#just gaaahhhhhhhhhhhh

[hyunpic]

hyunjin on bubble: sapporo hyunjin pictures!

[tysonrunningfox]

Smingrid Is Ruining My Life

Part 1 | Part 2

Why.  They just keep...doing this.  Smut incoming tonight after I get home, still haven’t decided how I’m going to post it but whatever.  I can’t sit on it anymore.  I’m so tired.  I need to write an epilogue and smingrid won’t let me.  I hate them.  

Eret offers to fix Ingrid’s hand about three days after he wakes up, the kind of cavalier offer for help he keeps throwing out there to remind himself that he’s not in bed forever.  It should be cheapened by the fact that he’s drunk and his head is on a sleeping Fuse’s lap, but Ingrid can’t help but be offended.  Smitelout made her this hand and now she has to fix it, clearly.  

But that means Ingrid going to the forge and asking her to and that’s not something she wants to do.  

It’s not her problem that Smitelout suddenly likes her.  That’s not something she has to deal with.  She doesn’t have room for it and even if she did, she’s not sure why she should care.  It’s Smitelout.  Smitelout who has thrown a million petty little tantrums about losing to her.  Smitelout who threatened to spread rumors about Eret’s real dad.  

Smitelout who treats Ingrid like she did before she left.  Smitelout who makes Ingrid a new hand without even being asked.  

Ingrid still appreciates it even if it’s bent now.  She didn’t bend on purpose or anything, it honestly surprised her when the healer was trying to set Eret’s arm and he resisted with that much force.  And her fingers fit well enough that she just didn’t think about it, she braced him as well as she could and noticed after that they were bent out of shape.  

She lives with it for a while.  It’s hard to hold her axe but no one points it out until Aurelia is watching her attempt to hit the target in the chief’s front yard.  The first two throws clip the side but the third misses entirely and Aurelia narrows those chiefly but less irritating eyes and pauses, bag of tightly rolled scrolls on her hip.  

“What?”  Ingrid collects her axe, holstering it and adjusting her fingers back to neutral.  They still ratchet but not as well, the bend in the first digit making everything in them harder to move.  

“Nothing,” Aurelia shifts the weight of the scrolls onto her slim hip and when she cocks her eyebrow, she looks so much like Eret a year ago that Ingrid can’t help but feel like she should listen.  “Just that’s not really Hofferson aim.”  

“I just lost half my hand, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” Aurelia shrugs, “it seems like the new one was working out for you pretty well before it got bent.”  

“It’s a grip thing,” Ingrid clears her throat and she knows that a glare won’t help her.  Aurelia wouldn’t be so comfortable with the rest of the family if glaring did anything.  

“You know, I’m sure Smitelout could fix those.”  

“What?”  Ingrid hides her fingers behind her and Aurelia shrugs.  

“She made them, I bet she could fix them.”  

Aurelia was there.  She heard all of that.  Not that it should matter, because Ingrid doesn’t care, but it makes her feel like she needs to try.  Like this stupid situation is something she needs to fix, like all the others were.  A Jorgenson telling a Hofferson something like that with no answer is reason for issue.  

Or it was, back in the world before Eret was next in line for chief.  Ingrid isn’t quite sure how all of that works but she’s sure, at some level, that it’s ultimately in her favor.  

“Like I have money for that,” Ingrid rolls her eyes and Aurelia contests Eret’s best deadpan with far less effort.  

“Right.  That’s the problem.  It’s not that you don’t want to talk to her.”  

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk to her?” Ingrid reaches for her axe to make an argument ending perfect yak’s eye before realizing it’s not guaranteed anymore and pausing.  

“I don’t know,” Aurelia shrugs, “I’m just thinking about how many weapons you have that need sharpening occasionally.   And if Eret isn’t working in the forge anymore, are you planning to leave Berk to get that done—”

“No,” Ingrid scowls.  “You were there, do you think I could just walk in and ask Smitelout to do something for me?”  

Ingrid hates the idea that she could.  That Smitelout might do it just because she likes her, and that’s fake too.  If Smitelout really does like girls and she hasn’t minced words before so why would she start now?  And that means that Ingrid is the only option Smitelout has ever known, aside from Spitleaf.  And Spitleaf never had the same problems that Ingrid did with the forceful proposals.  Her face isn’t so loud and people aren’t so presumptive.  

“I don’t know,” Aurelia shrugs and for a moment, Ingrid sees how pretty she is and how firmly she guards it.  It makes Ingrid jealous, suddenly, because her looks are still causing problems for her and she doesn’t know how to stop them.  But with Aurelia, it’s all words and no bite and somehow it works. “Have you tried?”  

“My hand is fine,” Ingrid lies and Aurelia knows it just how Eret always used to.  It’s irritating, she really didn’t need another Eret running around, especially one who seems to need less advice.  

“Yeah, I can see that.” She rolls her eyes and Ingrid tries not to seethe.  

Before her fingers bent, they were almost as good as the real thing as far as her axe was concerned.  A good solid throw was a single ratchet and it happened perfectly halfway through the swing, just in time for the axe to release at the right angle.  It felt alright if not perfect and that’s all she can ask for.  Except she didn’t ask for it, Smitelout just decided to give it to her.  

It was nice before Ingrid learned why.  It kind of felt like maybe they could be friends or at least consistent rivals, the way they used to be.  But now she knows that Smitelout wants something from her.

“It’s just bent.”  Ingrid ratchets her fingers, acting like it’s not difficult and Aurelia blinks.  

“Just a suggestion,” she rolls her eyes before starting down the hill without finishing the argument, like she knows she won without dealing the final blow, and Ingrid can’t say she’s currently overjoyed with having a new sister.  

She knew it was an inevitability, what with having so many brothers, and Rolf’s wife is great but also more attached to Spitleaf than Ingrid wants to be.  And it’s complicated, like everything is.  But mostly, Aurelia is annoying and pushing her when she doesn’t want to be pushed.   And that’s new too, she’s never had pressure feel so oppressive.  It always felt like something to push back against, people who doubted her were just waiting to be proven wrong.  

Now everything is a little more daunting and she’s lost her taste for being daunted.  

What if Smitelout says no?  Does she suddenly have to leave the island to get anything sharpened?  

That scares her.  She’s not doing that.  Fuck that.  

“Ugh, fine,” she stalks down the hill after Aurelia, turning before she sees the long red braid and almost jogging towards the forge, because might as well get this over with.  It’s not like she’s going to fly off island to get her axe sharpened, that’s a fair point, she has to work this out at some level or she’ll be defenseless.  

The forge is quiet and Smitelout is pounding away at some red hot hunk of metal on the other side of the window.  Ingrid doesn’t let herself pause, she doesn’t let herself feel fourteen and confused and lonely and see Smitelout as safe, because at least she’s predictable.  She doesn’t let herself see Smitelout’s arms, sweat slicked and intentional, or her hands, comfortable around her hammer.  

She doesn’t take the hammer as a potential weapon and she doesn’t think of a thousand ways to stop an attack.  She definitely doesn’t notice the way that Smitelout’s concentration looks more like avoidance, like she knew Ingrid was coming and didn’t want her to.    

“Hey,” Ingrid starts, trying to be neutral and Smitelout fumbles and drops her hammer on the floor.  It’d be funny if Smitelout didn’t like her.  

“What?”  

“Nothing,” Ingrid tosses her braid over her shoulder, “just wanted to ask if you could fix my fingers but if you’re busy…”

“What needs fixed?”  Smitelout doesn’t make eye contact but she moves purposefully, wiping off the counter with a wet, smudged rag.  

“They got bent.” Ingrid avoids the eye contact that Smitelout attempts to make.  

“So explanatory,” Smitelout rolls her eyes, “I need to see the actual damage to fix it.”  

“Here.”  Ingrid unstraps her fingers and throws them on the counter, wincing at the thunk of gronckle iron on wood.  She didn’t mean to hurt them more.  Hel, she didn’t mean to hurt them in the first place.  

Smitelout picks it up, ratchets the joints that she made and sighs.  

“What’d you do to it?”  She glares, heavy eyebrows low over those hostile blue eyes.  That look has always pissed Ingrid off and that’s no different now, except for the fact that she’s still preoccupied with the fact that Smitelout likes her.  

Why?

She knows why, rationally.  It’s always because she looks how she does.  It’s because she’s this perfect Viking wife.  Except Smitelout can’t be concerned about her line or the heirs Ingrid would make and there’s no carrot of redeeming the Hoffersons through marriage to dangle in front of her.  Smitelout can’t have thought that admitting it like that would go well.  But she still did it and it doesn’t make sense and Ingrid has no room right now for things that don’t make sense.  

“I held Eret down while the healers were setting his arm,” Ingrid shrugs, “he’s stronger than he looks.  Don’t tell him, because I can’t take his ego getting bigger than it is but…”  She trails off.  Smitelout looks between her and her fingers, frowning.  

“Why would I tell him?”  Smitelout picks up the fingers, quickly diassembling the rivets that hold leather to metal and moving it to her anvil, like she’s actually going to fix it.  

“I don’t know,” Ingrid crosses her arms, her bad hand folded under her good arm so that no one looks at it.  Smitelout doesn’t even try and that’s worse.  “You might think it’s funny that he can gloat, or something.”

“He’s pretty hurt, isn’t he?”  Smitelout starts taking apart the fingers, treating each part with delicate care that makes Ingrid feel not only guilty but ungrateful.  “Yeah.”  

“Is he…” Smitelout looks up at her and then back down, sorting the parts of her fingers into two piles, presumably damaged and undamaged.  Not that Ingrid cares.  She just wants them fixed.  “Is he going to be ok?  Or…”  

“He’s going to be fine.”  Ingrid sighs and she doesn’t remember the fight leaking out of her this quickly.  The longer she tries to work this out, the less tainted the gift seems.  Smitelout started in on insulting her the second her feet touched Berkian soil.  Hel, she charged Ingrid for the hand in the first place.  “Scarred up, but fine.”  

“He looked pretty fucked up.”  

“Yeah.”  Ingrid leans her elbow on the window and looks across the square.  

Smitelout rustles with the parts on the counter for a second before pausing, her voice rising in pitch and volume when she does speak again.  

“Is it because of what I said?”  She squawks, kind of like a baby terror and Ingrid looks at her slowly, cocking her head.  

“What?”  

“Are you acting weird because of what I said?”  She clears her throat, slumping her shoulders forward and looking anywhere but at Ingrid.  “About the liking you, or whatever.  Is that why you’re being weird?”  

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re kind of being weird,” Smitelout snorts.

“I’m not.”  

“You—”

“It wasn’t the time to do that,” Ingrid snaps, slamming her good hand on the counter like punctuation.  Smitelout doesn’t flinch.  “I don’t care that you like me.  I’m just here to get my hand fixed—”

“After you broke it.”  

“After I bent it.”  

“It’s pretty fucked up,” Smitelout holds up one of the finger joint pieces, running her finger along the pale seam where the metal bent.  “Like, this used to be flat.”  

“I told you, Eret’s stronger than he looks.”  

“So are you,” she scoffs, “this took a lot of force from both ends.  I can fix it, but it’s going to take a couple of days, I might have to re-forge a couple of parts.”  

Ingrid doesn’t feel strong, not anymore, and the sideways remark resonates as a compliment in a way she doesn’t like.  It feels like it might matter more because Smitelout likes her, and that’s absurd, because she really doesn’t care.  

“How much?”  Ingrid tries to bluff and Smitelout hems and haws, inspecting a couple more pieces with squinted eyes.  Her face is sharper than it was when Ingrid left.  Not lighter, but more purposeful.  It’s not a face that can hide things and more importantly, Smitelout has never been tactful.  Hel, any bartering she’s planning to try is already undermined by the way that she’s blushing.  Ingrid wouldn’t have taken her for someone who blushes, honestly, she never seemed to get embarrassed about anything else.  And in Ingrid’s mind, at least, throwing a tantrum about losing Thawfest is a lot more embarrassing than liking someone.  

Ingrid catches herself staring and looks away.  Smitelout doesn’t comment, for some reason, even though she’s never let Ingrid get away with anything, ever.  She’s the one acting weird.  

“I’ve got some scrap from making…the bombs,” Smitelout stutters through it, “it’s not good metal but this is just a draft, obviously, if you and Eret can fuck it up this bad.  I’ll do it for free with shit materials but you’ll have to pay for the next try.”  

“Fine.”  

“Really?”  Smitelout’s voice cracks again and Ingrid tries not to care that she’s nervous.  Even so, it’s a weird thrill to make someone nervous even with her hand off and taken expertly apart in front of her. It makes Ingrid feel significant in a way she’s been missing ever since Haddocks started talking over her all the time. “I mean, it’s a deal, you should take it.”  

“I already did,” Ingrid stands up, debating for a moment before leaving her bad hand out of her pocket, “that’s fair.  When can I pick it up?”  

“I’ll let you know,” Smitelout shrugs, “depends on how busy I get, it’s been pretty busy with kid saddles since the dragons came back.  But I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”  

“Don’t rush it for me,” Ingrid clears her throat.  “I just mean—”

“I’m not going to make it weird,” she tosses the pile of good parts into a leather bag and sets it on the shelf beneath the counter.  “I get it, I—”

“Ok.”  Ingrid shrugs.  

“Ok what?”  

“You don’t get it,” she bites her lip and sighs, “but you won’t make it weird.  That’s good, considering this is the only forge on Berk.”  That’s too harsh and Ingrid sighs, “I don’t know what weird is.  Everything is weird.  I came back to a different Thor-damned island.  You overcharging me for repairs is about the only thing that feels normal.”  

Smitelout is quiet for a moment and it’s almost comfortable.  

“This one’s free, Hofferson, in what world am I overcharging you?  You’re just looking for something to complain about.”  

Ingrid can’t quantify her relief and she doesn’t try, standing away from the counter and shaking her head at a very red Smitelout.  

“Let me know when I can pick up the hand.”  

“Fine,” Smitelout huffs, “don’t expect me to rush on it or anything though.  It’s a free job—”

“I get it,” Ingrid takes a couple of backwards steps, heels dragging across hard packed dirt, “you know where to find me.”  

“Fine, give me more work, now I have to come get you when it’s done,” Smitelout rolls her eyes even though she basically volunteered for it and if she’s putting on a show to make Ingrid feel better, it’s not exactly failing.  

“I’ll come pick it up, you just have to let me know when.”  

“Whatever,” Smitelout shrugs, picking her hammer up off of the floor and twirling it absentmindedly.  “Are we done here?”  

“Sure.”  Ingrid rolls her eyes, “I’ll get out of your hair.”  

Smitelout waves her off and Ingrid pauses another second before turning back towards the chief’s house.  She’s not entirely sure what just happened.  Smitelout likes her, it’s obvious and she didn’t take it back, but she didn’t shove it forward either.  She didn’t expect Ingrid to do anything about it, at least.  Maybe that’s ok, maybe it can just exist and Ingrid doesn’t have to do anything about it right now.  Maybe it can just hold steady for a while and Ingrid will deal with it when she’s ready to.  

For the first time, everyone’s constant advice that she doesn’t have to take everything on at once makes sense.  This can wait.  

[lionpotato]

gentleman jack kills me every. single. week.

and then i spend the entire week waiting for the next episode..

[kidsviral-blog]

Chuck Grassley eats at a vegetarian steakhouse … or something

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/chuck-grassley-eats-at-a-vegetarian-steakhouse-or-something/

Chuck Grassley eats at a vegetarian steakhouse … or something

http://twitter.com/#!/ChuckGrassley/status/228635435503603712

You sure about that, Senator? They must have a different definition of “steak” in Iowa.

To be sure, Grassley is no fan of vegetarianism:

Shame USDA. One has to wonder whether the Dept of Ag supports Iowa farmers since it is promoting "meatless Monday " for USDA employees

— ChuckGrassley (@ChuckGrassley) July 25, 2012

I will eat more meat on Monday to compensate for stupid USDA recommendation abt a meatless Monday

— ChuckGrassley (@ChuckGrassley) July 25, 2012

(More on that here.)

So, perhaps this latest tweet was some sort of jab at the USDA. But, even if that were in fact the case, his wording leaves something to be desired. Something like clarity. Twitterers were understandably a bit befuddled:

????? RT @ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— Victoria McGrane (@vgmac) July 26, 2012

This man is actually a US Senator. RT @ChuckGrassley My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— Parker Higgins (@xor) July 26, 2012

That's what we call "air-tight logic." RT @ChuckGrassley My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— Rob Flaherty (@Rob_Flaherty) July 26, 2012

Transitive property RT @ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— Stefan Becket (@stefanjbecket) July 26, 2012

@ChuckGrassley huh?

— Jason Howell (@JasonTHowell) July 26, 2012

Holy Jesus, are you 7? RT @ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— rob delaney (@robdelaney) July 26, 2012

“@ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian” AN ELECTED OFFICIAL WROTE THIS GAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH

— KidBucket (@KidBucket) July 26, 2012

Same with the vegan nursery I get my babies RT @ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— Austin (@Austin_H2O) July 26, 2012

This gentleman just doesn't quite get it. RT @ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— David Zeller (@texaszeller) July 26, 2012

When other countries decide if they will hate us or not, I think @ChuckGrassley’s twitter feed makes the decision for them.

— KidBucket (@KidBucket) July 26, 2012

Seriously, someone take away @ChuckGrassley's access to his Twitter account.

— Bob (@Libertarian_76) July 26, 2012

A rebellious attack on etymological strictures RT @ChuckGrassley My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— Matt Stoller (@matthewstoller) July 26, 2012

Oh dear.

Some speculated that his account might have been hacked:

GOTTA be hacked…right, Senator? RT @ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— josé martinez (@jose_martinez) July 26, 2012

RT @ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian || Ha ha! Who is this really?

— The FE&SP Party (@FESPP) July 26, 2012

This has to be a spoof, right? RIGHT? RT .@ChuckGrassley: My local steak house serves nothing but vegetarian bc cows are vegetarian

— stgoode (@stgoode) July 26, 2012

But, well, this wouldn’t be the first time a tweet from Grassley has left the public confused.

https://twitter.com/AlexGibsun/status/228636706168004609

Don’t ever change.

Read more: http://twitchy.com/2012/07/26/chuck-grassley-eats-at-a-vegetarian-steakhouse-or-something/