#excel calculation formula

[mosharrafdha]

Are you looking for a chess board game online? If yes, then visit mosharraf.com.bd! This is a premium platform where you can indulge in the chess board game online to play this outstanding game easily and at your convenience.

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[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

I suppose the numbers of votes in that last poll involving Gable were quite... Close? Eh? Eh? C'mon

bad-dum-tish.wav

[darekasama]

Lately I have been changing some stuff in my WIP, adding some backstories and such. I'm really bothered by having to update my character bios AND the age calculator table separately. That's doing the same job TWICE. So inefficient!

Anyone knows how to link a google docs and a google sheet so that I can write in one place and it automatically updates the other? Is there an addon for that?

[mahameruputra14]

Bollard Curve

Bollard curve merupakan solusi inovatif untuk melindungi dermaga dan memudahkan penambatan kapal. Keunggulannya dalam hal perlindungan dermaga, kemudahan penggunaan, estetika, dan ramah lingkungan menjadikan bollard curve pilihan ideal untuk berbagai apli

Marine Bollard Curve – Bollard Type Curve – Harbour Bollard – Tambatan Tali Kapal Tipe Curve Di Indonesia. Sebagai penulis yang tinggal di kota pelabuhan, saya sering melihat deretan kapal-kapal besar bersandar di dermaga. Gesekan antara kapal dan dermaga, meskipun terlihat sepele, dapat menyebabkan kerusakan pada kedua struktur tersebut. Untungnya, ada solusi untuk mengatasi masalah…

[sharemarketinsider]

Moving Averages- 3 Types, Formula, and Their Calculations

In today’s dynamic financial market, data analysis plays a crucial role in making informed trading and investment decisions. One powerful tool that traders and investors rely on is moving averages. Moving averages provide valuable insights into market trends, support and resistance levels, price crossovers, and volatility. In this blog post, we will explore the significance of moving averages and how you can effectively utilize them to enhance your trading and investment strategies.

https://sharemarketinsider.com/moving-averages/

[theweirdwideweb]

I reported my boss to HR for discrimination last week. Please tell me if I'm crazy.

My old boss got promoted so around October I got a new supervisor. We've been coworkers for about 5 years and had a friendly relationship. I'd been to her house, met her kids, we chit chatted a lot. When she started approving my time cards she noticed I was using about 3-5 hours of PTO per week at random times. I explained this was an informal arrangement I had with my previous supervisor due to my disability. I have C-PTSD and ADHD which honestly make it difficult to get through the day pretty much every day. Sometimes I need more breaks and if I'm using my PTO and being honest, who cares right? Well the new supervisor cared. She told me that if I couldn't be a full time employee they couldn't justify our headcount and my job was on the line unless I made this a formal arrangement. I was really hurt but I did it, I got all the doctors notes together and figured--while I'm formalizing it, I actually do need extra therapy so I'm gonna make my FMLA (family medical leave act) time include these sessions.

All this is approved obviously because one thing I'm not is self diagnosed. I've got medical records a mile high. So starting in January this official leave time goes into effect and I can use up to 7 hours of PTO per week. Before all this began my supervisor consistently praised me as a "rockstar" employee, saying I was the only person on the team who truly follows the rules. In general I was thought of as an excellent worker and had received a promotion. The team that I lead smashed our goals for 2023. But, strangely, once I start the FMLA my supervisor begins complaining about my lack of productivity. I kept a spreadsheet as a tool for my ADHD where I tracked how I was spending my time so I volunteered to let her see it so she could figure it out. Instead of sending the spreadsheet tracking my work in 5 minute increments once or twice, this woman has had me sending it every week for the past 7 months. Every Monday we have our 1:1 and she lets me know how poorly I'm doing. She also sends me an email on Mondays where she counts every email I have in my inbox, every claim I have across multiple programs, every minute of meetings I have scheduled and sends me the amount of time she expects it to take and if I don't make it then we have to talk about my "problems".

Now I'm practically never making it. I've appealed to her and to her boss so many times that there is something wrong with this formula they've come up with to calculate my workload--and they both just think I'm lying. Long story short in May I started measuring my time not on the spreadsheet but by the individual tasks in the email and not only am I keeping up, but there's a full 5-6 hours of work every week that she hasn't been counting (including 3 hours talking on the phone---with her!). I bring this up at our 1:1 in late May and say, See there really is something wrong with your measurement. I'm right on track productivity wise with these tasks. She doesn't acknowledge at all the flaw I've found in her formula but DOES say, "I do think there's been an improvement in your productivity and I expect it will continue to improve as you get more therapy." Full on MASK OFF. So my "productivity issues" are improved by therapy, meaning she's been ascribing those issues to my disability. Incredible.

I go to HR the next day to have this interaction on the record. First time I've gone to HR about anything ever. They are so concerned that they are going to launch an investigation and I tearfully plead with them not to because my boss's boss is out on medical leave and I don't want to cause huge problems while she's away and can't moderate. I didn't realize it would automatically cause an investigation to report this. The lady takes pity on me and says they won't investigate for now.

The VERY NEXT DAY my supervisor tells us in a team meeting (other people there to witness) that she's got a funny story about her son. It's some innocent story about how he's grounded and can't go to a party, but she continues on by talking about how she has to be extra strict with him because he has ADHD. If she doesn't enforce consequences, he'll never learn! And he has to learn because when he grows up his boss isn't going to take his ADHD as an excuse. "Policies are policies" she said, "Your boss isn't going to accept an answer like I know I was supposed to do four things but I only got to three because...." She even went further talking about how he's having trouble learning to drive because of his ADHD and just laughing about it. When he has to do something, she says, she has to remind him multiple times and set timers and double check with him otherwise he'll forget.

So I'm fucking flabbergasted at this point, right? This whole time I've been feeling like this time tracking is discriminatory and here she is just spelling it out for me in neon letters: YES, IT ACTUALLY IS. So I'm biding my time until her boss gets back from medical leave. But after 3 weeks of showing her that her method is flawed she tells me I don't have to do the spreadsheet anymore. Her boss is back but cancelled our first meeting, so I figure: If the bullshit stops, for the sake of my career and mental health I'm gonna let this go. My supervisor goes on vacation for 2 weeks. I'm doing my work exactly as I want to without the added pressure and everything is going great.

Once she gets back though we have our 1:1 and she asks me where my emails were on the 2 past Fridays telling her if I got all my work done. Which she never asked me to do, btw. Reader---I mcfreakin lost it. I belligerently asked why this was still necessary, that I felt picked on and bullied, that she isn't doing this to anyone else on the team, and that I'm sick and tired of constantly being demoralized by her leadership. I told her that I was going to talk to her boss directly about this situation. She was pissed. She actually unfriended me on facebook which for middle aged women is like throwing a grenade.

Next day I talk to her boss. I bring my evidence because of course I've been taking notes. The situation is serious. HR has become involved. And just because there are anti-retaliatory rules for reporting protected concerns doesn't actually protect me from getting fired. Suddenly I'm fearful about everything. I'm afraid I'm going to lose my job and my health insurance, bye bye therapy,, bye bye surgery I need. I've been at this job 6 years and the animosity is at an all time high. Christ almighty.

[beomiracles]

professor, Kang

BRUUUU I LOVE THE IDEA OF SEXC TEACHER TAE OKAY SUE ME mkay anyway enjoy hehe

pairing. taehyun x fem!reader reader is above the age of 18!! this a uni y'all !!!! warnings. implied smut, teacherxstudent relationship sorta (not established) but yk sum goin on at least

A/N ─ she was very well received so here's a part 2 for anyone interested >_<

You never liked physics, in fact you hated it. That's why you'd considered dropping the class before it had even started. But he made class interesting. He made you come to every single one of your physics classes. He made you be on time ⎯ he didn't like when you were late. You wore high ponytails, he liked that. Glasses placed neatly on the bridge of your nose, your skirt, a little too short to be considered everyday wear, rode up your thighs.

Sitting at the front row, slightly to the left, that's where he wanted you, the desk closest to his. Legs crossed and the tip of your pen stuck between your lips as you watch his every move. The way he walks back and forward with long and calculated strides. Slim hands occasionally pointing toward the board, you thought you could make out a few veins. The black shirt hugging his slim waist whilst accentuating his muscled arms. The glasses making his sharp and angelic features look impossibly more delicate.

You find your mind wandering.. fantasizing. The same slim and delicate fingers roughly spreading your bare thighs apart. His voice like running silver, except he's not talking about physics anymore. Clenching your thighs subconsciously whilst biting on your pen. You're brought back to reality by that same silvery voice ⎯ "is all well, miss y/l/n?" His voice is indifferent but you can feel his eyes on you, all over you, in places where they shouldn't be. You nod quietly and your gaze drops back to the notebook in front of you.

The sound of chairs dragging across the floor fill the room. Bags are being thrown around as people chatter excitedly, it was Friday after all. You tell your friends that you'll catch up to them later, slowly you pack up your things. You glance up at the desk in front of you, your professor looks engrossed in the paper in front of him. As the classroom empties out you hesitantly stand up ⎯ the noise making him look up at you. "Is something wrong miss y/l/n? Shouldn't you be heading out with the other students?"

You bite your lip frustratedly, thinking of an excuse, anything. Finally you take a small step forward, "Erm.. it's just..I didn't really get this part..." you say and point at a highlighted part of your notes. Your professor frowns and beckons you closer with his fingers, you feel your panties dampen at the thought of what those fingers could do to you. Your hands brush as you hand him the paper.

He scans the text you'd pointed at before sighing and removing his glasses. Pointing at the board he says "Show me what you understood and I'll help you with the rest." You gulp as you make your way to the board, suddenly becoming aware of the outfit you'd chosen. Pulling at your skirt before you grab a pencil and start writing ⎯ you had lied earlier, you understood everything perfectly. For someone not liking physics you never missed a class and Mr Kang was really an excellent teacher. Still you write down formulas ⎯ feeling your professors eyes on you, wandering.

You leave out a few parts and just as you're about to turn around to face your professor you feel him behind you. Your back almost pressing against his chest as he towers over you. "Alright.." he says in his usual smooth voice, your heart flutters at the thought of him being this close and you resist the urge to squeeze your legs together. He begins explaining what you already know and your mind wanders off for the third time today.

He clears his throat causing you to jump slightly, "S-sorry?" you say. "Pencil." he says in a more annoyed tone. "O-oh right...sorry." you say as you quickly hand him the pencil you'd been using. Writing down another formula on the board he leans forward and now your back is firmly pressed to his chest. You're almost certain he can hear your heart practically beating out of your chest. That is until you feel it, thick and hard prodding at your lower back. You feel your checks turn crimson red as you bite your lip ⎯ your professor however seems completely unbothered by the situation.

When he finishes explaining he leans away, leaving you feeling empty despite never actually having him. You turn around to face him for the first time in almost 20 minutes. Unable to read his expression but not daring to look down you maintain eye contact, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. When you realise he's waiting for you to speak you scramble for words. "I...yes I think I got it now...thank you.." you stutter, back pressed against the board still, you're caged.

He doesn't answer but lifts his arm, slim fingers brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "You don't have to lie to me miss y/l/n." his voice is low, "If you wanted to see me you could've just said so." You nod ⎯ avoiding his gaze. "I know you talk, use your words" he says in a stern voice making you squirm. "That goes for class too" he adds, "No more nodding", you almost nod again before catching yourself. "Yes professor", you breathe out eyes meeting his.

He steps back, freeing you from your temporary cage which was him and the board behind you. Sitting down behind his desk as you scramble for your belongings, you whisper a, "Have a good weekend" before making your way out.

Just as you reach the door he speaks, "Y/n?" the use of your first name makes you stop dead in your tracks. "Y-yes..?" You turn around. Your professor's eyes wandering lustfully over your body, "Don't bite your lips like that in class." he says his voice no different from when he teaches. "You have no idea what it does to me."

→ want to get notified whenever a new dream is published? join my TAGLIST ★ all rights reserved ─ @beomiracles 2024

[ms-demeanor]

So I haven't talked a hell of a lot about my classes this semester because there doesn't seem to be that much to say but one thing that has been really interesting to me is how much I'm enjoying my statistics class.

The first thing is that my professor is a good lecturer with a good grasp about what trips students up - she's constantly saying "highlight this, this is confusing and you will need to remember it" or "make a note, this is where I often see students make mistakes in their work" and that is fantastic.

But part of it is that this class gives absolutely no fucks about what would be considered cheating in a lot of math classes? Like, not only are a wide variety of calculators extremely strongly encouraged, but the actual assignment portal will export the data for questions for excel so that you don't have to remember how to calculate the variance, you just have to enter the formula.

We are actively supposed to have our guided notes with us for the tests; we're constantly referring to tables the professor has provided for Z-values. This means that we've also got the long form and step-by-step instructions for each type of problem we're doing right next to us (and the tests give us a *ridiculous* amount of time in case we need to work out the problems by hand, like 3 hours for 10 questions).

This is the least-stressed I've ever been in any kind of math class, which I thought would be a high bar to clear after my wonderful algebra class last year.

It turns out that when you've got copious reference material, good instruction, a bunch of resources on hand, and low time pressure some kinds of math are actually. Like. Kind of fun? This is relaxing. It feels like solving puzzles.

[smeddiemunson]

no but i’m so pro jock!steve. this boy is arranging his schedule around the tv showings.

“hey Steve can we get a ride to the arcade?” “no can do, kiddo. Celtics are at Knicks tonight.” “we live in Indiana.” “So?”

he needs everything explaining to him in sports terms. will use sports terminology in his day to day.

if it’s a modern au, he has an in depth plan to draft his fantasy football team. he learns how to use excel so he can run very basic formulas to calculate the risers and fallers to pick up on waivers or drop.

eddie will only watch hockey. it’s not steve’s favourite but he’ll get into it just so he can answer eddie’s questions.

edit to add: because @steddie-as-he-goes made an excellent point. he is both a jock and my a babygirl. he contains multitudes!!!

[f1shipbracket]

Welcome to The Ship Bracket

After going through all the responses to the form (thank you to everyone who participated) and fighting against Excel, Word, and several Bracket-Making websites, I am proud to present the Very Unofficial Formula 1 Ship Bracket:

The ships were ranked making an average of the number of entries and the number of fics on ao3, with the top 32 ships making it into the bracket. I'm sorry if your favourite ship didn't make it in, but even some of my favourites didn't make the cut 😢😢.

The bracket is seeded, meaning that (based on the ranking explained above) the highest contender is going against the lowest contender, the second highest against the second lowest, and so on.

Here is a list of the matchups:

Group A (left):

Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen vs. Charles Leclerc/Lewis Hamilton (finished)

Max Verstappen/Sergio Pérez vs. Pierre Gasly/Yuki Tsunoda (finished)

Carlos Sainz/Charles Leclerc vs. Esteban Ocon/Pierre Gasly (finished)

James Hunt/Niki Lauda vs. Lewis Hamilton/Sebastian Vettel (finished)

Kimi Räikkönen/Sebastian Vettel vs. Lewis Hamilton/Valtteri Bottas (finished)

Kevin Magnussen/Nico Hülkenberg vs. Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri (finished)

Lewis Hamilton/Max Verstappen vs. Lando Norris/Max Fewtrell (finished)

Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo vs. Carlos Sainz/Lando Norris (finished)

Group B (right):

Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen vs. Fernando Alonso/Jenson Button (finished)

Jenson Button/Sebastian Vettel vs. Fernando Alonso/Mark Webber (finished)

Alex Albon/George Russell vs. Logan Sargeant/Oscar Piastri (finished)

Charles Leclerc/Lando Norris vs. Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel (finished)

Lewis Hamilton/Nico Rosberg vs. Fernando Alonso/Lance Stroll (finished)

Jenson Button/Nico Rosberg vs. Mark Webber/Sebastian Vettel (finished)

Daniel Ricciardo/Lando Norris vs. Esteban Ocon/Lance Stroll (finished)

Michael Schumacher/Mika Häkkinen vs. Charles Leclerc/Pierre Gasly (finished)

Schedule:

I will post one poll per week, starting with the first matchup of Group A on the 4/3/2024 (4th of March) and each poll will be open for one week. According to my calculations, this will be over by October.

Rules:

I have experienced how fandom brackets like this one can cause chaos and drama, so I just want to make some things clear from the get-go:

Feel free (and very encouraged!!) to make propaganda for the ship you want to support and reblog the poll with said propaganda.

Vote following whatever criteria you want. If you want to vote because you like the ship, go for it. If you want to vote because you think the ship has more historical significance, go for it. If you want to vote because you like/don't like a driver or a team, one again, go for it.

Please don't bot the polls. To be perfectly honest, I don't think I can do anything if it happens, but we would all like this to be a fair fight.

DO NOT harass other people or the mod. This is an fandom poll on the internet about shipping, don't let it bleed into real life consequences. I know where the block button is and I will not hesitate to use it, I recommend everyone else adheres to the same principle should someone make you feel uncomfortable.

Have a fun time!! I decided to make this to see how it develops, and I hope everyone else can enjoy the experience too.

Feel free to ask any questions.

[theprinceofpeacesposts]

A New Formula

“For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.” Matthew 6:14-15

 

Forgiveness is not about keeping score; it’s about losing count. Think about it. If you had to forgive somebody 490 times in a day, that’s an offense every two minutes. 

 

Microsoft came out with a program many years ago called Excel that changed the accounting world. It made keeping up with numbers more simple. Everything can be easily added or subtracted quickly in neat little columns. Sometimes, we have an Excel doc in our mind that is keeping tabs on what people have done to us. Maybe your spouse has said something rude to you, so you jot it down in their column. Possibly, a friend doesn’t invite you to their party, so you put that into their column, and you continually keep track of wrongs. You can become very administrative in your unforgiveness. 

 

The thing about Excel, though, is that if you put in the wrong equation, it will not calculate your total. It will keep kicking it back and telling you to go back and fix something because the wrong equation is messing up your whole document. God may be telling you that your calculation of what people owe you is off. His equation is seventy times seven. If you are not dealing with these columns of offense in God’s way, you will be affected negatively both spiritually and physically. 

 

You have to decide to abandon your sinful, numerical approach of counting offenses. As representatives of Christ, that is not what we are called to do. Forgiveness does not mean that everyone belongs in your life, but it does mean that you have to forgive everyone from your heart. You may have heard of the saying “forgive and forget,” but forgiveness is not praying for amnesia or denying that it ever happened. Acknowledge that you have been hurt deeply, but stop sitting around waiting for an apology. 

 

Jesus said, “If you refuse to forgive others when they sin against you, your Father will not forgive your sins.” The right kind of math means you think about every time the Father has forgiven you on a daily basis and then take that same formula and apply it to the person who has wronged you. You sinned, and God forgave you. Use that formula with someone else. Jesus always set the bar higher than people expected. He knew what radical love could accomplish if we let it lead our lives.

[infinite-riches]

I Just Want You to Know I Tried

Summary: He felt numb. Ground down. Empty.

His alarm cuts through the silence of his room, not that he needed it. The red numbers blinked brightly in the dim space. 04:45.

C’mon, MacTavish. Get up.

It’s like this every morning.

Or: John "Soap" MacTavish is a burnt out gifted kid who finally hits his limit.

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 3090

Warnings: none :)

A/N: Burnt out gifted kid Soap has been bouncing around in my head for the past couple of weeks- enjoy <3

As always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): I Just Want You to Know I Tried

Twenty-nine years old. He had gotten so far in 29 years, and yet it somehow still wasn't enough. 

16.

His mam and da had always told him how proud they were, what a good example he set for his younger sister, and how his older sister could learn a thing or two from him. 

School always came easy to him. He flew through coursework for maths and sciences, especially chemistry, much to the chagrin of his older sister, Isla, who spent many a night pouring over her textbooks, and his younger sister, Nora, who saw his achievements as something to be bested. To top it all off, he was a star athlete— the best goalkeeper the county club had seen in years. 

But when it came down to it all, he didn’t feel like he was enough it didn’t feel like he was doing enough.

Then there was that little flyer— an ad from the local recruitment office plastered with some line about “being more for your country”. That memory of the weekend his cousin brought him on base to show him around cycled through his mind, and what he remembered seemed interesting.

He called his cousin and was on base the following weekend, too.

It became a habit. Eventually, it was less about seeing his cousin and more so about talking to his roommate, who specialized in demolitions. 

Soap was hooked. He could imagine the formulas and calculations in his head, and it finally felt like something big was clicking into place for him. 

18. 

Try as he might, they couldn’t let him join until he was properly 18, no matter what story or excuse he came up with. But once he was in? It was everything he needed— the structure that helped him thrive in school, the firm commands like the ones his football coach gave, plus, the goal of making the SAS shining in the distance.

No one could deny how driven John MacTavish was. He excelled in every aspect of training and even then didn’t let himself stop. His commander had his recommendation for the special forces written up before John could even ask— 3 months before he was even eligible. 

John pushed himself even harder. He trained almost day and night, determined to make it through selection on his first attempt. He got his hands on any training material he could and spent every spare second he had scrounging up any spare information he could get from his CO.  

20.

It was the hardest 5 months of his life. And at the end of it all, he became the youngest to ever pass selection. All his hard work had paid off in spades, but he still wanted more. 

So he learned everything he could. Took the opportunity for specialized training, devoured whatever books he could get his hands on, worked out until his muscles ached and begged for mercy, studied until he fell asleep atop his notes— whatever he could to try and quell that desire for more. 

He was Icarus, flying higher and higher. 

25.

He was home for the holidays when his phone rang. It was John Price. 

“I’m heading up a new task force and want y-” had barely left the older man’s lips when John said yes. 

He was on a flight out a week later, despite his family’s protests and Isla’s pleas for him to slow down and enjoy life just a little while he was young.

The words did nothing to shake his hunger like his sister had hoped they would. He was fully consumed by his need for more, and the 1-4-1 was his ticket. He knew he couldn’t throw this opportunity away.

27.

Two years under the leadership of Captain John Price and Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley had pushed him even further. He was supernaturally clean in the field, a menace with C4, and something to be truly feared when he had his hands on his favorite sniper rifle. 

Even with his hardened edge, he retained all the warmth and joy of a ray of sun.

Price and Ghost had decided it was time for him to start taking on more responsibility, starting with the rookies, so Soap took over their training anytime the team wasn't deployed. Rookies looked on as if he was something more than human. An impossibility in the world they all dedicated themselves to. 

And then his bedroom door would shut, and everything would crumble to pieces. Unlike Atlas, he couldn’t bear the weight, and the sky would slip from his shoulders. 

28.

It took every last ounce of strength he had to kick his boots off and shed his sweat-stained clothes. He stood under the scalding stream until his skin went numb, the thought of having to wash his hair a nauseating concept. 

The words still rang in his ears. “Son, I think you should look into officer training.”

Price wanted more. He wasn’t enough.

It was all too much.

29. 

He had every intention to go for his officer training, but then there were the missions. More and more just kept landing on Laswell’s desk, and in turn, they were handed down to Price. 

He felt numb. Ground down. Empty. 

His alarm cuts through the silence of his room, not that he needed it. The red numbers blinked brightly in the dim space. 04:45.

C’mon, MacTavish. Get up. 

It’s like this every morning. He has to force himself out from between the sheets. Despite how exhausted he is. Despite how much he hates cold linoleum in the mornings. Despite how little coffee helps nowadays. 

The cold air on his warm skin made him shudder. 

He put one foot in front of the other, retracing the same steps from the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that… on and on. 

He all but refused to look at himself in the mirror. He had lost weight, looking gaunt and pale. He could barely remember how bright and full of life he was at 27. 

The day started with a briefing. The data recovery team had finally managed to repair a damaged hard drive retrieved on the last mission. As hard as Soap tried, the information quickly became jumbled and tangled with his other thoughts. 

Ghost had stopped him the night before outside the mess. “Things look like they’re starting to calm down again. Have you given more thought to officer training?”

Soap had felt like he could have crumbled right then and there and finally let the weight of everything overtake and destroy him. 

Instead, he did what he does best and played along, stacking something else on his plate. “Yeah, L.T., still a couple of months out from the next intake, though.”

The memory played on a loop in his mind. Officer training. Officer training? Now? He was so tired already…

The day went by like every other, filled to the brim with training, both his own and his rookies’, plus any mission prep, and now, preparing for officer training. There was no time for anything else, certainly not himself.

And then it was evening— another restless night, tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling. 

Useless. Weak. Lazy. Not enough. Worthless. 

And like usual, Soap found himself on autopilot, feet carrying himself towards the gym. 

The treadmill sounded like pure torture, but he didn’t trust himself to deadlift in this state without a spotter. Punching bag it was. 

He didn’t bother to wrap his knuckles and rarely did anymore, allowing himself to relish in the sting of freshly split skin and warm blood. 

The minutes disappeared one after another, and suddenly Soap was lost deep within his own mind. Too deep to catch himself when the day finally caught up with him, the lack of food making him dizzy and sending him off balance. He collapsed into the bag, blood-slick hands grasping to make purchase on the sweat-dampened material as his knees made vicious contact with the unpadded floor. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there in a haze and didn’t know he was crying, either. Not until Ghost crowded his vision, blocking out the buzzing fluorescents, face twisted in worry, lips moving but strangely lacking sound. 

“-nny! Johnny, can you hear me?” The Scot looked up at him, ocean-blue eyes overrun with tears and confusion clear on his face. 

“Ghost? What-?” Soap tried to put the missing pieces together, but no matter how hard he tried, there were still empty spots. 

Ghost kneeled next to him, the faintest edge of panic in his voice, his firm grasp turning Soap’s face in his hand. “Where are you bleeding from?” 

All Ghost could make out was a mess of smeared blood, sweat, and tears. There were no obvious injuries he could see. He didn’t know if that was better or worse.

“Bleeding?” Soap’s gaze seemed fuzzy as if he were far away.

“Yes, Johnny, you’re bleeding. Please, help me out here…” Ghost was begging. 

Ghost doesn’t beg. The thought made Soap’s head swim even more. He reached up, resting his hand on Ghost’s outstretched arm. “‘m fine, Ghostie.” His voice was thick with tears.

A wounded noise escaped Ghost at the sight of Soap’s knuckles. They were covered in blood, and he could see the edges of torn skin. Blood trailed down the tanned skin he loved so much, wrapping around his firm forearms like trailing vines. “Johnny…”

“‘m fine, L.T.” Soap started to pull himself away from the Brit, wobbling despite not even being on his feet.

“John, please talk to me. Let me help.” Soap could see the concern and fear in Ghost’s eyes, and that cut him to his core and sent him spiraling.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying, I promise. Please, L.T., I can do this.” Soap’s words were a babbling mess as the tears returned in full force. 

Ghost pulled the smaller man into his chest, holding him tightly and running his fingers through Soap’s hair.

Everything was starting to click for Ghost— the way Soap’s eyes didn’t shine like they used to, how his smile no longer reached his eyes, the way his laugh sounded dull. His Johnny was falling apart, and that thought made Ghost want to fall apart. 

He knew he and Price had been pushing the Scot, but the man had never given any indication that it was too much. He took everything he was given in stride and seemed ready for more at any moment. 

“Shh, Johnny. It’s okay, it’s okay…” He pulled Soap even closer, trying to soothe the broken man. “Everything is okay.”

It took Soap about an hour to snap out of the breakdown he had been stuck in. 

And with one look, Ghost broke Soap’s walls, and everything came pouring out.

“I can’t do it, Ghost. Ever since I was little, I was supposed to be the best. School, then football, then the army. It was good at first, easy even. Took in everything I could get my hands on. But then the energy just… disappeared. And I tried. I tried to keep going and keep getting better. I tried to be everything you and Price want but I just… I can’t. It's too much. I’m sorry. I can’t be everything you want, and I understand if you want me off the team, I just want you to know I tried.” His words were interrupted with little sobs as he laid his soul bare for Ghost, head buried in the larger man’s chest.

And Ghost finally understood why Soap looked like a husk of his former self— because he was. He had given everything until there was nothing left, and then still kept trying. 

“Oh, Johnny…” Ghost guided the Scot back, gently cupping his face with both hands. “I love you just as you are. Never could want more than what you are, ‘cause you’re perfect, Johnny. And I’m so sorry I didn’t see what this— what I was doing to you.” He placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, holding him close yet again as the sobs returned. 

“You love me?” His voice was soft, stuttered, and choked with tears as he lifted his eyes to see Ghost’s, the barest glimmer of hope shining through. He had feelings for his lieutenant that ran deep, but he always assumed they were one-sided. That the flirty banter was just something to break the tension on missions, something that carried over from Las Almas. 

A small laugh rumbled through Ghost’s chest as he cupped Soap’s jaw in his hand, his thumb brushing against the stubble. “Yes, Johnny. I love you. Now let's get you cleaned up.” Carefully untangling Soap from his arms, he began to push himself to his feet.

“Wait!” Soap caught Ghost’s arm, bloodied fingers wrapping around the pale skin of his forearm, catching the man before he could stand. Ghost caught his gaze, looking for what else could be wrong. The concern made Soap melt a little more.

“I love you.” Soap pulled the larger man into a surprisingly bone-crushing hug for how worn he looked. “And I hope you still want me…” The words came out muffled from where he had buried his face in Ghost’s neck.

“Johnny,” Ghost felt like his heart had just split straight down the middle, torn apart by the Scot’s worry. “I’ll always want you. Don’t ever doubt that.” 

He placed a gentle kiss on the crown of Soap’s head despite the balaclava, and let the man find comfort in his chest for a few more moments. “C’mon, you need your rest.”

Without any protest from Soap, they untangled themselves, getting to their feet. Ghost guided Soap through the halls, hands intertwined, not fully able to trust that Soap wouldn’t lose his balance with how out of it the man looked. 

Soap gave Ghost a look as they walked straight past his door, but Ghost only carried on, not stopping until they were at his door. He directed Soap inside and to the edge of the bed, placing another masked kiss on his forehead. “Stay here, I’m just going to get some things for your hands.”

Soap could hear the tap start to run in the small connected bathroom as he let his eyes wander. The space was clean and organized with precision, not unlike his lieutenant. The one space that captured his attention was the windowsill. It was cluttered with photos, some torn or worn with age, blackened at the edge, others that were well kept but just as old— none of them were recent. Soap could only assume they were family, but he couldn’t know for sure, because it wasn’t something Ghost had ever talked about. 

“Johnny?” Ghost was standing at the head of the bed, not wanting to sneak up on the Scot. 

“Hmm?” Soap caught his gaze and blushed, not expecting to find Ghost without his mask. He dropped his eyes to the floor and shifted over, making more space for Ghost.

“No need, love.” Ghost knelt on the floor in front of Soap, gently lifting his hand and beginning to carefully clean his bloody knuckles. Soap hissed and jerked at the sensation, trying to busy himself with studying the room, the sudden itch to do something returning.

Ghost noticed the way Soap seemed agitated by being left to do nothing. Initially, he thought it to be the Scot’s natural drive, but now it seemed more likely to be driven by whatever anxiety had pushed him past his breaking point in the first place. 

“Talk to me, Johnny. Tell me about that new chemical composition you were testing last week.” Soap seemed to relax a little at that, his mind undoubtedly finding comfort in the familiarity of something that came so easily to him. 

Ghost worked as Soap prattled on, explaining all the different components he had tested and why. The ease with which he spoke made Simon smile. It had become so commonplace to see Soap so wound up that this was like a breath of fresh air. This was his Johnny, the one he had fallen for all those months ago in Las Almas. 

As Simon finished, it was painfully obvious that Soap was flagging. His eyelids were heavy, and he was starting to sag back into the mattress. Gently, Simon helped Soap out of his bloody mess of a t-shirt and into one of his own, laughing to himself at the way it hung off Soap’s slightly smaller form. 

“I’ll be back, okay? Just going to get myself ready for bed. You get comfortable.” Simon placed a kiss on his forehead, lips warm on Soap’s cool skin.

“Here?” The confusion was clear on Soap’s face, despite the exhaustion.

Panic began to rise in Simon’s chest, worried he was pushing too fast. “Do you want to go back to your room?” His words were soft, not wanting to pressure the exhausted man.

Soap thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not if you want me here.” Soap couldn’t resist anymore, desperately craving to be held in Simon’s arms, to let someone else do all the heavy lifting, just for a little while. 

“Always. Get yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.” The door to the bathroom clicked closed, with the moonlight being the only thing to illuminate the space now. 

Soap looked over his freshly bandaged knuckles, gently rubbing his fingers over the tape. 

Simon loves me. He wants me. Wants me how I am. 

It felt good to be wanted, especially by the man he had been pining after for so long, but he couldn’t deny how unsteady he still felt. Everything still weighed so heavy on his shoulders. 

He shook the feeling away, kicking off his sweatpants and slipping in between the sheets of Simon’s perfectly made bed. He was hit by the subtle scent of peppermint, cedarwood, and eucalyptus, somehow warm and cool and home all in one scent. He let himself melt into the comfort of the space, the gentle sounds of Simon rummaging about in the bathroom providing the white noise that was making it harder and harder to stay awake. 

Soap startled at the mattress dipping next to him, rubbing the first dregs of sleep from his eyes.

“It's just me, Johnny, go back to sleep.” Simon's voice rumbled through the quiet space. Soap nodded, humming happily as he felt Simon lay behind him, an arm thrown over his waist to hold him close. 

“Love you, Simon.”

“Love you, Johnny.”

[estherdedlock]

I’m afraid I have to dispute the popular theory that Henry asked Richard to do the math on the poison-mushroom formula so that he would have a piece of damning evidence in Richard’s handwriting. It’s an excellent idea and Henry is certainly diabolical enough for it, but Henry never takes Richard’s calculations with him. 

“Hmn,” said Henry, looking over my shoulder at the paper on the desk.

Henry only looks at the paper on the desk. He never touches it, picks it up, or pockets it. I’ve been trying to figure out if he somehow scooped it up along with Richard’s copy of Purgatorio, but that doesn’t seem likely. Richard is sitting at the desk. There’s no way Henry could pick up that paper without Richard seeing him do it. It’s possible that Henry got into Richard’s room later and plucked it out of the wastebasket, but Donna Tartt isn’t one of those writers who would leave something like this out. There would be some kind of hint that this happened, even if it was only in the form of Richard’s mounting paranoia at the end of the book. It’s the whole Chekhov’s Gun scenario: she’s not going to introduce something without using it. If she had wanted readers to suspect that Henry was setting Richard up, she wouldn’t have left that paper on Richard’s desk. (For an example of Tartt using an object to create suspicion, see Richard’s misplaced Liddell and Scott textbook.)

Am I wrong? Did I miss a passage somewhere that suggests Henry walked out of Richard’s room with those calculations?

[rivensdefenseattorney]

Tecna Character Profile

(WIP)

Basic Information

Name: Tecna (T3-141)

Race: Fairy

Age: 20

Gender: Female (She/They)

Height: 5'6 (168 cm)

Unique Features

Subtle Patterns on her Skin

Partial cybernetic limbs and organs infused with magical enchantments

Education & Background

Education: Alfea

Year: 3

Concentrated Study: Elemental Mastery & Defense

Minor Study: Cultural Magic Practices

Birthplace: Unknown, Zenith

Relationships

Family

Grandfather: Onyx

Mother: Magnethia (Unknown)

Father: Electronio (Unknown)

Byte

Friends

Aisha/Musa (Winx Best Friends)

Brandon/Nabu/Riven (Specialist Best Friends)

Love Interests

Timmy

Personality Traits

Tactful and Strategic: She excels in planning and executing strategies, leveraging her high intelligence to assess situations logically.

Cool-headed: Maintains composure even under pressure.

Technophile: Enthusiastically engrossed in technology, often finding solace and fascination in its workings.

Formulaic: She has an attachment to routine and uniformity. It may sometimes be off-putting to others.

Self-confident and Perfectionist: Strives for excellence in her endeavors and trusts her abilities to achieve it.

Pragmatic: Approaches problems with a logical mindset, sometimes overlooking emotional considerations.

Difficulty Expressing Emotions: Struggles to articulate feelings and tends to rely heavily on logical reasoning instead.

Selfless and Caring: Despite her emotional struggles, she genuinely cares for her friends and shows it through her actions.

Temperament: Has a hidden temper that surfaces when situations deviate significantly from her meticulously calculated expectations.

Emotional Turmoil in Unpredicted Situations: Finds it challenging to cope when circumstances play out differently than she had anticipated, leading to emotional strain.

Skills & Abilities

Photographic Memory

Memory Augmentation - recalls vast amounts of data instantly

Pattern Recognition Synthesis - Proficient at assessing situations, identifying patterns, and devising effective strategies in various scenarios.

Excels in designing specialized Golems and AI, integrating logical algorithms to create efficient and adaptable machines.

Skilled in analyzing complex data sets

Excels in planning and execution

Proficient in electricity magic

Hobbies & Interests

Programming and coding

Building and experimenting with Golems

Playing strategy/video games

Livestreaming

Listening to Music

Learning about Historical Architecture

Inventing Practical Gadgets

Quirks & Habits

Emotion Journaling - Jots down observations on emotions she witnesses or experiences

Creating and Reciting Mnemonics

Observational Silence

Collecting Tokens from her friends

Creates personalized gestures or hand signals with friends to signal emotional states without having to express feelings verbally.

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Winx Rewrite Master Post