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kjack89 · 3 years

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An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 7/?)

This Author does not normally deign to speak of love in these papers, as love is not what society marriages are traditionally built on (nor, for that matter, is good gossip built upon love). Love, it seems, is good for nothing more than making one do foolish things: it causes men and women alike to abandon all reason and do things to which they would otherwise not be remotely inclined.

And yet sometimes love is the simplest explanation in the world that one can offer to allow everything else to make sense.

Rumor has it that the Marquess of Enjolras has taken his new bride on a brief honeymoon trip before returning to the city, leaving Mr. Grantaire behind. A honeymoon seems an odd choice for a couple forced together by circumstance, which is why this Author is pondering whether there is more to this story than meets the eye.

Perhaps this was no mere scandal, after all. Could the Marquess have traveled to the Grantaire manor only to find not just a bride, but love? Could that explain the delay in returning to the city, and the reason for not involving friends or family, lest they try to talk him out of it?

Or could there be another explanation for why the Marquess seems so reluctant to show his face?

If this is a love match, this Author will owe the Marquess and his bride a mea culpa, but never fear – the course of true love never did run smooth, and this Author suspects that one way or another, there is certainly more to this tale than meets the eye. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 8 MAY 1831

Grantaire glared defiantly at him, which Enjolras thought was quite extraordinary, since the man’s clothes and hair were completely plastered to him by wind, rain, and mud. “I said I’m in love with you.”

“You are?” Enjolras asked dumbly.

Grantaire jerked a nod. “And evidently I’ve been much more subtle about it than I thought.”

“Let’s perhaps not rule out me being extraordinarily stupid quite yet,” Enjolras said, unable to take his eyes off of Grantaire, as if seeing him for the first time. Despite the fact that he was soaked through to the bone, he felt a warmth flooding through him as he looked at Grantaire, really looked at him, the man he had known for years and the man he was beginning to suspect he didn’t really know at all.

But God, he wanted to.

Something shifted in Grantaire’s expression as if he realized Enjolras was not going to throw him out on his ear for what he had just confessed. “I’m certain I owe you an explanation,” he started, but Enjolras shook his head.

“I believe we can save that for when we’re back indoors.”

For one moment, it looked like Grantaire might argue, but then he jerked his head in another nod and both men started trudging back towards the house. Enjolras kept glancing sideways at Grantaire, so many things that he wanted to say dying on the tip of his tongue.

It was probably for the best that he couldn’t seem to speak: the rain and mud made the trek far more hazardous than it should have been, and besides, as the rain soaked through all of Enjolras’s clothing, his teeth began to chatter, and he could only imagine how much worse it was for Grantaire, who had been out in the rain for much longer—

He stopped in his tracks so abruptly that Grantaire almost did not notice, pausing only when he seemed to realize Enjolras was no longer next to him. “Have you lost your mind entirely?” Grantaire demanded, half-turning to glare at him.

“Not my mind,” Enjolras assured him, unbuttoning his coat as quickly as his shaking fingers would allow. “Just my manners.”

“Your—” Grantaire started, his confusion turning to bafflement as Enjolras shrugged out of his coat and held it out to him. “What in the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“Wear it,” Enjolras said, as if it was obvious. “A gentleman should always offer his coat when his companion is cold, and I’d imagine you’re considerably colder than I am, given how long you’ve been out here.”

Grantaire just stared at him. “And what, pray tell, is your coat supposed to do?”

“Keep you warm.”

Grantaire took the outstretched coat and held it up. “This is supposed to keep me warm?” he asked, incredulous. “It’s soaking wet.”

Enjolras blinked, realizing all too late that Grantaire was right. “You may have a point there,” he admitted.

Then, suddenly, both men were laughing, deep belly laughs that had them both almost doubled over, oblivious to the still-pouring rain. “God,” Grantaire said finally when he straightened, wiping rain, or tears, or both from his cheeks. “What a pair we make.”

Enjolras laughed again, a gentler laugh. “I did warn you not to rule out me being extraordinarily stupid.” He held his hand out. “You may return my coat to me,” he told Grantaire. “I won’t make you carry it the rest of the way just because I’m a fool.”

Grantaire cocked his head. “Last I heard, a gentleman has an obligation to offer his coat to his companion,” he said mildly. “I heard nothing about an obligation to return it.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Perhaps not an obligation, but I really must insist.”

“Oh, you insist, my lord?” Grantaire returned, with a playful lilt to his voice, something about it warming Enjolras more than his sopping wet coat possibly could. “And what if I were to insist upon wearing it? After all, you offered it to me. Would you renege on your offer?”

Again Enjolras rolled his eyes, doing his best to drum up some requisite irritation, despite feeling like he wanted to grin. “Grantaire, don’t be daft—”

“Do you wish to stand here and argue with me, or do you wish to return indoors?” Grantaire interrupted. Truthfully, there was a not-small part of Enjolras that would quite rather wish to stand and argue, but he knew a losing argument – on both fronts – when he saw it, and just sighed and shook his head in acquiescence. “That’s what I thought,” Grantaire said, just a little smugly, as they started toward the house again.

Were it not for the smug tone in his voice, Enjolras might have let it slide, but he had never let Grantaire have the last word when he could help it, and he was not about to start now. “You’re an idiot,” he said, more of a sigh than anything else.

Grantaire just shrugged blithely. “Perhaps,” he said, before glancing sideways at Enjolras. “Or perhaps a gentleman also does not allow his companion to feel like the only foolish one.”

The warmth that flooded Enjolras from that was almost enough to sustain him the rest of the way to the cottage.

By the time they arrived, the rain was finally beginning to let up, not that it did anything to help the two men as they hurried inside and made a beeline for the fireplace in the library, teeth chattering. “I’ll bet you wish you had some alcohol in the house now,” Grantaire muttered, rubbing his hands together.

The exact thought had crossed Enjolras’s mind, but he refused to dignify Grantaire’s comment by admitting as much. “We should bathe,” he said instead, remembering the boiling bath his governess had forced him to take after his horse had foundered and he’d been forced to walk home for several hours in the pouring rain. “Warm water will do us good, and that way we can also get the mud off.”

Both men had indeed attracted an absurd amount of mud from sloshing their way back to the cottage, enough so to make it difficult to tell where their clothes ended and their skin began.

“Personally I think the mud only adds to my good looks,” Grantaire said blithely, before adding, “Besides, Jehan was telling me that in ancient times, they used mud as a restorative for the skin, so perhaps we should leave it on to be safe.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You were that child that always refused to take his bath, weren’t you,” he said with a resigned sigh.

Grantaire laughed. “I have no idea what makes you say that,” he demurred. “That said, I’ll let you take your bath first.”

“Don’t be an idiot, you’re the one who was out in the rain for two hours,” Enjolras told him.

“Yes, but—”

“Besides, the tub is big enough for the both of us.” Grantaire’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, and Enjolras added, “After all, you owe me an explanation, and this seems as good a time as any.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed, but he attempted no argument against the idea, merely telling Enjolras, “Then we’d best start heating some water.”

They worked in seamless unison in the kitchen heating massive pots full of water to transfer into smaller buckets to carry up to the massive porcelain bathtub in the room off of Enjolras’s bedchamber, as it was the only tub in the house. As Grantaire hefted his fifth and sixth bucket for his third trip, he gave Enjolras a look. “I bet you’re also wishing you had servants in this house.”

“Who needs servants when I have you?” Enjolras shot back, saccharine sweet, and was surprisingly gratified when Grantaire just flushed and mumbled something incoherent in response.

If anything, the task of filling the tub was enough to warm them up even without the bath, but since Enjolras had been the one to suggest it, he felt they might as well follow through. And he really did want to get the mud – which had now dried enough to be caked onto his skin – off.

Once the tub was full, both men stood awkwardly in the bathroom, and Enjolras wondered if he should again offer to let Grantaire bathe first, and alone.

But before he could make his offer, Grantaire started unbuttoning his shirt. Despite his initial reluctance to the idea, he exhibited no shame in peeling off his damp clothes in front of Enjolras, who, despite it being his idea in the first place, still hesitated.

“I have seen you naked, you know,” Grantaire told him as he struggled to get his wet trousers off, adding, “if that was your concern.”

They both had, having gone swimming many times during one summer at one of the de Courfeyrac’s country manors, one that boasted a secluded lake perfect for young men to cool off in. None of Les Amis had brought their swimming costumes but they were all young and foolish and didn’t care, stripping down to nothing and splashing about more like children than the young gentlemen they had been.

But Enjolras rather suspected that they both realized this was nothing like that.

Still, Grantaire’s words were enough to finally dispel Enjolras’s hesitation, and he began stripping his own clothes off, albeit at a much slower pace from Grantaire.

Grantaire got into the tub first, settling in on the far side of the tub and tilting his head back, eyes closed as he soaked in the steam. Enjolras hesitated once more and Grantaire cracked one eye open. “I’m not going to do anything to you, you know.”

Enjolras flushed. “I know,” he said, finally stepping out of his trousers and slipping into the tub, settling opposite of Grantaire.

“Do you,” Grantaire murmured, his head still tilted back. “Sometimes I wonder if you would even know what it looked like if someone were to try to do anything to or with you.”

The warmth of the water was slowly seeping through the chill that clung to Enjolras, and it felt good enough that he was tempted to let Grantaire’s comment go uncontested.

But even when stark naked and still freezing cold, Enjolras had never been one to let things go uncontested.

“I would too,” he said, knowing full well that he sounded like a petulant child and hating it. “I am not completely ignorant, you know, to the world.”

“To the world,” Grantaire repeated.

Enjolras busied himself with trying to scrape the mud off of his fingernails. “To…to the physical act of lovemaking.” He flushed scarlet and studiously avoided looking at Grantaire. “I am not a virgin.”

“I see.”

Those two words may have been the most infuriating thing that Grantaire had ever said, if only because Enjolras had no idea what to read into them, if anything. Grantaire’s eyes were still closed, his expression as unreadable as his tone, and Enjolras felt as if he had no choice but to explain further. “Courfeyrac took me to a brothel when my father died,” he said, still flushed. “He said that he could not in good conscience allow me to become a Marquess without ever having lain with someone.”

Grantaire opened both eyes. “I truly cannot imagine you at a brothel,” he remarked.

Enjolras shrugged, trailing a hand through the water. “It was not as terrible as I expected,” he admitted. “Courfeyrac picked out a young woman for me, and I spent over an hour or so just talking with her.” Grantaire looked very much like he wanted to interrupt, but Enjolras did not let him. “I wanted to know about her conditions, about what working there was like, and how she had found herself there. She told me that she used to be a factory worker but made twice as much in less than half the time worked, and with four mouths at home to feed…” He trailed off an shrugged. “To her, it seemed a fair bargain, and no matter my personal hesitation with the profession, she seemed in a better position to judge it than I.”

Grantaire shook his head slowly. “Only you could go to a brothel and emerge with a tale of the plight of the working class,” he said with a dry chuckle. It was his turn to hesitate, just for a moment, before asking, in what he clearly deemed a casual sort of way, “And then after that, you slept with her?”

“No.” Grantaire’s eyes flew to his and Enjolras felt himself color again. “After that, she kissed me, and it was…fine. Serviceable. But then she asked—” Enjolras’s blushed deepened. “She asked if I would prefer the company of a man.”

Something almost like relief flickered across Grantaire’s face before his expression smoothed back into something unreadable. “Ah.”

Enjolras swallowed and looked away. “And I said yes. So she went and got a man who worked at the establishment, and...well…I did. Very much so. Prefer it.”

“I see,” Grantaire murmured. “And did you similarly inquire of this man what conditions had led him to working there?”

“We found ourselves rather too occupied to do much talking,” Enjolras muttered, assuming Grantaire would understand his meaning. He took a deep breath before asking, “Is that…is that what you were hoping would happen when you agreed to help me?”

Grantaire raised both eyebrows. “This was not an elaborate seduction, if that’s what you mean.”

It had been, but Enjolras felt suddenly foolish for asking. “No. Yes. I’m not sure what I mean. Speaking of my father’s death,” he said, ignoring the look Grantaire gave him at the abrupt segue, “I don’t recall seeing you much in those days.”

Clearly judging himself clean or at least warm enough, or perhaps just tired of sitting in the water, Grantaire stood, and Enjolras averted his eyes as he reached for a towel. “Yes, well. Some of us took it harder than others.”

“The death of my father?” Enjolras asked, confused, and he was so taken aback that he looked at Grantaire, modesty be damned.

Grantaire had a strange, closed look on his face. “The death of what could have been, more accurately,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Enjolras. “It is one thing to want something you know you’ll never have, and quite another for the world to remind you at every turn that it is an impossibility.”

“I’m not certain I understand,” Enjolras said slowly.

Grantaire shook his head, once, before looking at Enjolras. “Ask me again,” he said abruptly, and Enjolras frowned.

“Ask you what?”

“You know what.”

Grantaire sounded almost impatient, and Enjolras realized he did know what, the question that had been answered in the most unexpected way in the pouring rain, the question whose answer still demanded an explanation that Grantaire had promised to provide. “Why did you do this?”

“Because you asked me to,” Grantaire said simply. “Because only once before had you ever asked me to do something, and I failed you then.”

Enjolras squirmed uncomfortably, well aware of that to which he referred. “The Barrière du Maine was not—”

“I failed you,” Grantaire interrupted sharply. “And when presented with another opportunity, I knew this was my only chance to prove I would not fail you again.” He shook his head, bracing himself against the wash stand. “It was meant to be simple, really. One and done, fake married to my sister and then we part as friends with you having consented to try me once more and this time with me proving you correct in your estimation. But you…”

He trailed off, but Enjolras did not try to interrupt again. “I love you,” Grantaire said finally, and even though he had uttered those words once before, they still hit Enjolras just as if he was hearing them for the first time. “That is why I did this. Not to seduce you, or to take advantage of you if that was also something you feared. I did it because I love you, and because you asked me, and if I could not have you – and I cannot, I know that as clearly now as I did the day your father died and elevated you to a position you’ve never wanted, a position that made how I felt for you more of an impossibility than it always had been – then at the very least I could have this.

“It is why I left earlier,” he continued. “Because this, whatever this is, was nothing like I pictured it, spending this time with you, and I could not stand to hear you call everything I have ever dreamed of a fiction, even though it is, even though it must be. For me, every word I have uttered has been the truth, including the words I spoke before the wedding and the vows I made therein.”

Enjolras felt his heart sink in his chest as he remembered how he had laughed at Grantaire’s words before the wedding, how he had brushed off every hint at what the man had felt. He felt foolish for not realizing it all sooner, and, true to form, he took it out on someone other than himself. “Well, why in the world did you not say something sooner?” he demanded.

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “When would you have preferred I tell you?”

“I don’t know, at any point in the past decade?” Enjolras shot back.

“What good would have come from it?” Grantaire asked simply, but the words felt like a blow to Enjolras’s gut. “I was...not happy, I suppose, but content, at least, with the pieces of you that I was privy to, with our bickering and arguing, even, if that’s what it took to get your face to flush that delightful color I love so much.” Grantaire’s expression hardened, something bitter creeping into his voice. “And now I don’t even have that. Just this fake, preternaturally nice version of you and all because I suppose you think you owe me something, as if I was doing this all from the goodness of my heart and not because I am hopelessly in love with you.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, Grantaire turned to leave. “You should get some rest,” he said over his shoulder. “I will see you in the morning.”

With that, he left, and Enjolras wasn’t sure if it was just the nature of the bathtub water cooling to lukewarm or something else, but it felt like all the warmth went with him.

----------

Enjolras had a reputation for rash action that he felt was remarkably unearned. Weeks if not months of planning went into every public action he took to assure maximum impact, and the same could be said for his personal considerations. If anything, he was even more deliberative in his personal life – once, he took so long figuring out the best way to tell Combeferre that he hated his most recent haircut that by the time he got the words together, the man’s hair had already grown out.

Still, it was a reputation that lent him credence in some circles, so he did not often push back against it.

But as he lay in bed that evening, staring at the ceiling, his usual deliberations did not seem to be helping him make sense of the day’s revelations.

Once the shock had worn off from Grantaire’s confession, Enjolras found that one thing he didn’t seem to feel much of was surprise. It wasn’t that he had known all along, or anything remotely of the sort. It was just that, looking back on it, all of the signs were there. Signs that Enjolras had ignored, certainly, or pretended weren’t there, but signs nonetheless. Breadcrumbs leaving a trail to this very moment.

And as he pondered it, he realized that the signs were not just from Grantaire. He had left a trail of his own in every conversation, in every action, in – just as frequently – every inaction. He and Grantaire had never had the same type of friendship that he had with each other of Les Amis, or even with Marius. Theirs had always been more complex, more complicated, more— Well, just more.

Nothing from what Grantaire had said had changed that. It had just provided him with a long overdue reason for it.

A reason that to Enjolras did not change anything, least of all his own feelings. It simply illuminated them.

He stood, his mind made up, and grabbed his dressing gown before slipping out of his bedchamber and crossing to Grantaire’s. He hesitated, his fist raised to knock on the door. There would be no going back after this, and a decision of this magnitude required deliberation at the very least.

But it wasn’t rash, he reasoned. It was the furthest thing from rash, this decision having been deliberated for years now if he was being honest with himself.

No, it was anything but rash.

It was just that his mind was finally made up.

He rapped on the door and waited, hoping that Grantaire had not yet fallen asleep, and he breathed a sigh of relief when Grantaire called, “Come in.”

Enjolras opened the door and stepped just inside, leaning against the doorway as he looked at Grantaire, who, though in bed, looked no closer to sleep than he had been. “Is it morning already?” Grantaire joked, clearly aiming for a moment of levity to hide the wariness Enjolras could read in his expression.

Enjolras ignored him. “Would it make it better or worse if I told you that I never once thought you were doing this from the goodness of your heart?” he asked, picking up the conversation where they had left it as if no time had passed.

Grantaire blinked, his brow furrowing. “Why did you think I was doing it, then?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I genuinely had no idea. It was driving me a bit mad, honestly.”

“And now?”

Some of the wariness from Grantaire’s expression crept into his voice. Enjolras just shrugged again, crossing his arms in front of his chest mostly to give himself something to do. “Now at least I have an explanation.”

Grantaire snorted. “And what an explanation it is,” he said, a little bitterly, tracing a finger down the stitching of the quilt as he avoided look at Enjolras.

“It’s almost a gift, actually,” Enjolras said mildly, and Grantaire looked up, startled.

“How could what I have said possibly be a gift?”

“Because it gives me the words to use to understand what I’ve been beginning to feel. Or rather, what I’ve been beginning to allow myself to feel.” Grantaire stared at him, and Enjolras took a deep breath before continuing, “I choose my words carefully, you know that more than anyone else—”

Grantaire did, more than any of their friends, as it was he who was always at the Musain late at night when Enjolras grew frustrated with his writing and sought to punch it up. “I do feel at times as if I’ve been little more than a walking synonym dictionary,” Grantaire said faintly, and Enjolras smiled slightly before continuing.

“So I’m not fully prepared to make an equal confession. Not yet.” He paused and took another deep breath. “But when I stood up next to you on our wedding day, it was not fiction for me either. Not fully. And it took, as it always seems to, you shouting at me for me to realize it.”

Emotions flashed so quickly across Grantaire’s face that Enjolras could not possibly track them. He thought he saw relief, and just a hint of smugness, and something so soft that it made Enjolras’s knees feel weak. But then Grantaire’s expression evened out, and the look he gave Enjolras was almost calculated. “I made an oath to myself,” he said, his voice low, and Enjolras felt his heart stop. “I swore to myself that when I kissed you before, that I would never do so again. But I believe I may need to amend that oath.”

“In what way?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire grinned at him, too jubilant to be the smirk he was almost certainly intending. “That I will never kiss you without your full and enthusiastic participation.”

Enjolras was only too happy to oblige.

He crossed the room in three long strides and caught Grantaire just as the man was starting to get out of bed. He cradled Grantaire’s face between both his hands, their noses just brushing against each other, and for one moment that might have been infinite or the briefest of seconds, neither man moved, both just breathing the same air in the mere millimeters between their lips.

Then Enjolras kissed him.

Their first kiss in the church had been chaste, and clumsy; their second, that Enjolras had not even been able to participate in, had been like fire.

This was like a lightning bolt of perfect clarity, the undeniable knowledge that there was no where else in the world that Enjolras would rather be than right here.

And then Grantaire turned it back to fire, teasing the seam of Enjolras’s lips with his tongue until they parted, his hands grasping Enjolras’s hips hard enough to bruise through the fabric. He tugged him down onto the bed and Enjolras was only too happy to comply, eager to rid them of any space left between the two of them, eager to drink in every noise and sigh that came from Grantaire’s mouth, usually wielding words so sharp and now so soft against his own.

Enjolras did not know if they stayed that way for a minute or an hour or an entire day – every option seemed equally likely, lost in each other and this moment years in the making. And when they finally broke apartm neither man moved far from the other. “How was that for enthusiasm?” Enjolras asked, a little hoarsely.

Grantaire laughed lightly. “I’ll take it,” he said, reaching up to card his fingers through Enjolras’s still-damp curls, and Enjolras shifted to pillow his head on Grantaire’s chest. “You should really return to your room, though, lest I be tempted to see just how far I can press your enthusiasm.”

It was an idle threat, and they both knew it: Enjolras knew as he always had that Grantaire would never do anything to hurt him or trespass upon his boundaries. And the kiss had been spectacular and more meaningful than Enjolras thought he would ever find the words to describe, it had also been somewhat chaste, neither man making a move to turn it into something more salacious.

So Enjolras merely tipped his head up to capture Grantaire’s lips again. “Let me sleep here,” he murmured, his lips moving against Grantaire’s.

Even as he said the words, he knew he did not just mean for the evening. This was not just one night between them, and even if he was not yet ready to return Grantaire’s confession from earlier in word, he knew that he was ready in practice. He was asking for so much more than one night – for a lifetime more.

For one life and one love.

Let me sleep here until I die.

Grantaire sighed, and Enjolras wondered if he knew what Enjolras felt in that moment, if he understood what he was asking, if he felt the same way, too. “I am, as always, helpless to refuse,” he murmured, but the way he wrapped his arm around Enjolras’s waist and pulled him close told Enjolras that he had equally little desire to let Enjolras go.

It was Enjolras’s last coherent thought before Grantaire kissed him once again, and when sleep finally claimed them, he fell asleep with a smile.

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #fanfiction #les miserables #bridgerton au #regency au #canon era #chaptered #developing relationship #fake marriage #part 7

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patchwork-panda · 4 years

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Thirsty... (Kunikidazai smut)

Kunikida awoke to a hand slipping under his shirt. He stirred softly as that hand slowly glided up his abdomen, flitted over the contours of his ribs and stopped only when it reached his chest. He sighed as the hand began feeling up his muscles.

“Good morning, Dazai…”

The voice that responded was bright and clear, unlike Kunikida’s, which was nothing more than a low rumble, still thick from sleep.

Clearly Dazai had been awake for some time already.

“Good morning, Kunikiiiida-kun,” Dazai chirped, still feeling up his boyfriend’s chest like it was a favorite toy he liked to play with (which it kind of was).

“I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”

He didn’t sound sorry in the least, Kunikida thought to himself with a frown.

Blearily, he reached over to grab his phone and his frown deepened into a scowl when he saw the time.

“There’s a little less than an hour before the alarm goes off,” Kunikida growled. “Go back to sleep, Dazai.”

“But I’m thirsty,” Dazai whined.

“There’s a full glass of water on your nightstand. Go drink it and go back to sleep.”

“Not that kind…”

And as Dazai’s voice dropped to a low, sultry whisper, two fingers found Kunikida’s nipple and pinched it just lightly enough to get his attention.

Kunikida stiffened.

“Dazai… we have work soon.”

“Two hours isn’t soon.” “The alarm’s going off in an hour,” Kunikida sighed, “Once it goes off, we need to shower, brush our teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, make lunch--There’s simply not enough time--”

“Then why don’t we shower together,” Dazai pointed out, not pausing in his molestation of Kunikida’s chest, “ask Atsushi-kun to make a convenience store run for us, get lunch at Uzumaki later--”

“I will not have you bullying our junior like that,” Kunikida snapped, swatting Dazai’s hand away at last.

He rearranged his shirt and tried to shift himself in a way that Dazai couldn’t reach his chest. But with Dazai spooning him from behind like this and the man’s limbs being extraordinarily long and flexible, his efforts were proving futile.

He turned his face away as Dazai’s hand slipped back inside his shirt and began slowly slipping downwards towards his navel. His face warmed. He could feel his resolve crumbling as his body began responding to the man’s touch.

“In any case, the budget doesn’t allow for extra meal expense this month--”

“So we put it on next month’s tab…”

Dazai’s hand was traveling further south with each word.

“You’re going to get sleepy in the middle of the day,” Kunikida insisted, hating the way his breath hitched as Dazai’s hand finally found the waistband of his boxer-briefs.

A single long, thin finger dipped underneath the band and Kunikida nearly swore.

“Y-you’re going to fall asleep at your desk--or try to hog the couch in the client booth so you can take a nap--”

Kunikida swallowed, his protests sounding weaker and weaker even to his own ears.

“We simply don’t have the time --”

His sentence ended on a gasp. Dazai had found his boyfriend’s half-hard cock and was now squeezing it very, very tightly.

He shuddered as Dazai’s voice sounded low in his ear. The man’s own rock-hard erection was pressed into the small of his back like a steel pipe.

“I never said I was planning to take my time with you.”

He punctuated the statement with a bite and Kunikida hissed as Dazai’s teeth sank into his earlobe.

It wasn’t often that Dazai got like this. Just the other night, he was playing the part of a petulant child, draped all over Kunikida’s broad shoulders when the blonde was trying to read and whining about being neglected. He kept at it until Kunikida finally had enough and threw him onto the couch to give the man the kind of “attention” he wanted.

Dazai so rarely took what he wanted from Kunikida, generally preferring to be serviced or taken himself. But this morning…

Kunikida groaned as his boyfriend’s hand tightened further, almost painfully so, around his cock and began pumping.

While he didn’t get to see it very often, this side of Dazai was nice every once in a while. Kept him on his toes. Or more like his knees…

He shuddered as Dazai continued to mouth at his ear, nibbling and sucking at that sensitive bit of flesh like he was determined to leave it so red and raw that Kunikida might be forced to leave his hair down for once.

Yes, this was a reminder that while Dazai so often preferred to wear the mask of a clown in public and keep his cards close to his chest, just beneath the surface of that smiling, foolish facade was a mind so brilliant, it often seemed vicious in its cunning. And damn it if Kunikida didn’t find that hot as hell …

Another sharp nip at his badly smarting earlobe and Dazai moved on to Kunikida’s neck. The taller man shivered as Dazai swiftly brushed the long blonde hairs aside and yanked down the collar of his partner’s nightshirt to expose one sturdy well-muscled shoulder. He heard Dazai’s sharp intake of breath just before the brunette latched onto his neck.

Kunikida winced.

Indeed, Dazai could be downright sadistic when he wanted to be… How many times had he seen the man break an informant with words alone? How many times had he lobbed irritating comments in Kunikida’s direction just to see him squirm? And how many times had he tried to push Kunikida away before finally he accepted the blonde’s feelings as well as his own…?

He moaned--loudly--as Dazai found that one spot between the junction of his Kunikida’s neck and shoulder and immediately flushed as he heard--or rather, felt --the inevitable chuckle that followed immediately after.

“Mm… Kunikida-kun is getting so hard for me,” Dazai breathed, the subtle vibrations of his voice sending shivers down the taller man’s spine.

“ So hard .”

And as he spoke, Kunikida felt his body respond, his cock rising and swelling to fit the Dazai’s hand as if it knew exactly where it belonged. He bit back another moan as the hand relentlessly squeezing and pulling him grew steadily slicker from his own fluids.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to take your time with me?” Kunikida wondered aloud, gasping as Dazai’s teeth found that spot on his neck again.

“Oh, is that a request?”

Another bite.

“Am I going too slow for you, Kunikiiiiida-kunnn~?”

He gasped sharply as Dazai started pumping faster, doubling over as waves of pleasure coursed through him. Dazai’s chuckles echoed in his ear.

“There.” Dazai’s voice was low, husky, sweet.

“Is that better?”

Dazai’s fingers were squeezing him so tightly, their rhythm so steady and controlled. A stark contrast to the bites and nips that seemed to come out of nowhere and were steadily covering Kunikida’s upper body in angry red marks.

All the while, Dazai just kept pumping...

Kunikida let out another low moan.

His nightshirt had practically been torn off. He could see a couple of buttons lying on the sheets in front of him as Dazai’s free hand continued to caress his chest and abs. Pressure was building in his lower body and Kunikida’s breathing was starting to come in sharp, labored gasps.

But just when Kunikida thought he wasn’t going to last much longer, Dazai abruptly stopped. He pressed his thumb against the tip of Kunikida’s cock, squeezing just a tiny bit more liquid out of the slit, then slowly moved to rub that thumb over the head of Kunikida’s steadily dripping manhood.

“D-Dazai…”

His face felt hot. Why in God’s name did he sound so much like he was begging?

“What--”

“Shh…”

Dazai’s lips were soft as he pressed a kiss to Kunikida’s bite-riddled shoulder. The first kiss of the morning. His shoulders ached.

“Call me Osamu, my love.”

Another kiss. Another flick of his thumb. Kunikida moaned.

“You know you want to.”

“O-Osamu…” Kunikida gasped, burying his face completely into his pillow when he heard just how desperate he sounded.

“Mm. That’s a good man.”

And with that, Dazai took his free hand, yanked down the waistband of Kunikida’s underwear, followed shortly by his own, and carefully positioned himself against the entrance. Kunikida shot one look over his own bruised shoulder and nearly regretted it. In the weak light of early morning, the eyes of the man behind him looked pitch-black...

Dazai licked his lips.

“And you are such a good man.”

He started pushing himself in.

“ Doppo. ”

It hurt. Not a lot but it was just uncomfortable enough that Kunikida remembered Dazai hadn’t done a thing to prepare him this morning. Still, at least Dazai was giving him a chance to adjust before pushing further in and it wasn’t long until he was buried all the way inside.

Kunikida shuddered as Dazai began moving his hand--the hand that had never actually left Kunikida’s cock--again.

And then Dazai began moving as well.

A curse ripped its way out of his throat.

“ Fuck .”

Sweat beaded on his brow as Dazai’s movements slowly synchronized. The brunette’s free hand was once again ghosting up Kunikida’s chest, palming at his abdomen, feeling the way Kunikida’s muscles strained and flexed whenever he so much as took in a breath. His clothes and the thin blankets once covering them were long since gone. Strands of long blonde hair were falling into his open mouth. The light in the room was slowly growing brighter but without his glasses, Kunikida couldn’t properly see--he could only feel. And what he felt was full .

“ Fuck …!”

Dazai was hitting something deep inside him that so rarely got the attention it needed and he cursed again as Dazai bucked his hips in yet another sharp, powerful thrust.

Dazai’s voice was breathy, he was laughing or gasping or both.

He was loving this.

Kunikida had no idea where Dazai’s shirt had gone. Maybe he’d gone to sleep without it or maybe he’d taken it off while he was playing with Kunikida just minutes--or was it hours ago? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that Dazai’s bare chest was sticking to his exposed back and he could hear skin slapping against skin in a hot, wet, lewd way that had no right sounding as loud as it did in the early hours before the sun came up.

And speaking of loud…

He had no idea he could make the kind of sounds that were echoing off the walls. The neighbors were sure to come knocking any minute-- how was Dazai forcing these kinds of noises out of his mouth?!

“You sound like you’re enjoying yourself,” Dazai panted, dark eyes glinting.

Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? Kunikida longed to say but all that came out of his mouth was another breathless moan.

Dazai laughed again. Breathier this time, less controlled. They were getting close, Kunikida could feel it. Pressure was steadily building in his cock again--enough to make him burst--and Dazai’s pace was growing oddly frenzied. Without warning, Dazai suddenly let out a shout. Heat exploded deep inside his body and with one last, final tug, Kunikida came shortly after, spilling all over Dazai’s hand and onto the bedsheets with a low, heady groan.

His energy spent, Kunikida strained to look at the man clinging tightly to his back. Brown, tousled, sweaty bangs fell against Kunikida’s reddened shoulder, the bite marks more evident than ever in the light of the steadily rising sun. He could hear Dazai still straining to catch his breath and his lips twitched upwards in a half-smile at the thought of his boyfriend spending all of what little physical stamina he had just to satisfy this one impulsive need.

He felt Dazai peel himself away and shuddered as the man slowly took out his steadily deflating rod, leaving a trail of sticky, pungent, white all over Kunikida’s backside and the short stretch of sweaty sheets between them. Mumbling something unintelligible under his breath, Dazai reached over and tugged the taller man onto his back. Kunikida grimaced; the sheets were cold and wet and were sticking unpleasantly to his backside.

He let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Satisfied?” he asked, turning to the brunette now happily resting a hot, flushed cheek against his broad, bare chest.

Yawning, Dazai wrapped his arms around Kunikida’s shoulders and nodded.

“Good.”

And as Dazai’s breathing slowly settled into a slow, steady rhythm, a small, secretive smile crossed Kunikida’s face. He pressed a kiss to Dazai’s forehead, settled his head back onto the pillows and closed his eyes.

But just as Kunikida was drifting off to sleep at last, the alarm went off.

He groaned.

Laughing, Dazai drew Kunikida a little bit closer and nestled his head a little more comfortably in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck.

“Looks like we had enough time after all.”

#kunikidazai #kunikida doppo #bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu #kunikida x dazai #dazai x kunikida #bsd kunikida doppo #bsd dazai osamu #bsd kunikida #bsd dazai #dazai #kunikida #fanfiction #bungo stray dogs

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designatedloveinterest · 4 years

Text

please tell me where I’m going with this

Yennefer woke up because something was tickling her nose.

She slept in the foetal position as she always did, undisguised by a sympathetic body to wrap around, shutting out the cold uncaring world. Having spent her formative years in a stable, she felt no urgent reason to engage with the tickling. Probably just a lonely harvestman, lost on its way to its web - but by the gods, she would certainly need to get up and piss soon.

The cries that ensued from both parties on waking could be heard across Vengerburg.

Familiarity breeds contempt, and hatred is all too frequently a projection of the features in oneself that one despises the most. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that the unlucky recipients of new bodies as mentioned above performed almost identical rituals, in order:

1) poking at their new face, Yennefer scrubbing at her newfound stubble - and crow’s feet - in utter dismay, Jaskier marveling at his resemblance to a baby’s bottom, and;

2) immediately returning to bed to experiment with their unfamiliar genitalia.

“You boring, boring little man. You talk a big game of entendres and seduction, but you don’t own so much as an egg,” muttered Yennefer, rifling through Jaskier’s things and hoping he owned the room, or at least was paid up. Across town in Yennefer’s apartment, Jaskier was opening jars and bottles and sniffing them, wondering if any of them were safe for personal use.

ARGENTUM IBISCUS DI CERIKAN

“Sorted!” gloated Jaskier, spotting his very favourite beauty cream in its distinct rifled coffret. Lightly scented with a silky feel, Argentum Ibiscus di Cerikan was safe for delicate body parts, such as, ahem, eyes. Out of sheer habit he dabbed a tiny amount in the corner of each eye then, clutching the bottle, positioned himself in front of Yen’s full length mirror, legs splayed for a perfect combination of watcher and watched.

Yen grinned smugly at finding a near-finished bottle of her best-selling beauty potion nestled in Jaskier’s smallclothes like a dirty secret. Whilst the merchants proclaimed its rejuvenation properties, the unspoken benefit was the unique but painless tingling sensation it offered - a benefit the bard was clearly familiar with. She was quite sure he would forgive her for smearing it over three or four of her fingers and applying it deeply.

Jaskier collapsed to the ground, gurgling incoherently.

“Ba” was all he could manage. “Ba. Ba.” He stared at a loop of silk edging the extremely fine carpet he lay on, hands clutched between his legs, heart pounding like a thunderstorm.

How did women not just fucking die from this?

Very suddenly, Jaskier understood why women who failed to finish before he did beat and kicked him so savagely.

Poor Yen had had to make do with a lousy candle, nowhere near enough width for the beastly pounding she knew the bard could easily withstand. She was also disappointed to find that luxurious living and what felt like a hereditary spinal condition prevented her from being able to get her mouth quite down to her surprisingly generous cock. Still, discovering that the bard had extraordinarily sensitive nipples gave her plenty to work with.

But her sheets were so fine, and her bed so soft, and the smell of not only lilacs and gooseberries but also roses, freesias, jasmine, frying eggs, donuts, and even horseshit coming in through the high window was wrapping him in a sensuous haze, and he decided that just a few more minutes of sleep would be fi…..

Yen was no stranger to suffering for beauty, and even respected the bard’s commitment, but… what the hell was going on with these shoes? These PANTS?? Eventually she managed to cobble together an outfit from the least ridiculous items in Jaskier’s wardrobe - which for a travelling bard was entirely too large - and arrange her new bits in a less uncomfortable manner.

Her first port of call would, indeed, be her own home…

All right, perhaps that was more than a few minutes of sleep. Jaskier grinned smugly to hear the elegant and proud Yennefer’s stomach gurgling like a summer brook.

Well, the only decent thing to do would be to feed her! Jaskier felt very, very sure that Yennefer would be so grateful when she found out he’d maintained her refined diet. He fell out of bed and treated himself to a leisurely hour or so of trying on clothes, occasionally yelling at his stomach to shut up and make way for beauty, and settled on a simple all-black ensemble that he felt really emphasised both tits and arse.

Patting himself on the bottom for his good taste, he headed out for breakfast. Lunch. Lekfast. Whatever.

"What're YEE staring at, cont?"

Yennefer, who had barely registered the thug's existence, continued as she normally would - eyes straight ahead, nose not at all in the air but somehow looking as if it was.

“Hey! Don’t fuckin’ ignore me you puffed-up prick! A’ll ‘ave ye!”

Puffed-up prick? Oh, of course. Yen had somehow managed to get comfortable in this weird huge bear of a body, and none of her womanly wiles would get her out of this – appeal to his mates, cutting but witty remark, setting on fire as a last resort. She made a cautious gesture in the hope of generating some energy, and of course just looked camp. She hoped this body was any good in a fight.

Curiosity overriding his irritation, he smiled as smugly as he imagined Yen to be and murmured "Of course, Dragan." He swished into the pub and slid into a booth, making sure to really stick his arse out as he did so.

This body was not that great in a fight, to be honest, but thankfully, neither was Mr. Sensitivity and after some unpleasant blows to the face Yennefer channelled her first-year Aretuza energy, grabbed her assailant's ears and headbutted him right in the nose. His face exploded with blood and snot and his mates roared, advancing on her for revenge. Yennefer took the win and, using her long muscular legs, ran like all Jaskier's fiancee's were after her.

"What... is this, Dragan?" Jaskier had no idea how his face looked, but he felt like it probably resembled this sad assembly of rabbit food masquerading as a meal.

The dwarf rattled off a word salad that involved far too little "pork" or "venison" and far too much "emulsion" and "jus" and for fuck's sake "julienne".

"Are you trying to kill me? I'll waste away from this."

Dragan flinched slightly.

"The last time I brought you the house special you threatened to set me on fire."

Of course she did. Still, of all the things Dragan could suspect of the sorceress, being occupied by her best frenemy's mind was unlikely to be the first, so Jaskier declined to simply reverse the threat.

"Dragan," he reassured the dwarf, "I've given it some thought and I believe that I should be liberated from the tyranny of the 21 inch waist. A hardworking mage requires adequate carbohydrates to maintain one's powers, and as a result, I will require a tankard of the finest Rivian Kriek and one each of your freshest pies. No cats, Dragan, I'll notice."

Dragan bowed slightly. "Very good, ma'am," and headed for the kitchen.

The thugs had, fortunately, been either too cowardly to follow her into the more upmarket part of town, or perhaps had been intercepted by guards while she sprinted through the textile markets. A few merchants had tried to wave her (realistically, him) down and she huffed "not... today... thanks" and kept sprinting. If she made it home fast enough, he might not have stolen everything not nailed down.

"Why am I dying, Dragan? I haven't eaten in 24 hours. I should be ready to tip an entire banquet table down my waiting gullet. I want a refund."

Dragan prickled. "Ma'am, I provided specifically your every request. I - "

Jaskier waved dismissively. "I'm joking, Dragan, keep your pants on. Oh gods - " clutching at his spasming stomach - "I want a refund on this miserable, useless body. Except for the boobs. They're quite good. Ooooof."

The dwarf clutched his notepad. "Errr... coffee?"

Yennefer approached her shop with some trepidation. He wouldn't have trashed it - not his style - but he absolutely would leave a bottle of something dangerous open,

#jaskier #yennefer #body swap #wip #aaaaaaaaaarrrrrghhhh #writing? I'd rather shovel shit with my tongue

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wistfulcynic · 4 years

Text

Their Way By Moonlight: A Day in the Life, Part 2 (Chapter 15)

For @thisonesatellite and @ohmightydevviepuu, and I hope you are not too drunk (and) or jet lagged to enjoy it ❤️❤️❤️

In which efforts to break the curse continue. Henry has an important meeting and reunites some old friends, Captain Book begins, and we learn more about the subtle knife.

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

A Day in the Life, Part Two:

Henry’s third stop on his busy Saturday was the pawn shop. It was just as he remembered it, or at least as much as anything in this Bizarro World version of Storybrooke could be as he remembered. The sign above the door still read ‘Mr Gold’, and inside the shop itself was still cluttered with wondrous and mysterious things. It had been dusty and dank and somewhat grim when Henry first returned to it three weeks earlier but now was much cleaner and better organised, brighter, and welcoming in a way that it certainly had never been before.

The front door was unlocked and Henry went right in. “Hi Mr Cassidy!” he called out as he closed it behind him.

“Hey, Henry,” came his father’s voice from the back. “Be right there.”

“Okay!” Henry looked around as he waited, peering curiously into the display cases and trying not to think too hard about where everything in them had come from. Despite all the improvements, the fact that the pawn shop was stocked with stolen things was still pretty creepy in his opinion. He hoped that after the curse broke Neal would give them back to their rightful owners and not hoard them for his own gain the way Mr Gold had.

Henry hoped for a lot of things from Neal after the curse broke.

It worried him a bit, if he was honest, wondering what was going to happen to them—to all of them, really—after the curse. He and Neal had spent so little actual time together that Henry wasn’t sure how much of his image of his father was real and how much was wishful thinking. Killian had told him loads of stories of “Bae” as a boy, and Emma, once they got their memories back in New York, had finally told him the truth about the watches and giving birth to him in jail. But they seemed like such different people, Killian’s Bae and Emma’s Neal, and both were so different from Henry’s impressions of the man he’d met that he felt more confused than ever. At this point he wasn’t even quite sure what he wanted from the man or even what kind of man he hoped Neal would turn out to be. He only knew that he couldn’t turn his back on his own father, not even when that father had abandoned his mother and by extension him.

(“That’s not entirely fair, lad,” Killian had said a few weeks earlier when they were having lunch together, just the two of them. “He didn’t know you existed. Perhaps if he had, he’d have made a different choice.”

“Maybe,” Henry replied. “But he still left my mom in jail.”

“Aye,” Killian agreed. “So he did, and I also find that difficult to forgive. I’m certain he regrets it, though.”

Henry thought for a moment. “I’m not sure it matters that he regrets it,” he said. “Not if he doesn’t admit it was wrong and try to make up for it. Mom says he never even told her he was sorry.” He looked up at Killian. “Do you think he ever will?”

Killian took his time answering. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t know if he will ever understand just how deeply he hurt your mother. Truthfully, I feel I know the man far less than I did the boy. I’d like to believe that Bae is still in there somewhere, but Neal unfortunately seems to be a bit too much like his father.”

“Yeah,” said Henry. “But even Rumplestiltskin did the right thing in the end. He sacrificed himself to save us from Pan. Maybe my father will do the right thing too.”

“Who’s to say but that he will,” replied Killian.

Henry thought a bit more, then said firmly, “I’m gonna give him the chance to try.”

Killian smiled at him, the proud smile that always made Henry feel warm inside. “I think that’s the right decision,” he said. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”)

The curtain separating the front of the shop from the back shifted, and Neal appeared. He smiled at Henry. “Hey, kid, what’s up?”

“Nothing special. I was just wondering how things are going here?”

“Good, yeah, good.” Neal smile turned a bit awkward and he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s a learning curve, not gonna lie. But I’m getting the hang of it. Think I’ll be able to open next week.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah. Hope so. Your dad’s been a lot of help, showing me the ropes of how to run a business. Tell him thanks from me, will you?”

“Sure. Or you could come to dinner with us tonight and do it yourself.”

“Dinner? What, like, at your house?”

“Yep! My dad said it was okay if I asked you. He’s making burgers and he always makes too many, and we just thought you might like some company.”

“Oh.” Neal blinked in confusion, a look Henry had come to realise meant he was thinking about something that would never have occurred to his cursed self on its own. “Um… sure, okay. Thanks.”

“Cool! It’s above the bookstore. You know where that is, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So just ring the bell and we’ll come downstairs to get you. About seven?”

Neal grinned. “I’ll be there. Thanks, Henry.” He shook his head and his grin shifted into an odd little smile, wistful and slightly sad.

“What’s wrong?” asked Henry.

“Oh, nothing, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking. About how much has changed these last few weeks.” He leaned back against the register, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, it’s weird, right, the way those old records just showed up one day in the mayor’s office?”

“Yeah. Very weird.” Henry struggled to keep his face blank.

“I didn’t even know my father owned a pawn shop.” Neal frowned. “I don’t remember much about my father, actually.”

“That’s probably why you didn’t know,” said Henry.

“Yeah, probably. Anyway, it’s changed my life, you know. I never wanted to be a janitor, but—” he shrugged “—there wasn’t really anything else I could do. Now I can do this. Some kind of luck, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” said Henry. “Luck.” And his mom’s magical forgery skills that were second to none. “I’m really glad, Mr Cassidy. I hope you’ll like working here.”

“Yeah, thanks. I really think I will,” said Neal.

“You came to inquire about the subtle knife.” Oisín smiled, leaning back in his chair. “May I see it?”

Emma huffed in annoyance, reminding herself that he was their best chance to find answers despite his supercilious nature and the supremely irritating way he always knew about things before they happened. She opened Killian’s satchel and took the knife from it.

Oisín’s face was calm as she carefully removed the knife from the plastic evidence bag where she had kept it wrapped since she’d taken it from the loft, but there was a glint in his eyes that Emma recognised, having seen it in Killian’s on more than one occasion. It was the look of a man about to get his hands on a treasure he never imagined he’d have the chance to touch. She held the knife out to him and he took it almost reverently.

“It’s extraordinary,” he breathed, letting his fingertips trail along the blade, and Emma couldn’t suppress an eye roll. What was it with men and weapons, she thought. Even the supposedly wise immortal ones were hard for them.

“What can you tell me about it?” she asked.

The look he gave her was nearly as sharp as the knife itself. “What do you already know?”

“Not much. There’s mention of it in a book Henry found, but that was the only reference any of us could uncover. The book said that it was the sharpest blade in existence, and could cut through the fabric of reality, whatever that means.”

“That is correct,” said Oisín. “The blade of Æsahættr is two-sided, as you can see.” He held the knife up to the the shop’s dusty window, catching the faint light with its two-toned blade. “It was forged of two different metals. This side—” he indicated the shiny edge “—can cut through any substance in any realm, while this one... can cut through the barriers between the realms themselves.”

“So you’re saying that someone could use this knife to—to cut a portal between two realms?” asked Regina.

“Indeed.”

Regina and Emma exchanged a look. “So that’s how she did it.” Regina sounded almost awestruck. “That’s how she made the portals.” She shook her head. “That’s—well, it’s terrifying magic.”

“Terrifying indeed,” said Oisín. “And also extraordinarily dangerous. The energy that divides the realms is dangerously unstable, as well as being very powerful and difficult to breach. Cutting permanent portals into it brings vastly unpleasant consequences. I’d advise you not to attempt it, if there is any other method of realm travel at your disposal.”

“We don’t need realm travel,” said Emma, just as Regina exclaimed “Permanent portals?”

“Yes, permanent,” Oisín replied. “It is possible to close them but doing so requires a delicacy of touch and a close relationship with the subtle knife, neither of which I believe your sister is capable.”

“That’s probably true,” said Regina, just as Emma exclaimed “A relationship with the knife?”

“Oh yes,” said Oisín, returning his attention to Emma, mirth twinkling in his emerald eyes. “The subtle knife always has a bearer, and though I cannot See who that bearer is, I am certain it is not Zelena.”

“She probably stole it,” said Regina.

“That seems likely to be the case. And also likely that she forced the bearer to cut the portals.”

Emma was frowning hard. “So how would someone go about becoming a—a bearer of this knife?” she asked.

Oisín smiled, the smile of a man who has lived long and seen much, most of it unpleasant. “In the time-honoured way of passing a magical weapon from one hand to another,” he said. “By killing the previous bearer.”

“Hmmm.” Emma’s frown deepened. “And is there any way of identifying the bearer?”

“Perhaps, though it is difficult to be certain. The lore of Æsahættr is vague at best; in most realms it is entirely unknown and in others spoken of only in hushed whispers. Even I had believed it a myth, until I perceived its presence in this land. All I can tell you is that in some of the whispers there is mention of the bearer suffering injury to his left hand in the process of obtaining the knife. The loss of fingers, I believe.”

“Hmmm,” said Emma again. “Okay. Just one more question. You said that this side—” she pointed at the shiny edge”—can cut through any substance in any realm?”

“Yes.”

“What about magic?”

“Oisín’s eyes glinted again. “In theory, yes. But I rather suspect you knew this already.”

Emma nodded, slowly. “I saw it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I wasn’t sure I could believe what I saw. I was fighting Zelena, I had her trapped within a containment spell… and Henry just—he just—cut the spell open. He sliced right through my magic.”

Regina drew in her breath sharply. “He did?”

“Yes didn’t you—oh, I suppose you couldn’t see the light magic?”

“Not as clearly as you, no. But could Henry?”

“I imagine that young Henry perceived the magic more than strictly saw it,” remarked Oisín. “Perception, not sight, is what guides the subtle knife; the barriers between worlds are invisible to all eyes. That which one can perceive, however, one can cut.”

Henry’s fourth stop of the day was Granny’s, just in time for lunch. The diner was busy as always, bustling with people and noise, and when the crowd parted and Henry caught a glimpse of his grandparents tucked away in a corner booth staring at each other with the same dopey looks on their faces that he saw all the time on his mom and dad, he couldn’t hold back a gleeful grin.

“Hey, Archie,” he said, sliding onto a stool next to the erstwhile psychiatrist, who looked tired and hopeless and and very wrong dressed as a miner, with grime beneath his fingernails and settled deeply into the lines on his face. His wire-rimmed glasses had been replaced by safety goggles and his hair looked thinner. Nevertheless he greeted Henry with a warm smile.

“Hello, Henry,” he said. “How are you?”

“Good! Can I ask you something?

“Of course.”

“Have you ever considered getting a dog?”

When Henry first began his quest to return love to the people of Storybrooke he had opted for little suggestions, gentle hints designed to nudge them in the right direction. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that with this curse subtlety was futile, and that they responded to nothing but what his dad called “sledgehammer tactics.” Hey, Belle, have this book. Here, Neal, take this pawnshop. So, Archie, how’d you like a dog? The direct approach was the only one that worked.

“A dog?” Archie replied. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Really? Because I think you’d be great as a dog dad.”

“A dog dad…” Archie’s voice trailed off and a dreamy look settled in his eyes. “I’ve never thought of getting a dog.” He frowned in confusion. “That is, I don’t think I have. But actually… yes. A dog. Yes. That might be just the thing.”

“Uh huh,” said Henry, who was keen to waste no time. “I saw one today I think you would love. A Dalmatian.”

“Really?”

“Yep. At the animal shelter. He just got there today.”

“A Dalmatian,” said Archie. “That’s the black and white spotted ones, right?”

“Yep. I petted him, he’s really friendly. And he really needs a home.”

Archie looked uncertain. “I don’t know if I could take care of a dog, Henry. I work long hours, you know.”

Yeah but you won’t for much longer, Henry thought. Not if I have anything to say about it.

“Just go meet him,” he wheedled. “I’ll come with you if you like.”

Archie warred with himself for another moment then nodded. “All right. I’ll meet him.”

It was barely a quarter past two when Belle arrived at the bookshop. Killian was busy helping customers and didn’t see her right away. It still surprised him how much business the shop drew in, considering the place only existed to give him a respectable and non-suspicion-raising occupation and a reason to move to Storybrooke, and also as a means of getting books of magic to a place where Emma could have access to them, both to help her rediscover her own magic and to give them all the information they would need to take on Zelena. It had certainly fulfilled all those roles, admirably, but now that the curse was near to breaking Killian had begun to think ahead. He would need something to occupy his days, and what with his ship and his crew most likely stranded in Neverland with Blackbeard as their captain, a return to piracy or even a more respectable ship-based occupation was firmly off the table. His only real option was to keep the bookshop.

The more that he thought about it the more appealing the idea grew. He truly loved his little shop, the light and airy space all his own that he had organised and furnished to suit his tastes. He loved his books, the way they smelled and how they looked lined up neatly on his shelves. He loved matching those books to the people who sought them, loved both the pleased looks on his customers’ faces and the satisfaction of closing a sale. He loved the mental exercise of keeping his accounts and tracking his inventory, of looking through catalogs and choosing new books to purchase. Books that of course he would need to read himself in order to make recommendations to his customers. That prospect in particular he loved. Killian still found this realm frustrating and baffling in many ways but one thing that could be chalked up firmly in its favour was that it possessed a true wealth of reading material. He calculated he would need to live at least another three hundred years just to get through it all.

He began to think about expansion, about new genres he could introduce, popular titles that would attract new customers. Soon plans and ideas that started small had grown and grown until they were lodged firmly in his mind, refusing to be ignored or brushed aside. He wanted to do this, he realised, wanted it quite intensely, and for the first time in his very long life he had the luxury of choosing to do precisely what he wanted. Which was a surprisingly terrifying prospect but also a very welcome one.

Killian completed his sale then turned to greet the new customer with a smile that froze on his face when he recognised Belle. Though Henry had texted him to expect her visit he instinctively braced himself for her anger, her disgust, before he recalled that she was cursed and didn’t remember him.

“Hello,” he said, forcing himself to relax. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Are you Killian Jones?”

“Aye.”

“My—my name is Belle. Belle French. I, uh, know your son.”

“Ah, yes. I believe he mentioned you. He recommended a book to you?”

“Yes.” Belle’s face lit up. “A wonderful one. And he said, um, that you might be looking for an assistant? Here?”

Bloody Henry, thought Killian, with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. You drop one mention that you’re thinking of expanding and he runs with it. Still, he couldn’t deny that the quickest way to nurture Belle’s love of books would be to surround her with them. The lad was undeniably clever.

“I’m thinking about it,” he said. “Are you interested in the job?”

“Y—” Belle took a deep breath. “Yes. I am.”

“Well, why don’t you sit down and we’ll have a chat about it,” said Killian, gesturing to the sofa at the back of the shop. “Would you like a drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Tea would be lovely.”

What the hell, thought Killian, as he went to make the tea, why not? When the curse broke she would doubtless be angry and scared of him again—and who could blame her?—but then he knew he’d be dealing with rather a lot of that once Storybrooke regained its memories. He might as well take what steps he could towards demonstrating how he had changed and hope that would be enough to convince people to give him a second chance.

“Perception,” echoed Emma. “Right. Okay. I think that’s all we needed to ask.” She turned to Regina. “Unless you have any other questions?”

“No.” Regina shook her head. “This has been very informative.”

Emma held out her hand for the knife and Oisín, after one last long look and a subtle caress, relinquished it. Carefully, Emma replaced it in the reinforced evidence bag and tucked it back into the satchel. She leaned the satchel against the leg of her chair and turned back to Oisín with an expression both resigned and expectant.

“What?” he asked.

“We’ve learned what I came here to learn,” she replied. “So we’ll be going now. We need to get back to Storybrooke before it gets too late.”

“Indeed. It was lovely seeing you, even for a short time.”

Emma frowned. “Is that it?”

“Were you expecting more?”

“Well, I mean, aren’t you going to give me some cryptically wise parting words?” asked Emma. “You usually do.”

“Not today,” said Oisín, amusement dancing in his eyes again. “I believe you know everything you need, and also that you understand the import of what you know.”

“Well that makes a change.”

He laughed, a light, musical sound that rang out far more loudly than it ought to in the small space of the shop. “You know, Emma, I’m very proud of you,” he said. “You were hardly the easiest pupil I have ever taught, but you are by far the most accomplished. And I don’t just mean your power, that you were born with. I mean your attitude and your approach to your magic. How you have let go of your fear and resentment of it. How you’ve embraced it. I believe that had you not, even Hook’s most determined efforts to restore it to you could not have been successful.”

Emma flushed, still not wholly comfortable with praise, and gave a little shrug. “It’s all down to him anyway,” she said. “He always says that magic is a part of me and that he—” she grew pinker and glanced at Regina out of the corner of her eye “—he loves every part of me.”

Regina did not sneer. Instead she flushed slightly herself and smiled a small smile, as if remembering.

Oisín nodded in satisfaction. “It’s as I hoped then.” He leaned back in his chair again, his expression soft and almost wistful. “I used to weep at the waste of that man,” he said. “You must never tell him that I told you this. I wept in mourning for the loss of what he could have been, for the good man so deeply buried beneath anger and vengeance that I feared he would never be seen in more than glimpses. That he would destroy himself without ever knowing who he truly was, or could be. Until you, Emma, gave him a reason to know it. You saved him.”

“He saved me too,” said Emma, thinking of how closed off she had been before she met Killian. How lonely. How lost. “We saved each other.”

“Yes,” Oisín agreed. “That was the first part of your story. A part I believe is now approaching its end. There are far more parts to come. Enjoy them all, together.”

He stood and waited as Emma and Regina followed suit, then held out his hand. When Emma took it as if to shake, he grasped hers between both of his and held it tightly.

“What will you do now?” Emma asked him. “I—I don’t think Killian and I will be coming back here. Once we break the curse... well, all my family is in Storybrooke and he really loves that bookstore. I’m pretty sure we’ll be staying there. Are you going to stay here?”

“No,” Oisín replied, “I’m no longer needed in this place. I shall return to my home, and my Niamh. But you know how to find me, should you ever have need of me again. Or simply wish to say hello.”

“We might actually do that,” said Emma, smiling. “Thank you.”

Oisín returned the smile, squeezing Emma’s hand. “It’s been an honour, Emma Swan, now Jones,” he said. “Give my regards to your husband and son. And to the rest of your family—” his eyes flitted to her belly, so briefly she nearly missed it. “—when they arrive.”

Belle left the bookstore an hour later with a new job and a bag full of books, most from Killian’s own personal collection.

“I’m working on diversifying the inventory,” he’d explained. “And your input on the best ways to do that would be greatly appreciated. At the moment we don’t stock very much light, entertaining reading material. However I believe I have one or two things of my own you would enjoy.” He piled book after book into one of the cloth bags printed with the Jolly Roger Books logo and handed it to Belle with a grin. “I look forward to hearing what you think of them.”

She felt happier than she could remember feeling, all but dancing along the sidewalk in her eagerness to get home and start reading, absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of quitting her job at the market and going every day to that beautiful shop full of books and light and Killian’s friendly smile and interesting conversation. Even the odd hints of regret that she could see lurking behind his eyes felt relatable, and though she’d only spent an hour in his company she felt almost like he was a friend already.

Books and a friend, thought Belle, with a flash of insight and a sudden clarity that swept away the apathy and confusion that had clouded her mind for as long as she could remember. She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk as a feeling of revelation washed over her. That’s what had been missing in her life, the cause of the emptiness she constantly felt but never could quite manage to explain. All this time she’d thought something was broken in her, when really she’d just needed books. And a friend.

Henry met Archie outside the animal shelter late that afternoon. Archie smiled his familiar, warm smile but Henry could see he was nervous.

“Henry, I know I agreed to this but I’m not so sure it’s really—” he began.

“Just meet the dog,” Henry interrupted. “It won’t hurt to meet him.”

He pushed open the door and held it, looking back expectantly. “Come on,” he encouraged, and slowly Archie followed.

“Back again, Henry?” David smiled at them. “Yep! Mr Nolan, this is Archie,” said Henry. “He’s the one I told you about, who might adopt the new dog.” “Might,” emphasised Archie with a nervous smile.

“No problem,” said David. “We only allow adoptions when we think it’s a good match, for the animal and the human.” Archie nodded, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed. “Henry, why don’t you take him back to meet the dog?” David asked.

Henry had to force himself not to run. He hurried to Pongo’s cage where the dog seemed to be waiting, wagging his tail. “Here he is,” said Henry eagerly. “Isn’t he great?”

Archie approached the cage slowly, his eyes going wide behind his safety goggles. “He’s—he’s gorgeous,” he whispered.

“At the sound of Archie’s voice Pongo gave a small bark and his tail picked up speed, moving so fast it was a blur. He poked his nose through the bars of the cage and whined at Archie.

“Look!” cried Henry. “He likes you already.”

“Ohhh,” said Archie, moving towards the cage, hand extended. “Hello, boy.”

Pongo licked his hand, and when Archie knelt down, his face, covering it in sloppy, loving kisses. Archie laughed, his face lit up with joy.

“Well he certainly seems to have chosen you,” said David’s voice from behind them.

“He definitely has,” Henry agreed. “You’ve got to adopt him, Archie.”

“I don’t—I’m not—I can’t—” Archie looked helplessly at Pongo’s pleading eyes and sighed. “I will,” he said. He looked up at David. “If it’s okay—”

“Of course,” said David. “There’s some paperwork to do, but after seeing you together I’m more than happy to sign off on the adoption. Congratulations.”

Archie nodded, still looking a bit shell-shocked.

“I’ll go get everything prepared, you come to the front when you’re ready,” said David, He took out a key and unlocked Pongo’s cage. The minute the door opened, the dog leapt on Archie, squirming delightedly.

“What are you going to name him?” asked Henry.

“You know, I have no idea,” said Archie. “I never actually expected this to happen. Have you got any suggestions?”

“How about Pongo?” Henry suggested.

“Pongo,” Archie repeated, and the dog barked happily. Archie smiled. “Is your name Pongo?”

“Woof!” said Pongo.

“Well, that seems definitive.” Archie laughed. “Pongo it is, then.”

He stood, his hand still on Pongo’s head. “Thank you, Henry,” he said. “I had no idea I needed a dog, but I think...” he frowned and shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Somehow, I think he’s just what I was missing.”

“No problem,” said Henry, mentally ticking another name off his list. “I knew you guys would love each other.”

Emma poofed herself and Regina straight from Queens to Killian’s apartment. Transporting the both of them over such a distance and then back again had exhausted a great deal of her magic, and if she went to the station first she doubted she’d have enough left to poof from there to home. And as she and Killian were still cautious about being seen together in public, she didn’t want to walk to his place or drive. It wasn’t worth the risk of anyone observing her going into the bookstore after it was closed, or spotting her bug parked in front of it.

Henry and Killian were already there when the white smoke swirled up from the ground and they appeared. Emma went straight to her husband, knowing he would be worried about her, and allowed him to run his hands over her and look probingly into her eyes, assuring himself that she was okay in both mind and body. Regina gave a hug to Henry and a nod to Killian, then left to get ready for her date.

“Regina and Robin Hood,” said Emma, snuggling into Killian’s side and relaxing against him. “I still can’t quite believe it.”

“It’s so cool,” said Henry.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Emma smiled, thinking about the new softness she’d witnessed in Regina that afternoon. “So how was your day, kid?”

“Good!” Henry’s face lit up. “I did so much! I found Pongo and got Archie to adopt him, and Dad’s gonna give Belle a job, and I invited my father for dinner.”

“Your fa—Neal? For dinner?” Henry nodded. “What, here?”

“Aye,” said Killian, running his hand soothingly up and down her arm. “It was Henry’s idea but I agreed. We thought it might be nice to include him in a family meal, even if he doesn’t know that’s what it is.”

“He’s really lonely, Mom,” Henry chimed in. “Everyone in town is, but him especially. I think the love he needs might have to come from us.”

“But… then why did we give him the pawn shop?”

“To get the pawn shop open again, mostly,” said Killian. “And to give us an excuse to meet him. But we didn’t really expect him to discover any love there. Remember, Swan, that Bae was abandoned by his mother and ran away from his father. He found a home briefly with the Darling children but that was taken from him, and I’m sad to say that during his time in Neverland he didn’t really become close to any of the Lost Boys. Henry thinks and I agree, that what Neal really needs, what perhaps he’s always needed, is a family.”

Emma nodded. “I can see that, I guess. But how are you going to explain me being here with you guys? Won’t he think that’s weird?”

“So we just don’t explain it,” said Henry. “The curse has kept him really isolated. I don’t think he knows you’re supposed to be married to Walsh. He doesn’t seem to know very much about what’s been going on in town, and almost nothing about his father.”

“Huh,” said Emma. “I guess that makes sense. It was the same with Regina. She was really isolated working for my parents.”

“Aye. Allow people to interact and you risk them forming attachments,” Killian agreed. “I imagine that any kind of genuine connection between people would have threatened the integrity of the curse.”

“Well, okay,” said Emma. “That sounds like a solid plan, and I’m on board. But I need a serious nap before I deal with Neal or anyone else. I’ve used so much magic today. When’s he supposed to get here?”

“Not for a few hours yet,” said Killian, kissing her hair. “Go have your nap, love. We’ll be sure to wake you in time.”

Henry watched as his parents cuddled for a moment then shared a soft kiss, watched his mom head off to their bedroom and watched his dad watching her go. He thought about his grandparents making doey eyes at each other that afternoon at Granny’s, and about Archie and Pongo’s joyful reunion. He thought about his mom so excited about her date with Robin, and about Belle discovering books and his father coming to have dinner with them. He smiled to himself. A day like this one was just about worth getting up early for.

@katie-dub @kmomof4 @teamhook @stahlop @mariakov81 @snowbellewells @thejollyroger-writer @jennjenn615@tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @winterbaby89 @ultraluckycatnd @resident-of-storybrooke

#cs ff #cs ff au #cs fic #magic au #canon divergence #3b canon divergence #alternative 3b #captain swan #captain cobra swan #captain book #snowing #background outlaw queen #Storybrooke #cursed life #their way by moonlight #profdanglaisstuff

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quranreadalong · 6 years

Text

#102, Surah 18

THE QURAN READ-ALONG: DAY 102

Let’s look at the first two ayat of the day before I say anything else. Allah instructs Mohammed in 18:23-24:

And say not of anything: Lo! I shall do that tomorrow, Except if Allah will. And remember thy Lord when thou forgettest, and say: It may be that my Lord guideth me unto a nearer way of truth than this.

Please allow me to explain. After the rabbis’ questions were posed to Mohammed, he said he’d answer them the next day. But there was a problem. Ibn Kathir:

The Messenger of Allah said, «أُخْبِرُكُمْ غَدًا عَمَّا سَأَلْتُمْ عَنْه» (I will tell you tomorrow about what you have asked me.) but he did not say `If Allah wills.' So they went away, and the Messenger of Allah stayed for fifteen days without any revelation from Allah concerning that, and Jibril, peace be upon him, did not come to him either. The people of Makkah started to doubt him, and said, `Muhammad promised to tell us the next day, and now fifteen days have gone by and he has not told us anything in response to the questions we asked.'

After he promises to get right on the task of answering those questions, Mohammed behaves like a procrastinating and chronically depressed college senior faced with three final papers and waits fifteen days before answering them (and one of the three answers was “lol idk”). His excuse? He didn’t say inshallah (if Allah wills it) and made Allah mad. So Allah punished him by making him wait over two weeks to get an answer... to the three basic questions... that could have been answered by simply speaking to someone who was aware of these well-known Syrian stories.

What was he doing in those two weeks? Wracking his brain for the stories? Trying to make sure he was remembering the details of them correctly? Asking someone who might know? Consulting some source? What? We have no idea, but somehow I doubt “oh I forgot to say I’ll answer if Allah lets me” is the real explanation...

Naturally, the polytheists laughed at Mohammed’s nonsense because they were evildoers, while his followers believed it. So the lesson of this story is that you should never say “I’ll do this tomorrow” without adding “...inshallah” at the end. “I’ll write this paper for my anatomy class, inshallah. Otherwise it might take a couple weeks sry.” Good save as per usual, Mo.

In a sahih hadith, he dragged poor Solomon into this mess:

The Prophet (ﷺ) said, "Solomon (the son of) David said, 'Tonight I will sleep with seventy ladies each of whom will conceive a child who will be a knight fighting for "Allah's Cause.' His companion said, 'If Allah will.' But Solomon did not say so; therefore none of those women got pregnant except one who gave birth to a half child." The Prophet (ﷺ) further said, "If the Prophet (ﷺ) Solomon had said it (i.e. 'If Allah will') he would have begotten children who would have fought in Allah's Cause."

...sigh. Anyway, Mohammed adds a couple more details about the story of the seven sleepers, saying that they were in the cave for around 300 years (the Christian story says 200 but who cares), but only Allah knows exactly how long, and Allah is god etc and people should pray to him. Whatever. This section has been extraordinarily dumb even by Mohammed’s standards, but still neutral. The next one, however, is bad and contains some exciting new hell imagery. 18:29:

We have prepared for disbelievers Fire. Its tent encloseth them. If they ask for showers [other translations: “if they ask for relief”], they will be showered with water like to molten lead which burneth the faces. Calamitous the drink and ill the resting-place!

Kuffar hell counter: 1, but the more notable thing here is the description of hell. I don’t believe we’ve seen this particular description before. In addition to being forced to drink terrible water, apparently it’ll also be dumped on you. Sure!

The next ayah is a good Muslims go to jannah/will be rewarded one, so I’ll put that one down as good to balance out the less pleasant one above. Now... in addition to the new hell imagery in 18:29, we also have some new heaven imagery in 18:31:

therein they will be given armlets of gold and will wear green robes of finest silk and gold embroidery, reclining upon throne therein

This is the first time we’ve seen the green silk robes and gold bracelets thing, right? Allah makes sure the residents of jannah look fly 24/7.

Anyway, that’s neutral. Following that is a metaphor about two gardeners, each of whom has a garden of grapevines, with a river in the middle of them. One guy says to the other, “mine’s better than yours! My garden is awesome and will last forever!” He is arrogant because he is a disbeliever! Mohammed’s metaphors are as subtle and artful as ever.

The other guy is a pious believer, and chastises his arrogant neighbor for disbelieving and for not saying “mashallah la quwwata illa billah” (Allah wills it, there is no power but from Allah), which is a tie-in to the inshallah debacle at the start of this section. The pious gardener says that one day Allah may destroy their gardens, or take away the river, or something.

That warning comes true when one day the disbeliever’s garden is ruined. “If only I hadn’t been a polytheist!”, he wails. “Clearly Allah is the only real god!” Yes indeed, Mohammed agrees.

...man, just say “polytheism is bad!! Stop being polytheists!!” and save us some effort next time, please. It’s neutral, I guess? The implication is obviously that the works of polytheists are wasted and they will be destroyed by Allah etc, but it’s not as violent in metaphor form.

Let’s see... we’ll finish up the day with these next few ayat. The life of the world is temporary, but good deeds get you to jannah, which is forever (good!). The world will end and people will then be judged, at which point the guilty people will be real nervous.

Well, fair enough. This section was a bit irritating between the inshallah incident and the gardener metaphor, but the next one returns us to our favorite subject...

NEXT TIME: Doom, doom, doom... oh, and Iblis (again).

The Quran Read-Along: Day 102

Ayat: 27

Good: 2 (18:30, 18:46)

Neutral: 24 (18:23-28, 18:31-45, 18:47-49)

Bad: 1 (18:29)

Kuffar hell counter: 1 (18:29)

⇚ previous day | next day ⇛

#quranreadalong #surah 18 #al kahf

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kingofthewilderwest · 7 years

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Gosh I hate to ask so many questions because I don't want hog your responses but I just love them, another thing or rather dragon that I love is Barf and Belch. I feel that they have gotten the least attention and personality development even including "The Zippleback Experience" but they really do have some interesting traits! I seems to me that Barf is more of the leader of the heads while Belch seems more passive. Any thoughts on Barf and Belch? Maybe an appreciation post for them?

Oh my goodness, I like the idea of a Barf and Belch appreciation post indeed! Let’s do it!!!

1. Barf and Belch have patience like none other. They let the twins ride on their heads… and the twins aren’t always the most reserved riders. Ruffnut and Tuffnut will quarrel on the heads, or flip one head upside-down, or accidentally get the heads crossed, or try to navigate the dragon in two different directions at the same time, etc. And yet we never ever ever ever see Barf and Belch become irritated at the twins. Startled, worried, confused, yes. But Barf and Belch are patient with the twins and almost never demonstrate irritation with them.

I mean

talk about

serious patience

2. Despite the twins making a number of bizarre riding errors, Barf and Belch do not question the twins. This dragon has a sense of dedication and respect for the twins - the Hideous Zippleback will obey them even if the situation might not seem logical. That’s pretty beautiful!

3. Barf and Belch are extraordinarily protective and feel a sense of needing a debt to be repaid. In “The Zippleback Experience,” this dragon attentively protected Hiccup and repeatedly sought to save his life because of how Hiccup had saved the dragon earlier. Not to mention that Barf and Belch seem rather protective and loyal of the twins all the time, too!

4. Barf and Belch care for the twins. Whenever the twins are about to do something dangerous, you can tell the dragon is concerned. And of course there’s the adorable ending of HTTYD 2 when everyone’s dragons return. Barf and Belch happily greet Ruffnut and Tuffnut. It doesn’t even matter which head goes toward Ruffnut… the dragon just wants to express affection to the Thorstons.

5. And speaking of affection… just look at how this dragon expresses it!

Awwwwwwww!

6. Another great way to show affection: BRING GIFTS! Specifically… give fish. LOTS OF FISH.

You have to give the dragon credit for the amazing effort of catching and bringing so much fish, though!

7. Although Barf and Belch can be very serious around the twins - protective, loyal, obedient, caring, and the like - Barf and Belch have a serious playful side, too! This is the dragon that saw Hiccup hanging upside-down and decided the best course of action was to whack him back and forth between the two heads. Ruffnut and Tuffnut made a game called “Bat the Nut.” Because Barf and Belch want to show affection to Hiccup, they play the game with him, too!

Of course, since they’re so used to the twins… the dragon might not have realized Hiccup didn’t enjoy “Bat the Nut” himself.

8. Barf and Belch try to steal food from sleeping Tuffnut. Wonder how many meals the twins have lost from this dragon snatching snacks.

9. Have you looked at this dragon’s markings? Barf and Belch have some really cool colors and patterns! We’ve got mottled, burnt reds on top of greens. It’s really quite interesting and beautiful.

10. You can tell who’s Barf and who’s Belch based upon their teeth. Belch (left head) has longer teeth in the front and shorter teeth in the back, whereas Barf (right head) has longer teeth in the back and shorter teeth in the front.

11. Also isn’t this gas major cool?

12. They can do some SERIOUS SERIOUS damage with this gas! What makes the Hideous Zippleback so dangerous is that the dragon can fly by and cover an entire area in gas. With only one spark, the dragon can create chaos in an extremely specific are… or an extremely large area. As far as firepower goes, in fact, the Hideous Zippleback is easily the dragon on Berk that can do the most widespread damage at once.

13. And yet this poor dragon is major afraid of eels. (Hysterically dorky way to hide from an eel, though!)

14. When Ruffnut and Tuffnut are sleep-deprived, the dragon gently carries them in their mouths to dump the Thorstons in a dark room. This dragon takes very good care of both riders, be it playing with them, or keeping them safe, or even just making sure they get some proper sleep.

Conclusion? Barf and Belch is an amaaaazing dragon.

#joecoolmj #long post #DreamWorks Dragons #Barf and Belch #httyd #How to Train Your Dragon #rtte #Race to the Edge #analysis #my analysis #ask #ask me

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psychicmedium14 · 7 years

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I can’t stand chaos. I hate loud environments. Art makes me cry. Bright lights hurt my eyes. Were you just maybe kind of a little bit rude in that email you just sent me? I’ll have a bad taste in my mouth about it for, oh, probably about a week (*cough* a month) now. To address what you are no doubt thinking: No, I am not a frigid, antisocial, boring buzzkill. In fact, if I do say so myself, I’m actually quite fun and outgoing when I need to be. I am, however, a very deep processor, extremely aware of the emotions of myself and others, and an avid appreciator of little things in life that often go unnoticed—in other words, I am a textbook example of what is referred to as an HSP, or a highly sensitive person. If you, like myself and 20 percent of the population, fall into this category, you likely often feel isolated because you’re unable to enjoy (or even simply tolerate) certain tasks and activities in the same ways that your peers do. The good news: this isn't because you're disdainful or just plain difficult. Recent research has shown that these reactions are actually due to a slightly different chemistry in the brains of HSPs—notably, increased blood flow in the areas that process emotion, awareness, and empathy. So while your aversions may be difficult to accept at times, it’s important to understand that this is truly just the way you’re wired, and you honestly probably aren’t quite as weird as you think. Are you an HSP? Think about someone you’d consider to be highly sensitive—I’m guessing you probably brought to mind someone who always sobs at chick flicks or is immediately offended by a seemingly harmless, offhand remark from a friend or colleague. While this type of emotional sensitivity is often apparent in an HSP, it’s not as simple as being "overly emotional." In fact, there is one huge indicator of a true HSP that you may not be aware of—physical sensitivity. Among other telltale signs, HSPs exhibit a high measure of sensory processing sensitivity (SPS), which is a personality trait that has been described as having hypersensitivity to external stimuli, high emotional reactivity, and greater depth of cognitive processing. So basically, an HSP is someone who is extra sensitive to all internal and external stimuli, and he or she is probably thinking just a little more about, well, everything, than your average Joe. Here's what it feels like to be a highly sensitive person. From an emotional standpoint, a careless heckle from a road-raging stranger can leave an HSP shaken for hours. Being given an overwhelming assignment at work may cause them to have a mini breakdown—though likely not until later, once they are alone. On the other hand, the sight of a grandfather playing with his grandkids or an unexpected compliment from a friend can leave an HSP elated for days. Personally, for reasons I have yet to understand, whenever I walk into an extraordinarily designed church (even though I am not religious) or hear beautiful, symphonic music, I immediately start to tear up and have little control over it. From a physical standpoint, sights, sounds, smells, textures, physical pain, consuming too much caffeine or sugar, not getting enough sleep, or even feelings of hunger can really throw an HSP for a loop. When an HSP experiences any of the above beyond a threshold that would seem quite low to a non-HSP, it makes it nearly impossible to concentrate or feel comfortable in their surroundings—and often, for reasons that may come off as bizarre to "outsiders." Perhaps an HSP can’t stand a stranger’s perfume at the grocery store, so they switch lines at the checkout. Or maybe they always need to be wearing sunglasses, even on the cloudiest of days, in order to shield their sensitive retinas from the sun. Maybe an hour or two into a party, they’ve disappeared to a quiet corner with fewer people or have even gone home because it was just too noisy. While this all may seem like odd or anti-social behavior, it likely isn’t because they are either of those things—it’s simply because of their characteristically low tolerance for external stimuli that often feels like it's attacking from every angle. Being an HSP: the good & the bad. It’s definitely true that we all have our sensitive moments. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who hasn’t been devastated by a breakup or saddened by harsh criticism. But for HSPs, the bad news is that their physical and emotional experiences are always processed at such a constant, high intensity, that it can really shape their lives—often as much as gender and race do—and often in ways that don’t adhere to the expectations of an extroverted society. Things like job performance, friendships, and romances can be greatly altered when one feels all these stimuli so deeply. Also, because one is so highly aware of his or her surroundings at all times, HSPs do tend to have an increased risk of depression and anxiety—but there are a few ways to fix that. Now, going back to the thought that HSPs aren't actually buzzkills, I’d like to address all of the good things about being an HSP—because while this personality trait may sometimes seem like a curse, it is indeed a gift. Here are the top 10 reasons I couldn’t be more grateful to be an HSP: 1. HSPs really, genuinely care—and they are good at it. If a loved one, colleague, or acquaintance is going through a tough time, it’s very difficult for an HSP to walk away from the emotional situation without getting invested, thinking deeply about the issue, and offering their insights. 2. HSPs tend to be highly creative. They are attuned to subtleties of all kinds, and a richness in things that others may overlook. They draw inspiration from their complex inner lives, and in turn, create beauty, joy, and inspiration for others. 3. HSPs are incredibly conscientious and take great pride in their tasks. They work very hard to make sure things are done right and make great employees in roles that allow for autonomy, space, and time to ponder. 4. HSPs feel more deeply. While this can be a bit hindering when negative emotions arise, it also means that feelings of elation can reach a higher intensity than in non-HSPs. 5. HSPs are very sensitive to animals. Because they are so in tune with energies, emotions, and the lesser-noticed things in life, they are often especially sensitive to animals and how they are handled. 6. HSPs have passion like no other. It’s often very easy for an HSP to experience genuine, blind passion for a topic—so much so that it seems they are almost bursting with it. 7. HSPs are a genuine bunch. They have a hard time faking interest in topics, people, tasks, and activities that don’t suit them, leaving more time to cultivate themselves, friendships, and the interests that help them to feel fulfilled. 8. HSPs make life about finding meaning. They are often driven by an internal search for meaning, and if something doesn’t feel meaningful, they can’t just "do it anyway"—they need to silence or filter it out. 9. HSPs are great at having deep, meaningful conversations. They often loathe small talk and unnecessary discussions because really, who has time for that? 10. HSPs are amazing problem solvers. HSPs are extremely contemplative and will often take time to process and ponder an issue following a conversation. They're not "out of sight, out of mind" types of people, and will keep cognitively working on solving problems and coming up with ideas if a conversation hasn't completely resolved a question (bringing us back to No. 1). Here's how to know if you're an HSP. Thinking you might be a highly sensitive person? Here are a few simple questions to ask yourself to better assess: • Do loud environments make you want to run and hide? • Do you get really irritable when you’re hungry?• Does attending a musical, visiting an art gallery, or reading poetry stir up your emotions? • Does having several different tasks to complete actually make you less productive because you become overwhelmed and stressed? • Do you consider yourself abnormally empathetic? • Does it take you longer than most to make decisions? • Do you hate open office plans and prefer to work in private, calm environments? • Do you despise violent movies? • Do you easily sense when other people are feeling overwhelmed? • Does presenting to an audience often go poorly because you loathe working in front of watchful eyes? • After a long day, do you need solo, quiet time to recharge? If you answered yes more times than not, chances are you’re an HSP. Congrats! You’re part of a club of deep-thinking, creative doers who might just need a little more quiet time than most. Embrace your sensitivity! Being a highly sensitive person doesn't mean there's something wrong with you—it simply means that you process sensory data more deeply than most, and while this has its drawbacks, it also has many beautiful and unique advantages. Recognizing that you're an HSP is the first step to embracing it and to learning how to better care for you sensitives. Now get out there and make that hypersensitivity work for you!

#introvert #highly sensitive person #empathic

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benegap · 7 years

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I Am A Highly Sensitive Person. Here’s What I Wish More People Knew About HSPs

To address what you are no doubt thinking: No, I am not a frigid, antisocial, boring buzzkill. In fact, if I do say so myself, I’m actually quite fun and outgoing when I need to be. I am, however, a very deep processor, extremely aware of the emotions of myself and others, and an avid appreciator of little things in life that often go unnoticed—in other words, I am a textbook example of what is referred to as an HSP, or a highly sensitive person.

If you, like myself and 20 percent of the population, fall into this category, you likely often feel isolated because you’re unable to enjoy (or even simply tolerate) certain tasks and activities in the same ways that your peers do. The good news: this isn’t because you’re disdainful or just plain difficult. Recent research has shown that these reactions are actually due to a slightly different chemistry in the brains of HSPs—notably, increased blood flow in the areas that process emotion, awareness, and empathy. So while your aversions may be difficult to accept at times, it’s important to understand that this is truly just the way you’re wired, and you honestly probably aren’t quite as weird as you think.

Are you an HSP?

Think about someone you’d consider to be highly sensitive—I’m guessing you probably brought to mind someone who always sobs at chick flicks or is immediately offended by a seemingly harmless, offhand remark from a friend or colleague. While this type of emotional sensitivity is often apparent in an HSP, it’s not as simple as being “overly emotional.” In fact, there is one huge indicator of a true HSP that you may not be aware of—physical sensitivity. Among other telltale signs, HSPs exhibit a high measure of sensory processing sensitivity (SPS), which is a personality trait that has been described as having hypersensitivity to external stimuli, high emotional reactivity, and greater depth of cognitive processing. So basically, an HSP is someone who is extra sensitive to all internal and external stimuli, and he or she is probably thinking just a little more about, well, everything, than your average Joe.

Here’s what it feels like to be a highly sensitive person.

From an emotional standpoint, a careless heckle from a road-raging stranger can leave an HSP shaken for hours. Being given an overwhelming assignment at work may cause them to have a mini breakdown—though likely not until later, once they are alone. On the other hand, the sight of a grandfather playing with his grandkids or an unexpected compliment from a friend can leave an HSP elated for days. Personally, for reasons I have yet to understand, whenever I walk into an extraordinarily designed church (even though I am not religious) or hear beautiful, symphonic music, I immediately start to tear up and have little control over it.

From a physical standpoint, sights, sounds, smells, textures, physical pain, consuming too much caffeine or sugar, not getting enough sleep, or even feelings of hunger can really throw an HSP for a loop. When an HSP experiences any of the above beyond a threshold that would seem quite low to a non-HSP, it makes it nearly impossible to concentrate or feel comfortable in their surroundings—and often, for reasons that may come off as bizarre to “outsiders.” Perhaps an HSP can’t stand a stranger’s perfume at the grocery store, so they switch lines at the checkout. Or maybe they always need to be wearing sunglasses, even on the cloudiest of days, in order to shield their sensitive retinas from the sun. Maybe an hour or two into a party, they’ve disappeared to a quiet corner with fewer people or have even gone home because it was just too noisy. While this all may seem like odd or anti-social behavior, it likely isn’t because they are either of those things—it’s simply because of their characteristically low tolerance for external stimuli that often feels like it’s attacking from every angle.

Being an HSP: the good & the bad.

It’s definitely true that we all have our sensitive moments. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who hasn’t been devastated by a breakup or saddened by harsh criticism. But for HSPs, the bad news is that their physical and emotional experiences are always processed at such a constant, high intensity, that it can really shape their lives—often as much as gender and race do—and often in ways that don’t adhere to the expectations of an extroverted society. Things like job performance, friendships, and romances can be greatly altered when one feels all these stimuli so deeply. Also, because one is so highly aware of his or her surroundings at all times, HSPs do tend to have an increased risk of depression and anxiety—but there are a few ways to fix that.

Now, going back to the thought that HSPs aren’t actually buzzkills, I’d like to address all of the good things about being an HSP—because while this personality trait may sometimes seem like a curse, it is indeed a gift. Here are the top 10 reasons I couldn’t be more grateful to be an HSP:

1. HSPs really, genuinely care—and they are good at it.

If a loved one, colleague, or acquaintance is going through a tough time, it’s very difficult for an HSP to walk away from the emotional situation without getting invested, thinking deeply about the issue, and offering their insights.

2. HSPs tend to be highly creative.

They are attuned to subtleties of all kinds, and a richness in things that others may overlook. They draw inspiration from their complex inner lives, and in turn, create beauty, joy, and inspiration for others.

3. HSPs are incredibly conscientious and take great pride in their tasks.

They work very hard to make sure things are done right and make great employees in roles that allow for autonomy, space, and time to ponder.

4. HSPs feel more deeply.

While this can be a bit hindering when negative emotions arise, it also means that feelings of elation can reach a higher intensity than in non-HSPs.

5. HSPs are very sensitive to animals.

Because they are so in tune with energies, emotions, and the lesser-noticed things in life, they are often especially sensitive to animals and how they are handled.

6. HSPs have passion like no other.

It’s often very easy for an HSP to experience genuine, blind passion for a topic—so much so that it seems they are almost bursting with it.

7. HSPs are a genuine bunch.

They have a hard time faking interest in topics, people, tasks, and activities that don’t suit them, leaving more time to cultivate themselves, friendships, and the interests that help them to feel fulfilled.

8. HSPs make life about finding meaning.

They are often driven by an internal search for meaning, and if something doesn’t feel meaningful, they can’t just “do it anyway”—they need to silence or filter it out.

9. HSPs are great at having deep, meaningful conversations.

They often loathe small talk and unnecessary discussions because really, who has time for that?

10. HSPs are amazing problem solvers.

HSPs are extremely contemplative and will often take time to process and ponder an issue following a conversation. They’re not “out of sight, out of mind” types of people, and will keep cognitively working on solving problems and coming up with ideas if a conversation hasn’t completely resolved a question (bringing us back to No. 1).

Here’s how to know if you’re an HSP.

Thinking you might be a highly sensitive person? Here are a few simple questions to ask yourself to better assess:

Do loud environments make you want to run and hide?

Do you get really irritable when you’re hungry?

Does attending a musical, visiting an art gallery, or reading poetry stir up your emotions?

Does having several different tasks to complete actually make you less productive because you become overwhelmed and stressed?

Do you consider yourself abnormally empathetic?

Does it take you longer than most to make decisions?

Do you hate open office plans and prefer to work in private, calm environments?

Do you despise violent movies?

Do you easily sense when other people are feeling overwhelmed?

Does presenting to an audience often go poorly because you loathe working in front of watchful eyes?

After a long day, do you need solo, quiet time to recharge?

If you answered yes more times than not, chances are you’re an HSP. Congrats! You’re part of a club of deep-thinking, creative doers who might just need a little more quiet time than most.

If you’d like to take a slightly more official self-assessment, check out this quiz created by Dr. Elaine Aron, who began studying the innate temperament trait of high sensitivity back in 1991. Dr. Aron is the reason for my interest in HSPs, as I discovered I was one after reading her book, The Highly Sensitive Person—I couldn’t recommend it more.

Embrace your sensitivity!

Being a highly sensitive person doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you—it simply means that you process sensory data more deeply than most, and while this has its drawbacks, it also has many beautiful and unique advantages. Recognizing that you’re an HSP is the first step to embracing it and to learning how to better care for you sensitives. Now get out there and make that hypersensitivity work for you!

If you suspect you’re a highly sensitive person, here’s a guide to thriving in any environment plus daily self-care rituals written just for you.

from Health Insure Guides http://ift.tt/2fMgvhL via health insurance cover

#health #health insurance #medicines #cures #healing #medical #treatment #Health Insure Guides

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME

I wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her a long letter, in which I tried to make her comprehend how blest I was, and what a darling Dora was. I entreated Agnes not to regard this as a thoughtless passion which could ever yield to any other, or had the least resemblance to the boyish fancies that we used to joke about. I assured her that its profundity was quite unfathomable, and expressed my belief that nothing like it had ever been known. Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my open window, and the remembrance of her clear calm eyes and gentle face came stealing over me, it shed such a peaceful influence upon the hurry and agitation in which I had been living lately, and of which my very happiness partook in some degree, that it soothed me into tears. I remember that I sat resting my head upon my hand, when the letter was half done, cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes were one of the elements of my natural home. As if, in the retirement of the house made almost sacred to me by her presence, Dora and I must be happier than anywhere. As if, in love, joy, sorrow, hope, or disappointment; in all emotions; my heart turned naturally there, and found its refuge and best friend. Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had been sad grief at Yarmouth, on account of Emily's flight; and that on me it made a double wound, by reason of the circumstances attending it. I knew how quick she always was to divine the truth, and that she would never be the first to breathe his name. To this letter, I received an answer by return of post. As I read it, I seemed to hear Agnes speaking to me. It was like her cordial voice in my ears. What can I say more! While I had been away from home lately, Traddles had called twice or thrice. Finding Peggotty within, and being informed by Peggotty (who always volunteered that information to whomsoever would receive it), that she was my old nurse, he had established a good-humoured acquaintance with her, and had stayed to have a little chat with her about me. So Peggotty said; but I am afraid the chat was all on her own side, and of immoderate length, as she was very difficult indeed to stop, God bless her! when she had me for her theme. This reminds me, not only that I expected Traddles on a certain afternoon of his own appointing, which was now come, but that Mrs. Crupp had resigned everything appertaining to her office (the salary excepted) until Peggotty should cease to present herself. Mrs. Crupp, after holding divers conversations respecting Peggotty, in a very high-pitched voice, on the staircase - with some invisible Familiar it would appear, for corporeally speaking she was quite alone at those times - addressed a letter to me, developing her views. Beginning it with that statement of universal application, which fitted every occurrence of her life, namely, that she was a mother herself, she went on to inform me that she had once seen very different days, but that at all periods of her existence she had had a constitutional objection to spies, intruders, and informers. She named no names, she said; let them the cap fitted, wear it; but spies, intruders, and informers, especially in widders' weeds (this clause was underlined), she had ever accustomed herself to look down upon. If a gentleman was the victim of spies, intruders, and informers (but still naming no names), that was his own pleasure. He had a right to please himself; so let him do. All that she, Mrs. Crupp, stipulated for, was, that she should not be 'brought in contract' with such persons. Therefore she begged to be excused from any further attendance on the top set, until things were as they formerly was, and as they could be wished to be; and further mentioned that her little book would be found upon the breakfast-table every Saturday morning, when she requested an immediate settlement of the same, with the benevolent view of saving trouble 'and an ill-conwenience' to all parties. After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls on the stairs, principally with pitchers, and endeavouring to delude Peggotty into breaking her legs. I found it rather harassing to live in this state of siege, but was too much afraid of Mrs. Crupp to see any way out of it. 'My dear Copperfield,' cried Traddles, punctually appearing at my door, in spite of all these obstacles, 'how do you do?' 'My dear Traddles,' said I, 'I am delighted to see you at last, and very sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much engaged -' 'Yes, yes, I know,' said Traddles, 'of course. Yours lives in London, I think.' 'What did you say?' 'She - excuse me - Miss D., you know,' said Traddles, colouring in his great delicacy, 'lives in London, I believe?' 'Oh yes. Near London.' 'Mine, perhaps you recollect,' said Traddles, with a serious look, 'lives down in Devonshire - one of ten. Consequently, I am not so much engaged as you - in that sense.' 'I wonder you can bear,' I returned, 'to see her so seldom.' 'Hah!' said Traddles, thoughtfully. 'It does seem a wonder. I suppose it is, Copperfield, because there is no help for it?' 'I suppose so,' I replied with a smile, and not without a blush. 'And because you have so much constancy and patience, Traddles.' 'Dear me!' said Traddles, considering about it, 'do I strike you in that way, Copperfield? Really I didn't know that I had. But she is such an extraordinarily dear girl herself, that it's possible she may have imparted something of those virtues to me. Now you mention it, Copperfield, I shouldn't wonder at all. I assure you she is always forgetting herself, and taking care of the other nine.' 'Is she the eldest?' I inquired. 'Oh dear, no,' said Traddles. 'The eldest is a Beauty.' He saw, I suppose, that I could not help smiling at the simplicity of this reply; and added, with a smile upon his own ingenuous face: 'Not, of course, but that my Sophy - pretty name, Copperfield, I always think?' 'Very pretty!' said I. 'Not, of course, but that Sophy is beautiful too in my eyes, and would be one of the dearest girls that ever was, in anybody's eyes (I should think). But when I say the eldest is a Beauty, I mean she really is a -' he seemed to be describing clouds about himself, with both hands: 'Splendid, you know,' said Traddles, energetically. 'Indeed!' said I. 'Oh, I assure you,' said Traddles, 'something very uncommon, indeed! Then, you know, being formed for society and admiration, and not being able to enjoy much of it in consequence of their limited means, she naturally gets a little irritable and exacting, sometimes. Sophy puts her in good humour!' 'Is Sophy the youngest?' I hazarded. 'Oh dear, no!' said Traddles, stroking his chin. 'The two youngest are only nine and ten. Sophy educates 'em.' 'The second daughter, perhaps?' I hazarded. 'No,' said Traddles. 'Sarah's the second. Sarah has something the matter with her spine, poor girl. The malady will wear out by and by, the doctors say, but in the meantime she has to lie down for a twelvemonth. Sophy nurses her. Sophy's the fourth.' 'Is the mother living?' I inquired. 'Oh yes,' said Traddles, 'she is alive. She is a very superior woman indeed, but the damp country is not adapted to her constitution, and - in fact, she has lost the use of her limbs.' 'Dear me!' said I. 'Very sad, is it not?' returned Traddles. 'But in a merely domestic view it is not so bad as it might be, because Sophy takes her place. She is quite as much a mother to her mother, as she is to the other nine.' I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young lady; and, honestly with the view of doing my best to prevent the good-nature of Traddles from being imposed upon, to the detriment of their joint prospects in life, inquired how Mr. Micawber was? 'He is quite well, Copperfield, thank you,' said Traddles. 'I am not living with him at present.' 'No?' 'No. You see the truth is,' said Traddles, in a whisper, 'he had changed his name to Mortimer, in consequence of his temporary embarrassments; and he don't come out till after dark - and then in spectacles. There was an execution put into our house, for rent. Mrs. Micawber was in such a dreadful state that I really couldn't resist giving my name to that second bill we spoke of here. You may imagine how delightful it was to my feelings, Copperfield, to see the matter settled with it, and Mrs. Micawber recover her spirits.' 'Hum!' said I. 'Not that her happiness was of long duration,' pursued Traddles, 'for, unfortunately, within a week another execution came in. It broke up the establishment. I have been living in a furnished apartment since then, and the Mortimers have been very private indeed. I hope you won't think it selfish, Copperfield, if I mention that the broker carried off my little round table with the marble top, and Sophy's flower-pot and stand?' 'What a hard thing!' I exclaimed indignantly. 'It was a - it was a pull,' said Traddles, with his usual wince at that expression. 'I don't mention it reproachfully, however, but with a motive. The fact is, Copperfield, I was unable to repurchase them at the time of their seizure; in the first place, because the broker, having an idea that I wanted them, ran the price up to an extravagant extent; and, in the second place, because I - hadn't any money. Now, I have kept my eye since, upon the broker's shop,' said Traddles, with a great enjoyment of his mystery, 'which is up at the top of Tottenham Court Road, and, at last, today I find them put out for sale. I have only noticed them from over the way, because if the broker saw me, bless you, he'd ask any price for them! What has occurred to me, having now the money, is, that perhaps you wouldn't object to ask that good nurse of yours to come with me to the shop - I can show it her from round the corner of the next street - and make the best bargain for them, as if they were for herself, that she can!' The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan to me, and the sense he had of its uncommon artfulness, are among the freshest things in my remembrance. I told him that my old nurse would be delighted to assist him, and that we would all three take the field together, but on one condition. That condition was, that he should make a solemn resolution to grant no more loans of his name, or anything else, to Mr. Micawber. 'My dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, 'I have already done so, because I begin to feel that I have not only been inconsiderate, but that I have been positively unjust to Sophy. My word being passed to myself, there is no longer any apprehension; but I pledge it to you, too, with the greatest readiness. That first unlucky obligation, I have paid. I have no doubt Mr. Micawber would have paid it if he could, but he could not. One thing I ought to mention, which I like very much in Mr. Micawber, Copperfield. It refers to the second obligation, which is not yet due. He don't tell me that it is provided for, but he says it WILL BE. Now, I think there is something very fair and honest about that!' I was unwilling to damp my good friend's confidence, and therefore assented. After a little further conversation, we went round to the chandler's shop, to enlist Peggotty; Traddles declining to pass the evening with me, both because he endured the liveliest apprehensions that his property would be bought by somebody else before he could re-purchase it, and because it was the evening he always devoted to writing to the dearest girl in the world. I never shall forget him peeping round the corner of the street in Tottenham Court Road, while Peggotty was bargaining for the precious articles; or his agitation when she came slowly towards us after vainly offering a price, and was hailed by the relenting broker, and went back again. The end of the negotiation was, that she bought the property on tolerably easy terms, and Traddles was transported with pleasure. 'I am very much obliged to you, indeed,' said Traddles, on hearing it was to be sent to where he lived, that night. 'If I might ask one other favour, I hope you would not think it absurd, Copperfield?' I said beforehand, certainly not. 'Then if you WOULD be good enough,' said Traddles to Peggotty, 'to get the flower-pot now, I think I should like (it being Sophy's, Copperfield) to carry it home myself!' Peggotty was glad to get it for him, and he overwhelmed her with thanks, and went his way up Tottenham Court Road, carrying the flower-pot affectionately in his arms, with one of the most delighted expressions of countenance I ever saw. We then turned back towards my chambers. As the shops had charms for Peggotty which I never knew them possess in the same degree for anybody else, I sauntered easily along, amused by her staring in at the windows, and waiting for her as often as she chose. We were thus a good while in getting to the Adelphi. On our way upstairs, I called her attention to the sudden disappearance of Mrs. Crupp's pitfalls, and also to the prints of recent footsteps. We were both very much surprised, coming higher up, to find my outer door standing open (which I had shut) and to hear voices inside. We looked at one another, without knowing what to make of this, and went into the sitting-room. What was my amazement to find, of all people upon earth, my aunt there, and Mr. Dick! My aunt sitting on a quantity of luggage, with her two birds before her, and her cat on her knee, like a female Robinson Crusoe, drinking tea. Mr. Dick leaning thoughtfully on a great kite, such as we had often been out together to fly, with more luggage piled about him! 'My dear aunt!' cried I. 'Why, what an unexpected pleasure!' We cordially embraced; and Mr. Dick and I cordially shook hands; and Mrs. Crupp, who was busy making tea, and could not be too attentive, cordially said she had knowed well as Mr. Copperfull would have his heart in his mouth, when he see his dear relations. 'Holloa!' said my aunt to Peggotty, who quailed before her awful presence. 'How are YOU?' 'You remember my aunt, Peggotty?' said I. 'For the love of goodness, child,' exclaimed my aunt, 'don't call the woman by that South Sea Island name! If she married and got rid of it, which was the best thing she could do, why don't you give her the benefit of the change? What's your name now, - P?' said my aunt, as a compromise for the obnoxious appellation. 'Barkis, ma'am,' said Peggotty, with a curtsey. 'Well! That's human,' said my aunt. 'It sounds less as if you wanted a missionary. How d'ye do, Barkis? I hope you're well?' Encouraged by these gracious words, and by my aunt's extending her hand, Barkis came forward, and took the hand, and curtseyed her acknowledgements. 'We are older than we were, I see,' said my aunt. 'We have only met each other once before, you know. A nice business we made of it then! Trot, my dear, another cup.' I handed it dutifully to my aunt, who was in her usual inflexible state of figure; and ventured a remonstrance with her on the subject of her sitting on a box. 'Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy-chair, aunt,' said I. 'Why should you be so uncomfortable?' 'Thank you, Trot,' replied my aunt, 'I prefer to sit upon my property.' Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Crupp, and observed, 'We needn't trouble you to wait, ma'am.' 'Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I go, ma'am?' said Mrs. Crupp. 'No, I thank you, ma'am,' replied my aunt. 'Would you let me fetch another pat of butter, ma'am?' said Mrs. Crupp. 'Or would you be persuaded to try a new-laid hegg? or should I brile a rasher? Ain't there nothing I could do for your dear aunt, Mr. Copperfull?' 'Nothing, ma'am,' returned my aunt. 'I shall do very well, I thank you.' Mrs. Crupp, who had been incessantly smiling to express sweet temper, and incessantly holding her head on one side, to express a general feebleness of constitution, and incessantly rubbing her hands, to express a desire to be of service to all deserving objects, gradually smiled herself, one-sided herself, and rubbed herself, out of the room. 'Dick!' said my aunt. 'You know what I told you about time-servers and wealth-worshippers?' Mr. Dick - with rather a scared look, as if he had forgotten it returned a hasty answer in the affirmative. 'Mrs. Crupp is one of them,' said my aunt. 'Barkis, I'll trouble you to look after the tea, and let me have another cup, for I don't fancy that woman's pouring-out!' I knew my aunt sufficiently well to know that she had something of importance on her mind, and that there was far more matter in this arrival than a stranger might have supposed. I noticed how her eye lighted on me, when she thought my attention otherwise occupied; and what a curious process of hesitation appeared to be going on within her, while she preserved her outward stiffness and composure. I began to reflect whether I had done anything to offend her; and my conscience whispered me that I had not yet told her about Dora. Could it by any means be that, I wondered! As I knew she would only speak in her own good time, I sat down near her, and spoke to the birds, and played with the cat, and was as easy as I could be. But I was very far from being really easy; and I should still have been so, even if Mr. Dick, leaning over the great kite behind my aunt, had not taken every secret opportunity of shaking his head darkly at me, and pointing at her. 'Trot,' said my aunt at last, when she had finished her tea, and carefully smoothed down her dress, and wiped her lips - 'you needn't go, Barkis! - Trot, have you got to be firm and self-reliant?' 'I hope so, aunt.' 'What do you think?' inquired Miss Betsey. 'I think so, aunt.' 'Then why, my love,' said my aunt, looking earnestly at me, 'why do you think I prefer to sit upon this property of mine tonight?' I shook my head, unable to guess. 'Because,' said my aunt, 'it's all I have. Because I'm ruined, my dear!' If the house, and every one of us, had tumbled out into the river together, I could hardly have received a greater shock. 'Dick knows it,' said my aunt, laying her hand calmly on my shoulder. 'I am ruined, my dear Trot! All I have in the world is in this room, except the cottage; and that I have left Janet to let. Barkis, I want to get a bed for this gentleman tonight. To save expense, perhaps you can make up something here for myself. Anything will do. It's only for tonight. We'll talk about this, more, tomorrow.' I was roused from my amazement, and concern for her - I am sure, for her - by her falling on my neck, for a moment, and crying that she only grieved for me. In another moment she suppressed this emotion; and said with an aspect more triumphant than dejected: 'We must meet reverses boldly, and not suffer them to frighten us, my dear. We must learn to act the play out. We must live misfortune down, Trot!'

#DavidCopperfield

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designatedloveinterest · 4 years

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Do u have a masterpost tor the body swap thing it seems really cool and I wanna read it in order thank you 💚💚💚 (I’ve only come across what I think are the two most recent parts but I love it so far)

just for you, here’s all fucking 1759 words that I have now (that is not a whinge at you but I am too terrified to start posting chapters on Ao3 in case the muse leaves me)

Yennefer woke up because something was tickling her nose. She slept in the foetal position as she always did, undisguised by a sympathetic body to wrap around, shutting out the cold uncaring world. Having spent her formative years in a stable, she felt no urgent reason to engage with the tickling. Probably just a lonely harvestman, lost on its way to its web - but by the gods, she would certainly need to get up and piss soon.

Jaskier woke up because something was sticking into his ribcage. It was soft and pillowy, but definitely squished uncomfortably against him. He rolled over and found a different something squishing into a different part of his ribcage. His bladder was also starting to complain urgently. The cries that ensued from both parties on waking could be heard across Vengerburg. ~ Familiarity breeds contempt, and hatred is all too frequently a projection of the features in oneself that one despises the most. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that the unlucky recipients of new bodies as mentioned above performed almost identical rituals, in order: 1) poking at their new face, Yennefer scrubbing at her newfound stubble - and crow’s feet - in utter dismay, Jaskier marveling at his resemblance to a baby’s bottom, and; 2) immediately returning to bed to experiment with their unfamiliar genitalia.

~ ARGENTUM IBISCUS DI CERIKAN “Sorted!” gloated Jaskier, spotting his very favourite beauty cream in its distinct rifled coffret. Lightly scented with a silky feel, Argentum Ibiscus di Cerikan was safe for delicate body parts, such as, ahem, eyes. Out of sheer habit he dabbed a tiny amount in the corner of each eye then, clutching the bottle, positioned himself in front of Yen’s full length mirror, legs splayed for a perfect combination of watcher and watched.

Jaskier collapsed to the ground, gurgling incoherently. “Ba” was all he could manage. “Ba. Ba.” He stared at a loop of silk edging the extremely fine carpet he lay on, hands clutched between his legs, heart pounding like a thunderstorm. How did women not just fucking die from this? Very suddenly, Jaskier understood why women who failed to finish before he did beat and kicked him so savagely.

He supposed he should leave. No doubt Yennefer would be VERY angry when she woke up in his less than salubrious inn room, and assuming this situation wasn’t entirely her doing, she would be roaring back towards her own home ready to eviscerate him and his newfound appreciation for the clitoris. Not that he hadn’t appreciated it before, but now he REALLY appreciated it. At least six times, just this morning. But her sheets were so fine, and her bed so soft, and the smell of not only lilacs and gooseberries but also roses, freesias, jasmine, frying eggs, donuts, and even horseshit coming in through the high window was wrapping him in a sensuous haze, and he decided that just a few more minutes of sleep would be fi…..

Yen, however, was very keen to find out which whoreson had stuck her in this ridiculous furbag’s body, even if it was a rather fun body to play with, and so after a relatively muted three orgasms and an efficient nap she attempted to get dressed. Yen was no stranger to suffering for beauty, and even respected the bard’s commitment, but… what the hell was going on with these shoes? These PANTS?? Eventually she managed to cobble together an outfit from the least ridiculous items in Jaskier’s wardrobe - which for a travelling bard was entirely too large - and arrange her new bits in a less uncomfortable manner. Her first port of call would, indeed, be her own home…

All right, perhaps that was more than a few minutes of sleep. Jaskier grinned smugly to hear the elegant and proud Yennefer’s stomach gurgling like a summer brook. Well, the only decent thing to do would be to feed her! Jaskier felt very, very sure that Yennefer would be so grateful when she found out he’d maintained her refined diet. He fell out of bed and treated himself to a leisurely hour or so of trying on clothes, occasionally yelling at his stomach to shut up and make way for beauty, and settled on a simple all-black ensemble that he felt really emphasised both tits and arse. Patting himself on the bottom for his good taste, he headed out for breakfast. Lunch. Lekfast. Whatever.

"What're YEE staring at, cont?" Yennefer, who had barely registered the thug's existence, continued as she normally would - eyes straight ahead, nose not at all in the air but somehow looking as if it was. “Hey! Don’t fuckin’ ignore me you puffed-up prick! A’ll ‘ave ye!” Puffed-up pri—? Oh, of course. Yen had somehow managed to get comfortable in this weird huge bear of a body, and none of her womanly wiles would get her out of this – appeal to his mates, cutting but witty remark, setting on fire as a last resort. She made a cautious gesture in the hope of generating some energy, and of course just looked camp. She hoped this body was any good in a fight.

Normally, Jaskier had to muster all the charm he had abundantly at hand to persuade Dragan Smilovic to open The Iron Mountain before noon. Instead, he was slightly miffed to discover a beaming Dragan throwing the doors open to welcome "Lady Yennefer! A honour to my house. The usual?" Curiosity overriding his irritation, he smiled as smugly as he imagined Yen to be and murmured "Of course, Dragan." He swished into the pub and slid into a booth, making sure to really stick his arse out as he did so.

"What... is this, Dragan?" Jaskier had no idea how his face looked, but he felt like it probably resembled this sad assembly of rabbit food masquerading as a meal. The dwarf rattled off a word salad that involved far too little "pork" or "venison" and far too much "emulsion" and "jus" and for fuck's sake "julienne". "Are you trying to kill me? I'll waste away from this." Dragan flinched slightly. "The last time I brought you the house special you threatened to set me on fire." Of course she did. Still, of all the things Dragan could suspect of the sorceress, being occupied by her best frenemy's mind was unlikely to be the first, so Jaskier declined to simply reverse the threat. "Dragan," he reassured the dwarf, "I've given it some thought and I believe that I should be liberated from the tyranny of the 21 inch waist. A hardworking mage requires adequate carbohydrates to maintain one's powers, and as a result, I will require a tankard of the finest Rivian Kriek and one each of your freshest pies. No cats, Dragan, I'll notice." Dragan bowed slightly. "Very good, ma'am," and headed for the kitchen.

Yennefer was pleasantly surprised by how well the furbag's lungs were taking all this running. For a man who clearly appreciated carbohydrates in all forms, Jaskier was much fitter than she'd have expected. Even so, she very slightly wished his inn was located somewhat less downhill from her apartment. The thugs had, fortunately, been either too cowardly to follow her into the more upmarket part of town, or perhaps had been intercepted by guards while she sprinted through the textile markets. A few merchants had tried to wave her (realistically, him) down and she huffed "not... today... thanks" and kept sprinting. If she made it home fast enough, he might not have stolen everything not nailed down.

Jaskier was disgusted, absolutely disgusted with the lack of endurance this body had for fine carbohydrates. Offered the finest sauerkraut, sausages, pies and pierogies, beautiful homebaked dwarven bread smeared with the finest goat's cheese, not to mention the ales, beers and stouts he KNEW Yennefer loved - why, he was practically buying her a gift! even if it was with her own money - it managed to digest half of a pie and a herring in batter and collapsed like a schoolboy in the third round of Gwent. He unlaced the ribbons at his tiny waist and lay down in the booth. "Why am I dying, Dragan? I haven't eaten in 24 hours. I should be ready to tip an entire banquet table down my waiting gullet. I want a refund." Dragan prickled. "Ma'am, I provided specifically your every request. I - " Jaskier waved dismissively. "I'm joking, Dragan, keep your pants on. Oh gods - " clutching at his spasming stomach - "I want a refund on this miserable, useless body. Except for the boobs. They're quite good. Ooooof." The dwarf clutched his notepad. "Errr... coffee?"

#yennefer #jaskier #body swap fic #I think I'm starting to form an actual plot #which is good because I hate pantsing

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