother's death. It was run by an abusive man who was rumored to be insane.

I half divined then, and seem to see clearly now, what all his whipping boys had in common. They were boys who fell below a certain social status, the boys with vulgar accents. Poor P. - dear, honest, hard-working, friendly, healthily pious P. - was flogged incessantly, I now think, for one offense only; he was the son of a dentist.

His experience at his second school was perhaps tainted by the perceptions and scars that he carried over from the first, for Warnie later convinced him it had not been so bad as he had thought. Here he was mainly bored by the teaching and exhausted by the workload and bullying inflicted on him by older boys.

One learns here a power of hating with an almost incredible intensity.

He retreated into a 'priggish' attitude, despising 'these course, brainless English schoolboys.' He complained loud enough to get his father to agree to send him to a private tutor, and there he was intellectually challenged and flourished.

Then came the war.

I have gone to sleep marching and woken again and found myself marching still…The frights, the cold, the horribly smashed men still moving like half-crushed beetles, the sitting or standing corpses, the landscape of sheer earth without a blade of grass… often seems to have happened to someone else.

A wound cut his career short, but it lasted long enough to produce recurring nightmares the rest of his life.

"come and see me"

The war had at least served to cure a good bit of that 'prigishness.'

When a man can sleep between sheets as long as he will, sit in arm chairs, and have no fears, it is peevish to complain... I came to know and pity and reverence the ordinary man.

During training, Lewis' bunkmate was Paddy Moore. Paddy's mother and sister followed him during his training and stayed nearby. When on leave Paddy would go see them and take Lewis along.

It was on the last stay that Lewis and Paddy were rumored to have pledged to look after each other's family if one or the other did not survive. They were sent to different brigades. Paddy never came home.

Lewis was injured. The timing of it probably saved his life. Lying in hospital, the news kept coming in -

Nearly all my friends in the Battalion are gone. Did I ever mention Johnson who was a scholar of Queens? I had hoped to meet him at Oxford some day, and renew the endless talks that we had out there... He is dead.

Upon first hearing of the injury, Warnie commandeered a motorcycle and raced 50 miles to go see him. But once reassured that his brother was going to live, he had to return to his own duties.

Jack spent months in the hospital. A long time to be alone. Often he dropped his pride and pleaded with his father to come visit.

I was never before so eager to cling to every bit of our old home life and to see you....Come and see me. I am homesick, that is the long and the short of it.

But Albert Lewis always had some excuse. Bronchitis, etc... Not to say that he didn't love his son. But he didn't visit.

Mrs. Moore did.

"the whole thing irritates me by its freakishness"

Jack recovered and went back to school, Mrs. Moore and her daughter stayed close and Jack would visit and stay with them. After a time, they all lived together. (There was a Mr. Moore who stayed in Ireland and never entered the picture.)

Jack's family grew concerned. Speculation flew. Why was Jack living with this woman? Was it some strange love affair? Was it some promise made to Paddy? Surely he could fulfill an obligation without living like this? He was giving her his money!

Warnie wrote to their father:

I think perhaps you are making too much of it. Have you any idea of the footing on which he is with her? Is she an intellectual? It seems to me preposterous that there can be anything in it. But the whole thing irritates me by its freakishness.

Perhaps it was simply that during a period of time when Jack was lonely and needed someone, the Moores were there offering a house and a family he hadn't had since he was nine. All of those on the outside speculating about the nature of their relationship, were not.

After Jack's death, Warnie published some of his letters. Their cousin wrote to Warnie after reading them -

Mother and Pappy were very much distressed by Uncle A's [Jack's father] refusal to go see Jacks in hospital... Mother did not like to go for fear of showing Uncle A up. If she had gone she might have been able to give him the necessary feminine love and so saved his turning to Mrs. Moore for it.

"on his selflessness her selfishness fattens"

Jack's brother Warnie was usually on the sidelines of Jack's existence helping him in any way he could, observing with humor.

The two of them had turned to each other for comfort after their mother's death ("two frightened urchins huddled for warmth") and were close the rest of their lives. When Warnie retired from the military, he added himself to the ramshackle family.

All of this to say that Warnie was protective of his younger brother and watching Mrs. Moore (whom they nicknamed "Minto") keep him at her beck and call, slowly began to infuriate him.

The older she got, the more possessive of Jack she became. He spent the last fifteen years of her life not daring to even take a vacation.

Jack referred to her as 'the old lady whom I call my mother.' He took her waning health and increasing demands on his time in stride.

Warnie seethed.

The pity of it is that on his selflessness her selfishness fattens... It is an appalling thing to say, but she seems to me to be going mad through trying to live on hate instead of love... I went in by taxi at 9:15, feeling very guilty at leaving poor J alone with that horrid old woman in that abominable house...

At one point Jack wound up sick in the hospital. The doctor said he was so exhausted that any bug would have knocked him down. Warnie had had enough.

I got home sick with fright and savage with anger, and let her ladyship have a blunt statement of the facts...I ultimately frightened her into agreeing to grant J a month's leave.

But Warnie brought his own troubles to the table. Before Jack could take his vacation, Warnie had an alcoholic relapse. This made it impossible for him to take care of Minto while Jack was gone. Jack never got his vacation.

Minto finally had to be moved into a nursing home and Jack visited her every day until she died.

A lady wrote to Lewis saying that she had just finished reading a book about him and envied his life. Jack replied:

Walsh didn’t know much about my private life. Strictly between ourselves, I have lived most of it in a house which was hardly ever at peace for 24 hours, amidst senseless wranglings, lyings, backbitings, follies, and scares. I never went home without a feeling of terror as to what appalling situation might have developed in my absence. Only now that it is over do I begin to realise quite how bad it was.

It probably hindered his career (not much time to hobnob) but may have aided his creativity. Is not half the motivation for making up worlds to give yourself somewhere to escape to? And George Sayer pointed out that

If Jack had lived the cloistered existence of a bachelor don, his writing would have suffered from a loss of warmth, humanity, and the understanding of pain and suffering.

But Jack and Warnie now settled into the life of a couple of confirmed old bachelors. They enjoyed a few years of sitting. And walking. And reading. And smoking.

"any lame dog"

A teenager named Jill stayed with them during the war and helped take care of Minto. Lewis called her the most unselfish person he had ever met and she was reportedly the blueprint for Lucy. She said that Minto resented Jack going to Inklings meetings.

Lewis paid for Jill's schooling, but not hers alone. He redirected all the money he made from his talks to others without touching it, and in an almost comic twist, nearly destroyed himself in the process.

It never occurred to Lewis that he would have to pay tax on these royalties, and he soon found himself with a huge tax bill.

After this fiasco, Owen Barfield helped Lewis set up a charitable fund, into which he poured two-thirds of his income.

What he really liked was to find someone through a personal connection or hearsay whose wants might be alleviated. He was grateful to me for suggesting any lame dog whom my profession had brought to my notice. - Barfield

"the tragedy of Joy Gresham"

Around this time a woman from America began writing him. Helen Joy Davidman Gresham was herself an author. She went by Joy.

Warnie described it in his diary as:

one of those fantastic things which does happen to J…She appeared in the mail as just another American fan….she stood out from the ruck by her amusing and well-written letters, and soon J and she had become 'pen-friends.'

Early in this correspondence, Joy wrote to their mutual acquaintance, Chad Walsh -

Just got a letter from Lewis in the mail. I think I told you I'd raised an argument or two on some points? Lord, he knocked my props out from under me unerringly; one shot to a pigeon. I haven't a scrap of my case left. And, what's more, I've seldom enjoyed anything more.... a craftsman's joy at the sight of a superior performance.

Little of their correspondence remains, but there is at least one example of Lewis giving his opinion on a science fiction work she had recommended (this eventually led to Lewis meeting Arthur C. Clarke).

Joy attended a science fiction author's club when she moved to England. Years later she wrote -

How extraordinary it is for us lifelong fantasy and sci-fi readers to have real spaceships flying past the moon! I can't resist the temptation to yell, "Yak! I told you so!" at all who jeered me for predicting it. But there's a curiously anticlimactic feeling when one's been reading the stuff for so long; life is slower than imagination and seems only a blurred copy.

(You read that last line and you tell me she and Lewis weren't made for each other.)

Joy was married to William Gresham, another author and a veteran who apparently suffered from PTSD, among other things.

"the woman despises herself for being a fool and a sucker"

Joy took a trip to England and stayed part of that trip with Jack and Warnie.

Lewis said in a letter that the bachelors were quite 'circumvented' by an American visitor who 'talks from morning to night.'

A rapid friendship developed; she liked walking, and she liked beer. - Warnie

Good enough for Warnie

Joy's vacation ended with a blow. She wrote to a friend -

Bill and I are on the point of divorce. I can't pretend I'm sorry; I've been pretty wretched for years, and my conscience wouldn't let me quit ... Bill decided he wanted to marry the cousin I'd left keeping house for me... I never felt I could talk to anybody about my married life, in the past. But when this new situation developed I asked Lewis for advice and told him a good deal of the story — an expurgated version, at that. Some of it I simply can't put into words. Anyhow Lewis strongly advised me to divorce Bill; and has repeated it even more strongly since I've been home — Bill greeted me by knocking me about a bit... One of Bill's queer traits is his refusal to admit that his actions could ever be wrong or could ever hurt anybody. Two days after he'd half choked me, he asked in all seriousness, "Have you ever known me to do a brutal or unkind thing?"

Joy spent much of her remaining time in America trying to warn her cousin off of him.

One of the things about being the victim of such a man is the self-contempt it brings — the woman despises herself for being a fool and a sucker. And I know you tend to undervalue yourself anyway. So remember this: I'm a fairly bright girl, and yet I was so much under Bill's influence that I had to run away from him physically and consult one of the clearest thinkers of our time for help before I could see clearly what he was! So don't call yourself a stupid fool. People with honest emotions are always more or less at the mercy of the clever, conscienceless, heartless scoundrel with a talent for acting.

We don't have the letters between Lewis and Joy during this time, but years later Lewis replied to another woman who had written him with her troubles -

This is dreadful. It comes home to me a bit more than you might expect, because dear Joy went through something not quite unlike it from her first husband (only with him there was a clearer cause–alcoholism). The sooner you are all out of that man’s reach the better.

"I will never laugh at parents again"

Joy packed up her sons and moved to London. Some time after, her divorce was finalized and Bill married her cousin the same day.

After moving to England, there are lots of letters back home to Bill. Updates on the boys, thanks for money or asking for money, etc.... They're mostly cordial. As Joy wrote to Renee -

Try not to hate him too much, for that kind of hatred is only reversed love and will hurt you terribly - I know.

Bill became passionate about AA. Even so, work was elusive. He found it difficult to support the boys much at all. Lewis helped.

Jack pays the food bills or we'd go hungry... I've learned to stretch a pound note until Britannia screams.

Joy and the boys spent Christmas with Jack and Warnie. Lewis describes the experience of two bachelors in a suddenly raucous house -

Warnie and I are dazed: we have had an American lady staying in the house with her two sons...I now know what we celibates are shielded from. I will never laugh at parents again. Not that the boys weren’t a delight: but a delight like surf-bathing which leaves one breathless and aching. The energy, the tempo, is what kills. I have now perceived (what I always suspected from memories of our childhood) that the way to a child’s heart is quite simple: treat them with seriousness & ordinary civility–they ask no more.

Joy was trying to support herself writing. Being an immigrant, she was limited on what else she could do. Lewis paid her to type his manuscripts, including Surprised by Joy (nothing to do with the lady of the same name).

Joy also gave her feedback. She had written a couple of novels, but considered her true strength to be collaboration.

[Jack] has finished his autobiography. I've got the last chapters here now and must set my wits to work on criticism.

Once it was published, Bill wrote saying he had read it and sensed an undercurrent of grief in Lewis' life. Joy agreed.

I don't think he's ever got over his grief and horror at his mother's death - who would?...Jack's sorrows, instead of breaking him down, seem to have strengthened him, made him something like a saint.

"can you forgive me for the tacit lie?"

The relationship between Jack and my mother developed over a period of several years. It was slow, I mean Jack was a slow learner in some ways. He had found this woman whose intellect was probably the equal of his own. And of course a lot of people in England say, 'oh no no couldn't possibly be.' But the truth of the matter was that my mother's mind was in some ways superior to Jack's…and the two of them just struck a chord. - Douglas

Her mind was lithe and quick and muscular as a leopard...It scented the first whiff of cant or slush; then sprang, and knocked you over before you knew what was happening. - Lewis

For Jack the attraction was at first undoubtedly intellectual. Joy was the only woman whom he had met...who had a brain which matched his own in suppleness, in width of interest, and in analytical grasp, and above all in humor and a sense of fun. - Warnie

It's not clear when Lewis became aware of his feelings, but Joy had been in love with him for a long time.

Can you forgive me for the tacit lie - love concealed in friendship and in laughter? - Joy

(No, seriously, go read her poems. She really loved him.)

Joy advised Lewis on how to write from a feminine perspective for Till We Have Faces and critiqued it as he went along. Lewis dedicated it to her. He described it as 'far and away my best' work, but it didn't sell. (Perhaps these intellectual giants underestimated the public's interest in re-told greek myths.)

One need only read Joy's poetry to know her feelings. The nature of Jack's feelings are a little harder to pin down, for he certainly never admitted to anything until life put his back against the wall.

I don't believe that it took Jack long to develop love rather than friendship for Mother, but it may have taken considerably longer for him to come to a conscious identification of his feelings, and then even longer to a conscious admission of them even to himself. As early as 1955, I, a mere child, could see how he brighted in her presence, and how she positively reveled in his proximity.

For a long time, Joy remained convinced that Lewis would never return her feelings. She tried to be content with friendship while using poetry as her emotional outlet. Then she moved closer.

In the summer of 1955 she hired a house in Headington...and she and J began to see each other every day. It was now obvious what was going to happen. - Warnie

There was really only one major hurdle standing in the way of marital bliss: the rest of the world.

The problems of how to accomplish such a thing in the face of embarrassing opposition, not only from the Church, but also from many of his colleagues and "friends," must have given poor Jack considerable food for thought. The opposition has never died. - Douglas

Joy seems to have inspired either intense like or dislike in those who met her. I can see how this opinionated firebrand might offend a sensibility. She would probably piss everyone off at some point.

Lewis enjoyed arguing with her. He enjoyed collaborating with her. Eventually he realized he loved her.

The most precious gift that marriage gave me was this constant impact of something very close and intimate yet all the time unmistakably other, resistant — in a word, real. - Lewis

"disaster overtook us"

In the spring of 1956 the British government told her they would not renew her visa. Lewis married her in a civil ceremony, insisting it was just so she could stay in the country.

J assured me that Joy would continue to occupy her own house as "Mrs. Gresham" and that the marriage was a pure formality designed to give Joy the right to go on living in England: and I saw the uselessness of disabusing him. - Warnie

The way Joy saw it is clear from what she wrote to Chad Walsh after her diagnosis:

One good thing has come of all this - I can now tell you that Jack and I are married; have been for a few months... We've been trying to get the Bishop to rule my former marriage invalid, but he daren't. So Jack and I have been married only civilly, but I don't feel it matters a scrap.

It was likely a source of contention between the two of them. But he was beginning to cave on the issue of letting Joy and the boys move into the Kilns (Joy was already having health issues and had already had to stay there sometimes to be looked after).

Joy, whose intentions were obvious from the outset, soon began to press for her rights, pointing out with perfect truth that her reputation was suffering from J being in her house every day, often stopping until eleven at night; and all arrangements had been made for the installation of the family at The Kilns, when disaster overtook us. - Warnie

Joy had been tired and in pain for a long time with what she thought was 'fibrositis.' In October, a broken leg revealed terminal cancer.

The x-rays showed the bone looking 'moth-eaten'...In short, it is fairly probable that I am going to die. - Joy

Joy wasn't expected to live more than a few months. She wanted to officially be Mrs. Lewis before she died.

Lewis went looking for a priest who would flout orders from headquarters and perform a church ceremony. He found one in Peter Bide, an old student of his. Bide technically bent some rules, but if ever there was an occasion to do so, this was it.

It reminds me of something Lewis wrote about Huck Finn -

The scene in which Huck decides to be ‘good’ by betraying Jim, and then finds he can’t and concludes that he is a reprobate, is really unparalleled in humor, pathos, & tenderness. And it goes down to the very depth of all moral problems.

"I have married a dying woman..."

Jack wrote to a reader -

I have lately married a very ill, probably a dying, woman. My world is not bleak or meaningless, but it is tragic. If there is more pity and depth in my last book than in its predecessors, perhaps my own recent life has something to do with it.

The civil ceremony they had told almost no one about. They published news of this one very quietly, wishing to avoid the publicity and the avalanche of mail that would most likely descend, as well as the judgment of Jack's colleagues.

At least Chad Walsh congratulated them -

It probably won't come as any surprise to you to know that Eva and I had suspected - and devoutly hoped - that something was brewing. When we were in England, we thought we detected matrimony in the air, and it was all I could do to keep from volunteering my clerical services on the spot... I'm going to be writing Jack soon, but meanwhile, I wish you'd tell him how happy he has made us by making you and himself happy.

Lewis wrote to Dorothy Sayers -

Indeed, the situation is not easy to describe. My heart is breaking and I was never so happy before: at any rate there is more in life than I knew about.

Warnie on the wedding -

I found it heartrending, and especially Joy's eagerness for the pitiable consolation of dying under the same roof as J; though to feel pity for anyone so magnificently brave as Joy is almost an insult. Why one asks, should J have had the life which has been his - the best 32 years of it eaten out by Minto, and then the prospect of "peace at eventide" so cruelly snatched away?

Joy's happiness was mixed with regret -

Jack is terribly broken up. How horrible that I, who wanted to bring him only happiness, should have brought him this! Perhaps it would have been better for him if he'd never known me, though he says not.

She was moved into the Kilns to die. Lewis wrote various people telling them of the situation. He mentioned to one that he had mainly gained two stepsons, for while she would soon be gone, they would now be his responsibility.

"you have tortured one who was already on the rack"

Joy wrote to Bill telling him of her condition.

I am only moderately afraid for myself...but I am alarmed for the boys. My will appoints Jack and his lawyer as their guardians... Please, please don't try to get them back to the States.

Bill wrote Lewis pleading 'his side' of the story, essentially accusing Joy of plotting all along to marry Lewis and take the boys away from him.

He stated his intention to take the boys back to America, whereupon any cordiality Joy might have expressed in her letters promptly fell away.

Lewis wrote two letters to Bill, one for himself and one shortly after on behalf of Joy. He sidestepped the marital feud and begged Bill to think about what the boys wanted.

The boys remember you as a man who fired rifles thro’ ceilings to relieve his temper, broke up chairs, wept in public, and broke a bottle over Douglas’s head…. Your letter reached Joy after a day of agony. The effect was devastating...You have tortured one who was already on the rack; heaped extra weights on one who is being pressed to death. There is nothing she dreads so much as a return of the boys to your charge.... Their return to the U.S.A. when their education is finished is of course quite a different matter. Now, bitterly against their will, coming on top of the most appalling tragedy that can happen to childhood (I went through it and know), tearing them from all that has already become familiar and shattering all sense of security that remains to them, it would be disastrous. If you realized the cruelty of what you are proposing to do, I am sure you would not do it... You have a chance to soothe, instead of aggravating, the miseries of a woman you once loved. You have a chance of recovering at some future date, instead of alienating forever, the love and respect of your children. For God’s sake take it and yield to the deep wishes of everyone concerned except yourself.

Lewis threatened any and all legal action that would be required. One can't help but think that he greatly sympathized with the boys given his own childhood.

Bill acquiesced, but likely only because Joy lived. (A few years later he came to see the boys. About a year after the visit, he was diagnosed with throat cancer and killed himself.)

Douglas says Lewis never tried to replace his father, but wound up filling that role anyway.

Probably the safe rule will be ‘When in doubt what to do or say, do or say nothing.’ I feel this very much with my stepsons. I so easily meddle and gas: when all the time what will really influence them, for good or ill, is not anything I do or say but what I am. - Lewis

"they both had enormous amounts of courage"

Joy settled in for her last days, but rather than expiring, she went into remission. A joyful time with a shadow cast upon it.

Hardly any hope for the long term issue, but for the moment, apparently perfect health, no pain, eating & sleeping like a child, spirits usually excellent, able to beat me always at Scrabble and sometimes in argument...We are crazily in love. - Lewis

All I really care about is having a bit of life with Jack and getting adequately on my feet for it. He has been growing more attached to me steadily - is now, I think, even more madly in love with me than I with him, which is saying plenty...you'd think we were a honeymoon couple in our early twenties rather than our middle-aged selves....What a pity I didn't catch that man younger. - Joy

They both had enormous amounts of courage. Mother knew she was dying, she knew she had very little time, and she made it work for both of their benefits as long and as loud and as laughing as she could. - Douglas

There are many examples of Joy's humor and personality. I found this one particularly hilarious:

Why did you get my poor Jack mixed up with the ineffable Rakestraw or whatever her name was? She began by criticizing his opening words - "Today I want to discuss…" "Professor Lewis, couldn't you say instead, 'let us think together, you and I about..?" No, he couldn't. "But we want you to give the feeling of embracing them." Jack said if they wanted an embracer they had the wrong man. "Well, perhaps a feeling of involvement…" Ugh! At the end she made him sit absolutely silent before the microphone for a minute and a half "so they could feel his living presence." I told him he oughta charge double rates for that. C.S. Lewis being silent, a unique listening experience. He came home rather shattered with all this; and now we learn - not from the organization but through a friend - that they've decided to suppress the whole series because of Jack's 'startling frankness' on sexual matters! Needless to say he wouldn't have startled anyone over the age of sixteen and the IQ of 80.

Joy wrote to her cousin -

With Bill I lived in perpetual anxiety; if it wasn't women it was drink, and if it wasn't drink it was bad temper…and always it was money; just getting him out of bed in the morning and coaxing him to do a little work meant three hours' exacting work for me! With Jack the only problem is to keep him from working too hard and sacrificing himself to all the rest of us. He is really a saint, and that's not a word I use lightly. - Joy

Happiness had not come to her early in life. A thousand years of it would not have made her blasé. Her palate for all the joys of sense and intellect and spirit was fresh and unspoiled. Nothing would have been wasted on her. She liked more things and liked them more than anyone I have known. A noble hunger, long unsatisfied, met at last its proper food, and almost instantly the food was snatched away. - Lewis

"it's the daily living that hurts"

After a few years of domestic bliss, the cancer returned.

Joy had her right breast removed about 10 days ago, or–as she characteristically put it–became an Amazon.

An excerpt from one of Joy's last letters to Bill -

I admire the lofty fortitude with which you endure my cancer; for me, however, the problems are more mundane - how to scheme for each step I take, how to sit down in the john and worse yet manage to get up again, how to run a house when I can't so much as get to the telephone - how to keep going with a grin in spite of pain, and not make myself a dreary nuisance to everyone else. Anybody can die with fine theological sentiments, it's the daily living that hurts.

And she had done that painful living well with 'a soul straight, bright, and tempered like a sword' until the end.

For years now, it had been Mother's strength, wit and courage which had supported all of us, but Jack more than any of us needed her encouragement and her humor to lean upon... how was he to stand her loss without her?... I had seen him merely ten days or so previously, but since that time he had aged twenty years. His eyes held the look of a soul in hell. My brittle shell smashed, and I broke. "Oh, Jack," I burst out, and then the tears came. Jack rushed across the room and put his arms around me. - Douglas

"the real, raw man exposed bleeding to the public"

Lewis poured his feelings into a journal as a 'defense against total collapse.'

My trusty comrade, friend, shipmate, fellow-soldier. My mistress; but at the same time all that any man friend (and I have good ones) has ever been to me. Perhaps more. If we had never fallen in love we should have nonetheless been always together, and created a scandal. That’s what I meant when I once praised her for her ‘masculine virtues.’ But she soon put a stop to that by asking how I’d like to be praised for my feminine ones. It was a good riposte, dear. Yet there was something of the Amazon, something of Penthesileia and Camilla. And you, as well as I, were glad it should be there. You were glad I should recognize it.

Lewis told a visiting friend that he had been working his feelings out on paper. The friend asked if he could read it.

Roger took it to bed with him that night. The next morning at breakfast, he said "Jack, you absolutely must publish this. It's going to help so many millions of people all around the world who are dealing with exactly the agony you're dealing with now. You can't take this away from them. - Douglas

A Grief Observed was sent to a different publisher under a pseudonym because it was 'unbearably personal.' It was published under his own name after his death.

It was a stream of consciousness…he wasn't working out how to write each phrase… What we get is the real, raw man exposed bleeding to the public. - Douglas

One fan apparently sussed out the true author and wrote Lewis about it. He replied -

I don’t know how you discovered that I am N. W. Clerk. If it was from internal evidence, you must be a good critic. Please don’t tell people. I mean, in general. A confidential whisper in any particular case where you think it would do good, is another matter.

He wrote to another -

As to how I take sorrow, the answer is ‘In nearly all the possible ways.’ ... the moments at which I feel nearest to Joy are precisely those when I mourn her least...a clamorous need seems to shut one off from the thing needed... I must think it over. My youngest stepson is the greatest comfort to me. My brother is still away in Ireland.

"I have learnt to weep again"

It is a pity we don't have much correspondence between Jack and Joy. One circumstance or another (a damp basement, etc..) has robbed the world of their conversations. But maybe it's fitting. Maybe in a world where we have almost every other scrap of anything either of them ever wrote (which they almost certainly never intended for us to read), their talks remain their own.

Lewis 'recovered' but was never quite the same. Douglas recalls seeing him make an effort to seem alright in front of his friends, none of which had gone to Joy's funeral.

Jack, when in company with his friends and colleagues, was (after a while) again the jovial, witty intellectual they had known for years, but only Warnie and I knew what effort that cost him, and Warnie knew less than I, for Jack was careful with Warnie. I was more invisible. - Douglas

I cannot talk to the children about her. The moment I try, there appears on their faces neither grief, nor love, nor fear, nor pity, but the most fatal of all non-conductors - embarrassment. They look as if I were committing an indecency. They are longing for me to stop. I felt just the same after my own mother’s death when my father mentioned her. I can’t blame them. - Lewis

I could not talk to Jack about Mother, for I knew that if I did, he would weep and so also would I, and although now I feel that this might have been good for both of us, then it would have been anathema for me to cry openly, for as an English schoolboy I found it difficult to show my emotions...I have learnt to weep again since. - Douglas

After Lewis' death, Warnie wrote in his diary -

I learned this evening that while I was in Ireland last summer J said, "Warnie is my dearest and closest friend, and I can never be sufficiently thankful for the way in which he accepted my marriage." I had always hoped it was like this, but did not know; for this was the sort of thing neither of us could have said to the other.

Warnie spent more time in Ireland on drunken binges, the only way he knew to deal with his own grief.

Warnie loved my mother as much as Jack did, but in a very different way. She was the sister he never had. - Douglas

"the wheel had come full circle"

Before long, Warnie was off avoiding Lewis' own declining health at the time Jack needed him most.

W., meanwhile, has completely deserted me. He has been in Ireland since June and doesn’t even write, and is, I suppose, drinking himself to death....I fear he’ll kill himself if this goes on much longer.

Jack also had the boys to worry about.

We too have to try to cope with the problem of adolescence; the elder of the boys is now at a Jewish college in New York, and is writing me much more maturely than he did a year ago, so I have hopes for him... The younger one is...trying to pass ‘O Level’ and if you fail to get this certificate, the ranks of the white collar class are closed to you. A fact which does not seem to worry him in the least. However that is his affair; it is his own life he has to live, not mine!

Lewis only lasted about three years after Joy. Warnie thankfully returned from Ireland and was with him when he died.

Once again–as in the earliest days–we could turn for comfort only to each other. The wheel had come full circle: once again we were together in the little end room at home, shutting out from our talk the ever-present knowledge that the holidays were ending, that a new term fraught with unknown possibilities awaited us both.

Warnie kept the estate until his own death, after which it went to the boys.

Years later people interested in restoring the Kilns asked Douglas why he hadn't contributed any money to the cause, intimating that perhaps he was not grateful. Douglas replied, pissed -

Jack and Warnie themselves cared so little for the house that had it not been for my mother, the building would probably have fallen down around us. I, like Jack, feel that people are more important than houses, however much nostalgia they may have attached to them; and thus, also like Jack, I prefer to apply my giving to charitable concerns which have a direct bearing on the welfare of people in need…. Secondly, if everyone is interested in my 'gratitude or ingratitude for my personal fortune', let me tell you at once that I am not in the least grateful for money no matter where it comes from. If gratitude exists at all… it is owed for the home Jack gave me (and I do not refer to the house), the love and care he extended to my mother and myself, and the lessons he taught me.

Indeed, I think Lewis would be amused at best, horrified at worst at the idea that someone would value a chair he once sat in.

"I got very good at running"

When Lewis died, Douglas was around 17. He later dropped out of agricultural school, started a family and became a farmer. He admits to raising some Cain and not caring much about higher education, giving his 'uncle' and stepfather headaches. That and Warnie's drinking caused a bit of a rift in their relationship after Jack's death.

But years later, Warnie was happy to hear a good update:

[Douglas] has apparently at last resolved to face life and is working both hard and successfully...His dairy herd is doing well, the cream realizes a good price, and the skim milk feeds his pigs which are flourishing. As a sideline Merry herself keeps turkeys and this year has sold them well. Pray God that all this may be true!

The older, David, was attending a Jewish school in New York. About a month before his death Lewis wrote urging someone to make sure an allowance was going to David out of his royalties, because he apparently hadn't received one.

I have now had two successive letters from him explaining that he has received nothing: the second quite frantic...I am nearly out of my mind about the business myself... I am, and shall continue to be, most grateful for any countenance you can show him.

Little was said about David down through the years. Douglas finally revealed why.

My brother is now dead. He died on Christmas Day, which is very like him - to make Christmas Day as miserable as he could for as many people as possible.

David's problems are hinted at a few times in Jack and Joy's letters ("intelligent, but moody and spiteful") but never described in any detail. The general picture that emerges of David is one of a perpetual wet blanket.

Jack tried his very hardest for David all the time. He tried to help in every way he could—he was kind and gentle and wonderful with him...none of it was accepted,” Douglas said. “Well, it was accepted, but he was never grateful about it. He was just very badly damaged mentally and emotionally, and he stayed that way.

Douglas alludes to violence in his book when he mentions protecting other children from David, something that the reader could easily take for typical older boy bullying. But now Douglas reveals that David had sometimes literally tried to kill him.

My earliest memory of this, we were taken to a swimming hole in upstate New York one summer day, and my memory is lying on my back in the mud, looking up and seeing the water above me, the sort of light on it, and my brother was standing on me. I suddenly realized that if I didn't do something rapidly, I was going to die right then and there. I would have been probably five or six years old. He made many attempts to get rid of me. I never could understand why he hated me... I got very good at running.

It wasn't until years later in New York that David was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. He refused to believe it and wouldn't accept treatment.

But there was a period of relief, apparently. Perhaps he did seek help at some point. Warnie recounts David coming to visit a few years after Jack's death. He was astonished at the "pleasant young man who has emerged from the really detestable boy from whom we suffered so much."

David eventually died in a Swiss mental institution.

He wasn't cruel deliberately; he couldn't help it. He had no idea that he was doing something bad, I don't think anyway...I would never have said anything to harm him or upset him while he was alive, because oddly enough I still loved him as a brother. In fact, I wept when he died... The only reason I’m releasing it now is because people should know what Jack put up with and what Warnie put up with and how heroic they were to do it at all.

"I at last had forgiven"

In that last year or so, between his failing health and everyone scarce, Lewis found it basically impossible to keep up with his self-imposed burden of replying to everyone who wrote to him. But he did the best he could.

They wrote to him from all over the world with their personal religious or moral problems. And I doubt any of them, unless they were lunatics beyond the fringe, went without a reply... An invalid lady in Washington, whom he had never met, recently sent me for safekeeping a box of the letters she received from Lewis, all in his handwriting, during his last years. There must be well over a hundred of them. When she was expecting to have an operation, he wrote her as often as once a week. - Barfield

In July of that year he wrote her -

Do you know, only a few weeks ago I realised suddenly that I at last had forgiven the cruel schoolmaster who so darkened my childhood. I’d been trying to do it for years: and like you, each time I thought I’d done it, I found, after a week or so it all had to be attempted over again. But this time I feel sure it is the real thing.

His last letter to this particular lady included an offer.

Perhaps I might be able to make up what is lacking of your hospital coverage. How much wd. it be?

He died a month later.

Now and then, I am given a moment when the shadow of pain is lifted from my eyes and I rejoice to see how gold you are. - Joy

Once very near the end I said, ‘If you can — if it is allowed — come to me when I too am on my death bed.’ ‘Allowed!’ she said. ‘Heaven would have a job to hold me; and as for Hell, I’d break it into bits.’

Lewis' death was overshadowed by the assassination of John F. Kennedy, which occurred on the same day. Perhaps some death angel wasn't sure which famous 'Jack' to reap.

Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all.

Such was the Shakespeare quotation on the calendar the day that Jack and Warnie's mother died. Warnie had a portion of it inscribed on Jack's gravestone.

I know what it’s like to have to be the comforter when one most needs comforting, and the competent arranger at the very moment when one feels most disabled…. Try to keep clear of the modern fancy that all this is abnormal & that you have been singled out for something outrageous. For no one escapes. We are all driven into the front line to be sorted sooner or later. With all blessings & with deep sorrow, - C.S. Lewis

#a succession of hardships #c.s. lewis #it started with just finding some fun anecdotes #and it ended in a book

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beyuji · 1 year ago

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chuseok (2023) - afternoon.

the entirety of the morning before they leave to go visit their grandfather is spent with yuji worrying about what yubin wants to talk about.

it's easy to focus on her grandmother though. let her gush about her day, fuss over yuji and shove food down her throat. usher her to dress up in her hanbok before they settle into festivities. her grandmother is a savior to her, really; every snap from her mother is met with her grandmother at yuji's defense. every question towards yuji from her father is met with her grandmother's retort of what's a grown woman's business to you? mind your manners. followed by a pat to her hand that yuji's thankful for.

hyeongseop's been quiet towards her. he offered her a hello and a drink and awkward conversation-- which is unusual. he does look like he's swallowed something he shouldn't though. face screwed up and pinched, never meeting her eyes. yuji wonders if it has something to do with whatever yubin wants to speak about.

after breakfast they go to their visit to yuji's grandfather. he's buried not too far from their home, and they walk. her grandmother wraps her frail arm around yuji and lets her lead her. she complains about her mother, complains about her father. complains about yuji never being around but now she understands why. and yuji thinks that's sweet of her-- even if she only has a bit of an idea as to why.

she doesn't ask her to listen to her parents though. which is what yuji's most thankful for.

they greet grandfather solemnly. her grandmother leaves her side to go to her father, and yubin takes her side. yuji tenses but they're both silent in their greetings. yubin goes first, then nudges yuji to do the same. they both step aside after, letting the rest step forward as yubin intertwines their arms together.

"we're going for a little walk real quick." yubin points to her husband, who aqcuisces easily. doesn't look at yuji which makes her even more uncomfortable as they walk away.

the scenery is nice, if you don't mind the graves. yuji's eyes move over them carefully, watching other family members visit loved ones as yubin directs them a bit to the side. enough privacy where they won't be overheard, but they're still in eyesight of their own family.

"what's all this about?" yuji asks, turning her head to stare her sibling down with a frown. "your husband's been acting unusual too. did you do something? did he?"

yubin's lips purse. "he's. he's being nice. i know he's bad at it, but i asked him to lay off you a bit."

weird. "why?"

"because," she sighs. "he's too harsh on you. i'm too-- i've been harsh. when did you stop working at the ruby?" she asks, turning her stare to yuji. her stare is intense, probing, and yuji leans away a bit, hesitating. "they also said you worked part time at a hostel. and that i could probably catch you there. what is going on with you?"

she doesn't blink. can only stare.

"you look fine. tired. but...yuji," yubin continues a plead to her voice. "are you job hopping? you mentioned you were staying with a friend, but you never mentioned who. i get not wanting to give information to mom and dad. but me? i worry. incessantly. i know you think it's annoying and we don't always see eye to eye, but i care about you. i annoy you because i want to know how you're doing. what you're doing. if you're safe-- you're basically..." she talks and she talks and for the first time yuji just. listens.

the last few times yubin and her had interacted had ended in arguments. accusations made and words said that maybe were meant in the moment but looking back-- maybe a bit dramatic.

"you basically ghost until family events. no one hears lick of you outside of a few scattered texts and a monthly call. you could get hurt and we'd be none the wiser. and maybe you don't care, but i need you to work with me. i won't utter a single word to dad about it. but i have to tell mom something. i've got to tell myself something."

she's been a trainee for over a year. she's kept it quiet for this long, and it's...tiresome. it's tiresome to lie and hide, even if yuji's been doing it since she could remember. so she folds, easily. maybe it's the attentiveness that yubin's been giving her that makes her feel like opening up.

maybe it's yuji herself.

she talks and she talks. voice never leaving her level tone as she stares at their family across the way. talks about the audition and getting into lime. about transferring to sr media. talks about working at the hostel. talks about lying about staying with friends and how she relys on couch hopping and staying at the hostel when they keep it hush hush.

and at the end, she doesn't look at yubin. yuji meets her grandmother's eyes and smiles easily, lifting her hand in a wave. yubin's quiet next to her, doesn't move-- and she wonders what sort of image they make. yubin processing yuji's info dump as yuji smiles in the face of their audience from far away.

but yubin doesn't scold her. at first, she doesn't say anything at all, but then she's wrapping her other arm around the one she already has, hugging her arm to her as she gives a soft little oh, yuji.

yuji agrees. she's tired. she overworks herself to make sure she has a place to stay when she needs. she overworks herself at the company to ensure she can stay there for another year. maybe this time will be the one. she's overworked sure, but she's doing something she wants to do and that's okay with her. yuji can deal with all that it brings if it comes to something in the end. and it has to-- yuji will make sure it does.

"i won't tell you to not do it. if you've pushed this far then...maybe..." yubin's voice is thoughtful, pensive. "you're an adult. you know what you're doing. what you want. but-- yuji, let me help you with a place. you can't live on other people's couches like this until you debut. if you do. that's not healthy."

yuji knows that. she stays quiet, and thinks about it.

in the end, they shake on it-- set a date for apartment hunting for yuji and plan to work out something so yuji can have herself a place. safe to say, this chuseok is much better than the previous years.

#be:chuseok2023 #🌧️ solo ;#wc: 1119

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rockinmyownboat · 2 years ago

Text

Vindieziel Wooksvagen:

The Nazi Pinata

There's a phrase i use all the time to encapsulate those insane moments when life spirals out of control like a freebasing pimp on the freeway. When life is on its way to smack me, fuck me and steal my money, i just bend over, smile and say,

"It is what it is."

I love it. You literally can't say anything more. Complain all you want, but what good will it do?

It is. What it is.

Heres an example of a great use of this timeless classic.

I bought a used car. Its A jetta TDI. Its a great drive. Fast as hell. Powerful. Handles like a fucking dream, the way that fine German cars are designed to. You could take this thing on the autobahn and it would cling to every curve like silk on a supermodel.

The car has been running great, mechanically, which is EXACTLY what i wanted. I prayed for that. I asked God for it.

I said, "God, give me A mechanically sound car that hauls ass. And please give me a ripped guardian angel who can keep up. I can install my own stereo deck. Amen"

And i left it at that.

God answers prayers.

With a sense of humor.

This spunky little German is my Nazi pinata. Just one bad surprise after another.

Here's the conversation that's been going through my head every day for the last 4 days since Snowmageddon '23 besieged the citizens of Portland.

I preface this with the fact that ive owned this car less than 2 months.

Me: Gosh...Driving around on a tire steadily leaking is bad enough. Now i have to do it on ice, like... what the fuck am i? a German figure skater with a burst breast implant?

wait .... i can pump it up ....i have a portable air compressor. Im good there....

There we go. Tires pumped. Im as pumped as my tire. Pump up the jams, and Lets go. Driving a diesel on ice makes me feel like im on Ice Road Truckers.

BRING IT ONNNN....

>a few minutes later, staring at the low tire air indicator on the dash, while slipping and sliding down thick sheets of ice that were streets yesterday<

Inner voice : Change the bloody tire...?

Me: Well... i can't.... there's........ no tire places open ... everything's Frozen ... gotta let it go...

IV: You have a bloody spare, you idiot! You could change your own tire, right??? You're as worthless as pig shit on an oil pan aren't you??

Me: Well no ... I'm not .... i could change my own tire...

>lightbulb< I have a spare! SAVED!!!

... wait ....

oh no ....

IV: Where in the bloody hell is the sodding tire jack???

Me: ummm ......

Damn.

IV: Well shit to that idea. Good thing you thought to check for that at the dealership when you bought the car, you fuckin muppet!

Me, somewhat frazzled: Okay, but i got roadside assistance? ATT? Farmers? AAA???? They could come out to put the spare on for me... yes! Ill call them! One of them HAS to be able to make this happen ....

IV: Ha!! Guess what? They have the EXACT BLOODY SAME service provider pool. No responses to level 2 requests. Emergencies only. Blizzard trumps all like its trying to make Oregon less than great again. Foiled again!

>this is where i start slowly breaking down as my inner Chef Ramsay lets loose with a tirade<

Oh hey, don't forget the check engine lights still on, and it will beep incessantly like a digital chinese water torture device.

>anxiety reaching critical levels<

And the driver side handle is still busted from the LAST ice storm, so good luck on those contortionist skills. Every day, you'll open up the driver side door through the back door, from the inside...

Get creative and think thin, you chunky monkey.

Lets add 14 inches of ice and snow to add a degree of coordination challenges as you're trying to get on the road for work, Slippy mcLegstretchy

>anxiety at maximum capacity<

As you settle in with broken seat warmers, take some more snow and smile as you choke on it.

Mother Natures on the rag and you're her bloody tampon.

>critical point reached. Its time to scream<

As i slide down an icy urban Slip'n'Slide, im minnowing back behind a city bus doing a fishtail -- wait no ... i guess its a whale-tail....

...lets be accurate....

...I think to myself .... it is what it is.

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ramius-xiv · 7 months ago

Text

I would do a few things differently, and I didn't love every choice they made with Dawntrail's story, but there are also a good many criticisms I've seen that I disagree with. I also don't hold my own feelings or those of other players in such bulletproof esteem that I'd wield them as some kind of judgment on the job the writers did, because:

This is a first chapter to a new story, like ARR was, and I think a lot of people were expecting something as cathartic as Endwalker was, a role Dawntrail was never going to and could never fill.

This being the first chapter there are a good number of dangling threads that don't seem to go anywhere now but are likely to be revisited later. Shadowbringers and Endwalker are famed for tying up so many older threads, many of which had been left dangling for several expansions, but players seem to have little patience for the introduction of new ones without immediate resolution. (A LOT of the criticisms I've read center on things I'm confident will be fleshed out and addressed in more detail later.)

This game's fans, as devoted as they are, have a really bad habit of letting themselves get too attached to their own theorycrafting or that of their favorite streamers, and of being disappointed or bitter when the story doesn't do what they expected (while I in turn feel that all else being equal an unpredictable story is preferable to a predictable one).

Whenever gamers insult the work that devs do, I find that they almost always fail to account for a lot of factors that devs have to consider to balance story and gameplay considerations, but that gamers have the luxury of not having to think about. This is why I generally feel that devs should listen to player feedback but should absolutely not make that feedback the core of their direction and should still follow their own path. (As it is I think CS3 listens a little too much already to the squeaky wheels who do things like bitching about In From the Cold only to turn around and also complain that there weren't enough cool special instances in Dawntrail, or whine incessantly about Eureka and Bozja only to lament that content's absence in Endwalker. Gamers aren't actually always the best judges of what's good).

The majority of players are shitty writers. Most people are. That's one reason why nobody pays them to do it. And as in my original post, almost every suggestion I've heard from players of how things should've been done "better" would in my opinion be worse. I've heard a few decent ideas, but not many... and these are coming from people who have no way of knowing what's in store down the line.

People's feelings often evolve (positively, negatively, or even both) as they have time to digest something they've experienced, discuss the work with others, and consider things they missed or didn't think about at first. However, the most negative criticism began and started to propagate online from people who hadn't even gotten through the first half of the MSQ yet, or ones who had finished on Friday night or Saturday morning of early access and so probably skipped a lot. This does not scream "well considered opinion" to me.

There's plenty of room for us all to critique Dawntrail's story where we feel like it let us down, and to let the devs know about the things that worked or didn't work for us. They have always welcomed constructive criticism. We don't have to be writing experts to offer it either—the devs and writers are human and are part of a business and though they're professionals they are not infallible—but we should maintain some perspective and humility while doing so based on the points above. Not only is that a more effective way to approach critique in most situations, it's also much more likely to be taken seriously by the devs. And you're correct: just saying "everything" isn't constructive or useful, but if you put the time and thought into it to identify the major points you don't like you absolutely can discuss them one by one and explain why they didn't land for you, which is constructive and useful. And I disagree strongly that it's "semantics" to differentiate between something that just didn't land for you personally and one on which a poor job was done by the game's creators, especially since the backlash against Dawntrail has been far from unanimous and so there is clearly stuff there on which negative opinions are very demonstrably subjective.

Just about every time someone says to me that the writing in FFXIV is "bad" I ask them what they would've done instead, and their answer is dramatically worse.

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twistedwonderlandimaginesblog · 2 years ago

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Hii! For the flower meme prompt could you write for Leona + (30.) Rainflower? Thank you!!

PS: hope u can motivate urself back!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*.✧ (and...UGH these prompts are so cuteeee!! It was so hard to choose one lol)

Leona Kingscholar:

Rainflower - realizing that you/they love them/you back.

You could tell from the irritated twitch of his ears that Leona has had enough.

You’re surprised he even showed up to the meeting his brother called but there was a part of you that knew it was because you weren’t going to deny the invitation. As a couple you were expected to appear together, so while you might not raise a complaint to Leona not appearing he knew the rest of his family would eat him alive. But there’s an internal debate going on in his head currently, one that was telling him he would have dealt with the same level of annoyance if he’d just stayed in bed and let them come complain to him.

Leona was difficult to comfort, he rarely showed weakness (in fact, you couldn’t think of any time you’d seen him vulnerable unless his overblotting counted). It left you at a loss for how to comfort him, knowing that despite his rough exterior it never hurt to let him know you were in his corner. You hesitated to do something that might sour his mood even more, especially because you would be the one having to deal with him for the few grumpy hours after this, but standing here just watching his unhappiness grow just didn’t sit right with you.

It was a simple thing, just a gentle touch where you approached him from behind and placed a hand on the back of his arm. He gave you a sideways glance and a brief raised eyebrow but since he wasn’t pulling away, you considered it a win. You took another step closer so you were mostly hidden behind his back, hand moving to his back; you started to rub soothing circles, keeping your movement slight so it wouldn’t attract the attention of others.

His tail is flicking but he has yet to raise a complaint, nor has he moved away and looked at you like you were crazy, which is as good a sign as any that he doesn’t mind what you’re doing. His ears have even stopped incessantly twitching each time his brother spoke and rested peacefully on top of his head. When the meeting is called to an end they lower briefly in a ‘thank goodness’ moment of relief, and your boyfriend turned to you with an undecipherable look on his face.

“Were you comforting me in my time of need?” Leona always seemed so smug when he brought up the little things you did for him, even if you were pleased with the fact he noticed at all. He noticed everything; the lesson just hadn’t fully sunk in yet. “How thoughtful of you.”

“Well, you only came because of me so I… felt bad…” You moved to lean the side of your head against his arm now that the room was empty but you’re startled when you nearly fall over, Leona dodging your affectionate move; it left your heart heavy in your chest, wondering if you had perhaps overstepped and not realized.

You’re quickly set at ease as his arms find themselves around you, his hand on the back of your head bringing you closer to his chest. You react accordingly, arms wrapping around his middle as you moved yourself even closer. It might come as a surprise to most, it certainly had to you, but Leona was a very physically affectionate person. While PDA had never been his thing when it was just the two of you, he purred like a kitten whenever your body was pressed against his. He sought out the skin-to-skin contact often, no matter how simple it was.

To even be allowed this close to him…

Maybe he showed you his vulnerable side more often than you thought.

#Disney TWST #TWST #Disney Twisted Wonderland #Twisted Wonderland #TWST Imagines #TWST x Reader #Twisted Wonderland x Reader #Twisted Wonderland Imagines #Leona Kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #scenario #flower prompts

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adoristsposts · 3 years ago

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wallflower, newt scamander

newt scamander was known as a wallflower. you were not. but nothing would ever beat the perfection of silence with him in the midst of a party.

newt scamander x gn! reader

word count; 955

warnings; hogwarts!newt, alcohol, unspoken romance kind of thing

Fire Whisky was officially your least favourite drink. Merlins beard, you didn't know your head could get this foggy. You tried to keep up with the boy talking to you, but the world was twirling behind him and you found it hard to keep up with what he was saying. When you realized he was looking expectingly at you for a response, you just furrowed your eyebrows. "Helga, I'm so sorry, I was not listening at all. I think I need to sit down" You admitted. He moved to guide you somewhere, but you lightly batted him away and made your way towards a familiar spot.

He was hard to see among the group of people. Hufflepuff didn't throw many parties, but when they did they threw the most extravagant ones. And wallflower or not, Newt Scamander always showed up. Probably because his dormmates kicked him out so they could snog some girls. You didn't care. You found him quickly and sidled up next to him. Tipping the remainder of your drink down your throat, you smiled warmly at him. "Want to get out of here, Scamander?" You teased. His jaw fell softly as red creeped up his neck and ears. You laughed, "I'm only joking. Come for a walk with me?"

He nodded and you took his hand in your own. You tugged him through the crowd of bodies, making sure he didn't bump into anyone as you went. You felt bad that you doubted he could navigate the crowd without you, but he was far too anxious and polite to push through as you did.

You met Newt in the boats in first year. By third he was your chosen tutor for Care of Magical Creatures. It was by far your favourite class, purely because it was the only thing that got Newt talking. He was a tough shell to crack, and planning to take a class in your NEWT levels for a boy was ridiculous, but something about how he spoke of the animals charmed you beyond words. Your friends teased you incessantly. Scamander, the Hufflepuff boy who befriended Nifflers easier than humans? It baffled them. But you could spend hours thinking about every interaction you had ever had with him. How sweet he was. How easy it was to speak with him. When your friends had crushes, they complained of stuttering and sweating and worrying. Everything with Newt felt simple. Neither of you had ever put it into words, but you could feel something thrumming between you.

You dragged him out of the Hufflepuff entrance and let out a loud breath of relief. "Good Merlin, I think I'm drunk" You admitted to him. He gave you a look of horror, and you laughed. He had no idea how to handle a drunk girl, Helga help him. "You can calm down, I'm fine. Just... intoxicated" He sighed, "Why do you enjoy drinking?" You shrugged. How could you even answer that? "Liquid courage" You decided. He pursed his lips, "You don't need liquid courage. You're the bravest person I know"

You pushed his shoulder lightly. "Scamander, you smooth talker. You know loads of brave people." He blushed at your comment. He seemed so nervous. It was endearing. He followed beside you as you two walked silently to the courtyard. The cold air turned your nose pink and your hands numb, but you settled down on a bench and made sure to sit close enough to Newt that your thighs were pressed together. You could faintly hear the noise from the party. The thumping music and loud chatter. The teachers had to be fully aware it was going on. You were glad they didn't care enough to intervene. You all needed a nice party to get over the stress approaching exams were bringing.

Birds sang in the distance. The cold bit into you. You snuggled into Newt's side, resting a head on his shoulder. He didn't tense, but he used to. It took forever for him to finally realise that you were interested, and that your lingering touches and smiles were hints of it, not forms of teasing. "Are those anything interesting?" You asked, referring to the bird calls. You didn't look up at his face, instead staring as the animals fluttered about in the distance. "Auguries. It's going to rain soon" He told you. You hummed and shut your eyes. You felt so, so tired. Alcohol made you drowsy. You felt too drained to talk, but you did anyways. "What are you researching right now?" You asked. He was always looking into something.

"Bowtruckles. I met one in the forbidden forest and he seems quite nice" He said. "He picked the lock on my notebook. He's quite troublesome" You chuckled, "You should name him Pick-It. You can keep him in your pocket and he can steal all the answers to the exams" He hummed in amusement. "Maybe I will... Pickett" He said. You felt him shift underneath you and lifted your head off his shoulder to peer at him. He was looking up at the sky. When he looked back of you your noses were so close they were almost touching. He visibly swallowed, which made you smile as he glanced down at your lips then back up very quickly, almost like he was embarrassed to be caught looking. "Something wrong?" You purred teasingly.

"It's going to rain" He told you matter-of-factly. You grinned at him. "I know, you said that earlier" "We should go inside." He said softly, looking down at your lips. "We should" You agreed. Neither of you moved. "Unless" You spoke, "You want to sit here for a little longer"

He smiled. It filled you with warmth. "Let's sit"

#newt scamander #newt scamander fluff #harry potter #fantastic beasts #fantastic beasts and where to find them #newt scamander x reader #newt scamander fic #god i love unspoken romance guys #hogwarts

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notanotherreidgirl · 3 years ago

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Hi love! Can i get 5 “I want to strangle you 99% of the time.” please! with spencer?

Yes! You can!

wc: 605

Warnings: none (i know, i know)

“There aren’t enough rooms for everyone so we have to double up.” You gave JJ a hopeful look as Hotch started handing out room keys but she was already running off with Emily. You groaned when he pressed the key matching Spencer’s in your open hand. “Don’t even start, Y/N.”

It wasn’t a secret that you and Spencer hated each other’s guts. You were at each other’s throats from the day you joined the team. It started out with healthy competition - coming up with increasingly obscure facts, taking friendly trivia a little too far, racing to get the last cup of coffee. But then things escalated - the bickering was relentless, you complained about each other incessantly and took drastic measures to make each other miserable. You had even hidden in an overhead compartment of the jet for over half an hour to jump out at him as payback for salting your coffee. Everyone found it endearing at first but it soon became apparent that there was no hope for reconciliation.

He trailed behind you as you stormed up to your room, sighing as he listened to you grumble. “I think we can survive rooming together for one case”

You whirled around to face him. “Are you joking? I want to strangle you 99% of the time.”

“What about the other 1%?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. What a freaking smartass. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Resolving to ignore him, you stormed into the bathroom to take a shower in hopes that he would be gone by the time you came out. He wasn’t.

Instead, he was tucked into the bed. Singular.

You frantically searched the room with your eyes for another bed as he looked on amused. You had been so caught up in washing the dirt of the crime scene off you and getting away from Spencer that you hadn’t noticed the dire sleeping arrangements. “What are you doing on the bed?”

“I got shot 2 months ago. You’re sleeping on the floor”

“Like hell I am. Move over” you climbed onto the bed, constructing a pillow wall before reaching over and snapping the lamp off. “Hey! I was reading”

“Too bad. Go to sleep.” You smiled into your pillow at his frustrated whine, unwilling to admit to yourself how cute he sounded.

A few hours later you jolted awake to a strangled call for help. You sat upright, reaching for the gun stashed in your nightstand and flicking on the light but everything seemed to be as you left it.

“Hey, you okay?” you peered over the pillow wall to see Spencer rubbing his face, doing his best to regulate his breathing. A nightmare. Your chest tightened when you took in the fear still etched on his face.

“Yeah, it’s nothing. I’m fine. Just-” he broke off, embarrassed. There was a long silence. “Can we - uh- can we pretend this didn’t happen?”

You had no quick retort this time. “Sure thing, Spence”

You turned off the light and got back under the covers. He was still up, tossing and turning. Before you could think better of it, you darted a hand under the pillow wall and intertwined your fingers with his. He immediately relaxed, holding your hand tightly. For a moment you were lost in how big his hand was compared to yours, how warm but you shook your head stubbornly. I don’t like Spencer Reid.

“If you tell anyone we held hands I have two people in my phone who will kill you”

“Understood.” He meant to sound grave but you could hear the smile in his voice.

Blurb Masterlist

#lanie's 1k celebration!#thx for sending <3 #blurbs #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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wonlouvre · 3 years ago

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helllo~~ I just saw that you opened your drabble requests again and I would like to ask if you could write a drabble with Joshua Hong where he and the reader both had a hard day and get into a little fight during dinner but at the end they end up apologizing and cuddling on the couch?🥺 thank you a lot in advance and have a wonderful day!!

peckish | h. js.

pairing: non-idol!joshua x g.n. reader genre: a little bit of angst (they argue), fluff warnings: mentions of food, eating, nitpicking and nagging word count: 1k+

💌: thank you for requesting anon! :’) as usual, i made some changes here and there if you don’t mind. i hope you like it anon! pls tell me what you think about it <3

You and Joshua decided to move in together during the second year of your relationship. The memory of you discussing that particular stage of your relationship is still fresh in your memories. Funnily enough, moving in together was more about being practical rather than being romantic. Your apartment was both far from your job and him. It’s not that you wouldn’t go the distance for your boyfriend, but the frequent two hour travels are tiring and the cost of living is still getting more and more expensive as the days go by.

If your memories serve you right, it was around two months later when the two of you found the perfect unit. It was awkward and annoying during the first few months. You two were navigating through the ups and downs of living together 24/7. You both have the tendency to nitpick and nag over the smallest of things incessantly. Once one of you starts, the other follows and it’s not cute.

But along the way, the two of you got the hang of it. Not for the sake of just coexisting but you two reached a compromise without hurting or disregarding each other’s feelings. You talked through it and respected each other’s concerns, complaints, wants and needs.

And now, there’s only about a week left and you’d be celebrating five years as a couple and three years of living together.

Petty arguments still happened and are still happening occasionally, but you guys do your very best to not let it get the best of you. And speaking of arguments, on this one particular tiring day, another one is budding.

“I told you not to put tomatoes,” you complain under your breath while poking your fork on the meal your dearest boyfriend cooked for dinner. “I’ve told you this countless times before and until now. Do you even listen to what I say?”

Joshua continues to eat, completely unbothered. “And I told you before to put your socks on the hamper after every use and yet we’re still here. Who’s not listening now?”

The tomato is red which is very similar to how you’re registering the dining table now. Blood is even rushing to your face and you can feel the heat. Your grip on the fork loosens and you drop it on the plate, a loud clunk booming across the quiet room.

“Are you serious? You're doing this to me over socks?” You question and glare at Joshua’s handsome face.

Joshua also stops eating and picks up the napkin beside his plate to wipe his lips clean. “Y/N, you’ve never complained about the tomatoes I put on our meals because you know it’s part of the recipes. Why are you suddenly whining about them?”

You are so irritated, you can hear your heart pounding on your chest. Tears are starting to line your eyes and you could cry anytime now. You get like this when you’re having a bad day. Work and the people you work with have not been the kindest today and you were hoping a nice warm meal with your boyfriend could help ease your stress and anger.

“I’m complaining about them because I don’t like them and I’m awfully tired and just want to eat something,” you say before standing up.

You don’t want Joshua to see you crying over this because you yourself find this embarrassing and unnecessary to argue about. Who knows? Maybe Joshua is also having a bad day and seeing the socks you forgot to remove from your shoes must have ruined his day further.

“Y/N,” your boyfriend calls for you, his voice tired but still gentle. “Where are you going? You haven’t finished eating.”

“I’m not that hungry anymore,” you say and finally walk off to your shared bedroom.

You know you should have put those socks on the hamper. You had every intention to do so. It’s just that you were in desperate need to shower the day away and take a short nap before your boyfriend comes back home and have dinner with him. You always listen to Joshua and his reminders and you know he’s no different. You just thought he wouldn’t see or at least he could have let it pass just this one time.

But then again, no matter how many excuses and rebuttals the two of you make, it was still wrong for you and him to take your anger out on each other.

The moment you left Joshua alone at the dining table, regret immediately started to eat you up. It felt terrible, you could feel it in your stomach grumbling and heart clenching. You take a breather and wash your frustrations away. After not more than fifteen minutes later, you silently and carefully tread back to the kitchen, where your boyfriend is washing the dishes alone.

You did not hesitate to walk closer to him and circle your arms around his waist. Joshua jumps a little, surprised by your touch but doesn’t move away and just continues with what he was doing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, words muffled because your face is snuggled to his back. “I’ll put my socks on the hamper next time.”

You know Joshua’s silently smiling and laughing with how he’s upper body is shaking. Just right then, the water stops from running and he’s turning around to face you. You keep your arms on his waist and lean your chin up to his chest, where you can feel his heartbeat. He’s smiling at you when he leans down to kiss your forehead, long and sweet.

“Let me wash up so that we can go to bed. How’s that sound?” Joshua offers and you can never be more than happy.

Your bedroom and bed is the best place in this apartment (Joshua thinks it’s the kitchen but you’re not having it at the moment). It’s warm and cozy. It’s even warmer and cozier when your boyfriend is with you on it. You’re so blessed and grateful to always begin and end the day with him.

“I’m sorry about the tomatoes,” Joshua says against the top of your head and tugs you closer to his chest. “I’ll try to be discreet about adding them next time I cook.”

You can’t help but giggle, nuzzling your nose to his warm chest. “It’s okay. I’ll just set them aside or give them to you.”

“Bad day, huh?”

“Yeah. You too?”

“Yup.”

“I’m sorry baby,” you apologize again and kiss the side of his neck. “I’ll cook you breakfast tomorrow.”

“Stop apologizing.” Joshua jokingly glares, but fails anyway because his eyes just sparkle all the time. He kisses your forehead for the nth time in return. “I want pancakes please.”

“Noted.” You keep his request in mind right at the moment you start to yawn.

“I love you always,” Joshua says wholeheartedly.

“I love you always,” you also say, wholeheartedly.

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spaceskam · 3 years ago

Text

a follow up to this fic

AO3

Michael liked the ring.

Of course he liked the way it made him feel, the way it's power seemed to make him feel comfortable in his own skin above all else. It was no longer a power high as much as it was like a security blanket or a favorite shirt.

The power, however, didn't escape him.

He never really had to strain before, but this was a different beast. With a thought he could read people's aura, move multiple things at once, feel around larger areas than he even knew what to do with. It was fun and felt like he could really breathe for the first time in a long time. He did his best to not rely on it too much, to make sure he didn't get too used to the power it gave him, but he couldn't help but enjoy it.

Alex was slowly but surely getting more comfortable with him wearing it as well. At first, he babied him incessantly and was so sure it was going to overload him somehow and that it was going to kill him or something. He still watched him, spent all his free time with Michael to make sure the ring wasn't effecting him negatively. Michael couldn't complain about it.

"So, this group you're working with. Do they know this exists?" Michael asked, inspecting the ring on his finger. It didn't occur to him until just then that maybe he shouldn't just leave it on his left hand like that.

"As far as I can tell, no," Alex said, sighing as he looked up from what he was working on. It was just a notebook full of crude sketches of his actual project. Michael wanted to help, but the thing couldn't leave Deep Sky and Michael couldn't go there, so he simply had to listen to Alex speak and bounce ideas off him.

It was probably the most fun he'd ever had in his entire life.

"But I'm not about to risk them trying to hunt it down before me. I need to be a step ahead, at least. I'm so fucking tired of being stupid about things," Alex said. Michael rolled his eyes.

"You're far from stupid, Alex."

"Too trusting which is a form of stupidity."

"It's not a bad thing to be trusting, it's other people's fault for taking advantage," Michael insisted.

Alex sighed and looked at him. He was so tired. He always did. Michael was never good at figuring out what to do to help that other than instigate. Maybe he could try to persuade him, but somehow that felt like a dead end.

"People are never going to stop taking advantage, so why should I remain open to being taken advantage of?"

"Okay, fine, point made. But still, I like that about you. The way you don't automatically assume people have shitty intentions. It's, like, the exact opposite of me," Michael said. A smile tugged at Alex's mouth and he let it show just a bit, leaning against the table.

"You assume everyone has bad intentions?" Alex asked, "Even me?"

Michael scoffed, his heart thrumming and the ring on his finger all but singing in delight. That was another fun thing about the ring. It always encouraged positive feelings.

"Now you know damn well–"

Without much warning, the hatch to the bunker opened and caused them to break eye contact as they both looked up. Sanders stood there looking as grumpy as ever.

"What do you want, old man?" Michael asked, only having to feign his annoyance a little bit. As much as he didn't like having his moments with Alex interrupted, it wasn't so bad when he knew he had more.

That knowing was everything.

"You and the boyfriend gettin' along now?" Sanders asked. Michael's neck felt hot and he didn't dare look at Alex. He felt like a teenager being caught all of the sudden.

"Can you not make it weird?"

"Weird for who?" Alex asked. Michael's eyes went to him, Alex's face with a small smirk and his head tilted. He looked so good. Happy. The ring was damn near vibrating with joy again his skin.

"We're talking about research," Michael responded instead. Sanders grunted.

"Sure, research."

"We are!"

"I believe that as far as I can throw you," Sanders said. Michael scratched his arm, trying to dilute the feeling building up inside him. It was overwhelming, an overdose of goodness that the ring amplified. "Right, well, I was just reminding you that Jane Garcia is still bringin' that truck in an hour and you're the only hands that have touched it in a decade, so can't have someone else doin' it for you."

"She needs to just get a new one," Michael responded, relieved to change the subject despite Alex's eyes still being on him. He couldn't say he minded that.

"You ain't got no room to talk with that thing out there," Sanders huffed. Michael grinned, shrugging his shoulders.

"I can get away with it, I know what I'm doing."

Sanders grunted in response. "Sure, kid. Just be out here when she gets here."

"Got it," Michael said, giving a thumbs up. Sanders rolled his eyes and closed the hatch, leaving him alone with Alex again.

"You can go get set up, I'm good down here," Alex said. Michael settled his gaze on him again, feeling warm and sated and really not having any intention to leave him.

However, they locked eyes for all of half a second before Alex breathed a sharp intake and stood up straight.

Michael's excitement started to leak out of him and was replaced with complete concern. He sat up straighter, his feet hitting the ground as he tried to maintain eye contact with Alex.

"What?" he said, "What happened?"

"Your eyes," Alex breathed, his eyebrows pulling together.

"Huh? What about them?" Michael asked, mindlessly reaching up to rub them. When he pulled his hands away, there wasn't anything on them.

"They're... glowing," Alex said, coming closer, "Well, they were. Went away when I said something."

Alex grabbed Michael's chin without any hesitation, tilting his head back to look at them. Michael instantly became malleable under his grip. It'd been too long to be otherwise. He let his face relax, let his body dwell in the delight it caused and let the ring sing in response.

"It was like you were lighting up from the inside or something, like you literally glowing. Just showed mostly in your eyes," Alex said, still concerned as he manuvered Michael's head this way and that to look at him in different angles. "It's because of that fucking ring."

"You think?" Michael murmured, still staring up at him. His heart thudded in his chest, his mind going wild at the tactile attention. Alex's eyes widened again.

"It's doing it again," Alex murmured, placing the back of his other hand on Michael's forehead, "You're warm. Warmer than usually. How do you feel? Maybe you should take it off before you become a fucking lamp. Do you feel alright?"

"Good," Michael said. Alex blinked, stilling his movements as he looked at him rather than the glow.

"What?"

"I feel good, Alex," he said simply. Alex swallowed and he dropped his hands from him. They were silent a beat before Alex bit the inside of his cheek, holding back whatever expression his face wanted to show. A smile, hopefully.

"You stopped glowing," Alex said. He huffed a laugh, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on Michael. "So you're a glowstick now?"

"You think it's the ring?"

"What else could it be? It amplifies your powers, right? So the longer you wear it, the more it becomes accostomed to you and how you work. So I'm sure the longer you wear it, the more it'll do. But we should definitely work on you not glowing without your permission every time you feel good," Alex said, watching him still. It was less concern now, more intrigue.

Michael wanted him to touch him again, to experiment as much as his heart desired.

"Okay, just, like, throw something at me if I start glowing," Michael said. Alex laughed.

"I'm not going to throw something at you," he said, "But I'll let you know."

"I don't think it's like an actually problem, just when I get overwhelmed. The ring had kinda helped regulate that, though," Michael said. Alex tilted his head in confusion.

"It's helped when you're overwhelmed?"

"Yeah. Like either a distraction or it's amplifying the good feelings. It's, like, stretching it's leg, you know? It's this thing that has gone untouched for so long and it's just happy to be in use. So it wants me to feel good, wants me to use it. And when I feel good, it just reacts to that and then I feel really good," Michael explained, "It's a wedding ring. It's probably used to being used in that context. Happy ever after context."

Alex breathed, his fingers twitching at his side. Michael couldn't tell if it was the ring or just his own desperation that was screaming for Alex to touch him again. He really didn't think it mattered.

"You we're glowing when I was touching you," Alex stated. Michael nodded obediently. "And you stopped whenever I stopped." Michael nodded again.

"I believe it."

"And you're just... happy?" Alex said.

"I'm spending time with you," Michael said simply, shrugging, "No fighting or tension. Just spending time and talking about research. Why the fuck would I be anything else?"

Alex watched him, taking a step forward. Even though he was already so close. Now he was close enough that Michael's thighs bracketed his legs.

"You've been different since you started wearing that thing," Alex said, fingers catching Michael's sleeve.

"I've been different since I got over my shit and got some openness between us," Michael said. Alex clearly fought a smile and lost, a grin splitting his mouth and the back of hand rubbed over Michael's arm.

"You really thing the ring has nothing to do with it?" Alex said.

Michael shrugged. "I can't say that. I know it definitely gave me a little push, but the things I'm feeling are all 100% mine."

"And what are you feeling exactly?" Alex asked, his hand trailing up into his hair. He seemed to be gravitating closer, leaning down as Michael craned up. Michael resisted the urge to just pull him into his lap at this point.

"Happy," Michael answered, "Obsessed with you. First is new, second one isn't."

Alex breathed out, swallowing hard. He looked away for a moment, but his eyes eventually came back to him.

"You can't say shit like that," Alex whispered, reprimanding him with a soft tug on the hair at the tape of his neck. Michael's lips parted. He wasn't really sure how to tell when he was glowing just yet, but he was sure that he was now.

"Why not?"

"I might get ideas," Alex said teasingly, leaning a little more. His hand was resting on his chest while the other was in his hair, Michael's hands trying not to take initiative and just grab him.

"Get them," Michael said. And Alex laughed. And it was sweet. And he was close enough to kiss.

"Michael..." Alex said, right there. His eyes flickered around his face, hovering on his lips. Michael could feel his breath on his face.

"Alex," Michael responded, finally touching him. He put his hands on the back of his thighs, urging him closer. Alex smiled wider.

"You're glowing again," Alex said, breath caressing his face. It was teasing at this point. "I wonder how bright you can get."

"Wanna test it?" Michael asked.

Alex looked at him, looking over him before he nodded.

"Yeah, I do."

Alex leaned closer, their noses bumping.

And then there was knocking on the hatch before it was opened up.

Alex moved back, flushed. Michael flexed his hand as a silent command to drain him from any residual glow. He hoped it was successful.

"You forgot how to tell time, boy?!" Sanders called down. Michael evened his breath and tried to calm down his body's natural reaction to Alex being so close.

"Yeah!" he said, "I'll be up in a second!"

Sanders grunted in response, leaving the hatch open before walking away. Michael huffed a laugh and looked to Alex who looked like he was on the verge of laughing as well. A couple second of staring and he did, both of them bubbling with laughter and excitement at being caught in such a casual way.

A normal way.

"I gotta go," Michael said, "But you can stay. Won't be too long."

"Take your time," Alex said, "I'll be here."

Michael nodded, knowing he would be.

"Alright," Michael said.

"Alright," Alex agreed.

"Alright."

*Go," Alex laughed, shooing him. Michael obeyed, heading to the ladder and all but flying up them.

Michael's heart and the ring on his finger thrummed in tandem, all singing on the high that was Alex Manes.

Alex Manes, Alex Manes, Alex Manes

#malex #malex fic #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #my fic #ill put it on ao3 when i get home

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