#if my math is correct which it so rarely is

[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

I’ve not been knitting for the past month due to a mixture of factors. But I have had some off and on work on several projects. Featured here are a kite shawl, an unblocked lace doily knit in worsted weight cotton, the most evil baby blanket i’ve ever had the displeasure of creating with my own hands, and yarn for a future sweater.

[murdockparker]

Roses and Regrets - Part 1

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Freshly out of mourning, Lady Barlow, née (Y/L/N), makes her re-debut in society. If only she could simply ignore a certain viscount...

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: none. enemies to lovers!!

A/N: I didn't expect this lil requested fic to turn into such an event, let alone a multi-part story! so, you're welcome or I'm sorry?

next part

__

She was perfectly happy. 

Well, supposedly right now she wasn’t. 

Her husband, Lord Barlow, had passed away ten months ago, leaving her with an empty estate, a shiny title and more money than she knew what to do with. Lord Barlow was an old viscount, desperate for an heir and willing to do anything to get one. 

In came Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

Young, beautiful and well-bred, she was the perfect choice for any man of the ton. If only her father hadn’t a penchant for gambling. Perhaps she’d be married to a man more suited for her rather than the oaf of a dustbin she was forced to be with. She was no fool in believing in a love match for herself, rare and far between as they were, no, but she did have half a mind to imagine a kinder man as her husband. A man who perhaps cared even a little bit for her wellbeing. 

No matter. 

A dead man cannot care for her wellbeing either. 

“Lady Barlow,” a maid knocked, entering the ornate drawing room.

“Yes?” (Y/N) did not look up from her reading—the newest edition of Whistledown had just been delivered. While she herself was never one to gossip terribly, it was quite fun to keep up with the circus of the season. 

“Do you plan on attending the Danbury ball this eve?”

“I do not see the point,” she scoffed playfully, “after all, Meg, I am but a widow in mourning.”

“Perhaps her ladyship should reconsider?” Meg asked gently, placing a new pot of tea next to her lady. “I rather think it has been a socially acceptable amount of time since your husband’s passing.”

“If I am not to enjoy the perks of being a widow,” (Y/N) sighed, finally looking up at her favorite lady’s maid, “whatever is the point?”

“Perks that Viscount Barlow has graciously allowed you to use during your time of mourning—”

“The current viscount is all but twelve,” (Y/N) reminded. “He has no use for this estate in Mayfair until he himself becomes an adult, in which, I am sure he and his mother will come to make use of it. I believe if my maths are correct, that leaves me all of six years or so to use this home.”

“Forgive me my lady, but should you not be looking for a new husband, then?”

(Y/N) smiled at Meg. She enjoyed their friendship, her maid being only a handful of years older than herself, it made for a likely pair. “No one wishes to marry a widow,” she said simply, “widows are damaged goods. Every sensible man of the ton will be wanting a pretty little virgin instead.”

“My lady!”

“What?” She barked a laugh. “You know it to be true.”

“Regardless,” Meg said, clearing her throat. “Lord Barlow passed nearly a year ago, the period of mourning is rightfully over. You are expected to rejoin society.”

“Dreadful.”

“It is expected,” Meg repeated.

“It does not make it any less dreadful,” (Y/N) said. “Very well. Pull a dress and prepare a bath, it seems the ton gets to see my dreary face once again.”

—

Anthony Bridgerton was a man scorned. 

Particularly by his own mother in this very instance. How foolish he had been to share his intentions of marriage this season with her—for now she spread the news like a wildfire. Every desperate mama and her equally desperate daughter came flocking to him like bees to honey. 

It was only now, in the dark corner of the ballroom, that he found a respite.

“Looking a bit green, Lord Bridgerton,” a voice beside him called out. 

“I am not—” Anthony had huffed a reply before even knowing whom he was speaking to. “Lady Barlow.”

“I am shocked you can recall my name,” (Y/N) laughed over her champagne flute. “Considering how many new ones you’ve had thrown at you this eve.”

“You are out of mourning.”

“Is that a question?”

“It was an observation,” Anthony corrected.

“What gave it away? My bright dress? No tear stains left on my cheeks?”

“You are here, out and about,” Anthony said. “And, forgive me for not playing along with your delusions, but I do not think you cried much at all for Lord Barlow’s passing.”

“How dare you assume such a thing,” (Y/N) faux gasped. She had intended on pressing a hand to her chest. Intended, anyway. Somehow she forgot all about the champagne currently residing it her grasp. “Damn… this was a new dress too.”

“Good God,” he laughed. “First you are spilling all over yourself like a child and now you are cursing—tell me, do all married ladies act like you?”

“I am a widow,” (Y/N) had found a cloth and begun dabbing up the spill. It had only dribbled at most, but still, it was a new dress. “I rather think I can act the way I please.”

“Like a drunkard?”

“Like a free woman,” she said, fighting every childish urge to stick her tongue out at the viscount. “I am only here to show my face, prove I am still alive and I shall go about my merry way.”

“Lady Danbury is a widow,” Anthony noted. “Yet she still mingles with society.”

“I am not Lady Danbury.”

“You are not.”

“Do you not have young misses to go and woo?” (Y/N)’s eyes hardened. “Take your pick from the litter, Lord Bridgerton, any of them would be pleased to spend such valuable time with you.”

“Are you insinuating you are not?”

“I rather thought it was a statement, yes,” (Y/N) said.

Anthony’s eyes went only a fraction wider, nostrils flaring. “Well, if that is what you wish—”

“It is not a mean of wishing,” she laughed, “but really a necessity.”

“Good evening, Lady Barlow,” Anthony sneered, smoke practically coming out of his ears. If (Y/N) had half a mind she’d call for the authorities to put that fire out, instead, she simply finished her drink and smiled wistfully at the dancing ballroom, feeling fulfilled. 

—

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The season is in full swing thanks to the mark of Lady Agatha Danbury’s ball, a notable and traditional first event of the London scene. Eligible young ladies now on the Marriage Mart were enjoying their first taste at what fine society has to offer, however taxing or daunting it may be. 

Our resident Capital ‘R’ Rake, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is finally deciding on a wife, surely making him the finest catch of the season. Matchmaking mamas and their young ladies alike were seen flocking to him like petulant children asking their parents for pin money, thanks to his own mother, Lady Bridgerton’s declaration of such an idea last night. The viscount seemingly had enough of the attention, taking like a wallflower and hiding away in the back of the ballroom near the end of the evening. 

His company? None other than Lady Barlow, evidently out of mourning as of last night. While the this Author is under good authority that the match between Lady Barlow and the late Lord Barlow was not a love match, given their fourty or fifty year age difference, it has taken the new dowager viscountess longer than most anticipated for her to get back into the season. A woman as young as Lady Barlow would be eager to find another husband to support her, but something tells me that she is quite enjoying her time as a widow and will not easily give that up. 

While this Author has very little idea of the actual nature of the relationship between Lord Bridgerton and Lady Barlow, it is only to be assumed that it is simply not a favorable one. The two were seen making a scene by the refreshment table, a scene that went unnoticed by many prying eyes of the ton, leaving Lord Bridgerton storming away and Lady Barlow with the winning hand. 

Good show, Lady Barlow. 

Lady Whistledown Society Papers

—

“Brother! You are in Whistledown!” Eloise sang to no one in particular. 

“I have no care that I am in that gossip rag,” Anthony ground out, rustling his newspaper. “I can only imagine it is just another advertisement of my search for a wife this season.”

“Er, yes, however—”

“However?” Anthony’s attention immediately shot up to his sister, newspaper be damned. 

“Who is Lady Barlow?” Eloise asked. 

“No one of importance,” Anthony could feel his temperature rising. 

“Lady Barlow?” Benedict laughed. “Is that who you were talking to last night dear Brother? Is she not still in mourning?”

“No.”

“No it is not who you were talking to, or no she is not still in mourning?” Benedict gave his brother an amusing glance.

“Oh, according to Whistledown—”

“Sister—”

“Eloise, you may not recall Lady Barlow, given you only just came out this season,” Benedict began, deciding that this conversation was very much worth his time this morning. “But she used to go by Miss (Y/L/N) before her marriage to the late viscount.”

“(Y/L/N)…” Eloise looked to the ceiling, finding nothing in particular. “Oh! Is she not the woman who—”

“I am taking my leave,” Anthony said abruptly, newspaper all but forgotten. 

“Escaping, Brother?” Benedict asked. 

“I have calls to make,” Anthony sneered, ignoring the pleased face his brother was making. “Excuse me.”

“It seems Lady Barlow is a touchy subject,” Eloise noted as her eldest brother left the drawing room. Benedict snorted. “What?”

“You do not even know the half of it, dear Sister.”

Anthony Bridgerton, did not in fact, have any calls to make. He had no impressionable interactions last night to warrant such a visit to anyone—the Queen was still in need of naming her diamond, after all—but he had no desire to stay and be berated by his family this morning. He truly had no plan, no thought in his head on where he was going, he just simply was. 

Apparently he was going to the park.

It was still early in the day, few people graced the park at such an hour. The few who did, however, were too busy reading the latest Whistledown to even notice him. Anthony saw a handful of post boys running opposite of his direction on his way here, it was only natural they scoped out this location. He knew it was going to be a problem the minute they finished reading—if Lady Whistledown truly wrote about him, which he had no reason to believe his sister was lying about, all eyes would be on him.

“Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet for now,” Anthony exhaled. He took a quick glance at his watch—half past eight. Hardly could he recall a time he took a turn about the park on his own, usually he was in the company of his family or holed away in his study worrying about expenses and the like, never did he take a moment to actually enjoy the grand weather such as the kind today. Determined to enjoy it, he sat down on a favorable bench and watched the birds swim across the pond.

“Unbelievable.”

He turned his head, only to find Lady Barlow dressed in a rather pleasantly pink dress and matching hat, a look of distaste on her face.

“I didn’t take you as the park-going type, Lord Bridgerton,” she nodded, folding her hands. She had been carrying a small red book in one of them. “Especially at such an early hour, too.”

“Lady Barlow,” he nearly sneered. “Can a man not enjoy the park?”

“Oh surely a man can,” (Y/N) agreed. “But you? You are no man.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It seems to me that you’re sitting in my spot,” she ignored his quip, readjusting her stance in annoyance. “This is where I come to read.”

“Can you not read elsewhere?” Anthony asked. “There is an entire park at your disposal.”

“No,” she hummed. “Afraid not.”

“No?” He laughed. “Surely out of the entire park you can find a suitable spot to read your—let me guess—romantically inclined fodder?”

“Poetry,” she corrected, “and no, I cannot simply read elsewhere. The shade is just right under this tree and I rather like overlooking the pond between my chapters.”

“Shame I got here first, then,” Anthony clicked.

“You…!” (Y/N) scoffed, fighting every urge in her body to stomp her foot. “You are an impossible man, surely you know that?”

“I thought you said I was no man?” Anthony’s brow quirked. “Or perhaps I misheard?”

She scowled. “You are not amusing.”

“On the contrary,” Anthony leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms and taking his claim. “I find myself very amusing.”

A duck quacked from the pond, either laughing at the viscount or agreeing with him—it was hard to tell. 

“You leave me no choice,” (Y/N) said sternly, taking a seat on the other end of the bench—feeling worlds apart from the man on the far side. In actuality, it couldn’t have been more than two feet, three at most.

“Truly?” Anthony laughed humorlessly. “You cannot be serious.”

“Hush,” (Y/N) said, opening her book in earnest. “I am trying to read.”

While there had been no guns drawn, this was a duel, in every sense of the word. Both parties sitting still as statues, Anthony’s gaze trained on the pond, (Y/N)’s on her book. Occasionally, she’d flip her page to the next, huffing every time Anthony still did not get up and move on. 

Stubborn. Both of them.

“Will you be quiet?” Anthony said, growing exasperated. “I cannot think when you are breathing so loud—” 

“You wish for me not to breathe?” She shut her book. “I never anticipated you’d wish me dead—”

“Please,” Anthony said. “You know that is not what I mean at all.”

“I never know with you. You, Anthony Bridgerton, are an enigma and I hope I never have the pleasure of truly understanding you,” (Y/N) said, fingers whiting from her grip on her book.

“So you admit it would be pleasurable?”

She wanted to wipe that grin off of his face, how, she was unsure. Idly, she thought about how a good smack to his cheek would feel. Painful in the moment but oh-so wonderful after, cathartic, probably. “I am not getting up.”

“Neither am I.”

“I am willing to die on this bench,” (Y/N) spat.

“Funnily enough,” Anthony’s voice dropped, “so am I.”

“How are you to find your viscountess on this bench?” She asked, angling her body towards the torturous man. “Surely you do not expect her to just walk past?”

“I am sure I can manage,” Anthony said calmly. “Many young ladies will walk this way when they see me sitting here."

“Even with another woman sitting beside you?”

“I rather think they’ll find you easy to ignore, I know I do.”

“Ha! You are truly something else, Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) sat straighter. “Insulting a polite woman in public?”

“You are the furthest thing from polite,” Anthony leaned in. “Rude, ostentatious, quite full of herself—”

“Might I offer you a mirror?” The grip on her book tightened, cover bending from the force. “Or are you afraid you’ll see horns?”

“Oh, do they match yours?” He nearly sang. 

“Funny,” she clicked, finally setting her book down, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “You should run a comedy act at the circus, seeing as you are a right clown.”

Anthony stood up, whether by the force of his breath or sheer spite he will never know. “You are the most ridiculous woman I have ever met.”

(Y/N) met his height, now standing as well. “And you are the most irritating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”

“I am going to walk this way,” Anthony said, forcefully pointing to his right, eyes not leaving hers. She did have the most remarkable eyes.

“And I will walk this way,” she pointed to her left, less force in her action but seething all the same. “Have the day you deserve, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Why you little…!”

She had already turned and stomped away, a fuming smudge of pink against the greenery of the park, growing further away with every step.

“What a wretched woman,” he mumbled, looking down at his watch again—nine on-the-dot. In the corner of his eye, something bright red caught his attention. Her book. She had left it behind.

Perhaps he would burn it.

Perhaps he would just put it in his pocket and carry about his day.

In the pocket it went. For now.

[jujutsukgojo]

My gifts to you

feitan portor x reader

Summary: You knew him for years for only moments at a time. Yet, you take it upon yourself to love and mourn him anyway, even when the world won't. tw: light smut, slight yandere feitan, spoilers, mentions of murder, light angst, fluff(?), injuries, cheating, time skips an: didn't mean for it to be this long. Feitan is a bit tricky for me but oh well :) kind of inspired by criminal minds 'no way out'. 10.8k

“If you tie it like this, it should stay, okay?” You tap the boy’s foot. Although he is smaller than you in height, his feet are bigger. It’s quite comical but you don’t dare laugh. In this blasted city, you’d be bound to die for such a thing. Especially if you laugh at someone with crazy hair and carries a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.  

  He says something in a foreign language that you can’t understand. If you are correct, it may be inverted Japanese. In the books that one kid collects, there is a country, Japan, where the common language originates. Since the common language isn’t his mother tongue, it makes you wonder where he’s from and why he’s here. 

  The boy stands up to his full, but short, height. You sit on random rubble and look up at him, waiting for what he’ll do next. Will he call over Phinks or even bring Uvogin? He hangs out with Phinks mainly but who knows these days. 

   Instead of swinging the bat at you or calling over his friends, he pats your head awkwardly. You don’t make any sudden movements or noises. The boy leaves right after. A sigh escapes your lips after he leaves you behind.  

   What's his name again? Feitain? 

__________

  In your hut, you slightly stir the food that sizzles in the pan you found. It’s rare to come across tomatoes and eggs but you managed this time. The smell is mouth watering. You hope no one else can smell it. 

As much as you want to live elsewhere, this is what you settle for at the moment. In another world, you’d be out of this city and somewhere clean and safe. Like the church or something. No, even better than the church. You’ve heard of the outside where there are bright flashing lights and diamonds and pearls on people’s necks. There are flowers of all colors out there. Different shapes, smells, and meanings, they’re all beautiful. You hear that food isn’t scavenged but bought or given to people without a price.  

   People said they’ve seen the safety of children your age that play without a care. There are parents for the lost kids and doctors for the injured. Clean clothes and showers on the regular. You can even see the sun clearly and the big, round moon that doesn't bring out the wolves in men. 

There are pastors and priests that don’t turn people away, either. Hell, you have even wondered if there were schools there that allow everyone to get in. You're sure that you are reading and doing math wrong. How embarrassing.  

Finally done, you place the food on a plastic plate you found. You made sure to wipe the grime off the plate and rinsed it with clean water before using it. Even though you can just eat out of the pan, you want to seem sophisticated like the outside. They don't eat out of pans or use dirty plates. 

  The food steams and is welcoming. Without a lot of utensils, you pick at it with your hands. It burns at first but you’re too hungry. The flavor bursts in your mouth. Even without the proper seasonings, it’s still heaven. You haven’t eaten in a while so you’ll take what you can get.  

   Suddenly, the boy, Feitan, enters your hut. You gasp and protectively cover your food. He brings his foot out. His shoe, which he stole, is untied again. You swallow the substance and point out, “I taught you how to tie them.” 

“Tie.” 

“I taught you.” You set your plate down.  

“Tie.” You roll your eyes and pat your thighs. He walks over to you and places his dirt caked shoe on your lap. Slowly, you tie them.  

“There, see? Come on now, you need to learn. A little boy can’t grow without tying his shoes.” 

“I’m not little boy.” You give a breathy chuckle. “Of course you are, honey.” 

  He leans in close to your face. “I’m older than you.”  

...He does hang out with Phinks, who is a couple years older than you. In fact, it is rare to see them apart. Is it possible that it’s true? Is Phinks the type to be friends with someone who is younger?

 Curious, you ask, “Then why are you so short?” His eyes widened in shock. Then, strangely, he laughs while patting your head harshly. Studying his face revealed what looks like the beginning of a sinister smile.

  He looks at your plate and sits down in front of you. You’re both on the dirt floor. 

 “Give me.” You scoff and snap at him. “No! Find your own!” 

The little beast decided that the two of you should ‘share’. He smacks on his food, making you want to punch him repeatedly. He’s gaunt and bony, but not really bad like last time. His face has a tiny bit of roundness to it. 

  “Stop staring.” He inhales a tomato. “You look better than last time.”

“Better?” He cocks his head to the side. The remnants of the tomato smeared a little on his cheek.

“Yeah, healthier.” He stares at you for a second. “Thanks.” His accent is thick, and you still can’t place it. Nevertheless, you understand. Afterwards, much to your surprise, he sleeps in your hut now that his belly is full. Satisfied and strangely not afraid, you follow suit. It’s nice to have a friend, however strange.

You are barely awake, sleep still heavy in your eyes, when you see him pop up. Drool is crusted on his cheek, and he rubs his eyes. He yawns and then spots you next to him. Feitan eyes the entry of the hut then back at you. He puts the only cover you have on you then pets your head. 

  Before he leaves, he places his bat in your hand. Feitan secures the entry as he exits the hut. 

_____________

  It’s been years since you and Feitan have talked. You've gotten familiar with him but when Sarasa had died in such a disrespectful and gruesome way, he withdrew. In the meantime, you waited for him and studied a power you discovered. No matter the eyes that were always on you, you didn’t care about the mysterious and hidden audience. 

  You don’t know what it’s called but it started when you witnessed some kid about to get her ass handed to her by some thugs. The man had moved a pair of scissors without using his hands. They aimed right towards her and in a moment of instinct, you rushed to push her out of the way. Unfortunately, the scissors stabbed you in the shoulder.  

  It was then did you feel the rush of a force so strong, that it knocked everyone away from you. A faint white light that glowed from your skin that only your eyes could see. As you looked around in shock, you saw that same glow coming from that man and his friends. 

  You were gasping when you fell to your knees. “I-I’m sorry. I can’t be here!” The girl your age ran for her life and left you behind. In a moment of fear, you call out to her to help you. You were so afraid; you couldn't tell if the screams were hers or yours. Given the situation, you were too rattled, terrified and hurt, to focus.

The men shook for a second then got up to face you. The blood from your shoulder wasn’t stopping its flow. Crimson red stained your clothes and the ground. It was all so strange, such an unusual feeling of adrenaline that you couldn’t help but memorize. Almost as if the world had finally made sense. Every single thing became so much clearer to your dismay.  

  The men came towards you with malicious intent. While putting pressure on your injury, you managed to kick one of their legs, causing them to buckle and hurt his knee. He screamed in agony. 

  “G-get away!” You try to stand. The press of your hand on the wound isn’t helping. Is it supposed to bleed this much? It hit your shoulder, but did it nick something?  

  You need to stop it, to heal and get away from them. In this city, people like you are in danger from men like them. If you don’t get away, you’ll end up like Sarasa. She was never really close to you. She was a nice girl who always looked for video tapes, so you'd help her from time to time. Yet, her death scarred everyone since it was so close to home. And now, you no doubt are facing the exact same situation. Wrong place, wrong time.  

   Same fate.  

You fell back on the ground and looked at the sky. It has always been so dirty, just like the city due to pollution. Still so young, you know you won’t see what it really looks like. In the corner of your eye, you spot something green. A small clover with four leaves. 

  One time, an old man told a story of how four-leaf clovers are a sign of good luck. By the intense feeling and pressure of your eyes, you know it’s not true. Pain in all ways makes tears fall from your eyes. Lips wobbling at how unfair everything is and that you will never see the sun. The outside must really be heaven, and for someone so young who hasn’t committed a sin, you are wondering if you can go.

  Suddenly, flowers that you never knew blossomed around you. The soft petals touched your filthy skin and got rid of the aches. The blood on your shoulder faded from view as well as the pain. A soft and beautiful hum whispered in your ear. You truly believed it to be in your head, an imagination of paradise as you leave. Heaven, they call it. You must be close to the outside world then. 

  This must be it, you thought. There was no pain from a strike or fear. Just closed eyes and peace. Something you know you couldn’t get in the atrocious city.  

It ends. You were shocked as the beautiful flowers disappeared. Heaven, would you reject someone? 

  The men didn’t hurt you. The one whose knee was broken was able to move his leg. His red hair kind of glowed in the sun, and brown eyes were wide. He muttered a soft ‘thank you’ and walked away without a limp. His friends followed.  

   After that, you had realized that your ability wasn’t anything like scissors or something scary. It was to heal and be healed.

Although after immediately learning this, you didn't go out of your way to find the source of the screams in the direction the people went. First was the girl, then the group of men. After what you went through, it didn't seem like a good idea. 

 Feitan, somehow, got wind of it. Now in his later teen years you both estimate, he sits still and points to his arm. There’s a gnarly gash oozing blood. You wonder how he’s not feeling this and if he is, how he isn’t even fazed.  

  You gently pick up his arm and inspect it. He's thin but has clear definition in his arms. You haven’t seen him in so long that you are surprised by his growth. Hell, he’s taller now. Still short, but at least he grew.  

  In a jar, you take a premade petal. This is a way for you to save energy and reach people when you physically can’t tend to. Acting as a pill, you make sure that people can get infections out. For some reason, illnesses and infections are particularly tricky and tiring for you.  

  “Eat this, Feitan.” He frowns. “No.” You sigh. “It’s infected. You need to eat this so I can heal it right.” 

  “It’s not.”   

Rolling your eyes you bring his wound to his face. “This, this is infected. It's literally oozing pus.” How long did this go on? Was he really that hesitant to just come and see you?

  He growls and takes the delicate petal and places it in his mouth. “Stop pouting.”  

“Not pouting. It’s nasty.” He’s not wrong. It has a bitter taste and when chewed, a slimy texture. The color of the disintegrating petal leaves a stain in the mouth as well. If not for the benefits, no one would even bother. They'd be just as offended as Feitan.  

  The pus stops and clears up. “Alright, this’ll leave a scar.”  

You blow on your hand so that flowing blossoms surround him. Beautiful shades of pink and white go through his hair. With a gentle caress, you see the flurries touch his wound. It starts to encourage his own healing.  

  As much as you want to do the full thing, you’re tired. All day you’ve been working and collecting payments. Not to mention facing the disappointment of them being useless. You want to kick yourself for not getting paid first. But the sight of those grateful people and healed kids softens your heart.  

  Soon, it stops once the injury becomes manageable. You’re about to wrap it when a hand stops you. “What’s this?”  

  “Feitan, I'm tired. You caught me at a bad time.” You try to move your hand but he stops you. He's a lot stronger than you remember. “Heal.” 

His fluency isn’t the greatest still.  

“I’m tired! Just let it heal the rest of the way.” No matter how much you try to yank your hand away, his grip is too strong. “Please, Feitan...”  

  Surprisingly, he lets go and from what you can see, the subtle white glow appears and heals him the rest of the way, leaving small flames. “Feitan...what was that?” 

  He rolls his eyes and plops down on a chair. He says nothing and just relaxes, or at least that’s what he’s trying to make it seem like. It has been a while since you’ve seen him, but that doesn’t make you blind to his behaviors…sometimes. 

   “As a transmuter, I can heal a little by using enhancer,” He looks at you suspiciously. “You know nothing about nen?”

“Nen?” You put the gauze and other items in a black bag. It was found in the safe zone by the church. Apparently, it belonged to a doctor from the outside. The bag had all kinds of necessities. Gauze, medicine, some syringes, disinfectant, a thermometer, all kinds of stuff that you’ve had to use sparingly. What you save in the bag, you make up for with your ability. 

  He smacks his lips and calls you a ‘dumb brat’. “You use nen but don’t know it?”

Sighing, you ask, “What is nen, Feitan?” 

“What you do. Use your aura and stuff.” His arms are crossed, and he looks at you expectantly. You gather that he likes knowing things you don’t. It’s like a weak power trip. 

  But it is nice to finally have a name and explanation for it. And that’s what he did this time. Visiting you for a moment just to pick with you while teaching you something you should have known. 

“Wait, if you could do that, why’d you come here?” He just shrugs.

------

When you see him again, he brings his friends along. You immediately recognize some of them. Phinks, who ran with Feitan, the boy who always collected books, and Uvogin, the giant who was always claiming territory and beating people up. 

  Feitan should be twenty now. It’s hard to tell since he looks youthful. He points to his friend, the boy with the books, and orders, “Heal.”

“You can do it, Feitan, remember?” You were in the middle of cleaning when he and the rest of his posse pop up. They look flustered and a little worse for wear. 

  “Heal.” He always does crap like this. You roll your eyes at first. The body they carry tugs on your strings a bit. 

“Fine. Put him on the table.” Thankfully, it’s cleaned, and a new wrapping has been placed on it. Gently, the man is put on it. You spot the cross tattoo on his forehead. Ah, that’s where Feitan has been. Lately, there’s been whispers of the Phantom Troupe. Merciless killers and thieves from Meteor City that have been gaining respect over the years. Your opinion of them isn’t the greatest but it also isn’t the worst. You appreciate them for standing up for Meteor City, but their methods are questionable.

   You sigh and begin to undress the boy with the cross. “Is that necessary?” 

You continue to pull off his clothes, not bothering to answer the question the girl asked. If she can’t understand why you need to remove his clothes, then that’s on her. She scoffs after another female voice answers her question. 

  You finally see his wound. Feitan can heal himself to a degree, but you don’t think this guy can. The gash is deep and sewed with makeshift stitches. There’s no nen involved, surprisingly. Given that Feitan is an avid user, you thought his friends would be keen on it too. 

“He’s a specialist. Enhancer techniques are harder for him.” Phinks spoke. He must've understood your confusion. 

“And the stitches?” You gently investigate the area. It’s an angry red around it and, like you suspected, infected. It wasn’t properly taken care of. You begin to remove the stitches. You wonder what the thread is made of and how long this has been going on. 

“He,” Phinks points to Uvogin. “And him,” He then points to another large man with long ears. “Thought they could do it. Normally, Machi heals us but they were away from her. Her stitches would have helped him but not any infections.”

  “Ah, well this requires more than I thought.” You touch the ground and out comes a beautiful swirl of flowers. Underneath the moving petals is a blooming sunflower. It picks the guy up so he rests on it. The bed of the flower glows softly and becomes warm. His once wincing face is now peaceful. His injury is slowly closing and the red is beginning to turn pink. 

“The downside of this is that it takes a while. It’ll be all healed up in about an hour or so.”

“ An hour?” Uvogin, who has abandoned his afro and traded it for long standing hair. “Feitan, I thought you said she was good? We could’ve gone to that one guy and got it done right then and there.”

“She’s the best. Wait.” His hands are in his pockets and he moves. Feitan looks around and touches whatever he pleases. You try not to focus on his compliment. You wonder if the reason he moved from your line of sight is because he got embarrassed. If so, you won’t tease him. The Troupe are killers, afterall. 

   You start to feel the weight of your nen. This technique requires more effort than the others. Feitan explained it to you but you never did get the hang of it. You just know what to do instinctively. You were proud that you could do any of this without a teacher.

 What you’re sure of is that this man, whatever his name is, is giving you a crap ton of money after this or there’ll be hell to pay. 

   You feel something tickling the side of your face. The wrapper is red and unopened. You take the energy bard gratefully. “Thank you, Feitan.”

A couple of the Troupe members complain about the time. Machi or Mochi or whatever, the pink haired one, especially complains and criticizes for some reason. You have never seen this person before in your life yet here she is pouting. 

  “You okay?” You see the blond boy with big blue eyes study you closely. He moves closer to your face. A smile never leaves his face. Before you can answer, Feitan, who hasn’t left your side since you ate the bar, answers for you. 

“She’s fine. I’m watching her.”

You hear a couple of snickers. Feitan glares daggers at the offenders. You take a deep breath and ignore the friends who decided to crowd inside your hut. The boy with the forehead tattoo lies peacefully. Although you are running out of steam, his wound is healing nicely. One of the women, you believe it’s Pakunoda, comes to you and bends down. 

“Can I get you anything?” You discover that your throat is absolutely parched. “Some water, please.”

  If you remember correctly, the last you saw of her was when her head was shaved and some outsider kid did it. She had always kept it short. And now, it’s on her shoulders and very sleek. Over the years she’s drastically changed.

  You drink the water, which to your surprise, is clean. “Hey, how did this happen anyway?”

  “Don’t ask questions.” Feitan quickly shuts you down. Before you can ask anything more, you notice the entire group of friends are quiet. 

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about, okay?” You nod at the blonde boy with blue eyes and a permanent smile. Completing the hour, the tattoo guy is up. He’s immediately impressed. “My name’s Chrollo Lucilfer. Yours?” He puts out his hand for you to shake. 

  “Yeah, the book collector-theater nerd-kid, right? My name’s-” Before you can even answer, Feitan does it for you. 

  He gives your name and how your Nen works. He’s quick with it, too. You side eye Feitan for a second. “Thanks, Feitan. I, uh, really needed a spokesperson.”

“Ah, I guess it can’t be helped then, Feitan?” There’s tension in the air. It’s thick and heavy. By the looks of it, neither one is backing down. “Um, it’s not a big deal that he answered for me, you do know that, right?”

  Seconds pass through this. You look around for anyone to intervene with this. Whatever the hell is going on, it’s deep. “Since Fei explained it, why not have her join?”

“Positions are filled.” Chrollo still stares directly into Feitan’s eyes. Phinks nervously chuckles, once again trying to defuse the situation. “Fei, come on. No fighting. Right boss?”

  Suddenly, it’s lifted. Chrollo has what looks like a practiced smile on his face. “That’s true. That’s a rule.”

  Chrollo takes a glance at you. “She obviously means a lot to you. Clearly, she’s an asset, too.”

  “I’m right here, jackass.” Feitan smacks you on the head. “I’ll handle her.” 

  The others sigh in relief. Momentarily, you’re a little offended. “It was nice meeting you.”

They exit your hut right after, leaving Feitan behind. “So. those were your friends, huh?”

“Watch tongue.” You smack your lips and roll your eyes. There is blood on the floor and on the table. The furniture is in disarray due to all of his friends having no home training.  “I haven’t seen you in forever and this is how you greet me?”

 He frowns. “I say hello all the time.” You turn to him. “When? I didn’t see you.”

Feitan huffs and kicks the ground lightly. You get up to move the furniture back to place. Your movements are slow and everything seems so much heavier. Everything is swirling right before your eyes. Your head hurts and yet feels so light. Before you meet the ground, Feitan takes you to the couch and lays you down. 

  “I haven’t seen you in so long, little boy…” Those were the last words you say before you drift to sleep. 

Hours later, you wake up at the sound of birds. There is a beautiful blue blanket on you with golden yellow designs. It’s thick and so warm you could stay forever. You’ve never owned anything like this. 

  Slowly you get up and search for Feitan. He’s nowhere to be found much to your dismay. Last night’s conversation still stays with you. He insisted that he says hello all the time. That he sees you regularly, yet, you haven’t seen him at all. 

  The blanket, the wind chime, the medical supplies, the various decorations with stones, paint and if you weren’t smart, you’d say gold. Could Feitan have been the one to give you gifts? Silently watching over you and in his own way, saying hello? You have felt like you were being watched for years. 

____________

  “Do you understand why I didn’t welcome you?”

“No, and I never will. Now please, leave me alone.” You feel convicted by turning a man of God away, but can he truly be one when he left a child to suffer? You were in the cold, wind, and rain, alone in one of the worst parts of the city. All you had was Feitan, and he was there once in a blue moon. After the rejection from the church, you took it upon yourself to care for others as no one had ever cared for you. Although hurt and afraid, you chose not to spread that toxicity. You decided that no matter the size of change, it still works. 

 However, you will not fall prey to the same people. For instance, that girl you saved and this priest. How can he expect your services with no repentance or atonement? You forgive, but like hell will you forget. 

Damn…you were so sure you were over the pain of your past. That the change you made within yourself and how you treat people so no one else suffers like you, would stick. Alas, all it takes is one person to bring it down. You want to kick yourself because of the regression. Then again, the hostility isn’t your fault.

You walk into the hallway with small statues, stone walls, and large windows. The sun shines brightly through them, making the church seem prettier than it is.

“Please-”

“She said no.” Feitan stands with his hands in his pockets, the sun shining on his pale skin. It has been a few months since the incident with Chrollo. You haven’t seen any of them but have felt eyes on you, which you have deduced was Feitan. However, you learned the truth of the blanket. The name stitched on it belonged to an old clan, the Kurta, that was mutilated, tortured, and murdered by the Phantom Troupe. It disgusts you. The blanket is comfortable but still. 

Feitan, the boy who you taught to tie his shoes, gave you a trophy of his crime. You wanted to burn it, or bury it in the memory of the Kurta, yet you couldn’t. It’s a gift from the one consistent person in your life. Your protector and giver. So, you folded it and put it in a box. 

   Now, here he is like he’s done nothing wrong. Defending you and putting the man that’s been with the city for ages in his place. You’re shocked at his behavior. 

  “Feitan, surely you must understand!” 

“Shut up.” Father Rizole took a step back in surprise. Feitan was one of his regulars, if you remember correctly. This must be a surprise for the aging priest. 

You hum at the scene. Even though the rumors of what the Troupe has done bothers you, it doesn’t mean you aren’t opposed to the benefits. The priest backs up and sighs. 

“If you ever reconsider, please, let me know. We could use your help.”

“I could’ve used it too.” You end the conversation there and leave. Feitan soon follows you. He’s silent on his feet and very fast. Feitan was behind you but his quick feet caught up in less than a second. Now, he walks right at your side. 

“So, you just decide when you want to see me?” 

Feitan shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

Sighing, you turn to him and ask, “What do you need this time?” The lower half of his face is hiding under a plain cowl now. His eyes show all of the emotion needed. “I just hang out.”

  The sun is too hot for this nonsense. Sweat trickles down your face and back, becoming sticky. “So that’s why you’re here, right? I’m shocked.”

Before he can say your name, you continue. “Oh! And let's not forget the little massacre that took place, huh? Yeah, being used to heal your friend from that was really fun.”

“I didn’t.”

 You roll your eyes. “No, just that one guy. That’s who to you, again?”

“Boss.” You scoff at his short answer. Then, you think about the possibility. “Your boss? Then…doing that to the Kurta, wasn’t your idea, was it?”

“No, not mine.” His hands remain in his pockets. His hair blows in the wind slightly. You realize he hasn’t gotten a haircut in a while. 

“If you could, you know, go back in time…would you still do it?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no thought put into the answer. Just a plain as day answer and a tone that leaves no room for an explanation. 

“So whatever he wants he just gets? As long as it aligns with your twisted mind, right?”

  His eyes grow darker. “I save you.”

You point to the church. “No, no you didn’t. That guy wasn’t going to do anything to me. I had it handled.”

Shaking your head, you go to leave until a hand wraps around your wrist. “Boss takes nen. I didn’t let him.”

  Was that what that was? That tension that day that was suffocating? Remembering that day, you start to form pieces. “Would he hurt you if you didn’t go along with his schemes?”

“No.” 

Well there goes that idea. “Nevermind.”

You try to yank your wrist from his grip, but it’s iron tight. “Let me go!”

“I protect you, always. Bad people here, everywhere. I get dirty for you.” His face is indifferent but his words give it away. The plea for you to understand and realize, dare you say, his devotion to his friends. Does this include you?

Is that what it is? What friendship, this connection is? You are aware of the deeds the Troupe do. You understand why they thought it would be a good idea (somewhat anyway). 

“Thank you, then.” He lets go of your wrist which was grabbed painfully tight. He trades that in for holding your hand instead. You are shocked at first, but if you make it a big deal, he’ll stop. You don’t want him to right now. 

  Not when you feel safe. You still want to kick yourself… and maybe throw in a punch.

_____

Apparently, the Troupe have gone their separate ways for now. They don’t cling onto each other for a long period of time after a job. It’s better that way since it has a lesser chance of them getting caught. They still hang out from time to time, though. 

For you, you managed to get out of Meteor City after the argument with the priest. Feitan had gone to do another heist with Phinks, if you remember right. You took that moment to skip town. You never wanted to stay in the trash, anyway. 

  And you were right to! Everything you thought of as a child about the world outside was true! Sure, people can be rude and things can be corrupt, but you’re fed and resting. There are bright lights and kind people. It can be clean and the soap smells so good. Just the other day you got to experience a nail salon. Rather than stealing from you, the lady next to you, Jade, talked about her family. Her daughter is Ruby and her wife is Scarlet. Jade and Scarlet want another child. You offered the name Emerald. 

  In Meteor City, you would’ve had to fight. Now, you are making friends and offering beautiful names. It’s a stark contrast that is fully welcomed. 

  The sun is bright and the moon is sometimes round. It doesn’t always attract evil and can sometimes sing such a beautiful melody. There are pearls and diamonds. There are seasonings that make the food taste unbelievably good. It’s all expensive, but infinitely better than Meteor. 

And Nen is a secret here. In the city, many knew about it and used it without discretion. Here it’s different. Like a secret identity for a hero. Your nen in particular isn’t used as much as it was before. Your ability was so tiring. Pretty and incredibly useful, but exhausting nonetheless. 

  It has been a few years since you saw him, but he’s seen you. He found you quickly, too. When you came home from your office job (which you are still ecstatic about, by the way) you noticed a new painting in your house. It was dull and in black and white. The painting is of a few plants that take the center stage. Actually, they’re your nen plants. In the background is what looks like your old city. Piles of rubbish and polluted air in black swirls. There are clouds above and a dark sun barely poking out. 

  It’s sad. Beautiful, but sad. You have wondered what he meant by it. You open the door to your apartment. It’s not much and one day you want to get a house. 

  The keys make a jingle when you set them on the countertop. The apartment is still dark, so you scramble to flip the switch. “Why you leave?”

You scream at the top of your lungs. Standing there nonchalantly is Feitan, who you haven’t had contact with in a hot minute. His hair is even longer than before. He wears a new cowl that has a skull on it over his face. His trench coat looks a little too big for him but he wears it well anyway. 

  “Uh, because I live here? What are you doing here?” You set your bag down and take off your short heels. Although he’s a murderer, you still feel safe with him. 

 He takes slow strides towards you. “ Why? I looked for you and you weren’t there.”

“You knew where I was. I got your presents,” You point to the painting. He hides his face a little in the fabric. “I like it by the way. Did you do it?”

“Shut up.” You sigh and walk into your kitchen. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

 You begin to wash the rice. Your eyes switch from looking down to taking obvious glances at him. Right about now, he should be in his mid twenties. It’s amazing how long you’ve known each other. You remember him as that kid who didn’t know how to tie his shoes and him teaching you about Nen. Time flies so fast when you least expect it. 

  You crack the eggs and whisk them. The sound of the utensil against the bowl and the sizzle of the tomatoes in the pan is all that is heard. Feitan doesn’t make one sound. He opts to stare at you working and even has a glint in his eye which you think could be satisfaction. 

  “Do you still like this, by the way? I remember you snatching it.” You try not to smile at the memory. 

 “I do.” He hovers in your kitchen, just waiting, watching you do all of the work. Stingy bastard. After adding the seasonings, you could have never gotten in Meteor City, you fix him a plate. He happily accepts it and sits down on the floor. 

“I have a tab-” Oh, the memory. Allowing yourself to smile, you sit with him and eat off of his plate. “We’re sharing. ”

 He gives a slight growl but doesn’t do anything. “So, what brings you by?”

“I say hello.” You hum with a mouth full of food. “Well, hello to you too, little boy.”

He gives you a light kick. The two of you finish the plate. Both full, you just lay back and talk. 

“How long are you staying?” 

“Not long.” You’ll miss him. “Running from the cops again?”

“Need to hide out for a bit.” You nod, accepting his answer and that your connection will probably always be sweet moments. “It’s nice to have you here, even only for a moment.”

  Feitan taps you again with his foot. “I’m always here. I say hello all the time.” You know and are fully aware of what he means. His odd little gifts decorate your house. To bones, to rugs, even a china set he stole. It’s routine for him to give you something, even when you don’t see him. 

“Even though you run.” He kicks you again. The more you watch him, the more your chest tightens. He’s the only consistent thing in your life. Everything is fleeting. Your job is new as well as your relationship with your coworkers. But there is a line with them. Feitan is different.

  “How long are we going to do this dance?”

“I don’t dance.” You roll your eyes and laugh. “I mean you coming by once in a blue moon.” 

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.” You nod. “Figures.”

He frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, that this whole thing is tiring. You come and go like some kind of feral cat.”

  “So?”

You sputter, “ So I don’t appreciate it.” He takes off his long coat and reveals his chest, next goes his shoes. “I sleep here.”

“You can’t use me!” He gets up and goes in the direction of your room. “Feitan!” You pick up his clothes and set them aside. “Do you hear me? I wasn’t done talking!”

  On your bed is a sprawled out Feitan. He looks at you with squinted eyes. “Shut up, I’m trying to sleep.”

  Like always, he makes himself at home. You sigh, giving up on trying to talk to him. “Move over.” 

  He scoffs and reluctantly moves out of your way. You feel him tense up as you lay down. “This is my bed. I can sleep here.”

  You face each other as you lay down. Neither of you say anything about how close you are. This is probably the closest you’ve ever been since you helped him tie his shoes the second time. You feel his eyes on you, making you nervous. “Stop staring at me.”

  “Never sleep with someone in a while.” You know. The last time was with you, no doubt. At the time, you didn't think about it, if you remember correctly. It's hard to tell since it's been so long. 

“The couch is that way.” He smacks his lips. “No, you go.” You open your eyes. 

“Like I said, this is my bed.” Feitan doesn’t say anything about your ownership. Instead, he’s honest with you. “I’m tired.”

  Instantly, you start to feel a little bad. In the city, no child was ever able to fully sleep. It was too dangerous, especially in the more dangerous districts. Him being honest about his state, you take it as a step. 

  “If you want to, I’ll be on the lookout.” His hands are next to yours. You grab them, just like he did those few years ago. “You can sleep now, Feitan.” 

  You don’t know when, don’t know how either, but you two do end up sleeping. His eyes are closed and his breath even. Your eyes flutter open and see that he’s got slight dark under eyes and his mouth leaking drool. Feitan looks peaceful, sleepy, like he hasn’t done this in a while. 

  The next morning, he’s gone with no evidence he was even there.

_________________

  You watch on the tv screen above the bank about the attack on York New, a city not too far from you. The attack happened a few days ago but it’s still in the headlines. You don’t blame them, to be honest. It was an insane event that over two thousand people died! 

  You cling onto your boyfriend’s arm. He touches your hand reassuringly. His watch gleams in the moonlight and his suit is perfectly pressed. He's the entire package, he’s perfect. A good job, good manners, an honest man, and treats you well, too. He always holds the chair out for you and gets up when you leave the room. Just like a true gentleman. 

  When you first met, it was a classic coffee shop romance. Then it blossomed into a romantic and expensive dinner, the movies, a nighttime walk in the park, all of the classic dates. In every single one of them he was the perfect gentleman, the perfect man. You like him and how he treats you. How consistent he is. He's the type of man you can rely on. 

  Nevertheless, there is a bothersome voice in the back of your head that reminds you of someone he just isn’t. He’s not Feitan Portor. You don’t feel the contentment Feitan gives when the two of you sleep. You don’t study your boyfriend’s features like you did Feitan.

Dammit, why are you thinking of him? He’s not around and you haven’t seen him in what? Two or three years? So why think of him now. Plus, you haven’t received a gift or a ‘hello’ from him. For all you know, he could be dead.

  “Are you alright?” You wake from your thoughts and look at your boyfriend. His hair is dark, blending in with the night. Eyes kind and green, a Grecian nose, and average sized lips revealing a dazzling smile. Not only is the very essence of him suave, but his looks are also perfect. Tall and handsome, well dressed and a smooth voice. 

It's just that one five foot one pest that won’t get out of your head. 

  “Y-yeah just…it’s all so shocking. York New is literally over there.” You point past the river where more tall buildings reside in the distance.

“I know, I know.” He brings you in close to him. He places a kiss on your head. “Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you.” 

Suddenly, the newscaster stops mid sentence and gasps. Before you know it, the Phantom Troupe have been named the offenders that caused all of this. Two thousand people. Feitan, did you really kill that many people?

“I would like to go home. I don’t feel the greatest.” He rubs your arm, you still being tucked into his side. Your excuse was a lie to cover the gnawing feeling towards Feitan and his deeds. Although the Phantom Troupe’s original intentions were from a decent stand point, it seems they’ve lost their way. Feitan has lost his way. 

  The gifts have stopped coming, him no longer saying hello. After the last time, when you made him familiar food and sat in a comfortable silence, he disappeared. This time, there was something about it that hurt. Like he didn’t want to come around. He didn’t want to say hello anymore. Or perhaps, he died which if confirmed, you would ache beyond help. 

  “The Phantom Troupe is dead.” The newscaster said. The crowd gasped, shocked that the most feared criminals in the world are gone. Did you jinx it? Curse the little boy who needed you to tie his shoes. The boy who liked your cooking and made sure you rested. Had strong faith in you, never doubting. Protected you from the shadows and held your hand. 

  Is he really gone? 

You hide your face in your boyfriend’s jacket. Tears stream from your eyes at the thought of his grave. With the Troupe, his friends dead, you’d be the only one to truly mourn him. To remember his name beyond his violence. 

You clutch your chest. “Are you okay? Does your chest hurt?” He grabs you by your shoulders, making you face him. He’s such a kind, decent man. But he’s not Feitan Portor. 

  “I just need to rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.” You give him a chaste kiss goodbye. Once he leaves, your chest hurts even more. You slide down as you look around at all the menace’s little gifts. The painting, the skull, the windchimes, everything he’s given you. Why, oh why, couldn’t you stay here long enough for your gift, Feitan?

Wait, what could you have given him anyway? He’s a thief that takes what he pleases and has nothing to wish for. 

You lay on your couch and put your arm over your face. The tears refuse to stop for even just a second. You don’t know what you’re crying harder for. Feitan or the confusing feelings for him. Now that he’s gone, you can’t properly tell him. How can you explain it? 

  It’s heavy on your chest and tightens it. You want to feel his body heat no matter how hot the day is. There are no small flutters in your stomach at the thought of him. No, it's something in your heart. You want to stare at him, to memorize every feature he has. To hear his soft voice that is just a centimeter away from a whisper. Just melt in his touch, his presence. Wait, why is this happening? You barely knew him! Does that fact even matter though?

 You slip your hand in your underwear, still staring at the ceiling, sniffling at the news of his death. You imagine the future. Seeing him walk into your house and setting his belongings on the table. Wrapping his arms around you and kissing your back. No matter how long you’ve known him, his stature never fails to amuse you. He’d paw at your body, tearing off your clothes. Feitan wouldn’t hesitate to use his hands for your pleasure. 

  You trace your fingers in the direction you think he’d go. Curling your fingers inside, thrusting them in harshly, knowing that he can only be gentle in his own way. Your back arches from the couch. You swear you can smell him and the faint metallic scent that he holds. The feeling of his ragged breath on your cheek you could swear is real. 

  You moan as you take that jump you’ve searched for. Thinking of how good Feitan would make you feel. You're relentless on yourself, still going as strong as he’d be. Adding another finger, going faster and faster on your clit. Your moaning gets louder as the indiscernible amount of time goes on. 

‘ The Phantom Troupe is dead.’

You crash on the couch with one last gasp. The dream of the two of you ends in flames. The house, the passion, the years that go by in that home. Maybe even a child or two. Seeing him in the morning with a groggy voice is gone. Rubbing his eyes and saying he wants more eggs and tomatoes is no longer there.

  What would your gift be to Feitan? Memories? Sex? Food? Nothing fits. He can have those with anyone. 

  You slip yourself out from your underwear. It didn’t distract you. Perhaps if you thought of your boyfriend, it would have. But the feelings you have towards Feitan went beyond physical. What is this? What do you call this?

  Love? Time stops at the realization. It has to be that. That would have been your gift to him. Love. You cover your mouth as you admit it to yourself. 

'I love you Feitan Portor. I won’t forget you. I love your messed up hair and soft voice. For how you didn’t reject me when the world did. I will do the same for you. I’ll look past your torturous ways and miss you anyway. Maybe the world will curse you, but I’ll mourn you. Bury you so no one can spit on you anymore. I love you Feitan. 

   I’m in love with you Feitan Portor. This is my gift to you. For you to know that you will not be forgotten even though I never got to tell you, to thank you for everything. For leaving the baseball bat with me to protect myself. For painting that picture for me. All of the little gifts you thought I’d like, too. Thank you for protecting me from the priest and the wolves that hunted me every day when we were young.'

You stare at the ceiling till the earliest of mornings. It’s still dark, still heavy with the night sky. There’s some rumbling in the distance, a flash of light in the sky. You don’t bother to confirm anything. 

Just as you close your eyes, the window opens with a creak. You move your eyes to see the figure before you. The darkness covers it, only leaving the silhouette. “Why cry?”

You squint, trying to make out the features.  “Are you real?”

“Very.” It must be a lie. A cruel humor the world has. “Stop crying.” 

“I can’t. Not when you sound like him.” The figure cocks his head, that much you can see with the flash of lightning behind him. “Him?”

“Someone who can’t tie his shoes.” Your lip wobbles again. “I can tie them now.” The moon glows enough to show his face now as he steps up to you. Feitan’s delicate features peek out from his cowl. 

 You shake your head in denial. “It’s not real. It can’t be. You’re dead, Fei.” Your voice is hoarse from your sobs. 

  He looks shocked at your words. The man who looks like Feitan smacks your feet off the end of the couch so he can sit. 

“I’ll miss you Feitan Portor.” The longer you stare at the imaginary man, the more you hurt. “Well, stop.”

  He roughly wipes away the tears. “Ugly when you cry.” His face is close to yours. Since he’ll be gone by the time you come to your senses, you grab his face and kiss him. He sharply inhales, not expecting your sudden decision. 

  He growls against your lips, “Stupid brat.” 

  He feels real. He smells real, familiar too. You tell him such and with furrowed brows and a strong grip of his hand, he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him. “I’m real, you idiot.”

“They said you died…” You comb his hair through your fingers. It’s real, he's real . So, what’s going on? Before you can ask him, he cradles you. “Stop crying or I’ll go.”

  Your lips wobble at his threat. Rather than listening to it, you hug him. He nestles on top of you, hips placed between yours. He’s light, lighter than you thought so it isn’t a bother.

  “You’re so ugly when you cry. Don’t cry.” He holds you closer and kisses your head. Against your ear, you feel his lips move. You can’t tell what he’s mouthing. When the two of you comfortably slept those years ago, that was the closest you’ve been. Now, this beats that record. Face to face, body to body, and sharing breaths. 

  After a few moments of thunder and lightning, he kisses you gently. Not at all like the desperate one like before. Realistically, you know these feelings you have for him seem fake. You’ve only had a few moments with him. So, why are they so significant? Are they with him too? Is it possible that love can blossom quickly?

  Gentle kisses turn passionate, never wanting to separate. Little nibbles on the right places and sucks on all of the best ones. Clothes leave, not wanting to get between the two friends, those who dance around each other. For the first time, they meet. 

His hands reach your throat as he kisses you, making sure to give it a light squeeze. His weight is still on you, not hurting in the slightest. Feitan makes sure his hand reaches below and swirls his thumb on your bud. You gasp, surprised you were right about how he’d do it. Every ministration he does is exactly how it was pictured. Your hands don’t compare to it. Not by a long shot. 

  Despite his size, his hands are still bigger than yours. They reach deeper than you and are thicker too. In no time, you come, the bliss lasting a good minute before he sheathes himself inside. His thickness is more than you thought. It’s a bit of a stretch, but in a good way. 

  His gasps quicken with every thrust. You can tell that you're being loud, way louder than when you touched yourself. Feeling the rush and strength of his movements has you claw his back in ecstasy. He groans at the sensation. Finally, after this time of passion and intimacy, you both hold each other as you fall off of that cliff.

  Feitan looks into your eyes. With a softness that no one in the world could’ve predicted the torturer of the Phantom Troupe to have, kisses you. “Don’t cry anymore. Don’t cry.”

 “It’s hard not to when I know you’ll leave.” Silently, Feitan removes himself from inside you. It’s become routine, so you expect him to walk out. He lays back down, his head on your stomach. You run your fingers through his hair. He needs a haircut. 

--

 You wake up, not realizing that you went asleep in the first place. Before you can get up, you feel pressure on your stomach. Feitan rests on you still, eyes completely closed and his face peaceful. The two of you are naked and the only source of heat is each other. As much as you want to wrap your arms around him, you know he’ll react negatively or at least flinch. 

  Soon after, he stretches and rubs his face against your stomach. Like before, he drooled in his sleep. “Good morning.” 

He grunts in response and sits up on his heels. It takes him a moment to remember the night before. His eyes widen as he looks you up and down, making you highly aware of your current state. You cover yourself with a blanket draped over the couch. 

  “I have to go.” Ah, right. He’s a cat. 

He gets dressed. Once he has his boots on, you see him tie them the way you taught him. “Proud of you. You finally learned huh?”

 “Brat.” You laugh a little at him. Once he’s done you ask, “Will I ever see you again?"

He cradles your face. “I come back.” You nod, holding back tears. He studies your face and settles on your eyes. He must have realized that you were trying not to cry. His hands still remain on your face as he kisses you. He lingers there for a minute. A parting kiss, a meaningful one. 

  Something tells you that this feral cat isn’t going away anytime soon. That he’ll always be constant and you won’t be totally alone. A companion you won’t see everyday and only for a night. 

 This is the gift you’ll give him. You’ll be home for him. 

___________________

Months later, news about the Chimera Ants came out. You had already broken up with your boyfriend and heard he had left town to avoid them. Of course, you followed suit and got the hell out of there. 

  Without any plan, you moved back to Meteor City, where you thought that they wouldn’t be. Alas, that was stupid. You made a home base in the residential area. Not knowing that Meteor City was plagued by the wretched beasts. 

  By God’s grace, you managed to avoid them due to you being in the residential district. News that the Phantom Troupe were home to fight them ran rampant. The thought of Feitan made you nervous and you don’t know why. 

  Suddenly, right as you put away your dishes, the door opened. You grabbed a knife and faced the intruder. Standing there was the Phantom Troupe, who once again, barged into your home like they owned the place. 

  “What the hell?” You shout. The first one is Phinks with a wide smile. “There she is! Fei, I found her!”

  You put your hand on your hip. “Seriously, what are you doing her-you’re dragging in mud, take off your shoes!”

 “It’s only a little.” Phinks pouts. “I don’t care! You don’t live here.” 

Phinks and his friends grumble as they do as they’re told. The last one to enter the house is Feitan, who is notably holding his left arm. Without being told, he removes his shoes. 

  “Feitan…” He hasn’t faced you yet. “What happened to your arm?” 

“I’m injured too, (Y/n)!” The smiling boy with round eyes whines. You have no idea what his name is. Only that he and the rest are in Feitan’s gang. 

  “Alright, let me see.” He lays down on your clean table and says, “It’s all over. I need the full treatment!” 

  “Ugh, fine.” You grumble under your breath about the disrespect and your poor table. Finally, Feitan sits on one of the pushed aside chairs. He says, “I need it too.”

  “Big babies.” 

You heal the biggest cry baby completely. The blond, whose name you now know as Shalnark, stretches. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve been hurting all day!”

  Rolling your eyes, you turn to Feitan who has been silent. He holds out his arm for you. You take the limb and inspect it. 

 “Completely shattered.” He grunts in agreement. He stares into your eyes and gives you a familiar slight smile. You notice that his friends are quiet, not a sound or word among them. 

“You guys alright?” You ask. The girl shakes her head yes and ‘whispers’ to the rest. “Should we leave them alone?”

  “Probably.” A mummy with boxing gloves answers. You’ve never seen him before in your life. 

“Uh, we’ll check the place out. Y’know, make sure it’s safe.” Shalnark shoos the little kid out and into a separate room, your bedroom. “We’ll clear this out in case you guys need it!”

  You huff and roll your eyes. Feitan’s cheeks are red and he’s glaring daggers at his friends. The girl goes outside with the remaining three to check the area. You and your feral cat are alone. 

“What are they checking for? I’m in a residential area.” 

“Ants.” 

  “They’re here? In the safe zone?” You begin to panic until he grabs your hand. “You’re safe now. They’re not in the city anymore.”

“Wha-how? What’s going on?”

  He pinches you lightly, encouraging you to heal his wounds. “Oh, right, right.” Flowers of all colors circle around. They begin to smooth over Feitan’s wounds. You take a second to wipe the blood off of his lip, letting there be some room for the petals to go. 

“How’s the other guy look?”

“She's toasted.” You smile. “Atta boy.”

  He’s healed, the petals and flowers disappear. You lick your lips at the sight of his bare chest. You didn’t notice before due to the audacity of these heathens barging in. 

  His heart rate quickens. “You leave again.”

You nod. “Yeah, yeah I did. I had to, Fei. the Chimera Ants invaded. I had to run.”

“With your boyfriend?”

You let out a small gasp. “ No. How do you know that?” He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair. “You lie.”

“I didn’t lie to you. I just never said anything.”

  “Words of a liar.” You scoff at him. “I did not lie to you. I lied to him. You don’t have any business with our relationship.”

At first, he was looking at his lap. Those grey eyes of his immediately found a new target to glare at. “You’re not with him anymore. ”

“No. Why does that matter?” He begins to tap his foot lightly. “Why did you break up?” 

  “You hungry?” You start to get up until you’re tugged down. “Why?”

When you don’t answer, he whispers in your ear. “Because I fucked you?” Your face is so warm. 

“If we run, we can still make it out.”

“Why are we running?” A small voice asks.

“Because I think they need the room.” 

“Will you two shut up?!” You are two seconds away from running out of your own damn house. You stand and his hands hold you by your hips. “Tell me why you leave him?”

  “Because of you.” It’s embarrassing to tell him your feelings. Hopefully, he can read your mind or something and shut up. He sighs and stands, walking over to you without a hitch. He kisses you. 

  “That’s what you get for lying.” He’s not remorseful or even boastful. Feitan takes your answer in stride. “No more leaving. Stay so I can find you.”

“You’ll always find me, remember?”

______________

Time after that, you were stuck in charge of Chrollo’s lover or something. She’s not too bad but clearly traumatized. Anytime you’d tell her to go with you, she’d look shocked. Like she was surprised she could leave. You were suspicious of her relationship with Chrollo. Something didn’t sit right with you whenever he or Feitan came up. She’d tense up. She never talked about it either. From what you understand with the little information you have, is that she was a former member that raised an orphan and that Chrollo loved her immensely. Perhaps too much.

  From what you know, there was a big showdown on the Dark Continent and the boat that was taking a voyage to the fake one. The Phantom Troupe were on that one at first, fighting Hisoka Marrow. He was a sore loser that got humbled and decided to attack again. 

  Amazingly, only a few died. You didn’t want to know the details or anything. You can’t go through that again. So, after that news, you and Chrollo’s lover parted ways. She went on to find a kid she raised. You, on the other hand, decided to settle out of Meteor City. This was almost a year ago.

  You have an apartment now in the town where you and your boyfriend lived, right next to York New. It’s basic, not fitting any aesthetic or anything. The good thing about it is that it’s bigger than your first one. It’s two bedroom and has a good price. 

   Feitan hasn’t reappeared. It tore you to shreds. You’ve managed to piece yourself together bit by bit, but you are a hollow version of yourself. Surviving and not enjoying the little things you used to. You even saw Jade, Scarlet, Ruby, and the new child, Emerald. Even that heartwarming moment didn’t fulfill you. However, it was the first time you smiled in a while. 

  You stir the food in the pot. Since it’s a little chilly, you made soup. You put the lid over the pot, letting it cook. There’s a knock on the door. You open it and see the man you’ve waited for. 

  Feitan is in dark clothing and has a large scar on his face. There’s no cowl over him, or a large trench coat. His hands are in his pockets, and he looks at you expectantly. You realize that you’ve just been standing there, you move to let him in. Once again, he makes himself at home. 

  “How’ve you been?” 

“You leave again.” He states bluntly. His eyebrows are furrowed and has a frown on his face. 

“Bold of you, very bold.” You move around him. “Why did you go?”

“Because I’d never stay in that city forever. The Ants were gone, the world settled. So why couldn’t I? That place is gross anyway.”

  He sits on the barstool and cracks his neck. You ask a question right after he sits. “How long you here for?”

You don’t know why you asked that. He’ll only be here for a moment. A while ago, you had made the decision to accept it as your gift to him. To love and mourn him when the world won’t. When news about the Phantom Troupe hit, you couldn’t bear to hear it. Their trip to the fake Dark Continent, then their corrected course to the right one, ended in a battle with them facing Hisoka and Illumi and everything else over there. 

  It was too hard for you to think about. That doesn’t mean you didn’t mourn and that you’ve snapped out of it.

   “For good.” 

You look up into his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he’s smiling with soft eyes. You see that he has a dimple on his left cheek. “W-what about-”

“Done for a while. Maybe forever. I know I’m staying.”

   “But your friends, where are they?” He shrugs even though you see the tension. “Separate. We split for a bit.” 

  He rubs his shoulders nervously. “Can I stay with you?” 

“Wow, you’re asking? Shocked.” You tap on the counter. The weight you’ve been carrying is lightened. “Feitan?”

“Yes?” He gets off of the stool and makes his way around the counter. “You know how you give me all those gifts?”

  He nods his head. “Well, this is my gift to you, Feitan Portor. You can stay as long as you like.” 

  He wraps his arms around you. He’s hugging you. This time, you aren’t afraid to hold him back and squeeze. Maybe, just maybe, this is what home is? 

  If the Phantom Troupe resurrects, at least you know he’ll always come home. That you two will be a constant force for each other. No matter if it does or doesn't, you two aren't dancing but admitting things you couldn't. This is home, a gift for each other.  

[oddballwriter]

The New Teacher’s Aid

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Summary: Mike has Abby signed up to be part of the after school program at her school since he can’t pick her up due to him working, there’s nothing too special about it until a staff member catches his eye and he tries to explain it without thinking the obvious. 

Warnings: Reader is kept gender neutral and is a teacher’s aid and member of the staff that work in the after school program. This is in second person perspective at first but shifts at times. “Y/n” is used two times in here. Mike has a crush on you lol. I actually can’t think of many things that are actual warnings but if there are any just let me know

Author’s Snip: Surprise! I’m alive! I’ve been relaxing since I took the summer semester off to unwind from my first year of college. Anyways, I’m sure some, if not most, of us have seen the teaser and trailer for the FNAF movie. I’ve been seeing people going bonkers over Mike and William and so have I a little. This thought came to me last night and I wanted to write it so bad but it was 2am then and I had things I needed to do with family so I wrote it down in my notes so that I didn’t forget. 

Notes: This is sort of meant to be before Mike takes up the job at the abandoned plazeria. And I just saw that there are some implications that Abby walks/rides a bike home to and from school but I’m just going to ignore that because I can and because then this shot doesn’t really work. So yeah. 

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

  You’ve been working at the school for a month and a half now as a teacher’s aid and an additional member of the staff that work in the after school program. The program wasn’t much if you had to be honest, it was pretty much just babysitting kids who didn’t get picked up once school was over. 

  You weren’t complaining though, but then again, you worked in the spare classroom with the older kids rather than the younger ones. This group wasn’t too much of a hassle. Usually these kids would talk, do their homework, or some quiet activity and rarely cause any trouble. That’s how you met a little girl named Abby. 

  Abby was like the other kids who minded their own till their parent or guardian came to pick them up. You noticed that she didn’t interact with any of the other kids and either drew or did her homework quietly at a desk. You decided to check on her. Now you two have formed a really nice bond. You usually help her with her homework or talk about whatever comes to mind which helped pass the time since she was one of the kids that stayed the whole time the program operated. 

  Speaking of which, it was rolling around that time. You knew that the person who usually gets her is always here when the clock hits  five pm but it always makes you a little worried that they won’t come since after five there wasn’t meant to be any students still on campus. 

  “Okay, last one. What do you think?” you say, you were helping Abby finish up a tricky math sheet. Abby stared at the problem for a moment and worked it out on a blank space next to it before writing down the answer she came up with. “There you go! Great job. Now you’re all done, you don’t need to do any at home.” you smile. Just then you hear a knock at the door to the room. When you turn, you see a man in his mid twenties or early thirties standing in the doorway. You stand up to go talk to him but you hear Abby chirp “Hi, Mike!” to the man. He gives her a nod as a hello back as you grab a clipboard and walk up to him. 

  “Hello. Can I get a name?” you ask. This was common check out protocol whenever someone came to pick up a child from the program. “Mike Schmidt.” he responds. You nod and check the name that’s correlated with Abby, it checks out. “And the password?”, that was another part of the protocol. He says the correct one and you smile with a nod before letting him sign his name as the last part of the process. 

  By then Abby had already packed up her things and skipped over to Mike and took a hold of his hand to leave. “Goodbye, Abby!” you wave. She waves back with some more energy to it, “Bye, (y/n)!”. You give a wave back to Mike as well out of courtesy, “Goodbye, Mr. Schmidt.”. He gives you a small wave goodbye too as he leaves with Abby by his side. 

  With Abby gone home, you were set to pack everything in the classroom so that you could leave. You usually did this earlier but the other staff member went out and hadn’t come back yet, so you needed to keep an eye on Abby. Usually they checked Abby out to Mike, who you were told was her older brother, so she could go home. But since they still weren’t back, you met him for the first time. You were a bit surprised to finally see him. He was actually older than you thought he would be. The age minimum for someone who could pick up a child was sixteen and that Mike met that requirement, but you thought that he would be younger. Turns out he’s around the same age as you.

  Abby actually told you a lot about Mike. As already mentioned, he was her older brother. She also told you that he works and that the two of them live together. She’s also told you about how cool he is but that’s a given since most younger siblings think that their older siblings are cool. 

  You didn’t think too much about Mike after that, but strangely enough, Mike spent a good part of the evening thinking about you.

  “Are they a new staff member? I don’t think I’ve seen them before.” Mike asked Abby while she picked at the reheated veggies on her plate. “No, not really. They’ve been here for a while.” Abby responded. “They seem nice.” he mentioned. “They are. They help me with my homework and we talk. They even said they like my drawings!” Abby explained with a smile. “ Well, that’s nice to hear.” Mike said as he got up from his seat at the table. “You finish those off before you try and watch TV, alright?” he said with a little bit of demand as he pointed to the uneaten food on her plate before heading off to get ready for the rest of the night. 

  Soon after that, Mike had formed a habit. Everyday, just before getting out of his car to go pick up Abby, he would check himself in his rearview mirror. He would subconsciously fix any loose hair, fix up his jacket to look neater, or check for food in his teeth. He didn’t know when it started but he noticed it when he was fighting with a piece of food from his lunch earlier that day that didn’t want to leave it’s spot between his teeth. “Why am I even doing this? It’s barely noticeable.” he thought to himself. But something irked him to get it out before he got out. 

  After he finally got the pesky piece out, he stepped out of his car and made his way to the classroom that the program was held in. Abby noticed him but the staff member who came to check her out to him wasn’t you. After he gave all the information, signed, and took Abby’s hand, he found that he felt slightly disappointed that it wasn’t you this time and thought that he fought that food between his teeth for nothing. 

  The drive home consisted of silence as Abby stared out the window and Mike stewed in his thoughts on why he wanted see you every time he came in. It shouldn’t matter if it’s you, or the new teacher Miss Hill, or the old teacher Mrs. Flores, or someone who was a part of that group. 

  “Did you have fun with (Y/n) today?” Mike asked as he peaked at Abby in the rearview. Why did he ask that? “Yeah. I didn’t have a lot of homework so we spent most of the time talking while I drew.” Abby responded. “What did you talk about?” he questioned. “Not much. They talked about being a teacher’s aid and how they want to be a school teacher.” Abby commented, Mike nodded his head. “I talked about us a little. I told them that you work and take care of me.” she explained, “And they said that’s really nice of you to be doing both.” Abby referenced. Mike thought about that for a second. “Did they?” he responded. 

  The rest of the evening and night went on as normal. But Mike found that he didn’t really pay attention to the late night TV like he usually does. He was caught up on what Abby said today about you. Mike tried to brush it off but just couldn’t, and he didn’t like it all that much. It made him feel dumb. Why was he so consumed with what you thought of him, with Abby saying that you think he’s nice for taking care of his little sister and being their breadwinner and him recently starting to care about how he looked under the possibility of you and him seeing each other while he got Abby. 

  There was no way he had some stupid crush on you. You were just some staff member who took care of Abby after school and he was just her older brother. That’s all you should be to each other. 

  He thinks that while also thinking about how maybe he should pack a mini toothbrush and toothpaste tube so his lunch doesn’t end up in his breath in case you catch it next time you talk. 

[pinkthrone445]

Hey sweetheart, can you write a Melissa x reader

Reader is a math teacher in Abbott but for a reason cause the reader is dyslexic and some teachers kind out and start making fun of them. Melissa doesn’t like that and stops it real quick. As someone with dyslexia it really hits lol

-I'm here to help-

Pairing:Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Gender:fluff, short

Warnings:strong words

Summary:Melissa doesn't like it when she hears other coworkers make fun of you and decides to help you.

Hi gorgeous, I'm dyslexic too hahaha, I wrote this from my own experience, I hope you like this and that I fulfill your expectation, thanks for the request 💕

Abbott elementary, a school where children had opportunities to learn when elsewhere they had been rejected. It was an inclusive school, the teachers with their low budget, did everything possible to give the best to their students. Some children lacked many things in their day-to-day lives, so you as teachers got involved, sometimes too much, so that they did not feel lacking anything in which you had the opportunity to help.

You, as teachers, were also very careful in cases of bullying, sometimes putting an end to it even before it started.

You did everything to take care of the children, unfortunately, very rarely was there anyone who did anything to take care of you.

Problems between teachers were solved by the teachers, no one else intervened or helped, not even if you were the one who was being bullied.

It had been a very long and heavy week, grading exams and daily life had greatly drained your energies. You urgently needed the weekend to be able to rest well and recover. Not only did you feel tired, but the tiredness affected other parts of your being, like your dyslexia, it wasn't usually that bad, but when you were tired it was worse and you didn't even realize it.

As a math teacher, it was rare for your students to notice any mistakes in the equations, but when it was your turn to write or read something, it was easy to highlight your mistakes. Although the children were very kind in helping you see what you had written or read wrong, they didn't do it in a mocking way and that calmed you down and helped you a lot. If it wasn't for them correcting you, you wouldn't realize your mistakes even if you read the word 5 times. There were times when you didn't even notice your mistake, such as letters being moved or letters that were similar to each other being swapped, and other times when you knew you had written something wrong but couldn't see what it was even though you had it in front of you. Sometimes you changed the order of letters and other times you didn't write all the letters of the word skipping some, there were also times when you confused one word with another. It wasn't something that happened every moment of the day, but the accumulated tiredness was affecting you to make it happen more often than usual.

Apparently, some teachers at school found it very funny that you made mistakes because of your dyslexia, many times at lunchtime you would find them talking and making fun of you, stopping whenever they noticed you were in the room. It usually didn't bother you, but you were so tired that you had little patience and things affected you more than usual.

It was already thursday, all you had to do was take the last exam and correct it, so you would close the grades and the children who passed would not have to return the last weeks of the year. But you were so tired that you didn't realize that in that last exam you had several mistakes when writing it, so when it came to correcting and realizing that everyone had made a few many mistakes because of you, you had no choice but to recognize it and cancel the exam and the notes, hoping that the kids will take it again and the parents won't be mad at you.

Sadly, when you realized that mistake, you were correcting in the teacher's room where everyone who commonly made fun of you was. They had already been talking about you and you knew it, but when you noticed the same mistake in all the exams and your face transformed, it caught their attention

-"Look at dydy over there, it looks like she is having an existencial crisis"-They whispered between each other, they called you dydy because they thought it was a funny nickname for someone with dyslexia. You tried not to pay attention to them and rubbed your hands all over your face trying to find a solution, you've never had a mistake this big that affect the kids exams and grades so much. You were so stressed and tired that your eyes filled with tears without you noticing. At the moment when you started crying, Mel walked into the teacher's room, it was weird to see her there, she always went to the room on the first floor and not that one on the second floor. The redhead's eyes immediately landed on you, and her brow furrowed with concern

-"Are you okay hon?"-Mel asked worriedly and you sighed trying to calm yourself down

-"Yeah... It's just that I made a mystic on a test and it affects every kid in my class"-You replied to the redhead and listened as the others laughed and mocked

-"That nickname it's better! Mystic! She said mystic instead of mistake!"-A fool made fun of you and you grunted annoyedly as you got out of your seat

-"You know what I meant! I meant mystic, not mystic!"-They laughed again and you sighed, when someone repeated the words you said wrong, you had a harder time saying it right-"I meant to say mistake!"-You screamed grabbing your papers and walked out of the room.

-"I don't understand how she is a teacher with how stupid she is and all the mistakes she makes when writing or reading. I don't understand how she got her degree"-One of them spoke up, continuing his mockery. Melissa stared at them and took decisive steps to them, if looks could kill, his body would be lost somewhere where it could never be found

-"Look assholes, she got her degree like all of us by studying and giving the best of her, and if she got it it's because she deserves it, I'm sure she deserves it much more than each one of you. Dyslexia is not a sign of stupidity, there are many people with dyslexia who are very intelligent. On the other hand, you are stupid, although you have no excuse for being that way. Her students have some of the best GPAs here at the school, better than any of your classes, do you know why? Because she cares about her students instead of meddling in other people's lives. If I hear any of you once again speaking ill of her, I do not assure you that you will ever see the light of day again, capisce?"-The redhead spoke in an authoritative voice, and everyone nodded in fright. Mel then turned around and started looking for you, finding you in your classroom surrounded by papers

-"Hey hon, how are you doing?"-The redhead asked, entering your classroom, where there were no one else besides you, and she came closer until she was in front of you, but you kept looking at your papers

-"It's nothing Mel, I'm fine"-You answered without looking at her, trying to convince her even though your eyes were still red and watery

-"Don't lie to me, If you don't want to talk, I understand, but don't lie to me. You don't cry when it's nothing, you cry when something hurts. Is it because of what they said? You know that they're stupid, do you want me to come back with my bat?" - Her comment made you get a little laugh

-"Usually it doesn't bother me what they say, but this week has been terrible, and if I already feel like a bad teacher day by day with my problem, I feel worse when they highlight it and make fun of it... Did you know that because they made fun of me, the school made me take a spelling course? Like that's my problem... Usually it's not that bad and I can handle it thanks to a lot of exercises I made, but now I'm tired, stressed, hungry and in a bad mood and that makes me make more mistakes... Like in these stupid exams where I got almost every exercise wrong so the kids also got their answers wrong... Not only do I have to retake the test, I have to revise it 10 times before I take it again or the kids' parents will kill me"-You muttered through your breath annoyed, and Mel sighed at the sight of you

-"Come to my house tonight, I'll help you... And I don't take no for an answer"-She said and walked out of your classroom before you could protest or say anything.

That night you went to her house and knocked on the door with a pot of ice cream in your hands, when the redhead saw you a big smile filled her face and let you in, the house had an exquisite aroma and a beautiful atmosphere. You had been there before with Barbara who was also your friend, but it was different to be there alone, you could pay attention to more things and details.

Mel grabbed your coat and made you sit at the table serving you a plate of food that looked delicious

-"I thought you'd help me with my exam"-you joked and she sat down next to you with another plate for herself

-"And that's what I'm doing, I know that tiredness and not eating well affects your concentration, so first we'll eat so it's easier for you to see the mistakes. I also put on my computer a font that is supposed to help people with dyslexia, the two of us will correct the errors of the exam and then read it between the two of us to make sure it's okay, yes? But first, enjoy your meal"-The redhead commanded and you ate smiling feeling a warmth in your chest, she had not only defended you, she had paid attention to you and kept her promise to help you. And that wasn't the only time, she made sure that whenever you needed help, she was by your side.

[booksbluegurl]

Day 8/100 days of Productivity

9th April, 2024

Academia

Did my basic math revision sheet. Got all those things right which I used to get wrong, but got those wrong which were right in past revisions. 🤦🏻‍♀️

I did 98 questions of Chemical Coordination and 77 of them were correct and 21 of them were incorrect.

I really like such quality short videos which are rare on the Indian science stream scene when all I see is 40 minute long lectures for simple short topics😭😭. I watched this video on law of definite proportions. (Fun fact: this law states that any chemical compound will have the same ratio of mass of the elements wherever you find them.)

Did the next 30% of ncert line by line video on Chemical Coordination with my NCERT textbook.

Made a revision sheet for Mole concept and did some questions.

Watched a video to get clearer on calcium homeostasis.

My goal for this week is to complete 10 Chapters of Chemistry and atleast 15 Chapters of Biology. And Physics lectures daily.

Non Academia

Watched this video on thinking errors that we all have and its based on Thinking Fast and Slow by David Kahneman. I should read that book. What's fascinating is that I saw an article a few days ago where David Kahneman says that he failed to follow his own advice.

This video essay on Machiavelli where the narrator said that its dangerous to subscriber to Machiavellian ideas but its also dangerous to completely ignore them. Which is so true and so wonderful. Overall, it is a very beautiful introduction to who was Machiavelli and what his ideas originally were.

Today is the first day of Nau Devi (नवरात्रि). Today is Goddess Shailputri's day. Shailputri (शैलपुत्री) is the daughter of the mountains. We keep a fast on the 9 days but since it's exam time, I'll only be keeping a fast on 1st and last day. Also, it's my first time keeping a fast during Nau Devi. | Good day, it was. Very peaceful. Nowadays bhakti has been bringing me so much peace. I got up earlier today and took a bath before 7 am, which is new for me. And I'd be doing this for the next 8 days, hopefully forming a habit. I feel cleansed.

- Tanishka.

Day 7

Day 9

Pictures from pinterest. Credit to the owners.

[amywritesthings]

gingerbread sweet. / a reiner holiday ficlet

pairing: reiner braun x f!reader ( attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin ) word count: 1.1k summary: It's the Titan frat's annual gingerbread house competition. Your boyfriend, Reiner Braun, is determined to win. You, however, are determined to distract.

tags: modern au - university, holiday fluff, gingerbread houses, all the marleyans are in a frat bc i said so, devoted boyfriend!reiner, light sexual tension credit: dividers by @saradika

welcome to the eleventh day of the twelve days of amymas !!

“Does the door look crooked to you?”

"The what?"

"The door. Look at it."

There’s nothing more amusing than watching your hulk of a boyfriend crouch over a tiny gingerbread house.

Reiner Braun squints as he presses a gumdrop to the front — circular windows make it modern, or so he claims — then pauses.

Distracted by a very minor detail, you can already feel his anxiety running his brain a mile a minute: a lopsided door may deduct a few points from Marcel's arbitrary points system from this very arbitrary holiday competition.

Because he's absolutely fucking determined to win.

Granted, the bragging rights are his, but the grand prize will not be — Reiner, of course, rarely rides this hard for something he wants.

No, he’s too willing to put everyone else's wants and needs above his own.

So the grand prize of the Titan fraternity annual gingerbread house competition is going to go to you, hell or high water.

He’s going to win you that goddamn spa day gift card that Marcel has been dangling as a sweet little incentive no matter how long it takes him to mold this gingerbread house into his image.

"I think it looks straight."

The tip of his pink tongue pokes out a little from his pressed lips as he leans in closer. "...I trust your eye more than mine."

The blonde sits up to fish for the green icing piping bag. He's gentle with the way he eases the icing along the edges of the tiny confectionary door.

(An icing wreath, like this couldn't be anymore adorable.)

“Reiner?” you coo.

“Yeah, babe.”

Flat. He’s in the zone.

“You know you don’t have to slave over this thing, right?”

You scoot your chair closer to his, dropping your temple to his large tricep.

“I can buy my own spa day card.”

“False,” he corrects. “I’ll buy you the spa day card myself, but if I gotta cheat Porco out of winning for the third year in a row. Pieck’s gone at least five times on our dime.”

"When were the other two times?" you ask, not correlating the math.

"Well, our freshman year," Reiner begins, using the green icing to make little bushes at the foundation of the house, "we did a Valentine's day relay race that ended up with Bert in urgent care with a broken nose. Then, the one-and-only pool party chicken fight tournament — Pieck and Porco fought dirty."

"Is that why it was the one and only?"

"Yeah. Bert got another bloody nose, but that time from Annie going a little too hard."

He snorts.

"We had to save him from becoming the next Owen Wilson, so — no more chicken tournaments."

Titan frat is… well, excessively competitive, you've learned in your year or so of dating Reiner.

(Blame Porco and the new pledge, Eren Yeager, for only exasperating in this year with the month-long holiday challenges.)

You shrug a shoulder. “I could help.”

“And mess up your pretty nails?” Reiner shakes his head, glancing briefly through his peripheral vision. He smirks. “Ain’t no way.”

Right.

Reiner’s also very giving, during this season — in more ways than one.

First it was the fully-paid-for manicure yesterday.

Then it was the reservation for a Christmas Eve dinner to your favorite spot in the inner city.

Now he’s trying to win Marcel's approval in this ridiculous decorating contest in your name, and you feel… well, loved.

(There's no disputing that you've won the boyfriend lottery.)

Which, of course, means you have only one thing you can do in this situation.

He’s too wound up.

Distracted.

So you reach down to the pile of icing supplies strewn about, picking the small red accented tube.

You swipe some on the tip of your finger, mindful not to get it under your nails.

Reiner doesn’t even see it happening.

He’s too busy playing fixer-upper on the front side of the house, his too-big hands delicately toying with the too-small decorations he’s pasting on the cookie.

You wait a few seconds, letting him place the door where he wishes, before swiping the icing over the side of his neck.

Reiner tenses, turning to see what the hell just hit his neck, but he’s too late—

You’re already leaning in, sliding the tip of your tongue along his skin.

The man gasps, dropping his own piping bag to the supply assortment below.

“What are you—”

“Decorating,” you murmur nonsensically, grinning from ear to ear as his attention disappears completely from the gingerbread house to you.

“The guys are in the other room,” he rasps, eyes wide.

The pledges, he means — banished to the enclosed patio as they work on their own poorly-designed houses.

Through the last year while dating Reiner,  you’ve learned very quickly how sensitive he is.

Sometimes all it takes is a look to get him hard.

Your ego has never recovered, and it’s not deflating now.

Except his eyes soften and a gentle chuckle exits his throat when his golden eyes search your face.

“Wait, you got—”

“What?”

His hand gently cradles your jaw. 

“Hold still, baby.”

His thumb raises to swipe at your nose, where his smile only grows.

You stay still, obedient to his command, unable to stop looking at him.

God, he’s gorgeous.

He’s so fucking gor—

Something touches your lips, and you belatedly realize Reiner’s taken it upon himself to push the red icing along the seam of your lips, parting them easily.

You can taste the sugary sweetness on the tip of your tongue.

“Shit, sorry." When your brows knit in confusion, Reiner explains himself. "Seems like I missed a spot.”

Oh.

Oh.

His pupils dilate as his gaze drops to your lips, as if he’s ready to devour your whole.

Your entire body turns into flames.

“Just one spot?” you murmur, and a wicked smirk crawls to his mouth.

That same thumb drops to glide the remaining icing over your chin.

“I fear it's a couple of spots, but don't worry. I'll get you cleaned up.” He tilts his chin. “I take care of my girl, remember?”

(As if you could ever forget.)

His words get your blood pumping. Pledges and wandering eyes be damned.

“What about the gingerbread house?” you murmur, entranced by the way he continues absently swiping icing over your jaw, chin, and cheeks.

(Marking a trail his lips will devour.)

“We can bring the icing upstairs,” Reiner suggests with an innocent shrug. You know it’s anything but. “I’ll finish that damn house eventually, but I have something sweeter to tend to.”

Before you can say another word, the blonde stands from his chair and gently takes your hand into his.

You easily stand with him, unable to stop giggling as he tugs you eagerly upstairs.

He’s determined to win, yes, but to him —

He’s already won.

He has you, after all.

.

[mrs-monaghan]

Hey Shaz it's my bd but unfortunately I'm not celebrating it so I came to your blog bcuz it brings me joy so I was wandering if you could mention some jikook sus moments that made you a jikooker with or without receipt. Thank you

Why are u not celebrating? 🥺 Happy Birthday my lovely!!!

Please be happy today. No matter what.

I did not believe in Jikook because of a single moment. I talk about my journey here. I have Mizgator to thank for my current state 🤭🤭

So since that's that, guess I'll just find u some random sus Jikook moments for your birthday 😁😁

Exhibit a) Run Bts episode 133 members were supposed to identify the lips presented and Jimin did not even hesitate for a second before saying which lips were JK's

I find that highly suspicious, don't you?

Exhibit b) Jimin messing up during a live and saying this is our room

Tweet

He corrects himself but its too late. Armys caught it. Jikook and sharing hotel rooms... An ongoing saga. Wbk 😁

Exhibit c) Jimin going from this

To this

Satellite Jimin at work. At least he was subtle.🤭🤭

Exhibit d)

Tweet

Right. Now watch that again and notice that where JK touches is most definitely NOT where Jimin hit him. You are not in pain JK, just say you want Mimi's attention and go

Exhibit e) Jimin is Jungkook's toy and he likes the way JK plays with him

I.... don't even know where to begin with this one, anon...

Exhibit f) Its common knowledge in the fandom that Jimin likes to bend the candles when he prepares cakes for members

So when JK's brother posted his birthday cake that one time....

Two plus two is 4 minus one is 3 quick maths! 🎵🎵 man's not hot. 💃🏾💃🏾💃🏾

Exhibit g) i believe is self explanatory

#feels 🥺🥺

Exhibit h) Is not really sus. I just wanted to throw it in here coz I find it so cute!!! Jimin didn't want JK to be left out. The way he yells for JK over and over will always be sooooo funny to me. Best part being JK's face

He's like; babe, calm tf down, I'm here 😂😂😂

No, but this habit of Jimin always being responsible for JK amuses the hell out of me. Whether its telling him to put his toe socks away or apologising to the flying yoga teacher for JK's behaviour, I just love to see it guys. Rare moments of Jimin actually acting like the hyung he is 😂😂😂

Exhibit h) Bon Voyage 1 episode 4. As they prepare to take the photo;

After the photo has been taken, Boom!

I love when JK doesn't even try to be subtle. Anygays, teleport JK ftw 🙌🏽

Exhibit i) Bon Voyage sn 2 episode 3. Members are playing for pocket money and it's JK's last chance.

He had failed before and didn't have any money so he was nervous

Guess who else was nervous?

Birthday anon that's kinda sus, no? Why is Jimin nervous? He wasn't nervous when other members were playing, why nervous for JK? Guess he was worried about his baby not getting anything to eat 🥺🥺

Exhibit j) Last but not least, is not sus at all, its just me throwing shade because I can 😌 Bon voyage season 4

V as JK's co-driver:

Vs Jimin as JK's co-driver.

He he he heee 🤭🤭🤭🤭

Anyone who's watched it can confirm that this isn't me being an unreliable narrator. This actually happened. Tkk were so.... they were just there. While Jikook on the other hand were having the time of their lives. ☕☕

Happy Birthday anon! All the best 😘😘😘

[greenletters07]

The Perfect Classroom - Chapter One

Nathaniel Richardson, a teacher who is fed up with the injustices he must endure as a teacher in a school, finds the mask. I hope you like it.

In his younger years, Nathaniel Richardson Jr. had been a man highly respected by those who knew him: thanks to his dedication, his intelligence, his patience and effort, he ended up being the source of admiration for many. Knowing his reputation, he decided to go down the path of teaching, with the desire to educate new generations.

At first it seemed like a wise decision. He studied a bachelor's degree in Education, both for primary and intermediate education, graduating with Magna Cum Laude in both, and immediately began practicing his profession, working in a public school. He began teaching five and six year olds and was later moved to a more advanced classroom. The young people adored him, his classmates loved him, and the school environment seemed pleasant and comfortable.

At first.

But things began to change once, for reasons of pursuing a master's degree in educational technology, he had to move and, therefore, change schools. He continued in a general school (which had two buildings, for students aged 7-14, depending on the level) and, instantly, he knew that he had started on the wrong foot.

Classes could never be taught properly, because the students in the room he had been assigned were some of the most horrible children that Professor Nathaniel had ever seen: shouting, disrespectful, irresponsible... Some spoke openly about topics that he only knew about. until late adolescence and others did not hesitate to use violence to resolve conflicts, whether by overturning chairs or by going to blows. Nathaniel always found himself at a crossroads: if he tried to stop the fight, he would be reprimanded for “touching a minor”; If not, they called him out for “not doing his job.” The boys' parents did nothing to collaborate, and always blamed him for everything that happened, accusing him of “hating their angel.”

To make matters worse, when he came home after a long day it wasn't exactly to rest. He had to combine his teacher's work (correcting exams, preparing study plans for the following weeks, etc...) with his master degree's work, so he was rarely not awake late at night.

The stress of living that day after day for years had taken its toll on him. He no longer had the same healthy body as before; his hair, usually black, had turned white due to gray hair and he had a small bald spot on the crown of his head. He had to take blood pressure pills every morning before going to school, and every afternoon when he got home, once he got away from those imps. Only his desire to finish his master's degree gave him the necessary strength to endure that job because he needed the money.

And he was almost done. Doing the math right, he was only a few months away from finishing. If he finished the school year, the summer months would be ideal to finish his thesis.

“Although with such a difficult group,” he said quietly, while he was at his desk watching how, after the bell rang, the students stampeded out of the classroom, “it's going to be a miracle if I survive…”

Once he was alone in the room, he picked up the mess that the students had left, organized the classroom and went to check his email on his laptop one last time. There was a new message, sent by the director, whose words sent a shiver through Nathaniel:

Stop by my office before you leave.

Oh dung... he thought. He picked up his things as quickly as he could, left the classroom and headed towards the principal's office. He knocked on the door and, after the sound of a “come in”, entered.

“Did you want to see me, Principal Saints?”

“Yes, Professor Richardson, take a seat,” the headmaster said in a calm, intimidating voice. If it weren't for the fact that his father was a sergeant, Nathaniel would have been nervous; he simply sat in the chair in front of the principal's desk. “I'll be straight with you, Richardson, it's time for a parent-teacher conference.”

The way the evening light passed through the window and illuminated the room with its warm tones made the atmosphere dissonant with that news, as if the sky was mocking the professor. Nathaniel parted his lips slightly in surprise.

“The notice was already sent to parents by mail with the appointment tomorrow after school,” the principal added with a stern look, before Nathaniel responded. “What's wrong, Richardson? Are you not ready after these months?”

To put up with the parents of those monsters? I wish! he said to himself sarcastically. Nathaniel suppressed his feelings and, after a sigh, responded completely calmly, although with a look full of resentment. “Of course, director, I will have everything ready for tomorrow, don't worry.”

“I hoped so,” the director said and for a brief moment Nathaniel saw a mocking smile that quickly faded. “You can go. See you tomorrow."

“See you tomorrow, sir…” Nathaniel muttered as politely as he could before getting up and leaving. “How much I hate it… everyone here!” he said as he crossed the school entrance. He drove to the parking lot, where he found his car piled high with papers around him. They really are insufferable...

He picked up the papers, threw them into the nearest trash can, got into his car, started it, and drove to his house. He entered, left his suitcase on the table and lay down on the couch, exhausted, in order to take a break. He didn't know when he turned into a nap, but the sound of an alarm woke him up. Still sleepy, Nathaniel looked at his phone and upon reading the message, he understood what it was: a reminder to take out the dog from his next-door neighbor.

Some afternoons, and to have some extra money, Nathaniel decided to take his neighbor's pet, a very elderly lady, for a walk. He had been doing it almost since he moved there, so the dog had already grown fond of him. Nathaniel changed his clothes into something more casual and left his house for his neighbor's house.

“Oh, Mr. Richardson,” said the old woman when he was already holding the dog's leash tightly to prevent it from escaping. “Do you know that this is the last time I will be here?”

“Yes, Mrs. Mastard, I knew your daughter would be coming to pick you up, wouldn’t she?” Nathaniel replied. Mrs. Mastard was somewhat forgetful.

“That's how it is… she's coming to pick me up tomorrow during the day,” she explained on the phone and gave a sigh. “Could you give Clidd one last walk around the neighborhood? So that she does not forget what will soon cease to be his home…”

“With pleasure, Mrs. Mastard, come on, Clidd!” The dog barked with joy and began to run; Nathaniel followed him, pulling on the leash.

Compared to the boys at school, Clidd the dog was much more manageable and better behaved, too. He liked to run around, running in circles while he chased his tail, chasing squirrels, and walking in the dirt. Nathaniel already had a predetermined route and took the dog that way. It was one of the few moments of peace Nathaniel experienced during the day. They arrived at a regular dog park, played for a while and then the man let the dog free before sitting on a green nearby bench.

Nathaniel saw the dog run off on his own and pick up a stick. Clidd took a bone he found lying around and dug in the grass to bury it. Seconds later, the dog started barking, jumping around the hole he made.

"What's wrong, Clidd?" Nathaniel asked, approaching. In the place where the dog wanted to bury his bone, there was a hard object in the dirt. The dog dug a little more and the man was able to get it out of there.

It was a strange object, no doubt, but even stranger was that it was buried in the first place. It was a faded green mask, with a metal bar with four holes, the top one had an L, without any type of grip with which he could hold his face and three holes that formed an expressionless face. The inner side felt smoother on Nathaniel's fingers than the outer side. He didn't know why, but everything around him seemed to go silent for several seconds as all his attention remained on that mask, almost as if he entered a trance. Only the vibration of his phone in his pocket brought him back.

"Pill time," he read on the screen before deactivating the alarm. "I'm sorry, Clidd, but it's time to come home," he said to the dog. He tied him up and they returned to Mrs. Mastard's house. "Here is the dog, safe and sound," he told the old woman once the dog entered, "and look, he found a gift, maybe it will serve as a reminder of this place."

She noticed the mask he was holding. With a wave of her hands, she laughed briefly. "Don't worry, dear, why don't you keep it? It’s no problem."

"Okay, Mrs. Mastard. See you soon, I wish you a safe trip," he said and returned to his house, took the blood pressure pill, looked for his suitcase and went to the desk where Nathaniel usually did his homework; Nathaniel put the mask aside and took out what he needed. 

I must finish my master's degree assignments, tomorrow's class schedule, and review each student's progress for the parent-teacher conference, he thought and noticed the pile of documents that were on the table. 

He let out a deep sigh. 

"So let’s begin."

-Continue-

[witchyvixie]

so like correct me if my math is wrong but $25 = 75 diamonds which means $1 is equivalent to 3 diamonds which means a black long collar according to the wiki is worth roughly $166 which means that the milky tiara valued at 10k black collars is worth 1,660,000 fucking dollars

as of 2020 an imperial scroll, likely the most highly sought after rare item on flight rising, was valued at 1.5mg. 100g is equivalent to 1USD which means that scroll was worth roughly 15,000 dollars.

the most expensive item on flight rising is worth two tenth places less than a fucking milky tiara

are you people ok

[sunnysam-my]

One of the funniest things in Criminal Minds to me was the writers poor attempt at making Reid look super smart. I say poor because, if you know anything about what they claim Spencer can do, you know why it's ridiculous.

1. Speed Reading.

It's a unique skill Spencer has that's used often through out the show. He claims he can read 20,000 words per minute. The thing is, the way he does it makes no sense.

First of all, when speed reading, you pay the price of comprehending the text. It is suggested by experts that speed-reading is most useful to those who need "to skim a large amount of material or need to improve their study skills" and less useful to those who read "highly technical material that requires careful study of each sentence". A lot of what Spencer reads is exactly that.

Second of all, on a normal book page, about 250-300 words fit on a page. Unless my math is incorrect, if he can read 20000 w/m then he can read 333.333 per second. He can read a book page in less than a second.

Even if my math is wrong, the average word count for adult fiction and non-fiction is between 70,000 to 120,000 words. ​The average word count in a book is between 60,000 and 100,000 words. He can read a 80,000 words long book in 4 minutes. He could read the entirty of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (~75,000 words) in less than that.

2. Eidetic Memory

Again, I'm not really sure the writers even know what that means. Eidetic memory, also (incorrectly) known as total recall and photographic memory, is the ability to recall an image from memory with high precision, at least for a brief period of time, after seeing it only once.

The key words here are for a brief period of time. Unlike with photographic memory, it's a vivid afterimage that lingers. Additionally the memories often contain minor errors, including information that was not present in the original visual stimulus.

It's a very complicated and interesting matter, you can look into it more, but basically the writers just used it as an ass excuse to give Spencer perfect memory.

3. The Star Puzzle

I genuinely laughed at this scene. The Star Puzzle is literally a beginner-medium level puzzle. I have that star, I can see only 2, maybe 3 ways you can make a mistake while assembling it. My mom, who doesn't do those regularly like I do, only needed 15 minutes to figure out all on her own. The hard part is physically putting it together, because, until it's complete, nothing is holding the pieces together and they fall through your hands.

Noticed another thing? The way she describes it? "It's basically impossible to figure out. You have to put all the pieces back together to form a star." "It's basically impossible to do, because you have to take all those pieces and put them exactly…-" Like, yeah? That's how puzzles work??? Congratulations? All puzzles work like this. You have to put them together in the only correct order or solved them using the only solution. It's rare for puzzles to have more than one solution, that's kinda the point of them. And yeah, you can cheat usually, like with the star if you assemble it loosely and jam the last piece, but that's not the same.

And the thing is, there are harder versions of this, but no, they had to go with the identical 6 pieces. This just makes her look like an idiot.

4. His geeky overreactions were very reasonable, actually.

TBH I stopped watching CM a while ago, so don't remember as many situation as I used to, but I remember Phantasmagoria scene. Maybe this is more of geeky pet peeve of mine, but whatever.

Reid is 100% underselling Phantasmagoria here. It's not just a horror theatre play with a bit of science magic to spook the audience. They literally invented holograms for this.* Our modern image of a ghost? It's all thanks to Phantasmagoria which used live holograms** so the actors playing ghost could appear to be half transparent and floating.

You can still think that's not that cool, but wait, there's more. Other than that it used projects and many other 'magic tricks' to not only bring the monsters to life, so you can see them, but also feel them. Phantasmagoria used many special effects outside of visual illusion to make you feel cold winds, smells blood e.t.c. That's better than any other movie you can go to, especially since we're talking about reenactment, which use improved technology. Although you won't get drugged drinks before going in nowadays, so count that as a win or loss. On top of that, reenactments of Phantasmagoria are rare and for many this may be the only chance in their life to see it.

It's kinda like a walk-through haunted house, except you don't walk and there's a plot. The scene shows Spencer as some weird geek for being excited, which sucks. In general I could talk about how awful the teammates are to him half of the time, but that's not my biggest problem here. We as an audience are meant to find Reid's excitement and knowledge as lame and nerdy, but he's not even overreacting. That's a very tamed reaction when you invite your friends to possibly one in a lifetime chance to see this amazing horror magic, horror, theatre play.

*For horror shows in general, a bit earlier than Phantasmagoria, but it gave birth to it.

**Pepper's ghost isn't technically holographic, but you get it. Most people call it that anyway.

[thelightismine]

having recently re-read the Republic Commando books for the fiftieth time (but the first time as a proper adult), amongst many other things that jumped out at me this time, I've been pondering the Many Failings of Kal Skirata™ - and one thing that kept me awake the other night was the realisation that...it takes Kal ages between adopting Ordo and the rest of his brothers, right??

So I went back and did the math. Kal adopts Ordo in True Colours, soon after rescuing Vau on Mygeeto, at 471 days after the Battle of Geonosis (ABG). An excerpt from the scene below:

"I never adopted you formally," Skirata said. It had been bothering him in recent days, ever since he began to think of the war as having a definite timescale. "Any of you." "Does that matter?" Skirata now felt that it did. No Mando'ad would nitpick over the bond between him and his boys, and as far as the Republic was concerned clones didn't even qualify as people, but his plans to give them a decent future had now become very, very specific. [...] "Yes," he said. He reached to grasp Ordo's hand and recited the short, no-frills gai bal manda - "name and soul," all it took to unpick history and give a child a new parentage. Mandalorians were habitual adopters. Bloodlines were just medical detail. "Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Ordo." Ordo stared at their clasped hands for a moment. He had a crushing grip. "I've been your son since the day you first saved my life, Buir." "I think you boys did the saving," Skirata said. "I don't want to imagine where I'd be without you." Skirata was now busy hating himself for not doing this before, not making the ultimate commitment, and he fretted about his five other Nulls scattered around the galaxy.

And having re-read this section in detail, it now baffles me even further that it takes him - wait for it - ANOTHER YEAR AND ~THREE MONTHS to adopt the other five Nulls??

Yes, that's correct. Kal adopts the other five Nulls in Order 66, in the scene where they all come together 'on screen' for the first time, which is set 940 days ABG. That is 469 days after he formally adopted Ordo.

At the time KT wrote these books, according to Legends, one standard year is 368 days, with 12 months of 30 days each. If I've crunched correctly, Kal adopts the other five Nulls roughly fifteen and a half months later than Ordo.

And OHHHH:

The meal was as much a rare celebration as a meeting, and the Nulls even had a few glasses of Chandrilan wine. "I should have done this many years ago, adi'ke." Skirata raised his glass. "Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad - Mereel, Jaing, Kom'rk, A'den, Prudii. There. It's formal, legal. You're my sons and heirs." "And we won't bankrupt you," Jaing muttered. "Not with the amount you're skimming, ner vod," Mereel said raising his glass in return. "Thank you, Buir'ika. An honor." At least one cause for guilt had been lifted from Ordo's shoulders. He was no longer the only Null formally adopted by Skirata. It was a legal detail, nothing more, but Ordo didn't want to be singled out as the favorite. He already felt he had a far easier time than his brothers.

what do you MEAN you just went on and forgot to do it, despite seeing them and speaking to them regularly for over a year, Kal?! yikes

Reading this back again, all I could think was - poor Ordo. It's explicitly stated here that he had been feeling and still feels guilty. Imagine living with the knowledge that your father had only formally adopted you, and not the other five of your closest brothers, for OVER A YEAR- (I will keep yelling it I'm not over it)

When they all make jokes about him being the Number One Son. When they all tease him for being the favourite. How do you think this knowledge affected Ordo’s relationship with his brothers?? Not wanting to mention it?? Do you think he ever did?? How do you think they reacted if they knew he was already adopted prior to this??

Not to mention, how does Kal not see this as something that might cause an issue for Ordo?? With how much he loves him??

I find their reactions interesting, because if they didn't know, they play it very cool. I'm leaning towards they did know, Ordo didn't just sit on this knowledge for over a year, maybe couldn't - because otherwise, why is no one asking why Kal left him out of the list? Why is their only reaction calm pleasantries?

Possibly because they don't care about formal adoption that much - it's worth noting Ordo's reaction is also to kind of brush it all away: "I've been your son since the day you first saved my life, Buir."

(I think it also opens up a bigger discussion about Ordo's role within his brothers as...almost a shield between Kal and his brothers, able to take the brunt of Kal's...manipulations to spare them the same attention - I wonder if they don't care as much about their adoptive status because it doesn't mean nearly as much to them as it does to Kal, because Kal doesn't rule them as much as he'd like to think he does. It’s interesting how Ordo is both uncomfortable with the position as Number One Son but also sees its…strategic value?? He states earlier in the scene that he'll swap drafts with Kom'rk because it's "his turn" to explore the Outer Rim, but as far as we know, he never actually does this - despite missing each other dearly, often, do the other Nulls willingly take missions that get them away from Kal? Which is why Ordo is almost never shown being anywhere that Kal isn't? Also the irony that so many people laugh at Maze for being a highly trained ARC being "wasted" in an office job, but Ordo also as far as we see never does anything flashier, nothing that couldn't be handled by a less superior officer, nothing that's far from Kal's side...)

ANYWAY

I’m just baffled as to how Kal didn’t think immediately after adopting Ordo “and now the other five” - my man, what took you so long?? If you love them all as you say you do??

HMMMM

[dukeofriven]

Y’All Should Actually Read Barthes (Or: Why Your ‘Rings Of Power’ Critique Is Bad)

I think what really gets under my skin about the many, many lousy critiques about Rings of Power[1] on Tumblr dot Com and Reddit[2] that I see out there is that, firstly, they frequently seem to come from people who don’t seem to realize that their understanding and memories about Tolkien are shaped far, far, far more by the Peter Jackson movies (which were hardly ‘canon-compliant’) than they are by the original text. Second and more crucially, I think, is that everyone really wants to get pissed about canon that Tolkien never actually codified. Here’s what I mean: Tolkien didn’t ‘write’ the Silmarillion. He wrote a whole bunch of essays, letters, notes, scraps of ideas, poems, plot outlines, and ramblings, some of which he earmarked for a project he one day planned to compile as something called The Silmarillion. Then he made a slight error in his scheme by dropping dead. So his son Christopher Tolkien and his pal Guy Gavriel Kay stared at this enormous pile of stuff that went back decades, pulled out some of the bits they thought were most polished, did their best to link them into some kind of narrative, edited the crap out of it, added punctuation, and published a book they called The Silmarillion after JRR’s planned, but never completed idea. And was what was in The Silmarillion everything JRR planned to be in the final volume? Not necessarily. In many cases, not remotely, but Christopher Tolkien and Kay tried to take the stuff that was most polished, even if it was thirty year old material that Tolkien had changed his mind fifteen more times on, because the old stuff often had a clarity of completion that the later revisions did not. They usually took the stuff that complete sentences over the stuff with sentence fragments, even if the latter was more ‘fresh.’ Because they realized that The Silmarillion was more a simulacrum of Tolkien’s ideas than anything definitive, Christopher then put out The Unfinished Tales, which contained some more of Tolkien’s ideas: spme that had made it in other versions into The Silmarillion, some that had not. And since the very large pile of notes and scribblings and essays and letters and old recipes didn’t seem any noticeably smaller, he then spent thirteen years publishing The History of Middle Earth, comedically large tomes stuffed to the brim with Tolkien ideas, variations, variants, and late night side-table Kleenex notes. And then they kept putting out more books. And more. And then Christopher made the same silly mistake of dropping dead too! But other people put out even more books, with even more untouched material. There’s a new book coming out in November and JRR Tolkien’s been dead for fifty years! None of this was published under JRR’s aegis. And let me tell you, JRR Tolkien had a pretty weighty aegis: the man was famous for berating his publishers for edits and corrections. Part of the reason he never got around to completing a definitive Silmarillion was the fact that the man never wanted to publish something with which was not completely satisfied. Everything that has come out after his death, compiled with all the love and care in the world, is nevertheless pretty damning evidence that Tolkien was rarely satisfied. What we know about old JRR is that he changed his mind again and again, and we can’t know that on his death bed, his last thought wasn’t some brilliant revelation that finally made the One Ring work in the context of Sauron’s timeline in the Second Age. If he did, he didn’t get a chance scribble it on a napkin for his son to later try and make sense of. And so we will never really know what his true canon decision on, say, elven pregnancy was: sometimes he thought it should take about 108 years. Sometimes only 9 years. He would change his mind, or change his math, again and again.. So when you talk about the ‘canon’ of Tolkien, it’s important to remember that even if you’re just speaking about ‘definitive’ works, you’re left with those published with his approval in his lifetime. namely The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, and The Road Goes Ever On songbook with Donald Swann. Even with those four books there’s complexity: what version of The Hobbit are you talking about? The original? Or the one he rewrote after he changed his mind about the entire nature of the ring Bilbo found in a cave and decided that actually it was the most important piece of jewelry in existence. Honestly, given world enough and time Tolkien probably would have made a third edition of The Hobbit because those two ‘canonical’ books, The Hobbit and it’s ‘sequel’ Lord of the Rings, don’t even fit together very well, as poor Peter Jackson learned to his sorrow and our pain with his wretched, tonally disjunct Hobbit films. It’s funny, because everyone on here loves talking about Roland Barthes’ Death of the Author. Almost none of you have ever read it, but it sure is a thing that’s a super important, inviolable concept... until we talk about an author the internet isn’t mad at, and suddenly the author’s word is inviolable and all adaptation choices are wrong. I don’t know how to get this across any clearer: anyone who has ever dug deep into Tolkien’s lore knows that speaking of things like ‘canon,’ ‘definitive,’ ‘authoritative,’ and all similar adjectives is often a fool’s errand. Tolkien left us with a lot of ideas about the second age, but very little in the way of clarity, much less ‘this is the true thing unchanging.’ Even the ‘authoritative’ timeline of the Appendices in LOTR is stuff he was changed in the writings he did in the years after. So I am begging you. Please. Please stop giving the Akallabêth a level of authoritative definition that even its compiler admitted it did not possess. Until you can prove to me you brought the shade of JRR Tolkien back from beyond the Veil to speak True Authorial Intent,[3] I am going to treat your recourse to ‘but the canon’ with the level of exasperation it deserves. --------------------------

[1] Besides the general problem on this website that everyone’s heard of critical theory and almost nobody’s ever read any. [2] There are plenty of valid critiques to be made, especially about pacing and awkward racial optics, but it’s really not the unhinged shit I’m seeing, as usual. [3] Let’s be honest: in the fifty years since he shuffled off his mortal coil, the shade of Tolkien will unquestionably return with a ghostly second pile of essays, letters, notes, scraps of ideas, poems, plot outlines, and ramblings, and they won’t be remotely definitive either. And we’re all going to be super disgruntled when the ghost insists that the only good adaptation is his work is Khraniteli.

[flowermountainpress]

Building the Case, pictures

January 28th

(Porting over posts from patreon!)

So first I take my trimmed textblock and I make sure all the elements that would change its size are already finished-- mull being added, end papers, end bands, trimming etc.

Then I measure it against some boards, making sure the grain alignment is good. Boards and paper have a grain alignment that either runs like this | | | | | or like this ====

I'm not always the best at making sure the grain alignment lines up, for example I rarely bother with the actual book paper unless a commissioner wants me to buy 11x17 inch paper and cut it in half so it has the correct grain direction. But I try to make sure it lines up for boards, because if they warp, you want them to warp in a way that goes with the cover instead of bowing out like a basketball.

Anyway, it's witchcraft to me, but I keep it in mind. I then cut the boards, some of the cuts with a hand tool and some with my guillotine-- if you do this, beware that a stray piece of metal in your board leftover from the factory can fuck your shit. Hasn't happened to me but it's a warning I've received, so be mindful. And it also will dull your blades a bit more than regular paper trimming.

Once the boards are cut to size, about 2mm of overhang on each size of the textblock, and offset by the math of your hinge gap from the spine of the book (there's specific math for this, I think board thickness/width x 2 + something or another, that I mostly ignore), which I eyeball and usually default to a 7mm hinge gap bc its worked well for me (I heard DAS use 7mm once and it stuck, though I do bigger if it's a bigger book), and I've been using a 3mm fore edge overhang because it seems like a mm or two disappear once I add the book cloth-- okay, once the math is done and the boards are cut, I like to glue them down to a piece of cardstock.

This allows me to dry fit the case onto the book. If the measurements don't line up in a way that pleases me, I can rip the boards off the cardstock and re glue them. Without this method, you're gluing the boards directly onto the book cloth. Ripping them off the book cloth is a lot harder and often ruins either the board or cloth, so you have to remake it. Hard pass. I suppose if you use precise math and trust that math, it'll work perfectly every time, but the people that can do that are built different. Not me lol.

Anyway then you'll see here that I've labeled both sides of the boards AND the outside end pages with (F)ront ^ and (B)ack^ to denote which side is the front and which is the back, and which way is up. That's because you don't want to put on your cover upside down! Or glue the textblock upside in a rightside-up cover. The reason you mark the inside AND outside of the covers is because once you glue the book cloth onto the outside, the marking is obviously not visible anymore.

The endbands are for decoration. They used to be functional and I've tried the "old school" version-- you sew the thread into the book itself-- but it's way too much work and largely became obsolete once modern glue was invented. There's no longer any need for the structural support of sewn endbands/headbands.

I thought I'd do a breakdown of this part of the process since I was here and had my phone camera handy.

If anyone has any questions, I'd be happy to answer.

[tomorrowillbeyou]

just had my first day working at this exhibit.. it was very chill mainly just standing in an empty room and saying hi if anyone walked in and sometimes explaining the riemann sphere.... i amused myself when alone by spinning in circles until i was dizzy and then trying to name 5 maths words starting with a random letter. also the other guy working there today was sooo cute but he has a bf and i met his bf and he's really nice so ... but actually 1 interesting thing happened which was this old guy came in and told me his whole life story and his sons life story and his best friends life story and all the various people he knew that were relevant to my life.. some of it was actually really interesting but also i was really hungry and wanted to go for lunch. and then his friend came in and asked me to explain this like stereographic projection of the earth and i told him that it preserves angles but not sizes. not 5 minutes later he turns to me and condescendingly explains that it preserves angles but not sizes ! most bizarre and odd mansplaining incident ive ever been involved in ! (and isay mansplaining bcoz they both thought i was a girl and im usually too awkward to correct people on that). anyway it was superrr sunny when i left and i got a slice of toffee apple cake :] and got the bus home and felt really unmisophoniaish on the bus just enjoying the people talking around me.. very rare mood that i get in that makes me sooo happy <3 also i looked in one of the mirrors and my hands are BRIGHT RED ! like far redder than i believed them to be. and i hope im not doxxing myself too hard talking about this actually i don't care

[officialclangen]

what are the chances of getting two cats that look identical? (Not including scars or collars or anything else) just curious! :p

Alright, you actually made me do math for this lmao

If my calculations are correct, then, including only attributes a cat can be born with and only the adult sprite poses, the number of possible unique combinations is 30,858,154,470,000

Keep in mind I did this math with the new tortie system that was just added to the development testing version of the game included, which greatly increased the number of potential tortie patches to a whopping 4,290 through some clever masking techniques and new patch options. This also included all the heterochromic combinations, as we have 22 different eye colors that can all be mix and matched to create heterochromia.

Obviously, adding the scars and accessories to this count would bring it to an even more ridiculous number as you can have up to 4 scars on a cat at once and we just added a new collar set to the dev version.

Now, I do want to give a caveat that this isn't the true chance of obtaining an identical cat. The chance of finding two single-color cats that look identical is likely pretty high vs the chance of finding two calicos that look identical. There's also the aspect of "rare" attributes like heterochromia or the new "wildcard" torties. But, I cannot be assed to try and do the math for that. I might be one of the coders but I barely got through algebra in school so this is not my strong suit lol

Also, if you're reading this months in the future, I guarantee we've added more possibilities and the number is even higher now