#I feel like I have this revelation/lesson every year and never have it last

[anonyhun]

I think in destressing, I am learning to be free. Free to be cringe...

[prythiansprincess]

chicken noodle soup.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader

song inspiration: is it really so strange? by the smiths

author's note: just a soft fluffy comfort fic cause i've been thinking about matty lately and i needed cheering up after the end of kwaf. let's all laugh at the fact that i set a 1k limit on this fic only to fail miserably lmao 😭

Mattheo Riddle was not a fan of Mondays. 

Most of the time, Mattheo spent the first day of the week nursing a hangover and getting higher than a hippogriff at the Astronomy Tower with his friends to achieve equilibrium. The only thing he looked forward to every week was the prospect of riling you up in class. To be fair, it didn’t take much to get under your skin. Being himself seemed to do the trick. 

As he walked through the castle halls, Mattheo smiled to himself as he plotted out all the different ways he could provoke you on this dreadful day. For some sick and twisted reason, he reveled in the fact that only he could manage to rouse such a violent reaction out of you. There was something satisfying about the way your eyes blazed, your rosy cheeks tinged with heat as you told him off.

Maybe he'd flirt with you today. Tell you how good you looked in your short little skirt. Watch as you turned as red as the tie around your neck. His pretty little Gryffindor good girl. In Mattheo's mind, you were his to tease and taunt.

With his usual swagger, Mattheo sauntered into Advanced Transfiguration fully prepared to test out his new tactics on his nemesis, but you were nowhere to be found. 

At first, he figured that you were just running late. Throughout the duration of your rivalry, Mattheo had never once witnessed you skip class. He would’ve bet his entire cigarette supply that you’ve had perfect attendance since first year. When Professor McGonagall started the lesson and you were still missing in action, Mattheo was understandably concerned. 

The uneasy feeling in his stomach didn’t mean that he was worried about you though. This was purely about mutual benefit. Mattheo couldn’t very well have his Transfigurations partner skipping out on lessons. Even though he regularly did so himself. But still, that was different. Everyone knew he was a delinquent. You, on the other hand, were anything but. Until today, you’ve probably never missed a class in your life. 

Mattheo waited. Surprisingly, the two of you had the majority of your classes together. All of which dragged more than usual since you weren’t there to yell at him for dicking around. When you still hadn't turned up for Charms or Herbology, he became convinced that something was horribly wrong. Missing one lesson was alarming, but three in a row? That was entirely out of character for you. 

When Professor Sprout finally dismissed the class, Mattheo sauntered over to Granger’s desk. As always, she was surrounded by her two dimwit friends who immediately tensed the second he loomed near. Potter and Weasley shot him matching menacing glares, but Mattheo ignored them entirely. 

“Granger,” he drawled, leaning against the wooden desk. “Care to tell me where my partner’s been all day?” 

The Gryffindor girl appeared a bit perturbed by the question. “Why do you want to know where Y/N is?” 

Mattheo sighed in exasperation and produced the set of notes he’d taken during class. A first for him. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually listened to an entire lesson, let alone take notes, but he knew that you would have a million questions for him when you returned. The notes were his way of saving himself from your relentless interrogation. 

“Figured the little know-it-all would want my notes.” 

“Y/N is feeling a bit under the weather,” Hermione said cautiously. “I can take the notes to her if you’d like.” 

“No.” Mattheo declared rather suddenly. He cleared his throat and attempted to smooth over the sharp response. “No, McGonagall tasked me with it. I don’t want her docking points from my house when she finds out that you did my dirty work for me.”

Hermione raised a brow. “Sure.” The quirk of her mouth told Mattheo that she wasn’t convinced by his excuse. “Well, Y/N is resting up in the tower if you fancy a visit.” 

After a quick detour to the kitchens, Mattheo made his way over to Gryffindor tower. It was surprisingly easy to gain access to the lion’s den. He simply threatened a third year to let him in and got on with it. They truly needed to upgrade their security measures. One glare was all it took for Creevey to crumble and cave. 

With a satisfied smirk, Mattheo walked past the gaudy common room. For Salazar's sake, hadn't the Gryffindors ever heard of subtlety? The decor consisted solely of crimson and gold and the furnishings looked like something out of that muggle show his nan loved to watch—Antiques Roadshow. Antique was right. The worn out couch that he passed looked older than him.

Merlin, now he was starting to sound like Malfoy. Mattheo hurried along before he caught the urge to fold origami notes and chuck it at Potter's head. Fortunately for him, the place was devoid of the Chosen One or anyone for that matter.

By now, his fellow classmates were all in the Great Hall eating dinner, which he was thankful for. It was no secret that Mattheo’s presence wouldn’t be welcome here and he wasn’t really in the mood to fight his way through the Gryffindors just to deliver a note from the kindness of his black heart. Thank Salazar that there wasn’t a single soul in the tower to bicker with. Until he reached your dorm, of course. 

The relationship between the two of you was volatile to say the least. Despite Mattheo’s reputation, you weren’t shy about telling him off. When you were first assigned as partners, Mattheo had fully intended to let you do all the work while he skipped class to smoke, but he quickly realized that this would not be the case. You hunted him down at his hideout in the Astronomy Tower and discovered him blissfully sharing some premium grade mirthroot with Theo and Draco. When you found him, you were so angry that you dragged him by the ear all the way to the library, much to the amusement of his friends. Needless to say, Mattheo never missed a study session again. 

In a way, Mattheo admired you for it. Aside from his friends, everyone in the castle feared him. It was sort of refreshing to have someone call him out on his shit. Especially if that someone was a funny, feisty, ferocious Gryffindor who he enjoyed pestering every chance that he got. Mattheo always did have a penchant for girls with an attitude problem. 

Even as he knocked on your door, the Slytherin boy couldn’t help but chuckle to himself when he heard you grumbling from the other side. 

“Oh, for Godric’s fucking sake, what is it now?” 

The door swung open, revealing a very pissed off Y/N. Clad in striped pajamas and fuzzy bunny slippers, you placed a hand on your hip and frowned. Even in the throes of sickness, you still somehow managed to inject venom in your glare. Mattheo grinned like an idiot. 

“Nice slippers, princess.” 

You huffed, crossing your arms. “What do you want, Riddle?” 

“To make sure my partner doesn’t slack.” He waved his set of notes around. “Don’t think your sickness excuses you from studying.”

“This is payback for making you revise with me after you fell off your broom and broke your arm, isn’t it?” 

Mattheo cringed as he recalled the quidditch accident that sent him to the infirmary for a week. In true Y/N fashion, you were sitting by his bedside with a stack of books in your lap the second he woke up. Madam Pomfrey hadn't even put his arm in a sling yet before you were drilling him on proper spell enunciation and wand movements.

“You terrorized the infirmary with your mnemonics,” Mattheo said with a dramatic sigh. “It’s my turn now. This is sweet revenge, Y/N.” 

You squinted at his barely legible handwriting. “I’m just surprised you took your head out of your arse long enough to take notes.” 

“Glad to see that illness hasn’t lessened your bite. If anything, those teeth seem a little sharper than usual.” He leaned against the doorframe and smiled down at you. “Feeling a bit feral, princess?” 

“Why don’t you come a little closer and find out?” you quipped, baring your teeth at the aggravating boy. 

The gesture appeared intimidating for a full second until you sniffled and launched into a coughing fit, which made Mattheo frown. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Of course I am. I regularly cough my lungs out on nosy Slytherins whose sole purpose of existence is to make my life a living hell.”

He pressed the back of his hand against your forehead. The way his brow furrowed strangely resembled concern. Mattheo trained his chocolate brown eyes on you, examining the rosiness of your cheeks and the slight pinch of discomfort in your features.

"You're burning up." Mattheo's hand dropped from your forehead to the side of your neck. He pressed his fingers against your pulse point, feeling the erratic beating of your heart underneath his touch. It was strangely intimate. "You have an elevated heart rate."

You flushed and swatted his hand away. "Well, yes. That usually happens when one is ill."

"Come on, you should sit down."

"Don't tell me what to do, Riddle."

Mattheo rolled his eyes before dragging you by the elbow. Your protests fell on deaf ears as he barged his way into your dorm and walked you over to the bed. You watched as he pulled up a chair next to you before rifling through the contents of his backpack. Out of the sordid mess of his belongings, Mattheo produced a small container of soup. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a spoon. 

“Here, have some of this. It should help.”

As soon as he pried the lid open, the heavenly smell of chicken noodle soup filled your senses. Mattheo scooped up an equal amount of soup and noodle and blew on it to cool it down before tilting it towards you. The sight of him offering you food like you were some helpless toddler was only slightly insulting. You swore to Godric that if Mattheo started making airplane sounds, you’d strangle the bloody twat.

 “I can feed myself, you know.” 

“Just eat the damn soup, Y/N.” 

You rolled your eyes in return, but obliged nonetheless. Despite the source, you could never resist comfort food.

“Chicken noodle soup?” 

As soon as you tasted it, you knew that it wasn’t just soup. It was your favorite soup. The very same one that Winky made every third Wednesday of the month. You knew because you looked forward to it every time. It was even marked on your calendar. That’s how much you liked it. 

Mattheo nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, I know it’s your favorite so I bribed Winky to make some.” 

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “How do you know it’s my favorite?” 

For once in his life, Mattheo looked utterly uncomfortable. He averted his gaze and busied himself by stirring through the carrots and celery. “You, uh, mentioned it in class once.” 

You couldn’t help but smile. Maybe it was the fever talking, but you thought that was sweet. “You remembered that?” 

Mattheo looked up, a stray curl kissing the tops of his cheekbones as he met your gaze. The shy smile on his face was alarmingly endearing. Sometimes when you looked at those angelic curls and stupid big, brown eyes, you forgot that you were supposed to loathe him. “Of course. It’s my favorite too.” 

You chuckled, sniffling a little. “It’s like a hug in a cup, right?” 

The curly headed boy nodded. “It totally is.” 

After you finished the soup, you expected Mattheo to take his leave. Instead, he inspected the vials of potions laying out on your night stand. He read through every label, frowning a little. 

“You should really have some pepperup potion in here.” Mattheo remarked as he arranged the vials one by one. “Are you sure this dose is potent enough? Maybe you should ask them to brew something stronger.” 

“Pomfrey prescribed them herself. No offense, but I think I’ll take her years of healing experience over your expert opinion.” Mattheo gasped rather dramatically, which made you chuckle. “As much as I appreciate the notes and the soup, I don't think it's wise for you to stick around. I’m feeling a bit better, but I might still be contagious.” 

Mattheo shrugged. “It’s alright, I’m not scared of a little cold. Besides, I still have to go over the Transfiguration assignment with you.” 

“Aren’t you worried that I’ll get you sick?” 

“Not really,” he said, waving off your concern. “I know you’re going to pester me about everything you missed in class, so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone.” 

To your surprise, Mattheo’s notes were extremely detailed.  It was a bit hard to read given his boyish scrawl, but with a little help in translation, you were making great progress in becoming fluent in Riddle. The more Mattheo explained the concepts and ideas that were discussed in each class, the more baffled you were. You've always known that he was smarter than he let on, but this was borderline impressive.

“How do you know all of that?” 

“I asked.”

“You asked?” Mattheo stared blankly at your surprised expression. “You never ask questions in class.” 

“I never had to since you're always there interrogating the professor like the little know-it-all that you are. Thanks to your absence, I had to fill your role in class today.”

You grinned. It grew wider and wider, spreading until your cheeks hurt. Mattheo glared at your joyous expression. “What? What’s that shit eating little grin for?” 

“You missed me.”

Color flooded Mattheo’s cheeks. You were surprised to find how well crimson suited him. It was almost the exact shade of your house colors. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Riddle, you asked questions in class. You took notes for me. You brought me chicken noodle soup." Mattheo flushed as you pointed out the obvious. "You totally missed me.” 

“If you tell anyone, I’ll hex you.” 

“Admit it, Mattheo. Your day was utterly dull without me.” 

Mattheo rolled his eyes, sighing in defeat. “Fine, you’ve got me. I was bored out of my mind without you around. How else am I supposed to pass the time if you’re not there for me to argue with?” 

“There’s plenty of other people in the castle that you could bicker with.”

“Yeah, but they’re not you.” 

He seemed a little shocked by his own statement, but he didn't try to retract it. In fact, Mattheo almost seemed resigned to it.

“Careful, Riddle. It almost sounds like you have a crush on me.” 

“I’d have to be a bloody idiot to fall for a girl who absolutely despises me.” 

“That wasn’t a denial, you know.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose like the very idea of it vexed him, but you caught the little smile he hid beneath his fingers. Mattheo snatched the notes from your hands. “Focus on the lesson, will you?” He grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth. “I can’t believe I’ve just said that. Look at what you’re doing to me, Y/N.” 

“You’ll live, Riddle.” You poked a section of his notes that you hadn’t quite deciphered. “Now what in the bloody hell is the Gobstopper Ruffian?” 

“The Goblin Rebellion. Merlin, my handwriting isn't that bad.” 

“Are you kidding? A kindergartner writes more legibly than this.” 

The hours passed while you bickered and bantered. You hated to admit it, but you missed arguing with him too. Laying in bed all day had you positively bored, but yet time passed within the blink of an eye as you went back and forth with Mattheo. Somewhere between discussing the possibility of Longbottom running an underground exotic plant ring and arguing over the best Smiths song, the sun had set over the horizon. Mattheo rubbed his eyes and yawned. 

“You look knackered, Riddle,” you teased, patting the spot beside you. “Do you want to lie down for a bit?”

Chocolate brown eyes widened at you. “Lie down? With you? On your bed?” 

“Yes, that’s typically how people do it.” You smirked as he shot you an apprehensive look. “Unless you’re too scared.”’

Never one to back down from a challenge, Mattheo lifted the covers and gestured for you to make room. “Scoot over, then.” 

The jest seemed to have backfired on you because now Mattheo was crawling into bed and making himself completely at home. All the apprehension from earlier melted as he pulled you against him, his chest pressed against your back as he nuzzled into the crook of your shoulder. You stifled a giggle as Mattheo released a satisfied little sigh. 

Mattheo wrapped his arms around you until you were covered in the scent of amber, cinnamon, and leather. You never expected to unearth the fact that Mattheo Riddle was a great cuddler, but yet here you were, reaping the benefits of this newfound revelation. He slipped his fingers through yours and nuzzled closer. 

"Who would've known that Mattheo Riddle was such a great cuddler?"

"If you tell anyone—"

"You'll hex me. Put a curse on my family. Set my possessions on fire. Yes, I know, Riddle. You keep threatening me, but you never follow through. I'm starting to think that you're losing your touch."

Mattheo squeezed your hip before twining your legs together. "I wouldn't test me, Y/N. You're in a very vulnerable position right now."

You chuckled as he scooted even closer. "Maybe, but you won't do anything."

"Why's that, princess?"

"You like me too much," you retorted, chuckling as Mattheo buried his face in your hair. "One day without me and you're already a needy mess."

"You infuriate me," Mattheo whispered against your ear. "But you're also the best part of my day. I couldn't imagine fighting with anyone else but you, my dear nemesis."

"I totally loathe you, Mattheo Riddle."

He chuckled as you snuggled into him. "I loathe you too, Y/N Y/L/N."

The irony of the statement contrasted with how tangled up you were wasn't lost on you. For two people who supposedly hated each other, cuddling with your enemy had never felt so right. The steady beat of Mattheo's heart lulled you towards sleep. You were slowly succumbing to its hypnotic lullaby until Mattheo's voice broke through the silence.

“Y/N?” He murmured against your hair.

You shifted, your eyes feeling heavy as his warmth enveloped you. “Hmm?” 

Mattheo’s voice was low and gravelly, flowing like honey in your ears. “This is nice.” 

You smiled against the pillow, staring at your intertwined fingers. “Better than chicken noodle soup?” 

You felt him grin against your skin before he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on your temple. “Way better than soup.” 

TAGLIST

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

so i (14 F? currently going through an unrelated gender crisis) have been regularly horseback riding since i was 9 and have a regular instructor i really like we'll call R (30s or 40s, F). Today, however, R was out sick and so i was with the barn owner, who we'll call L (60s, F).

i was originally really excited about this, as L is a very good rider. however, i quickly realized that she almost exclusively taught beginner riders under the age of 8. as previously stated, i have been riding for 5 years and would consider myself a pretty good rider.

L proceeded to get my name wrong (i have a fairly common white name starting with s, which she was confusing for fucking Sarah, despite the names looking and sounding nothing alike), though in fairness i was too scared to correct her. she completely undermined my experience and knowledge of the subject, and there were a good twenty minutes when i thought we were just gonna be doing 20 meter trot circles the whole time. thank god for the last half of the lesson L would occasionally let me canter a few circles. even the small form reminders that are to be expected were annoying. where R and other previous instructors had said them almost as background noise, L said it like it was a revelation i'd never heard of before.

do you know the shit socrates said about like giving a student the knowledge to reach the conclusion rather than just the conclusion? what he overlooked is that you can absolutely overuse it. it's hard to explain through the medium of an aita post how frustrating it feels to have someone look at you and see you how they did 5 years ago, look at you and not see the sweat and tears and hours of perfecting your form. and i know that my emotional regulation isn't very well developed, and i know i'm 14 and my hormones are out of wack and i know she doesn't mean anything by it and i know it's not her fault but it's just so fucking aggravating.

almost the entire lesson i was very curt and rude with L, despite the fact that im usually a very cheerful person. she definitely noticed, but didn't bring it up. i tend to freeze up at confrontation, so im not sure what i would've done if she did. i was also much harsher than i needed to be on my horse, which isn't fair because she didn't do anything wrong. i kicked her harder than necessary, jerked her reins, leaned to the inside, and was all around not a very good rider. when my mom picked me up (i am, again, 14 and do not have a driver's license) i slammed to door to the car. when i started crying and she asked me what was wrong, i told her multiple times to "shut the fuck up" and "every word that comes put of your mouth makes me want to punch you in the face", which i now feel awful about. i kept bursting into the tears in the shower so it took me an hour and a half to wash myself, putting our water bill through the roof.

tldr: an instructor treated me as though i was a child, i overreacted and was very rude to everyone around me, i feel utterly horrible about it now. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[esterzach]

Second lesson

I have no shame. Feel free to ignore it. I know my English is not even close to enough to do this properly. Also ... Do I have the right to do this since I haven't read the books? I'd say after every screaming voice, that somehow all of a sudden became an expert in writing, a critic that felt obliged to shit over my favourite characters - this is incredibly satisfying. Again. I have no shame. For this at least.

Second lesson

Rand eyed her across the room, finally alone. The only other person in the spacious room was Moiraine. She was quiet, more than before, staring into the space, sipping from a small cup of tea. The young man swallowed. After everything that happened that day, Moiraine had said too little and he wasn’t exactly focused on her until now. His attention went to the storm of events, and to his friends, now gathered together in the same place. It was a long night, conversations, heated debates, accusations, revelations…

Not a few of the accusatory glances were aimed toward the Aes Sedai. For some of the little group, she was still an enigma and now they actually had something solid to blame her for. She had hidden the truth about Rand. No matter how much he had explained that it was his choice to leave them, that he was the one to ask Moiraine to make them believe he was dead, he doubted that they would soon believe him and stop being angry at her. But aside from the dirty looks thrown at Moiraine, most of them didn't dare to confront her.

Nynaeve… was a different story. Her anger was heard throughout the inn where they were all gathered. Even Lan couldn’t make her stop, although after a while he took her arm and dragged her outside in the corridor.

Moiraine remained silent. Perrin and Mat stared into each other, silently. The confusion and the distrust toward the Aes Sedai were palpable.

And Moiraine was just sitting there.

She looked pale and tired. On the light of the candles and fire from the hearth, her age seems even more elusive. A beautiful woman, but her delicate features were veiled with profound tiredness and sadness. Rand knew why. What he had seen and heard the previous day and last night was enough to have a much better understanding of what this woman was carrying. And yet, it was hard to imagine. Somewhere in his mind, the idea of Moiraine Sedai was changing. Reshaping. The fearsome image of the manipulative secretive woman shited toward something more familiar. More human. The icy facade had fallen.

For the first time since he met her over a year ago, behind the idea of an Aes Sedai, a woman has formed. A woman of flesh and blood, with heart and feelings. A human being, who was capable of hurting, of fear, of love.

Odd, he thought. He had seen her suffer before, he had seen her on the brink of death. He had watched this man hoover over her, her bodyguard, who warned him with a simple look, that whatever she thought he and his friends were, he won't hesitate to swing with a sword and slit their throats, if they dared even look at her the wrong way. He wondered back then what sort of debt or reason he had to walk after her like a loyal dog. What kind of a leash did she have on him so she held him so tight? Was he a servant, attached to her by orders from The White Tower? A lover maybe, who she had wrapped up in her nets years ago by an evil spell, that he fell victim somehow to her magic, and still hadn't realized that he sacrificed everything for someone who hardly ever even spoke to him. He had carried her unconscious body in his arms, tended her wound, and gave her water like a husband to a sick wife. And Rand still didn't quite understand.

He had seen her help and heal his father, then Mat. Maybe she really was on his side, he thought back then. And although some form of respect had formed in him, she was still an Aes Sedai. Never mind they all called her Moiraine, not even Moiraine Sedai. She had never insisted on that, never reminded them of her status. But he was way too wrapped up in himself and his own fears to notice. For him, she looked like some creature out of fairytales, or legends, not exactly real, dangerous, dark, and not at all trustworthy. Her powers intimidated him, and her plans and secrets made him suspicious. But last night he had stood in front of her to protect her from Lanfear's wrath. And there, for the first time, he saw her. Whatever happened between her and the Amyrlin seat, Rand was too busy to notice in the Palace. Their quarrel and the chilling prospect of their words were more than enough. His life and freedom were on the line. The fear that he had lost to the mighty Aes Sedai order had paralyzed him just as effectively as the shield Suan Sanche had put over him. Dark thoughts into a fog that blurred his senses kept him immobile, while he struggled to understand what was going on.

Then somehow he was free. Sheer luck, stars aligned, the whim of the Wheel, or it was a master plan from the woman in a blue dress, who was currently sitting there just a couple steps from him, but may as well be on the other side of the world.

Perin and Mat went to their rooms. They threw one last look at Moiraine, and still undecided how to treat her - if she was a threat or a friend, they left. Egwene needed healing, Elayne too. Moiraine took care of both of them. And they were resting now.

Yet the woman, who had spent at least the last several days with little to no sleep at all, trying to get him to Falme and had paid what seemed like quite the costs for her efforts, was still awake. Rand had learned what she had done for him. She was probably exhausted beyond words. He knew by now she wouldn't say anything. But she usually retrieved to her chambers. Now she was just standing there, in her chair, frozen, like a statue. 

“Moiraine, I…” he felt he had to say something. But he wasn’t exactly sure what.

Even if he had heard him, she didn’t show it.

“I wanted to… say that… I am sorry.” He struggled with his words. Ancient prophecies or not, Dragon or not, he felt like a child, who had stepped into the middle of a fight between adults. And now was scared that it might have been his fault. She didn’t look at him. “For what?” came a question. Her hoarse voice was quiet and distant. “For… what happened last night.” He wasn’t sure if he had the right to speak of… it. There, at the Waygate, he had finally seen the woman behind the Aes Sedai. Not Moiraine Sedai, Lady Damodred, not a random blue witch or a sister from the bloody White Tower of Tar Valon. Moiraine. 

Just Moiraine.

He had helped her last night. Her “thank you” filled with so much emotion, that humbled him. He didn’t have the time to think there since The Amyrlin had appeared. But now… Now, after the chaos had settled for the day, he had some time and quiet to think. And she was right there in front of him. Moiraine had been shielded. Not only that. Moiraine had been shielded for six months. He was shielded for a couple of hours and it felt like hell.

She had been carrying a shield for months.

What she had said to him in the Palace - it feels like you've lost everything that you ever were and everything you could possibly be. And with this nonchalant almost dismissive tone at that. As if it wasn't a big deal. Is that what it had been for her during all that time? She was running around, trying to get him away from Lanfear with just a knife, all alone. He briefly noticed that Lan wasn't with her. Since when she was alone? He had attacked her, thinking she had killed Selene! The stupidity... She has stood up to a Forsaken. Twice. For him.

No. Not for him. She believed it was for the whole world. She had dragged him around, and when he was about to drop from exhaustion and all he wanted was to sleep, she had said that this was not an option for her. How long has it been since that day? And all that time she had been powerless. Just a simple fragile woman. And Lanfear just threw them somewhere in the middle of nothing. The woman he trusted. He had trusted a Forsaken. Instead of the Aes Sedai who had saved the life of his friends.

Rand took a breath. Then he heard her:

“You removed the shield. For that I am thankful.”

He was about to protest, but she spoke again.

“Thank you for standing for me in front of Lanfear.”

He swallowed. That was sort of his fault too. Moiraine has agreed to his plan. But Lanfear… was slightly unpredictable. She had promised that the next time she saw him with Moiraine, she would kill her. It would have taken a flick of her wrist and… But that wasn’t what he meant either.

“I meant…” - his throat went dry. The fire cracked in the fireplace, and sparks flew around in the air. Muffled conversations from somewhere outside barely reached them. Otherwise, it was quiet. "The Amyrlin... She..."

“Don’t.”

The ice in her tone made him flinch. She had turned to him, he noticed it when he lifted his head to look at her direction. Then she added in an even more quiet voice, a whisper. "Please." She slowly shook her head and froze in place again. A distant memory from many months ago resurfaced - he had seen this face before. Back in the Blight, he had asked her if it was hard to leave Lan behind. She hadn’t spoken a word back then - her expression was oddly blank. She seemed far away, staring at the distance. Now she had the same look on her face. As if a wall was raised around her. Detaching her from the world. A safe place where she could hide her pain. But now he saw it. He had heard their conversation and the anguish in their voices. He had no idea that the terrifying Amyrlin seat meant something completely different for Moiraine. At first, he had thought they were close friends who grew up together like he had with Mat and Perin, had similar skills and experiences, shared the same view of the world, and were connected through The Tower. But... “If you ever loved me, don’t do this!”

It took him some time to understand the meaning behind the words.

“If you ever loved me”

Slowly her plea sunk in his brain. Words repeated in his head, voice cracking. The way she had said the name of the Amyrlin. The other woman did it anyway. The coldness in her voice like nothing he ever heard before snapped like a whip on a bare skin. Something big had happened there, he was able to understand this much. Something, that has shaken Moiraine to the core. The Amyrlin made her close the Waygate. She has accused Moiraine of lying and had spoken of an Oath... And somehow it was connected to him. The woman in front of him took a shaky breath. That was the only indication something was happening inside her. “Moiraine!” Lan's worried voice appeared from nowhere and stormed through the door. Nynaeve was right behind him. His whole attention focused on her. Nothing indicated trouble though. The pale woman just stood there, her back straight on her chair, and kept staring in front of her. Her eyes seemed fixed now in a certain spot but there was nothing in particular there.

Lan turned toward Rand and snarled. 

"What did you do?" 

"Nothing!", came the weak response.

Rand searched Nynaeve for help but she didn't look at him at all. Her attention was elsewhere. What he saw in her very much resembled guilt.

"What is wrong with her?"

"Stop talking, sheepherder!" 

Rand was on his feet worried and guilty. 

"Moiraine" , Lan's voice has changed. A sudden gentle tone appeared as if out of nowhere. 

He took a step towards her. When he got close, he touched her shoulder carefully. 

Moiraine exhaled. As if she had forgotten to breathe for a while there. She looked as if she was drowning just a second ago, and struggled to take a breath now. Her shoulders shook for a second.

"Moiraine! Look at me." It took her almost a minute, but she turned toward Lan. The glassy eyes barely registered that he was there. He was observing her, bowed before her as if trying to assess if she was somehow hurt. But her face showed nothing.

Lan leaned forward, he kneeled before her and their foreheads met. He closed his eyes, leading her to do the same. For a long moment, they stood like that. Not moving, not speaking. Only the muscles on Lan's face gave away a struggle, an effort, some underlying torture, that was left unseen by anyone else. Moiraine's face remained calm, almost serene. Then they both opened their eyes and looked at each other. 

Her mouth twisted slightly. Brows knitted, and her chin quivered. 

His hand went over her heart and remained there as if attempting to soothe an invisible wound.

"Oh, Moiraine!" 

A strangled sound came from her. 

Fear crept through Rand again. He didn't really understand what was happening before his eyes. What he saw was that the woman slowly was beginning to breathe more deeply and normally again. Her face though still taut, relaxed a bit, as she leaned into the man.

"Come on. Let's go get some rest." 

She nodded. 

He helped her stand up. But when she tried to take a step, her legs buckled, she swayed and stumbled. Lan grabbed her arm to steady her. One look at her and he nodded. With a swift move, as if he had done that many times before, he took her in his arms and lifted her. Her head fell on his shoulder immediately, she had closed her eyes and relaxed against him. The man carried her out with seemingly no effort at all. *** He stood behind the door for what seemed like ages, debating, arguing with himself. One part of him definitely screamed he had no right to go there, but the other was worried. Somehow he ended up worrying about an Aes Sedai. No. He corrected himself. Not an Aes Sedai. About Moiraine. Now his mind could see the difference. He knew that both were inseparable. But somehow they meant two very different things for him. There was no sound. Nobody has left the room for the night. It was almost dawn, but outside was still dark. Aside from the creaks here and there of wooden floors and beds, the whole building was quiet. Soft steps of the women who woke up early and started to roam around doing their daily chores could be heard. One of them approached, threw him a curious look, opened the door quietly, and entered the room. Rand hesitated for a couple moments but decided to use the opportunity. The woman left a tray with tea cups, water, and some food and left without a word.

Rand looked around in the semi-dark room. A few candles spread soft golden light but not enough to actually light up the room properly. His eyes finally landed on what he was looking for. There, on the thick mattress on the very floor, curled up under a blanket, the Aes Sedai was finally, finally asleep. Her face was now calm, she looked younger, even more beautiful than he remembered her. Behind her was her Warder, fully awake, his eyes fixed on the young man who just entered the room. His back against the wall, not moving a muscle, he was on his usual post - guarding his Aes Sedai dreams.

Rand finally understood him. The sudden urge to bow to this man startled him. A new respect for the Malkieri built within him. There was something else. Some other nagging feeling, unpleasant, underneath of it all. Shame. He was ashamed of his previous thoughts about this man.

"I just... wanted to see if everything is... I didn't want to..." Why all of a sudden his mouth refused to work.

"Learn to keep your mouth shut, sheepherder! That is your second lesson." Lan answered with a low voice. His face didn't change. There was no malice, nor anger. It was a simple statement.

"Is she… Is she going to be alright?"

 "She needs sleep."  He whispered. Rand nodded again. He turned around to leave the room. He heard Lan's quiet voice again behind him. "Sometimes it feels like she is carrying the world on her shoulders. Sometimes… this is actually true." 

[mmmmalo]

this might be a stupid question, sorry in advance. when you perform analysis on a work like homestuck and excavate these levels of, like, racial and social meaning from it, how does it affect your opinion of the work? do you come to like or dislike it more, or have your feelings toward it grown past that over the years into more nebulous things?

i love your blog and your posts, even though i only started homestuck last year and never made it past act 4; when i read your stuff i always learn new things about how one can interact with texts. just got curious about the above after reading your post on caliborn and disability and such. hope you have a good day.

I continue to like the work, in new ways. The feelings evade summary, so here's a few examples:

I lost my initial fervor for classpect ages ago, when it became clear to me that the categories weren't mutually exclusive (depriving the system of majestic power) and that they were not the ultimate key to Homestuck (meaning a new paradigm would be needed to solve the story's remaining mysteries). But I still admire how classpect induces the audience to engage in symbolic reading, proposing this object or that color has an associated abstract significance.

The manifestation system started out just giving me digestible bits of characterization like Egbert being scared of heights, but within a few months it began giving me weirder shit like racist sex dreams. That was difficult to integrate into my impression of what exactly Homestuck was -- for the time, I was satisfied to conclude that Equius was not as much of an anomaly as he was made out to be, and that the comic might be in some measure a commentary on racism. That the racist thoughts seemed to emanate from particular characters, in a game whose modus operandi is making thoughts real, struck me as a distancing maneuver of sufficient strength to rebuff gentle (and not so gentle) suggestions that maybe this all just meant Hussie was racist. Thus when the ARG got posted, instead of joining the outcry against the abundant bigotry I was laser focused on how the alternate-dimension Obama was a surrealist confirmation of racist birther conspiracies. The psychological framing of Sburb had persuaded me to accept the story as a scare quote around "racism" that could be observed at a remove.

I was excited that the manifestation system meant more characterization for Jade, then shocked when it implied she had been raped, then apprehensive of the apparent perpetrator Grandpa's every move, then supremely confused by the revelation that Homestuck's deployment of pejorative tropes meant that all the above had coaxed me into a simulation of satanic panic. Reconciling my sympathy for Jade's suffering with the knowledge that Jake is by some measure an effigy sending out de-fused signals of DANGEROUS HOMOSEXUAL THREATENS THE CHILDREN, it all gives me a headache. The story's ironic scaremongering demands your disengagement, to view the story as artifice, but the suffering of the victim within the bad-faith narrative is nonetheless visceral. Conflicting demands like that make up much of the story for me now: pathos that I once felt and continue to feel, side by side with the need to question the foundations of the sympathy.

It is very rare that anything holds my attention as long as Homestuck has and that in itself is something I'm grateful for. Trying to get a rhetorical foothold on its weird ass games has been my primary motivation for reading new things -- psychoanalytic film criticism, existential philosophy, and academic theorization of assorted bigotries are probably not things I would have delved into were they not connected to the puzzle box. It became my lesson plan for self-study, and it has (slash I have) made me into a better reader in general... or something, idk.

I like the story. That's it for feelings for now

[trashyswitch]

The Truth - A Short Essay by Pocket

⚠️This essay will talk about suicidal ideation, and generational beliefs as well as religious beliefs. Read at your own risk.⚠️

For the last few days, I’ve been experiencing intense muscle pain, migraine headaches, and fatigue beyond comprehension. I haven’t been able to write in 2 days, which made my mental health completely fall flat onto its face. This afternoon…I was completely ready to give up. Ready to quit my job, quit therapy, stop eating, stop drinking, stop contributing to society, just…stop existing. I was ready to give into my selfish desires. I spent a good 3 hours thinking about how everything came to be this bad. How I expressed my anger and frustration with my predicament, and how my parents took offense and read my frustration as ‘having an attitude’. What I was trying to explain to them, went completely over their heads because they were focused on how much I was taking their money, their strategies and their life lessons, for granted. And…they are not wrong. I was taking the therapy sessions for granted. But…nonetheless, I did not like being yelled at and ridiculed for being a bratty, inconsiderate child…and so, I left in a huff and went out to the deck. 

I contemplated ending my life a few times within those 30 minutes. But, even if I wanted to, I didn’t have any way to go through with it as quickly and as painlessly as I wanted. So I sat in my anger and my pain, bawling my eyes out. My mom came out and talked to me about why she got angry, and our conversation became more civil. But I was still far from okay. But…regardless of how mentally unstable I was, I couldn’t deny the truth: I had made a revelation: 

I realized that I do so much for other people in my family, and no one in my family ever does anything for me back.

Well…that’s somewhat of a lie. My family members do things for me that they believe will help me get better and cheer me up. But…it doesn’t. It never does help. It just leaves me unchanged. Almost everyone does what they think is going to help me, and no one ever really bothers to ask me ‘what do you need right now?’. And the only few people that actually do ask me that…aren’t even in person. They ask me over text or videocall, because they’re over in the United States, living their own lives. People in different parts of the world who only somewhat know me…understand what I actually need…even more than the people I spent my whole in-person life with. 

And that…is just depressing in its own right. When complete strangers know your needs better than the people you spent your whole life with…that’s when your whole world view shifts.

But I think the other problem is…I don’t even know what I want…What I need at that moment…And maybe that’s because I was never taught, or never understood…that I could want something that isn’t materialistic…

Every year, my parents and family members buy me everything I want for christmas…everything I want for my birthday…Everything I want for my adoption day. But they never once give me what I really want: A long hug. A kiss. A cuddle session. A few minutes of tickles. Something that’ll help my mental health a lot more. They believe temporary gifts will make me happy, when that cannot be further from the truth…I just want to feel genuinely loved. But…I never felt safe to ask for those things…because I felt that I was asking too much of them. 

My whole life…My mother and father have taught me to accommodate others and put others' considerations over my own. Even the church I grew up in told me to do the same thing with humility in my mind because then God will be pleased with you, and you will be rewarded with a place in heaven. And one little slip-up, and you’re on a road down to hell. So…I did as I was told. As I got older, I was told to read family members’ minds and clue into subtle hints about what they want. If my mom said ‘I wish the fairy would come and wash the dishes’, then it was my duty to be that ‘fairy’ and wash the dishes.

But while I was learning and following both my parents’ and Gods’ example, almost everyone else seemed to be worrying about themselves. My peers only worried about what they themselves wanted rather than what the teacher wanted. They chose to get dressed in their own clothes and stand up to their own parents instead of doing what their parents wanted them to dress in and do. I did this for 17 years. And…I feel no different. In fact, I feel my mental health worsened because I was not allowed a balance. In fact by age 17, my mom was still picking out my clothes. And even then, she told her friends that ‘she (her daughter, me) doesn’t like anything I pick out’. And that hurt, because those moments of selfishness…were being shut down. And the many acts of selflessness I WAS showing, was being overlooked because I did a selfish thing this one time. 

“Do so much, be ridiculed for doing one thing one time”...That was my mom's parenting strategy in 12 words or less. But I don’t blame my mom for those selfless attitudes…I blame the generations before her, that nurtured such attitudes into my mom, and countless others. I hold those earlier generations accountable for what they taught the Gen-X generation and the Millennial generation: That selflessness is good, and selfishness is bad. 

It was the gen-x’s that nurtured such beliefs into their children…and it was the Gen-X and millennials that nurtured those beliefs into the media and shows I watched growing up. One piece of media that stuck out to me, was Barbie in A Christmas Carol, where Edith was seen as the ‘bad guy’ for being selfish and therefore, ignorant to other people’s needs and wants. But through the usual Christmas Carol story by Charles Dickens, Edith learns to be selfless and put others first over herself. And…that’s how the story ends. The whole story of A Christmas Carol, is a purely fictional story with a backwards, easy-to-misunderstand moral: Put others’ needs before your own. 

I think instead of “Always put others before yourself”, they should emphasize the importance of balancing selflessness and selfishness. And though the Gen-Z’s seem to have lots going against them, they do have at least one thing right: In order to help others, you need to be able to help yourself. And that’s something I severely lack right now…I am the master at helping others, but…I fail to know even the first thing about how to help myself get better. How to treat myself in healthy ways. How to reward myself in helpful ways. How to feel personal reward for showing kindness to others. And I should’ve been learning that from the get go. 

The hard part is…my attempts to be selfish are still ridiculed and judged by my parents. And they will continue to ridicule me for showing such foreign beliefs and concepts. Arin Hanson’s little joke about racism and judgements being turned into the quick phrase “You’re not ME! WaaAAH?!” is funny…but immensely true. People judge because they don’t see eye-to-eye on certain opinions. And I know very well how to make people feel understood and listened to. But…who is going to do the same for me? Is there anyone who’s willing to return the selfless acts to me? 

Anyone? 

Yes…there is. But in return, I have to accept that ultimately, that person is going to be as broken as I am: Selfless and never selfish. And once I accept that…then maybe rehabilitation for the both of us...is possible. 

We have seen endless examples of selfishness being pushed way too far. But…the truth is…there are just as many examples of selflessness being pushed way too far as well. Examples that lead to mental health struggles, physical health struggles, sexual health struggles, and even social health struggles. Not being able to advocate for yourself and your own needs…damages every part of your being in a domino effect. I, myself, have attempted to end my life twice because of this social problem. And countless people end up into all sorts of trouble for this very reason. Those people who ‘pulled up their bootstraps and kept going’? They may have died from heart failure due to holding their pain in for decades at a time. All those family members who drowned their pains and sorrows in alcohol? What do you think were those sorrows they were trying to drown? 

Unfortunately…Chronic selflessness is rarely ever seen represented within the media. And while the Gen-Z and Alpha generations are trying to make it known…there’s only so much they can do before they’re ‘disproved’ by a ‘smarter’, ‘more wise’ person of an older generation. And while I am open to interpretation, I am not open to insults and ridicule in the comment section. I already experienced enough of that in my own life. 

So: I'm not going to end my life over such ridicule. Instead, I would like to make chronic selflessness as understood and recognizable as chronic selfishness. And I hope you do as well.

Thank you for reading. 

~TrashySwitch/Pocket

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

you can't be fuelling my conspiracies like that!! especially when my knowledge of Washington state comes from grunge, twilight and ship sinkings 😭

I did however find out that the capital is Olympia which is veery interesting and fitting for 1968. I'm excited to see everything go down!

I do have a proper question though: where do you get your inspiration for your aus? They are all so unique and incredibly well thought out that you must spend so much time planning and researching.

Thank you so much for sharing your wonderful works with us as always -<3 helios

Helios my beloved!!! (And such a great username... 👀) Thank you so much for reading and being a fellow Aegon girlie 🥰💜

I feel so bad when people as me where my ideas come from because, like, it's kind of a mystery bestie 😂

I spent years studying history in college/grad school, so I have a lot of background knowledge and there are certain events/time periods that I develop especially strong fixations with, but most of those never become story ideas. Similarly, I'm super interested in pop culture and do a lot of research purely for fun, especially about musicians/bands. So I'd imagine there are many random bits of information floating around subconsciously that occasionally snowball into something bigger.

My inspiration starts as very vague passing thoughts/vibes, something like "what if the HOTD characters were a boy band?" or "wouldn't bayou country be a neat location for a fic?", and then that just sits on my mental shelf for like 6 months.

At some point, usually while listening to music or a podcast, I'll get a sudden revelation of the plot. This always starts with one of the very last scenes, and then once I have that vivid image in my mind I know I have to write that story. I have like 1 week of all the essential puzzle pieces clicking into place (characters, plot, themes, quotes, chapter names, etc.), during which time my Word Doc of notes looks absolutely insane. I do a lot of additional research too, including using Google Earth/Maps to explore locations. And then I'm ready to start writing!

For 1968 specifically, I had to learn a lot about the late-1960s when I started teaching high school American history because it was a time period I was actually not super educated about. I quickly got a bit obsessed with it - the chaos, the destruction, the hope, the counterculture, the conservative backlash - and every time I've taught the class I've actually devoted a whole lesson to JUST the year 1968 because there was just so much going on! So I have an interest in the topic going back 5 years. Then I got my sudden revelation for the plot while taking a bubble bath and listening to my main Spotify playlist. The Times They Are a-Changin' by Bob Dylan came on shuffle, and the fic was born 🥰 That song will make a very memorable appearance in Chapter 4! 💜

[naraskata]

December: A final note of the year.

There's something about December that feels like the closing scene of a musical performance, where every moment seems to rush toward a climactic end. It is the last chapter of the year, a time when the days stretch both heavy and swift, like listening to the final notes of a symphony. December feels much the same— a quiet, resonant pause before ending to year's song. The song serves as a reflection of all that we've been, everything we've faced and everything we've become. In music, the final note is not always loud or grand. Sometimes, it's a slow fade, a verse of interlude that we will hear to reflect than applaud. Some others, it's a gradual decrease of passage decrescendo, a deliberate retreat that leaves space for thought.

As I stand in this year's final chord, I realized how much of myself has shifted in ways I didn't notice until now. Growth isn't always obvious, just as a melody isn't arranged on its loudest notes. There were moments this year that seemed insignificant at the time—somewhere between the resolutions I forgot and detours I never planned for, evanescent decisions and unsaid words. However, in looking back, I see how those subtle shifts have rewritten my rhythm. I'm no longer the same person who started this year's song.

Some unplanned notes leave me with surprises that strike me most. I discovered a form of strength in the most unexpected corners. Fragility I finally allowed myself to feel. Contentment arrived like a sudden, lively shift in music after a prolonged, melancholic melody. These are the notes I didn’t plan for, the harmonies I didn’t think I could create. But, just as in music, not every part of the year was in tune. There were dissonances—moments when life seemed to pull me in too many directions at once. Yet, even those moments taught me something. They showed me how to listen carefully, to distinguish between noise and melody.

And now, as December holds its final note, I’m reminded of what comes after the music fades: a reflection. This is the time to sit with all these sides of myself—the brave, the hesitant, the hopeful, the wary. It is humbling and electrifying to realize I am both the same and entirely new. I ask myself if the year’s song truly served me. Did I live in harmony with who I am, or did I let the noise of others’ expectations drown out my own voice?

Not every note was perfect, and not every chord resolved. But in its own way, this year’s song was complete. December, with all its quiet revelations, is teaching me to let it be—to appreciate the beauty of imperfection and the inevitability of change. So here I am, at the edge of the year, ready to begin again. The melody has ended, but its rhythms linger, reminding me of everything I’ve become. When the next song begins, I’ll carry these lessons with me—knowing that every note, no matter how small, matters in the music of a life well-lived.

[princesspink68]

**One Lesson I Did Learn from Leaving Someone Is... Life Does Go On**

Life is a journey filled with countless lessons many of which come from our relationships. One of the most profound lessons I have learned from leaving someone is that life does go on even when it feels as though the world has come to a halt. The emotional turmoil that accompanies the end of a relationship can be overwhelming especially when we have invested so much of ourselves into that connection. It is easy to become comfortable in the familiarity of a relationship even when it is fraught with pain and heartache. The thought of being without that person can be terrifying as they often become an integral part of our identity. This is particularly true when betrayal occurs; the pain of infidelity can feel like a contamination of the soul leaving us feeling sickened and lost.

When the decision is made to leave a relationship it is often accompanied by a strange mix of relief and sorrow. The initial stages can be disorienting as we grapple with the reality of our new situation. It takes time to adjust to the absence of someone who has been a constant presence in our lives. The process of healing is akin to reading a book with multiple chapters; each phase brings its own challenges and revelations. As time passes the intensity of the pain diminishes yet the memories linger serving as reminders of the lessons learned and the experiences shared.

One of the most significant insights I have gained is that people enter and exit our lives for a reason. Each relationship whether it lasts a few months or several years serves a purpose. Some individuals come into our lives to teach us valuable lessons while others may bring joy companionship or even children that we would never trade for the world. Reflecting on my past relationships I can see the threads of fate weaving through my experiences guiding me toward the realization that not every connection is meant to last forever.

For instance my thirteen-year relationship was marked by love and uncertainty. My partner battled cancer a struggle that cast a shadow over our time together. Despite his eventual recovery the specter of the illness loomed large and he ultimately chose to leave me for someone else. In that new relationship he welcomed a son—something I could not provide for him. While the pain of his departure was profound I have come to understand that his son was meant to be here and my heartache was a necessary part of that journey. It was a painful lesson but one that illuminated the idea that sometimes love means letting go.

Similarly another relationship taught me about the complexities of human connection. I found myself growing weary of the drama surrounding my partner's ex which ultimately led to our breakup. However during our time together he supported me through some of the most challenging moments of my life. I later expressed my gratitude for his presence during that difficult period. After our separation he went on to have two children with another partner but tragically he also succumbed to cancer. His story serves as a poignant reminder that life is unpredictable and we may never fully understand the reasons behind our separations.

In conclusion the lesson that life goes on after leaving someone is both liberating and humbling. It reminds us that while relationships can shape our lives they do not define us. Each person we encounter has a role to play whether for a fleeting moment or a lifetime. The pain of loss may feel insurmountable at times but it is essential to recognize that every ending paves the way for new beginnings. As we navigate the complexities of love and loss we learn to embrace the journey understanding that the people who come into our lives do so for a reason often to teach us something invaluable about ourselves and the world around us. Life continues and with each chapter we grow stronger wiser and more resilient.

By Kimberly Campbell

[anthonybialy]

Another Title Anything But Routine for Buffalo Bandits

I had to buy another championship shirt.  Thanks a lot, favorite team.  Incessant shopping is such a hassle.  The Buffalo Bandits have to sew relevant information onto another banner, which seems like a tricky project.  And they had to update the sign with the championship year.  Eh: there may be worse things than getting another number.  

Buffalo is New York’s lacrosse capital.  Albany can have their narcissistic twits taking your money to tell you how to live, and we’ll have Tehoka.  The Erie Canal Bowl resulted in shipping the Cup in one definite direction.  The league’s flagship franchise is winning like it, which is sweet news for those seeking precedent for things working out like they should for once.

Commemorate the first time since the first time.  Fans revel in a rather rare event, namely the second consecutive title accumulation since the first and second seasons.  The Bandits are back to back-to-back.

All you pessimists didn’t think the most awesome outcome imaginable was possible just a couple months ago. Someone as inherently cheerfully positive as me certainly wasn’t grumpy about any midseason losses.  I also think this universe is a blessing that’s all planned for happiness ever since late Saturday.

Cool professors weigh end of semester results more heavily than confusing early classes.  Better grades toward the end show accelerated learning upon familiarity with the subject.  The Bandits learned and adapted.  They’re the same team that started the season with occasionally shaky performances yet different.  Answer a zen riddle with wooing about winning.

It turns out the finish is the most important part.  The NLL is just another sports outfit that focuses on results.  It’s so predictable.  They only honor the top competitor.  There’s exactly one important time for comparing scores.  It happens at the very end.

The Bandits are an apology.  One other neighborhood team is competitive while the other is dreadful while both share the common characteristic of never winning the league’s final game.  They alternate every couple years.  Variety doesn’t always improve circumstances.

The Bills and Sabres oscillate between crushing dreams by getting close and being so inept that toxic waste spills ask to not be compared to them.  Meanwhile, Buffalo’s RC Cola wins it all again.

A year that ended with a title started off feeling like an eclipse season.  Clouds at the most inopportune time led to naturally thinking an event rarer than a Buffalo championship would be a letdown.  But our planet’s star and satellite burst through overcast skies at the moment of totality.  The lesson was not that things failed to work out but rather that we just had to persevere through trepidation.  The Bandits shined like plasma.

Nobody could’ve been too disappointed if this season ended like it began.  A lack of cohesion early in the campaign seemed to be leading toward making us cherish 2023.  Memories of a dreamlike run through the postseason might’ve been what sustained us through the offseason.  They do, but they’re blessedly from a couple days ago instead of nearly a year.

The only misstep was not waiting a few days to officially rejoice.  Partying before midnight until after noon would make Andrew W.K. proud.  But hosting a bash before sweeping up confetti from the night before was, in the words of Gilbert Gottfried’s epitaph, too soon.  Holding a congregation the afternoon after the win means the faithful didn’t even have a chance to finish expiring celebratory liquor before it turned sour.

The assembly held one short sleep after the season ended came at a time for those who thought last year’s weekday 5 p.m. bacchanalia wasn’t positioned oddly enough.  Hangovers still hadn’t set in.  Festive attendees of the season finale could’ve stayed out all night, gotten breakfast late into their personal days, then mulled around the plaza until the players showed up like a matinee following a night game.

What was the rush?  Social media comments about the gala include some from rueful backers who are rightfully bummed out that they missed posts about a shindig that one might think would be scheduled after a slight subsiding of the immediate hullabaloo.  I’m attempting to refrain from kvetching about ownership right now, but a Pegula-style screwup hindering the jubilation around their one ultimately successful franchise is on brand.

I felt lucky to have noticed they were convening.  As a reminder, always check social media constantly in case a team you admire wins it all and invited all their fans to live it up with them soon after.

My personal rally policy is to appear at any gathering in commemoration of a Buffalo club prevailing in an athletic tournament.  You may have noticed it’s rarely applicable.  Going annually is a relatively frequent pace, so your daughter will understand if you skip her wedding.  Move the ceremony to the front of the French Connection statue.

It’s better to show up on the back of a fire truck than in the back of a cop car.  Players demonstrated their skill at disembarking from engines serving as chariots for victors, which might be even tricker than scoring in a clinching game.  Everyone thankfully reached the ground safely before traveling through a most appreciative crowd then converging on stage to gleefully cuss in between lager swigs and cigar puffs.  This roster knows carousing like they do conquering.

I could get used to this.  The habit of filling a case with shiny metal sculpted into triumphant shapes is a delight that should never be taken for granted.  We spent 15 years waiting for last year’s glorious result, so this interregnum was a blink.

Overindulging in elation is fine for the moments after your beloved wins it all.  I’m trying to avoid feeling too depressed, which is why I’m not going to tally how many seasons of teams I like began with dreams of supremacy before ending  like a mob torching.

Nobody in Buffalo needs to be told those other two squads are still on the list like they’re trying to get a Trabant in East Germany.  The Bandits have Ian MacKay, while the others sit in the waiting room as described by Fugazi frontman Ian MacKaye.  As part of my newfangled commitment to positivity while I’m still buzzing from the commissioner leaving hardware in town, I’m avoiding wallowing in obvious comparisons to the city’s other teams.  I will just say the Bandits offer a good example.

Winning a ring for the other hand inspires almost as much pride as no Bandit ever winning the league’s sportsmanship award.  The thrill remains intense even when there’s a recent example of pure bliss.  Nothing’s lighter to lift than a heavy trophy.

[libmoopsychblog]

New semester, new me (I hope)...

I've had a lot of time to stare at my wall and re-evaluate the way that I tried to approach my first semester on the MRes course! But now I think it's time to do a bit of self reflection and to form an action plan for semester two so I don't burn out before graduation.

My experience of the first semester was challenging to say the least! Throughout my full life in academia, I've always struggled to stay on top of workloads and to start an assignment earlier than 24 hours before it's due date. At the start of semester one, I told myself that this would be the year for me: I'd convinced myself that a switch would flip in my brain and this year I would turn into the academic weapon that I was born to be. But it just didn't happen... Every submission in semester one was proceeded with a frantic rush up to the last second that was made ten times more stressful because of how much more difficult this work is to any I've had to submit in the past. Take the coding assignment as an example- I still have nightmares about how much my head hurt trying to finish that task on time!!

Whilst I've always been able to (somehow) walk out with good grades doing work in this way, it's just not a sustainable way to submit work at a Master's level. Not just because of the higher standard of work, but I've found 27 grey hairs coming through on my head since last November and I can't afford to dye my hair every week to cover them up. Joking aside, eventhough it makes me feel smart and accomplished to be able to write a 4000 word essay in 15 hours with no prior planning, I'm going to make sure that this is going to be the semester, albeit my final semester, that I become the academic success story that they write books about.

To give myself credit where it's due, I have constantly proven to myself that I can work under pressure. Pressure has always been my main motivator when it comes to submissions- I leave it until the pressure is at its peak to even begin thinking about writing. So at least now that when I get asked if I "deal well in high pressure situations" in a job interview, I know myself I'm not lying. But I have seen the negative consequences of this method on my mental health in the long run. I've constantly been in this cycle where I'll get mad at myself when I submit something because I know it's not my best work and this just can't continue.

When I think deeply about it, I think it is the constant passing grades that have stopped me from ever changing my ways. Why change a system that works, right? But I need to value my own mental health, stress levels and sleep more than I ever have. For me, it goes back to a classic theory I studied in A-Level Sociology- the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy. I have convinced myself that I am somebody who needs a looming deadline and peaked pressure and who cannot work on an assignment in small, manageable chunks so that is exactly the type of person that I have become. So from now, I'll take my whole academic career so far as a learning curve and break the beliefs that I have forced upon myself about the conditions that I need to work in.

So here we are: the all important action plan.

1: Dear Diary...

A diary! I don't know how it has taken me 21 years to come to such a blatantly obvious revelation. But from now, I'm keeping a diary dedicated to all things deadline, planning and uni related. This way I have to hold myself accountable to the plans I've made for myself and can never say I don't know when something is due because it's in the diary.

2: Going to sleep on deadline Eve.

No more all nighters the night before a deadline! I've made a pact with myself that my work has to be submitted early so there is absolutely no work to be done the night before something is due. This way, I can be all tucked up in bed early the night before like a kid on Christmas Eve... bliss.

3: Slow and Steady Wins the Race

A lesson that I should have learned in primary school when they used to read the book about the tortoise and that rabbit. All of my work will be broken up into manageable chunks that I can complete in the weeks leading up until the deadline, rather than it just being done in one go.

So there we have it, a concise three step action plan that'll (hopefully) make semester two an absolute breeze... I'll let you know how that one goes.

[inmontana]

it's fucking heartbreaking, is what it is, and it's ALMOST TOO MUCH. for reasons rip cannot even begin to process so quickly. over time, he will. with the weight of the news so fresh and poignant in the air surrounding them he's too honed in to see just how much of everything it's embodied. loss has a way of doing that. this, he knows, and HE KNOWS WELL. though like every gut-wrenching lesson, he's learning it again.. right here, right now. looking down into the jade of her eyes, holding her in his arms, it feels like he's meeting her for the first time again. give a few years- they're older now, and life's heaviness weighs their bones down instead of pinning them like cornered wolf pups. it ignites something in him he's sure didn't exist prior to her revelation. he loves her, as rip has always loved beth, but he might even love her more now. if such a thing was possible. loves her differently. for ALL THE WAYS she couldn't love herself because she was forced to make a decision by herself in the valleys of youth for a frolic they both played equal parts in.

“ yeah, baby. y'should've. ” he agrees softly with a singular nod. not to be mean or cruel but because he doesn't disagree and he knows her better (better than even an hour ago) than to believe she'd take any empty platitude. he'd give it to her if that's what he thought she wanted. just as rip does with anything else. this type of thing changes lives though & it'll change the way he lives out EVERY LAST DAY he has left. he won't stop giving that that to her, and while he's yet to understand exactly what it's doing to him inside, he feels an enormous weight encompassing him to do more than what he thinks she wants in order to show her how much he loves her. rather what she NEEDS. & maybe that's been a fault of his for longer than he's realized. but she's held this for two damn decades now. the last thing he's going to do is silence her for even a moment longer. “ you've spent more than enough time lettin' that eat you, beth. y'told me now. don't let it eat you for anythin' else. ” the power of knowledge shines in the whites of his eyes. a keen sense of sorrow but a keener sense of respect. asking her why she did isn't something rip needs to do. it happened, and it'll never be about the why. knows the answer deep down already. his hand lifts to cup her face, thumb swiping at the track marks of her shed tears. she plays a hard game sometimes but she's so much worthier than she ever gives herself credit for. “ if you would'a asked me an hour ago if i'd go back.. ” he shakes his head and purses his lips beneath the tightening of his jaw muscle. “ i'd 'ave told ya i wouldn't go back for nothin'. not a damn thing, baby. but this? ” rip guides her back into him. “ i'd go back just to give you that. ” he tells her solemnly. “ give US that. ” their grief in unison. hers maybe changed or unchanged by the lapse of time, but never alone. his laced in an i've-got-you he never got to say. “ but you heard what i said 'bout guilt. time and you. an' that's what i have. what do you need hm? lemme give that to you instead. ”

nothing could have prepared her for what this would feel like. no nightmare or dream, no over-analysed train of thought, no years of being trapped in her own head- in every sequence following the truth revealed, she had thought of every possible outcome. she hadn't considered how it would feel. because wrapped up in his arms, pressed all the way into rip with the beat of his heart under her hand, despite the tears tracking down her cheeks, a shaky breath of relief exhales slowly through her parted lips. it's different than telling her father. finally revealing the still devastating trauma of her youth and the consequences she's lived with ever since had been overshadowed by the necessity of why. BUT WITH RIP, IT'S DIFFERENT. it was his child she carried, his child she lost, and his children she would never bear. the grief is palpable, it's overwhelming. and in twenty years, she's only ever felt heartbreak, longing, and rage. for the first time, she doesn't feel alone. beth almost fought him pulling away, the separation however minor the last thing she's ready for, her fingers curling in to the fabric of his shirt all the tighter- only for her eyes to open and her head to rise, blonde wisps of hair shaken off her face as he holds her still.

she hears him, she does, but the words aren't registering with clear understanding. her brow pinches, furrowing in her confusion. fleeting though it may be. expression visibly falls, guilt and self-loathing evident in the shine of her eyes, impossibly greener through the unshed tears. "i don't live there rip, i just . . . i couldn't open the door." he doesn't know how she's suffocated over the years, locking herself in that room in her head when it all becomes too much. fuck, she loves him. she's always loved him but running had seemed easier than allowing herself to, and she has to live with that. the years she stole from them, the life they could have had. the past is the past and there is no point in dwelling there, she knows that. but regret takes root in the marrow of her bones. jaw crooks sideways, and she musters a small smile, all for him. her eyes flutters closed as his lips press to her forehead, and she's quiet when she disagrees. "i know what you would've done, baby." he would've held her, he would've given her a choice and respected what road she lead them down, he would've fucking cared. ". . . i should've told you." if not then, then later. before now.

[lesfeldickbiblestudy]

  Through the Bible with Les Feldick LESSON 2 * PART 4 * BOOK 77 CONNECTING THE DOTS OF SCRIPTURES – PART 44 Genesis – Revelation (The Kingdom) Okay, once again you’re all back from your break. This is our last program for this afternoon. After it’s over, we can go home.  For those of you joining us on television, we’ll see you tomorrow morning.  But anyway, we are so thankful for every one of you out there whether you contribute or not.  As long as we know you are praying for us, then the Lord will do the rest.  We know He’s touching a lot of hearts and lives through the teaching of His Word. All right, we’re still on what we started on several months ago called “Connecting the Dots of Scripture.” We’re still heading toward the end of the Book of Revelation.  Someday.  We’ve just finished, pretty much, the Old Testament in review—just hitting the high points of all the promises concerning this coming glorious earthly Kingdom over which we feel Christ—God the Son, Israel’s Messiah—will rule and reign some day soon. Now, before we go back to Matthew and pick up the New Testament account of this coming Kingdom, I’d like to take you back to Romans chapter 15 verse 8 where Paul makes another reference to this very same thing. But he clarifies what most of Christendom still doesn’t get.  That is, that Christ’s whole earthly ministry was to prepare Israel for this glorious Kingdom.  He came to present it—knowing, of course in His foreknowledge, that they would reject it and bring about the crucifixion which had to happen.  But nevertheless, it was a valid offer of this glorious Kingdom promised ever since Exodus 19. Romans 15:8 “Now I say that Jesus Christ was (From Paul’s point in time, it’s past tense.  We’re going to be looking at it in a minute from the very beginning.) a minister of the circumcision for the truth of God, to confirm the promises made to the fathers:” What’s he talking about?  What we’ve been seeing for the last three half hours.  Those were the promises that were made to the fathers—first through Moses at Mt. Sinai, and then through the prophets and King David.  All these prophecies concerning this coming glorious Kingdom were promised to the Nation of Israel.  That was their “Heaven” that they were looking for. Now, a lot of people call and say, “Les, when did you catch on to all of this?  And how?”  Well, I just wrote a letter yesterday explaining it, so it’s fresh in my mind.  You can be turning back to Matthew chapter 3.  I had just started teaching home Bible classes outside of my regular denominational church.  I had been a Sunday school teacher and a deacon for many, many years.  About the third week, this lady came up after a class and she said, “Les, why isn’t Heaven taught in the Old Testament?”  I said, “What?”  I’d never heard of that.  I said, “What are you talking about?”  She said, “Well, those Jews had no idea of dying and going to Heaven.  It’s not back there.”  Well, that was a whole new concept to me.  So I had to get into the Book and start digging to prove her wrong.  But you know what?  She was right! The Jew had no idea of going to Heaven.  They were going to go to Paradise.  They were going to go down to Sheol.  They had to wait for the atonement, and then Christ emptied Sheol, or Paradise, and took it up to Heaven.  But see, she was so right that the Jew had no concept of going to Heaven. Now, the verse I usually like to use, keep your hand in Matthew, because I’m going to come right back.  Come back with me to Job.  We’ve done this before for some of you. But for those of you who are just getting part of this, we’ve got to prove that this is what the Jew was looking for.  Job puts it perfectly.  Chapter 19 verses 25 and 26 and this is exactly the concept that the Jew had of death and life after death.  It wasn’t the idea that we have of going up to Heaven.  They were going to come to a heaven on earth. Job 19:25-26 “For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the

latter day (Where?) upon the earth:  (at the latter day, not at the beginning, at the last) 26. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, (In other words, he dies and goes back to the dust, yet here was his future.) yet in my flesh (resurrected flesh) I shall see God:” And where’s God going to be?  Standing on the earth! So Job had the right idea.  That after he had finished this life of the physical and he died, one day he would be resurrected back to the earth.  But it wouldn’t be the earth under the curse, it would be an earth under the Kingdom authority of the Messiah.  The whole Old Testament view of their eternal destiny was to come back to an earthly Kingdom. Matthew chapter 3 is the first reference that we have to it in the New Testament.  And don’t forget what Paul said—that Jesus Christ, when He came in His first Advent, was a minister of the circumcision (that’s Israel), not the whole human race.  He was a minister for the Nation of Israel to fulfill, or bring to completion, all these Old Testament promises of a coming glorious earthly Kingdom. Matthew 3:1-2 “In those days came John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness of Judea, 2. And saying, Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”  Not the Kingdom of God - the Kingdom of Heaven. Now, remember a couple of years ago, Sharon put it on the board.  I think I referred to it a little earlier this afternoon, that the Scripture uses those two terms almost interchangeably—“the Kingdom of God” and “the Kingdom of Heaven.”  Well, they’re not one and the same.  Yet they’re intertwined, because the Kingdom of God is that overall sphere of God’s righteous influence.   To make it simple, imagine a large circle called the Kingdom of God.    Now inside that large circle we have two smaller circles.  One is called the Kingdom of Heaven, and one is called the Body of Christ. There is nothing of the unrighteous here, but only that which is righteous—which includes Heaven and the angels, every believer from Adam, Abel and on up through the Old Testament, and then you come to the Body of Christ.  We, too, are in the Kingdom of God, but we are singularly in a smaller sphere called the Body of Christ. Maybe I should ask Sharon to draw it again. I don’t want to, but she could.  But nevertheless, the other entity that’s in that big circle is the Kingdom of Heaven.  So you’ve got the Kingdom of Heaven sitting over here inside the Kingdom of God waiting to be fulfilled. Over here we’ve got the Body of Christ in which you and I are a part; and it’s already, just about we think, full.  It’s also in the Kingdom of God.  So, when Paul speaks of the Kingdom of God, he’s talking about the big circle.  But when he gets down into the nitty-gritty of where we are, he calls us the Body of Christ. Now John the Baptist is introducing this other entity that’s in the Kingdom of God—the Kingdom of Heaven.  And that’s this earthly 1,000 year reign of Christ on a planet earth that has been totally regenerated. It has been lifted from the curse. It’s going to be made beautiful just as it was in the beginning.  That’s why we have been looking all afternoon at the Old Testament prophecies concerning this Kingdom of Heaven. Now, what most of Christendom doesn’t understand is that this is strictly a Jewish phenomenon.  It is only between God and Israel. It is to Israel that He’s going to promise this glorious earthly Kingdom.  Albeit, we know that in the Tribulation, 144,000 Jews, with their preaching around the globe, will bring in multitudes of Gentiles who will become the Gentile part of the earthly Kingdom.  But Israel will be the primary player.  Israel will be by far the largest nation during the 1,000 year reign. But all the other Gentile nations are going to come into the picture, because it’s going to be a population explosion.  But for the most part, I want you to see that the Kingdom of Heaven is a God and Israel relationship.  So when John the Baptist began preaching to the Jews of the day of Christ’s earthly ministry, the language was “the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”

But the verse that most of Christendom totally misconstrues is where Jesus said, “the Kingdom of Heaven is within you.”  But it was a rank error in translation, because that Greek word translated within is actually better translated in your midst.  Now, think about that.  The Kingdom of Heaven is in your midst.  How?  In the person of the Messiah.  Just like John says here, “the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”  Why?  Because in a few days he’s going to introduce the King.  Here comes Jesus now in His earthly ministry proclaiming to be Israel’s Messiah, Redeemer, and King. Now, in order to set that a little straighter, I’m going to take you back to verses that we’ve used over and over through the past many, many years. That is Peter’s confession in Matthew chapter 16.  Turn with me to that.  Matthew 16 and we’ll drop in at verse 13.  I’m going to come back to another verse that we use over and over and over, because most of Christendom rejects it.  They’ll just actually say I don’t believe that.  Well, they’re in trouble. But let’s look at Matthew 16 first, at the end of His three years. They’re up in northern Israel. In short order they’re going to be heading back south and up to Jerusalem for the Passover and the crucifixion.  But the Twelve don’t know that.  Jesus does, but the Twelve don’t.  But what Jesus is getting the Twelve ready for, is to make sure they understand who He is.  All right, that’s the whole idea of these verses right here. Matthew 16:13a “When Jesus came into the borders of Caesarea Philippi,…” Now, that’s clear up on the very northern border of Israel.  It’s at the headwaters of the Jordan River.  For those of you that are going with us to Israel this fall, we’ve got plans made to go up there.  We’re going to go up to Caesarea Philippi, the headwaters of the Jordan River. Matthew 16:13b “…he asked his disciples, saying, Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?” That’s a simple question, isn’t it?  Fellows, whom do people up and down the highways and byways of Israel, the rank and file, or today they use the term “the street.”  Who do they think I am?  Now, look at the ridiculous answers. Matthew 16:14a “And they said, Some say that thou art John the Baptist:…”  Well, my heavens, what happened to John the Baptist?  Got imprisoned and then got his head cut off.  So how could this be John the Baptist?  But see how ridiculous people can get? You know, I’m always making the point.  Do you realize that people 2,000 years ago were not a nickel’s worth different than we are today?  Not a nickel’s worth.  Oh, we may have a little more modern conveniences and so forth, but our basic thoughts and actions – there’s no difference. Matthew 16:14b-16a “…and some think you are Elijah; and others, Jeremiah, or one of the prophets. 15. But Jesus saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?  (They’d been with Him now for three years.) 16. And Simon Peter (the spokesman) answered, and said, Thou art the Christ,…”  Now, unless you understand Scriptural language, when he says, “Thou art the Christ,” what did he really say?  Who was He?  The Messiah!  That’s what the word Christ means in the Greek.  It comes from the Hebrew word, the Messiah, the Anointed One. So, Peter is recognizing that He is the Promised King.  Well, if He’s the King, what was Peter looking for?  The Kingdom!  They weren’t looking for a crucifixion, for heaven sakes.  They were looking for the Kingdom to come in.  All right, so he says: Matthew 16:16b “…Thou art the Christ, (You are the King, but he also qualifies that he was--) the Son of the living God.”  Who alone could be the King of this heavenly Kingdom? All right, now when I said that this was strictly a Jewish phenomenon, I’ll have to bring you back to Matthew chapter 10.  Come back a few pages to Matthew chapter 10.  Then you’ll see what I mean.  And again, He has just chosen the Twelve.  He’s ready to begin their earthly ministry with Him of three years.  So in verse 5: Matthew 10:5 “These twelve

Jesus sent forth, and commanded them, saying, Go not into the way of the Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not:” Now, that’s plain English.  Don’t have a thing to do with Gentiles, likewise the Samaritans down there who were half-breed Jews, remember.  But, now here’s what they were to do in verse 6. Matthew 10:6-7 “But go rather (or instead) to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. 7.  And as ye go, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is (Out there in the future?  No.  What is it?)  at hand.”  Why?  Because the King was here! Now we know some theologians disagree with me on this basis—that Jesus could not have offered the Kingdom before the cross.  I can see where they’re coming from.  But on the other hand, I say, now wait a minute.  There was another time that Jesus made an offer to the Nation of Israel, and it was just as valid as this one. That was when He offered them the Promised Land.  You remember that?  What did He tell them?  Go in and take it.  It’s yours. It’s all been made ready for you.   He used the labor of the Canaanites for 400 years preparing the land of Canaan for the Nation of Israel.  Got all the wells dug.  Got all the granaries built.  All the housing was ready.  The vineyards were producing.  The grain fields were producing.  The Canaanites must have been a tremendously technologically-oriented people. Consequently, it was a land of what?  Milk and honey.  And the spies brought back grapes so big that it took two men to carry the clumps of grapes.  Now listen, that’s quite a production feat!  But it was waiting for the Children of Israel.  They didn’t even have to draw a sword to drive the Canaanites out, because what did God promise?  I’ll send hornets ahead of you, and they’ll drive the Canaanites out, and all you have to do is occupy. Was it a valid offer?  Well, I reckon it was.  God doesn’t lie!  But what did God know?  That they wouldn’t do it.  And they didn’t.  And because of their unbelief, they went back into the desert and died off like flies over the next 40 years.  But could they have had it?  Yes, because God said they could. Well, I look at this the same way.  Yes, Jesus is in their midst, and He’s fulfilling all the Old Testament promises.  He’s proven now for three years who He is.  They could have had it, but what did they do?  They rejected it.  Now then, here’s where it becomes a little more valid.  After He’s been crucified—now let’s just move up a minute to the Book of Acts after He’s been crucified. The atoning blood has been shed, which Israel had to have. Now Peter and the Eleven come back beginning with the Day of Pentecost, and again, what are they offering?  The King and the Kingdom! Oh, granted, He’s gone back to Glory, but that doesn’t stop Him.  It’s only a split second for God to move from Heaven to earth.  So the whole idea was that now it was definitely a valid offer, because the atoning blood has been shed.  The price of redemption has been paid.  Israel, it’s yours for the taking.  All right, now come with me to Acts chapter 3. Then I’m going to back up to Acts chapter 1, if we’ve got time.  But look at Acts chapter 3, when He made a valid offer of the Kingdom.  Peter is speaking. Acts chapter 3:18 “But those things, which God before had showed by the mouth of all his prophets, (See, all the things we’ve been looking at all afternoon.) that Christ should suffer, he hath so fulfilled.” So, what’s Peter saying?  There’s nothing left for God to do.  So, in whose park is the ball?  Israel’s.  It’s in Israel’s park.  And what were they to do with it?  Believe it!    Believe that He was the Christ.  Believe that He has now paid the price of redemption.  Believe that He’s the promised King and He will bring in this earthly Kingdom.  Now verse 19: Acts 3:19-20 “Repent ye therefore, (Well, what was the big thing Israel had to repent of?  The crucifixion.  The rejection.  Repent of it!) and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out, when the times of refreshing (Kingdom blessings) shall come from the presence of the Lord; 20.

And he (God) shall send Jesus Christ, who before was preached unto you:” Now, you can’t get any plainer than that? All Israel was expected to do was repent of the sin of rejection and unbelief, and God could have sent Jesus Christ to fulfill all these Old Testament promises.  But of course, Peter now comes back and suddenly realizes that it couldn’t happen until the Tribulation unfolded—that’s verse 21. Acts 3:21a “Whom the heaven must receive (in other words, at His ascension) until (time word) the times of restitution of all things,…” Well, what does restitution mean?  Made like it was at the beginning.  So Peter realizes that Christ has to stay in Glory at the Father’s right hand until the Tribulation has run its course and the curse is lifted, as we’ve been seeing for the last several months now.  The earth will be made ready to be reconstructed like the Garden of Eden.  The curse is gone, and it’ll be a glorious, beautiful Heaven-on-earth experience.   But Israel rejected it.  They continued to reject it and reject it and reject it. Okay, now I’ve got to back up a moment.  In Matthew we’ve got the preaching of Christ.  They are to go into the Nation of Israel only and not have anything to do with anybody else but Israel.  But in Israel’s unbelief, they rejected Him.  Now we come into the Book of Acts chapter 1. With this we’ll probably have to wind up this half hour.  Acts chapter 1 and Luke is writing. Acts 1:1-3a “The former treatise (In other words, speaking of the Gospel of Luke, I think.) have I made, O Theophilus, of all that Jesus began to do and teach, (in His earthly ministry.) 2. Until the day in which he was taken up, after that he through the Holy Spirit had given commandments unto the Apostles whom He had chosen: (the Twelve) 3. To whom (to the Twelve) also he showed himself alive after his passion by many infallible proofs, being seen of them forty days,…” Now, that’s that forty days between His resurrection and His ascension. Acts 1:3b “…and speaking of the things pertaining to (The what?) the kingdom of God:”  All the things that involved God’s righteousness.  But, you see, they couldn’t talk about the Church Age, because that wasn’t revealed yet.  They couldn’t talk too much about the Kingdom on earth, because that hadn’t happened yet.  But all the rest of God’s righteousness was certainly a topic for conversation. Acts 1:4-5 “And being assembled together with them, commanded them that they should not depart from Jerusalem, but wait for the promise of the Father, which, he saith, ye have heard of me. (Which was, of course, the Holy Spirit coming on the Day of Pentecost.) 5. For John truly baptized with water; but ye shall be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days hence.”  Now verse 6 and here’s where we’re going to wind up. Acts 1:6 “When they therefore were come together, (The Eleven.  Judas is gone, and Mathias is not in yet.  It’s the Eleven and Jesus.) were come together, (the Eleven) they asked of him, saying, Lord, wilt thou at this time restore again the (What?) kingdom to Israel?”  What’s on their mind?  The Kingdom.  The King. Now, I don’t think as yet they realize that He’s suddenly going to be taken up from them.  He’s now been dead, buried, and resurrected.  Hey, what’s to stop the Kingdom from coming in?  So that was the question.  And what was Jesus’ answer?  What’s the matter with you guys?  No.  He merely says: Acts 1:7 “And he said unto them, It is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in his own power.”  What’s He saying?  Well, Peter, the Kingdom is coming.  I’m still going to be your King.  But it’s not for you to know when. And in the next few verses, what happens?  He goes back up to Glory.  Well, that was according to the Old Testament prophecies.   What did Psalms 110 verse 1 say?  “Sit thou at my right hand, until I make thine enemies thy footstool.”  And that, of course, is what He did, and where He has remained up until now.  But the day is

getting closer and closer when He is going to arise from that seated position; and He’s yet going to return and set up that glorious 1,000 year Kingdom!

[readingforsanity]

The Housemaid | Freida McFadden | Published 2022 | *SPOILERS*

“Welcome to the family,” Nina Winchester says as I shake her elegant, manicured hand. I smile politely, gazing around the marble  hallway. Working here is my last chance to start fresh. I can pretend to be whoever I like. But I’ll soon learn that the Winchesters’ secrets are far more dangerous than my own...

Every day I clean the Winchesters’ beautiful house top to bottom. I collect their daughter from school. And I cook a delicious meal for the whole family before heading up to eat alone in my tiny room on the top floor. 

I try to ignore how Nina makes a mess just to watch me clean it up. How she tells strange lies about her own daughter. And how her husband Andrew seems more broken every day. But as I look into Andrew’s handsome eyes, so full of pain, it’s hard not to imagine what it would be like to live Nina’s life. The walk-in closet, the fancy car, the perfect husband. 

I only try on one of Nina’s pristine white dresses once. Just to see what it’s like. But she soon finds out...and by the time I realize my attic bedroom door only locks from the outside, it’s far too late. 

But I reassure myself: the Winchesters don’t know who I really am. 

They don’t know what I’m capable of...

An unbealiably twist read that will have you glued to the pages late into the night. Anyone who loves The Woman in the Window, The Wife Between Us and the Girl on the Train won’t be able to put this down! 

Millie Calloway is a recently released felon who is searching for a job. She’s on parole, and wants to keep her path on the straight and narrow. At the job she held, she was fired and told to leave so the cops wouldn’t be contacted and shortly thereafter, she was evicted from her apartment and has since been living out of her car. 

Somehow, she scores an interview for a housemaid position with an affluent couple, Nina and Andrew Winchester, taking care of things around the house and assisting in taking care of their daughter, Cecilia. During the interview, Nina appears to be excited about hiring Millie, and while Millie has doctored her resume a bit, Nina offers her the job a week later and the next morning, Millie arrives to her new life. 

Millie is shown around the Winchester home and shown to her room, which is a small attic room at the top of the house. Millie is less than thrilled about the accommodations, but considering where she had been, she doesn’t feel the need to complain. However, Nina’s demeanor quickly changes during her first day of work. Nina was a happy woman, seemingly trying to befriend Millie. But, now she comes off as crazy and neurotic. Her moods change quickly, and she is often cruel and mean to Millie. 

Andrew, Nina’s husband, takes to Millie right away and they form a bond. He keeps saying off-the-wall things about Nina, such as she went through a difficult time and even confesses that Cecilia isn’t his biological child but that he has been the only father she’s ever known. Nina’s innocent crush quickly skyrockets out of control. However, she knows not to take that jump with Andrew. 

Nina constantly berates Millie, and Millie gets closer and closer to losing her cool with her but luckily, she never does. After a visit to a fertiltiy specialist, where Nina hopes to become pregnant soon, Nina’s demeanor becomes quickly unbearable after she and Andrew are told that Nina won’t be able to bear children due to her age. Andrew, who has felt like his marriage was failing anyway, quickly becomes less and less involved with his wife. 

Millie feels badly for them both, as she knew they both wanted a baby. But, after hearing why Nina has anti-psychotic drugs in her medicine cabinet, which she found while snooping, she feels it may be for the best. Several years ago, according to a woman at the ballet studio where Ceceilia takes lessons, Nina drugged herself and Cece, and attemtped to drown her in the tub. Millie is shocked at this revelation. 

After discovering their fertility issues, Andrew suggests taking Nina to a broadway show, and Millie buys the tickets and books a stay at a hotel in the city. Nina tells her the date, but when the date comes, she berates Millie for booking the wrong date, even though Millie is sure she did the right one. When Nina leaves to take Cece to summer camp out of state, where she will be away overnight, Andrew suggests that the two of them go to the show. Millie, who has never been, is thrilled and excited. After dinner, and several bottles of wine later, they both decide to stay at the Plaza instead of returning home to New Jersey. The two of them end up sleeping together. 

Life returns to normal, but Nina makes it clear that she knows of hers and Andrew’s discretion. A few days (weeks, maybe) after, Andrew kicks Nina out of the house and declares that he’s no longer in love with her. 

It is here that we come to the second part of the novel, told in Nina’s perspective. She had been working at the company Andrew works for, though not directly under his supervision. They enjoy lunch together, and eventually, their love blossomed. They are quickly married and Nina and Cece are moved into his home. However, we quickly come to learn that Nina was never the problem she has protrayed herself to be...it has been Andrew all along. 

With the help of Enzo, Nina comes up with a plan to get out from under her husband. For years, any time she did something that he did not like, he would lock her inside the attic bedroom upstairs and make her undergo torturous punishments, such as pepper-spraying herself and withholding food and water. It was after the first time in the attic room that he began portraying Nina as crazy, and even went as far as drugging them both and attempting to kill Cece to make it look like Nina was the psychotic one. 

For years, Nina underwent these things in order to protect her daughter. However, as mentioned, Nina comes up with a plan with Enzo, their landscaper. Directly from Italy, he agrees to help Nina as his own sister went through an abusive relationship that ended up with her life being taken and he wasn’t able to do what he wanted to protect her, so he’s choosing to help Nina as a way to make up for his own indiscretions. 

When Andrew gets wind of her attempt to escape, Nina realizes she will never be able to cleanly leave, therefore decides to find her replacement, and why she has hired Millie. But she did a background check on Millie, and knows that she was in jail for murder...not a drug offense like she had initially presumed. Millie had murdered a boy in her school at the age of 16 for attempting to rape her friend. She was charged with a lesser misdeamnor charge, and sent to prison, where she had been for the last decade. She knows that Millie has a way, and Nina hopes that she will kill Andrew for him. 

After Nina has departed, Andrew and Millie seemingly begin a relationship. When he returns home from work one day, he finds Millie in her room upstairs packing up her things to bring down into the main house. The next morning, when Millie wakes up and attempts to leave the room, she realizes that Andrew is nowhere to be found and the door to the attic is locked. 

And so begins Andrew’s torture of Millie, simply because she had left books on the coffee table and didn’t return them. She does as she is told, by holding three large textbooks and phone books on her stomach for three hours straight. When Andrew comes to unlock the door and let her out, he explains that this is what happens when she misbehaves (i.e. when she does something he doesn’t like). But, during her time in the attic, Millie has come up with a plan: she found the pepper-spray that Nina was forced to use on herself in the blue bucket in the closet, and attacks him. She then locks Andrew in the closet. 

For days, Millie begins torturing Andrew the same way. She makes him spend 8 hours with the heavy text books placed over his genitals, keeps water from him, and even makes him pull out his own teeth in order to get out. Nina eventually returns at the urging of Enzo in order to help Nina, as he feels guilty that Nina has left Millie to deal with what she had to deal with. But when Nina returns, she finds Andrew inside the locked attic, where he is now dead and emaciated. Millie confronts her, and Nina tells her to get away, to do what she can to keep herself far from this. 

When the police are called, Nina explains that Andrew must have locked himself in the attic on accident, without his phone. The police officer in charge of the case agrees that this is exactly what happened, as his daughter had been previously engaged to Andrew. Kathleen has since moved away and changed her name, and her father never knew what happened between the two of them. 

At the funeral, Nina plays the role of the grieving wife, though she is unable to shed tears for the terrible man that her husband was. However, when his parents attend the funeral, Nina becomes painfully aware that Evelyn Winchester knows details about his missing teeth and assumes that she knows what really happened. But she tells Nina that whenever Andrew didn’t take care of his teeth, she would punish him for it, even going so far as to take a pair of his baby teeth with pliers. 

Eventually, a year after the events, Millie finds another family looking for a housemaid, and is told that Nina Winchester has recommended her highly. Millie sees that the woman she is interviewing with has suspicious bruising on her arms, and realizes why Nina has recommended her. 

Discussion Questions 

1. Before she takes the job and at the very beginning of her emploment with the Winchesters, there are several warning signs that Millie does notice, but chooses to look past. Why doesn’t Millie get out of this situation? Millie had just spent the last decade in prison. Who wouldn’t want the freedom that she was experiencing. She’d either go back to jail OR go back to living out of her car, and she didn’t want that. She ignored Nina’s cruelty and behavior because she didn’t want to return to her old life. 

2. Do you read many thrillers? If not, does this novel make you want to read more? If so, how does this novel compare to other thrillers you’ve read? I read thrillers pretty exclusively. I love the mystery and the attempt to try to solve it before the end. This particular book had me turning the pages quickly, and I didn’t want to put it down. While I enjoy thrillers, this doesn’t happen all the time with books. 

3. Did you see the midpoint plot twist - revealed when the point of view shifted to Nina - coming? If so, what clues did you notice in part 1 of the novel that alerted you to the possible twist? I had an inkling when Enzo kept making hints. It was hard to believe a man of his large stature would be afraid of a woman three times smaller than him. But, it still sort of threw me. During Nina’s point of view, I felt so badly for her. 

4. What about the ending reveal of Andrew’s mother’s abuse of her son - did you anticipate that plot development? How, if at all, did it change your perception of Andrew? It didn’t change my perception of him, but it does explain his behavior. No excuse or reason could ever make me feel badly for Andrew. But, the development that he endured the same kind of torture he was now inflicting on the people he supposedly loved, it makes sense. He was only doing what he was taught to do by a person who was supposed to love him. It explained his behavior, but didn’t excuse it. 

5. While Nina was, intentionally as it turns out, terrible to Millie, do you think this justifies Millie starting an affair with Andrew? Why or why not? No. At first I was like, go Millie! Take that terrible woman’s man. But, there is no excuse for cheating at all. 

6. Nina was certainly in a desperate situation, but do you think she was justified in recruiting Millie and setting her up like she did? How did the midpoint twist change your perception of Nina? It bothered me that she was essentially grooming another woman to take her place. There is no excuse for that. But, I do understand what she was attempting to do. She saw no other way out - it was either that or she may have ended up dead herself. 

7. Nina could have let Millie take the fall for Andrew’s death but she chse to cover for her, after much prompting from Enzo to check in. Did this further change your view of Nina? Is Nina ultimately a good or bad person? I think Nina is both - she was trying to protect her daughter like any good mother would, but she was also letting another woman go through torture in order to do it. That’s not how the world works despite Nina thinking so. If it weren’t for Enzo, he knew what would have happened to Millie, though I don’t think Millie would have had any long-term issues considering her past. 

8. Nina thought she’d go to jail, but she lucked out that Detective Connors, who investigated Andrew’s death, was the father of Andrew’s former fiance Kathleen and chose to help cover up the crime. Did you like this coincidence or did it seem too convenient or contrived for you? Didn’t even see that twist coming. We never even knew Kathleen’s last name until that point, so when he made that confession, I was shocked. I enjoyed this, as it’s clear that Kathleen went through something horrible while being with Andrew herself. He’s just another parent attempting to protect his child. 

9. If the police and coroner hadn’t helped cover up the murder and Millie and Nina had gone to trial for Andrew’s death, would you -if you were a member of the jury - have acquitted or convicted them? I would have acquitted them. It was self-defense, through and through. 

10. Millie has a strong sense of justice and what’s right and wrong. But she is also extremely violent. Did you like her character? Why or why not? I loved Millie. She knows what she did was wrong, but she was trying to protect her friend. She thought she was doing the right thing, and ultimately, paid her dues to society by spending several years in prison. 

11. Andrew was undeniably a terrible person, but he also died a particularly gruesome death. Do you think he deserved what he got? Definitely deserved it. I can’t even describe the way I feel about his character, but he deserved it 100%. 

12. We got to hear from Millie and Nina’s points of view. Would you have wanted to hear from Andrew’s point of view? Why or why not? No. Seeing it through their eyes was enough. I didn’t need to sick and twisted perspective from him. 

13. Millie frequently protests that the bad things that hapened to her, that is, the violence she inflicts on others, that then creates negative consequences for her, aren’t her fault. Do you think Millie was just often in the wrong place at the wrong time, or do you think she has a psychological disorder? I wouldn’t say she has a psychological disorder, nor do I think she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Blaming others for what she did isn’t the right way to go about it, but she may also lack the skills in order to come to terms with what she did. She spent a decade in prison, and was likely having to protect herself while inside from the other female inmates, so she was only projecting that in the outside world. 

14. The character of Enzo is a bit of a cypher in the first part of the novel, but turns out to be deeply involved in Nina’s scheme to escape Andrew’s clutches. What did you think of Enzo’s character? Enzo’s character made me laugh. At first I thought he and Millie would get together, but it’s clear he stuck around the house as much as he did because of Nina. But Enzo deeply cares. He is trying to protect the woman from the terribleness that was Andrew Winchester, he was trying to do what he couldn’t do for his sister. 

15. The epilogue implies that Nina sends another abused wife to Millie, presumably for Millie to punish her husband. Millie says, “I understand why Nina recommended me so highly to this woman. She knows me. Maybe even better than I know myself.” Do you think that’s true? Do you think it’s fair to Millie for Nina to put her in another situation with domestic violence? I think it’s a bit of a stretch that Nina would send Millie for this simple reason. However, it does make sense. Nina hired her to murder her husband, so it makes sense that she’d send Millie to someone else who needed help. 

16. Mafadden has written a sequel featuring Millie working for a different family. Will you be reading it? Why or why not? It is next on my list! But of course. If there is a sequel to a book, and I’m aware of it, I won’t even buy the first book without picking up the second copy with it, or borrowing it from the library. I need to know how things end. Honestly, McFadden could make an entire series of Housemaid books, and I’d read them all. And I sort of hope that they turn it into a movie or TV series. I’d definitely take the time to watch it! 

[prolix-yuy]

Chapter 5: You and Me After, You and Me Before

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: An admission. A revelation. Truths. A promise.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: T, allusions to sexual acts, Din having lots of FEELINGS. While this chapter is not explicit, the entire work is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Cross-posted on AO3

Both Sides of the Door Masterlist || I Think of You Series Masterlist

Din has to take a few minutes to ease back from the incredible disappointment of being interrupted.

He’s glad he got you to your peak first, the bliss on your face as you smiled back at him like being shone upon by the sun. But that doesn’t help the ache between his own legs as he forces himself to think about gutted Tauntauns and the stench of wet Bantha. Din watches as you sit up, booping the child’s tiny nose and gently scolding him for scaring you, your sleeveless top rumpled and pants hastily rebuttoned. The metal patterning on the floor left indentations on your arms and shoulders that he wants to trace with his fingers.

You deserve a better place for him to pleasure you. Someplace soft, comforting, where you could drift off after. He’ll have to bring something up to the cockpit next time.

The thought lights up his skin as you look over at him and smile, fonder this time. The fact that he lets himself want a next time, not pushing it away like he’s been since you stepped on the Crest (and years longer, if he’s being honest), is a surprise. Not unwelcome, but a jolt after the strained emotions of the day.

The irritation at Karga for his insinuations, the veil of disdain from his alor over your presence, all came to a head when he entered the Marshal’s office and saw you there, reacting to a good-natured prod into your relationship. You must have fielded some questions of your own today, and while he’s been cautious in the past he knows you wouldn’t betray his trust.

He could have used your quiet strength today. Maker knows he wants you, the ebbing throb of his cock a clear indicator, but today it’s only become clearer that he wants you near. Near to him, under his protection, beside him in the moments when his life is difficult. You probably would have told Karga off, something like, “And why is it your business if I prefer beskar between my legs?” Karga would have spat his spotchka, laughed and ordered another round. You’re good like that, personable, funny and disarming in a way Din can never be.

He can almost see the calm in your eyes if you stood before the Armorer. The way you would have answered her questions, the steadfastness and strength you would show, all proving why you were a worthy companion to a Mandalorian. Even when placed by the sweltering heat of the forge with nothing to protect you, you would stand tall and unwavering.

But he couldn’t make you face her. He desired it, wanted to place his hand on your back and level his visor at his alor and tell her how important you were to him, but she wouldn’t believe it. He’d proven himself to be untrustworthy before.

Thinking with your cock again, Din Djarin? We know what happened the last time that happened.

That had been years ago, when Din shirked his duty to run with Ranzar Malk’s team, spending too much time under the sharp teeth and poison of Xi’an and lusting over the blood he spilled. When he finally returned, vibroblade slashes in all of the vulnerable spots between his armor -

Show me the face of the man who���s fucking me, Mandalorian!

- his alor had silently watched him treat his injuries. It wasn’t until he was back in the training room, Paz Vizla laying blows on every half-healed wound, opening them back up like screaming mouths, that she spoke.

“This is the pain of betrayal, Din Djarin. You have dishonored your role as beroya. May this be a lesson that continues to teach.”

He was patched back up, but the damage done was deeper than flesh. The pain of his choice, of abandoning his duty for the thrill of sex and money and rage, settled deeper in his bones than any break could. His alor forgave him, allowing him to continue training and learning and, when the chance to become beroya returned, allowing him to take up the mantle again. He was more loyal to the Creed than ever before, consequence beaten into him.

He needs time, that’s all. Time to bring proof to the covert that you are respectful, honorable, worthy in their eyes. You already are in his.

Shifting beside him, you shuffle to your knees, sighing and looking down at Din.

“I’ll get some food started,” you say, about to get to your feet, but Din wants just a moment longer. So with a boldness of affection he doesn’t often display, he reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you over in the circle of his embrace. You let yourself be toppled, giggling as your elbow comes down on his cuirass, hand by his shoulder. Din can feel you against his side, soft and warm. Your gaze dances over the helmet to rest on the visor, and it makes his breath catch when your eyes lock with his. Not perfectly, slightly unfocused without his brown ones to stare back, but it’s the most intimate feeling in the world for Din.

“Later?” you whisper in an attempt to be discreet while the child grips at your pant legs. Later is both a hope and a promise, laced with uncertainty between the child and duty. His hands roam your back, coming up to the back of your head to dip it against the helmet. A Keldabe kiss, one of many he’s given you. You press a small one into the helmet’s cheek as you rise, and Din’s lips purse unconsciously, as if he could press them to yours. He has to bite them to give him something to feel.

Later, when all three of you are sitting in the hold, Din startles at a question.

“Cara told me about Sorgan.”

Din tries to breathe through the spike of fear and anxiety that reduces him to a statue. He doesn’t know how to react - why did Cara mention it? How much do you know? How does it make you feel? Before steam can start spouting from under the helmet like a terrible teapot, you speak.

“I think she was trying to be kind, telling me that you had someone you cared about. Like maybe she wanted to reassure me that you were capable of it. Not that I don’t already know,” you say, turning your head down to the child as he fiddles with a wadded up bunch of string he’d been fixated on all evening. “Or she was trying to stir up some drama for the fun of it. You know her best.”

Your lopsided smile lets some air back into his lungs. Din puts down the circuit board in his hands, fearing he’ll snap it in two if he holds it any longer. Instead he places his palms on his thighs, thumbs digging into the dip by his knees to ground himself.

“Cara and I met on Sorgan, and we helped liberate a village of krill farmers,” he says, watching your reaction carefully. You nod, chewing on your lip a little as you wait. Kriff, you’re getting better at anticipating what he needs by the day.

“There was a woman there, Omera. She had a daughter, Winta. They helped care for the child.” Din pauses, the emotion of the memory heavy on his shoulders. “He would have had a good life there, would have been able to be a child, if the Republic wasn’t trailing us. They wouldn’t have been safe if we stayed.”

“And you wouldn’t leave him.”

The truth is more complicated. Din hasn’t found the right moment to tell you about his mission, or the importance the child plays in it. But your assumption is as close to an explanation as today can offer.

“I couldn’t,” he says, and truly believes it. Leaving the child is becoming a harder and harder inevitability to face by the day.

The silence lasts a little longer, both of you testing who will break next. You take the step first.

“Did you want to stay?” you ask, and Din shakes his head.

“I don’t belong in a place like that.” You tilt your head, a mannerism you’re starting to develop from your time with Din.

“That’s not what I asked.” It’s firmer now, and your eyes are sharp. How do you manage to touch what hurts but soothe instead of opening the wound?

“If nothing stood in your way, would you have stayed?”

Din wishes the answer was simple, a yes or a no. There was a time when it did feel like an easy choice. The calm of the village, the soft glances of a strong woman, children to care for and keep safe. It would have been so close to his Creed he could have justified it. But even without the threat looming over the child, the duties of being a Mandalorian, of the Watch, of being beroya, were too great for him to abandon.

“I made some mistakes in my youth, ran with a crew that I shouldn’t have.” Din looks up to your face and sees the silent question. “It was after I met you.” Nodding, you let him continue. “I betrayed the trust of my covert, of my alor, of Karga. All for a fleeting moment of freedom. I paid dearly for it.” The sympathy in your eyes goes no further. Not pitying, just commiserating.

“To stay on Sorgan, I would have had to give up my Creed.” Din lets the silence bleed, knowing that what he says next may hurt you, but you did seem to thrive on truth. “I might have been happy. She might have made me happy. But I made the wrong choice before, and I didn’t have faith in myself to know if staying was right. I don’t know how to give up what I’ve always known, and she would have needed that. She deserved that, done the right way instead of running. And…” Din’s breath is large, expansive as he tries to let out the deepest wound in his heart, infected and festering. “I don’t believe I could have been the good man she thought I was.”

Din rolls his shoulders stiffly, trying to relax under your thoughtful gaze. He wonders if you might try to touch him, but you don’t. You understand him better than most, and your hands on him right now would have been too much. It’s all out now, his greatest mistake and his greatest “what if.” He’s peeled off the bandage in the hope it might heal this time, but he needs you to say something.

“And now?” you finally ask, making Din tilt his helmet up to look at you. “Do you still feel like you aren’t a good man?”

He breathes, letting the cadence of his back rising and falling release the words.

“Every day it seems less likely.”

The answer makes you smile wistfully. “Good.”

Din waits for you to say something else, to ask something of him. A promise, an explanation. He wouldn’t blame you if you needed more. But you release him, turning your attention to the child and unwinding a loop of string from his claws.

You never push, you only hold your hands open for him to give. It makes Din want to give you everything.

“I’m glad you found some peace, Mando.” You break the last stretch of silence as you move about the hold, putting the child into Mando’s arms. The statement makes his head cock, not expecting this reaction. “I always hoped in the time we were apart that you were shown kindness, and care. I’m grateful that there was at least one.” You stretch and move to head towards the ‘fresher. Was it that late already?

“Mesh’la,” Mando calls after you, making you turn and look at him. The Mando’a he knows is less of a language and more a set of monikers, like the technical names for the parts of his blaster. He used it sparingly, the words carrying the most meaning when he saves them. But he can never resist calling you beautiful every chance he gets.

“You’re very different from her,” he says carefully, and you shoot him a crooked smile.

“I wasn’t fishing for comparisons.” You cross your arms with a smirk, leaning against the wall and contemplating your next words carefully. His eyes dance over your half-focused gaze, tapping fingers and contemplative crease of your brow. When your lips part he opens his own to sip in a silent breath. “You came back to me, Mando. Against all odds. That will always mean more to me than anything before.”

Din is dazed into silence and you nod, releasing a soft hum before heading into the ship. He remains, heart aching at your simple acceptance.

He came back to you.

Like a wish tossed into the sea, or a kind act in a cruel world.

He came back to you.

And he will never leave you again.

END || PREVIOUS

NOTES: Thank you all for coming along on another ride with our lovely little space family. We finally have some admissions of feelings! And a few glimpses into why Mando has been so reticent to act on his. But now that all things are more out in the open, there's just one tiny little cockblock still in the way. He's a very adorable one, and it's not his fault per se, but they'll have to figure something out. It's been a joy to share this story with you all, I'm so glad it's still something people are enjoying because I sure as hell enjoy writing it. To many more stories!

The story continues in Episode 9: Soft Fires

[inkykeiji]

you’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold

character: gojou satoru

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff at the end

notes: aaaaah first jjk fic ever!!!! uhhh this is honestly just pure smut and punishment, satoru is a Bad Daddy, and it’s set in a curseless AU | title cred: handclap by fitz and the tantrums

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, slight size difference/size kink, belly bulge, spanking with a belt, rough sex, minimal prep, minimal aftercare (at first), toxic and unhealthy relationship (satoru is mean n a bad daddy!), daddy kink/slightly implied ddlg dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

words: 3.1k

synopsis:

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

Gojou Satoru is a bad Daddy.

He’s a sweet Daddy, a silly Daddy, a Daddy who’s almost incapable of saying no. He’s a Daddy with a massive sweet tooth, a Daddy who frequently allows both of you to have dessert before dinner—sometimes dessert for dinner—and a Daddy who gives his princess nearly everything she desires, weak to your pretty pout and puppy-dog eyes and please, Daddy?’s. He hates to deny you, aches at the thought of you being even just a teensy bit displeased, because he wants his baby happy, always.

It’s his fault, really, you’re saying, insisting, when he calls you a spoiled brat. Because, honestly, it is; Satoru is entitled—he always has been, born with a not silver, not gold, but platinum spoon in his mouth—and his little princess is entitled, too.

Because he gives you anything and everything you ask for the moment the demand leaves your mouth, dotes on you hand and foot, absolutely adores you, lavishing you in the finest silks and prettiest lace, always indulging you just as much as he indulges himself—as much as he has always been indulged, growing up filthy rich.

Because you weren’t always like this; or, at least, you weren’t always this brash about it.

But years of getting exactly what you want, exactly when you want it, has forced your attitude to change, to shift.

You haven’t changed, Satoru tells you one day, a tub full of melty ice cream in his lap as he shovels another spoonful into your mouth, waning sun bathing the penthouse terrace in translucent gold and coral, brilliant colours reflected in his crystal eyes. “I didn’t do anything—I simply revealed your true nature,” A devious little smirk spreads across his lips, eyes glinting in an almost ominous nature, and you shiver. “You’ve always been a selfish materialistic brat, haven’t you?”

Well, you guess he has a point.

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

It’s always something little, after a day full of disobedience, that does it, that finally lights the fuse and forces an explosion. Something that would normally be inconsequential, something he’d usually laugh off with a coo and a loving pat to your head.

Because you fought him on bedtime last night, then fought him on going to university this morning. You demanded pancakes for breakfast and when he denied them to you, because he’s got an important meeting in the afternoon and thus hasn’t the time to make them, you refused to eat anything at all—only to whine and bitch and complain about how starved you were for the entire duration of his conference. And yet, throughout it all, he was the perfect picture of patience, endlessly cool and nonchalant in his responses to your multiple tantrums.

Until you rushed into the kitchen in a famished frenzy, diving straight for the cookie jar and shoving three in your mouth.

“Sweets are not an appropriate dinner, baby,”

The words are sighed out in pure exasperation, his thumb and his forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, lids shut tightly.

Eyebrows furrowing, you tilt your head in confusion, speaking around your mouthful. “Since when?”

His eyes snap open, blazing azure glaring at you with such an intensity it makes you flinch, cookie crumbs turning to ash in your mouth.

“Since forever,” he seethes, mask of impassivity finally beginning to break.

“What?” you laugh around the word, but it trembles. “What are you talking about? You rarely enforce that rule—especially since you don’t even follow it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, nostrils flaring with a particularly harsh exhale. “I am the boss, and what I say goes,”

“Daddy!” A sock-clad foot stomps against the marble floor as you whine out the word, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “That isn’t fair! You can’t just—”

“Enough with this attitude!” he snarls, moving like a crack of lighting as he lunges at you, lithe arms embracing you in an iron grip. “I can, and I will,”

And then he’s hauling you over his shoulder, one strong arm wrapped around you and pinning you draped over his body, delivering swift, harsh slaps to your ass every time you kick your feet or beat your fists against his back, while every whine and complaint earns you another spank in his mind, mentally tallying them up and vocalizing the thought a moment later.

“You’re being a meanie,”

“That’s twelve,” he growls.

“I don’t care!”

“Thirteen.”

“So what?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s nothing,”

“Twenty-five.”

And that—that gets you to pause, but not to halt, not to stop, potent brattiness mixing with fury as it boils in your chest, the need to defy, to disobey, burning through your veins.

“I-I can handle that,”

“Thirty,” his voice is calm—serene, almost—and ice cold. There’s an underlying challenge sown into it, daring you to try him again, to utter another word. He’ll go higher, you can almost hear his apathetic voice floating through your mind; he’ll go as high as he needs to in order to teach such an ungrateful little brat a lesson.

Thirty it is.

The buckle of his favourite belt jingles as he undoes it, that dainty clink! forcing shivers to pebble across your naked skin, pressing your chest further into the foot of his bed, fingers curling in cashmere.

You’ve developed a love-hate relationship with that belt; it’s so fun when you get to undo it yourself, gentle fingers tugging and toying as you squirm eagerly in his lap, yet the clank and clattering of that heavy buckle as nimble fingers skillfully unfasten it and pull it from the loops of expensive trousers is almost menacing, carrying with it portentous threats it fully intends to see through.

He never warns you when the first strike is coming, reveling in the way your muscles are coiled in tension, in foreboding anticipation; basking in the surprised yelp that bubbles up in your throat.

“Relax,” he tells you with a callous chuckle, leather squealing between large, smooth hands as he folds it. “And count,”

It’s his usual response, predictable and scripted by this point, but he never seems to tire of it, notes of delight lacing his voice.

And that first blow never counts.

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy by most standards, but his punishments are harsh, brutal, and cruel, and they happen to be one of the only things he takes seriously in life.

There’s rules to each of his punishments—so many rules he’s made you write them out multiple times, until your hand ached and fingers cramped and the heel of your palm was swollen, so they’d stick in that pretty empty little head of yours, so you never forget—and his spankings are no different.

You are not to move until he tells you to. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are to count each lash, loud and clear before the next strike lands. Each mistake, each misstep and slip-up and refusal to comply, will earn you one extra slap. The tool is to be decided based on the severity of the offence.  

The belt, all rigid rawhide and sharp edges, cuts into the supple flesh of your ass with each easy, nonchalant flick of his wrist, abrasively snapping against you.

Each collision of leather against flesh sears a tingly sting into your skin, biting rapidly rising welts into your ass and sending spiky jolts of agonizing pain bolting up your spine, the pain fading to a dull throb for just a moment before another blow is delivered.

“Gorgeous,” Satoru murmurs to himself halfway through your punishment, the word nothing more than a little huff of breath. You don’t dare respond, simply crying out the next number as he lands another harsh blow to your abused skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, he continues, voice appearing faint and far away, mingling with the combined symphony of the crack of leather and pathetic whimpers muffled by sheets.

“It’s incredible,” he says, louder this time, voice dripping with wonderment, as if he can’t believe he’s created such a magnificent piece—the streaks of blood staining once perfect, unblemished skin; the high-pitched whines and sharp cries of each subsequent number; the resounding slap of the belt against your bare ass that evokes it all.

The whole thing sends a surge of intense power rushing through his veins, the tingling buzz it leaves behind enthralling and invigorating. You don’t need to look at him to know this, don’t need to see the way his eyes shine with it, the way his chest heaves with it, the way his entire body trembles with it—you can feel it in the atmosphere surrounding you, can feel the shift as his ego saturates the air, as his pure superiority bleeds into it, dense and suffocating, stimulating and revitalizing.

It infects your body, seeping in through your skin and flooding your veins, re-instills the need to be submissive, the ache to be good, providing you with the strength to endure.

The punishment lasts for forty-five excruciating minutes, accumulating a total of thirty three spanks—the extra three tacked onto your original punishment of thirty, one for each time you broke a rule. He’s on you in less than a second the moment it’s over, belt dropping to the rug-covered floor with a distinct thump as soft, eager palms roam your sweaty body, lips crushed against yours, still trembling as they spill pitiful whimpers into his mouth.

The luxurious bedroom—all cream and gold and drenched in sunlight—is blanketed by backhanded praises, warning you not to be a brat and just take what he gives. He’s sadistic when he gets in moods such as these, a feral glint in crystal eyes as large hands hastily flip you over—so fast it knocks a gasp of his name from your chest—seemingly unconcerned about the fresh blood oozing from the thin swollen welts that embellish your ass staining his thousand dollar sheets.

“Daddy needs you now,” he growls when you try to protest, breathing erratic as fingers flex on your hips, squeezing and kneading before pressing down hard, a silent order to stay fucking put. “And you’re going to be a good little girl for your Daddy now, aren’t you?”

Of course. Of course, because you are a good little girl, his good little girl.

But he’s a bad Daddy.

And, like a bad Daddy, he defers aftercare—it can wait, he practically snarls as he drags you to the edge of the bed, folding your legs up on either side of your body, knees nearly nudging your jaw; and foregoes prep almost entirely—two slender fingers slipping between your slick folds, prodding your hole and deeming you wet enough to take him.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, when that façade of indifference finally shatters to pieces, replaced with desperation, with urgency, with neediness.

Your head lifts from the plush mattress, neck straining a little as you watch him push his trousers down his thighs through bleary eyes, residual dewdrops of tears clinging to spidery lashes. His cock bobs a little as he kicks the pants off, and it’s just as pretty as he is, smooth and symmetrical and perfect in every way.

“This would be part of your punishment,” he pants out, speaking over your cry of discomfort as he begins to shove his cock into you, little cunt aching as it attempts to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “If you didn’t love it so much, fucking slut,”

“Daddy!” The pet name claws its way up your throat in a yelp, hands scrabbling against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his Armani button-up in an effort to steady yourself, eyes squeezing shut against the severe burn that accompanies the stretch. “Gonna—Gonna tear me in half,”

“You’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Satoru muses, voice already returning to its apathetic playful lilt now that he’s half buried in your cunt, breathing already calmed. A malicious little smirk decorates his lips and he observes you as if awestruck, one of his hands moving to trace the curve of your cheek, cold fingertips soft against your scalding skin.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers as he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs.

And you are, fresh tears that glitter the way his eyes do in the waning sun streaming down your cheeks, leaving the prettiest streaks of salt staining your flesh; lips swollen from merciless teeth sinking into them, an attempt to silence yourself, to keep those whines and complaints of Stop, Daddy! and Hurts, Daddy! safely stored in your throat.

Your little hole flutters around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, and his head droops forward, long tongue unfurling from his mouth to lap at the bitter water adorning your face, slow languid strokes from your jaw to your bottom lashes, replacing shimmering tears with viscous saliva.

Saccharine sugar stings your nose, sticky toffee bathed in decadent chocolate and garnished with a touch of vanilla enveloping you in a sickly sweet embrace.

Such a scent—his scent—starkly opposes the vicious snapping of his hips, setting a merciless pace from the very start, blunt nails biting deep half-crescents into your flesh as they hold you in place.

But the pain only heightens the pleasure, contradicting sensations clashing together with every one of his brutal thrusts, cashmere feeling as rough as sandpaper against your raw, wounded ass. Thorns of pain pierce through your abdomen and shoot up your spine, back arching off the bed, and the muscles in your thighs flex and clench with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

It’s potent and intoxicating, a heady exhilaration clouding your brain and flooding your veins, and soon there are tears leaking from your eyes again, dribbling into your mouth and mixing with strings of drool that coat the words you’re babbling out.

Blood rushes in your ears, procuring a deafening ring, and you’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, voice vibrating indistinctly in your chest as saliva soaked mewls ooze from your mouth. Your Daddy’s staring down at you, condescension etched into his pretty features, eyes morphing from dainty crystal to the navy of a tumultuous sea, framed by strands of cream and ivory dripping with sweat.

And he’s so big, too big, stuffing you full to the hilt with each ruthless piston of his hips, mattress trembling beneath you from the sheer strength; and it’s so much, too much, you swear you can feel him in your tummy, can see the way your lower abdomen cutely bulges in synchronization with every pounding thrust.

You must say it in some way, in some shape or some form, because the patronization varnishing his features melts away, sharp smirk dissolving into a genuine grin, blue eyes lightening with pure adoration.

“Such a good girl,” you think he’s saying, through it’s hard to tell when your eyelids keep drooping, hard to hear when a symphony of broken moans and hitched whimpers and the sharp slapping of skin against skin blanket the room, reverberating off the walls of your skull. “You’re such a good, good girl for me,”

Yes, Daddy, you want to say, such a good girl for you, only for you.

“Y-Yours,” you manage instead, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him.

“Mine,” he growls, possessiveness lacquering his eyes, brilliant and bright and shining with devotion. “That’s right, mine,”

It only takes another three thrusts before you’re gushing all over his cock, the intense spasming of your cute little cunt drawing the prettiest whines from the back of his throat as he rams into you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, and although it’s an order, it comes out more like a plead, desperation sown into his voice. “Beg for Daddy’s cum,”

You obey immediately, words spilling from your lips without a second thought, automatic and instinctual. Please, Daddy, gimme your cum? Please, please, pretty please, want your cum, Daddy, fill my belly with it, Daddy, I need it, need it so bad, please?

He gives you what you want only a moment later, cock throbbing almost violently as he fills you with thick, scalding cream—so much that you’re sure it’s dribbling out of you, trickling down your ass and onto his pristine sheets—and you roll your hips up, attempting to milk him for more.

“G-Greedy,” he pants out, but there’s a dazzling smile slapped across his face, and so much love in his eyes it’s nearly overwhelming, a fresh wave of tears casting a gleaming shield across your own.

He notices immediately, both of you wincing a little as he pulls out, a wrecked little whine escaping your mouth.

“My poor little princess,” he’s saying as he untangles his briefs—Balenciaga, this time—from his trousers, abandoned in a heap on the hardwood.

“Daddy,” you rasp, a frown marring his face, fingers encircling your ankles as he helps you unfold your stiff legs.

“I know, I know,” he’s murmuring as gentle hands pull the soft clothing up your silky thighs. “It hurts, I know baby, Daddy’s gonna make it feel better now,”

A shiver courses through your body, and he tuts, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before he hoists you up and drapes it over your shoulders, tenderly threading your arms through the sleeves.

It’s cozy, and warm, infused with his scent—melted sugar and expensive cologne—and you snuggle into it, weak arms pulling the material tighter around your body, swathing it in comfort. Tears prick your eyes again, blearily blinking them clear as you glance up to find him backing away. A noise of indignance sounds in the back of your throat, eyebrows knitting together as you make grabby hands for him.

“I’ll be right back, princess,” he reassures you as he laces your fingers together and allows you to pull him back towards you, voice soothing like a lullaby. Fingers trail along the curve of your cheek then trace the line of your jaw, palms smoothing hair back from your face. “Daddy’s just going to go get the first aid kit so he can clean you up, okay?”

“‘N then food?”

He coos with a little chuckle, cupping your head as he tilts it up towards him, eyes overflowing with fondness.

“Yeah, baby, and then food. Whatever you want, it’s yours,”

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy, but he is also your Daddy, and that makes him the best Daddy.