#I suppose the measure of kindness should be how you handle disagreements

[marietheran]

the sheer number of people on this website who are the nicest kindest individuals ever until they find out you disagree with them on something morally important wherupon they turn exceedingly vitriolic is staggering tbh.

[btsiguess]

Womyn With A ‘Y’ (m) - 4

Summary: You weren’t quite sure how you ended up working with the aloof Yoonji on your student council campaign, but you did know that that girl was starting to make you question yourself. I mean, if she’s even a girl at all…

Pairing: Yoonji/Reader Yoongi/Reader

Genre: Smut/Fluff

Word Count: 3754

Warnings (if applicable): Moderately underaged drinking, Jimin being too good for this world. 

A/Ns: I’m back y’all 

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 

The  next day, Jimin had noticed you were upset right away. He had caught up with you just as lunch had begun. You hadn’t heard from Yoonji today, and the thought had been weighing on you heavily. Hadn’t she said that the two of you should talk?

“There you are!” He says, jogging up to you. “Did everything go alright with Yoonji yesterday? You look a little bit tense.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. You can feel rejection washing over you in waves, and even though you understand that it’s not Yoonji’s fault that she doesn’t want you, you can’t deny that it hurts.

Of course you weren’t good enough for Yoonji. When had she ever given you a sign that that wasn’t the case? That tall beautiful goddess could never fall for someone like you. On top of that, now you had to worry about what your relationship would be like in the future. Would she ever even want to speak to you again?

“Hey… What’s the matter?” Jimin asks. “Did you two get into a fight? Did she back out of being your running mate?”

“This isn’t about the stupid election, Jimin!” You snap, but you regret it immediately. Jimin hadn’t done anything wrong. You shouldn’t make him feel like he had.

Jimin looks a bit surprised by your outburst, but just holds up his hands in innocence.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize instantly, guilty about your outburst. But Jimin’s face just softens into a smile.

“You’re a bit cute when you’re mad, you know?” He playfully taps your shoulder and you scoff, a feeling annoyance flaring in your tummy.

“Oh, there it is again.” He winks.

“Shut up!” You say, but you can feel your lips twitch up just a little bit. It seemed like Jimin was impossible to stay annoyed at. It was probably his stupid boyish charm. But you continue. “We didn’t fight or anything serious. Just a minor disagreement.” Jimin nods, thoughtful.

“Still, you seem pretty bent up about it.” He notes. You’re a bit surprised by his astuteness.

“Is it that obvious?” You question and Jimin laughs.

“Not quite obvious. Just, I know the Yoonji blues better than anyone. I can catch it from a mile away.” He throws his arm around your shoulders. You’re surprised at the fact that it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. “Listen, I have something that might help make you feel better. But it might not be the wisest idea you’ve ever heard.”

You look up at Jimin curiously. He’s got a mischievous glint in his eyes that you’re surprised to see on his cherubic face. His mouth quirks up slightly at your interest, the smirk making him look positively sinful.

“What did you have in mind Jimin?”

He winks at you. “Don’t panic. But we are skipping the rest of school.”

_____

You’ve never actually skipped school before, especially not to hang out with a boy.

You should have asked where the two of you were going. And as soon as you were in Jimin’s car, you realized that you could have put yourself in incredible danger. You had been too wrapped up in the prospect of doing something bad, so focussed on that that you hadn’t considered the ways in which Jimin might take advantage of you. He might seem sweet, but he was still a man after all.

Jimin catches onto your nerves, spotting the worried crease in your forehead from a mile away.

“I’m not going to kill you, I promise. We are going to my house.” Jimin soothes, backing out of his parking spot.

“Your house for what?” You say, mind racing back to how angry Yoonji would be if she found out you had gotten yourself into this situation. He begins to drive.

“Drinking.” He stated. As if the answer were simple.

“I- I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” You say, a bit flabbergasted at the boy’s suggestion. You weren’t supposed to drink. Especially not in the middle of the day during the week.

“I told you it was a bad idea!” Jimin defends himself. “But I think that you ought to let loose once and awhile. And Yoonji causes everyone’s feelings to go haywire. Just try it? Just this once? I promise I’ll take good care of you. Yoonji is something I know how to handle well.” If it were any other boy you would have doubted the truthfulness of their claims. But Jimin always had a way of displaying his earnesty on his face through and through. You couldn’t help but trust him.

“Alright… But if you try anything I’ll cut your dick off I swear to god.” You tried to sound as serious and menacing as possible, but Jimin just laughed, pulling into the driveway of what you could only assume to be his home. It wasn’t too far from your own home, you noted. And you were grateful for that.

Jimin leads you up into his room. It’s relatively clean, save for a few piles of laundry here and there. You couldn’t distinguish whether they were clean or not at a glance. He motions for you to take a seat on his bed then goes to his closet. Rummaging around until he pulls out a box full of liquor.

“How did you get all that?” You wonder.

“I have an older friend, Jin. He gets this for me. He’s really cool. We met at work.” Jimin places the box unceremoniously on the bed before you. “What would the beautiful lady like first?” He throws in a wink for good measure.

You’re not sure how long you and Jimin sit there, drinking and talking casually about your lives before he sprung the question. It had to have been hours at least, judging by the way the sky darkened. You had heard his parents come home at some point, but Jimin didn’t make a move to cover up the alcohol, and so you had remained. Talking and drinking and laughing. Losing track of the amount of empty cans and bottles that belonged to you. You had liked getting to know him, and he remained a respectful distance from you, as though he knew that any advance on his part would be more than unwelcome. It had almost helped you forget the source of all of your current problems. At least, until Jimin broached the topic you had hoped he would leave alone.

“So,” He says lightly, “are you going to tell me what happened with Yoonji?”

You take a long drink of the soju he had given you earlier, not even bothering to mix it with your beer at this point.

“Well…” You didn’t know if you should tell him. You hadn’t even told Soonmi yet. Too afraid of her reaction to let it slip.

“Hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it too. I’m not going to pry. I just think it might make you feel a little bit better.” His smile is gentle and kind. If you hadn’t been so wrapped up with Yoonji, your heart would have definitely fluttered all over the place.

“I don’t want to upset you…” You let slip. It can’t be in good taste to tell the president of the Min Yoonji fan-club that you’d kissed the girl he’s had a thing for for years, right?

“Oh please,” he waves his hand as if to shoo your worries away. “There’s nothing you can say to me that will upset me. I know Yoonji’s not into me. You don’t have to be considerate of my feelings. It’s cute of you though.” He tacks on for good measure.

“Well… Okay…” You started, you could feel that the words had to come out anyway, and with your tongue loose from the alcohol you had been drinking, you figured it was easier to just let it happen than try to stop it. “After Yoonji pulled me away from you at lunch yesterday, she ended up. I mean, it’s. I’m embarrassed to say it, gosh.” Your cheeks started to heat up. “She! She just kissed me, okay? And it was amazing and wonderful and all sorts of good! But… right after that, she ran away like I was some sort of monster. I can’t help thinking that I did something wrong. Am I that horrendous?” You put your head in your hands. All the feelings that you had been able to set aside with the help of the soju slamming back into you tenfold.

“Ahh, I see.” Jimin leans back on his arms. “Well, I can tell you one thing, it’s not because of the way you kiss.” His face flushes slightly as you raise your eyebrows. “Sorry. Locker room talk. Jihoon isn’t really a private person.”

Your mouth turns downwards at that, and Jimin immediately moves on, trying to avoid upsetting you.

“Well, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both girls?” He questions. “God that’s hot. I mean-- I’m sorry, I’m a little drunk.” His cheeks color slightly, the blush pouring over his nose. You can’t help but smile. It was cute to see him like this.

“It’s fine.” You laugh. “But Yoonji had already told me that she was bisexual by that point. It didn’t seem like it was something she was upset about?”

“Oh. I’m not sure why she’d run then, to be honest. But I don’t think it would be anything bad. Who would be upset after kissing you?” You don’t notice Jimin’s flirting, you never do. Jimin smiles to himself at the fact. You were way too nice.

“I don’t know. I’ve been feeling upset about it though. I didn’t even know I was into girls like that. I… I still think it might just be Yoonji or something? She’s just different you know?” Jimin nods in understanding and mutual pining. “All I know is that I want to kiss her again. More than anything.” You cover your face with your hands upon admitting it.

“Is that all you want to do with her?” Jimin questions.

“No of course not.”

“Why don’t you give her a call?” He suggests. “Ask her for what you want. To be honest if you called me and begged for me to kiss you I’d be there in five minutes flat.”

“I don’t know…” You blush at the boy’s suggestion. “It’s not… usually my style.”

Jimin smirks.

“That’s what the alcohol was for. Listen,” he leans forward to take your shoulders into his hands. “You’re hot as fuck. Yoonji clearly has a thing for you! You should see the way she stares at you when you’re around. She’s probably freaked out because she doesn’t want to hurt you or something. I mean, really, you have that effect on people. Too fucking cute, I say.” You blanch at Jimin’s swearing and he smiles widely at your expression.

“See?” He continues, booping you on your nose quickly. “Too cute. My vote is that you go home, call up Yoonji, and get her to give you everything you want. I bet you sound adorable all worked up. She won’t be able to say no.”

“Are you sure?” You ask.

“More than sure.” He responds. You nod resolutely and stand from the bed, shaking slightly from the alcohol in your system.

“Are you good to get home?” Jimin asks. “I might be a little too drunk to drive. You can always stay here and put it on speaker phone?”

You slap at his shoulder playfully. “Gross, Jimin. No I can get home. It’s only like a five minute walk.”

“Still it’s dark out. Let me at least walk you home?” You nod in agreement and the two of you start off towards your house.

The trip goes by much quicker than you anticipated, Jimin as usual proving to be the best kind of company.

You’re at your doorway when he looks you in the eye and takes a step in your direction.

“Here, take this.” Jimin laughs at your slight alarm, handing the small bottle of soju your way. “For liquid courage!”

You blush profusely, but take the bottle from Jimin regardless.

“And hey, babe,” He says, leaning far too close than was necessary to speak directly into your ear. “Go get that pussy.” Then he’s gone.

You manage to make it through your room, despite your heavy limbs. Dialing, first, the one person who deserved to know everything that was going on. She answers on the third ring.

“Hey! Where were you in last period?”

“Soonmi” You slur, opening the soju that Jimin had gifted you and taking another swig. “I wanna fuck Yoonji so bad.”

“H-Holy shit, bitch.” Is her immediate reply. “Have you been drinking? How much have you had?”

“Just a little,” you lie. “Jus’ like two shots.” Such a lie. You can’t remember if you’ve had two or three bottles of soju at this point. And that wasn’t including the fact that you were chasing with beer on top of it.

“Babe, oh my god. You need to go to sleep.” Soonmi says. “I can’t come to get you. I’m like an hour away…”

“Yoonji is so fucking hot. I never thought I’d eat pussy before but like I would, I so would.”

“Jesus Christ… Okay, I can’t help you right now… Are your parents home? Is someone there for you?” You understand why she can’t drop everything and run to you. She had no way to get to you, since she was staying at her dad’s house this weekend and couldn’t drive.

“Yeah, they’re home if I need them.” You say. “But I don’t need them. I need Yoonji. I need to call Yoonji.”

“No bitch, you do not--” but you’ve already hung up. Mind set on calling the only person you know you shouldn’t, bolstered by Jimin’s support. You can’t help it. You need to hear her voice. It’s late, and you only think that there’s a possibility of her being asleep on the third ring. But your worries are pushed to the side when she answers, her low voice gravely as she picks up.

It was go time.

***

Of course he’d picked up when he saw it was you. What else could he do? He was putty in your hands no matter which way he looked at it.

“Is everything okay?” He asks immediately. You aren’t the type of girl to call this late. He hopes nothing is wrong.

“Yoonji.” You breathe out, and the way your voice sounds makes Yoongi pause.

“A-Are you alright?” He asks again, not missing the irony of his stutter. It seems that you were also capable of turning him into a nervous mess.  

“I miss you, Yoonji.” You tell him, and his heart stops. “I’ve been thinking about you all night…” Your voice dips a bit and Yoongi can’t help but take the bait.

“What? What have you been thinking about?”

You make a little whimpering noise on the other end of the line, and Yoongi can’t help but bite his lip at that. It spurs him to think about all of the noises you would make if you just let him have his way with you. The small coos and cries in his imagination had kept him awake all night for during the past few weeks was nothing in comparison to the real thing.

“Your mouth and hands and everything. Yooooonji~” You say. Your words slur just a bit and Yoongi sighs.

“You’ve been drinking, huh?” He says.

“Yeah, but I’m a big girl, I can handle it.” Is your retort.

“You should sleep.” He says, but he doesn’t hang up like he should. Why wasn’t he hanging up? He chalked it up to not wanting to hurt your feelings but even he rolled his eyes at himself as he thought so. He was such a liar.

“I can’t sleep, Yoonji, I want you.” He chokes a bit at that. He can’t help it. It sounds so sexy spilling from your lips. You’re going to fucking kill him with this.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning.” He grits out. He’s already in trouble, he can’t dig himself into a deeper hole.

“How can I regret it when it’s all I can think about?” You sigh dreamily, as if the thought of the two of you together had resurfaced again.

Yoongi was in some deep shit as he considered the prospect too.

“Please princess, don’t say things you can’t mean.” Yoongi mumbles through clenched teeth. He was teetering on the precipice of something horrible and gratifying. He had to get the situation under control before it was too late.

“Don’t tell me what I feel, Yoonji.” Your tone is harsher than he’s ever heard it before. As if you had finally had enough of his shit. Yoongi smiles, his heart aching at how cute you sound when you’re mad at him. Geez, he was such a fucking creep.

“I’m not going to take advantage of you while you’re drunk.” He finally states, blessing whatever God might be out there for allowing him the strength.

“Can’t you just do it a little bit?” You pout over the line, making Yoongi let out a sharp breath. “Please Yoonji, I feel like I’m going crazy! I can’t stand this anymore. How am I supposed to just roll over and go to sleep when I know you’re somewhere looking hot as hell and-- ahh!” You sound as if you’re in physical pain, and Yoongi is familiar with the feeling. Your soft voice echoes throughout his mind at the most inopportune times of the day. He had hoped that if he had just pushed through it might pass, but in all actuality it had simply gotten worse.

“Please…” He begs, “I’m not necessarily saying no for forever. Just until you’re a little more level headed. Until I’m a little more level headed.”

He hears your resigned sigh resonate through the speaker.

“Alright, but please don’t hang up yet. I want to hear your voice. To talk to you.” Fuck. So damn cute. Unreasonably cute.

“Of course, princess. Anything you want.”

“Well apparently not anything.” You huff, more to yourself than to him and he bites his lip at the image of you he’s conjured up. All hot and ready on your pink bedspread, pouting up a storm because he wont fuck you. Fuck. Focus.

“What do you want to talk about?” He changes the subject.

You consider his question for a moment. As if debating whether or not you should say what you had in mind.

“Yoonji, I did something bad today. I’m sorry!” You lament and Yoongi can’t help the smile that graces his lips at the abrupt shift in conversation. It was almost as if you’d lost your nerve, all prior sexual tension leaving immediately in the wake of your sudden confession. He can’t help but feel a bit relieved.

“What happened, darling?” He asks softly.

“I drank.” You state.

“We’ve already established that.” He coos, picturing the flush in your cheeks as you tell him again.”

“Oh right. But… Yoonji. I drank with Jimin.” Yoongi can hear the shame in your voice, and he briefly wonders whether he had been too harsh with you about the younger man. Yoongi knows that the two of you would make a perfect couple, and he doesn’t know why he keeps standing in your way. Why it fills him with jealousy whenever he sees the two of you together. Well, maybe he does know, but it would be better for everyone if he denied it.

You must have noticed his silence on the other end of the line, because you start explaining yourself profusely. You tell him that you were feeling hurt that he hadn’t shown up to school to talk. That you were worried that he hated you now and that you wouldn’t want to be friends with him anymore. But it was one specific question which had Yoongi breaking apart under its weight, reeling at the shift in conversation and almost wishing he had just done what you had asked originally.

“Was I not good enough?” You had asked, in relation to the kiss that the two of you had shared.

“No, oh my god no.” Yoongi interrupts before you can say anything else as equally ridiculous and heartbreaking. “The kiss was wonderful. More than anything else, I want to do it again.”

“Then why don’t you Yoonji?” You ask. “Why did you run away?”

“I told you, there’s something I’ve been keeping from you. I could never forgive myself if I took advantage of you without you knowing all the facts.” “But you didn’t come into school today! Why are you avoiding me?” Yoongi can hear the way your voice tightens, holding back tears.

“I wasn’t avoiding you, I swear.” Yoongi responds. “Or… maybe I was but it’s out of my own cowardice. This has nothing to do with your actions. You mean a lot to me.”

“Yoonji, you know that I won’t care what you have to tell me, right? You know that the only thing I want is to kiss you again? Nothing you can say will change my mind.” Your voice sounds earnest now, and Yoongi feels his heartbeat quicken. Why are you so cute?

“Is that the truth?” He asks.

“Absolutely.”

“I’m sorry that I drank with Jimin. You ought to know that he means nothing in comparison to you. I even told him so.” You sigh.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, babe. I shouldn’t be so jealous anyway. You and Jimin might even make a good couple.”

“Don’t say that to me!” You cry, and Yoongi is taken aback. “The only person I want to be with is you, Yoonji. I don’t know how you’ve done this to me, but I’m so wrapped up in you. I can’t think of anyone else.”

“I don’t want you to think of anyone else.” Yoongi confesses. The answer is dangerously honest. “But please don’t make any decisions before you know the truth about me, okay? Can you promise me that you won’t?”

“I can’t promise you that… but I will promise to listen to you.”

“Then. Let’s meet tomorrow morning? Before school… I’ll tell you what you need to know.” His heart falls into the pit of his stomach.

You agree before hanging up the phone, leaving you both feeling tense, nervous, and eager for the following day to arrive.

________

A/N: Look at all that plot development. It’s almost like it’s a real story. 

Also please if you guys enjoy reading my work, please consider donating to my PayPal, literally every little bit helps and I am so poor I am dying :’-)

https://paypal.me/MackenzieBrennan

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Please Don’t See Me - Chapter 14/14

“FORD!”

The scientist in question snatched his hand back, just before the carnivorous plant he had been studying snapped at him with a second slime-coated mouth. A second mouth! It was located under the bulbous head’s primary maw, smaller but sharing the larger one’s distinctive jutting spines that seemed to function like teeth – hooked back to prevent prey from getting away. The infant plant was only as long as his forearm but when it was fully-grown the secondary mouth could easily be large enough to pick up small mammals from the forest floor, maybe even large raccoons or the occasional gnome.

Hmm. They might make for good pest control. Ford studied where the plant’s stem met the forest floor, trying to ascertain how deep the roots ran. If he could get his hands on a pair of good, sturdy gloves for protection he might be able to replant it in a pot and take it back to his lab for further testing. That would certainly be easier than trying to run tests on the fully-grown specimens dotting the forest. How old was this one, anyway? Ford pulled out his tape measure to record its size.

Stan slapped his hand away when it neared the hissing plant. “Don’t touch it! Didn’t you just say this thing was poisonous?”

“Venomous, not poisonous.” Ford corrected.

“You know what I mean.”

Ford waved away his brother’s concerns. “Don’t worry, it’s only a juvenile. Its venom hasn’t developed enough to do any damage. The worst it’ll do is itch.”

“I still wouldn’t be touching it if I were you.” Stan said doubtfully, hunkering down next to Ford to get a good look at the creature. The plant hissed and spat at them and generally made a nuisance of itself.

Ford smirked. “Look Stanley, it’s just as friendly as you are.”

“Hey!” Stan brandished a finger in Ford’s face. “I’m a friendly guy! Just not to weird-ass plants that try to bite my brother’s hand off.”

“It’s not like you didn’t try to bite my hand off when I reached for the ice cream yesterday.”

“Fuck you Ford, I called dibs and you know it.”

Ford rolled his eyes, reaching for the spade in his pack. He’d missed the easy banter between them. It had been missing during the whole Rebus fiasco, obviously; there was only so much sarcasm a wolf could convey through its eyes alone, and only so much a scientist could babble to his canine friend without it being… just sad. Even once the brothers had reconciled, Stan’s mind restored, Ford had worried that after nearly ten years apart the differences between them were far to great to bridge.

But in seemingly no time, Ford had fallen back quickly into the habit of trading quips and joking insults, laughs and rolled eyes and body language that sometimes spoke more than words. It felt far more natural than the forced conversations he’d attempted to make during his time in college. Ford had forgotten the comfort of having his brother nearby.

Of course, an adjustment period was necessary – perhaps made longer by the added factor of Stan readjusting to having a human shape. It was rather concerning, the number of times the man would forget to cook his food and instead tear into it raw and bloody. The first time that had happened Ford had been in the kitchen as well, and he’d stared with popping eyes as Stan nonchalantly sank his teeth into a raw steak.

Stan had hesitated, chewing slowly and swallowing before speaking in his gravelly voice, not bothering to wipe away a trail of blood rolling down his chin.

“…okay, yeah, I see what I did there.”

And of course, they were wildly different people who were bound to have disagreements. It had taken Ford quite some time to convince Stan that while they may argue, he was in no danger of losing his family again. He wouldn’t be sent away, punished or abandoned again. Not while Ford was still breathing.

The plant’s hiss brought him back to the moment. Ford frowned, considering his plan of action, before settling on the plain approach. They could simply carry the thing home.

“Can you get out one of the sample bags? I want to bring this specimen to my lab and they should be large enough to hold its roots.”

Stan rifled through the pack while Ford sized up the agitated plant. He would be able to dig up the roots if the darn thing would stay still! He would have to design some kind of muzzle appropriate for two mouths when they got it back to the house.

Ford made a lunge for the creature, trapping its stalk against the ground with one hand so it couldn’t bite him as he dug up its roots. The plant snapped at him fruitlessly. Ford quickly loosened up the soil enough to lift the whole thing and settle it roots-first in the awaiting sample bag.

Stan groused at having to carry the plant all the way home (one hand gripping behind its head, obviously, to stop it from biting). The whining was pretty unfair considering Stan had demanded to carry it so he could keep an eye on the snappish thing, but Ford supposed he could appreciate the intent.

(…on the other hand, that left Ford to carry the heavy pack. He was beginning to think that this wasn’t a purely altruistic move on Stan’s part.)

“When I took the job I didn’t realize ‘research assistant’ meant ‘gardener’.”

“I don’t pay you to whine, Stanley.”

“You don’t pay me.” Stan countered.

“Oh – don’t I?” Ford could have sworn he had been. Stan tended to handle the money so Ford had just… assumed that Stan was receiving some of it. He frowned. “Why don’t I pay you?”

“’Cause I live in your house? That’s kinda payment enough.”

“No it’s not!”

“It was when you thought I was a wolf.”

Ford spluttered. “That – that’s because you were a wolf. Wolves don’t need to be paid to act as research assistants-”

“Oh, are you saying wolves don’t deserve to be paid equal wages?” Stan shook his head in mock disappointment. “Gosh, Ford. My own brother-”

“Oh, shut up! You know what I mean!”

Stan snickered. He only laughed harder when Ford punched him lightly in the shoulder, careful not to jostle the creature in his grasp.

Ford glanced at his watch, taking note of the time. At this pace they would reach home well before dark. Maybe they should take a detour to check on the size-altering crystals? Ford had covered the Warped crystal with a tarp to prevent the light reaching it, but he really should check that the covering was still in place after the blustering winds that had recently swept through. He didn’t want any unsuspecting forest life to wander into its beam.

Then again, that could wait for another day, and they had a carnivorous plant to re-house.

“…I really do need to pay you, though.” Ford muttered as they walked.

“You really don’t.” Stan shrugged. “I’m not doing anything useful anyway.”

The nonchalance with which he spoke made Ford want to sigh. Stan never acknowledged his own value or input! Ford wanted to shove it down his throat and force his brother to acknowledge that he was important, goddammit!

For the moment, he settled on arguing his point.

“Shopping for food is useful; plus, the people in town know you better than me and I’ve been living here for years, so you’re basically handling public appearance. And collecting data from my monitors is useful.”

“That’s just walking and taking readings.” Stan argued right back. “A monkey could do that data-collection stuff.”

“Babysitting Tate while Fiddleford and I are busy is useful.”

“The kid’s easy, he just wants to spend time with a dog all day.”

“Defending the house from griffins is useful.” Especially since they seemed to have it out for the Pines twins and would come by every so often with claws and beaks bared.

“You woulda just found a better way to keep ‘em away.”

Ford gritted his teeth. “You handle the money and pay the bills.”

“It’s your grant money, I just budget it.”

“Exactly! That is exactly what I should pay you for!” Ford flung up his arms in exasperation. Stan merely shrugged, and – smirked? He was enjoying Ford’s misery! “Ugh, whatever.”

Stan continued to look smug. Ford silently resolved to start paying him, even if he had to sneak the money into his brother’s bank account. Or just leave some around the house. Apparently Stan was too proud to accept payment but the guy never passed up an opportunity to take it if it was there.

“…anyway, about the whole money thing, I was thinking.” Stan mumbled, a little more subdued. Ford glanced across.

“Yes?”

“Eh – well, y’know how there are so many cool things around here? If Pa’d let us come, we woulda loved it here when we were kids.”

Ford imagined himself as a child – bright-eyed and eager to learn, marveling at everything around him – and was inclined to agree.

“And just yesterday you were sayin’ about how no one appreciates this stuff. Really, I’m kinda surprised no one’s made something of this place before, snatched it up for a tourist attraction. I was thinking that it would be pretty cool to give… tours or something?”

Ford opened his mouth but his brother was already rushing ahead, a nervous scowl affixed to his face.

“It’s all good if you don’t want me to – probably something about the scientific integrity of the place or whatever – but, it’s kinda something I’m good at. Tours, selling stuff, talking to people, that stuff. A-And I know you love teaching people about things, so if you wanted to help? Like, write up information sheets or – or do classes or whatever. Obviously I’d be spinning some yarns, that’s the fun of these places, but I know people would love to see some of the weird stuff here and actually learn about it too, so I dunno, I think it would be cool?”

All of this was said rather quickly, with few breaths taken in between, so when Stan finally ran out of things to say he took a few heavy breaths. Ford blinked and took a few moments to process this.

“Stan, are you asking my permission to open a tourist trap?”

The werewolf cringed, grip tightening fractionally around the uselessly-wriggling plant creature. “No, ‘course not. I’m just… seein’ if you’d be open to the idea.”

“Well…” Ford adjusted the straps of his pack. “So long as it doesn’t interfere with my research, I think it’s quite an interesting prospect. It would be nice to be able to share some of the things I’ve learned. If you think you can pull it off I believe you. You don’t need my permission, of course, but you certainly have my support.”

“Wait, really?”

Ford laughed as his brother perked up. That was another thing he’d had to adjust to since their reunion – canines tended to express themselves heavily through body language and Stan had apparently picked up that trait. He had no tail at the moment but from the straight posture and slight vibrating, Ford imagined it would be wagging.

“’Cause I’ve got so many ideas.” Stanley gushed. “I was thinking I could get a place set up, probably in the woods closer to town – maybe contract that lumberjack guy you talked about to built it? Anyways, I’d fill it with attractions, some of the cool shit that lives around here. Like, you know that weird-ass bird we saw the other day, the one you said we shouldn’t bother to look into?”

“Having a second head is a fairly common mutation. I’ve studied several animals with that phenotype in my time here.”

“People eat that stuff up, Ford! And I could do tours around some of the harmless places – and charge a pretty penny for it too. You know how many shmucks are happy to get ripped off by dodgy fake tourist attractions? And this one would be real! I’d have a source of income, and you’d have somewhere to put the stuff you’ve finished researching, and people to teach if you want to. Plus this crummy town could use some tourists to give business a boost.”

Wow. Stan had evidently thought this whole thing out – and the excitement was contagious. Ford wondered if this was how his brother felt, when he himself became giddy about a new finding or breakthrough. Stan was grinning like a kid.

Ford laughed and elbowed him playfully. “It’s a sound plan. And it’s nice to see you’re putting aside your history with Dan. You growled at him last time we came across him – you weren’t yourself then, of course.”

Stan shot him a weird look. “Who?”

“Dan. The lumberjack.” Stan continued to look confused. “Matilda’s boyfriend?”

All at once the werewolf’s eyes widened. “The shovel guy.”

“Er – shovel?”

“He hit me with a shovel.”                                                    

“Oh.” Ford had almost forgotten the circumstances of their meeting, with himself rescuing Stan from being beaten to death. Ah – with what he knew now, the situation seemed a lot more dire. He strongly resisted the urge to grab up a shovel and see how Boyish Dan like being smacked into the ground.

Obviously Dan didn’t know it was a person he had assaulted, not a wolf, but still. It would make Ford feel better.

When no words came to him, Ford said the first thing on his mind. “Didn’t you try to eat his mother’s dog?”

“Dog? Fuckin’ thing was more of a bug than a dog. I was starving anyway, gimme a break!”

“I’m not judging. Anyway, I’ve seen you try to eat so many things-”

“Can it, Poindexter.”

Ford began to count on his fingers. “Squirrels, gnomes, the mayor’s hairpiece, our father, my kitchen cupboard, a whole watermelon for some reason-”

“I was outta my mind for half of those!”

“My phone, the multibear somehow, several lemons – why you kept coming back to them after knowing you hated them remains a mystery to me–”

They arrived back at the house before Ford could continue his list.

“We should get this thing planted before it dies or somethin’.” Stan shuffled the plant around in his arms to hold it more comfortably, ignoring its hiss of displeasure. “Where do you want it?”

“The porch should be fine. I don’t know how much energy it gets from its prey as opposed to the sun ­– it might need sunlight to live.”

“Right. You got a pot around? I can get Chompy here planted while you find something to stop it biting anyone who gets close.”

“’Chompy’? You named the plant?”

“You were too slow.”

Well, Ford couldn’t argue with that logic. He’d just have to be faster with the next creature they came across. They had a lifetime, after all, to squabble about names – among other things.

 (For example, whether Ford was terrible for pretending to toss Stan the car keys but hiding them behind his back instead. It took Stan an embarrassingly long time to realize and once he did, Ford could barely see the withering glare he received through his snickering.)

(That evening, in revenge, Stan fell asleep on the couch lying across several of Ford’s books. Upon attempts to remove him Stan simply shifted into a wolf and thus became heavier and harder to move.)

(But these are stories for another time.)

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

*tosses coin to my writer, o valley of plenty* if I may get a little Jask fic where the reader is cursed to be extremely ugly, and is ashamed and hides in a cloak/helmet/whatever to hide her face. Obviously shes in love with him, but theres no way he would ever love someone so hideous. Inevitably, one day someone sees her without the mask, (I dont care who, it can be anyone, even Jask) and they end up talking feelings and shame and all that good stuff.

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Jaskier x ReaderWord Count: 2,236 Rating: Ga/n: I love the concept of a reader being cursed and bonding with Jaskier over emotions instead of the usual “you’re hot, I’m hot, let’s fuck” (though my catalogue supports that I am not against this particular trope at all). I had a bit of a dilemma when trying to figure out how to approach because I am very cognizant of the way ugliness is socially constructed and I didn’t want to put a bunch of features on blast that someone may recognize in themselves and feel shitty about. Fanfic should either make you happy or sob or sigh but it should never make you feel bad about yourself. So I put a bit of a spin on it and I hopethat’s ok. I think I’ve still got the core of what you’re asking for here and I hope I handled it well. Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk.

There were those who spurned fairytales. They dismissed the stories of fairy godmothers and curses as children’s tales, moralistic tools for discipline. You knew better. You knew all too well how real fairy godmothers were, and how vicious they were when their charges were mistreated. You’d never been able to glean from your father what act he committed to enrage the fairy so but you knew the fallout. Your mother died in childbirth and you, against all odds, stubbornly clung to life and survived. Another punishment had to be handed down and the curse was placed. When you looked in the mirror you saw someone plain. Features indistinct and uninteresting, a canvas of a person. 

You were the lucky one. When others looked at you, they saw the face of the ugliest creature their imaginations could conjure. The fairy had been clever, knowing all too well that beauty was in the eye of beholder and that the only way to ensure your misery and loneliness was to make sure that every eye that beheld you saw something so uniquely gruesome to their own taste that they could not look past it. Your father was included in this and though he denied it you knew between that and losing your mother he was not able to feel or express love for you as he would have been if you weren’t so repugnant in his eyes.

You took to traveling and healing, still clinging to life like you had in your infancy, still determined to fight for your space in the world. Travelling meant you never had to get to know anyone too well or get too close. You’d tried using paints as other ladies did if they wanted to change their appearance but this only seemed to intensify the revulsion you inspired. You ended up wearing a heavy, hooded cloak and a kerchief about your mouth for extra measure. You were an intimidating figure but you tried to balance this with a soft voice and greater skill in healing. If you could offer something to people, you could briefly get the interaction you craved. But you always kept travelling and you rarely ran into the same person twice.

Until Jaskier.

You met him the way you met most people; providing a service. He’d come by your wagon in a rough state, explaining as you cleaned up his wounds that he’d gotten into a disagreement during his performance the night before. He was charming and kind, only asking about your odd attire once and then leaving it be when you made it clear you didn’t want to discuss it. He paid you more coin than you would have asked and you felt grateful that you’d had the chance to meet him and knew it would remain an encounter you kept close to your heart the rest of your days.

And then you saw him again. This time he caught you unawares, out on a very rare excursion away from your wagon to get some supplies. You’d never had someone see you a second time and look so happy about it. He joined you on your shopping, haggling with the shop owners and asking you for advice on the songs he was writing. He tried to get to know you a bit more, asking about how long you’d been traveling and why you’d chosen healing as a profession. It was easy to talk to him and you almost forgot he couldn’t see the burden you hid beneath your wrappings. He walked you back to your wagon, even going so far as to help you up into it, his hand grasping yours lightly to support you. Your touch starved skin tingled for hours in the spot his hand had been.

The third time you saw him was the worst day of your life. You’d known you were taking a risk by leaving the wagon without the hood and mask but you tried to convince yourself that you were only going down to the river for a moment to bathe. It was early winter and you knew no one would be around, smartly tucked up in their houses with their loved ones and fending off the frost. The water stung your skin but you enjoyed the sensation, happy to be free of the heavy clothes for these moments.

And then you saw him.

You clamored out of the river but you’d only pulled on your dress, still scrambling for the cloak when he stopped in his tracks. Confusion followed by recognition followed by even more confusion washed over his face and you felt your heart break as he cautiously approached.

“Y/N?” he asked. There was no point in pretending, the cloak and kerchief were in hand.

“Jaskier,” you said. You stood across from each other in silence for what felt like ages. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to do. Not everyone who saw you was cruel, some were just afraid which was almost worse. Jaskier just looked confused and intrigued. His eyes kept traveling over your face like he was trying to commit it to memory.

“Say something,” you said finally, your voice choked with repressed tears. He walked towards you slowly as though he were trying not to spook a horse. By the time he reached you the tears fell from your unblinking eyes. You kept looking for the moment he would turn. The revulsion that would shatter the lovingly preserved memories of him forever. He reached out and brushed away the tears and then reached down and took the cloak from your hands. You stood unmoving as he gently wrapped the cloak back around you, lifting the hood to cover your half-frozen hair. He held the kerchief in his hand but didn’t cover your face, just fidgeted with it as he worked to form words.

“So this is your deep secret,” he said. You nod, unable to form words.

“I’m disappointed.”

The words broke your heart.

“I thought it would be that you were a murderer or a dangerous fugitive,” he continued.

“What?”

“Well, I mean, unless, are you?” he asked.

“No,” you answered.

“Ok so you wear the cloak and the kerchief and the layers and things because…” his voice trailed off, leaving the question open for your answer.

“Because I’m hideous,” the words are like ashes in your mouth but you’re accustomed to the taste.

“According to whom?” he asked. You scoffed incredulously.

“Everyone. Literally everyone. That’s how it works.”

“That’s how what works?”

“The curse.”

“You’re cursed? How fascinating.”

His words anger you and you fear that he’s mocking you, that maybe the kindness he’s shown is just an act and that this a fresh way to experience cruelty. You thought you’d seen them all.

But you tell him the story. You tell him about the curse and your mirrorless childhood and the moment you saw your face and the worse moment when you began asking people to describe you and learned the true nature of the curse, far beyond the loss of a mother or a plain face. You don’t know when you both sit on the ground but at some point you’re there next to each other, leaning against the wheels of the wagon as the words continue to tumble out of you like a dam that’s finally broken. No one has ever heard this much of you, seen this much of you, or sat this long with you in your life and you stop caring how he’s going to react at the end. This isn’t about him anymore, this is about you releasing all that you’d carried and all that you’ll carry with you for the rest of your life. When you’re done you notice he’s taken your hand at some point and his thumb is softly rubbing soothing circles around your knuckles.

“So now this is my life. I stay hidden for my sake as much as everyone else’s. I heal because it’s better than sitting locked up in a house all my life and because it helps me feel… well, just that I suppose. It helps me feel. I would rather feel those brief moments of connection than stay numb my whole life,” you say. You’re startled to see there are tears in his eyes and he pulls you into a hug, not sure if he’s comforting you or himself but you hug him back though you’re long out of practice.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into the hood of your cloak, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Everyone has their curses I suppose,” you mumble, a little embarrassedand uncertain how to respond.

“Yes but the worst part is it’s all so stupid. So people find you ugly, so what? What could that possibly have to do with your worth as a person?” he asks.

“It’s easy to say that when you’re beautiful,” you say bitterly.

“Beauty doesn’t secure your place in people’s lives. It sure as hell doesn’t make them want you around either,” he says. “But tell me you realize this can’t keep on forever.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Well this… lonely existence, it’s miserable. No offense. Even you said as much. Are you really going to just hide yourself away forever?”

“I didn’t… I don’t see any other option.”

His hand is warm as it gently cups your face and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

“Take me with you,” he says.

“What?”

“Take me with you. I make a better travelling companion than most think. And I can help! Not with the healing and such but… listen, I had a friend who was treated much the same as you describe and I was able to help… bridge the gap between him and the people around him,” he says.

“How did you do that?”

“I wrote a song. Now, I’m not suggesting I write a song unless…” his voice trails off and he waggles his eyebrows winningly but your stony face is answer enough.

“Yes that’s what I thought. In any case with me by your side your loneliness is eased and if being there doesn’t communicate a more welcoming message I can at the very least defend your honor.”

You laugh, the sound foreign to your ears.

“And how will you do that?” you ask.

“I… will figure that out!” he vows.

“Can I ask you something,” you ask, growing serious again and avoiding his eyes.

“Anything.”

“What do you see? When you look at me? What do I look like?”

He considers the question and then pulls out a journal and quill from his travelling bag. You try to lean over and see what he’s doing but he pulls the journal away from your sight, tsking at you and telling you to be patient. Your stomach twists in knots as he glances between the journal and you and just when you’re about to lunge for it, he makes a final flourish and hands you the book.

A sob wracks through your body the moment your eyes meet the page and a trembling hand covers your mouth.

“I’m not an excellent artist but I don’t think it’s so bad,” Jaskier says, concern furrowing his brow. You can’t form words for a while, the jagged sobs seemingly endless as Jaskier rubs your back, confused but trying to be supportive until your sobs break into something that sounds a little less heartwrenching and then breaks into laughter. You look at him, eyes shining with tears and something else, something a bit more hopeful and new.

“It’s me,” you whisper, pointing to the drawing. The drawing of the face you saw in your reflection as a child, just older. The face no one has ever seen until this man who’s looking at you like you’re insane but also very relieved that you’d stopped crying. Well, not entirely, but they seem to be happy tears now.

“Yes I know,” he says.

“No, Jaskier, Jaskier, it’s me,” you can’t explain what this means just yet. There aren’t words and you aren’t sure you understand yet yourself.

“I see you,” he says, wiping away some of the tears again, leaning in closed to rest his forehead against yours, “I see you.”

There are those who spurn fairytales. They dismiss the stories of destiny and of a love that cannot be repelled by curses or the weight of a life heavy with trauma. You know better.

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 27

I’m.......so fucking stoked to post this right now 

Ao3

“I need to stop and fill up,” Eretson mumbles ten silent minutes into the ride back to Fishlegs’ house. 

“How dare you?”  The silence shatters like physical bonds and Astrid sits up straight in the passenger seat, arms crossed to keep herself from hitting him. 

Or at least not hitting him yet.  She still might hit him, but not now, not until he explains where he left his brain. 

“I can make it,” he swallows, refusing to look at her, “the light comes on fifty miles before empty, anyway.” 

“Hiccup told me about the plea deal,” she tries to sound deadly but with her fists tucked away and her eyes tired, she’s not convinced that she gets the point across.  Especially when Eretson pulls up in front of Fishlegs’ house and looks at her with obvious pity, like she’s a kid and he’s about to have to explain that the fish he flushed down the toilet isn’t coming back. 

“We can talk tomorrow.”  Eretson gestures at the front door of Fishlegs’ house, porch light welcoming even now. 

“We can talk now,” she raises an eyebrow, “because I’m not telling Snotlout about this myself.” 

“Jorgenson will understand,” he shrinks a little under the statement though and she knows she’s struck a nerve.  Good.  If Eretson is stupid enough to put the idea of a plea deal in Hiccup’s evasive head, he deserves to look Snotlout in the face and admit it.  “He’s a cop.” 

“A cop who I haven’t seen put too many innocent people in jail on purpose,” she lets disgust leak into her tone and it’s enough that Eretson turns the car off with an efficient turn of the keys before climbing out of the car and striding ahead of her to the door. 

He doesn’t want to look at her right now, and that would make her want to get in his face if it wouldn’t put her expression in full display.  She doesn’t want to see her own face until she shoves useless despair back where it belongs, behind a wall of determination. 

“Detective Eretson?” Fishlegs answers Eretson’s knock and the other man holds up an almost surrendering hand. 

“Eret is fine.” 

“Is that like a nickname or something?”  Snotlout’s lying back on the couch, tossing a box of tissues up in the air and catching it.  He tries to lean up on his elbow, but it must hurt his stitches because he falls back again, the box hitting him in the face.  “Because it’s stupid, and I hate it.” 

“It’s not a nickname.” 

“No, it’s kind of just half your name.”  He sits up, using Heather’s shoulder for help even when she tries to shrug him off, obviously invested in the papers she has scattered across the floor. 

“How is that not a nickname?”  Heather snaps, smacking his hand away from her shoulder.  “Isn’t a nickname just a shortened version of someone’s name?” 

“Usually their first name, Heather, would you take me seriously if I went by ‘Jorg’?” 

“Probably,” she snorts, standing up and handing a piece of research to Astrid, highlighted and attached to a couple of sticky notes.  Something about the first canonical Grimborn murder and the despair fights against its cage.  “You know, since ‘Jorg’ is just Swedish for ‘George’.” 

“Why are you bringing up my name when this guy just announced that his name is Eret Eretson?” 

“You brought up your own name.” Fishlegs locks both of the new deadbolts he installed yesterday, his hand awkward on Hiccup’s borrowed drill, and if Astrid doesn’t hit someone soon, she’s going to scream. 

“Sixty-eight!” She settles for yelling at Snotlout, brandishing the research she doesn’t want to read like a weapon. 

“Why does that go on my tally?  Fishlegs was just the one talking—” His eyes widen and he holds his hands up apologetically, “wait no, I’m sorry Astrid.  So very sorry.” 

The apology is authentic enough to catch her off guard and she almost hits him anyway, for surprising her when she can’t tolerate anymore surprises, but it also gives her a moment to breathe and shrug and pretend she knows how to be reasonable. 

“It’s ok,” she bites her lip and gestures at Eretson, who she will not be calling by his first name because even though she lacks the bandwidth to agree with Snotlout right now, his name is stupid.  “Eretson has something to tell you.” 

“What?  Is your middle name ‘Son’?” 

“I talked to Hiccup today,” Eretson pulls the conversation back on topic and it’s anything but a relief.  Astrid wants to shout that she talked to him too, that he’s stupid and noble and not fine at all, but once again, that wouldn’t help anything.  “And introduced the idea of proposing a plea deal to implicate Grisly.” 

Snotlout frowns and looks between Astrid and Eretson before speaking slowly, “did he say no?” 

“He didn’t say anything,” Eretson shrugs, “I just told him to think about it.”

“Well, that was stupid,” Astrid laughs bitterly, “he doesn’t just think about anything, he obsesses over everything.” 

Snotlout and Fishlegs share a knowing look and Astrid raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Snotlout drops her question almost too gently, and she’d be suspicious if she had room for anything other than mounting panic at the thought of Hiccup following Eretson’s advice. 

“What was that look?” 

“There was no look,” Snotlout shrugs, looking back at Eretson. 

“It’s just that you calling Hiccup obsessive is a little…well, someone mentioned Viggo Grimborn outside your apartment a couple of times and now you’re involved in a copy cat murder investigation.”  Fishlegs says gently, if a little condescendingly, and Astrid purses her lips. 

 “A few times a night, maybe.” 

“And I don’t think you’ve been outside in days because you’re researching so frantically, so you calling someone obsessed—”

“Are you done?”  She cuts him off and he holds his hands up.  “Because I’m trying to talk about the horrifically stupid idea of Hiccup accepting some kind of plea deal.” 

“How exactly is it stupid?” Snotlout asks, too gentle, and she blinks at him. 

“Because he’s innocent?” Heather answers for her, “and admitting to something that he didn’t do isn’t the smart way to handle this?” 

“Plus, think about how it would look when this does go to trial,” Astrid points out and Heather nods in agreement. 

“A trial will take months,” Eretson says, too gently, and she hates when the truth doesn’t sound like a point.  “Months you have to keep looking, whether he takes the deal or not.” 

“Forensics should have enough for dismissal in months,” Astrid’s voice cracks and she forces it even, ignoring worried looks that she doesn’t want, “why do you think Viggo Grimborn wasn’t caught?  He wasn’t a criminal mastermind, it’s just that no one could fingerprint him or use a DNA sample.” 

“Forensics will be valuable at a trial,” Eretson’s measured voice makes her want to scream, like maybe if she’s loud enough she can force something to happen, “but it’s still about convincing a jury.” 

“I wish the news would stop covering it,” Heather mutters and Snotlout shoots her a look before talking. 

“What kind of plea would you even be asking for?” 

“I was thinking something along the lines of trading information in exchange for a reduced sentence,” Eretson fidgets with his sleeves, pushing them up and letting them fall back down, twitchy at the odds of getting yelled at again. 

“So, he trades the ‘insider information’ that Grisly is a sociopathic serial murderer and they ship him off to the nice prison upstate while they investigate,” Snotlout mulls that over for a second, “as much as I hate to say it, that’s not a bad idea.” 

“Really?”  Eretson flushes and clears his throat, standing up straight like his spine has been replaced by a curtain rod.  “I’ve been looking through Grisly’s case notes and I don’t like the idea of him having months to patch up the few holes I’ve found so far.” 

“Then what do you do a few months down the road when forensics prove that Hiccup had nothing to do with it?”  Astrid hates even entertaining the idea long enough to say it out loud and Heather seems to agree, nodding emphatically.  “But there’s a record of him confessing, what happens to that?” 

“Unless Grisly planted Hiccup’s hairs all over or something,” Snotlout says, a little desperate, worry leaking through in ways Astrid doesn’t understand.  “Either way though, it’s contempt of court or obstruction of justice or something and he can appeal—"

“So, more time in court, more chances for disaster,” she laughs, the thought of further disaster too heavy and impossible to take seriously, “all to tell a lie that’s going to be overturned by evidence anyway?” 

“All to get my couch back,” Fishlegs says quietly after a minute, appearing at Astrid’s side and putting an arm over her shoulders.  It’s shepherding as much as comforting and she digs in her heels against being herded. 

“You can stay with me,” Heather offers, and Astrid never thought she’d consider Heather the only other person with sense. 

“Your address is on file,” Eretson shakes his head, “it’s not safe while Grisly is still out there—”

“I don’t care,” Astrid shoves Fishlegs’ arm off, unsure how she’s the one in the corner when Hiccup is the one in the cell. 

“I do,” Snotlout is quiet, almost apologetic as he looks at her, “I’m getting pretty sick of hiding out while the guy trying to kill me gets to think he’s winning.” 

“So, Hiccup is supposed to confess to something he didn’t do so you can feel like you’re winning?”  Heather snips and Snotlout rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t talk to me about what’s best for Hiccup, you ditched him as soon as you disagreed about Vinyl Greenbean—”

“Then why are Astrid and I the only ones who don’t want him to lie during a criminal trial—”

Heather and Snotlout bicker like siblings, the kind of vicious back and forth perfected over years of disagreements, but something about their timing is off, like there’s a hole, a third voice supposed to flit back and forth alongside theirs.  Astrid can hear its absence louder than any memory of Hiccup’s voice and the thought makes her swallow hard, clinging to something looking more impossible every second. 

What if there’s no way to make this all go away?  What if she does have to find some way to move on with her life while trials drag out across weeks or months or years? 

She doesn’t want her life back, not while Hiccup isn’t in it.  Not while he doesn’t have his.  

“Enough,” Eretson cuts across the arguing with a tired, heavy order that everyone takes.  Snotlout turns to point at him, irritated, but he stays quiet as Eretson continues.  “None of this is going to be decided tonight, it’ll take time to talk through either way, so maybe it’s best to…”

“Hiccup’s already decided,” Astrid glares at Eretson one last time before sitting on the couch and diving into Heather’s nearest pile of research, hoping for some concrete fact large enough to drown out her fears. 

00000 

The memo to leave her alone must be delivered to appropriate parties, because she spends the next three days researching in relative privacy.  Ruffnut helps, which means she hangs around and talks about nothing in particular, but it’s better than Fishlegs’ quiet worry or Snotlout being a little too nice.  Ruffnut is at the archives when Eretson and Heather show up, looking official enough that it sends a thrill of cool fury down her spine.  

One of these days, Eretson is going to tell her that Hiccup accepted a plea deal and she’s going to hit him.  It’s inevitable and infuriating and it takes everything in her not to wish it would hurry up, even sarcastically. 

She’s not supposed to be the cynical one, there’s supposed to be someone else here to do that. 

“What do you want?” She doesn’t so much greet Eretson as warn him. 

Eretson glances suspiciously at Ruffnut before talking, “I was hoping—”

“We were hoping,” Heather tries to soften the tone of the situation and Astrid sighs, forcing her expression placid as she waves Eretson on with a falsely casual hand.

“There’s a piece of evidence I’d like your opinion on,” He produces a thumb drive and looks pointedly at Ruffnut again, waiting for her to take the hint. 

“Ooh, evidence?  I’m in.”  She intercepts the hint and runs with it, snatching the drive and plugging it into Astrid’s computer. 

“Actually, it’s sensitive,” Heather tries and fails to beat Ruffnut to the mouse and Astrid crosses her arms. 

“I trust her with sensitive.” 

“You do?” Ruffnut snorts, clicking play before Eretson can stop her. 

It’s a grainy, night-vision video of a man in a top hat and a long coat limping fluidly across the street in front of Astrid’s apartment building.  In the fifteen seconds shown, the figure never shows his face, instead leaning the hat closer to the camera as he raises a long arm upwards and covers the lens in what Astrid assumes is black spray paint. 

The time stamp is for the morning Hiccup got arrested, at 3:28am. 

“We know it’s not Hiccup,” Heather placates, and Astrid wipes her palms on her jeans. 

“Someone sure tried to make it look like him though,” she sighs, “play it again.” 

The second playthrough she tries to ignore the mocking in the swinging limp, the coat that hangs wrong, the arm that moves slowly through a calculated arc.  She succeeds enough to notice the hat, fluorescing just enough in the night-vision to make itself unique. 

“Look,” she pauses the video, pointing at a splatter of small smudges on the front of the hat forming almost a halo around a larger smudge on the top of it, “what’s that stain?” 

“I wondered that too,” Heather tries to take the mouse and Astrid bristles for a second before letting her, “but then I looked into the camera that Gobber put up and apparently it’s some paranormal detection model with a UV mode.” 

For the first time, something clicks just next to Grisly’s painted narrative, a single fallen leaf looped into an eddy instead of following the current all the way down. 

“Snotlout had Hiccup’s hat.” Astrid starts looking through her phone, hoping she texted someone or took some picture, something concrete to prove what she’s saying.  “The night he was over at my place and got shot.  But he didn’t have it at the hospital, so there’s no way that Hiccup had it the other morning.” 

“How do you know this is his hat?”  Eretson asks and Astrid points at the largest faintly glowing stain. 

“Toothpaste fluoresces,” she laughs, finally feeling like she might be getting somewhere after eons of dead ends, “that’s—I know I got toothpaste on his hat and the rest…if I had to guess, it’s blowback, from when Grisly shot Snotlout.  He must have taken the hat then.” 

“So, you’re saying the fact that you can prove it’s Hiccup’s hat…means it’s not him blacking out the camera?”  Heather looks at Eretson for corroboration. 

“The only proof we have against Grisly is Jorgenson’s testimony,” Eretson shakes his head, “and I don’t want to bring him in yet.  What about proof that Hiccup didn’t shoot Jorgenson and take his hat back?” 

“You saw him at the hospital,” Astrid tries, the memory of Hiccup strung out and exhausted tugging at heartstrings that must remain double-knotted if she has any chance of being useful through this.

“That won’t hold up in court,” Eretson shakes his head and Astrid wants everyone to leave so she can keep reading and figure out some magical way that this doesn’t go to court.

A way other than a plea deal that resigns Hiccup to being known as a murderer or at least an accomplice.  She just needs time and she can fix this.  She’s sure there must be a hole somewhere, no one is perfect, least of all Grisly. 

“Wait, before the hospital, he was with me,” Ruffnut supplies, crossing her arms. 

“What?”  Astrid tries to communicate her anger at not being told that little detail earlier with her eyes. 

“We were at the condos trying to sneak into Grisly’s office.”  She laughs, “we succeeded, and got caught and—oh wow, that’s not a funny story anymore knowing he was coming from shooting Snotlout.” 

“How was that ever a funny story?”  Astrid doesn’t expect an answer, but Ruffnut, as always, defies expectation. 

“It was hilarious, we were like pretending to be married—that’s how I grabbed his ass, remember?” 

Of course Astrid remembers, but she never thought the nonsense coming out of Ruff’s mouth and igniting useless little furls of jealousy would ever be pertinent to something this important.  She half thought Ruffnut was kidding to urge her into some kind of forward motion, and she didn’t really have a chance to get past half-thinking about the comment. 

“Does Grisly know you snuck into his office?”  Eretson asks, frustrated that it’s a question he needs to worry about but obviously relieved that he’s no longer obligated to report on its legality. 

“He caught me,” Ruffnut shrugs, “but Hiccup got out without Grisly seeing him.” 

“There goes that alibi,” Eretson mutters and Astrid tucks her hair behind her ear, trying not to feel defeated in her once sacred role. 

“I could—you know, I could go down to the station right now and—”

“I’m saving that,” Eretson says cryptically, a whisper in the mausoleum dedicated to her chances of helping. 

“Fine.”  She stalks off to the nearly completed Grimborn room and everyone is gone by the time she risks going back to her desk. 

When she gets back to Fishlegs’ house and knocks on the front door, Snotlout swears inside, obviously startled, and she’s irritated until he opens the two deadbolts and she sees the relief in his face. 

“Sorry.”  She doesn’t know what else to say and immediately wishes she’d said nothing. 

“It’s fine.”  He seems to stuff down what he wants to say, “you’re not Grisly.” 

“Guilty,” she tries to joke but it’s not funny and she wonders what Hiccup would say.  “About the plea deal—”

“What’s your team?” Snotlout interrupts, introspection wrongly-sized on his face.

“What?” 

“I’ve never asked what team you actually support,” he shrugs and she narrows her eyes, “is it the Chiefs? I bet it’s the Chiefs.  Vikings fan?—"

“Why?” 

“They uh…having a good season?”

“Goodnight,” she stalks past him to the couch and opens the notebook she left on the coffee table, re-reading Hiccup’s notes for the millionth time. 

00000

The next time Eretson and Heather show up at the archives, Astrid tries to ignore him, but curiosity gets the better of her and she acquiesces to his questions with a nod. 

“Have you found anything promising?”  He asks like he already knows the answer and she flips through Hiccup’s notes to the creased, crumpled picture of the ‘Al, I.’ safe message. 

“I did think of something earlier,” she ignores how Heather examines the picture with authentic interest, trying to remember the details of Hiccup’s interrupted tour, even though it hurts, terrified that the memory of his shocked, delighted face under spontaneous hat hair when she took control will fade.  “If the whole idea is that Hiccup is mimicking the Grimborn murders, why didn’t he leave a message on the wall?  He clearly had paint,” she references the video from earlier in the week, but even she can hear how feeble the idea is. 

He didn’t have time to leave a safe message because he got caught.  Copycat killers don’t purposefully leave more evidence.  She’s grasping and it’s obvious and desperate and she hates the edge of pity in Eretson’s expression as he sighs. 

Astrid’s jaded enough by this point to not ask if she can go with him when he leaves.  Something tells her the plea deal is more probability than possibility at this point. 

Heather stays though, asking to see the Berk Enquirer where Astrid found the ‘Al, I.’ safe message, her hands careful on the wrinkled pages that Hiccup clenched in his fist a world ago, when all of this seemed random.  Snotlout and Ruffnut show up not too much later and Ruffnut produces a flask from her purse, setting it purposefully in the middle of the table. 

“Antique documents,” Astrid hisses half-heartedly, pulling the pages away and brushing at a drip of nose-burning alcohol on the corner. 

“Tuffnut made this,” she drums her fingers on the table, “do we try it?  Or is that a really bad idea?  Or do we try it because it’s a really bad idea?” 

“If we’re trying bad ideas…” Astrid closes the notebook she was reading and the lack of distraction makes the day instantly heavier.  “I have a couple others I’d put first.” 

Hitting Eretson.  Draining her bank account to hire her own lawyer and sue Eretson.  Go down to the station and tell all the truths she’s been holding back.  Hit Grisly while she’s at it. 

“We should try it,” Snotlout rubs his hands together then pauses, “or we could try whatever bad idea Astrid wants to try first, I’m open.” 

“Stop,” she glares at him. 

“Stop what?” 

“Being so nice,” her shudder is involuntary, “it’s not going to make me feel any better about the plea deal.  And it’s creepy.” 

“It is creepy,” Heather agrees, “it’s like the threat of Astrid hitting you sixty plus times finally taught you humility or something.” 

“She can’t,” his wince is exaggerated, “I’d still die.  It wouldn’t be any better than handing me over to Grisly.” 

“Sounds like that might be easier on you,” Ruffnut laughs, eternally repositioning herself into the audience. 

Astrid opens her mouth to say something to Heather but a choked breath is all that comes out as her eyes widen.  Easier.  Grisly has a plan to make this easier. 

“That’s it,” she says quietly, morbid confidence welling behind it, “that’s his out.” 

“Hey, don’t actually turn me over to Grisly, just because you don’t like—”

“No,” she shoves the rest of Hiccup’s notes in her bag, “that’s Grisly’s plan.  That’s how none of this catches up to him, that’s how forensics doesn’t uncover anything.  That’s how he keeps this out of trial, where he’ll obviously lose.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“And the deal is going to rush it—”

“Astrid—" Ruffnut goes to stand up, but Heather beats her to it, following Astrid to the archives’ staircase. 

“I’ll be back at Fishlegs’ later,” Astrid doesn’t stop Heather from following her, taking a brief chance on the camaraderie born in the fire of all these recent disasters. 

“What are you doing?” Heather asks outside, pulling an umbrella out of her bag when a crack of thunder punctuates the conversation. 

 “I’m going to go see Hiccup.”  She feels better saying it out loud.  More solid.  More effective. 

“He doesn’t want you to,” Heather pauses like she’s holding something else back, but Astrid keeps walking, arms crossed against the rain. 

“Well I don’t want to sit around joking about him being in jail.”  She lets her realization sit for a second, pausing as long as she dares to think about it without throwing off the rest of her juggling rhythm.  Being equally annoyed at Snotlout’s story isn’t really a reason to trust Heather, but it’s all Astrid has, and she flicks her a careful, judgmental glance.  “I have to warn him.  Even if it’s another wild guess—”

“Slow down,” Heather frowns, moving close enough to share her umbrella, “warn him about what?” 

Astrid sighs, once again leaning into the uncomfortable truth that she can’t do this alone, “if Grisly is really planning on getting away with framing Hiccup with modern forensics and psychological assessments working against him, he can’t let this go to trial.  And at this point, the only way to stop it from going to trial is to make sure there’s no one to try.” 

It’s abstract and cluttered and everything she can do to not say ‘kill’. 

“How are you planning on getting into the jail?”  Heather asks after a silent second, handing Astrid the umbrella to dig through her bag. 

“I…hadn’t thought that far.”  She curses herself, trying to rein the useless panic back in. 

“Snotlout never took his badge back.”  Heather hands her an all too familiar shield shaped badge in a thin leather wallet and reaches back into her bag, “or his gun—”

“Why would I need a gun?” 

“If you’re right…” She trails off pragmatically and Astrid swallows hard, shaking her head. 

“If I’m wrong, I’m breaking enough laws impersonating a police officer.  How do you know the badge will work?” 

“It’s how I got in last time, there wasn’t even a guard on duty at the side door, I just scanned the badge and went up.  He was on the top floor then, in the smallest corner cell.”  She produces a keyring and holds it up by a non-descript silver key, “this opened the hallway door.” 

“You aren’t going to tell me to stay out of it?”  Astrid pauses, the rain on the umbrella punctuating her half thoughts.  Maybe she should ask for the gun after all. 

“I think it’s your business whether you stay out of it or not.” 

It’s either a setup or it’s not.  Heather is either with Grisly or not.  Astrid either showed her hand or she didn’t, and either way, her next move is the same.  Tell Hiccup. 

Heather goes back to the archives, or the station, or to Grisly’s office to tell him what’s going on.  Astrid doesn’t know and she doesn’t have room to care, not when the last week without seeing Hiccup might be coming to something like an end.  A point of punctuation, at least, a new anchor before the next disaster, whatever it will be. 

The side door of the county jail opens like the alley door of an office building when Astrid holds the badge against it, and if it weren’t for the Berk Police Department insignia on the wall inside, she could almost believe she was going to a doctor’s appointment or to see an accountant.  That illusion shatters though when she looks through the small bulletproof window on the second-floor landing and sees a line of men in orange jumpsuits walking down the hallway, shepherded by a guard in a gray uniform that sends a shiver up her spine. 

She’s never seen a prison guard, their uniforms could be gray for all she knows, but they look too much like NWF for comfort. 

The badge works again at the sensor next to the door on the top floor and she slips through, shutting it quietly behind her and not giving herself time to pause or think, because if she did, she might realize what a horrible idea this is.  The umbrella in her hand drips a trail of raindrops on the floor as she walks purposefully, trying to project that she knows what she’s doing and she’s supposed to be here as she makes her way to the last door on the left, hoping for the first scrap of luck that she’s had since she found Elizabeth Smith’s apartment. 

The key Heather gave her slides easily into the lock, turning with an anticlimactic click, and she slips inside before she can think better of it. 

“Astrid?”  Hiccup’s voice splits the silence with a stab of shaky confusion, a wall of bars between them dividing his haggard face into three parallel snapshots of shock. 

“Hi.”  She looks him up and down, making sure he’s real and whole, struggling to hold onto the urgency that propelled her up here on a whim. 

“How—”

“Snotlout’s badge,” she shows him before shoving it into her pocket to free up a hand that she rests tentatively on the crossbeam of the cold bars.  He hesitates before setting bony, clammy fingers on hers, jaw flexing under the extra week of stubble too obviously, like he’s lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose. 

He looks worse than he did through plexiglass and her heart aches. 

“Heather…” His expression is resolute, but his eyes are soft, “you shouldn’t be here.” 

“Neither should you,” she snaps a little too loud, “and I’m trying to fix it, I’m trying to find something wrong in Grisly’s setup, but I don’t see how to make it fall apart before it goes to trial.  Or worse, before you force it into an early plea deal.” 

“Trial,” Hiccup’s lips twist into a nauseous smirk and her hand itches to wipe it off.  “Grisly seems to think this won’t make it that far.” 

“He said that?”  Astrid’s blood runs cold and fast, like her veins are an Alaskan rafting course, and Hiccup’s fingers curl absently around her knuckles, thumb brushing hers as he frowns. “And the plea deal would make it happen so much faster, but—did he really say that he wasn’t going to let it go to trial?”

“Something similar,” he shrugs a scrawny shoulder and his frown deepens, “you really shouldn’t be here.” 

“The only way that Grisly could avoid a trial would be if there’s no one to try.  If the murders stop and the evidence lines up, why would anyone dig deeper?  Especially if he got rid of you, that would be easiest for him.”  She needs to say ‘kill’, she knows she does, she needs to drag Hiccup along with her on a tour of their macabre reality, but the word sticks in her throat like its determined to choke her.  “It’s the only thing that makes sense, it’s the only way any of this fits—”

“I love you.”  Hiccup doesn’t stutter or choke or quibble.  He looks at her, ghost of a smile haunting the corner of his mouth as his hand tightens on hers.  “You know, just in case you’re right again and I don’t get another chance.”

Her heart skips a beat then makes up for it, and at first, she thinks she imagines the clapping. 

It almost sounds like the pounding in her head, a little uneven, emphasis drifting slightly off beat.  It could be an echo, a residual from the way her heart is pounding, fear and confusion rattling around her chest. 

It could be a symptom of her brain shutting down, until the laugh. 

There’s nothing humorous in the sound, nothing alive.  It’s half awkward chuckle after dropping a stage prop and half delighted to stumble upon adequate improv partners. 

It’s Grisly in the doorway with a knife. 

Hiccup’s top-hat is crooked on his head, as out of place as his unpracticed smile, but twice as insulting.  He claps again, impersonating some concept of glee, and Astrid’s feet feel glued to the floor. 

“You love her?”  He laughs, the sound rich like blood, more alive than she’s ever heard him, “I had my suspicions, but I never dreamed I’d see them confirmed.” 

“What are you doing here?”  Hiccup’s voice is dull and quaking with some deep-set vulnerability that makes Astrid want to protect him. 

“Your dutiful lawyer is downstairs negotiating a plea bargain,” Grisly says like he’s delivering bad news, looking down at the knife in his hand with an almost fond smile, “he seems to think that horrible judge might go easier on you if you talk.  And maybe it’s true, some people must be a fan of your talking for you to have made it this far.”  When he looks back up, his smile is almost peaceful, like he’s nearly at the end of a very long, arduous road.  “I’m not one of them.” 

“I thought you enjoyed our conversations,” Hiccup angles himself like there’s some impossible way he could shield Astrid even when she’s on the same side of the bars as the madman with a knife, and his eyes scream ‘run’ in a language Astrid doesn’t speak.  

“Astrid,” Grisly doesn’t ignore Hiccup’s struggle to protect her as much as he passively enjoys it, like background music amplifying the emotion in a movie scene.  “This is long overdue, I was hoping to save you the inconvenience of coming down here by making a house call—”

“Leave her alone!” Hiccup yells, desperate, the walls swallowing most of the volume even as it leaves Astrid’s ears ringing. 

There are cameras in the hallway, they surely heard this.  They’re surely hearing all of this. 

Why didn’t Grisly shut the door?  If he shut the door, his audience would shrink dramatically, at least until someone reviewed the tapes later. 

It takes her a second to place the delight in his eyes and then it hits her that he didn’t expect to see her here. 

“This is better than I could have imagined though,” Grisly laughs the low, polite laugh of someone making an inappropriate joke behind their boss’s back, “I thought Hiccup would get out on bail and I’d catch you two together with that idiot Jorgenson and clean up all my loose ends at once, getting a judge fired in the process.”  He sighs, wistful for the plot twist he predicted that didn’t quite work out, “but this…to find Astrid here right when I came to dispose of you, to hear you admit your feelings not knowing you were about to watch her die…” 

Die.  The word seems so passive that Astrid can’t imagine it having anything to do with her.  Especially with the way Grisly is looking at her like an object, a prop that couldn’t have any life to give to anything other than his dastardly scheme. 

And Hiccup is quiet, quiet like he never is, quiet like he’s already given up. 

Something her Uncle Finn always used to say flashes through her head, his too serious words for coaching a children’s baseball team taking on new meaning. 

Stunned silence is an enemy’s greatest weapon. 

When she flips her grip on the umbrella in her hands and swings it hard, it’s more dangerous than Grisly’s knife because he doesn’t expect it.  Because he expected her to stand there and quiver or beg or bargain instead of follow the righteous bolt of anger telling her to take this into her own hands. 

The center pole of the umbrella hits across the bridge of his nose with a crunch and a clatter as he drops his knife.  He moves faster than she thinks he will, batting the umbrella away from his face and fumbling for the blade. 

That puts his face at the perfect height to knee him in his already bleeding nose as she tries to straighten out the umbrella to hit him again.  The first hit broke it, apparently, and she settles for thrusting the handle against his chest as soon as he tries to stand, the blow knocking him off balance and sending him stumbling back through the still open door. 

His back hits the opposite wall and his hat falls off, revealing rumpled white hair that makes the blood gushing from his nose look more vital, like he’s losing something he can’t live without.  He tries to stand up and she moves to hit him again, an involuntary noise of disgust leaking out when he flinches away, looking for the exit he hasn’t given anyone else. 

The door at the end of the hallway flies open and Eretson appears, gun in hand, flanked by two officers uniformed in standard Berk PD blue. 

Astrid drops the umbrella and holds up shaking hands, taking a step back from Grisly’s defeated form and pointing at a camera on the ceiling. 

“He…he left the door open, I bet—I bet this is all on film, he wasn’t expecting, well…me.”  She looks at the broken umbrella and the stain on the knee of her jeans before glancing back at Grisly’s already swollen features, sharp edges gone soft with loss of sick control.  “He confessed.” 

“And he trash-talked a judge,” Hiccup adds from behind her, voice meek and hollow, “which I don’t think helps.” 

“Usually doesn’t help,” Astrid agrees, heart fluttering too fast as she watches a cop slide handcuffs around Grisly’s wrists.  He slumps under the weight of them, nose dripping on the floor as he trudges down the hall, a leashed lion on the way back to his cage. 

Eretson doesn’t ask how she got in or how she’s doing or where the knife near the gate of Hiccup’s cell came from.  He sighs, either too professional to show his relief or too tired to feel it, before instructing the other officer with him to take them to an interrogation room while he goes to get a copy of the security footage before anyone else can get to it. 

When he comes back and announces that a second NWF agent is in custody for trying to erase the footage seconds after Eretson’s download was complete, Astrid feels like she can breathe for the first time since she concerned herself with why Elizabeth Smith stopped. 

[sns-tropes]

heart in your hands: ch11

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6,

Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

chapter summary: on tonight's nine o'clock news: team seven has emotional constipation

pairing: sasuke/naruto (ninja!verse) post-698

rating: Mature

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: i haven't posted in forever don't hate me. this one is a little short but i'll be posting again very soon. sorry for the angst.

- jeni

Naruto blinks awake blearily. It’s a gloomy morning, there’s no sun streaming in. It might rain today. He looks to his side and Sasuke is awake, just staring at the ceiling above them quietly. Naruto doesn’t think it’s a troubled look. It seems pretty neutral. He’s aware that he maybe acted a little clingy with Sasuke last night. He was beyond exhausted, so he feels like he can’t really be held accountable for anything he said or did. Even if it might have annoyed Sasuke, he doesn’t seem bothered by it now, after everything. 

Sasuke looks like he’s thinking really hard about something. Naruto scoots closer, making Sasuke look at him. Sasuke winces a little, not quite sure if he should speak up. 

“I want to tell you something. I did something without your consent.” 

Naruto’s brow furrows in confusion. “What are you talking about?” Naruto scoots in even closer, concern drawn on his expression. It’s worrisome. Everything with Sasuke is potentially worrisome.  

Sasuke’s eyes fall from Naruto’s. His intentions for this conversation are good ones. He’s trying to accomplish something here. But this is hard. This is too difficult to open the subject. Because even though they’ve got used to so much together and have experienced this new dynamic between them, there’s still a lot of things that Sasuke thinks they’re in the dark about.  

They don’t know how to do a relationship. They never knew how to anything other than fight. Everything is still new even when it’s not. But Sasuke is trying. He just doesn’t want this to go in the wrong direction. 

“I looked into your dreams the other night.” He regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth. The old him would have suggested Naruto simply get over it. But things are so much different now. Naruto’s eyes widen in brief realization that Sasuke means that he saw  that  dream. Sasuke’s heart beat quickens in his chest and he’s experiencing something rare. Something that he doesn’t usually feel. He thinks it might be fear. He doesn’t have a first instinct unfortunately. He doesn’t know what Naruto is thinking. And poking around in his head any more than he already has will just make it worse.  

Naruto sits up a little away from him and looks in the other direction. Sasuke can’t tell if he’s angry or sad or what, but something in Sasuke hurts at the sight. 

“What did you see?” Naruto says numbly. 

“Enough.” 

Naruto huffs out a defeated breath, that same stress from last night radiating off of him. Sasuke eyes his prosthetic arm wrapped up in those white bandages. Naruto rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Sasuke waits. 

“It’s pathetic isn’t it?” Naruto rasps out, voice rough and thick with sleep. “You’re right here. Living in my apartment with me. And I-” Naruto closes his mouth. He stops himself. Sasuke doesn’t want to push too much. He doesn’t want to scare Naruto away. 

“You’re afraid.” Sasuke suggests softer than he’s ever spoke to him before. 

Naruto shakes his head no, eyes shut, throat tight.  

“I’m- I’m terrified.” He admits begrudgingly.  

“ Why ?” 

Naruto laughs bitterly, sounding like he’s trying not to cry. “Track record.” 

And Sasuke supposes that he’s right. That’s what Sasuke has always done. He always runs away from the things that are good for him. But he can’t even be bothered to think about himself in this moment. He’s only thinking about Naruto. He can only think of what Naruto needs. 

“Naruto-” 

“No- You don’t- You don’t have to say anything.” Naruto says decidedly. “It’s not your burden that I'm insecure. That’s not fair.” 

“It’s fair. I did this.” And Sasuke almost  wants to cry at how true that is. How he really did put those thoughts and fears in Naruto’s head. “I put that fear there.” 

“It’s not your fault I'm so dependent.” Naruto states logically. 

“I’m no better.” 

Naruto laughs again, finally looking up at Sasuke. Sasuke missed looking at them for just those few minutes.  

“You’d be fine either way.” Naruto bites out, and that hurts because it sounds like Naruto really believes that. 

And something flares up in Sasuke at the words. At first, it’s anger because that is so far from the truth. But the flame dies down a bit and it just feels like desperation. If this is what Naruto thinks of what they are then he’s so very wrong. He can’t have an emotional, existential crisis over what to say anymore. It’s just too important.  

“Naruto,” He says, voice uncharacteristically thick with emotion. “I think I would die. I would die without you. Almost did a few times.” 

Naruto just stares. He stares and searches Sasuke’s eye for even the slightest hint of deception or fallacy. Sasuke palms his face, drawing in as close as he can. He isn’t sure if kissing him is the right thing to do, but it just feels right to him. Usually Naruto is the one asking.  

“Can I?” Sasuke asks tentatively, the words foreign on his tongue. His breath ghosts gently over Naruto’s lips. Naruto lets his eyes flutter closed as he nods.  

He kisses him fully and sincerely, and they move like there was never a disagreement in the first place. But that wasn’t even what he wanted to tell him. Not really. He wanted to ask him about the field study. But now he can’t be bothered to with the feeling of their lips connecting like this. 

“I wouldn’t let you die.” Naruto mumbles. 

“I know.” Sasuke smiles against his lips. “Track record.” 

 ____________________________________________________________

Sakura comes to give him some paperwork later that day. Naruto has gone out in the heavy rain to fetch a few food items, for lack of anything to eat in the house. 

Sasuke lets her in wordlessly and she scans the place for any sign of Naruto, wondering if Sasuke has brought up the topic yet. 

He sits down at the table with her and sifts thought the standard documents, eyes briefly scanning the places where he’s meant to write things in. 

“It will be easy to clear you.” She states in a measured tone.  

“I figured.” He says, voice nonchalant.  

“You haven’t asked yet.” It’s not a question. 

Sasuke knows she doesn’t want him to leave. She doesn’t want either of them to leave. She’s not the type to feel secure without a team by her side. That’s what Sasuke knows to be true. But he can’t be sure now. He’s still getting to know this version of her after being awaay for so long.  

He doesn’t address her statement right away. He feels something twist in his gut, an apology on the tip of his tongue.  

“I’m sorry, Sakura.” 

She balks, confused as hell. 

“Huh?” 

“I’m sorry.” He says again, setting the papers down. “For everything I put you through.” 

She doesn’t say anything, eyes unreadable.  

“For hurting you.” 

“Mentally or physically?” She laughs. But it’s just not funny. How can it be? 

“Both,” He se says quietly, having no expectations from her. He just wanted to say it.  

She seems to think for a moment, not sure on what she’d like to say.  

“That was a long time ago.” She says. “It doesn’t matter now.” 

Sasuke doesn’t understand anything. He might never. In a way, He’s jealous of her. He’s jealous of her confidence, her stability, he independence, her resilience. Everything that he never thought she would live up to, but unexpectedly surpassed him despite how average he thought her to be. He was so very wrong about her. He eyes the Strength of 100 Seal on her forehead and smirks in defeat.  

It doesn’t seem like she’ll accept his apology. Not because she’s unforgiving, but because it truly doesn’t matter anymore. It’s too late. 

And at that moment it occurs to him that he doesn’t want to be late for anything else. He’s in no position to ask her for a favor.  

“Sakura, will you...” He takes a breath, “Will you stay until Naruto returns?” 

Her brows furrow. “For what?” 

“I’m going to ask him.” 

“And you want me here for it? Are you joking?” 

“Does it look like I'm joking?” 

“Now you need moral support?” 

“Yeah?” 

She sighs deeply.  

“If you two start fighting, I’m out of here.” 

He’ll take it. 

 ________________________________________________________

Naruto puts away his groceries after greeting Sakura in mild suspicion. He has no idea what they’re up to over on the table, but he sees paperwork and it looks important.  

There’s a bit of an uncomfortable feeling in the air. He doesn’t know what to expect, but Sasuke looks... Nervous? He really hopes he hasn’t gotten himself into any trouble. Naruto doesn’t think he can handle any more of that. 

He sits down at the table and tries to look relaxed. He purposely avoids looking at the paperwork. He’s sure they’ll tell him.  

“Naruto,” Sasuke starts. “I’ve found something. A job, I guess?” 

Naruto relaxes a little, he fakes a smile, because he’s not sure if there’s anything to be glad about yet. “That’s great!” 

“But there’s conditions.” 

He eyes the both of them, suspicious all over again.  

“What’s going on here?” 

“It’s a field study, Naruto.” Sakura pipes in. “A two-year field study.” 

He bites his lip. He’s not quite sure he heard her right. And even if he did hear her right, he doesn’t know why the hell she’s promoting something like this. That strange uncomfortable feeling rises up in his chest. The kind where it gets too tight in his lungs and he can’t quite breathe. He scratches at his hand on the table, refusing to look up at them both. So, this was what Sasuke was talking about. On the docks he said he'll stay a while. Just a while and then he’ll leave when he’s ready. Naruto didn’t think he would be ready to go so soon.  

He didn’t think he would be ready to go right after that heart to heart this morning that meant so much to Naruto. That talk that made him finally feel like there’s no way he could possibly lose him. He can feel his eyes getting damp and he hates it. He would rather not show it at this point. He feels a little betrayed. Not just by Sasuke but Sakura too, just because she’s clearly involved and sitting right here. His heart is in his throat but he just wants to close off. He doesn’t want Sakura to see him break down like he did those few months ago on his kitchen floor, where Sasuke had to urge him back into breathing properly.  

He feels it getting closer, creeping up on him, darkening his mind and tearing at his throat. There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing he can say to stop this. Because something that comes up time and time again like this is bound to happen regardless.  

He shuts his eyes tight. 

Suddenly there’s a hand on his. He opens his not quite dry eyes to look up. Sasuke’s expression is like one he’s never seen before. Open, pleading, practically desperate. He squeezes Naruto’s hand tighter across the table, not caring at all that Sakura will see them this way.  

“Naruto.” Sasuke’s voice cracks. And he’s not sure why he asked Sakura to be here now, because he feels so pathetic. He was terrified to do this. He was terrified to ask in the same that Naruto is terrified of him leaving again. “Come with me.” 

Naruto releases a breath, never really aware that he had been holding it. 

“What?” 

“Come with me, Naruto.” 

They stare at each other for an immeasurable amount of time. He can’t speak. He doesn’t know what to say. 

Sakura leans in slightly as if she we’re wordlessly asking if she should leave. She hopes that Sasuke remembers what she told him.  You might not like his answer.  

Naruto feels too much in the moment. He feels so much that it amounts to him being unable to identify any of his emotions. As if they we’re all cancelling each other out, he almost feels nothing. 

His vision tunnels and before and one can stop him, he pulls his hand back from Sasuke’s and he stands from the table. His expression is blank. They don’t know what he’s thinking. He leaves the house again, without a word uttered in reply to that weighted question.  

Sasuke stares down at the table, fist clenched where his hand was holding Naruto’s tightly just moments ago.  

Sakura places her hand on his shoulder that shakes in anger, frustration, sadness? She doesn't know. She says something about letting Naruto be for a while so he can think properly about it. Sasuke doesn’t hear it.  

He doesn’t hear anything.  

[writeforwronggg-blog]

Tsuyoi Josei(5560 words)

When I was younger, my mother always told me to honor myself and others equally. She would tell me of her childhood before the adoption of Chinese political systems and the insertion of the Samurai way of life. As a young child, I never truly grasped why she would tell me these things.

Why would my mother tell me of the superiority complex of nearly all men of our time? How she was supremely mistreated by men older and younger than herself, just as every Japanese woman was? Though that’s not a major problem as of now. Not as of 638: the year I became a Samurai.

The Tang dynasty and the introduction of not only an empress of China, Wu Zetian but also Buddhism and it’s empowerment of women on the rise, us women were at a high point. Though there were still major tensions between the Confucian and Buddhist beliefs, Buddhism was a major game changer for the empowerment and belief in female abilities in modern Japan, China, and Korea. We were no longer viewed as the lowest class, but as equals to everyone else(in justified cases of course).

Still, I was not a believer of any religion. I had always believed in people and their own personal morals, versus the morals, thrust upon them to follow by religions for selfish reasons. Yes, selfishness, because although nearly all religions preach the ideals of selflessness, it’s for purely selfish reasons. Every religion, for which I have seen, give promises after promises of reward for being a kind and serving person. It’s fuel for us to be good, but why do we need to be motivated to be decent people? We are all human dealing with the same struggle of life and its challenges, no?

People love to twist the words of good men and women from religions to fit their own agenda, and it’s very warranted because one can not say it’s out of context since most teachings are open to interpretation. How can you say something means one thing, yet when another points out its hypocrisy or ‘plot holes’ you change your words? That truly is religion in its purest form. It’s meant to give people reassurance through symbolism but all it does is turn a heart to the dark side through the idea of a prosperous afterlife or reward.

That is the focal point for me as of now. Being a female Samurai in a country that was so against the idea of women existing as anything more than a wife and mother was strong only a few short years before. 625, the earning of the Tang dynasty’s Tian Ming, was a major milestone for this small town called Chiba, near the rapidly growing city of Tokyo.

I bet you’re wondering about me, who I am, what story I’m here to tell- and the answer is soon to come. First  I should start from the beginning, no?

My name is Otokita Karanaki, daughter of Haruto and Kaito Karanaki. My father, Haruto, was a well known and supremely respected elder in our town, but a few years ago when our town had been raided, and my father killed, the people mourned greatly. As my father had no male heir to his fortune, and the teachings of Cong Fuzi’s “the Master said: When the father is alive, observe the son’s intent. When the father dies, observe the son’s conduct. One who does not alter his late father’s way for three years may be called filial.” But those teachings neglected to speak on behalf of the daughters, leaving me to become the ‘son’. No, I don’t mean becoming a man, simply taking over his responsibilities.

I had no person lined up for me to marry, and my mother was becoming more and more ill every day. The flu had caught up to her, and the physician was frequently gone to other, more wealthy, families. I had two young sisters, only one and two years younger than I, and I was meant to raise them. As most of our society was very judgemental of our lifestyle, I had chosen to raise them as I wished and not into a religion. I used most of my money to try to educate them in European ways and fighting techniques my father had taught me. I was already a low ranking Samurai, so finding time to see them between my duties was difficult and I eventually decided it best to send them off to a school in India.

It’s been years since I sent them off, and not one week have we missed a letter. Though I worry about them greatly, my life here is not on hold. I have a friend, and she’s amazing. Being put in the situation I was, it could be difficult to find someone who would be there for you unconditionally, but she… well, she was there. For everything and anything.

Her name is Ishi and the only way I would ever describe her is strong. She is always supportive, kind, reassuring, and dependant. Oh, how strong she is. As a child, her parents gave her away to a caretaker who would raise her in an abusive home in which hated any girl or woman. She fought her way out of that place and journeyed across the regions looking for somewhere to live. She endured much across the way, many hardships such as rape and other unspeakable woes, and finally made it here where I had found her and taken her in.

I found her along a path, clothes were torn, body worn, and face filled with resilience. She had gone through so much, yet she was still one of the best most understanding and accepting people I’d ever known. She had so many stories she’d kept to herself for so long, some good and most bad, and she was so scared for so long to trust me with them. It had taken a long time and a lot of patience before she could open up to me and when she did I was astonished and even more proud of this girl, woman, I had come to know. Her heart, mind, and soul were beautiful, as was her body.

Her hair, when let down from her usually messy bun, goes down like a smooth black waterfall all the way to her wide-set hips. Her eyes were solotica and utterly beautiful. Her naturally milky-turned-tan skin is as soft as my mother's silk, and her voice was deeply captivating. Anyone and everyone wanted to wed her, but I was looking after her and no one had dared to ask for her hand in marriage if they were not absolutely sure she’d agree and love them. I was not so easy to persuade, especially not with her, and it seemed she wasn’t either.

“Oto? What are you thinking of?”

I looked down, into the eyes of my mother’s eldest friend’s son’s eyes as he examined my stone cold features. Kawa is his name, and he’s been at my side since this morning when I left my home to patrol my small town. He was about 1.8 meters tall and surprisingly handsome, though he is surely the epitome of male arrogance.

I looked at him, thinking of all the times he’s tried to take my hand, and rolled my eyes at him. He looked surprised as if this wasn’t expected of me.

“None of your concern, Kawa. What is it you are following me for, anyhow? Has your mother finally tired of you?” I ask jokingly, earning a small chuckle in return.

“Tire? Of me? Never. I am too entertaining and hard working to bore of. If only you’d see it, Oto,” he insisted, nudging me slightly.

I eyed him suspiciously and took a step away, uncomfortable of our close proximity. I looked out over the small hill we stood on, wondering what Ishi was doing at the moment.

“Do you suppose Mrs.Itō will make that kimono well? I promised to pay very much for it, but Ishi isn’t comfortable with the tailoring process and I didn’t want her to be uncomfortable so I hadn’t given Mrs.Itō the measurements. Will it fit right? I told her it’s similar to me, maybe 40-50 centimeters wider at the hips, about 28 shorter at the legs. Was that okay do you think?” I ranted, slightly happy about tonight’s event.

Tonight, being our last elder’s 82nd birthday celebration would be very extravagant. Every person from the town would be there and there was nothing more exciting to me than a break from my duties. Though I would still carry a few small weapons with me, I would not be actively on duty.

He looked at me strangely, as if he was very confused and suspicious. I rolled my eyes, not expecting a response and turned around to begin heading back down the beautiful hill. He followed short behind but stopped a few minutes later. I did as well, hand on my Katana in case there was danger lurking.

“Why do you care so much for her? She’s just some random wench from off the street. Why would you even-” his sentence was cut short by my katana being held to his throat.

I stood there, mere inches from his handsome face, teeth gritting in anger, and fists clenched around the strong tile handle, hardly aware of his appearance. I could see his surprise, as I rarely lose control of my patience, and tried to calm my rising temper.

“I would do my best to not insult my dearest friend. She is far stronger and smarter than you may believe. She is not a wench and you will show respect when talking of her or face the consequences of us both.”  I seethed, receiving a huff of disagreement and damaged pride.

“Of course,” he agreed hotly, after a few more seconds of violent tension, releasing him and stepping back, “You’re quite a strong-willed woman. The people who doubt your strength have much to come for them.”

I tried not to, really, but I could never stay angry with Kawa. He’s my oldest friend! How could I?

I shoved him lightly, letting out a breathy and quiet laugh. He did the same until it turned into a full-on shoving contest, resulting in him being held down to the ground, arms pinned behind him. He tried to resist, multiple times, but I would only make my grip tighter.

“I surrender! I surrender!” he choked out tiredly. I released him, standing up and adjusting my gauntlets.

“You best remember this, Kawa, the next time you think you will win.” I teased.

I was about to look up, but I was quickly shoved into a tree, arms pinned awkwardly behind me, and Kawa holding my head against the trunk. I was breathing hard, as was he, from the quick action and he leaned in slowly to my covered ear.

“I think I will remember this,” he simpered, “will you?”

It was odd, the way he said it. I’m not used to this, it’s usually foolish flirting and pointless innuendos, but this wasn’t. This was ‘I’m bigger and better than you’ and it wasn’t doing anything but fueling my feminist anger. I leaned into the tree, surprising him and throwing him off balance, and pushed back again making him stumble back. I turned, pushing his back against the tree and used my foot to kick between his legs, making him release his hands so I could turn and elbow his mouth. He turned around, cradling his bleeding lip as he whimpered lowly.

“Don’t ever do that.” I raged, clenching and unclenching my fists tightly.

He looked at me, eyes confused and nodded his head slowly. I relaxed my face and turned back around to continue my walk down the hill. He followed, not as closely anymore, and I would occasionally stop to listen for any loud, troubling noises.

“I’m sorry,” he said once we reached the town again.

I huffed, not impressed, before taking a left down a small alley. He followed again, I walked faster, as did he. Once we reached the end of the small passing I turned abruptly, stopping him in his tracks. I tapped my foot, waiting there silently for him to continue his earlier apology.

“I’m sorry for taking you off guard. We do this all the time though, Oto, why were you so upset?” he asked irritatingly.

I huffed, balling my hands up before taking a calming step backward.

“It’s not that, Kawa,” I admitted solemnly, “it’s the fact that your tone sounded as if you believed you were any better than I. I care about you, but I would never see you again if you truly believed that.”

He was confused. You could tell because his chocolate brown eyes read that all over them. He looked down and back up at me, taking a step forward, and trapping me against the rough wall.

“If you think I believe that at all, then you truly haven’t been paying attention to me. I am infatuated with you. You’re strong and caring and you take in poor, worn strays off the street. You’re determined and stubborn and focused. You’re loving and wise and attentive. You’re a beautiful and independent woman and I love you for that. Damn it. I love you Otokita!” he confessed, surprising me very much.

And then he kissed me. He kissed me so fiercely, so kindly, yet so softly, I could do nothing but believe him. I could tell he felt a spark, fireworks even, but I did not. I couldn’t feel anything from that kiss other than sadness and pity. I kissed back, simply in reaction, and felt horrid.

I could never love him, not truly, not like he did me. I could only think of one thing as this was happening, and it terrified me beyond words. He pulled away, out of breath and sweaty, and smiled genuinely. I simply stood there, shocked and sad, and watched the happiness in his strong features fade. He examined my eyes carefully before stepping back, removing the arm that he had wrapped around my covered waist, and looked away.

“Do you… do you not feel the same?” he asked shyly, shoulders held firmly as a shield from my soon to come words.

“I-I-I...I cannot. I am so sorry, Kawa! I-” I didn’t finish that sentence as he turned away and walked determinedly.

I stood there solemnly, confused and angry and scared, as I filtered through my thoughts. I brushed over them all before straightening up and returning to my job.

==================

After the rest of my duties that day, I decided to go to Mrs.Itō’s shop to see if she finished the kimono I commissioned. I was outside of her small bright shop, merely looking at the cute calligraphy her 12-year-old son had made for her. One of the small window signs read ‘Kamotos- 3 yen’. I smiled lightly, remembering my sisters when they were his age. They had been obsessed with the new lessons on writing and calligraphy. It was the highlight of their week and they would practice whenever they had the chance.

“Oto? Oh, okosama, why are you not coming in? Come, come!” she gushed, broom in hand, and a bean-sack filled with needles in hand.

I smiled lightly, glad that Mrs.Itō has never judged me. She was always so kind to me and my family and was never a displeasure to be around. She radiated grace and honor, along with love and welcome. She was what I’d always imagined my grandmother had been like. It’s how my mother spoke of her, and I had no choice but to believe that.

“Mrs.Itō, what a pleasure,” I crooned, “I’m only here for a moment, the celebration is tonight and Ishi and I are in need of our kimonos. Are they ready? I have the 6 yen right here”

I reached into my small sack wedged between my armor and pulled out the cloth-covered coins. She smiled, nodding and taking me to the next room that was covered head-to-toe in cloth and fabric. I saw so many bright colors that worked so well together, something she had quite the eye for.

“Right here, okosama.” she said, smiling and holding out two burlap covered dresses, “Would you like to see yours?”

“Of course,” I agreed, watching as she lifted the cover.

I was in awe. Simple, unadulterated awe.

“It’s…”

“-Beautiful?” she chimed lightly.

I nodded, thoroughly surprised by the dress in front of me. The dress was covered in embroidered pink flowers that shrunk in size the farther up they got. The fabric was a black and pastel pink gradient, black being at the bottom. The obi was on top of the dress, a thick and wide black ribbon with pink floral lace bordering it. It reached past my feet, opening to show my ankles and the detailed black-bordered-pink silk on the inside.

It was far more than I had paid for and I was so grateful for the hard work I knew she had put into making this dress. I could only bow, arm resting on my back and the other holding the sliding weapons on my belt.

“Words cannot describe the great honor I feel for your hard work on this masterpiece.” I compliment sincerely, head still bowed.

She chuckled, setting the dresses down carefully and resting a hand on my shoulder. She sighed, bringing her soft hand to grab my chin lightly and lift me up.

“It’s only what you deserve, okosama. Do not underestimate what we, as the people of Chiba, appreciate of you. Tonight is not only to honor our elder, but also the work of our strongest warriors. I know at times you are judged, but the Elder thinks very highly of you and asked for me to do my best work on you two.” she explained, bringing a few tears to my eyes. I quickly wiped it before smiling and standing up straight.

“Thank you, but I must go. I should see you tonight then, yes?” I asked, reaching for the dresses.

“Of course,” she replied, giving me a farewell and leading me to the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ishi? I’m home and I have our kimonos!” I announced, closing the wooden door behind me as I headed into her respective room.

She was behind her partition wall, probably changing. I heard a squeal before I saw a half-naked Ishi running towards me and tackling me. I laughed along with her, glad the bed was behind me and pushed the stout girl off of me.

“I see you’re excited,” I tease, getting a giggle in return, “Would you like to put on your dress?”

“Of course! I am so excited for tonight’s event! It’s been ages since we’ve had a real time away from the tensions lately. Please tell me you’re coming tonight!?” she begged, turning on the bed on her knees to sit on my lap.

I chuckled, stroking her soft black hair and looking at her beautifully cheerful face. I nodded, she squealed, I laughed, she hugged, I hugged. We sat there for a good while, holding each other comfortably while she played with my messy helmet hair.

“Did you hear about what this party is for, Oto?” she asked genuinely, continuing to play with my frizzing hair.

“I did, from Mrs.Itō no less. It’s very reassuring. Do you know why I became a Samurai, Ishi?” I asked.

She sat back up, arms sitting on her lap and shook her head, truly interested.

“When my father died, and the town was so scared, I left my house. I went up to the hill I always did and sat there, wondering, crying, and mourning. While I was doing that, I hadn’t noticed the lanterns floating. It was the tradition- every and anytime a person passed, the people who cared about them must light Chinese lanterns. It was a new tradition at the time, just learned by our people from an immigrant, and the town’s people loved its symbolism. Well, while I was looking at those brightly lit white lanterns, I noticed the atmosphere hadn’t truly changed. I could still feel the pain those people were feeling, the fear. I knew we had never had the best protection in Chiba, but this had shown me how important it was. All that fear, that pain, could have been avoided had we had a Samurai devoted to protecting this small but beautiful town. I never wanted those people to have to face that fear again, not if I could help it. So hearing how these people truly care and appreciate and respect my position and duties truly brings me to tears.”

I meant every word, every spilled syllable, every emotion that leaked through. It was true, and  I wanted to share that with Ishi because I had come to a realization that I would always want her in my life. I never wanted her to be married, I never wanted her to be taken from me. It hurt to think that she could consider another person over me. Why? Why did that scare me? Why did I care?

“Oto?” she asked shyly, eyes glossed over, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

I smiled, tossing those thoughts away and she smiled back, rubbing her eyes to make the tears go away.

“As are you. Let’s get ready, shall we?” I asked, cheerfully standing up and turning to get her dress from the pile.

I handed it to her, watching as she removed the burlap to see the almost exact same dress as mine. Hers was a pale yellow and light blue, with blue being at the bottom. Her eyes grew wide in awe, a wide smile growing on her beautiful face.

“This is...Spectacular!” she gushed, turning the kimono around to see the back.

She rushed behind her partition to get changed as I went to mine to change as well. The dress fit me perfectly, the only thing I needed to do was tie my ribbon and do my makeup

“Ishi? Can you tie my ribbon?” I asked, knocking gently on her door.

It soon opened, revealing a gorgeously dressed girl. Her hair was pinned in a beautiful braided bun with pieces of hair systematically placed on her face. It had the chopsticks I had bought her for her birthday last year in the back, placed accordingly to hold her hair.

“You look amazing.” we both said together, resulting in us both laughing hysterically.

“Ribbon?” she asked, handing me her own yellow-laced-blue ribbon. I smiled before raising an eyebrow and handing her mine.

“Of course, turn,” I said, wrapping the ribbon around her slim midsection, grazing just below her breasts and tying in the back a beautiful bow.

“My turn,” I say, turning so she could do the same.

“There, now we’re both properly dressed. Makeup?” she suggested.

I smiled, nodding, and turned to head to my room where I kept our supplies. We did a simple Kabuki look with blue eyes for herself, and pink for me. I turned to her, finished with my look, to see her applying her mascara. Her face was stretched in the funniest way, causing me to giggle quietly to myself to not mess up her application.

“All done. I already took care of your mother. She’s eaten and is resting right now. If we’re back to check her before midnight we should be okay. I’ll go get my gloves and you can go powder the shoes.” she told me, standing up and walking out of the room oh-so-gracefully.

I got up and did as she said, waiting for her to come outside as I tapped my foot impatiently. When she finally came outside I gave her a raised eyebrow and she chuckled, standing close to my side as we left for the center of town where the celebration was at.

“You look spectacular, let’s hope your makeup stays put in this heat.” she joked, a smile growing by every step closer we get.

“Same for you, but you’d look beautiful either way.” I coaxed.

Though the makeup was covering most things, I’d imagined she’d blushed by the way her shoulders tilted, if that makes any sense. I hadn’t mentioned to her that I brought my Tanto with me, a small dagger used in honor, tucked into the side of my ribbons where it was blocked from sight by my arm.

As we got to the area it was being held, you could hear the sound of a koto and shakuhachi being played. The people were all gathered, conversing with each other, eating the sushi and other foods being served. I smiled, looking over to see that Ishi was smiling brightly at the colored lanterns hung above the town square.

“They dye the glass,” I tell her, pointing at the man who did its shop, “it’s a technique the English use in their Catholic churches to make window paintings.”

“That’s beautiful.” she says, now noticing the food, “Let’s eat! I’m starved.”

I chuckle, following her as we pick up the wooden plates and pick food. I followed her to go sit at a table with some of the acquaintances she’d made over the last few years. After about an hour or two, I saw Kawa walking toward our table.

“Otokita, may we speak in private?” he asks, looking far more professional than I’m used to.

I look over to see Ishi giving him an unreadable look and I agree, excusing myself. We walk a few meters away, behind all the set tables and a few rows of trees. He stopped, turning to look at me and giving me a coy smile. I cross my arms grumpily, tilting a hip out and staring at him.

“So, you don’t love me,” he said, smirk not wavering.

“Yes, and I apologize.” I agree sympathetically, nodding my head and looking over his shoulder, back to the table I was at to see Ishi missing. I look out to the dancing area and see her swaying with a young man about her age.

Jealousy.

“Well, I think we can fix that. You just have to see what a great husband I will make for you,” he says, drawing my attention away from my girl.

“What are you talking about, Kawa?” I ask, confused.

“You say you cannot love me, but I think you can,” he reached out, grabbing my hand in his and holding it there, “We already have a connection, you just need it to strength.”

I was shocked, to say the least, I hadn’t expected this from him and I was so confused.

“Kawa, you don’t understand. I can’t love you because I don’t have room.” I say as lightly as possible, trying to release my hand.

“No, no,” he chuckles, pulling my hand back towards himself, “You have room. I accept your duties, I know they come first. I can be secondary, I don’t mind”

“Kawa, you’re really not getting it-” I was cut off by his lips on mine, invading it and making me angry.

I shoved him off of me, turning him around with the Tanto held to his throat. I got close to him, almost touching his nose with my forehead and looked up into his frazzled brown eyes.

“You. Aren’t. Getting. It.” I say through gritted teeth, “I don’t have room to love you because I already love someone.”

He was mad, I could see it. His hands were pinned so he couldn’t do anything.  I backed away slowly, keeping the Tanto to his throat, and finally removing it when I was at a safe distance.

“You mean so much to me, Kawa, but do not confuse that with romantic love. You doubt me, see me as another woman, another wife to make dinners. I am not that and I could never love or be with someone who expects that.” I said softer this time to make him understand.

“Who is it? Who do you love?” he asks angrily, a hint of sadness seeping through.

“It isn’t important. I need you to know this isn’t hurt you.” I say seriously, deflecting the question I could barely admit to myself.

“I understand. Just know that I won’t give up on you. I will stop the flirting, but know I will never give up on us.” he said sincerely, making me feel sympathy for his cluelessness.

“I understand,” I say simply, turning around and heading back to our table where Ishi was not present.

I gave the tablemates a questioning look and they all smiled lightly.

“She’s gone from the dance floor, okosama. Try looking near the food, she left with that young man. Possible husband?” one of the older women asked.

I smiled shyly, internally cringing at the thought of her marrying. I thanked them before heading over to the food table to see her and the young man sharing a long, slimy, kiss. I cleared my throat, arms crossed angrily, looking at the two.

“Ishi. We’re leaving, say your goodbyes.” I instruct, reaching to separate the promiscuous pair.

She looked at me, anger and regret shining in those beautiful green eyes. She huffed, turning t the young man and whispering something in his ear and giggling. He smiled, resting a hand softly on her wait. I huffed, tapping my foot and flipping the blade in my hand from earlier.

“Goodbye.” she purred to him, sauntering away from the table and towards our table to say goodbyes.

I’m not going to lie, that hurt, but I really had no reason to discourage her behavior. I wasn’t her father, she could canoodle with whomever she pleases. Still, I was angry.

“What was that?!” I blurted, squeezing the Tanto.

“What was what?” she retorted, “It wasn’t any different than what you and Kawa were doing in the woods. I’m not blind, you know.”

I scoffed speeding up my walking since she had.

“What does that matter? It’s none of your business!” I shout, she scoffed, turning her heel and stopping.

“And what’s any different from my situation?” she seethed, puffing her white cheeks.

“Because it is! Who was he anyway? Is he going to ask for your hand?” I ask honestly, anger radiating from me at the idea.

“Kii Wan! He’s amazing, and maybe he will! And I’ll accept!” she shouts, arms flailing as she steps closer to me.

That shot daggers down my spine. I wanted to scream, cry, yell, fight, stab, and most of all I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to kiss her cute face. The face that makes me smile every time I see it.

“Why?” I asked, my voicing cracking slightly as fear crept up my spine.

A single tear. One little tear. It rolled down my face, I could feel it taking some of the makeup with it. I hadn’t cried in nearly 6 years since my father’s death. Not once, but the thought of losing her to some man made my heart ache worse than it ever has. I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t. I had to convince her to stay.

“Oto-” she empathized, stopping before she finished.

“Please.” I cried, “Please don’t do this. Don’t leave me. Am I not enough?”

I sobbed. Sobbed. Actually, truly, sobbed. And she knew. She knew how I was broken. She hugged me, crying just as I am, likely ruining each others kimono. We held each other, tighter than the day she told me her story, and it was bliss. I was broken, yes, but something about this hug told me it wasn’t what I thought it was.

“Otokita, I love you,” she said, staying still as can be, yet still holding onto me just as tightly.

“I love you, too, Ishi.” I emitted with all my heart.

We kissed, on an empty dark road, with ruined smeared makeup, the taste of rice flour invading our mouths, but we didn’t care. Because all thought we would never be able to share our love with the world, we could still love each other. We could love each other until the day we die. Until the day I fulfill my promise to protect Chiba.

“You didn’t really care for that boy, did you?” I asked, regrettably.

“Never, I was simply acting out of anger and jealousy. I’m sorry, Oto,” she mumbled.

As the years moved on, I fulfilled my duty. Kawa accepted that I could never be his and eventually found himself the most beautiful woman he said he’d ever seen. I found that there were many troubles with being, not only a female Samurai but also a bisexual woman in love with another. It wasn’t until 6 years later did my sisters return to take care of my ailing mother. They were happily married to two different and feminist men. The Karanaki name had been carried on through my 2nd niece, and my mother died 8 years later.

I could never regret any of my choices- to raise my sisters Atheist’s, to become both an okugatasama and Samurai, to fall in love with a lost and nearly broken woman. None. It was what led me to my happiness throughout the struggle and judgment of 7th century Japan.

[chrisbransdon]

On the limits of experience and reason (or, another take on the culture wars that you didn’t ask for)

In her book The Human Condition, Hannah Arendt explains the etymology of the word privacy. In ancient feeling, its meaning was indicated in the word itself: it had to do with privation; it literally meant a state of being deprived of something. Slaves and women were relegated to the private sphere because they were deprived of the opportunity to participate in public life.

I recalled this recently as I was re-reading 1 Timothy 2. This is a passage many Christians have been embarrassed by, but which, when considered in light of the Roman sensibilities it would have offended, was extremely radical for its time. After all, for a woman to learn implies that she must participate.

If this cultural moment has taught us anything, it is that who learns is just as significant as who is able to teach. In fact, I would suggest that given the preoccupations of our time, this text remains radical. 

I say this because education as a rallying cry has been taken up to great effect by the left. I share articles on my Facebook page regularly, and although I do so for the purpose of educating myself and anyone who chooses to read along with me, it never occurs to me to caption the article with ‘educate yourself.’ It is curious to me that this sort of rhetoric accompanies certain kinds of knowledge shared by certain people. Generally, this knowledge is informed by personal experience. It has been argued, not least by the signatories of the letter published in Harper’s  recently, that this knowledge is being used and abused to shut down open debate.

I think that experience has become the highest epistemic authority for the left because it is universal knowledge (in the sense that it can’t be bought, nor does it require a certain level of education), and therefore, everyone has access to it. If this knowledge is recognised as authoritative, it has the ability to bestow power, even to the least (of course the trouble is, what makes this knowledge so accessible is also what makes it so exclusive). 

I also wonder whether a purely logical and scientific approach to the world may have generated a backlash. Sure, reasoned argument is helpful and good, but funnily enough, it does not encompass all of human experience. Perhaps our knowledge is not limited to what we can see and the next generation is overcorrecting this philosophy. Or perhaps it’s bad parenting. Whatever. The circle keeps going round. 

However naively for my part, I don’t feel a sense of alarm when I consider the culture wars because wherever one sits on the political spectrum, the measure of all things is still man - whether according to experience or to reason. I like to remember that the Bible tells us not to put our trust in princes, whether they come to us as resistance fighters of the new establishment or as defenders of classical liberalism.

I’ve told anyone who will listen that I’m not the biggest fan of Douglas Murray’s The Madness of Crowds, but there were certain things that stood out to me. In his chapter on race, Murray draws attention to extreme examples of cancel culture, one example being the cancellation of the professor Bret Weinstein at Evergreen college. Murray recalls for us a situation in which Weinstein was accused of racism and attacked by hysterical students (most of it caught on film):

Weinstein tried to point out that there is a difference ‘between debate and dialectic’. As he said, ‘Debate means you are trying to win. Dialectic means you are using disagreement to discover what is true. I am not interested in debate. I am interested only in dialectic, which does mean I listen to you and you listen to me.’

This suggestion did not go down well with the assembled students. ‘We don’t care what you want to speak on,’ one young woman screamed at Weinsten as he held his hands on his head. ‘We are not speaking on terms of white privilege.’ Others barracked and shouted as the general mood got uglier. ‘This is not a discussion,’ one student yelled. ‘You have lost that one.’

I take it that one is supposed to read this and be horrified. I read it and I was fascinated. I was fascinated because I was struck by the limits of human reason. There was nothing this Professor could say in order to placate these young students - his path to salvation was not theirs, and he had no higher authority to appeal to. Reason was not enough.

Don’t get me wrong, I am saddened to read that the next generation of young people are ill-equipped to put forward reasoned arguments with a sympathetic professor in the hallowed halls of a university. However, perhaps it is not entirely to the disadvantage of the Christian that the weakness of these institutions is exposed to a wider audience. And perhaps it’s a weakness that predates cultural Marxism?

Once upon a time, the greatest institutions of learning were built on Christian foundations for the purpose of genuine education, but those purposes have long since been lost. Hubris in the form of secular humanism infected academia long ago, well before the rise of the ‘new religion’. Christians may be joining hands with the likes of Richard Dawkins now to decry the degeneration of discourse, but we have short memories if we cannot remember the mockery levelled at us in the form of the flying spaghetti monster. 

So, what then? Retreat? Well, no. I’m just trying to point out - I don’t think the Christian necessarily has a comfortable affinity with any side of the spectrum, and indeed, I think we have far more to offer. I think there is a time and place for advocating for black lives, or for freedom of speech. These are issues that Christians care about, and I think there is freedom for them to pursue the causes that move them. But I think all of us should do so remembering that as Christians, we are not at home. This is not our world, not our language. Where the experience of the left and the reason of the right fail, Christians hold out an integrated and holistic knowledge of God, the world, ourselves. 

Since I’ve tried to justify the observation that each side of the culture wars is hamstrung by limited knowledge, I’ve been thinking about how it is I know that the Bible is true, and the circumstances in which it is taught to me. As I’ve reflected on these things, I have found great comfort in my local church, which conducts itself so differently to the noise online and in the world. I’ve been grateful for God’s word to me, expressed in his Son, and for the qualified men of character who teach it to me with all humility. It is clear that most people in our world are afraid of losing their power. The men of the church, if they are worth their salt, spend all of their time actively trying to divest themselves of it. 

Each week, the one who preaches in an evangelical church does so with the aim of educating (to put it very simply) the ones in their care. And this preaching is done within the framework of revelation. This means that the knowledge we receive is only mediated to us by the teacher who is just as beholden to the words of God as we are. In fact, he is in a far more precarious position because it is his job to demonstrate that he has rightly handled the word of God. He is accountable to his congregation members, and ultimately, to God himself. This is why it is no small thing to learn. It is also why I do not begrudge the injunction to teach. What happens in the pulpit has nothing to do with the glory of the speaker, and everything to do with the glory of God. 

Perhaps it is anti-climactic to spend all of your time dwelling on theories of secularism only to find that the Christian’s main task hasn’t changed in the slightest. I’m not sure why we keep raising new questions about what evangelism looks like in our changing world, as though the fact that the gospel never changes could be anything other than our greatest strength. 

[angry-old-asian-man]

The Adulting Tips Masterpost

A lot of you are newly adult or soon to be. This generally isn't what this blog is for, but I've come to realise it's sorely needed--apparently also Millennials, many kids of Boomers, but some kids of my generation--didn't really learn how to be an adult and try to avoid it? I'm part of the latchkey generation. That happened with a guardian when I was in high school anyway, but when my dad and granparents were still alive and I lived with them, I got taught stuff and learned stuff. Then some, I did figure out, either as a latchkey and abused kid, or just as I went once I was on my own. I've been on my own for this entire century. So lemme pass on a little bit of helpful tips to prepare you, whatever your situation. THIS IS THE ADULTING MASTERPOST! You know stuff like "you need to learn how to manage money," or "having a fridgerator is a good thing." This is a bit deeper. It aims to be comprehensive and there are multiple sections. The need for this is pretty Western. When I mention "X also exists in Japan," I mean that and America are all I ever lived in and I'm saying there's a chance this thing is nearly universal. Let's begin: Things every home should have: A wet-vac (shop-vac) A hand drill Hemostat clamp (trust me--they're a irreplaceable household tool) (not the veterinary ones) A tape measure A fire extinguisher Surge-protecting outlet extenders ALWAYS KNOW WHERE YOUR FUSE/BREAKER BOX IS A flashlight or two (yeah, you have a phone. Get dedicated flashlights) A pail or two a bit bigger than a sand pail A cold compress and a heating pad A well-stocked toolbox A well-stocked first aid kit A few extension cords, at least one outdoor-use grounded one Some all-metal pots and pans I would recommend a landline phone, but they now depend on electricity coming through a modem, so they're not a lifesaver as they once were. Speaking of which, a radio that can run on batteries. Even better if it has shortwave (SW) bands, in Japan and America, at least, meteorological stations exist on SW (短波[たんぱ]) Bug bait on reserve--whatever bug is the worst in your area. On that note, many spiders, such as daddy long legs, will actually eat bugs like gnats and ants. Don't panic if the spider isn't a poisonous variety--they're there to help. A strong cement. Not Krazy Glue, but actual cement Always know where is your nearest: Hardware store Urgent care and hospital Library City hall Thrift store (these may have different names such as Recycle shop, outside of America) Recycling/E-waste centre (but please donate to that thrift store if your old electronics are still functional!) Public transit, even if you drive. Cars break down. On a similar note, memorise one taxi company number. Pay phone (just trust me) Repair shop for your appliances/electronics. Sometimes you just can't do it at home, hopefully you can always afford it Learn to do as much as you can, though Learn the hours of your closest corner store in case you need some medicine for a sick baby or sick self, etc. Befriend at least one or two neighbours. You'll be a great help to each other. Have plans for whatever natural disaster is known to strike your area. Tips for the ones I know: The best tip for earthquakes are: You can't outrun them Door arches are way better shelters than flimsy modern tables Arrange your house for the least things falling on people--especially in bed For hurricane, the evacuation route will change, but have a plan if you don't have your own car on how to get out of town Learn basic repair of household items. Good pantry foods (always keep some of these, according to your diet/intolerances): Powdered milk or canned milk (evaporated is not sweetened and therefore more versitaile) Pickled vegetables Dried fruits, vegetables, and grains Canned meats Beans you like, canned or dried Dollar/100 yen/whatever-your-equivalent-is stores should have most of the above. Get whatever groceries you can here. Suggestions include dried cuttlefish and canned media crema, too Pan spray is totally your friend unless you want oily food LEARN TO COOK! I know today's young adults don't, and we men have been discouraged from it unless as a job, but that's bad for both your health and wallet. Yes, even if you don't gain weight. You don't have to be four-star caliber, just be able to make basic food that tastes as you like (having friends/family like your cooking is super-rewarding, though) On that note, keep something that is simple to prepare (nattou and insta-rice/can of soup) for "low spoon" days if applicable If at all possible, please regularly see your doctor. Not seeing one doesn't make you "superior"/"manly" / "strong" /"not part of the sheeple," it makes you an idiot. An idiot with bad health Shower daily if at all possible. People have been bathing since Ancient Greece/Stone-Age Japan. It literally reduces bacterial illness. People in equatorial climates like Haiti bathe twice daily--might need this in more places with global warming Simple destressing tips: Live in a warm costal area? Invest in a beach towel and a large cold thermos Cold rainy/snowy? A nice sweater (okay for me, I'd get a yukata if I did, this varies), keep around one nice canister of tea/coffee/bouillon/pipe tobacco/bottle of wine/whatever. Pull up a seat, enjoy the view Don't do this after ten PM and before ten AM, and take night working/chronically ill neighbours into consideration, but enjoy your records out loud once in a while. Multitasking is actually rapid task switching. Actual multitasking is non-extant Find an easily accessible/low cost hobby you enjoy. It could be productive, like hunting, fishing, repairing and upselling stuff you find at thrift shops, or it could be absolutely nothing to do with gathering resources, like hiking or reading Edwardian poetry. Do it regardless. Carve out a little time once a week. If you're a single parent, there are ways to make it bonding time for most ages Make your bed. Trust me People Stuff, Yourself and Others: Above all, be kind to yourself. There's a whole lot of people that will be hard on you, no need to add yourself to that number Do unto others as you'd have done to you. But don't worry about some bullshit moral high ground with people who demean, belittle, and attack you. They don't deserve you Don't fall into that "I have a partner, so now I'm not supposed to socialise with anyone else/without them." That is SO not healthy. That can destabilise your relationship. Rapunzel didn't do well in that tower--isolation, even if self imposed, is very bad for you Having a counsellor isn't a bad thing. There might be people you don't wanna tell, but trauma is real--ask a veteran or assault survivor. If you think you need one and you can get to one, go. It's okay. There are thresholds, but consider different opinions. Not "your people are inferior savages" --that's crossing a line. But one of my best friends, I found out, likes modern folk rock. I only like the original folk rock, like America (band). You might argue whether more business and job creation in your town or building a new public middle school is better for the poor in your community, and you might disagree. There are certain beliefs that are bad (these are most always a belief in inherent inferiority /servility/ primitive, dangerous, or mystic quality in a [non-dominant] demograph, also known as bigotry--this is that inexcusable line) but not everyone who disagrees on everything is bad. I also tend to stay away from "morally superior lifestyle" (moral vegan, moral "I only watch TV on the Web," moral "I only smoke expensive weed and not stuff poor people of colour do," (this is a very real dichotomy in California, USA), moral yoga-er which can apparently also seep into pricing Indians out of yoga, I've heard, the quinoa/pork belly/greens gentrification--a lot of this morality in being rich [and white] is very western and rooted in Victorian British culture) because that's pure classism, see bigotry, but your mileage may vary. Disagreements on "I like mayo, you like Miracle Whip" or "Jobs for the poor! No, library for the poor!" are pretty trivial. You still both seem like good people. (And there are totally times for Miracle Whip, L O L!) Growing up means being able to handle your own stuff--it doesn't mean having to hate cartoons (Thank Archie for that misconception. At the same time, note that was never absolute. See stuff like Fritz the Cat, City Hunter, Lupin III, Patsy Walker. Before Archie, think about Betty Boop and early Blondie in the actual context of the 1920s) It doesn't mean you have to hate puns and the music you liked in High School. I love both, and I'm making you this list. Don't be embarrassed about what you like. Life's too short. Don't worry now or ever. Like 50 Shades? As long as you know that in real life, you should stay safe from abuse, and you know real BDSM isn't that and don't treat people in that community shitty or put yourself in danger. Be critical of what you like but only dislike it if its shittiness ruined it for you, like how I feel about David Bowie after "China Girl." And people having limits is okay. White people frequently tell me I have no right to dislike David Bowie after that song because... I have no right to complain about the fetishisation/assault/other oppression of Asians because they want to keep oppressing me, I guess? I have a right even if I weren't attacked more times than I can count because of the treatment of Asians in America. They have no right to tell me what to enjoy or not to enjoy. Similarly, people might tell you your interest makes you immature or whatever ("O M G, you STILL listen to New Kids on the Block!? What are you, 13?") this is like the point about the person who likes Miracle Whip v the person who likes mayonnaise. What you like isn't impervious to criticism, but it doesn't make you morally anything. You might not want to tell your co-workers you write fic, but just know sometimes things aren't worth dealing with and still liking The Muppet Movies even when you turn 35 someday is no judgement on you. (I have a couple of those on VHS) I've been literally beaten for reading in my mother tongue and not only ever English. I buy/check out my books. I don't have to listen to them. And that's the thing about being an adult. You're in control. Yeah, you're responsible for you, and depending, you might not have anyone to fall back on. My dad died in my high school years. My grandparents had already died when he did. Some decided they really didn't want to fulfill the duties of parents because you turned out too different. That isn't fun. I know, as you see. But it would seem young people now are afraid to grow up? It's a good thing. As long as you do no harm, you're (supposed to be) free. You can bake a cake and have it for breakfast on Sunday morning. A la mode, even. Watch that movie--no one should be able to tell you no! ((They can tell you wait if they have to sleep or the TV is shared, but they shouldn't be able to disallow you--controlling shit like that for an adult happens, but that's the realm of abusive partners or staying at mum and dad's for the weekend) If I think of anything else, I'll edit this post. For now, that's it. (Remember to brush your teeth!)

[verdigrisprowl]

A (less bad but still not really good) Meeting With Soundwave

In which Soundwave tells Prowl that Starscream wants to use his cityspeaking abilities. Prowl was mostly apathetic, except for his crankiness that he was being asked things and expected to answer, like a real conversation was going on. Jeez. Just let him wallow in numb inactivity in peace. And he spent half of the conversation like,

Soundwave

Three poor conversations, with the last one being particularly harsh on them both. Soundwave worried about this, the soon-to-be fourth, roughly as much as he looked forward to it. He'd been watching Prowl stagnate since he finished the promised security revamp, and while he hoped his background maneuvering would do something to help...

Soundwave's tank twisted. They didn't have room for him to think about things as dark as all that. He needed to be in control in the present in order to keep the talk from crashing and burning so badly it rivaled Skyquake's final moments.

Points arranged for smoother flow. Audio clips readied in case they proved necessary. List prepped for filling. Small vent. Go.

(txt): Professional conversation required.

Prowl

As had become typical lately, it took longer than it should have for Prowl to reply. Not because he was doing anything—the camera feeds would easily show that, but because... well. Because.

But almost ten minutes after Soundwave's comm, Prowl replied. «Yes?»

Soundwave

The delay didn't bother Soundwave. He'd sort of expected it, honestly, and it was better than the other result for which he'd also prepared himself - namely, having to go in there and speak visor to face.

(txt): Starscream: now convinced Prowl: potential Cityspeaker, Windblade replacement. If not Cityspeaker, file acquisition/interpretation duty. Valuable positions, worthwhile duties, abilities fit. Test: imminent.

(txt): Initial message portion successfully absorbed?

Prowl

Prowl tried to figure out how Starscream might have come to a conclusion like that.

His processor revved, gave up, and quietly puttered to a stop.

Well. He supposed it didn't matter how, did it?

«Absorbed.»

Soundwave

Prowl would find out if he didn't chase Soundwave off of having a personal conversation afterward this time, or later if he did. It seemed the kind of privacy invasion Soundwave ought to let Prowl know he'd committed once it couldn't immediately sidetrack things or be mixed into the work logs.

(txt): Test structure: Soundwave, deployers join Prowl near attempted Cityspeak location. Rule adherence, health monitored. Soundwave's audiovisual network inside Metroplex: disabled. Temporary measure. Starscream invades randomized Metroplex location. Prowl contacts Metroplex, requests Starscream location data, interprets, sends Starscream. New plans created if data: accurate.

(txt): Second message portion successfully absorbed?

Prowl

This wasn't a meeting where Prowl was being asked things, was it? It was a meeting where Prowl was being told things. That made it easier.

So, for some reason Prowl was going to play hide-and-seek with Starscream. All right. He supposed he wasn't doing anything more important with himself. «Absorbed.»

Soundwave

Not quite, Prowl. Sorry.

(txt): Acknowledged. Problem: Soundwave not Cityspeaker. Not present during previous titan contact effort. Prowl's process, safety, recovery needs not known. Contact reactions not known. List expected needs, mental/physical effects. If not all known, remembered, Prowl's instructions: inform Hook this matter: urgent discussion topic, transfer line.

Prowl

This matter was damn well not an urgent discussion topic, Hook was working on making sure Springer's spark augmentation process was going to be safe. «... How long is it going to take to locate Starscream.»

Soundwave

Yes, it was. The last thing they - especially Prowl - needed was to forget a vital item or miss an important symptom and come out of this with his brain module fried to nonfunctionality. Springer, they could probably fix. If Prowl broke, chances were he wouldn't be coming back from it.

(txt): Unknown. Soundwave: inexperienced, cannot estimate. That, Prowl-based. Prowl: sidetracked. List needed.

Prowl

Hmm. You don't say. Pity.

«I'm not sidetracked. It's relevant.» He was going to assume, then, that asking Metroplex a single question about somebody inside of himself wouldn't take more than a few minutes. «Coolant. That's all.»

Soundwave

To parties who'd gotten in over their helms despite themselves and were certain to regret the loss of the amica they'd never expected to have, business origins or not? Yes. It would be a pity, and it'd remain one whether or not Prowl felt the same way about himself just then.

(txt): Apology given. Soundwave's interpretation: incorrect. Required quantity, use form? Expected contact effects?

Kinda needed to know if Prowl might mistake himself for, oh. A window. Or something odd like that.

Prowl

«Drinking. Just have a couple quarts on hand.»

Soundwave

(txt): Noted. Second question, transfer refusal continues. Prowl understands missing physical data endangers Prowl, Soundwave? Reconsideration plea: If Prowl: broken, extinguished, expected Starscream displeasure aim: Soundwave. If Soundwave: broken, dead, deployers follow. Zori, Chimera: innocent. Request: Comply, protect.

Prowl

He faded out somewhere after "Prowl understands..." «What's who refusing to transfer?»

Soundwave

Damn it, Prowl. He knows you're having trouble keeping up right now, but... fine, fine, he'll try again. Something a little less bait-y on the "protect the innocents" front. It probably got swallowed up by his enforcer-related troubles.

(txt): Prowl: refusing expected mental, physical titan contact effect list. Hook transfer not conducted. If sharing: refused... volunteered data preferred. Starscream work order, damaged Prowl: unwanted. Both risked.

(txt): If refused, give statement. Subject finished until test date. Related, unrelated personal conversations conducted next.

Prowl

«... What am I refusing?» That was twice as many paragraphs as Prowl could handle and he had, in fact, mentally glazed over the questions that Soundwave was referring to. He had no idea what he was being accused of.

«Hold on.» He's trying to backread. He's failing. What the hell is this nonsense about— «What is Starscream executing you for.» Scrap this. «I lost the thread of the conversation. You tried to ask me something. I don't know what it is. Please repeat the question. In one sentence.»

Soundwave

...Was that the problem? For Primus' sake. And here he thought Prowl was just continuing to be unnecessarily stubborn. Frustrating, but a damn sight better than obstinance.

(txt): No executions. Ignore. Question: What physical, mental effects expected during, after titan contact, within safe medical range?

Prowl

Oh. Yes. That question did sound vaguely familiar. «Headaches and overheating.»

Soundwave

Finally.

(txt): Appreciated. Professional instructions, questions completed until next step. Await call.

(txt): Personal comment opportunity needed, subjects: Tarantulas, Soundwave actions. Extra conversation time requested.

Prowl

More??

Can you see Prowl's face through the cameras, Soundwave? It just aged twenty millennia. «... Yes?» And Tarantulas was involved. Sigh.

Soundwave

Don't age too quickly, Prowl. He's not sure how long mechs from your timeline live.

(txt): Trust conversations held. Tarantulas... struggling. Convoluted thoughts, fear, bitterness, incomplete base, self-doubt. Also noted: Prowl's "nothing" rule obeyed after debate, explanation. Lie rule obedience attempt recorded. Other truths discussed despite discomfort, disagreements. Admission: future outcome... uncertain. However, optimistic outlook taken, mode: deep caution.

Prowl

... Word soup. Prowl rubbed his forehead and reread twice more. What "nothing" rule? Why the hell would Prowl have a "nothing" rule. A rule that was nothing did nothing.

So Tarantulas is in a bad mood, something somewhere is emotionally murky and unpleasant, at some vague point something true was said, the outlook of something something was both positive and negative. Right. «Absorbed.»

Soundwave

He can see that forehead rub, you know. And Prowl did just admit he'd lost an entire thread of conversation.

(txt): ...Prowl telling truth?

Prowl

«... Yes?» It's a very confused yes.

He's not lying; he's unaware of how much he's utterly failing to absorb.

Soundwave

(txt): ...Repeat Soundwave's words in own phrasing.

Prowl

«No. Primus, it's hard enough to translate it, I'm not going to reconstruct it. Why do I—? Who cares. You had a conversation with Tarantulas and nobody died, excellent, why do I need to know.»

Soundwave

"Hard enough to translate it." All right. Soundwave will ignore the tiny sting of that and the rest of the sentence and find someone who can speak in a way Prowl won't have as much trouble translating. He doesn't really want to be snapped at right now anyway. Prowl's... having problems, yeah. He knows that. He understands that. But it doesn't make the nastiness any easier to sit through.

//Yo. Uhhh... Boss 'n the bug talked 'bout trustin', 'n the bug's got problems, but stuff's kinda promisin'. Like maybe he ain't gonna suck forever. Y'know, if he tries real hard. Guess he thought ya woulda cared.//

Prowl

Now Soundwave was sending— Why did Prowl need to know— Who cared about—? «Fine. Okay. Fine.» He was tired. He just wanted to get off the line, he was tired.

Soundwave

//'N he's sorry 'bout tellin' Starscream you 'n Hook was talkin' blueprints, but Screamer mighta done somethin' real ugly if some other fragger blabbed first. Least ya got this now. Better'n hand labor, yeah?//

//Anyway, we gotta go get coolant. Night, mech.//

Prowl

... Sorry for what? It was in public, Prowl knew damn well he was being monitored at all times, they were surrounded by people who saw the whole thing, it wasn't like they weren't going to tell the construction site they now had improved more authentic blueprints—who cared that Soundwave said it first? Wasn't that what he was for?

«Fine. Bye.»

[weightlossfitness2]

The Truth about Energy Balance and Fat Loss

When it involves physique change, there’s no matter extra polarizing than “calories in vs. calories out.” Some argue it’s the be-all and end-all of weight reduction. Others say it’s oversimplified and misguided. In this text, we discover each angle of the controversy from “eat less, move more,” to hormonal points, to diets that supply a “metabolic advantage.” In doing so, we reply—as soon as and for all—how vital energy in vs. energy out actually is. And talk about what it means for you and your purchasers.  

++++

“You’re either with me, or you’re against me.”

Everyone’s heard this one. But do you know the well being and health business has its personal model of the saying? It goes: “You’re either with me, or you’re stupid.”

I child, in fact!

But this type of binary mindset does gas loads of heated debates. Especially relating to one matter specifically: “calories in vs. calories out,” or CICO.

CICO is a straightforward method of claiming:

When you absorb extra power than you burn, you acquire weight.

When you absorb much less power than you burn, you drop some weight.

This is a basic idea in physique weight regulation, and about as near scientific truth as we are able to get.

Then why is CICO the supply of a lot disagreement?

It’s all in regards to the extremes.

At one finish of the controversy, there’s a gaggle who believes CICO is simple. If you aren’t shedding pounds, the reason being easy: You’re both consuming too many energy, or not transferring sufficient, or each. Just eat much less and transfer extra.

At the opposite finish is a gaggle who believes CICO is damaged (or perhaps a full fantasy). These critics say it doesn’t account for hormone imbalances, insulin resistance, polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), and different well being issues that have an effect on metabolism. They typically declare sure diets and meals present a “metabolic advantage,” serving to you drop some weight with out worrying about CICO.

Neither viewpoint is totally flawed.

But neither is totally proper, both.

Whether you’re a well being and health coach tasked with serving to purchasers handle their weight—otherwise you’re making an attempt to learn to do this for your self—adopting an excessive place on this matter is problematic; it prevents you from seeing the larger image.

This article will add some nuance to the controversy.

I’ll begin by clearing up some misconceptions about CICO. And then discover a number of real-world examples exhibiting how far-right or far-left views can maintain of us again.

Rethinking widespread misconceptions.

Much of the CICO debate—as with many different debates—stems from misconceptions, oversimplifications, and a failure (by each side) to discover a shared understanding of ideas. So let’s begin by getting everybody on the identical web page for a change.

CICO goes past meals and train.

There’s an vital distinction to be made between CICO and “eat less, move more.” But individuals, particularly some CICO advocates, are likely to conflate the 2.

“Eat less, move more” solely takes under consideration the energy you eat and the energy you burn by way of train and different day by day motion. But CICO is basically an off-the-cuff method of expressing the Energy Balance Equation, which is way extra concerned.

The Energy Balance Equation—and subsequently CICO—contains all of the complicated interior workings of the physique, in addition to the exterior elements that in the end impression “calories in” and “calories out.”

Imperative to this, and infrequently ignored, is your mind. It’s always monitoring and controlling CICO. Think of it as mission management, sending and receiving messages that contain your intestine, hormones, organs, muscular tissues, bones, fats cells, exterior stimuli (and extra), to assist steadiness “energy in” and “energy out.”

It’s one hell of an advanced—and delightful—system.

Yet the Energy Balance Equation itself appears to be like actually easy. Here it’s:

[Energy in] – [Energy out] = Changes in physique shops*

*Body shops refers to all of the tissues out there for breakdown, comparable to fats, muscle, organ, and bone. I purposely haven’t used “change in body weight” right here as a result of I wish to exclude water weight, which may change physique weight impartial of power steadiness. In different phrases, water is a complicated, confounding variable that methods individuals into pondering power steadiness is damaged when it’s not.

With this equation, “energy in” and “energy out” aren’t simply energy from meals and train. As you possibly can see within the illustration beneath, every kind of things affect these two variables.

When you view CICO by way of this lens—by zooming out for a wider perspective—you possibly can see boiling it right down to “eat less, move more” is a big oversimplification.

Calorie calculators and CICO aren’t the identical.

Many individuals use calorie calculators to estimate their power wants, and to  approximate what number of energy they’ve eaten. But generally these instruments don’t appear to work. As a end result, these people begin to query whether or not CICO is damaged. (Or whether or not they’re damaged).

The key phrases listed below are “estimate” and “approximate.”

That’s as a result of calorie calculators aren’t essentially correct.

For starters, they supply an output based mostly on averages, and might be off by as a lot as 20-30 % in regular, younger, wholesome individuals. They might fluctuate much more in older, scientific, or overweight populations.

And that’s simply on the “energy out” facet.

The variety of energy you eat—or your “energy in”—can also be simply an estimate.

For instance, the FDA permits inaccuracies of as much as 20% on label calorie counts, and analysis reveals restaurant vitamin data might be off by 100-300 energy per meals merchandise.

What’s extra, even should you had been capable of precisely weigh and measure each morsel you eat, you continue to wouldn’t have a precise “calories in” quantity. That’s as a result of there are different confounding elements, comparable to:

We don’t soak up all the energy we devour. And absorption charges fluctuate throughout meals varieties. (Example: We soak up extra energy than estimated from fiber-rich meals, and fewer energy than estimated from nuts and seeds.)

We all soak up energy uniquely based mostly on our particular person intestine micro organism.

Cooking, mixing, or chopping meals typically makes extra energy out there for absorption than might seem on a vitamin label.

Of course, this doesn’t imply CICO doesn’t work. It solely means the instruments now we have to estimate “calories in” and “calories out” are restricted.

To be crystal clear: Calorie calculators can nonetheless be very useful for some individuals. But it’s vital to concentrate on their limitations. If you’re going to make use of one, achieve this as a tough start line, not a definitive “answer.”

CICO doesn’t require calorie counting.

At Precision Nutrition, generally we use calorie counting to assist purchasers enhance their meals consumption. Other occasions we use hand parts. And different occasions we use extra intuitive approaches.

For instance, let’s say a shopper desires to drop some weight, however they’re not seeing the outcomes they need. If they’re counting energy or utilizing hand parts, we’d use these numbers as a reference to additional scale back the quantity of meals they’re consuming. But we additionally would possibly encourage them to make use of different methods as an alternative. Like consuming slowly, or till they’re 80 % full.

In each case—whether or not we’re speaking numbers or not — we’re manipulating “energy in.” Sometimes instantly; generally not directly. So make no mistake: Even once we’re not “counting calories,” CICO nonetheless applies.

CICO would possibly sound easy, but it surely’s not.

There’s no getting round it: If you (or a shopper) aren’t shedding pounds, you both have to lower “energy in” or enhance “energy out.” But as you’ve already seen, which will contain excess of simply pushing away your plate or spending extra time on the health club.

For occasion, it could require you to:

Get extra high-quality sleep to higher regulate starvation hormones, enhance restoration, and enhance metabolic output

Try stress resilience methods like meditation, deep respiratory, and spending time in nature

Increase your day by day non-exercise motion by parking the automotive a couple of blocks away out of your vacation spot, taking the steps, and/or standing when you work

Trade some high-intensity train for lower-intensity actions, so as to support restoration and scale back systemic stress

Improve the high quality of what you’re consuming, versus lowering the amount. This can will let you eat extra meals with fewer whole energy

Tinker with the macronutrient make-up of what you eat. For instance: consuming extra protein and fiber, or growing carbs and reducing fat, or vice versa

Experiment with the frequency and timing of your meals and snacks, based mostly on private preferences and urge for food cues

Consider briefly monitoring your meals consumption—through hand parts or weighing/measuring—to make sure you’re consuming what you suppose you’re consuming (as carefully as moderately doable)

Evaluate and proper dietary deficiencies, for extra power throughout exercises (and in on a regular basis life)

Consult along with your doctor or specialists if constant life-style adjustments aren’t transferring the needle

Sometimes the options are apparent; generally they aren’t. But with CICO, the solutions are there, should you hold your thoughts open and study each issue.

Imagine your self a “calorie conductor” who oversees and fine-tunes many actions to create metabolic concord. You’re on the lookout for something that might be out of sync.

This takes plenty of observe.

So, to assist, listed below are 5 widespread power steadiness dilemmas. In every case, it is perhaps tempting to imagine CICO doesn’t apply. But look a little bit deeper, and also you’ll see the ideas of CICO are at all times current.

5 widespread power steadiness dilemmas.

Dilemma #1: “I’ve been eating the same way forever, but suddenly I started gaining weight.”

Can you guess what occurred?

More than seemingly, “energy in” or “energy out” did change, however in a method that felt uncontrolled or unnoticeable.

The wrongdoer might be:

Slight will increase in meals consumption, attributable to adjustments in temper, starvation, or stress

An enhance within the quantity of power absorbed—attributable to new treatment, an unknown medical situation, or a historical past of persistent weight-reduction plan

Physiological adjustments that resulted in fewer energy burned throughout train and at relaxation

The onset of persistent ache, upsetting a dramatic lower in non-exercise exercise thermogenesis (NEAT)

Significant adjustments to sleep high quality and/or amount, impacting metabolic output and/or meals consumed

In all of those instances, CICO continues to be legitimate. Energy steadiness simply shifted in refined methods, attributable to life-style and well being standing adjustments, making it onerous to acknowledge.

Dilemma #2: “My hormones are wreaking havoc on my metabolism, and I can’t stop gaining weight. Help!”

Hormones seem to be a logical scapegoat for weight adjustments.

And whereas they’re in all probability to not blame as typically as individuals suppose, hormones are intricately entwined with power steadiness.

But even so, they don’t function independently of power steadiness.

In different phrases, individuals don’t acquire weight as a result of “hormones.”

They acquire weight as a result of their hormones are impacting their power steadiness.

This typically occurs throughout menopause or when thyroid hormone ranges decline.

Take, for instance, triiodothyronine (T3) and thyroxine (T4), two thyroid hormones which can be extremely vital for metabolic perform. If ranges of those hormones diminish, weight acquire might happen. But this doesn’t negate CICO: Your hormones are merely influencing “energy out.”

This could appear a bit like splitting hairs, but it surely’s an vital connection to make, whether or not we’re speaking about menopause or thyroid issues or insulin resistance or different hormonal points.

By understanding CICO is the true determinant of weight reduction, you’ll have many extra instruments for attaining the end result you need.

Suppose you’re working from the false premise hormones are the one factor that issues. This can result in more and more unhelpful choices, like spending a big sum of cash on pointless dietary supplements, or adhering to a very restrictive eating regimen that backfires in the long term.

Instead, you already know outcomes are depending on the truth that “energy in” or “energy out” has modified. Now, this variation might be attributable to hormones, and if that’s the case, you’ll should make changes to your consuming, train, and/or life-style habits to account for it. (This may embody taking treatment prescribed by your physician, if acceptable.)

Research suggests individuals with gentle (10-15% of the inhabitants) to reasonable hypothyroidism (2-Three%) might expertise a metabolic decelerate of 140 to 360 energy a day.

That might be sufficient to result in weight acquire, or make it tougher to drop some weight. (One caveat: Mild hypothyroidism might be so gentle many individuals don’t expertise a big shift in metabolic exercise, making it a non-issue.)

What’s extra, ladies affected by polycystic ovary syndrome, or PCOS (about 5-10%), and people going by way of menopause, may additionally expertise hormonal adjustments that disrupt power steadiness.

So, it’s vital to grasp your (or your shopper’s) well being standing, as that may present precious details about the distinctive challenges concerned and the way you must proceed.

Dilemma #Three: “I’m only eating 1,000 calories a day and I’m still not losing weight!”

So what provides?

The conclusion most individuals leap to: Their metabolism is damaged. They’re damaged. And CICO is damaged.

But right here’s the deal: Metabolic injury isn’t actually a factor. Even although it could appear that method.

Now, their power steadiness problem might be associated to a hormonal situation, as mentioned above. However, when somebody’s consuming 1,000 energy a day however not shedding pounds, it’s often attributable to one of many two causes that comply with.

(No matter how easy they sound, that is what we’ve seen time and again in our teaching program, with over 100,000 purchasers.)

Reason #1: People typically underestimate their calorie consumption.

It’s simple to miscalculate how a lot you’re consuming, because it’s often unintentional. The commonest methods individuals do it:

They underestimate parts. (For instance, with out exactly measuring “one tablespoon of peanut butter,” it would truly be two, which provides 90 energy every time you do it)

They don’t observe bites, licks, and tastes of calorie-dense meals. (For instance, your child’s leftover mac and cheese may simply add 100 energy)

They don’t document all the pieces within the second and neglect to log it in a while

They “forget” to depend meals they’d wished they hadn’t eaten

Don’t consider this is usually a massive situation?

A landmark research, and repeated comply with up research, discovered individuals typically underestimate how a lot they eat over the course of a day, generally by greater than 1,000 energy.

I’m not bringing this analysis as much as recommend it’s not possible to be lifelike about portion sizes. But should you (or your purchasers) aren’t seeing outcomes on a low-calorie eating regimen, it’s value contemplating that underestimation could also be the issue.

Reason #2: People overeat on the weekends.

Work weeks might be disturbing and when Friday night time rolls round, individuals put their guard down and let free.

(You in all probability can’t relate, however simply strive, okay?)

Here’s the way it goes: Let’s say an individual is consuming 1,500 energy a day on weekdays, which might give them an approximate 500-calorie deficit.

But on the weekends, they deviate from their plan just a bit.

Drinks with buddies and some slices of late night time pizza on Friday

An further massive lunch after their exercise on Saturday

Brunch on Sunday (“Hey, it’s breakfast and lunch, so I can eat double!)

The remaining tally: An further four,000 energy consumed between Friday night time and Sunday afternoon. They’ve successfully canceled out their deficit, bumping their common day by day energy to 2,071.

The upshot: If you (or your shopper) have slashed your energy dramatically, however you aren’t seeing the anticipated outcomes, search for the small slips. It’s like being a metabolic detective who’s following—maybe actually—the bread crumbs.

By the best way, if downtime is downside for you (or a shopper), now we have simply the treatment: 5 shocking methods to ditch weekend overeating.

Dilemma #four: “I’m eating as much as I want and still losing weight, so this diet is better than all the others!”

This is perhaps the highest cause some individuals reject CICO.

Say somebody switches from a eating regimen of largely processed meals to 1 made up of largely entire, plant-based meals. They would possibly discover they’ll eat as a lot meals as they need, but the kilos nonetheless soften away.

People typically consider that is because of the “power of plants.”

Yes, crops are nice, however this doesn’t disprove power steadiness.

Because plant meals have a very-low power density, you possibly can eat lots of them and nonetheless be in a calorie deficit. Especially in case your earlier consumption was stuffed with plenty of processed, hyperpalatable “indulgent foods.”

It feels such as you’re consuming far more meals than ever earlier than—and, actually, you actually is perhaps.

On high of that, you may additionally really feel extra satiated due to the amount, fiber, and water content material of the crops.

All of which is nice. Truly. But it doesn’t negate CICO.

Or take the ketogenic eating regimen, for instance.

Here, somebody may need an analogous expertise of “eating as much as they want” and nonetheless shedding pounds, however as an alternative of plant meals, they’re consuming meat, cheese, and eggs. Those aren’t low-calorie meals, and so they don’t have a lot fiber, both.

As a end result, loads of low-carb advocates declare keto presents a “metabolic advantage” over different diets.

Here’s what’s almost definitely taking place:

Greater consumption of protein will increase satiety and reduces urge for food

Limited meals selections have reduce out a whole bunch of highly-processed energy they may have eaten in any other case (Pasta! Chips! Cookies!)

Reduced meals choices can even result in “sensory-specific satiety.” Meaning, if you eat the identical meals on a regular basis, they might grow to be much less interesting, so that you’re not pushed to eat as a lot

Liquid energy—soda, juice, even milk—are typically off-limits, so a higher proportion of energy are consumed from strong meals, that are extra filling

Higher blood ranges of ketones—which rise when carbs are restricted—appear to suppress urge for food

For these causes, individuals are likely to eat fewer energy and really feel much less hungry.

Although it may appear magical, the keto eating regimen ends in weight reduction by regulating “energy in” by way of quite a lot of methods.

You would possibly ask: If plant-based and keto diets work so nicely, why ought to anybody care if it’s due to CICO, or for another cause?

Because relying on the particular person—meals preferences, life-style, exercise degree, and so forth—many diets, together with plant-based and keto, aren’t sustainable long-term. This is especially true of the extra restrictive approaches.

And should you (or your shopper) consider there’s just one “best diet,” you might grow to be pissed off should you aren’t capable of stick with it. You might view your self as a failure and determine you lack the self-discipline to drop some weight. You might even suppose you must cease making an attempt.

None of that are true.

Your outcomes aren’t eating regimen dependent. They’re habits dependent.

Maintaining a wholesome physique (together with a wholesome physique weight) is about growing constant, sustainable day by day habits that show you how to positively impression “energy in” and “energy out.”

This is perhaps achieved whereas having fun with the meals you like, by:

Eating till you’re 80% full

Eating slowly and mindfully

Eating extra minimally processed meals

Getting extra high-quality sleep

Taking steps to cut back stress and construct resilience

It’s about viewing CICO from 30,000 toes and determining what strategy feels sane—and achievable—for you.

Sure, which may embody a plant-based or a keto eating regimen, but it surely completely won’t, too. And you already know what?

You can get nice outcomes both method.  

Dilemma #5: “I want to gain weight, but no matter how much I eat, I can’t seem to.”

The CICO dialog doesn’t at all times revolve round weight reduction.

Some individuals wrestle to achieve weight.

Especially youthful athletes and people who find themselves very, very lively at work. (Think: jobs that contain guide labor.)

It additionally occurs with those that try to regain misplaced weight after an sickness.

When somebody deliberately eats extra meals however can’t pack on the kilos, it could seem to be CICO is invalidated. (Surprise.)

They typically really feel like they’re stuffing themselves—“I’m eating everything in sight!”—and it’s simply not working. But right here’s what our coaches have discovered:

People have a tendency to recollect extremes.

Someone may need had six meals in in the future, consuming as a lot as they felt like they might stand.

But the next day, they solely ate two meals as a result of they had been nonetheless so full. Maybe they had been actually busy, too, in order that they didn’t even suppose a lot about it.

The first day—the one the place they stuffed themselves—would seemingly stand out much more than the day they ate in accordance with their starvation ranges. That’s simply human nature.

It’s simple to see how CICO is concerned right here. It’s lack of consistency on the “energy in” a part of the equation.

One answer: Instead of stuffing your self with Three,000 energy in the future, after which consuming 1,500 the following, goal for a calorie consumption simply above the center you possibly can keep on with, and enhance it in small quantities over time, if wanted.

People typically enhance exercise after they enhance energy.

When some individuals all of a sudden have extra out there power—from consuming extra meals—they’re extra prone to do issues that enhance their power out. Like taking the steps, pacing whereas on the cellphone, and fidgeting of their seats.

They would possibly even push tougher throughout a exercise than they’d usually.

This might be each unconscious and refined.

And although it would sound bizarre, our coaches have recognized this as a authentic downside for “hardgainers.”

Your cost: Take discover of all of your exercise.

If you possibly can’t curtail a few of it, you might have to compensate by consuming much more meals. Nutrient- and calorie-dense meals like nut butters, entire grains, and oils may help, particularly should you’re challenged by your lack of urge for food.

Three methods to recreation the system.

Once you settle for that CICO is each complicated and inescapable, you might end up up in opposition to one quite common problem.

Namely: “I can’t eat any less than I am now!”

This is likely one of the high causes individuals abandon their weight reduction efforts or search around in useless for a miracle eating regimen.

But listed below are three easy methods you (or your purchasers) can use to create a caloric deficit, even when it appears not possible. It’s all about determining which one works finest for you.

Maximize protein and fiber.

Consuming increased quantities of protein will increase satiety, serving to you’re feeling extra happy between meals. And consuming increased quantities of fiber will increase satiation, serving to you’re feeling extra happy throughout meals.

These are each confirmed in analysis and observe that can assist you really feel extra happy total whereas consuming fewer energy, resulting in simpler fats loss.

This recommendation can sound trite, I do know. In truth, sometime when there are vitamin coach robots, “eat more protein and fiber” will in all probability be the very first thing they’re programmed to say.

But the reality is, most individuals making an attempt to drop some weight nonetheless aren’t centered on getting loads of these two vitamins.

And you already know what? It’s not their fault.

When it involves diets, nearly everybody has been informed to subtract. Take away the “bad” stuff, and solely eat the “good” stuff.

But there’s one other strategy: Just begin by including.

If you make a concerted effort to extend protein (particularly lean protein) and fiber consumption (particularly from greens), you’ll really feel extra happy.

You’ll even be much less tempted by all of the meals you suppose you ought to be avoiding. This helps to mechanically “crowd out” ultra-processed meals.

Which results in one other massive profit: By consuming extra entire meals and fewer of the processed type, you’re truly retraining your mind to want these indulgent, ultra-processed meals much less.

That’s when a cool factor occurs: You begin consuming fewer energy with out actively making an attempt to—slightly than purposely limiting as a result of you need to.

That makes weight reduction simpler.

Starting is straightforward: For protein, add one palm of comparatively lean protein—rooster, fish, tempeh—to 1 meal. This is past what you’d have had in any other case. Or have a Super Shake as a meal or snack.

For fiber, add one serving of high-fiber meals—specifically greens, fruit, lentils and beans—to your common consumption. This would possibly imply having an apple for a snack, together with a fistful of roasted carrots at dinner, or tossing in a handful of spinach in your Super Shake.

Try this for 2 weeks, after which add one other palm of lean protein, and yet one more serving of high-fiber meals.

Besides all of the upside we’ve mentioned up to now, there’s additionally this:

Coming to the desk with a mindset of abundance—slightly than shortage—may help you keep away from these anxious, pissed off emotions that usually include being disadvantaged of the meals you like.

So as an alternative of claiming, “Ugh, I really don’t think I can give up my nightly wine and chocolate habit,” you would possibly say, “Hey, look at all this delicious, healthy food I can feed my body!”

(And by the best way, you don’t even have to surrender your wine and chocolate behavior, no less than to not provoke progress.)

Shift your perspective.

Imagine you’re on trip. You slept in and missed breakfast.

Of course, you don’t actually thoughts since you’re relaxed and having a good time. And there’s no cause to panic: Lunch will occur.

But because you’ve eliminated a meal, you find yourself consuming a couple of hundred energy lower than regular for the day, successfully making a deficit.

Given you’re in an surroundings the place you’re feeling calm and pleased, you hardly even discover.

Now suppose you get up on a daily day, and also you’re actively making an attempt to drop some weight. (To prepare for trip!)

You would possibly suppose: “I only get to have my 400-calorie breakfast, and it’s not enough food. This is the worst. I’m going to be so hungry all day!”

So you head to work feeling burdened, counting down the minutes to your subsequent snack or meal. Maybe you even begin to really feel disadvantaged and depressing.

Here’s the factor: You had been in a calorie deficit each days, however your subjective expertise of every was fully completely different.

What should you may alter your pondering to be extra like the primary situation slightly than the second?

Of course, I’m not suggesting you skip breakfast on a regular basis (except that’s simply your choice).

But should you can handle to see consuming much less as one thing you occur to be doing— slightly than one thing you need to do—it could find yourself feeling lots much less horrible.

Add exercise slightly than subtracting energy.

Are you an individual who doesn’t wish to eat much less, however would fortunately transfer extra? If so, you would possibly have the ability to make the most of one thing I’ve referred to as G-Flux.

G-Flux, also called “energy flux,” is the entire quantity of power that flows out and in of a system.

As an instance, say you wish to create a 500-calorie deficit. That may like this:

Energy in: 2,000 energy

Energy out: 2,500 energy

Deficit: 500 energy

But it may additionally appear like this:

Energy in: Three,000 energy

Energy out: Three,500 energy

Deficit: 500 energy

In each situations, you’ve achieved a 500-calorie deficit, however the second lets you eat lots extra meals.

That’s one advantage of a higher G-Flux.

But there’s additionally one other: Research suggests should you’re consuming meals from high-quality sources and doing quite a lot of exercises—power coaching, conditioning, and restoration work—consuming extra energy may help you carry extra lean mass and fewer fats.

That’s as a result of the elevated train doesn’t simply serve to spice up your “energy out.” It additionally adjustments nutrient partitioning, sending extra energy towards muscle progress and fewer to your fats cells.

Plus, because you’re consuming extra meals, you might have extra alternative to get the portions of nutritional vitamins, minerals, and phytonutrients you want so as to really feel your finest.

Win. Win. Win.

To be clear, it is a considerably superior technique. And as a result of metabolism and power steadiness are dynamic in nature, the effectiveness of this technique might fluctuate from individual to individual.

Plus, not everybody has the power or the need to spend extra time exercising. And that’s okay.

But by being versatile along with your pondering—and prepared to experiment with alternative ways of influencing CICO—you will discover your personal private technique for tipping power steadiness in your (or your purchasers’) favor.

If you’re a coach, otherwise you wish to be…

Learning find out how to coach purchasers, sufferers, buddies, or members of the family by way of wholesome consuming and life-style adjustments—in a method that optimizes power steadiness for every distinctive physique, character, and life-style—is each an artwork and a science.

If you’d wish to be taught extra about each, take into account the Precision Nutrition Level 1 Certification. The subsequent group kicks off shortly.

What’s all of it about?

The Precision Nutrition Level 1 Certification is the world’s most revered vitamin training program. It provides you the data, techniques, and instruments it’s good to actually perceive how meals influences an individual’s well being and health. Plus the power to show that data right into a thriving teaching observe.

Developed over 15 years, and confirmed with over 100,000 purchasers and sufferers, the Level 1 curriculum stands alone because the authority on the science of vitamin and the artwork of teaching.

Whether you’re already mid-career, or simply beginning out, the Level 1 Certification is your springboard to a deeper understanding of vitamin, the authority to educate it, and the skill to show what you already know into outcomes.

[Of course, if you’re already a student or graduate of the Level 1 Certification, check out our Level 2 Certification Master Class. It’s an exclusive, year-long mentorship designed for elite professionals looking to master the art of coaching and be part of the top 1% of health and fitness coaches in the world.]

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The post The Truth about Energy Balance and Fat Loss appeared first on Weight Loss Fitness.

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[itsnumerologist]

Karmic Lessons, Anyone?

Karmic Lessons (not to be mistaken for Karmic Debts) indicate shortcomings that should be managed in this lifetime. They are found by investigating your full name during childbirth and discovering which numbers are absent.

With a specific end goal to discover the Karmic Lessons, we don't have to include or do whatever other sort of math, we should simply discover which number or numbers are absent. In my name's numbers, the number 1 seems five circumstances, the 2 shows up twice, the 3 seems three circumstances, the number 4 shows up once, the 5 comes up five circumstances, the 6 shows up twice, the 7 shows up no circumstances by any stretch of the imagination, the number 8 is there twice and the number 9 comes up once.

Twenty-one letters in my name and the main number missing is the 7. This makes the number 7 my Karmic Lesson. You can locate your own Karmic Lessons by changing your full name during childbirth into numbers, and afterward searching for which numbers are not spoke to.

Here are the letters of the letters in order and their numerical qualities:

Numerology Alphabet Chart

The normal number of Karmic Lessons is two, yet four or even five is not that unprecedented, nor is it bizarre to have no Karmic Lessons by any stretch of the imagination - which doesn't let you free, however more about that later.

Before I discuss the impact Karmic Lessons have on your life, let me bring up a couple of things, including a few misguided judgments:

Misguided judgment #1: Life is simpler without Karmic Lessons

On the off chance that it were that straightforward, I would propose each parent simply ensure your child has each number spoke to in his or her full name and he or she will be okay.

Confusion #2: The less Karmic Lessons, the more established your spirit

I don't know why this would matter somehow. (Why would we like to be more youthful with regards to our physical bodies, and more established with regards to our souls? What's more, if souls have a predefined age, who brings forth them? Does that mean your spirit can bite the dust? Do a few souls develop and learn speedier than others? I can have a ton of fun with this jabber, so watch out for the subject of souls and timing in some future blog.)

Misguided judgment #3: Karmic Lessons are terrible!

Not genuine. Truth be told, Karmic Lessons can be an incredible resource.

Here are a few truths about Karmic Lessons that are valid:

Truth #1: Karmic Lessons provide guidance to your life (this will turn out to be clear later).

Reality #2: While Karmic Lessons indicate something "lacking," they really "include" to your life (the ideas of things lacking or adding to your life is amazingly relative).

I frequently utilize the accompanying similarity when I attempt to clarify the capacity of Karmic Lessons. Suppose that there are nine various types of apparatuses: Woodworking instruments, metalworking devices, devices to take a shot at hardware, devices for sewing and weaving, devices for cultivating, welding devices, et cetera.

Clearly, on the off chance that you would be in a circumstance where each one of these apparatus gatherings is available, you ought to have the capacity to handle any venture. Then again in the event that you would have entry to just eight sorts of apparatuses, missing for instance, all the carpentry devices, you can at present do a considerable measure, yet you would have enormous issues when solicited to manufacture something out from wood. Karmic Lessons are fairly comparative.

For my situation, the number 7 is absent. The 7 is an insightful, studious, otherworldly number and I need to concede, I had an effective abhorrence toward school. In any case, it isn't that basic, in light of the fact that there are different angles to be considered.

Suppose you have eight arrangements of devices however you do not have all carpentry instruments. Above all else, on the off chance that you don't have any ability with regards to building things out of wood, you don't generally require them, isn't that right? On the other hand, in the event that you are skilled however you are attracted to working with metal, lacking carpentry instruments isn't any huge issue.

It gets truly fascinating when you have an awesome ability and a coordinating longing to work with wood, however not a solitary carpentry apparatus in your workshop. This is the place my name is a decent illustration. I don't have a 7 in my name and in this manner I have a 7 Karmic Lesson. Be that as it may, I have a 7 Life Path (the most critical number in the outline) and a 7 Personality (likewise extremely noteworthy). Presently what happens?

Envision yourself as somebody who loves to work in wood and is exceptionally gifted in that field, yet doesn't have the vital apparatuses. What you do is you go out and get yourself a few devices. Whatever it takes, you will get the instruments you have to express your ability and take after your yearning.

The same is the situation with Karmic Lessons. This is the reason I said before that Karmic Lessons can give your life bearing. Not just does it work like a vacuum, something that should be filled, and in this way moves you to attempt to fill it, providing guidance to your life, it likewise duplicates your potential in the utilization of your gifts. Since in the event that you have an ability and a longing and the devices, you will most likely do fine and dandy. However, in the event that you have an ability and a yearning, and after that need to go out and set forth noteworthy push to get the important devices, I guarantee you, you will push your ability and your aspiration to as far as possible, and turn out to be more expert than you would have ever gotten to be if the instruments had been inside simple reach.

Yours really is an a valid example. I am not here to congratulatory gesture myself, but rather I can let you know that, as somebody conceived in a domain of critical, taught, and very wise guardians, kin, and companions - every one of whom were pretty much inadequate with regards to any association with the otherworldly side of life - I began off a similar way, however generally immediately transformed into the direct inverse.

The ability to investigate the profound world was there and the longing to do as such significantly more, since I was extremely youthful. I have now put in well more than forty years pushing the limits, including a hourly regimen of reflection (no train required in the event that you happen to appreciate it more than practically whatever else) and a propensity for taking a gander at everything in my life against a scenery of what it implies or shows me from an otherworldly point of view. This is my life. I live and relax for one reason just and that is to get nearer to the piece of me I call my "life." Which has nothing to do with my designated time traverse, other than that it takes into consideration my body to be alive amid that time. (I trust this is really befuddling with the goal that you may kick back and consider this announcement painstakingly.)

Be that as it may, how about we retreat to the subject of Karmic Lessons. On the off chance that I didn't have the otherworldly drive (my 7 Life Path) and the profound inclination (my 7 Personality) to fill the vacuum of my 7 Karmic Lesson, I can guarantee you that I would not have been remotely as glad and substance as I am. By a similar token, on the off chance that I didn't have this need to fill the vacuum of my 7 Karmic lesson, which brought about an awesome profound appetite I have felt since I was a little child, my 7 Life Path and 7 Personality would have conveyed what needs be most likely more in the region of academic reviews and other scholarly interests, rather than the kind otherworldly inquiry that has practically been the narrative of my life.

Approach me on the off chance that I am thankful for my 7 Karmic Lesson and I will let you know that I can't start to express my thankfulness for having had the "mishap" of being conceived without the 7 in my name. Nothing has brought me more noteworthy prizes, more prominent fulfillment, more prominent bliss. What's more, I am completely serious here.

Proceed, take a gander at your own particular name and let me know what you think. Do your Karmic Lessons bode well? I trust I will get notification from large portions of you that what was absent on your rundown of advantages really made you what you are today.

Interesting that in life, a missing resource can be a great deal more significant than every one of those that are available joined - a disagreement in the event that I ever observed one!

Obviously, there are special cases. Next time I will enlighten you concerning a man who had a genuinely long name, 22 letters, and just the 3, the 4 and the 5 were available. The numbers 1, 2, 6, 7, 8 and 9 were all absent.

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