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miserablesme · 3 years

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The Les Miserables Changelog Part 1: Barbican Previews

Hello everyone! I'm starting out a blog which will look at my favorite musical, Les Miserables, and will discuss the various changes it has gone through over time (musically and lyrically). As it turns out, a LOT of edits have been made over the years so this will doubtless be a series with several parts.

This first part may well be the most difficult and will almost certainly be the most incomplete, as previews can be a time of extensive editing and experimentation. At least for the first few weeks or so, it's perfectly possible any one day of previews will be slightly different than any other day. However, I only have access to two audios from the Barbican Theatre previews of Les Miserables, meaning it's likely that lyrical variants exist which I have no way of hearing.

I am aware of the existence of a third audio which is fairly early in the run of previews, as the tape's master has told me that Gavroche's death scene is in its original form (I'll clarify that later). However, that tape has never been traded, and has sadly only been listened to by its master. I am also aware of a video proshot of the Barbican era that exists in the Royal Shakespeare Company library, but currently have no access to it. I plan to inquire about whether I can look at it sometime (though I'm not sure a blog like this is "official" enough to warrant it for research purposes). As such, this comparison only entails the two widely circulated audios from the Barbican run.

Now that we've gotten that cleared up, let's get started!

First, let's look at the opening "Work Song". In the earlier recording I have (let's call it R1), the beginning music (the same tune used, for instance, at the opening of "At the End of the Day" and "One Day More" and for Marius and Cosette's meeting in "The Robbery") stops. Then, a few moments later, the more familiar opening that leads directly into the prologue begins. By the time of the later recording I have (let's call it R2), the scores have been combined so that the first tune directly transitions into the second one.

Meanwhile, in R1 there is a sequence of lines that goes as follows:

I've done no wrong

Sweet Jesus, hear my prayer

Look down, look down

Sweet Jesus doesn't care

I killed a man

He tried to steal my wife

Look down, look down

She wasn't worth your life

I know she'll wait

I know that she'll be true

Look down, look down

She's long forgotten you

Most fans of the musical recognize the middle sequence of lines ("I killed a man" through "She wasn't worth your life") as no longer being lines in the show (for good reason, as we'll get into in a later edition of this blog). However, R2 keeps the lines. Instead, it deletes the third sequence ("I know she'll wait" through "She's long forgotten you"). I have no idea if this lasted only a few performances or made it all the way to the end of the Barbican run, or somewhere in between.

During "On Parole", specifically after Valjean is underpaid for his labor and sings about his frustration, R1 uses a variation of the "Work Song" theme which, to my recollection, is heard nowhere else in the musical. It can be heard here. By R2, it was switched to an in-tune version of the number with a unique opening. The musical retains that version to this day, but in case you can't recall it you can hear it here.

Minus an unintentional line flub in "At the End of the Day" in R2, the two Barbican recordings seem to use the same libretto and score from this point until "The Runaway Cart". At this point, R1 has a rather extensive scene leading up to Valjean saving Fauchelevent, which goes approximately as follows (the dialog is difficult to make out):

(VALJEAN)

Is there anyone here who will rescue the man?

Who will help me to shoulder the weight of the cart?

I will pay any man thirty louis d’or more

I will do it myself if there’s no one who will

We can’t let him die like that down in the street

Can you all watch him die and do nothing at all?

(FAUCHELEVENT)

Don’t approach me, Monsieur Mayor

The cart’s not gonna be holding

Not my poor mother would care if I should die

(TOWNSPEOPLE)

Don't go near him, Monsieur Mayor

There's nothing at all you can do

The old man's a goner for sure

Leave him alone

Most of that dialog is deleted in R2, so that it goes directly from "Who will help me to shoulder the weight of the cart" to "Don't go near him, Monsieur Mayor". I really like the idea of the original version; it seems reasonable that Valjean, having become a more trusted man, would expect the townspeople to help him. It's more meaningful that Valjean is good enough to do what's right when there's more time to establish that no one else is. Having said that, the original version did take quite a while and didn't really contain any relevant information that wasn't in the final version. I think the cut version as heard in R2 is a good compromise and retains the general mood and pacing to make Valjean's ultimate action satisfying (something that can't be said of later cuts, as will be discussed in a future edition of this blog).

Additionally, at the end of the number Javert refers to "the mark upon his skin" in R1 and "the brand upon his skin in R2 (as well as literally every subsequent performance since then to my knowledge). I have no idea if the "mark" line was a minor flub or was actually the original lyric.

"Who Am I?" is an interesting one. The musical content is identical in R1 and R2, but in R1 after his high note, Valjean shouts "You know where to find me!" with emotion so dramatic it sits right on the border between awesome and campy. By contrast, Valjean is totally silent after his high note in R2. Neither version would see its final day just yet, although the latter certainly has become more traditional over time. More on that in future editions.

From this point until "Master of the House" everything is the same between the two recordings. Roger Allam even comes in slightly late in both "Confrontation" scenes (making his line "-jean, at last...")! However, in the opening to "Master of the House" the following lines occur in R1:

(THENARDIER)

My band of soaks, my den of dissolutes

My dirty jokes, my always pissed as newts

My sons of whores

Spend their lives in my inn

Homing pigeons flying in

They fly through my doors

And their money's good as yours

(CUSTOMERS)

Ain't got a clue what he put into his stew

Must've scraped it off the street

Hell, what a wine

Châteauneuf de Turpentine

Must've pressed it with his feet

Landlord over here

Where's the bloody man

One more for the road

One more slug of gin

Just one more or my old man is gonna do me in

All of those lines would be scrapped in R2. Personally I prefer this shortened variant than the one that would occur much later. Sure, some fun moments get lost, but nothing that actually adds any substance or characterization to the musical (unlike the later cut, which I'll discuss in a later edition of this blog). Some have speculated that this is simply lost dialog due to a tape flip of degrading, given that future performances would retain those lines. However, there is firsthand confirmation that the cuts were in fact part of the performance. To quote Trevor Nunn on page 87 of 1990's The Complete Book of Les Miserables (a page which elaborates that "the cost of overtime incurred after three hours could be crippling at a time when Les Miserables was still trying to find an audience"):

"Cameron wanted major cuts, which would have reduced its length to two and a half hours. I resisted, refusing to discuss things on those terms... Some of the other proposed cuts - like the removal of the "Master of the House" scene-setting preamble - were tried out in previews and then restored as the scenes would not work without them."

From a historical perspective that quote is invaluable. As will be brought up in a later blog post (notice a pattern today?) the musical would in fact be cut much later to avoid overtime charges. When people like myself have expressed the opinion that these cuts come at the expense of artistic integrity, I've seen others defend them by claiming that the overtime costs never were relevant to Cameron and the gang until Broadway sales began to go down, and that if they were taken into account the musical may well be in its shortened form from the beginning. However, this quote proves that argument to be false. Right from day one, the crew was aware that retaining a >3 hour runtime would come with severe financial costs, but this was deemed a worthy sacrifice in order to tell the story they wanted told. Indeed, it sounds like Cameron Mackintosh was waiting quite some time to enact his infamous cuts! (Cameron Mackintosh valuing profit above art?! Crazy, right??)

But I digress. Going back to the musical, the "Waltz of Treachery" number is mostly the same. However, after Valjean's "It won't take you too long to forget" line, R1 has over a minute of wordless vamping which leads right into the rather awkwardly-placed "Stars" song. By contrast, in R2 this vamping (which is still a minute long, mind you) leads into a humming duet between Little Cosette and Valjean, similar to the duet right before the number. A nice little bookend that makes the scene feel all the more resolved. (Much later this duet reprise would ironically be scrapped again, though!) The remaining segment of R1's vamping now plays after this sequence in R2.

Minus some unintentional missed lines at the beginning of "Stars" in R1, the recordings seem to follow the same libretto right up until "One Day More". Here, R1 uses the following lines:

(EPONINE)

One more day with him not caring

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

Was there ever love so true?

(EPONINE)

What a life I might have known

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

I was born to be with you

However, by R2 this scene is in its current form:

(EPONINE)

One more day with him not caring

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

I was born to be with you

(EPONINE)

What a life I might have known

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

And I swear I will be true

And that closes act one! Going on to the second act, the opening barricade scene has a few changes. First off, following the opening notes, R1 features a rather odd tune bearing resemblance to "Do You Hear the People Sing" (which can be heard here) before transitioning to a more true-to-form instrumental reprise of "Do You Hear the People Sing?" By contrast, R2 goes straight from the opening notes to the true-to-form reprise.

Next, Enjolras proclaims "Have faith in yourself and do not be afraid" in R1, while in R2 he instead states "Every man to his duty and don't be afraid". It's unknown if this was an intentional libretto change or if it simply reflects a flub during R1. A later sequence uses the "Have faith in yourself" line, meaning he may have just sung the wrong line for that particular scene.

Finally, R1 includes the following sequence (at least I think this is how it goes, since the lyrics are a little hard to hear):

(PROUVAIRE)

And the people will fight

(GRANTAIRE)

And join with you

Who gives a speech in the square

Fortunately, R2 uses a much less clunky (though still somewhat so) sequence:

(PROUVAIRE)

And the people will fight

(GRANTAIRE)

And so they might

Some will bark, some will bite

This isn't quite its current form ("dogs" and "fleas" will soon respectively replace the two usages of "some"), but it's pretty darn close.

I've heard that the very first Barbican preview(s?) didn't have a finalized opening to "On My Own". Sadly there is no known audio record of this, so I cannot comment on what exactly it began as. As such, the next major change takes place during Gavroche's death scene. This honestly is probably the biggest of all the changes between the two recordings. R1 uses the following death scene (in the tune of "Look Down" right up until the "So never kick a dog" verse, which is in the tune of "Little People"):

How do you do, my name’s Gavroche

These are my people, here’s my patch

Not much to look at, nothing posh

Nothing that you’d call up to scratch

Some fool, I bet, whose brains are made of fat

Picks up a gun and shoots me down

Nobody told him who he’s shooting at

He doesn’t know who runs this town

Life’s like that

There’s some folk

Missed the joke

That’s three, that’s three

That one has done for me

Too fast, too fast

They’ve got Gavroche at last

So never kick a dog

Because he’s just a pup

You better run for cover when the pup grows...

By contrast, R2 uses a much shorter variant which is set entirely to the tune of "Little People":

And little people know

When little people fight

We may look easy picking but we've got some bite

So never kick a dog

Because he's just a pup

You'd better run for cover when the pup grows up

And we'll fight like twenty armies and we won't give...

This is much closer to its current form, although the last two lines are inverted (we'll get to that in a later edition).

We now fast-forward to "Dog Eats Dog", which while recognizable is very different from the number we know today. The chorus of R1 claims that "It's a dirty great sewer that's crawling with rats", which R2 changes it to "stinking great sewer" instead. I'd definitely say the revised lyric better captures Thenardier's and the sewer's grossness.

Additionally, regarding Marius' ring, Thenardier originally exclaims that he "didn't mean to waste it, that would really be a crime". By R2, the line changes to "wouldn't want to waste it", which I'd say makes a lot more sense.

"Javert's Suicide" has changed a lot. R1 features the following remarks following "Vengeance was his and he gave me back my life":

Damned if I live in this caper of grace

Damned if I live in the debt of Valjean

I'll spit his pity right back in his face

Is this the law or has sanity gone?

(I'm a little unsure as to how accurate the final line is.)

By R2, the lines have been replaced with the current ones:

Damned if I live in the debt of a thief

Damned if I yield at the end of the chase

I am the law and the law is not mocked

I'll spit his pity right back in his face

In R1, the "Where's the new world, now the fighting's done" line is absent, and there is nothing but instrumentals in the segment where it is usually sung. By contrast, it is sung as usual in R2. My guess is that an actress simply forgot her line in R1 and it was always supposed to be there, though I can't say for sure.

The final change occurs at the wedding scene. The singing which opens the number is repeated in R1. By contrast, R2 has it sung once and then done with, as it currently is (and as it should be in my opinion, since the music isn't particularly pretty and contributes nothing to the plot).

Later in the same scene, R1 includes approximately this exchange (again, it's quite hard to make out the exact lyrics):

(THENARDIER)

I was there

Never fear

Even got me this fine souvenir

He was there

Her old dad

*indecipherable* and fleecing this lad

Robbed the dead

That's his way

(MME. THENARDIER)

That's worth five hundred any old day

(MARIUS)

I know this...

By R2, everything between "He was there" and "Any old day" were removed, which makes sense given that they essentially just rehash what was already said.

Finally, there's a subtle difference in the epilogue, specifically during the "Do You Hear the People Sing?" reprise. In R1, the ensemble sings "They will live again in glory in the garden of the Lord". R2 replaces the word "glory" with "freedom", and that word remains the one used to this day. I suppose "freedom" is more appropriate for the context of peace and prosperity. To many, I'd guess that "glory" conjures imagery of knights, battles, and the like; just the kind of violence that the characters wish to move away from! I have no idea if this was why the writers changed the lyric, but it's my hypothesis.

Towards the end of the show, the chorus in R1 sings "Even the darkest moon will end and the sun will rise". By R2, this is changed to "the darkest night". Makes more sense to me, since moons aren't known for being particularly dark!

And that just about sums this part up! If I missed anything feel free to let me know, as my goal is to create a changelog as thorough and complete as possible. I plan on making more parts in the near future covering all the changes that have been made in the show up until this day (discounting concerts). Any feedback and constructive criticism is very much appreciated.

As a side note, both for this project and my own enjoyment, I want as complete a collection of Les Miserables audios as possible. I already have most of what's commonly circulated, but if you have any audios or videos you know are rare, I'd love it if you DMed me!

Until the turntable puts me at the forefront again, good-bye...

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

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Unhallowed Arts

Threesome: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones x Brad Davis Rating: E Word Count: 11,077

This is a submission for Thotumn, organized by @spideysmjs!!! Today’s prompt: Threesome (but this fic also includes previous prompts: Semi-Public, Face-Sitting, and “Don’t Be Gentle”).

Summary: “What’s the compromise between abruptly shutting this down (her sex drive weeps) and getting in bed with a guy who will make the experience too emotionally intense?

'Have you ever had a threesome?’ Michelle blurts.

'…What? No.’

‘Neither have I. But I’ve been, um, wanting to try it.’

Have you? she demands of herself, wiping a damp palm on her jeans.

‘You, me, and someone else?’ Brad’s eyebrows are very high on his forehead. ‘That’s a lot of bodies, uh, coming together.’”

Brad Davis has a Mary Shelley mug. He used to drink from it—coffee he brought to work in a thermos from home, which smelled so delicious that Michelle would go out of her way to inhale it over his shoulder, pretending to let him show her something on his monitor—until the mug cracked and he switched to using it to house typical office junk. She asked him about the mug exactly once, fearing it was bait to intrigue a certain kind of person, to make him seem like a certain kind of person himself. But he surprised her. Turns out he’s not a douche (or at least not a douche who lures women in with female authors of historical significance), just a genuine Shelley fan.

He’s not many things Michelle initially assumed him to be, striking them off a mental list over the months they’ve worked together: not a guy who takes the last free seat at the table during a team meeting, not a guy who checks out his own reflection on his black phone screen, not a guy who wears sturdy hiking boots for show. When they troop out to conduct surveys on behalf of the conservation initiative they work for, Brad scrambles up the side of eroding banks and squelches into marshland until water soaks his socks and surface residue clings to his leg hair.

Brad’s not pushy, though she’s well aware that he’s been watching her as long as she’s been watching him.

Early on into them working together, she fell into his arms. Literally fell. The team encouraged Michelle to wait for the second truck, the one bringing the ladder, but she got stubborn and climbed the tree to check the bat box the old-fashioned way. Unfortunately, some of the branches were dead and hollow inside, but Brad caught her when she dropped eight feet. And then flirted with her before she could catch her breath. She had some less friendly words for him in return. The first time he surprised her was when he immediately respected her clear boundaries and backed off. They’ve learned to work easily with each other and drink together in the same booth when people from the initiative hit the bar—on evenings they don’t smell too much like they spent the day in Mother Nature’s armpit. They’re friendly, could almost be friends, except that she’s incredibly conscious of his persistent attraction to her, even if he doesn’t do anything about it because he’s not a douche. It’s a knowledge Michelle simply lives with.

But there have been an awful lot of evenings lately of smelling like whatever swamp she waded into during the day, of either going straight home to shower the stench away (thank fuck for rent with utilities included), or hunching over her laptop as she tries to get a grant application finished before a midnight submission deadline. Nobody she works with is holding their breath for the day the government decides it should just give them the money to protect local habitats without making them prove themselves over and over and compete against other worthy environmental projects for the funds. So, Michelle works, and she wades, and she loses many of the evenings she could be out getting laid.

On a regular they-better-pay-us-for-the-overtime evening and not a marshy/swampy/boggy one, she’s comfortably stretched out in a booth with Brad across the table. Two of their colleagues were here a minute ago, but they got up to… go to the bathroom? Grab another round? That’s a little hazy, but Michelle can feel something becoming clearer to her. Observing her own hand as she twirls the base of her latest empty across the tabletop, she asks a question.

“You like Mary Shelley, right?”

Brad, glassy-eyed but still trying to look professional with the way he has his hands folded on the surface in front of him, smiles at her. She can feel it.

“Yes. Her creativity was astounding. If I were in the running for the Miss Universe pageant—”

Michelle jerks her chin back and looks up to make a face at him.

“—and they asked me what historical figure I would most like to have dinner with, I would say Mary Shelley. Hands down.”

“Cool story, bro. Hey, Brad?”

“Mhmm.”

She can tell by his drifting gaze and expression of introspection that he’s planning out his pageant answers.

“Do you still want to sleep with me?”

That focuses his attention. He laughs uncomfortably.

“Why… why would you think that?”

“Oh, so, what’s your limit?” Michelle presses, slightly snide with the alcohol in her bloodstream. “You’re not interested in going past holding hands? Making out for no more than five minutes? Because you obviously want something,” she rambles on. “You look at me, I know you do.”

“This isn’t just an idle question, is it?” Brad asks.

He leans forward to look at her as carefully as his tipsiness will allow. As if he already knows the answer. Their thought patterns are very similar, she’s found. It’s why they’re effective at work and why it’s possible to fall into a discussion on books during their overlapping lunch hours. She likes him—not a lot, but enough to have started this conversation. She stares back at him.

“I wouldn’t say no to it,” he offers quietly, though the bar is crowded tonight and Michelle doubts their words are traveling beyond the booth.

Now, Brad’s looking at her in a way that makes her realize, all this time, he’s barely been looking at her. With the permission to think of her in this way, there’s a clear desire there, a gaze that slips again and again to her mouth. Huh. Ok. Maybe she didn’t completely think this whim through before sharing it with him. She can’t fuck that Brad. She’s been imagining the drinking companion, the nice forearms he reveals when he literally rolls up his sleeves in the field, the man who will always be a little on her nerves for flirting with her as he cradled her against him. Someone whose world she could casually rock with the assurance that they both have enough self-confidence to carry on afterwards without getting clingy or feeling disposed of.

What’s the compromise between abruptly shutting this down (her sex drive weeps) and getting in bed with a guy who will make the experience too emotionally intense?

“Have you ever had a threesome?” Michelle blurts.

“…What? No.”

“Neither have I. But I’ve been, um, wanting to try it.”

Have you? she demands of herself, wiping a damp palm on her jeans.

“You, me, and someone else?” Brad’s eyebrows are very high on his forehead. “That’s a lot of bodies, uh, coming together.”

“Come on, Brad—”

“‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’” he guesses.

“I was going to say, I thought you loved Frankenstein.”

She rounds her impulsive invitation off with a smile.

—

Michelle doesn’t volunteer to select the third person. When she considers which of her friends and acquaintances she’d be comfortable having sex with, well, there’s Brad. That already hasn’t gone the way she predicted. Everyone else she’s close to either feels like family, is in a monogamous relationship, or just isn’t attractive to her in that way. She consoles herself over putting the choice of their third into Brad’s hands with the thought that he seems like he’d be the most suspect person in a friend group (yes, they get along, but there’s something sleazy about the way he tries too hard), so whoever he asks can only be more tolerable than him.

“So, a buddy of mine said he’d be into it,” Brad says as she’s passing his desk one day. Michelle stops dead and he swivels in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“You’re talking about…”

“Yeah.” He darts a look around, then hits her with a conspiratorial smile.

“Oh. Ok. Good. Turtles,” she says more loudly to cover for them. Her gaze darts to the nearest desk, but Jocelyn’s wearing headphones and bobbing her head as she populates a spreadsheet. Reassured, Michelle takes a step towards Brad and lowers her voice again. “What’s his name? How do you know him?”

“His name’s Peter. We play soccer together.”

“How the hell do you have time to participate in organized sports?”

“That’s what I do while you’re working your way through the New York Times Best Seller list,” Brad jokes.

“Fair. But who is this guy?”

“You want his résumé?”

“No, I want to know he’s not going to give me an STI or try anything freaky.”

“Freaky,” he echoes. “As opposed to threesomes, which are an incredibly common thing to do with your boyfriend.”

“Or your friend from work,” Michelle retorts, to keep things very clear. Brad appears fleetingly wounded. Too bad. He can say no any time, but it’s obvious that he’d rather see her naked in a threesome than the alternative. Which is never.

“Yeah, of course. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about Peter. He’s responsible, he’s single, he was raised by his aunt and they’re still really close. She comes to all our games.” He lets out a derisive sort of laugh and Michelle narrows her eyes at him.

“That’s sweet.”

“I guess,” he concedes.

“Why’s he single?” she asks, rapid-fire.

“I don’t know, because he wants to be?”

“‘Wants to be’ like he’s emotionally stable and waiting for the right person to come along or ‘wants to be’ like he’s a flake with commitment issues?”

Brad gives her a look like she’s overthinking this; it betrays an utter lack of comprehension of a woman’s perspective on relationships. The validity of her questions goes over his head.

“Why does it matter if he has commitment issues?”

“Relax,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not trying to date him, it just says something about his personality. I don’t want to do this with somebody selfish, because if he’s selfish in other areas, he’s probably selfish in bed.”

“He’s a good passer,” Brad says. “On the field. He always ends the season with more assists than goals.”

“That’s… not a totally useless testimonial.”

“I appreciate your approval.”

Michelle would laugh if his tone weren’t a little too earnest. The way he really wants to impress her can be grating. Well, he’ll soon have his chance to impress her in a situation where she actually wants to be impressed.

“Get back to work, slacker,” she tells him, returning to her own desk.

Fifteen minutes later, Brad texts her with three different dates to choose from. Michelle pulls up her calendar, colour-coded with deadlines and days she’ll be working out in the woods. Taking late nights and the need for long showers into account, she picks a date, then leaves her thumb hovering over ‘Send’. She puts her phone down.

This is where she could still back out. Brad’s mentioned it to his friend, but she’s under no obligation to either of them. Would it be awkward to change her mind and see Brad at work every day? Yes, though she could always say she just wasn’t that serious about it to begin with. Which she wasn’t! For someone who’s soothed by referring to her colour-coded calendar and progressing through life with each forward step carefully considered, tossing out a suggestion to have a threesome was rash.

Michelle eyes her phone.

On the other hand, Brad likes her too much to be a dick post-ménage à trois, which, as far as she can see, is sort of an ideal trait in a threesome companion. If she were going to do this. She wheels her chair back and cranes to peer across the room at him. Focused on his screen, he brushes his black hair out of his face with a quick swipe of his hand. Damn, he is nice-looking. The kind of guy Michelle would definitely approach at a bar for a one-night stand if he flashed a smile her way. If picturing him naked intrigues her, then the idea of lying down between him and another muscled body (Brad said soccer, so she’s assuming this friend has an athletic build) while the three of them wind over and under each other like a braid definitely ticks a big ‘YES’ box in her brain. Her hand shoots out for her phone. She hits ‘Send’.

Three bodies which will, in Brad’s words, be coming together. Maybe not what Mary Shelley had in mind, but anticipating this threesome does more for Michelle’s libido than an electrified jigsaw of corpses ever could.

—

It’s a different bar, and she’s in different clothes, but otherwise, it’s not a totally foreign way for Michelle and Brad to spend their Friday evening. Provided he shows up. She darted home after work and a loaded glance at Brad, showered, and starred deep into her neglected makeup bag like it was some sort of prophetic tool. Michelle, it said to her, you don’t want lipstick smeared all over your face and eyeshadow fallout stinging your eyes. Leave it at mascara and a whole whack of waterproof eyeliner. She obeyed these wise words with trembling hands, nearly prodding herself in the eye with her mascara wand because, even with a doable task to concentrate on, she was nervous.

She adjusts her short, black skirt, rocking side-to-side on the stool. For a regular date, it’s the kind of item she would borrow from a friend, but it struck Michelle as incredibly gross to wear a friend’s skirt to a threesome and then return it to them afterwards, so she bought this one online. During work hours. Feeling incredibly furtive, though everybody dabbles in online shopping during lulls in their workload. The skirt was never a normal purchase; she knew it was going to end up right here, right now, between her ass and a barstool. She gulps the end of her whiskey and goes back to cradling the beer that’s been her emotional support as she waits for the guys.

Arriving ten minutes early has felt like an age—time stretching wretchedly like those clocks in ‘The Scream’—but she finally hears a familiar voice calling her name. Flipping her hair out of the neck of her leather jacket and grabbing her support system, Michelle turns to spot Brad’s face. He smiles and waves, stepping through the crowd that’s building steadily as the after-work drinkers are exchanged for the cutting-loose-for-the-weekend drinkers. When she slips down from the stool, her skirt rides up, and the man who is usually just a co-worker allows himself to notice. His gaze on her bare legs feels good.

“Sorry we’re late,” he says, though they both know she’s early. But Michelle will take this pleasantry over an implication that she’s overeager.

Since they were at work together only a few hours ago, she skips small talk.

“Where’s your…” Friend, she’s going to say. She doesn’t need to.

Brad—tidy in a partially unbuttoned blue shirt—angles himself towards her side, making room for the woman taking the barstool she vacated, and Michelle sees a man approaching with the two of them as his clear destination. Her first sense of him is filtered through Brad. Once, through Brad’s description, twice, through Brad’s cologne. It may be coming off her friend’s skin, but the scent clings to Peter in her brain. What she’s smelling is the woods, only more expensive somehow, like a perfume company bottled the idea of glamping. Doesn’t matter that the scent doesn’t suit him at all. He walks with his head up, eyes openly excited, and it makes her think of a schoolkid progressing through a museum’s dinosaur exhibit. All he’s missing is a backpack with straps for him to clutch. Letting her gaze skim down from his face, Michelle actually can’t picture him trying to haul on a backpack; his shoulders look broad and strong, even under the incongruous red hoodie he’s wearing.

“Oh,” he says when he sees her standing next to Brad. Under any other circumstances, she’d be taken aback by his eyes scanning the full length of her body, but she’s going to fuck this stranger tonight and when he looks back up to her face, he’s grinning. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she replies, more guarded, less forward, until Brad suggests trying to find someplace to sit and Michelle’s able to check Peter out from behind as he leads them away from the bar. Nice butt.

They snag a coveted corner spot as a small group in business attire is leaving it, settling with Brad between them. Peter makes himself useful by dashing back to the bar and returning with the fingers of one hand twined between the necks of a trio of beers and the fingers of the other slightly dipping into the liquid in a pair of tumblers.

“I didn’t know what you’d like beyond what you’re already drinking,” he says, jerking his chin towards the beer Michelle finished while he was gone.

“That’s fine,” she assures him. “I don’t want to be too… I want to be aware of…”

God, trying to discuss the imminent threesome directly is making her flustered. She has a swig from the new bottle he placed in front of her. Peter leans across Brad and offers his to clink with. Where Brad’s face is aggressively handsome in the heavy line of his eyebrows and the sharp perfection of his teeth, up close, Peter’s is cute and unintimidating.

“Here’s to being a consenting participant tonight and remembering it tomorrow,” he says.

Unintimidating, but not uncompelling, especially when he tilts his head back to drink and she can watch the line of his jaw.

Michelle blushes, but knocks her bottle against his.

Two rounds deeper for them and one for her, the heat of the bar and the alcohol in her system are getting to her. She winds her way back from the washroom and shrugs out of her jacket before sitting down. Peter manages to get the end of his sentence out, but Brad doesn’t even try to respond as he takes in the low sides of her silky top. Michelle slides closer to him than she was sitting before and puts a hand on his knee as he finally turns his head and stutters out a reply to Peter. Peter looks past him and catches her eye. Her heart’s springing up and down in her chest because she realized, staring at her reflection as she washed her hands, that, if they’re going to do this, somebody’s gotta make a move. Peter, sleeves shoved up, is staring back at her like he’s been thinking the same thing. His hand smooths over Brad’s thigh.

Under the table, Brad keeps his legs still, his feet flat on the ground. His comfort in his own skin is something Michelle’s always respected. He even succeeds in raising his glass steadily to his lips and taking another drink while Peter runs his hand higher. With a little throat-clearing, Brad parts his thighs further. She doesn’t mean to be, but Michelle’s waiting for Peter to go first. They were talking about something innocuous when he said just enough to imply that he’s never been in a threesome either. Regardless, there’s a confidence in the way he touches Brad. She trails her fingers up Brad’s thigh and Peter locks eyes with her as their gazes cross watching their friend swallow.

Suddenly, the man between them is a little less present, even with the sharp breath he takes at the moment Peter tucks his hand against his crotch. Michelle rests her hand over his. She feels his skin, lets her fingers slip through his, as Brad gasps and swells beneath Peter’s palm; she can tell—they have to change the curve of their grip to accommodate the erection. Brad’s arm curls around her waist and presses her into his side as her and Peter’s hands move together, stroking through Brad’s pants, rubbing him. He glances at her, heat in his eyes, but she’s looking at Peter again by the time she leans in and kisses Brad’s throat. She draws it out into a lick at the slack way Peter’s mouth is hanging open. Hopefully, the fall of her hair is blocking the necking from the view of other patrons, but that hope is tough to keep in mind when Peter’s tongue appears to wet his lower lip. Like she’s kissing him.

There’s a squeeze between Michelle’s thighs that has her gripping Peter’s hand more firmly, urging him to jerk Brad off faster. She glances towards Peter’s lap and he lifts his hoodie with his free hand to expose the bulge in the front of his jeans. The scent of her perfume rises as sweat trickles between her breasts. They knead Brad rapidly until he chokes out a plea for them to stop, begging to take this someplace private. She grabs her jacket in one hand and links the fingers of her other through Brad’s. Tugging him to the exit, she trusts Peter to bring up the rear.

—

Making out in the back of a rideshare is bad behaviour, so Michelle takes the passenger’s seat when the car pulls up. Because she is feeling the need to go back a step from risky under-the-table handjobs and just kiss someone. And that someone is not the friend she arranged this with. She glances at the sidemirror as they’re passing under a streetlight and Peter’s staring at her. He winks. Slowly, like she’s just looking idly around as they drive, she turns to glance into the backseat. Brad has his arm stretched out along the top the seats and his fingers have dipped into the neck of Peter’s hoodie. Michelle’s pulse accelerates just imagining the warmth of that throat. Scrambling for her phone, she sends Brad a text.

Put your fingers in his mouth.

She faces forward again for about a block, prolonging her outward nonchalance even as she hears a vibration, followed by Brad’s soft snort of acknowledgement as he reads her text. She glances around the edge of her seat and sees him act. His hand comes out of the sweatshirt to take Peter by the chin and turn his face towards him. Briefly, he inclines his head towards his friend, speaking too quietly for her to distinguish the words, but Michelle guesses it’s something about her watching because Peter’s gaze jumps to her as he opens his mouth and accepts two of Brad’s fingers. She can see him sucking as Brad withdraws, cheeks flushed. He looks to her—for approval, she thinks, until he holds his wet fingers up and curls them in the air in a highly suggestive motion. Oh shit. Michelle feels herself pressing down on the floor of the car like she’s in the driver’s seat with the accelerator under her foot.

They’re going to her place where: she’s on home turf, she knows it’s clean, she can go right to sleep after kicking them out. Also, the one luxury of her second-story apartment is the king-size bed her friends seriously, outrageously got on ladders to help her push through the sliding door of her balcony because that was easier than carrying it up the narrow staircase. Tonight, she plans to get some good use out of all those acres of mattress.

As with the hijinks in the car, she knows both men are watching her as she lets them into the building and then through her front door.

“Kitchen,” Michelle says, with a loose wave of her hand. “Living room, bathroom. And the bedroom’s at the end of the hall.”

Brad excuses himself to empty his bladder and/or psych himself up in the mirror above the bathroom sink and she’s wondering how to entertain his friend during these uncertain moments of transition when Peter basically lunges forward and kisses her. She moans into his mouth because it’s sudden but it’s good. His hands go right to her ass and her arms wrap around the back of his neck, holding him against her. With her heels, she has a handful of inches on him, but that doesn’t appear to make him pouty or daunted. It’s less than a minute, probably fewer than thirty seconds (understanding the flow of time is temporarily lost on Michelle), but they separate panting.

“You can tell Brad to stick his fingers in my mouth all you want,” Peter murmurs, still staring at her lips, “but I’ve got something I wanna to stick places too.”

“Understood.” She nudges her thigh into his groin.

“So, you guys aren’t waiting for me, huh?” Brad asks with a tight smile as he walks out of the bathroom to see Peter’s hands on her ass and her pressing back against him.

This is kind of the idea, all three of them experimenting with each other, but she can tell he’s annoyed that anything went on while he was out of the room. That he’s possibly jealous. Though it doesn’t feel right to move away from Peter, Michelle knows how to rectify this. She strides to Brad and puts her hands lightly on his chest before kissing him, more coyly than Peter kissed her. She lets Brad come down to her as he hunts out what he wants from the kiss. This feels nice too, though it has more of the familiarity of kissing a friend—even though they haven’t touched in this way before—than the bubbling lust that went with kissing Peter. As she continues, tracing her fingers to the center of his chest to stroke his skin and begin undoing his buttons, Peter comes up behind her and helps her out of her jacket. She hears her keys jingle in the pocket and tap against her phone. When his hands sneak through the sides of her shirt to run across the underside of her breasts, Michelle pushes Brad back, back, back, and the three of them stagger to her bedroom.

She and Brad make out in the dark for a while, and without light, the kissing get rougher, their breathing ragged. Once she has all the buttons of Brad’s shirt undone, she reaches back for Peter and he grips her hand tightly as he grinds his erection against her ass. They’re pressing snugly into her front and back when she thinks of things like being able to locate condoms and ogle muscles—both activities require some light. Michelle squeezes out from between them and turns her bedside lamp on, angling the shade so the light stays low. Turning to check on them, she sees one man standing there with his shirt open and dishevelled and the other rigid in the front of his jeans. Brad’s hard too—she felt it when she stood against him, but his erection’s not visible from where she’s standing now. It’s odd, seeing the space between their bodies and knowing she was just in it. But with Peter rubbing Brad’s dick at the bar and Brad clearly turned on by having Peter suck his fingers on the way here, they’ve been messing around too. Why should they pause to get her back in the middle? Stubborn and curious, Michelle crosses her arms where she stands and gives them an expectant look.

Peter reacts first; he grabs the back of Brad’s neck and stretches up to kiss him. The instant their mouths meet, Michelle understands the three of them have a problem. Trading off sexual favours, these guys are ok, but being on two sides of the same kiss makes them competitive. Fucking weekend athletes. Countering the dominant neck-grab, Brad bats Peter’s arm away and takes his face in his hands. It’s not sweet, it’s controlling. Peter’s next move is yanking Brad’s body against his by crumpling the open front of his shirt in his fists. Oops, well, alright, Michelle decides. Maybe it’s better to put herself back in the equation.

Because she has no intention of babying Brad through this experience, when she slips between them, she puts her back to him. Picturing his disappointed face, she raises her arms.

“Take her shirt off,” Peter interprets, tearing his hoodie over his head in a flurry that peels the t-shirt beneath halfway up his torso.

It’s evident in his method that Brad isn’t interested in being told what to do with her. He makes sure to drag his hands over her as he takes his time. Maybe he’s being a dick about it—that’s what the narrowing of Peter’s eyes tells her as he stares at Brad around Michelle’s head—but she’s enjoying this. There’s something about having spent so much time with Brad and those hands that has her pressing back against his erection. She’s witnessed him performing countless practical tasks, like driving the stakes for ‘Trail Closed’ signs deep into semi-frozen ground with a sledgehammer to protect new plant growth in the spring, knotting a rope leash around the waist of one of their colleagues as overkill when they wade into a pond to collect a sample, or just his impressive typing speed. (Not as many words per minute as she logs, but still.) He’s only quick when he pushes the material above her breasts and shifts his hands down quickly to cover, then massage them. She can almost hear him internally screaming at Peter that he beat him to this, only she doesn’t care. He’s tugging her nipples now and she shuts her eyes with a sigh.

“You like that?” he asks into her ear, which is when Peter loses patience for this display and removes her shirt the rest of the way himself.

Michelle retaliates by dropping her arms and edging his shirt up his stomach while Brad continues to caress her chest, now also kissing her shoulder. Though Peter lets her remove his t-shirt herself, she can add a willingness to get naked quick to the few things she knows about him; he seems like he’d be just as happy to whip all his clothes off at once as go through the foreplay of undressing each other. She remembers what he said to her in the kitchen. He has his own aspirations for tonight and the grin he gives her when she gets his t-shirt off makes her wonder what he wants and how soon she’ll be giving it to him. Michelle can’t feel any part of her resisting. It’s… surprisingly freeing.

Brad shuffles behind her, slipping out of his shirt, and her heart leaps as his chest presses to her back, skin to skin. Peter makes a grab for her crotch, but she lifts her eyebrows wryly and spins to face Brad instead.

“This fucking skirt,” she hears Peter mumble behind her as he slides his hands up her thighs to play with the hem.

It’s not exactly a sexual fantasy she’s fulfilling when she digs her fingers into Brad’s hair and combs it back, but it’s definitely a fantasy. He just has great hair. Sometimes, when she’s bored in a meeting, she’ll look over at him and feel this compulsion to run her fingers through it. She discovers that the strands feel soft and wonderful, so there’s one dream realized.

As she’s moving the palm of her hand down to cup his cheek, she shifts her head to the side, catching Brad’s eye and nodding back towards Peter.

“Kiss him nicely,” Michelle instructs.

Brad’s dark eyes bore into hers for a moment, then he breaks the stare and looks to Peter.

“Let’s go, Parker.”

Satisfied, she gets out of the way, circling behind Peter. While he’s partly distracted by the kiss (tamer than last time, by the looks of it), she rests her hands on his waist. Then, Michelle thinks, Screw it, and feels him up all over his chest, shoulders, and stomach, before wending her way down to his hips. His jeans are probably really putting pressure on his erection right now. She’ll help. After flicking the button open, she means to move away, but… plans change. She’s barely dipping the tips of her fingers below the waist of his jeans when Peter pulls away from Brad’s insistent mouth to mutter, “Well, that’s not fair.”

Instead of continuing, Michelle delights in retreating. Peter’s protesting noise is absorbed by his friend’s lips and she pats his ass before going to tease Brad. First, she guides the hand Peter has on Brad’s shoulder up into his hair so he can share her joy at how touchable it is. Then, she grazes her palms down his back. His friend’s body is dense with muscles, like somebody who goes to the gym a lot, where Brad’s is lean. Their work is a decent split between time indoors and outside, fairly physical, so she knows he has strong legs, good lungs, all the endurance he needs for the days they have to park far from a trailhead or navigate gullies. She forgot to ask what position they each play on their soccer team, but she’ll be concerned with another type of position for the foreseeable future.

To keep things even, Michelle unbuttons Brad’s pants. He makes a needful sound and goes momentarily loose between her body and Peter’s. This is not the reaction she expected from a man so socially comfortable, who apparently maintains a far better work/life balance (and, presumably, a steadier sex life) than she has lately. These noises, which continue as she works his zipper down against the push of his erection, expose him. He makes himself vulnerable. Something zinging through Michelle’s body compels her to take advantage.

She and Peter propel Brad’s co-operative body towards the bed. The guys land with a thump and continue kissing; Peter’s fingers form a gun as he angles Brad’s jaw, driving his tongue into his friend’s mouth. Michelle stares at them, breathing hard for having done nothing. Not breaking the kiss, Brad raises a hand to reach for her, but she’s quicker than that, dropping to her knees. She and the band of his underwear get along immediately—it’s easy to uncover his dick and the elastic cradles him instead of trying to snap back into place against his abdomen. Though the access with his pants still on isn’t amazing, she kisses his stomach, then the head of his cock. Up above, Brad moans.

With a smirk, Michelle repositions a little on her knees and grasps her friend’s thighs. He’s whimpering. He’s full-on whimpering. She leans in and licks slowly up his length. Her heels are already starting to bother her, so she reaches back and tugs them off one at a time. The next thing she means to do is gather her hair out of the way as she shallowly sucks Brad’s erection and strands swing forward, trying to tangle in his open zipper and stick to the saliva she’s coating him in, but Peter’s hand is there first. Still making out with Brad (she can hear it if she can’t see it), he encircles her hair in his grip and rests his fist lightly on her shoulder. Dammit. She’s a soft touch for his soft touch, closing her eyes to the sensation of his knuckles brushing her skin. This stranger is ruining the nice underwear she put on tonight.

“Please, Michelle, please,” Brad breaks free of Peter’s mouth to say.

He reaches out to hold her ribs, cup her breasts, but while he and his friend might share the field on Saturdays or whenever, they don’t seem to be on the same team tonight.

“Nope,” Peter informs him. “I get her next.”

“None of that possessive shit,” she warns.

“Can I please have you next?”

“You must be a real pain for your friends,” Michelle guesses sarcastically, letting him guide her over to his lap instead of Brad’s. (Who’s probably looking sour. She doesn’t know. Her eyes are glued to Peter’s.)

“No pain, I promise. I’ll be gentle.”

She rolls her eyes and settles in, straddling him.

“Oh my—” There is no ‘god’ because he kisses her before she can finish.

That’s his second annoying offense in seconds and she’s going to let him know. Really, she is. But he’s reminding her that he never let go of her hair by lifting it and slipping his hand against the nape of her neck to caress her skin. Michelle angles her hips and grinds up and down the swell in his jeans. Peter doesn’t mess around stroking her legs and hips, he just darts both hands beneath her skirt and traces the edges of her underwear where they curve around her thighs and narrow between them. She can feel him draw the fabric aside and gasps into his mouth, anticipating his fingers, when Brad tips the both of them over.

It’s disorienting, but they twist onto their sides and her friend scoots close behind her, so she decides she doesn’t mind.

“You’re not getting out of this,” Peter speaks quietly against her mouth when she thinks he’s about to kiss her again.

Michelle finds herself smiling, almost laughing, as he flips her skirt up and elects to take her underwear off. There’s only so much he can do like this, so she takes over, kicking them to the floor. That’s annoying offense number three; those underwear are sexy and she thought she’d be showing them off some before they hit the hardwood. Weirdly, Peter’s disregard only makes her smile broaden.

“Like I was trying,” she quips.

“Are we bantering,” Brad checks, “or are we fucking?”

“Dude, I am so sorry for the people you sleep with. Banter is an important part of the process,” Peter instructs.

“Fuck you, Parker.”

“And when you do, I guess I can’t expect any banter. I’ll adjust my expectations.”

“I’ll adjust your nose with my fist,” Brad responds in a playful tone. Michelle isn’t completely sold and she wavers, sandwiched between the two of them.

“Cool,” she says, “but actually, I am here to get laid.”

Two sets of male hands collide where her thighs are pressed together. She takes a deep breath at their enthusiasm, unable to tell whose fingers are skating along the skin just above her pubic hair and whose are subtly attempting to wedge between her legs.

“After you,” Brad says smoothly.

“Thanks, man.”

Her friend’s hands retreat a short distance and Peter insinuates one of his thighs between hers to create some space.

“This ok?” he checks, sweet face even sweeter horizontal.

“Be my guest,” Michelle says, copying Brad’s formality and reaching up and back to squeeze his shoulder so he realizes. She gets a kiss on her neck in response.

Peter’s fingers run slickly through her arousal. It’s a methodical mapping, feeling as though it’s meant to arouse her rather than him, but their eyes meet and he’s wearing an expression like he’s the one being fondled, though his erection cleaves to his abdomen, twitching under his clothes as he fingers her.

“You’re teasing me,” she points out, pulse jumping at her inner thigh.

“Am I not supposed to?”

Michelle tries to rock harder against the pass of his fingers and he moves them away with a grin and a chiding, “Ah!”

“Just give her what she wants,” is Brad’s disgruntled input.

She turns to watch as he sits up and undresses from the waist down. He gives her a smile like they’re on the same side, demonstrated by him advocating for her pleasure—something Michelle’s quite comfortable doing on her own. And yet, alright, her friend’s heart is in the right place, and it is difficult to monitor and decipher the fluctuating moods and responses of two other people, and his directive is obeyed. Peter’s fingers return and push through the wetness he helped generate, touching her entrance and gliding inside her, one finger, then two. Michelle groans deep in her throat because finally.

Brad lies down at her back again and, with Peter working her up, she fumbles behind her and grabs her friend’s ass to encourage him closer. She can feel him hard and hot against her, partly touching her rumpled skirt, partly her skin. He rubs against her and reaches an arm around, greedily squeezing her hip, then sweeping down to feel for her clit.

She’s sweating between their bodies, breathing hard and shuddering involuntarily when Brad gets his fingers positioned to trap her clit and begin gradually cracking her mind like peanut brittle. Where he’s painstaking, Peter’s exultant. He increases the pace of his fingers until they’re shuttling in and out of her. Michelle grips Brad’s wrist with one hand, Peter’s neck with the other, then switches, then moves both hands, grappling for some constancy that the part of her brain currently squashed beneath her need for satisfaction knows she’s not gonna get. Her hips are writhing in their hands as a clear goal fights its way through the fog of lust: unzip Peter’s jeans. It’s tricky, with the over- and underpass of arms, but she does it and he thanks her with a sloppy kiss that only seems to land on her mouth by miracle.

“Close,” she gasps.

Behind her, Brad groans and nips at the base of her neck, making her shake. He’s humping her quickly, pushing with his hips as he pulls back with his fingers on her clit. Good thing Peter hooks his fingers firmly inside her so he doesn’t get jostled off this ride. Good thing too that his curling motion strikes her so, so right. Michelle cries out and comes, his fingers still pumping ruthlessly inside her, Brad pinching her clit, and then coming himself; she feels the jet spurt up her back, probably some on her skirt too.

Which is why she did not borrow clothes for this threesome.

Peter’s expression is impish as he tries to keep coaxing her through the pleasure, but she pushes at his chest and he finally takes his hand away.

“Oh my god,” Michelle sighs, flopping back and half onto Brad.

“Go team,” her friend pants from beneath her.

“Yeah. You guys have some kinda cheer you do at your games?”

“Sometimes we bump chests,” Peter offers, hands suddenly on her boobs.

She twists, trying to see Brad’s face without lifting up. Her temple makes contact with his chin.

“Does your friend have an off switch?”

“If he did, I’d skip that and just pull the plug,” Brad says. He wraps an arm around her and she wiggles until he relaxes the hold, forcing him to make it less territorial.

“Aww,” Peter says, managing to cup her breasts in a perfunctory way, like he’s pushing them up to prevent under-boob sweat while she cools off post-orgasm, “you guys are bantering. I knew you could do it. Also,” he adds, “I don’t know if anyone happens to be keeping track, but I’m the only one who hasn’t gotten off.”

“That sucks, man.”

With effort, Michelle sits up and glares at Brad’s unconcerned face.

“Don’t be a dick,” she says.

“Yeah, Brad,” Peter joins in.

Shaking her head, she puts her back to her friend and checks Peter’s face for her go-ahead. He nods in rapid approval, so she grips the waist of his open jeans and pulls down while he lifts his ass from her bed. Fuck, the three of them never even got under the sheet. Then again, it’s easier to be mobile above it. Plus, it’s an extra layer between her expensive mattress and the fluid drying on her spine.

Because Peter doesn’t seem like the kinda guy who cares to be undressed layer by layer, Michelle doesn’t striptease herself with taking off his clothes slowly. At some point, he kicked his shoes away, meaning it’s straightforward to yank the boxers and jeans down his legs. Her intention is to remove them completely. He doesn’t seem to have a hell of a lot of regard for her intentions.

“That’s far enough, I swear,” he says, when she has his jeans around his shins. “I’m good. Nike time. Just do it.”

“Just do what exactly?” Michelle asks indulgently. She rests a hand on his naked thigh and tries not to stare openly at his dick, red as a slap.

“Anything. Whatever you want. Brad says you’re multitalented.”

Brad rolls over lazily to glare at Peter.

“What the hell, Parker? Don’t make it sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I talk about Michelle like that!”

“I get it,” she says, cutting him off. Please shut up, Peter, she thinks. “You talk to him about work. You appreciate me as a co-worker.”

“That’s definitely why I’ve heard so much about you,” Peter agrees provokingly. “Because he appreciates you as a co-worker.”

“You know what?” Brad bites out.

“What?”

Michelle rolls her eyes and opts to terminate this snippy little back and forth by grasping Peter’s cock and bending over to wrap her lips around the head. That shuts both of them up. Thank god, some fucking peace.

He emits a deep groan of approval and weaves his fingers into her hair, slightly bucking his hips. As she sinks to take him deeper, she hears another groan—hoarse with an entirely different emotion—coming from Brad. She doesn’t stop. If he has something to say, he can damn well use his words. Michelle clutches the inside of Peter’s muscular thigh and sucks as she starts to withdraw only to plunge him farther into her mouth. Peter’s hand finds hers and tangles their fingers together next to his hip, catching some of the sheet in his grip too. The gesture dizzies her heart.

While he’s seeing god, Brad’s apparently seeing red, because he taps, then tugs, at her shoulder, until she pulls off of Peter and shoots her friend an impatient look.

“What?”

“I’ll do that,” he says, nodding towards Peter’s straining, saliva-slicked erection.

“Somebody better fucking do it,” Peter says in the tragic tone of an established sufferer. They ignore him for the moment.

“You want to?” Michelle asks skeptically.

When Brad averts his eyes from hers, she realizes that, no, he doesn’t want to, he just doesn’t enjoy watching her blow Peter. She wavers, wondering if she should cancel tonight halfway through. Maybe that would be sacrificing what she wants for the self-esteem of these two men, but they’re just so goddamn annoying. They’re supposed to be friends and they’re acting like rivals. Michelle doesn’t owe loyalty to either of them, she’s nobody’s girlfriend, and yet she’s getting the feeling that she needs to pick a side. Even a novice like her can tell this isn’t the way a threesome’s meant to go. If they were worse at this, she might be able to walk away.

Abruptly, Brad kisses her, then nudges her gently aside as he drops to his elbows to pick up where she left off. Peter draws a fraying breath. Well, either these two aren’t combative enough to present her with an ultimatum, or they just want to get laid as badly as she does. If Brad bites Peter or some shit though, she’s throwing them both out and leaving the necessary medical care in their hands. Michelle will not be responsible for these men and their egos.

Peter tweaks her fingers, their hands still clasped. She leans in close to observe his heavy breathing and the way his hair’s sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I still want you,” he whispers. The words are like static shock, like a finger tracing unexpectedly down her neck. “And you better be quick because I think Brad thinks he’ll get extra points for speed.”

He gasps, eyes rolling back, and Michelle instinctively cups his neck, running the pad of her thumb along his throat. She doesn’t glance over at Brad; hearing the frantic wet noises paints a sufficiently informative picture.

“You think you can concentrate while he’s doing that?”

“Totally.” Immediately, a desperate, guttural croak leaves Peter’s lips.

“You sure?”

“No, but I still want to put my tongue inside you and that should count for—uhhh!—something.”

“Such as?” she asks with a wry smile, straightening her legs out so she can remove her unspeakably defiled skirt.

“Hell if I know, my concentration was pretty shitty to begin with.”

“Center yourself,” Michelle says in the calm, instructive tone of a yoga tutorial as she levers herself over his chest and rests her ass lightly on the hard planes of his pecs.

“Brad,” Peter begs, “cut me some slack for one fucking minute, dude.”

“One minute, huh?” she teases.

“Are you doubting me?”

“Peter Parker, I don’t even know you.”

But, somehow, she’s beaming down at him as her hair falls around her shoulders. For an instant, he looks completely focused on her and not the sound of Brad switching from giving him head to pumping him in a fist (his version of slack-cutting, evidently). Peter eyes her from her face down to where her legs are spread above his body. Then back to her face.

“I’d like for you to.”

Her teasing expression softens. She parts her lips to respond and he wrenches her forward, onto a mouth that opens at once. He licks up into her, then keep his tongue tensed and prods her clit back and forth. Michelle curls into herself, thighs suddenly snug against the sides of his head, fingers locked in his hair.

This is, perhaps, the single event within the larger experience that sells her on threesomes. Peter’s mouth feels incredible on its own (like he’s fusing the peanut brittle shards of her mind back together again and going too far, melting them into goo), but the intermittent moaning that leaves it due to Brad’s contribution down below means Michelle’s riding something that licks, sucks, and vibrates. She’s a mess. Tilted forward, she’s nearly crying out to plant her hands on the bed and just grind across Peter’s tongue, but the hand not hold hers has her hip in a formidable hold and she can’t reach far enough to be comfortable. Each time she thinks to force her eyes open and check his face to make sure he’s enjoying this as much as she is (and still breathing), Peter’s eyelids are flickering as he absorbs the combined pleasure of taking from Brad and giving to Michelle. She’s shaking and trying not to get too rough with him, smoothing a hand over the hair she’s been practically pulling out at the roots. Peter counters with a quick smack to her ass before seizing her hip again. Fine, she won’t be nice.

Michelle shifts and rolls her clit against the tip of his nose. It positions her entrance above his wide-open mouth and he slides his tongue thickly back inside her. The sound of him tongue-fucking her is graphic. He loses his rhythm and gets even more aggressive with his mouth—she figures he’s close to release. Peter groans and arches his neck and chin up when he finishes, so she lifts swiftly away, hating to do it, aching and slippery.

She throws herself off of him, collapsing back onto her elbows with her thighs quivering. Dazedly, she observes Brad hurrying from the room with his lips clamped together (not a swallower then—the things she’s learning about her friend tonight). Peter’s lying there, spent. With her emotions high, their tableau causes her to despair. It’s over. It’s all over. One of them’s too wiped to carry on, the other’s just finished giving oral and won’t want to return just to bring her to orgasm. Michelle lets her head hang back and swipes two fingers over her clit, catching it and adding pressure on the upstroke.

Peter rolls over like he’s risen from the dead.

“You don’t—” she begins, but then he’s there, between her quaking knees, suctioning his mouth to her and using his tongue to fiddle around with her clit. His arms are limp and heavy as they hold her thighs down and open. Any energy he has is converted into strokes and twirls, from there into her overwhelmed sobs. Brad walks back in to Michelle yelling, “Peter, fuck!” as she climaxes with her head thrown back and his pressed insistently into her groin by her stiff hand. When Brad comes to sit on the bed, Peter’s leg kicks out and catches him right in the stomach. The kick drives him off the mattress and onto the floor with a thud.

Michelle scrambles away from Peter, to the edge of the bed, as Brad stands and starts putting his clothes on, his back to her.

“Are you going?”

She sees Brad’s shoulders rise and fall as he sighs, but he doesn’t answer her. Once he’s dressed from the waist down, he lifts his shirt from the floor with a swish and slips his arms in as he walks back out of the room. Uh oh. Michelle glances to Peter who appears maddeningly unsurprised. She yanks at the bedsheet until he moves off of it, but touches her wrist as she wraps it hastily around herself to chase after their friend.

“I’m sorry if I wrecked this for you,” he says.

“No.” She shakes her head. “He wanted tonight to be something it was never going to be and I thought, when he invited you, that he could handle it, but… I gotta go talk to him.”

“I think I’m already lucky he didn’t jump up and break my nose, so I better stay here.”

“Alright.”

Michelle almost stumbles trying to keep the end of the sheet off the floor, but she gets to Brad while he’s still buttoning his shirt, patting his pockets to check for wallet, phone, keys, maybe the little Swiss Army knife he carries because it always comes in handy eventually.

“Brad,” she says, cautious in cotton and bare feet.

He cuts a look at her with his dark eyes.

“Better not,” he suggests.

“You’re really leaving?”

“Do you need me to stay?”

She hesitates, leaning away from him slightly at the question.

“Well, it was supposed to be—”

“No,” he interrupts. “Do you need me to stay?”

His eyebrow twitches with everything he’s suppressing: hurt, hope, jealousy. Brad’s smart, he knows the answer, but he still ventures forward with grave determination, the way he’d lead a group of their colleagues down a forest deer path that may or may not be crossed with poison ivy. But Michelle is not something for him to sweep clear and overcome.

“We can only be friends, Brad,” she tells him, straight and honest. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy doing this with you…”

He grins ironically, giving her a glimpse of his bright, perfect teeth.

“Please. You two were shutting me out before Parker booted me in the stomach.”

She doesn’t really have a defense for that. They might have touched Brad, grabbed him, licked and kissed him, but none of that compared to how she felt whenever Peter took her hand. She’s actually a little scared to walk back into her bedroom and face that.

“He didn’t mean to,” Michelle asserts awkwardly. Brad lifts his eyebrows. “Probably,” she qualifies. He nods tiredly.

“If he tells you I was a dick to him after our next game…”

“What makes you think I’ll still be in contact with him then?” Brad gives her a look and she frowns, chastened. “I’ll believe him,” she says instead, “and I won’t blame you.”

“This sucks,” he admits, smiling tightly at the floor.

“Can I get you a glass of water for the road? Transit fare?”

“I’d actually rather get out of here and begin the process of trying to forget what Peter’s dick looks like close up as soon as possible.”

She says nothing to champion the dick in question. That would be cruel.

“This was… something I hope we can laugh about someday,” Brad says, and quickly kisses her cheek.

“I’ll—” they say together.

“—text you tomorrow.”

“—see you on Monday,” Michelle says. “Oh. Uh…”

“Space,” he says, understanding.

“Probably good for right now.”

“Yeah.”

When he leaves, she locks the door and bangs her forehead against it. Fuck. She’s going to have to get a new job, isn’t she? Walking in to spot his heartbroken face every day is more than she wants to deal with. Their initiative has a bigger office downtown, not the outpost-like space they work out of. She can apply there. Probably should’ve ages ago, when she started outgrowing the place she’s at. She’ll miss traipsing around outside the city, having to check her legs for ticks, her hair for spiders, and her arms for dead-branch-inflicted scratches deep enough to require infection-preventative measures, but she can buy some fucking plants. Start a garden in her windowsill. Hike on the weekends. Regain some of that thankless grant application time by devoting it to projects more clout will actually allow her to push forward. Be the chooser instead of the beggar.

Michelle laughs at herself, faintly tipsy and two orgasms deep, standing alone in her entryway in a poor man’s frat party toga.

She gets herself the glass of water she offered Brad. She pees with her goddamn adult white sheet scrunched up in her lap like a bride’s dress on her wedding day. She strides back to the bedroom and drops the sheet at the door.

“Hello,” Peter says, perking up.

“Hello yourself.” The man is stark naked and unashamed. “You’ve been, what, chilling?”

“I also eavesdropped.”

“You’re a loser.”

“I’m the loser you haven’t kicked out of your apartment,” he points out. His gaze slips naturally to her chest as she climbs onto the bed on her knees and takes a seat beside his prone body.

“Why is that?”

She asks rhetorically, but Peter either doesn’t pick up on that or ignores it. She kinda likes that about him. Where Brad tries so hard with her, Peter leaves her room to try a little too.

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately, that is possible.”

“Unfortunately? Give me back those orgasms I gave you then,” he demands.

“Orgasm,” Michelle corrects, emphasizing the singular. “The first one was assisted. You can’t take full credit.”

“Bullshit.”

She shakes her head but Peter grabs the back of her knee, pulling her forward, stretching her out, until she’s on her back, laughing, and he’s hovering over her, inches from a kiss that she really, really wants to receive. Strange.

“Is not,” she tells him flatly.

“Then I’m earning that plural.”

“Oh yeah?”

Instead of kissing her or lowering himself down onto her or otherwise touching her in any way at all, Peter leaves. Michelle sits up and looks after him, baffled.

“Where are your washcloths?” he shouts from the bathroom 30 seconds later. A laugh bursts out of her.

“Tall cabinet next to the shower!”

She listens to him running water in the sink. Laughs again when he returns at a run.

“Flip over!” Peter says wildly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Come on, while it’s still hot. It’ll feel nicer.”

Michelle rolls her eyes and maneuvers onto her stomach. He washes her back with the warm cloth. He washes her back. She folds her arms under her head and pillows her cheek on them, candidly observing him. In a practical sense, Peter’s wiping away what Brad left behind, and buying himself time to get hard again, she’s certain. But it doesn’t all feel like practicality. Not when every pass of the cloth is so careful, or when Peter makes another sprinted trip to the bathroom to heat it up for her, or when he’s lying down alongside her by the end, beginning to lightly kiss her clean skin.

“I don’t understand you,” she hears herself confess.

“I’m an enigma,” he agrees. Michelle snorts.

“I do like you though.”

“Called it.”

He chucks the damp, cooling washcloth over the side of her bed and she glares at him.

“This room has wood floors. Which I pay for. As a feature of this apartment.”

“It’s not on the floor, it’s on my jeans.”

“So, it’s soaking into your jeans right now? That’s convenient for you.”

“Is it?” Peter asks vaguely. His hand is rubbing back and forth very low on her back.

“I’m assuming you’re not planning to get back into wet jeans tonight and make your way home.”

“I would if you asked me to,” he swears, giving her puppy-dog eyes.

“Are you forcing me to say this out loud?”

A winning smile. She sighs in exasperation and turns onto her side, propping her head up with her hand.

“Peter, would you like to stay over?”

“Do you want that?”

“You’re a pain,” she says for the second time. Peter continues smiling, waiting. Michelle takes a deep breath and keeps her eyes on his, not letting her gaze drift around the apartment that is nice but lonely, tranquil but lifeless. It has life with this surprising person in it. “I want that.”

He shuffles close to her with a grin.

“I want that,” he says, brushing his lips across hers.

“Mmm,” Michelle agrees. Her eyelids fall. She parts her lips for his tongue. His hand fits into the curve of her waist and slips over to touch her back. His thickening erection nudges her mons, then her abdomen as he swells against her. Her moan skips and drags and Peter clutches at her more purposefully, tipping her onto her back.

“Condom,” she remembers, and points him to the box tucked out of sight. Discrete for the fact that she bought it for use in a threesome with a work friend and a total stranger.

Peter holds up her copy of Frankenstein, resting beneath the box.

“You a fan?” he asks, returning it to its place and tearing open the wrapper on the condom.

“I’ve read it twice, but I think I prefer Dracula.”

“Aw, I’m a wolfman guy,” Peter offers. He puts the condom on like it’s a sock or a baseball cap; there’s definite familiarity there. And Michelle doesn’t care. “Dracula and Frankenstein’s monster are creepy, sure, but the wolfman is two different people: the regular guy and then this creature in the shadows during the full moon. I don’t know, I think there’s something really cool about that. You ever watch the old Lon Chaney movies?”

Ok, she more than likes him. She likes him quite a lot. Smiling, Michelle shakes her head.

“Well,” he says, but he stops talking then. There’s a depth to the look in his eyes as he gazes at her. She lets him in and stands as horizontal witness to his existence in blinks and breaths and the pound of his heart she can almost feel from here.

“Why don’t you get the light?”

Click.

In the dark, it’s less of a performance, not that Peter doesn’t clearly intend to perform. Michelle’s eyes rest without the light and she breathes deeply as Peter comes over her and kisses her neck. Her eyes are still adjusting while he takes a meandering route down her chest, pressing his mouth harder against her breasts. He licks across her nipple; she scratches her nails up the back of his neck and into his hair. When she lets out the smallest huffing sound of enjoyment, he cups his hand between her thighs, skates a finger along her entrance. As if she wouldn’t be wet. As if the foreplay didn’t start the minute he walked back in with that warm cloth and draped it across her back.

“Any specific requests?” he asks, lifting his head from her chest. She can see his face now. Enough light gets in around the edges of her blinds. She runs her fingers through his loosely curling hair, then arches her body up against his.

“Don’t be gentle.”

Michelle feels the eager tremor of his hand against her inner thigh as he lines himself up and eases inside her. His breathing catches. She tilts her hips and raises her knees from the bed, urging him in, farther, all the way. Peter withdraws and she’s assuming he’ll build up to what she asked for, but he slams back in. Though she clenches her teeth around the sensation of him filling her so hard and so well, a whine escapes.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” she acknowledges, accuses, admires.

He pauses, hands planted to either side of her on the bed.

“Like I said, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’ve been waiting for this since I convinced Brad to tell me your name.”

She wants to think and hide and hold him close, but she can reflect later. He seems to agree. Peter’s thrusts are rough and rhythmic. Pounding into her like a machine one minute, he’ll be playfully grabbing her wrists and licking her neck the next. When she tightens her legs around him, he lets her change their positions, only to haul her beneath him again—on her stomach this time—as he rocks in and out and wedges his hand under her to rub her clit. They chase each other across her mattress and Michelle comes clawing at her pillow, invigorated by the certainty that this is the best time she’s ever had in bed. Peter bites her earlobe as he snatches one of her scrabbling hands and spills into the condom.

He doesn’t help her remake her bed with clean sheets because he claims to be “bad at it.” She’s debating the potential truth of that when he returns with a bowl of popcorn after leaving her alone to do it herself, joins in, and somehow puts a lavender pillowcase on inside out. Michelle sets it right with a laugh and they get back in bed together, popcorn and her laptop playing Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man between them.

She slips away to shower after Peter falls asleep with his head on her lap. When she gets back, she quietly removes the bowl and the laptop. The bed’s a king—she’s used to her space and she doesn’t need to sleep close to him—but Michelle squirms into the warmth his body radiates. He stirs enough to breathe in the scent of her hair, kiss her forehead, and thrust his hand into hers. Confused by the gesture, she frowns at his face, with its softly closed eyes.

“By the way,” Peter mumbles, shaking her hand, “nice to meet you.”

Michelle smiles and pats his arm as he drops it over her, instinctively pulling her close.

#my writing #thotumn #peter parker is a thot #spideychelle #spideychelle fanfiction #peter parker #peter x mj #peter x michelle #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones #brad davis #been sitting with this done for almost a month lol

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fuckit-hero-of-trains · 4 years

Text

Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936943

Made for the LU Art and Writing exchange for susmarie! Hope you enjoy!

Summary: It was routine by now. They would split up into groups of two and scope out the village in search of this kingdom's hero. As per their earlier conversation, Warriors and Twilight would be taking the upper part of town while Legend and Sky were taking the lower sector. Time and Wind, meanwhile, would be searching through historical records in the library while Hyrule and Wild would be trying to get information out of the town guards. Like Hyrule said. It was a simple plan. A foolproof one, if he did say so himself. Afterall, they hadn't failed to find a hero yet. They would probably find the new hero within the hour! Or: A “Four is the last to join” fic

Hyrule would usually consider himself to be a pessimist.

Actually, pessimist isn’t quite the word he’s looking for… Realist! Hyrule would usually consider himself to be a realist.

In his world, one could not afford to be anything but a realist. Optimistic thoughts were usually reserved for kids who had not yet been exposed to the world. A single mistake, a single toe out of line, could spell doom. And getting too comfortable was practically a death sentence.

That wasn't to say his world was terrible! Hyrule loved his home and the hardy but kind people that lived in it. It just meant that, to Hyrule, the phrase ‘too good to be true’ was a statement that was proven to be correct more often than not. So he had learned to eye things that appeared simple and happy and pure with more than a little bit of skepticism.

And yet, despite all of that, even he had to admit that this version of his beloved kingdom was absolutely adorable.

This Hyrule was still obviously a very young kingdom. Not as young as Sky’s–which was little more than a handful of houses around a statue, an idea in the mind of a determined young woman– but still young.

The castle was beautiful but small, it's spires barely brushing the sky that would later be pierced by the sprawling towers of the castles in Time and Twilight’s eras. Castle Town, or Hyrule Town as the guard had said, was little more than a village enclosed by cobblestone walls. It was larger than most of the towns in Hyrule’s kingdom, but small compared to Legend ’s Kakariko or even the Windfall Island of Wind’s Great Sea.

Yet, while small, the traveling hero could see how Hyrule Town was truly alive. People bustled in and out of their small but warm looking cottages, carrying on conversations with loved ones or hurrying with empty baskets to the center of town where a pop-up market was in full swing. Children darted between the sea of legs, giggling and chasing one another or the cuccos that strutted over the cobblestone.

There was something just so… wholesome about the kingdom that simultaneously drew the traveling hero in and set him on edge. He wanted to join the mass of citizens, wanted to follow the stream of people down into the market. And at the same time, the sheer amount of people, the sheer amount of noise, the enclosing cobblestone walls had his eyes flicking to and fro, searching for danger.

It was like anticipation whiplash.

But thankfully, Hyrule didn't have to dwell on it long.

“Okay, is everyone clear about the plan?” Time asks, turning to address the group, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the din of the nearby crowd.

The eldest hero is met with several nods and one particularly strong eye roll from Legend.

Which Hyrule kinda gets. It was, after all, a very simple plan. They had used it for pretty much every new Hyrule they had encountered.

It was routine by now. They would split up into groups of two and scope out the village in search of this kingdom's hero. As per their earlier conversation, Warriors and Twilight would be taking the upper part of town while Legend and Sky were taking the lower sector. Time and Wind, meanwhile, would be searching through historical records in the library while Hyrule and Wild would be trying to get information out of the town guards.

Like Hyrule said. It was a simple plan. A foolproof one, if he did say so himself. Afterall, they hadn't failed to find a hero yet. They would probably find the new hero within the hour!

“Good,” The Old Man says with a nod of his head, pointedly ignoring Legend’s exasperation. “Remember to meet back here at noon with any information you can get. There is a bell in the center of town that should ring the hour.”

“Don’t be late,” Twilight adds, narrowed eye landing on Wild and then Hyrule in turn. They grin at him, the picture of innocence. He narrows his eyes even further.

Then, without anything more to discuss, the other heroes set off two by two; Twilight and Warriors heading up the stairs while Sky and Legend join the tide of people toward the market. Time practically has to drag Wind along with him, the sailor not so pleased that his pair was checking out the library.

Soon enough, only Wild and Hyrule are left standing by the quietly bubbling fountain.

“So,” Hyruel says, turning to grin at his friend, “I’m assuming we’re gonna be late.”

“Oh, you know it,” Wild replies with a smile.

The two high five and then dive headfirst into the river of people.

…

Twilight finds trying to gather information with Warriors to be an exercise in patience. A lot of patience.

The problem isn't that they don't get any information. No. Quite the opposite, actually. The problem lies in the fact that Warriors has a tendency to be chatty on the best of days and a goddess damned gossip on the worst. The captain could get the dirt on one lizalfos from another lizalfos if the monsters weren't trying to kill him the whole time. And in a town this small, where everyone knew everyone by name, there was a lot of gossip to wade through.

Some of it was useful: apparently the hero of this kingdom was a blacksmith named Link– typical– who, according to at least one very ardent house wife, was spending far more time at the castle than he had before.

However, besides his name, occupation, and apparent interest in the princess, no one could agree on anything about the kid. Everything else about him was apparently fair game for gossip.

The hero had gone on one, no, two, no, three adventures. He was approachable but cold but sweet but hot headed. He was kind but a little bit… off, driven crazy by his adventures, no, it was his blade, no, why would he still have it if it drove him crazy?

He was twelve and twenty two and part minish– whatever that was– but lived with his grandfather, no, just his father, no wait…And could be seemingly everywhere at once one moment and then nowhere at all the next.

Basically, no one could agree on who or what the kid was. It was giving Twilight a headache.

Thankfully, however, they come to learn that the hero spent most of his time running a forge outside of town, giving Twilight the excuse he needed to drag Warriors away from the group of busybodies he had accred in his search for knowledge.

“You know,” the captain says, grumbling through the winning smile he was throwing over his shoulder at his new best friends, “You could stand to be a little bit more personable.”

“I think you’re personable enough for the both of us,” Twilight grumbles back, giving his companion a hard yank forward on his scarf.

Warriors quickly adopts an affronted look; hand on heart, mouth open, eyes blinking in mock confusion, the whole nine yards.

“And what, may I ask, is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I– what the…?”

Something rough yet soft gently smacks against Twilight’s nose, cutting off whatever snarky remark he was about to throw Warriors’ way. With a small backstep, the farm hand gets a better look at his attacker.

It’s the frayed end of a thick rope hanging down from the roof of the house they had been walking next to. It sways lightly in the light breeze, swinging at the perfect height to hit Twilight directly in the face. With inquisitive eyes, the farm hand traces the cord from the roof,up past where it must be connected, wondering at how it got there.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” a young voice says before Twilight can investigate much further, dragging his attention down to a young man in a red tunic. The kid looks pretty distressed, brows drawn, mouth trembling, and big amber eyes full of unshed tears.

“See, I was flying my kite earlier when this big breeze came and pulled the rope out of my hand and got my kite caught on the roof of this house but I can't get it down by myself and it's not my kite– oh Farore, my brother is gonna kill me!– and–and–!”

“Whoa, kid,” Twilight says, cutting off the boy before he can work himself into a tizzy. He kneels down, bringing himself eye level with the now crying child, setting a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It's going to be okay. I’ll get your kite down.”

“R-really?” The boy sniffs, wiping at his eyes with the undershirt of his tunic.

“Really,” Twilight replies with a reassuring smile.

Without further ado, the farmhand straightens and takes hold of the rope, giving it a few experimental tugs. Nothing budges. He gives it a few harsher pulls. Still nothing.

Hmm, a bit more stuck than he thought.

“Maybe stand back a little bit,” Twilight says, shooing the kid back a bit. “It might be caught on some tiles and I don’t want you getting hit if a few shingles come loose.”

The kid nods with a watery smile, skipping a few steps away.

Getting himself into a better stance–feet firm and spread apart– Twilight takes ahold of the rope and yanks. Something above gives with a slight groan, the rope loosening, falling in the farm hand’s direction.. Twilight looks up, ready to catch the kite–

Only to catch approximately a million water balloons with his face.

One by one, the little water bombs smack into the farmhand’s absolutely shell shocked face, exploding with sharp little cracks and pops. In less than a second, the farmhand is soaked head to toe. And for a second he just stands there, looking like a stupid drowned rat, pelt heavy and water logged against his back, wet hair covering his eyes, and rope still gripped in his hand.

Two laughs ring out behind his back: one familiar, annoying, Warriors. The other, young and bright and quickly retreating in the other direction.

“Hey!” Twilight shouts, whirling around.

But the kid is already gone, lost in the crowd of people.

A snort of laughter has Twilight turning back around, now met with a Warriors who is hardly containing his laughter. The captain's whole face is red with the effort of keeping it together and yet, little giggles still slip from between his lips. The asshole.

“Did–” Warriors cuts himself off, taking in a massive breath to steady himself. “Did you just get pranked by an eight year old?”

Warriors dissolves into uproarious laughter at his own question and Twilight slaps a hand to his forehead, kneading at his brow bones there.

Yes. A lot of patience indeed.

…

Wind was so bored he could scream.

But he couldn't scream because he was in a library, where he was pretty sure it was frowned upon to scream. Not that that would usually stop him. He’s a pirate after all. Rules are little more than things for him to follow on a whim and break when he feels like.

But Time… the thought of Time’s glare or worse, his disappointed stare stayed Wind’s hand. Err, mouth.

But that didn't stop him from huffily slouching into the chair at the older’s side as Time poured over a book. Didn't stop him from bouncing his leg as fast as it would go. Or sighing very loudly every chance he got. Or sinking even lower in his seat until his chin was level with the table and bouncing both of his legs even faster or–

“Wind,” Time says, the older pinching at his eyebrows as he closes his eye. “A little bit of quiet, please.” He pointedly turns a page, opening his good eye to begin reading once more. “We’re almost done here, I promise.”

Wind slumped in his chair, resigning himself to silence.

…

For all of about three seconds before the sailor let out the loudest, longest yawn of his life, the force of the inhale arching his back while the exhale causes him to go boneless in his chair, forcing the thing to move back a several inches. A horrible screechy sound emits from the movement as the wooden legs of the chair as they whined against the hardwood floor.

By the end of the whole production, Time is staring at Wind, single eye wide, face painfully neutral.

Wind sends the older a sheepish smile.

Time’s eye narrows.

Which is how Wind finds himself stalking through the stacks, arms piled high with the books that Time no longer needs, trying to sort out where exactly to put each title. The older had apparently forgotten why Wind wasn’t helping look through the books in the first place: he couldn't read this version of Hylian, it's letters too foreign, too distant from his own.

So basically, at this point, Wind’s just putting books back where-ever he's finding openings and calling it good.

He just needs to find a few more vacancies and… there! A couple of bookshelves down the line, on the bottom most level, several books sit spaced out, leaning against one another instead of packed rigidly together. Perfect! He can get rid of several of these damn things all at once.

With a slight pep in his step, the sailor moseys on over to that shelf, leans down, and shoves about seven books into the open space.

Arms now considerably lighter, the young hero stands, whistling a quiet tune as he glances around for somewhere to deposit the last of his load–

“Aw, c’mon!” A voice, high pitched and annoyed. “I just set that all up!”

The sailor whirls around, apology ready on his lips for whatever librarian he just pissed off, only to find himself alone amongst the books. Wind looks back the way he came. No one. Back the other way. Nada. A peak around the shelf. Zilch.

“Uhhh, hello?” the young hero tries, turning a circle, peeking through the spaces between the books to see if perhaps someone was speaking to him through the shelf. “I’m sorry I fuc-err- messed up your… uh whatever it is you set up?”

“It’s fine, ” the voice replies, resigned frustration bleeding into its tone. “I’ll just be back home a bit later than I…”

A beat.

“Wait... Kid, you can hear me?”

“Not a kid,” Wind corrects, his ears flicking up and down, trying to pinpoint where the voice is coming from. “But yeah, I can hear you. Why?” Wind turns another circle. “Where the hell are you?”

A little laugh.

“Look down.”

Without thinking, Wind does as the voice commands and… huh.

Down below, next to the shelf Wind had just gracelessly filled, stands a tiny person. Like a really really tiny person, probably hardly bigger than Wind’s thumb.

“Holy shit!” the young hero exclaims, almost immediately dropping to his knees to examine his new friend.

And upon closer inspection, Wind can see that his friend isn't exactly a person at all, per say. Well, not Hylian, at least.

The little guy has ears like a Hylian, long and pointed and pierced, which protrude from the side of his head. He has hair like a Hylian, shoulder length and blonde, with the front pulled back into a neat ponytail. He even wears clothes like a Hylian; a black shirt tucked into puffy green pants, the tiniest sword Wind has ever seen slung over his shoulder, and a little pair of goggles dangling out of use around his neck.

But that's where the similarities end. Because the little guy’s face is nothing like a Hylian’s, instead ending in a long pointed nose, like the muzzle of a mouse. Wind can see that the other even has whiskers, the little hairs twitching and flickering inquisitive as the little guy tilts his head up to look at the sailor.

Wind thinks he must be examining Wind as closely as the sailor is doing to him, but there's something about his small friend’s large eyes–big, black, and seemingly pupil-less– that makes Wind feel like the other is taking a mental pictograph of him, filing away Wind's face for later.

Oh yeah, and the tail. His small friend also has a little, white, feathery tail with forest green plumage on its tip. It twitches every so often. It's adorable.

With a small laugh, the little guy takes a small step forward–huh, four toed feet– moving closer to Wind, no doubt taking in the sailor's downright astonished expression with the amount of glee of someone who's been through this whole song and dance before and who absolutely loves it.

“What kid?” he says with a grin, exposing long, rat-like incisors. “Minish got your tongue?”

“Not a kid,” Wind corrects without even thinking. “The fuck’s a Minish?”

That seems to knock his new friend off balance a little, the little guy’s grin slipping the slightest of bits as his nose begins to twitch faster.

“You’ve never heard of the Minish? Or the Picori?”

Wind shakes his head. “Nope.”

The grin slips entirely off the mouse-like man’s face, black eyes losing some of their twinkle.

“Oh.”

“But uh,” Wind says, because oh, Ocean King, if he thought a sad looking Hyrule was bad, this little guy takes the kicked puppy–kicked mouse?– look and turns it up to eleven.“Thats probably just because I’m not from around here. I’m from really far away. An island actually.”

“An island? Really?” The little guy perks up considerably at that, eyes lighting back up and whiskers and tail twitching excitedly. “Huh. I’ve never even seen the ocean before,” he says a little wistfully.

There is a beat of silence between the two.

And then the little guy, the Minish, shakes his head as if coming out of a day dream, smiling sheepishly up at Wind.

“Heh, sorry about that.” he rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit. “Just been stuck in this town for a while. Going a little stir crazy. Anyway,” and the minish’s face quickly shifts from sheepish to imploring, “now that I know you can hear me, how about you help me fix what you just messed up?”

Which is how Wind finds himself multitasking, helping the minish, who he comes to learn is named Green, set up all of the books back into their original configurations while the little guy rides on his shoulder, helping Wind to place his own books back in their correct locations.

They chat as they go about the task, Green telling Wind all about the Minish who live in the library and why the books were set up the way they were while Wind describes growing up on a small island in the middle of the ocean. Back and forth, the two trade stories in between placing books, Green bragging about killing an Octoroc on his own (which, for his size, is actually pretty impressive) while Wind goes on and on about being the second in command of a pirate ship.

Before long, Wind finds himself sliding his final book into place, feeling oddly sad as the cracked leather spine leaves his fingers.

The sailor brings an open palm up to his shoulder, which Green steps into to be placed on the shelf Wind is standing in front of, bringing the two eye level.

“Thanks for all the help, Wind” Green says, smiling, black eyes twinkling in the dim light of the library.

The sailor waves him off, sending the other a grin of his own. “Ehh it was nothing. I mean, I’m the one who messed all of that shit up in the first place. Might as well be the one to clean it up too. And besides,” a roll of his sea glass green eyes, “it kept me from actually fucking dying of boredom.”

“Yeah, about that,” Green says, strolling over to the book Wind had just placed on the shelf. He runs a small hand over the spine, tracing the golden embossed letters with his fingers. “Not many people are super interested in the old legends of the Light Force. What exactly are you and your friend looking for?”

The little sailor takes a glance around, making sure no one is within earshot. Finding not a soul, the sailor turns back to his new friend and leans in smiling, truly a kid with a secret to tell.

“I’m pretty sure this is supposed to be hush hush, if you know what I mean,” the sailor starts, voice a whisper but words alight with excitement as he flashes the minish a conspiratory grin, “But I think you’re cool, so I'll tell ya. Hold onto your tail, ‘cause this is gunna sound absolutely keeseshit insane.”

“See, my name isn’t actually Wind. That's just the hero title I got for saving the Great Sea.” He gives the wide eyed minish a little playful bow and a wink. “Link, Hero of the Winds at your service”

“Anyway,” the sailor continues, really getting into his story now, hands moving wildly as he explains, ”Me, the dude with the sick face tats–that's Time, by the way– and six other heroes from across time and space were all brought together for a really fucking important adventure where we’ll probably have to save all of our kingdoms. And today, we got spat out here and because it’s none of our versions of Hyrule, we know that we probably need to find the hero that lives here and get them to come along with us on our adventure.”

“So Time and I were here checking the library to see if there was any info on the hero. Makes sense, yeah?” The sailor finishes, eyes finally coming back to rest on the minish

The minish who is now blinking at Wind owlishly, large obsidian eyes somehow even bigger than before.

And then the little guy breaks out into chittering laughter, the mouse-like man almost knocked over by the force of his own giggles as his tail lashes and he clutches at his stomach as though in pain.

“Hey!” Wind exclaims, indignantly. “I’m not making this shit up! It’s true!”

Green shakes his head, still laughing as he wipes a hand down his face.

“Oh no, don’t worry. I believe you,” the minish says, words still bubbly with laughter even as he tries to compose himself. “That’s why I’m laughing.”

Another chuckle, this one considerably less light. More bitter, and crumbling around the edges.

“Never a dull moment when you're a hero, huh?” Greens says, looking down at his hands. “Never a moment’s rest.”

Before Wind can respond, before he can unpack what his little friend just said, his head whips to the left following the quiet and distant sound of his name. It’s Time, the Old Man calling for him. It’s no doubt time to go.

With a tinge of sadness swelling in him like the tide, Wind turns back to his friend, farewell ready on his lips, only to find the minish smiling up at him, an aquamarine fragment of stone hefted in his tiny arms.

“For all your help,” Green says. And then when Wind doesn't take it immediately, he lifts it higher, more insistent. “And for good luck.”

With ginger fingers, Wind plucks the stone from his small friend’s hands. He turns it over between his palms, staring at the etching of a four leafed clover in the middle, tracing the way the stone seems to be broken in half, a jagged edge disrupting the intricate carving.

“What is it?”

“A Kinstone. If you find its other half, something good will happen.” A rat-toothed smile and glittering black eyes twinkling with an unreadable emotion. “Something tells me you’re going to need some luck in your future.”

“Wind!” Time’s voice again, closer.

“Coming!” Wind calls back.

And then to his little friend: “I uh, guess this is good bye.”

The Minish nods and holds out his hand, looking pointedly at Wind, encouraging the sailor to do the same. With a touch of confusion, Wind complies, holding out a finger to his small companion.

Green smiles, looking up into Wind's eyes as he presses a hand to the center of his chest, placing the other to the tip of Wind’s finger.

“Umoriut ichiri,” he chirps warmly.

And then, just before Time turns the corner, the little guy sends Wind one final grin, before turning and running, ducking behind several books and skittering out of sight.

“There you are,” Time says, finally coming to stand at Wind’s side. The Old Man glances around, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Were you talking to someone? I thought I heard voices.”

Wind’s eyes flick back to where his little friend was just standing, tracing the little alcoves they had made for the Minish who live in the library.

“Nah,” Wind says, turning back to Time with an easy grin, hands behind his head, “Just whistling to myself. “We good to go?”

As the two exit the library, headed back toward the fountain to meet up with the others, a blonde haired boy in a green tunic rushes past Wind, gently brushing the sailor’s side as he runs.

“See you later!” the kid calls, looking over his shoulder only long enough for Wind to catch sight of forest green eyes before the boy’s face is obscured by bodies, his small form disappearing into the sea of people near the market.

Huh.

The kid must have Wind confused for someone else.

And yet, the little sailor could not help but think the other’s voice was oddly familiar somehow.

…

Legend and Sky start canvassing the lower town.

Start being the operative word. They do not finish canvassing the lower town.

Because really, Legend muses, how were they supposed to work in these conditions? On an empty stomach and absolutely surrounded by the mouthwatering smells of the little market?

So they stop searching for the hero and start searching for someplace to get lunch because, really, with so many eyes open and ears out looking for the kid, one of the others were bound to find something they could work with.

Or, at least, that's what Legend tells Sky to get the chosen hero to stop looking like a guilty puppy over the fact that they’re ditching their job.

So, after touring the stalls for a bit, sampling this and trying that with the pocket change that Legend always keeps on his person, they eventually settle on a more permanent looking place for lunch: a little bakery with a sign out front that says “Wheaton and Pita’s Bakery”.

The soft tinkling of a bell and the absolutely heavenly scent of baking bread, melting butter, and sugary frosting greets them as they push their way through the door, confirming that they made the right choice.

“Welcome to Wheaton and Pita’s Bakery, home of the lucky brioche,” calls a dour voice from behind the counter. “What can I get you today?”

The owner of the voice is a blonde kid standing at a work bench a bit farther behind the counter, kneading dough with the viciousness that one would use to throttle their worst enemy. The kid is absolutely covered in flour and powdered sugar, leaving only his livid cobalt eyes unbleached by the ingredients. He’s wearing an apron with lots of little blue hearts and stars embroidered into the front.

With an angry grimace, the blonde gives the dough another massive punch, blowing a few strands of hair that have managed to escape his tight bun out of his face.

The kid looks like he hates his life.

Which is fair, Legend thinks. The kid is working retail, after all.

Welp, too bad for him. If he's this easily annoyed, he's in the wrong business. And unfortunately for the young blonde, Legend most certainly isn’t above antagonizing strangers for his own amusement. Gotta make your own fun while going on a wild goose chase for the Goddess, you know?

So, with only a tiny dot of venom soiling his innocent mischief, Legend plasters a doughy, dumb look over his face

“Any recommendations?” the pink haired hero asks, voice so sugary it contends with the crystalline smell of frosting in the air, his smile wide and vacant. “We’re from out of town.”

The kid must know what he's doing, because the veteran swears he sees the boy’s right eye twitch. Bingo.

“We literally only sell four things,” the kid grits out with a grimace.

Legend raises an eyebrow at that, innocent smile going a bit more pointed as he gives the boy an appraising look. A ‘oh really? You’re talking to a customer like that?’

The kid’s grimace somehow becomes even more pronounced as he narrows icy blue eyes at the veteran hero. But then, as if hearing the words of someone lecturing him, the kid shakes his head and gets a hold of his temper.The young blonde takes a deep breath in, and sighs it out, visibly trying to soften his jaw, his shoulders. Another breath in and the kid holds it this time, the boy somehow turning his grimace into an even more painful looking smile; all teeth, no lip.

“If you want sweet, get the pie or the cake.” He says, mouth hardly moving as he hisses the words out between his bared teeth. “If you want savory, get the brioche or the croissant.”

“Oh that sounds great, but what do you recommend?”

The kid's face turns a little red.

Legend takes it as a win, even as Sky elbows him in the side, clearly having caught on to what the pink haired hero was doing.

“Sorry for my friend,” Sky says, an easy, appeasing smile on his face. “I’ll take a brioche, please.”

“And a slice of cake for me, if you’d be so kind,” Legend adds, batting his eyelashes a little.

He gets another elbow to the stomach. Its totally worth it for the icy glare he gets from the blonde as he shoves himself away from the counter, going off to fill their order.

“Why are you like this?” Sky whispers, shaking his head.

Legend merely shrugs, pulling out the correct amount of rupees and placing them on the counter. And then, after a second, places a purple one inside the open tip jar. Because the kid was at least a good sport about the whole thing.

“Here’s the brioche,” the boy says, handing a personal sized loaf to Sky with a napkin. “And the cake,” he finishes, passing a ceramic plate and fork to Legend. Then with the fakest smile known to man: “Have a great day.”

The two heroes turn away from the counter, only making it a few steps before both give into the temptation of their food.

And Legend has to admit, the cake is amazing.The frosting on top has crystalized on the outside, leaving the inside buttery and sweet and tasting of vanilla. The cake is spongy and light, complimenting the fresh, tart strawberry and raspberry jam sandwiched between the layers.

It's nothing short of heaven and Legend would have finished it in a few seconds flat if not for a sharp crack, followed by an excruciating pain in his mouth.

With an open mouthed shout of surprise and hurt, he spits his last mouthful onto his plate; chewed up bits of cake covered in blood followed by a fucking fragment of a blue stone.

Well that and part of a tooth. Part of his front tooth.

“Wuh huh ‘UCK!” Legend screams, blood on his lips, jolting both Sky and the boy behind the counter, who both look at him in surprise and then shock.

“Did you just fucking bite into the Kinstone?!” The boy shouts in a mix of surprise and anger, vaulting over the counter, a handful of napkins clutched in his palm. He quickly guides the pink haired hero back into a chair while shoving the paper into Legend’s hands. Once seated, the boy takes the plate away as Sky leans in, shooting Legend a concerned look as the veteran sets about shoving as many napkins in his mouth in order to curb the flow of iron.

“Why huh ‘UCK are ‘here shtones in a ‘UCKING cake?!” Legend spits as best he can around the napkins and the painful half stump of his front left tooth.

“It's a Kinstone, you moron! Almost every goddess damned thing in the store has one baked into it!”

“How wash I shuppos’s to knohw ‘hat?!”

“You would have known if you had bothered to look at the fucking menu instead of being a goddess damned menace!”

Legend whips his head up to look at the sign hanging above the counter, not believing the little, snot nosed–!

… sure enough, in bright white letters, it says, “Chance to win a Kinstone in every treat!”

Son of a...

The door opens with its tell tale tinkling and a woman steps into the bakery, freezing the three boys in their tracks as they watch her enter. She totters in, arms full of groceries and a jovial expression on her face, having clearly not seen them yet.

“I’m back, Link!” she says, setting her basket down on the counter, before glancing around, obviously looking for her helper. “How was manning the shop– oh my goodness gracious!”

A hand comes up to her mouth as she rushes over to the group of teens, glancing between Legend’s bloody mouth and the kid’s angry expression.

“Oh, Link.” She says, voice sad. No. Disappointed. “You punched another one?”

“Another one!?” Sky exclaims.

“...the one fucking day I switch jobs with Red, I get the morons…” Legend catches the boy mutter under his breath. And then to the woman, “No, Mrs. Pita. This one,” he throws a thumb at Legend, “bit into a Kinstone and broke a tooth.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” the woman exclaims, gently removing Sky and the blonde from infront of Legend, taking a hold of the pink haired hero’s chin to examine his mouth herself. She hisses at the sight of the broken tooth, the white bone broken clean in half. “I’m afraid you might need a fairy to fix this, my dear.”

Legend groans as best he can around the napkins and now the examining fingers of his woman he's never met before. The Old Man has all the fairies right now and Legend does NOT want to explain why he needs one.

“Uhhh,” the blonde boy says after a few moments of the woman’s examination, inching back away from the scene, apron already over his head and in his hand. “Looks like you've got this covered, Mrs.Pita, so I’ll just…”

The woman waves the boy away, not even looking up from where she’s now examining Legend’s gums. “Yes, yes, out with you. Thank you for the help, deary, and say hello to your grandfather for me.”

The boy nods emphatically, throwing his apron over the counter and dashing out the door.

It's a few minutes later, the woman bustling about looking for gauze, Legend pressing a lump of ice into his mouth that Sky suddenly says: “Wait. Did she say that kid’s name was Link?”

Legend would punch himself in the face if he wasn't afraid of losing any more teeth today.

…

Oh, Time really shouldn't have put Hyrule and Wild together if he wanted them to be on a schedule of any kind.

Because really, what did the Old Man expect? For them to stay within the walls of the village and talk to soldiers when there was an entirely new, never before seen kingdom just beyond the barrier of dull, grey stone?

Yeah right!

So it really shouldn’t have surprised anyone, least of all Time, that pretty much the first chance they got, Hyrule and Wild were out the gates and into the rest of the kingdom proper.

And Nayru, If Hyrule had thought this Hyrule was cute before, well now he thought it was both cute and beautiful.

The two adventurous heroes spend hours just getting lost together.

They end up at the base of a volcano, the ground heat-baked and cracked, a gentle but continuous snowfall of embers blanketing the earth and smothering it.

Despite the... warm welcome, they journey higher, until each inhale becomes a breath of pure flame, searing their throats and layering the roofs of their mouths and their lungs with ash.

And yet, for as inhospitable as Mt. Crenel is, all around them, the two can hear the sounds of the volcano rumble and combine and thrive with a sort of life of its own; the muffled bubbling of hot geysers mixing with the whistle of superheated air shrieking through cracks in the ground, all of it adding to a percussion of falling boulders until the entire mountain is thrumming with a rhythm, a heart beat of why would you try and climb this?!

So, of course, Wild and Hyrule continue to climb it.

Then, slightly smoldering and definitely soaked in sweat but smiling as bright as the overhead sun, the two teens stroll their way through rolling fields. They trace the curvature of the hills with pounding feet, wade their way through a sea of knee high waves of grass caught in the tide of the wind.

At some point, they catch sight of a small house in the distance, sitting alone on a raised plot of ground, and consider stopping to ask for directions. They eventually decide against it, content to their wandering.

Past the house, which Hyrule thinks might actually be a blacksmith due to the sharp ting ting ting emanating from the building as they pass, the two enter a forest. Almost immediately, Hyrule feels something in him shift, his chest releasing a breath he hadn't even known it was holding, letting the traveler feel like he was finally breathing for the first time in a long long while.

Hyrule can’t put his finger on it, cannot reach out and touch it or even put a name to the feeling, but there's something about the place that just… feels like home. The trees, tall and older than Hyrule will ever be, create a dark canopy overhead, interrupting the sun and leaving the forest floor in cool, misty shade. There is a strange stillness to the woods, as though everything has been muted; the trees, the bushes, the fog, all of it taking the sounds of the forest and softening them, a gentle brush of noise rather than a deafening din of activity.

And the air... The air is cool and refreshing, thick with the scent of rain and moss and mud and growth. And something else. Something that prickles familiarly at Hyrule’s skin. Something that sits on the back of his tongue, sweet, but not cloying so.

It’s something magical.

Not the crystalline honeysuckle of faerie magic, Hyrule thinks, but something similar, adjacent. It is not as ephemeral, not as wily or mischievous. It feels… more grounded. More rooted, more ingrained into the very earth instead of free floating magical ozone. It feels nice. Homely.

Hyrule could probably stay in that forest, The Minish Woods, for hours, if not for the fact that they did, infact, need to head back at some point. So with a bit of reluctance, Hyrule lets Wild drag him from the woods and back out into the light of day.

Soon enough, the two of them find a dirt road and follow it until the grey cobblestone of Hyrule Town come into view. The home stretch, they’re almost there–

Hyrule feels the dirt of the road shift beneath his foot, something burying through the ground underneath his soles, creating a small wake of rock and displaced dirt that has the traveling hero tripping with a gasp.

He catches himself, but only just, eyes almost instinctively following the way the shape that had nearly caused his fall glides forward through the dirt before it comes to a screeching halt. Thin black claws erupt from the top soil, scrabbling scrabbling scrabbling until there is a hole large enough for a rounded, yellow head to emerge from underground.

As if looking for who just stepped on it, the head wheels around in the hole, revealing a molelike face wearing a blue domino mask of all things. However, the monster's tiny eyes seem to spot them easily enough, the creature's lips immediately peeling back from it’s thin snout to reveal a needle-like sneer that has Hyrule and Wild drawing their blades.

With a squeaky giggle, the head disappears back underground only to immediately reappear as the creature emerges more fully from the dirt.

Or, if Hyrule is going to be accurate, as the creatures emerge more fully from the dirt, because their little guy apparently has friends. Friends that stack ontop of eachother, one after the other, until there is a tower of the little guys tottering toward them, claws extended, mouths snapping, eyes glittering greedily behind their masks.

Hyrule raises his shield and sees Wild do the same next to him. The two heroes lock eyes briefly, nodding to each other, a vicious smile shared between two people with the same idea. Focusing his eyes back on the tower of enemies, Hyrule braces his legs, ready to break into a sprint.

Because while the spire of moles is tall, it isn't exactly what Hyrule would call stable. A single blow from their shields should do the trick.

“Go!” Wild shouts, jolting both heroes into action, the two springing forward as one, shields ready to dismantle their enemies–

When a massive clawed paw erupts from the ground directly in front of the tower, grabbing a hold of the bottom most enemy. The little thing only has long enough to widen its eyes and let out a little shriek of fear before it's being dragged back down under the ground, the entire tower coming down with it.

“What in the hell was that?!” Wild asks, having to shout over the muffled sound of rodent-like shrieks and hisses rising up from the depths of the hole

“No clue.” Hyrule responds, just as bemused, keeping his eyes firmly locked on where the claw had emerged. “A new type of Wallmaster?”

A final high pitched shriek pieces the air, followed by total silence.

And for a second, Wild and Hyrule just stare at the hole, swords up, shields prepped, ready for literally anything to jump out of its depths.

They don't have to wait long, as two massive clawed paws emerge from the hole, working in tandem to tear at the sides of the pit, widening it. Wider and wider and wider until it’s at least three times bigger than the one the little moles had popped out of.

A final pass of paws and then the claws grip at the edges of the pit, wicked looking nails rooting themselves into the earth, a stable basis for something to haul itself up and–

Another blonde head pops from the hole, but unlike last time, it is quickly followed by shoulders and a very small, hylian looking body and Oh, Nayru, the traveler thinks his jaw might have just hit the dirt because what looks to be a freaking eight year old child is hauling himself up from underground.

In seconds, the boy is free from the earth, standing and pulling off the massive clawed gloves– gloves! They’re gloves!– and stowing them away in a leather satchel, as he mutters quietly to himself. The child then lets out a sharp tisk as he seems to realize how dirty he is, hands passing methodically through his straight blonde hair to rid it of any clods of dirt. A couple of harsh swipes across his clothes sends clouds of dust billowing from the child, and Hyrule watches as the kid’s tunic seemingly turns from a dusky heather to a vibrant violet.

Quickly stowing his sword and shield, Hyrule rushes to the child’s side just as the kid finishes cleaning himself up, the wandering hero’s eyes peeled for any injuries, any visible bruises, tears in the other’s tunic or pants.

“Are you alright?” Hyrule asks, voice a little breathless from shock.

“Oh,” the boy replies, taking a reflexive step away as the traveling hero skids to a stop next to him, sharp amethyst eyes giving Hyrule an evaluative once over before flicking over and doing the same to Wild as the champion approaches.

“My apologies,” The boy gives a slight incline of his head, his face betraying nothing as he speaks. “I was unaware anyone was out here. I am sorry if I surprised you.”

“Surprised us?” Wild asks with a little laugh, eyes wide with excitement. “I mean, yeah, but that was freaking awesome kid! What were those things anyway?”

“And what were you doing down there?” Hyrule asks, voice soft but eyes sending daggers Wild’s way because the champion just completely bypassed the fact that there was an eight year old underground fighting monsters.

The boy’s face cracks a little, his blank facade wrinkling as his eyebrows furrow an inch, his mouth turning down a tick. His eyes flicker back and forth between Wild and Hyrule, as though the two heroes are a puzzle he’s trying to work out.

“Those were Acrobandits,” the boy explains slowly. “Not particularly dangerous monsters, but pests nonetheless. There has been an unfortunate resurgence in their numbers as of late, so I was asked to “thin the herd,” so to speak.”

“Not saying you aren’t capable of handling them yourself, but aren’t there soldiers for that?” Wild asks, Hyrule nodding along with his friends' words. Because, sure, while he was handed a sword at the age of fourteen and tasked with saving the world from an all powerful pig demon, that didn't mean all kids should be out killing monsters before the sun had set on their first decade.

The boy’s eyebrows furrow further, face now looking completely nonplussed.

And then suddenly, his face shifts again, a look of clarity easing the confused tension in his expression, amethyst eyes beginning to flash with interest.

“You’re not from here,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Uh, no. We’re not, but–”

“Then you’re travelers, I presume.” the boy cuts in, turning to more fully face the two heroes as his eyes light up even brighter, curiosity polishing the gems of his eyes into glinting facets. “How many kingdoms have you traveled to? Why have you come to Hyrule? Have you noticed any significant differences in georgraphica–”

“Okay, whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down, one at a time,” Wild butts in, waving his hands slightly, as if he were dispelling the words from the very air. “Yes, we’re travelers, we’ve been to about eight kingdoms, and were in this Hyrule looking for a hero named Link.”

The boy blinks at that.

And it's like a door slamming shut, the younger blonde’s expression closing off as the interest that had illuminated his eyes dims. His face hardens into impassive stone, painfully neutral.

“Why are you looking for him?” the words cold, carefully measured.

“You know him then?” Hyrule asks, picking up on the boy’s defensive behavior. One would only act that way if they cared deeply about the person in question. Cared about a stranger’s intentions toward them. “We need his help with something and need to speak with him as soon as possible.”

“Need help with what, exactly?” the kid asks, narrowing his eyes.

Wild and Hyrule share a look.

Because, really, isn't that the million rupee question?

Because, at this point, even they aren't sure what they're doing. They know they’ve been brought together by some sort of force powerful enough to punch rifts through time and space itself but they weren't clear on what this force was, or if its intentions were benevolent or not.

There was no old man to tell them what they were supposed to be doing. No cryptic clues or helpful hints, no companion to give them some incentive.

They were just eight heroes from different eras suddenly shoved together by some weird twist of fate and expected to do... something.

But that isn't an answer.

But Hyrule has no other to give.

So he tells the truth.

“We… don't actually know.” the traveler begins, letting out a soft sigh as his eyes meet the boy’s, a field of earnest hazel versus a sea of skeptical violet. “We… aren't sure what we’re doing or even why.”

A raised eyebrow from the boy and Hyrule lets out a humorless laugh in response.

“Yeah, I know, right? Sounds pretty stupid. But,” and Hyrule tries, he tries to make his words as full of conviction as possible. Full of steel but also full of simple, all encompassing warmth. “All I know for sure is that whatever it is we’re doing, we’re doing it for the good of others. And that’s worth looking a little stupid for. Or, at least, I think so.”

A beat of silence passes between them.

And then, for the first time since they’d met him, the kid smiles.

It is small, barely an upturn of his lips, but it is soft and fond, the kid shaking his head slightly, as if dispelling a thought. Or perhaps a memory.

“You sound like my brothers,” the young blonde says, still smiling. “Idiots, the lot of them, but brave. Brave idiots.”

Hyrule watches as the kid’s smile turns sad. A breath in and a breath out and the expression is gone, the boy’s face once again a fond, half smile.

“It sounds like you could use all the help you can get. I’ll tell you where you can find him. The Hero.”

…

Honestly, for how much they had done exactly the opposite of what their job was supposed to be, Hyrule is a little proud to find that he and Wild manage to procure the best information thanks to the help of the kid– Vio.

And sure, they’re three hours late, but they’re not empty handed like Time and Wind, or soaked to the bone and with little more to show for it than rumors like Twilight and Warriors, or missing a tooth like Legend.

It is mostly only thanks to them that the heroes set off south of town, Twilight in a new set of clothes (but his still damp fur plastered stubbornly to his back) and Wind happily admiring a now completed Kinstone thanks to Legend’s… souvenir.

Before they know it, the group of heroes find themselves outside of the blacksmith’s forge that Hyrule and Wild had passed hours ago.

To think, if they had just stopped to ask for directions, they could have found the Hero with no muss, no fuss.

Oh well, Hyrule thinks, a touch of a smile pulling at his face. He always did prefer to do things the long way around.

Time, ever the leader, pushes open the door, the rest of them following close behind and–

“You!” Twilight hisses,taking a slight aggressive step forward as he jabs a finger in the direction of a very familiar looking young blond boy sitting on top of the weapon shop's counter. And then addressing the other heroes, accusing point never dropping for a second, “That's the kid who dumped water all over me!”

“Uhhh, no,” Legend cuts in, sending a look Twilight’s way that clearly implied that the veteran thought the farm hand was being a moron, “Thats the kid from the bakery. The one who sold me the cake with rocks in it.”

And Hyrule wants to break in that, no, this is Vio. The one who fought off a bunch of mole monsters like it was nothing and who told them where they could find the Hero in the first place. The reason they were even here.

Because its very clearly the same kid. Same diminutive height, same straight, shoulder length blonde hair, same headband holding the golden locks out of the kid’s face.

And yet, at the same time, Hyrule can also distinctly tell that it's not the same kid.

Because where Vio had been chilly politeness, bright curious eyes, and stone cold suspicion, this kid is all knowing grins, mischievous looks, barely contained anticipation. He’s also wearing a completely different outfit: a quadripartite tunic, four different colors sewed roughly together at their edges to make a very unique whole.

And apparently he’s been waiting for them, a bag already packed and sitting on the counter next to the kid.

“It sounds like you’ve met my brothers,” the boy says by way of greeting, smile never leaving his lips as he hops over the service counter, dragging his full bag with him. “Sorry about them, they can be a bit of a handful. My name’s Link.”

A little laugh to himself, like there is some sort of inside joke here that no one seems to be in on except the boy himself.

“But something tells me I won’t be going by that for much longer,” the little hero continues.

A hearth warm smile. An air of confidence. A stone firm handshake. A tempest of energy.

“You guys can call me Four.”

#linked universe #lu four #lu hyrule #lu twilight #lu wind #lu legend #a 'four is the last to join fic'#train writes #hope you enjoy sus!

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nachtgraves · 5 years

Note

I don't know if you take requests or things but i really like your writing. But can i get some jealous!Kuzuhina (like they both like each other or are dating and they both get simultaneously jealous?) Your writing is really good i love it.

Aw thank you! And I do very much take requests so thank you for the prompt! This took a while because I got fixated on figuring out UK peerage and titles and barely any of it made it into the fic that got longer than intended as per usual lol. Not sure if this quite what you had in mind but I hope you enjoy!

Title: Under Sunlight // AO3Word Count: 4,670Warnings/Tags: G. Victorian au sorta, established relationship, secretly dating, i took liberties with uk peerage, not historically accurate, a little past one-sided peko/fuyu(the kids’ former high schools are their ‘territory’ for their titles, so Duke Green Hills is gottagofast Togami)

Hajime’s nerves battle between excitement and dread andanxiety that is not entirely because of the fairly rocky carriage ride. Hecan’t seem to sit still, smoothing his hands over his legs, buttoning andunbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, fidgeting with the lapels of his coat. Chiaki,sitting across from him, reaches over and stills his jumping knee.

“You’ve been to parties as my companion before. And we knowMakoto and Kyoko. What’s wrong?”

Hajime sighs. “I know. It’s nothing, just, he’ll be there.”

“I don’t understand. Shouldn’t you be more excited aboutthat?”

Hajime shrugs helplessly. He should. He hasn’t seen his loverin months and letters are nice but never enough. And it’s not like he can talkabout his lover since no one but Chiaki knows that his lover is the Marquess ofSuzuran, Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu.

They are something that shouldn’t have happened, couldn’thave happened if not for chance. Chiaki’s world alone is something that Hajimeas a boy didn’t think he’d ever be a part of. And he’s still not, not really.He isn’t an earl or even a baronet, he’s Chiaki’s friend and valet. The linesare blurred and they’re already stomping over the lines of propriety andtradition and Hajime wasn’t about to test his luck with making his andFuyuhiko’s relationship public knowledge. Even with Chiaki, Fuyuhiko is of aprestige that is out of Hajime’s reach. He cherishes every second he can bewith his marquess.

“To the public, we don’t know each other,” Hajime finallysays. Even if he wanted to use Chiaki he couldn’t, his best friend and hislover are in completely different circles. Makoto and Kyoko’s engagement partyis one of very few parties where different ranking mingle, Kyoko a duke’sdaughter and Makoto a baron’s son. “And I can’t pretend not to know him the wayI do if we’re together.”

Chiaki hums and pats his knee before withdrawing. Theychange the subject and talk about who else will be in attendance, who they’relooking forward to seeing. Who they’re not. Due to the disparity between Kyokoand Makoto’s ranks, their relationship has been the fodder for gossip rags andspiteful gossip since they became public and their engagement party is not theintimate gathering of friends that they would have preferred.

Soon enough, they arrive at the Kirigiri estate. There’s aline of carriages and they wait until it’s their turn to disembark. A footmanopens the door and Chiaki gives their names as he helps them out. Free of thecarriage, Hajime smooths out his clothes and offers Chiaki his arm after shesorts out her dress. They walk arm-in-arm past the tall gates of the estate andimmediately come into a large garden party. There are patio tables andlace-decorated umbrellas. Servers mill about holding silver platters ofchampagne and lemon water. A band plays a gentle number that a few pairs danceto on the grass.

There are many familiar faces around, some Hajime knowspersonally and others he knows only by reputation. One of the tables has beenrepurposed for cards with spectators gathered around Lady Celestia and HisGrace Green Hills, Lady Touko hovering by His Grace. Sonia is in discussionwith Gundham and Kazuichi. Nekomaru, Akane, Lord Leon, and Lady Aoi are in themiddle of some sort of ball game with Dame Sakura keeping an eye on them.

“Ah, there’s Kyoko!” Chiaki says. She tugs Hajime towards asmall gathering. In the center of it is the happy couple, Kyoko drawn into thethick of the conversation and Makoto standing by her side. They’re with peopleHajime doesn’t know but when Makoto catches sight of them he looks relieved andextracts himself from the gathering after a word to Kyoko.

“Chiaki, Hajime, thank you for coming.” He seems to want toreach out for a hug but they’re in mixed company and restrains himself to abright smile and the use of their first names.

“Congratulations, my lord,” Hajime says teasingly, claspingMakoto’s hands in place of a hug.

“I’m not a lord yet.” Makoto flushes pink from embarrassmentand happiness, maybe a bit from the sun bearing down on them. He looks back toKyoko who’s glancing towards him. It’s absolutely sickening and Hajime couldn’tbe happier for them, if a touch envious.

They spend a few minutes catching up, and it’s mostly Makotothat has had major changes in his life since they last saw one another. He’s inthe thick of legalities to make Komaru the heir of their family’s barony afterhe marries into the Kirigiri family. He’ll become an earl of one of theKirigiris’ smaller lands when Kyoko inherits her father’s duchy.

They’re in the middle of discussing and lamenting all thatis involved in the preparations for Makoto and Kyoko’s wedding when Hajime hearssomeone say, ““Oh, the Marquess brought only his knight. Maybe there issomething to the rumors.”

Hajime can’t help turning around and there he is, in a darkthree piece suit with matching coat and a dark gold tie fixed in a perfectknot. And on his arm is Dame Peko, in a suit-styled dress that matches withFuyuhiko. They look a powerful pair.

Hajime knows he needs to look away, that his face is likelyfixed in a picture of longing and envy, but he soaks Fuyuhiko in. The vest,shades lighter than his coat and trousers with burnt gold fastenings and adarker embroidered design of Eastern styled dragons, is one Hajime remembers. He’dseen it in passing in a shop window the last time he had managed to visitFuyuhiko. He remembers mentioning it but they had quickly moved onto less coherentlyverbal matters.

In any case, he’d been right. The vest looks amazing onFuyuhiko and Hajime wants to peel off Fuyuhiko’s coat to see the fabric infull. They’re stopped by peers and Hajime turns around, trying to pretend hewasn’t staring so openly at the two. Chiaki’s giving him a knowing look heignores.

“I wish I could keep talking with you both, but I can’tleave Kyoko to do all the hosting. After all of this,” Makoto waves his handsabout, “is over, we must get drinks or dinner. I miss you both.”

“Of course, if you can find the time to pull yourself awayfrom your future duties as an earl and the husband of a duchess.”

Makoto rolls his eyes but waves as he returns to Kyoko, takingher arm in his, accepting felicitations and joining conversation.

Chiaki slips her hand from Hajime’s elbow. “I need to run tothe wash closet,” she says. “You’ll be fine on your own for a bit?”

“I’m supposed to be the one watching out for you,” Hajimeretorts. “I’ll be by the buffet table.”

Chiaki asks him to grab something for her before she leaveshim alone. The buffet table laden with bite-sized treats ranging from biscuitsand tea buns to mini-sandwiches and puddings in tiny glass cups. He walks downthe length of it, picking up sandwiches and pastries he knows Chaiki likes. Ashe continues to peruse the offerings, he comes to a tray of fried dough bites.Hajime doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he’s very familiar with thesweet, incredibly unhealthy snack.

He reaches for the pair of tongs to grab a few of the darkstrips of dough and brown sugar but someone else has the same idea. He looksup, apology halfway off his tongue but stops short.

“Lord Suzuran,” Hajime says in a mix of surprise and trainedgreeting. He barely remembers not to call Fuyuhiko by name.

Fuyuhiko’s face is impassive but Hajime notes the way hiseyes flash in amusement. He’d done this one purpose.

“Mr. Hinata,” Fuyuhiko returns. He takes the tongs and loadsup his plate with his favorite food. “You like these?”

He’s being unfair but Hajime can’t just ignore him, and ifhe lies Fuyuhiko will never let him forget it. “Um, not really no.”

“Oh?” Then why wereyou going to grab them? remains unsaid but his expression is knowing, mouthcurved in a slight smirk.

“I just know someone who loves them,” Hajime buckles,looking away in his admission. When he looks back to Fuyuhiko, his marquess iseating one of his fried dough treats, licking his fingers of the brown sugarsyrup residue. Hajime follows the movement closely. He’s being so obvious it’sprobably pathetic. They’re out in the open and they’re in vastly differentcircles, not supposed to know each other even as acquaintances. Fuyuhiko’s amarquess and heir to a dukedom and Hajime is little more than the valet andclose friend to a viscountess.

Hajime knows what Fuyuhiko is doing. His lover has made itclear that he’s not exactly happy with keeping their relationship a secret,only doing so at Hajime’s behest. But he doesn’t try to make things easier inthe few times they attend the same social functions.

He tries to find some other topic to switch to and stupidlyasks, “Lady Natsumi couldn’t make it?” Of all the topics to pick this is thelast he could and should have gone with. But he can’t help himself. At least hedidn’t outright ask about why he brought Dame Peko. Fuyuhiko is notorious fornot courting or bringing anyone but his sisters and his knight to events as hiscompanions. His excuse has always been that he has no time nor interest forcourting and society and Natsumi loves all sorts of events so he acts as herchaperone since he doesn’t trust anyone else. It kills two birds with one stonesince it makes him fulfill the social obligations of his position.

“Natsumi’s at school so it’s just me and Peko.” He looksover his shoulder and Hajime follows suit, seeing Dame Sakura and Dame Pekoconversing. The two were schoolmates, Dame Peko a year ahead. They both havesuch rigid and neutral, if somewhat threatening, expressions it’s difficult to tellthat they’re familiar with one another.

He eats another fried dough strip. “I take it you’reaccompanying Lady Chiaki?”

Hajime nods. “Ah yes.” And speak of the devil, Hajime seesher coming towards him. “There she is.”

When she approaches, she links her arms with Hajime’s. “Sorryfor making you wait,” she says to Hajime, and then she greets Fuyuhiko.

Fuyuhiko’s eyes linger at their linked arms, the golden orbsgo flat. He fixes a polite smile and returns Chiaki’s greeting, but he’salready distancing himself. “I’ll leave you two. I should return to Peko.”Without much else, he turns on his heel and walks over to his knight. Hajimewatches after him, his heart heavy. Fuyuhiko slips easily into conversationwith Dame Peko and Dame Sakura and Hajime reaches for champagne from the trayof a passing server. He downs it quickly and grimaces at the after taste.

Chiaki leans against him. “Did I interrupt?”

Hajime sighs. “No. Oh, hey, you like this waltz, don’t you?”

It’s not the smoothest diversion but Chiaki allows him it,and it’s not like he’s lying. It is a waltz Chiaki enjoys due to its ease andsimplicity. Hajime abandons the food he’s lost his appetite for and they joinother pairs on the grassy open space in front of the band, sliding into the familiarsteps.

Hajime does his best not to look at Fuyuhiko whenever theother man is in sight over Chiaki’s shoulder. He tries to focus on Chiaki,chatting and laughing as he spins her around. They dance for two songs beforethey need to take a break. There’s really no cover from the sun. They takerefuge at one of the patio tables and manage to flag down a server with glassesof chilled lemon water. Hajime would prefer they have a quiet moment to themselves,but that’s near impossible at a gathering like this.

Chiaki, like Fuyuhiko, doesn’t always attend socialfunctions. Unless it’s a small and intimate gathering with those she considersfriends, she’d much prefer to be left to her own, literal, devices and books.

But they’re stuck and have to navigate the shifting socialwaters. Or at least Chiaki does. Most tend to ignore Hajime or order him aboutthinking he’s staff. Which he is, but only to Chiaki if he’s attending as hervalet and not companion, and that’s rarely the case if Chiaki can help it.

But today is one such time that he’s treated as less byindividuals that try to simper and curry favor from Chiaki. A lord Hajime onlyfaintly recognizes but cannot recall his title, much less his name, inviteshimself to their table and snidely questions why Hajime is just sitting there,beside Chiaki. Hajime fixes a smile and settles a hand on Chiaki’s knee underthe table to stop her from tearing the lord apart.

“I was resting. I don’t dance often and while today islovely overall, the sun is brutal.” He can’t outright correct the lord of hismisconception, it would go against all sorts of social decorum and Hajime wouldbe the one in the wrong regardless. He doesn’t want to cause Chiaki griefbecause a peer was called out on his behaviour and publically embarrassed by acommoner.

Chiaki adds, “Hajime’s a great friend. He’s always humoringme even at risk of heat stroke.”

The lord pretends it was all in jest and tries to backtrackby laughing the discussion off and moving onto safer topics of estates anddebutantes and the season’s fashion. It’s all over Hajime’s head and topics hecan’t have much say in because of his station. Even if Hajime could and wouldhave wanted to take part, the lord very pointedly directs all his attention toChiaki and all but erects a wall between them. Chiaki pats his hand in supportunder the table.

As conversation is not open to him and he’s not about toleave Chiaki alone with his man, Hajime takes to looking around. The Kirigiriestate is an architectural and landscaped masterpiece with not a stone norbranch out of place. And if structure and décor bores him, the variety ofguests dressed in the broad range of the current fashion provide plenty to beobserved.

But his eyes keep going to the man with buzzed blond hair.And he wishes they didn’t. Fuyuhiko and Dame Peko have moved on to spectate agame of cards. Some uninformed or cocky lord is trying their hand against LadyCelestia. Dame Peko leans down and whispers something in his ear, it looksintimate and Hajime’s stomach twists. He knows better, but he still feels illwhen Fuyuhiko snorts and looks up at Dame Peko with a hint of a smile andreplies, rising up on his toes before she leans back down so he can whisper inher ear.

“Who do I have to see about putting money on the Marquessand his knight being the next society wedding?” the lord says, drawing Hajime’sfocus back to the table.

“If there is such a pool, that’s the last I would bet for,”Chiaki replies.

“Now, my lady, it would be a bit scandalous but look at ourhosts. Anything’s possible, apparently.” The derision is accompanied by rolledeyes directed towards Makoto.

“The illusionary differences of social class have nothing todo with my opinions. And if someone ever thought that of me, they really do notknow me at all, now do they, Hajime?” Rarely is Chiaki curt or cold, but she’sbeen growing steadily irate with their unwelcome table companions A tense cloudsettles over the table and the lord is not so oblivious to not realize he’smade a misstep yet again.

He stumbles over some sort of recovery but Chiaki is lenientenough to save him the trouble. “If you’ll excuse us, I haven’t had the chanceto catch up with Lord Nagito.”

Chiaki gets up and Hajime follows suit but he almost stopsin his tracks seeing just whom Lord Nagito is currently with.

Lord Nagito is an eccentric peer and Hajime has never quiredisliked the man, but he can’t say he quite likes or enjoys his company. Hecan’t quite place Lord Nagito’s feelings towards him either. The odd lord hasfew close companions and by some strange logic one of them is Fuyuhiko. Hajime’snever understood and Fuyuhiko’s never been able to put a finger on it himself.

So he really shouldn’t be surprised that up ahead, champagneglasses in hand, Fuyuhiko is rolling his eyes at whatever Kazuichi and LordNagito are discussing, although arguing may be closer verb.

Chiaki reaches out and holds onto Hajime’s arm, leaning overand saying quietly, “If you want to take a few minutes, there’s probably no onearound the back.”

Hajime hesitates. He doesn’t want to runaway but he alsoisn’t into punishing himself more than he already has. There’s still a goodwhile before it’s acceptable to leave, even with the excuse that he and Chiakiwill be going straight home rather than lodging somewhere in the city. “I’llfind you in a bit.”

Chiaki lets him go after a quick kiss to his cheek. Hajimecan feel stares on them but doesn’t look around. “Go on, I’ll be fine.”

Chiaki goes off and Hajime forces himself not to stare afterher and subsequently Fuyuhiko, turning away and heading for the quieterbackyard of the estate. He walks around the edge of the manor and comes to alarge back garden of the season’s flowers in full bloom. They’re made up almostlike a maze that guides to a gazebo that’s mostly hidden by miniature trees andflowering bushes. Like Chiaki had guessed, there’s no one else around.

He follows along the path and steps into the shade of thegazebo. Inside is a white wicker patio set; a square table set with a glass topand two chairs with intricate weaving. Hajime sheds his coat and folds it overthe back of a chair before he takes a seat, leaning back and closing his eyes. Musicand chatter from the party are a faint noise in his peripheral.

While he doesn’t quite fall asleep, he must have dozed a bitdeeply because he’s blinking out of a daze when someone’s shaking his shoulder.

“Stealing away for a nap?” Fuyuhiko says looking down athim. He’s standing between Hajime’s legs that have ended up in a long sprawland still fuzzy-headed, Hajime reaches out and cups Fuyuhiko’s face, pullinghim down for a kiss.

Fuyuhiko braces himself with one hand on the back of thechair but otherwise falls into the soft but firm and lingering press of mouths.Hajime can feel Fuyuhiko smile into the kiss and it pulls a smile of his ownuntil an applause echoes from the distance and Hajime remembers where they areand that even though the gazebo is out of the way and gives the illusion ofprivacy, it is just an illusion.

It hurts his heart to see Fuyuhiko’s smile dip when Hajimehurriedly pulls away, getting to his feet and trying to create distance withouttoppling backwards over the chair. Fuyuhiko takes a step back and crosses hisarms over his chest. He’s discarded his coat as well and the vest looks just asgood as Hajime thought it would on him. Unfortunately, they’re not in a placewhere he can properly appreciate it.

“I, sorry, I forgot where we were,” Hajime says, smoothingout his clothes to take his mind off of Fuyuhiko’s.

“There’s no one around, Hajime,” Fuyuhiko says. “Everyone’sbusy with champagne and dancing and gossiping.”

“Someone could have the same idea as us and come back hereto take a breather,” Hajime argues. “Any little action lends to gossip andrumors.”

“Doesn’t stop you from fueling the rumors about you and yourviscountess,” Fuyuhiko grumbles, looking off to the side.

“You know those are baseless. Anyone that actually knowsChiaki or me knows that we’re siblings at most. And it’s expected. We grew uptogether. And it’s not like you and Dame Peko are any different.” He shouldstop there, but he can’t help bitterly adding, “At least Chiaki and I havenever had romantic feelings for each other.”

He regrets his words as soon as they escape him. Now he’sbeing unfair and purposely so about something long past. Dame Peko and Fuyuhiko’srelationship is entirely platonic and he knows it. When Dame Peko did havefeelings for Fuyuhiko, it was long before Hajime and Fuyuhiko even met.Fuyuhiko and Dame Peko had been children, it was a first crush that settledinto loyalty and trust and a bone-deep friendship.

Fuyuhiko doesn’t even say anything. He just shoves his handsinto his pockets but Hajime can see they’re clenched into fists within thefabric, his muscles tense. His face goes blank, a flinty steel to his eyes.

“Fuyuhiko, I didn’t—” Hajime tries to apologize but Fuyuhikocuts him off.

“I should be returning. If you’re going to continue napping,there’s a bench close to the doors that won’t fuck up your neck.” With thatFuyuhiko turns around and walks away, quickly disappearing behind shrubbery andreturning to the party.

Hajime falls back into the chair and hangs his head. He’sreally shoved his foot in his mouth now and he’ll definitely have to figure outhow to make it up to Fuyuhiko, if Fuyuhiko will even still talk to him.

It takes him a few minutes to make himself get up and rejointhe party even though he is far from a partying sort of mood. But he can’t disappearand abandon Chiaki until it’s time to go home.

Returning back to the rest of the party, Hajime finds thateveryone is at tables chatting or gambling or discussing business and trade. Theband’s taking a break, their instruments put off to the side under some shade,all of them down water and wiping sweat off their brows. Anyone who was wearinga coat no longer is and sleeves are rolled up. A server stops Hajime and asksif he might take Hajime’s coat, to which Hajime gratefully hands off the itemwith a thank you before looking for Chiaki.

He finds her in the shade of a looming tree with LordNagito, Kazuichi, and Lady Aoi. He joins them and makes an excuse of needingsome time away from the heat for his prolonged disappearance. Chiaki frowns athim, she must be able to tell that something had happened.

“I saw Fuyuhiko slip away for a bit,” she whispers to himwhen they have a second.

Hajime shakes his head. “I messed up.” Fuyuhiko’s across theyard. Hajime meets his eyes for a second but Fuyuhiko quickly looks away.

Chiaki pats his arm in sympathy but says, “I understand yourposition, but it must be hard on him too.”

“It’ll be harder for him if we don’t do this.”

Chiaki makes a noncommittal noise. “It was hard for Makotoand Kyoko. But they stuck together. Makoto was so worried but look at him now.”

Makoto is all smiles that are even softer when turned toKyoko, the sun shining down on them.

Hajime looks to Fuyuhiko and his heart clenches in his chestat the marquess. It’s not obvious to others, but Hajime has learned Fuyuhiko’sbody language and he knows when Fuyuhiko is upset and angry. Dame Peko doestoo. Her usually emotionless mask cracks into a hint of concern and she leansdown to whisper something to Fuyuhiko. Fuyuhiko shakes his head and runs a handthrough his hair. He smiles, a tired one, and Hajime knows it’s his fault evenbefore Dame Peko looks up and shoots him a judging glare. Hajime looks down,ashamed, and lets conversation happen around him, only making noises ofacknowledgement when needed.

Not long later, the band returns to their instruments toresume their next set. Their leader calls for couples, namely Makoto and Kyoko,to take the floor. There’s cheering and clapping as Makoto takes Kyoko’s handand leads her to the center of the cleared space. Other couples and pairssurround them, getting into position and waiting on the band. Everyone who camewith a companion finds a space. Hajime automatically takes Chiaki’s hand andgets into position, ready to move to practiced steps.

But when the band starts, Hajime recognizes the song as thefirst few notes sing through the air and his legs freeze. It’s a song native tohis hometown, a song about fate and true love discovered in touch and a leap offaith. It’s the first song Fuyuhiko and Hajime ever danced to. It was one oftheir first secret meetings, a private indoor picnic of wine and pastries spiritedaway from the kitchens.

Chiaki pats his cheek. “You should dance to this with whoyou’re meant to.” She pulls away from him. “I’d rather raid the snacks whileeveryone else is busy.” And she walks away and does exactly that, leavingHajime standing alone. Someone snickers at him but he turns and finds Fuyuhiko.He and Dame Peko have managed to snag an abandoned set of chairs. Fuyuhiko’sleaning on his elbow and looking at the pairs dancing with a wistful tilt tothe purse of his lips.

Hajime’s been a cowardly idiot. He makes his way around thedancers and comes up to Fuyuhiko. Dame Peko notices him first but she doesn’t domore than send him a warning look and make some excuse to get up and leave. Shedistracts Fuyuhiko long enough that Hajime is in front of Fuyuhiko beforeFuyuhiko can bolt.

“Mr. Hinata,” Fuyuhiko says, cautious, surprised. He quicklyshoots a glare at Dame Peko, quickly figuring out his knight had abandoned himon purpose.

“My lord.” Hajime’s voice cracks at the address, but hesoldiers on. “My lord, would you allow me a dance?” He bows at the waist, armextended, palm up. His hand is shaking ever so and he knows there are eyes onhim. A lowly valet asking a marquess to dance to a love song played at everywedding and engagement party. But all he can look at is Fuyuhiko’s face, hismouth parted in surprise, eyes wide in disbelief. And then he’s smiling, aglimmer in his gold eyes that Hajime has only ever known in privacy andseclusion where they were free to be. Well, where Hajime thought they were freeto be, but they could be free in public too.

Fuyuhiko takes his hand and Hajime almost doesn’t believeit, but he pulls Fuyuhiko to his feet and leads him to an open space, into hisembrace and the first steps of the dance. He leaves the space of proprietybetween them but Fuyuhiko steps in a little too far at the next beat andreduces it to one of intimacy. Anything less was for private rooms or acurtained alcove.

“If we’re doing this, we’re not doing it halfway, Mr.Hinata.”

Hajime laughs and lowers his hand from Fuyuhiko’s shoulderblade to the gentle curve of his lower back. “Then you should be calling me byname, Fuyuhiko.”

Fuyuhiko rolls his eyes at him but he leans up and Hajime’seyes go wide thinking that Fuyuhiko is actually going to kiss him. He’s alreadytaking such a big leap, he doesn’t know if he can qiute go that far though. Butwith a mischievous smile, Fuyuhiko angles to the side at the last second and ittakes a moment for Hajime to register the brief peck on his cheek. Before hepulls away, Fuyuhiko tsks by Hajime’s ear, “There are a few things I’d preferwe keep under moonlight.”

Hajime’s ears are bright red throughout thedance, but his heart is light and full and his smile won’t leave his face forhours to come.

#my writing #kuzuhina #kuzuryuu fuyuhiko #hinata hajime #danganronpa #sdr2 #anonymous #ask #tumblr fic

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asweethistory · 5 years

Text

Proust’s Madeleine Moment

Combray Breakfast Tea Ice Cream with Lime-Scented Madeleines

How Madeleines Can Trigger Memory (originally written for the Gastronomy at BU blog)

I had never heard of Proust or his madeleine before starting the Gastronomy program at BU, but his famous moment has been talked about or mentioned in almost every class I have taken thus far. In his book, In Search of Lost Time, Proust (1913) takes inspiration from his own life, turning his childhood holiday home in the Loire Valley into the fictional town of Combray, France. The moment that all food studies people, anthropologists, and others have hence talked about occurs when Proust’s narrator (never-named) is offered tea and “petites madeleines.”

Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray…had any existence for me, when one day in winter, on my return home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take…. She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called "petites madeleines….” I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me…. I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature….Undoubtedly what is thus palpitating in the depths of my being must be the image, the visual memory which, being linked to that taste, is trying to follow it into my conscious mind.

As soon as Proust’s character tastes the madeleine dipped in tea, he experiences an overwhelming feeling of a past time, although he can’t imminently place it. With more tastes, the memory unfolds:

The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray…when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the meantime, without tasting them…that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the shapes of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds…had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring…more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

A person’s “senses also interact with memory in the creation of foodways, as Marcel Proust showed by reconstructing and entire social world through the taste and smell of a madeleine” (Tierney and Ohnuki-Tierney 2012, 120). Proust’s character is vividly transported home through his taste experience:

And as soon as I had recognized the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me…immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like a stage set to attach itself to the little pavilion opening on to the garden which had been built out behind it for my parents….and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.

Smells and tastes have the power to send people places in their past. Erdinç writes, “The smells and tastes, each time I trace them, in various phases of my own story, like the pebbles in the Hansel and Gretel story, take me home. Putting the pieces together, the picture appears as yet another rendering of the narrative of the self” (Erdinç 2001, 98). Erdinç clarifies that not all taste memories are positive and can equally appear with beloved and hated foods. The point here and that Proust made over 100 years ago is that scents and tastes hold powerful and potent connections to our past, whether that’s a figure from our childhood, a beloved home, a special trip, or an experience of commensality.

I have a culinary concept called A Sweet History in which I make ice cream flavors inspired by historic figures, events, art, etc. The point is to relay history through something accessible like everyone’s (for the most part) favorite frozen food. This long-term project has also helped me delve into stories I wouldn’t have otherwise. While on my quest of teaching others, I learn as well. I often turn my papers and projects into ice cream flavors in order to explore the subject further. Perhaps it has something to do with embodying knowledge. Even though I am not recreating traditional recipes, taking the time to cook my base, bake my mix-ins, and churn the final product allows me to think deeply about the flavor’s story. Despite not usually having a personal connection to these stories, turning the stories into a physical (and edible) product enhances their meaning. Warin and Dennis (2005) write about how Iranian female immigrants “give meaning to place and memory through the everyday practices of cooking and embroidery.” Of the senses, they write, “The senses are intertwined in a synesthetic knot in which memory is embodied and reproduced” (2005, 150). Acts of eating and cooking and creating allow for memories to resurface and be remade in a different light.

While I can’t say I’ve had as strong and similar a taste memory moment as Proust with a madeleine, here is my madeleine memory that came to mind when creating the ice cream I call “Proust’s Madeleine Moment:”

I had loved madeleine cookies for years, but I ate more that winter in France than I had in all those years combined. For four days in mid December 2015 and another four in mid January 2016, I stayed with my best friend, Rachael, in her southern-French four-story walk-up. She had two weeks off teaching English to French school children, which I took as an excuse to make a month-long vacation. Rachael was in the habit of buying jumbo bags of madeleines for only a couple euros at her local grocery store. They were cheap, but tasty and addictive. We easily ate seven in one sitting. One humid yet cool afternoon, we were sitting on the small couch in Rachael’s living room, munching on the small cakes, when her know-it-all annoying roommate interjected into our conversation. I had mentioned to Rachael that my throat had started to hurt and she offered to make a cup of tea. “What kind do you have?,” I pondered. “I think we have green,” Rachael replied, knowing that was my preferred tea of choice. Her roommate challenged her. “We only have English breakfast right now,” she said and then condescendingly, “it’s a type of black tea.” I lowered the madeleine I was holding from my lips and looked baffled at Rachael. Had her British-Canadian celiac roommate just explained to me what English breakfast tea was? Later, when it was just the two of us again with our mass-produced madeleines, we laughed and laughed. She would never know the beauty of eating soft springy madeleine after madeleine.

#marcel proust #madeleine #lime zest #breakfast tea #history #food history #ice cream #tea ice cream

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theliterateape · 5 years

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Untwisting the Jounced About Bottle

By Don Hall

You grab a bottle of soda and shake it up. You sit it on the counter. You know what’s going to happen when you untwist that cap.

Now imagine a truckload of bottles of soda, all shaken up at the same time, just ready to blow.

According the oddly named World Happiness Report, Americans are less happy (or more unhappy) than ever. The report, which has been released every year since 2012, surveyed one hundred fifty-six countries using six metrics: GDP per capita, healthy life expectancy, the freedom to make life choices, social support, generosity, and perceptions of corruption.

And despite a having strong economy and low crime rates, the US dropped in the rankings for the third straight year and is now the 19th happiest nation on Earth.

Like an entire nation of bottles shaken up and waiting to burst, showering anyone and everyone with the spew of anger and dissatisfaction.

I've been thinking a lot about those shaken up soda bottles lately - watching how incredibly uptight and entitled we are - and I'm thinking it goes a bit deeper than simply intellectual bullying or insistence on shaming people when they don't see eye to eye with us.

I continue to look around and realize that A) we all think we're really fucking important and B) we are incredibly uptight because we know, deep down in the dark snake mind, that we aren't.

In the grand scheme of things, most of us aren't all that much to crow about, historical significance-wise. When you consider that most of us can't name the totality of all 44 presidents, the existence of someone NOT voted into the highest office of a just over 200-year old country on a planet filled with humans (with more and more every second) is laudable - you exist! - but hardly notable. But like a dog that can process reason and create imaginary fears, we sniff the asses of our neighbors, eat garbage, wallow in our own shit and then wonder about the meaning of it all.

Some of us have convinced ourselves that mankind is somehow "specialer" than other species. Deities (that strangely look like us) have created us individually for a divine destiny. Some are just out for ourselves, acquiring stuff and feeling entitled to our cable TV, Cheezits, Coca Cola and planning for our retirements when we no longer have to work that job that is the equivalent of being a Big Hairless Hamster in a Wheel. We are all the starring character in the movies of our lives and everybody around us are bit players that come and go and exist to fuel our own selfish narratives.

And yet we are reminded, time and time again, that Life isn't a movie and it really isn't about us. We are held hostage by the process of aging, by the dull cadence of days that drone on and on, by the ravages of Nature and these reminders that we are NOT in control make us create rules and structures and SOCIETY.

And when the people in the world do not behave by these rules, we pounce upon them, declare them deviant and either shame them into submission or destroy them entirely. Unfortunately, there are now so many people on the planet that, if one falls into the minority, like a Sneech without a Star, there isn't anyplace to go to hide from the majority and the majority Rules and the Rules are stiff reminders of our desperate need to maintain control in a Planet simmering in Chaos and Destruction.

Sex should be between a man and a woman. Citizens should speak English. Drugs are evil. Germs are bad for you. Children are too fragile to leave the house. Aggression is wrong. Sex, even when between a man and a woman in consensual coitus, is WRONG. The true worth of a man or woman resides in his or her bank account. Different is scary. Conformity is required. Credit scores matter. All life is precious except for the poor or the black or the ones with funny accents or odd names that sound like baby talk, clanging silverware or the menu at a Taco Bell. All [insert race or religion or sexual preference] people are easily stereotyped as being lazy or cheap or privileged or criminal or promiscuous.

The bottle is societally predisposed to be shaken and we're all set to explode in some ways when we least expect it. The bubbles that simmer and pop are the constant fear of loss of control and the knowledge that our fellow citizens can and will turn on us as soon as we break one of the conventions of polite society. The pressure is incredible and it's no wonder we're insane as a species, worshipping blood-soaked violence in our entertainment and terrified of the sight of sex instead.

The flip side of this is that soda is delicious. It’s a bottle of sugar-laden carbonated water. It’s sweet. It’s amazing when ice cold on a sun-soaked day.

And there is only one way to deal with a bottle of delicious, ice-cold soda when the bottle has been tossed around a bit and is set to go off.

Wait a while for it to settle down. If the bottle had something so anthropomorphic as patience, we could all benefit from that.d

#a nation of unhappiness #thinly veiled metaphor #shake up the bottle #World Happiness Report

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theroamingpear · 6 years

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St. Lucia is located in the Eastern Caribbean offering a wide range of activities from hiking its dramatic mountains (the Pitons), rain forests and waterfalls, sun bathing on the powder white sandy beaches, and pure relaxation for those of you in search of some serious “R&R with views”.

Much of the island’s natural beauty is in protected parks and private plantations, and the knowledgeable locals are very helpful in providing tips and pointers for the best way to explore the island. There are several tour companies offering both group and personalized tours and the hotel concierge is best equipped with the local deals based on the season you are visiting.

We spent 4 days on the island and spent our time soaking in the great views from our gorgeous hotel, with a mix of some activities to keep us busy.

Top Things To Do in St. Lucia

1) Always our first! Relax at one of the luxury hotels –

Based on what you’re looking for; views, beach, snorkeling, spa, rain forest (and the list goes on) pick from any one of the several luxury hotels on the island. We picked Ladera well because…first it’s been on our list for quite some time for an incredible glamping experience and second, we were in need of some serious R& R with unparalleled view of the Pitons. It also has access/shuttle to the glamorous Sugar Beach resort which was just perfect for our much-needed beach fix.

Our room on the cliff just had an incredible view! For more on our hotel and what made us decide, read the post here

2) Hike the Tet Paul Nature Trail – (easy to Moderate; 45 min)

The Tet Paul Scenic trail is located in the southwestern part of St. Lucia and about a 10-minute drive from Soufrière. It is an easy hike with some steep steps and will take about 45 min to complete. A local guide walks you through the scenic trail and a small plantation while offering interesting tidbits and highlights of the St. Lucian culture. You will be amazed at the fertile soil of the island that can grow most anything, fruits and vegetables, medicinal herbs and some leaves that can be used as a natural soap/shampoo/detergent (pretty pretty cool). And of course, there were LOTS of papayas, bananas, pineapples and soursop trees.

The guided hike stops by a traditional house/hut showcasing some aspects of the daily life, and local utensils as part of the island culture.

The trail offers incredible views of Gros Piton and Jalousie Bay that truly take your breath away! Our guide was entertaining with continuous stories and offered to take some great pictures of us at all the main scenic stops 🙂

For more information on the nature trail, read here

3) Sulfur Springs Soak to look 12 years younger

A natural “mud bath” experience is probably not the first thing that comes to mind when you think St. Lucia (well, at least not to us!) The Sulfur Springs volcano is a dormant volcano on the island, and one you can actually drive up to for the baths. Skip the tour and make your way straight towards the area with the baths – just follow the smell, you can’t miss it! 😉

Pools of black mud with smoke coming off the pool, and a smell of rotten eggs (it’s the sulphur) will be what greets you here. Do not be afraid and head over for a rejuvenating experience. (Trust us!)

The black volcanic mud carries healing properties and helps to detoxify, tighten, and smooth your skin by scrubbing all over your body and face. It is recommended for problem skin with eczema, sun burnt or irritated skin and is actually quite cooling once applied.

Do wear a dark bathing suit as the mud can stain lighter clothing, and remember to scrub well after! The process: First take a short soak in the warm hot mineral pool, you’ll feel like a boiling lobster at this point but stay with it as the next step will cool you down…I promise 🙂

Next, walk towards the middle area and apply the mud LIBERALLY! You may have to help each other for applying on your back. Once all covered with a thick layer, wait for a few minutes for it to dry. Use this time to take some funny gangsta pics! 😉

Finally, go back to the hot pool and wash it all off. By this time, your muscles will feel relaxed and the hot water feels a bit like a nice warm sauna. When you dry yourself, you’ll be as soft (and possibly a bit stinky) as a BABY’S BUTT! But will look shiny and 12 weeks younger …uhhh did I say “years” earlier? the 12 years part may need a few consecutive runs…

Cool off later in the waterfalls nearby. That’s another 15 min drive and is part of the package if you get a tour. For more on the tour, read here.

4) Pick Jungle Gems in Fond Doux Plantation Tour (1.5hr, $20 per person)

The Fond Doux plantation tour is a guided walking tour of the truly expansive property of the Fond Doux plantation & resort.

Fond Doux is spread over 135 acres and is over 250 years old! It has retained its character and charm of the early French colonial estates, and has groves of tropical and colorful flowers and fruits making for a really interesting and fun walk. The guide was extremely entertaining and resourceful in terms of explaining the large variety of local medicinal herbs and spices.

You can also sample some of the fruits (bananas, love apples, guavas, star fruits, cocoa beans, and coconuts) while on the plantation. And watch out for those bees and humming birds as you walk through the groves!

The plantation is filled with cocoa groves, and the guide will show you the complete chocolate making process, famous of St. Lucia. Learn about cocoa harvesting, cocoa drying, and even the famous cocoa dancing 🙂 which just about brings us to the 5th item on our list…

5) Transform a Cocoa Pod to a Chocolate Bar

There are a couple of different ways to see the chocolate making process; you can take a tour of the historic plantations (Fond Doux, or Morne Coubaril) that show you how it’s done, from the pod to the cocoa (for chocolate bar). OR, you could take the class at Hotel Chocolat (Boucan) that will offer a tour AND show/teach you the process to make the chocolate bar, right from the bean! This is a day long class and a bit pricey but worth the experience if you love chocolate 🙂 Check out their “Tree to Bean” and “Bean to Bar” tours here.

We opted for the Fond Doux tour that also showed us the process with the cocoa dancing!

Get the cocoa pod from the tree, and you may chomp on it like Mr. A if you like…they’re sweet and called “jungle gems” for a quick sweet snack.

The pods are fermented, and the beans are then separated and set out to dry

This is followed by the “grinding” of the beans into a thick paste, as the age-old procedure by men dancing on the beans in this cauldron! Oh, don’t forget to add some water to the beans to make ’em slimy …

The result…TA DA! cocoa paste to be used for the further filtration and chocolate bar process.

p.s. we did not taste the cocoa paste pre-filtration

Back at Hotel Chocolat (Boucan)…the next steps are a bit more scientific and clean

We wrapped up our tour with some snacks and sipped on rum punch at the restaurant.

6) Hit the Beach to cool off – Sugar Beach Resort

There are several good beaches throughout the island with lovely (and clean) stretches of golden sand and calm water, offering snorkeling and swimming and even some water sports for those of you in need of more activities. The famous ones are Reduit beach with lots of food and activities (certainly the busiest), Anse Chastenet for snorkeling, and Anse Des Pitons for its dramatic location nestled close to the Pitons with white sand. Since all beaches are public, you can visit any of the luxury hotels and relax at their beaches for free of cost! But of course, you will have to pay for renting a chair and umbrella based on the hotel prices.

We chose to spend time at Sugar Beach (Anse Des Pitons) and you’ll soon see why 🙂

Sugar Beach resort is a stylish viceroy hotel with powdery white sand along its shore. We stayed at Ladera and ourhotel offered a free shuttle to Sugar beach multiple times a day.

The Sugar Beach hotel has an incredibly delicious restaurant and bar so you can take in the scenery while grabbing a bite to eat – perfect way to spend the day at the resort.

we also went for a stroll around the beach and caught some beautiful views of the sandy stretch from across the dock!

7) Sunset views and Spectacular colors

Perched on a small cliff between The Pitons, Ladera Resort offers the most striking view of the two peaks, Gros Piton and Petit Piton. While it’s incredible to enjoy the views in daytime, sunset offers a spectacular view with enchanting colors. The hotel’s restaurant Dasheene and its bar makes for a great viewing spot. They also have live music on almost all nights making it perfect for spending an evening!

For a view other than the Pitons (although we can’t imagine how you’d get sick of this), we recommend The Mango Tree located at the Stonefield Resort. This was about a 15 drive from Ladera and offered incredible views of the vast ocean.

We grabbed a spot by this grand tree and enjoyed our drinks while they got our table ready.

8) Feast on Saltfish and Green Figs

Don’t forget to try the island’s local cuisine famous for “saltfish”, dried and salted codfish that’s cooked after soaking it overnight, then boiled and sautéed with onions, peppers, tomatoes, and spices. We really liked the saltfish fritters, a staple at almost all the restaurants we visited. The “green figs” seem to be the island’s national dish and is St. Lucian bananas (plantains) served as a side with most fish or meat dishes.

One of our other favorites of the local cuisine was the Caribbean Roti, a wrap bread filled with a curried mix of meat or vegetables, we tried both the chicken and the vegetable and was delicious!

We tried the Boucan restaurant a few times since it was so good! they have a bit of chocolate in every dish, and the dessert is to die for! chocolatey goodness 🙂

Restaurants we mentioned above: Dasheene (Ladera), The Mango Tree (Stonefield), Sugar Resort, Boucan (Hotel Chocolat)

9) The Pitons – Should we Climb or Admire from Far?

The volcanic peaks of the Pitons are a sight to behold, and an iconic image of the island! The twin peaks are a designated UNESCO World Heritage site, and their forested slopes rise to a height of 2500 ft. Many of the hotels offer incredible views while sipping on delicious rum drinks.But if if a challenge and adventure is what you’re looking for…then you may like to climb Gros Piton. Not for the faint hearted, it’s well known to be a steep and slippery scramble to the top, but the views seem to be the best reward. There are several guided tours and the hotel concierges are best quipped to recommend a reputable one. Wear sturdy trainers, backpack and water and be well layered in warm clothes.

10) Still Got More time?

There are plenty of other activities that were recommended to us. We’ve listed the best ones for ya!

Pigeon Island

Diamond botanical gardens and waterfalls

Sail away at Marigot Bay

Hope you can enjoy this island as much as we did! Now go plan that trip… 😉

xo, ~A&A

Private: Top Things To Do in St. Lucia St. Lucia is located in the Eastern Caribbean offering a wide range of activities from hiking its dramatic mountains (the Pitons), rain forests and waterfalls, sun bathing on the powder white sandy beaches, and pure relaxation for those of you in search of some serious "R&R with views".

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ladyofmind · 6 years

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September to Remember

Is anyone else losing time with no idea where it’s going?

That’s how September went for me. Made some changes to better be prepared for keeping my social media presence alive while trying to do that little writing thing I love so much. Still don’t know how to solve the problems my editor brought to my attention, but I'm working on it. In the meantime, I have been gearing up for NaNoWriMo and preparing ahead of losing more time then. (Dare I mention holiday stuff? Like the Christmas shopping started, or the semi prepping 2 months worth of game boards and daily arts? Should totally follow my Patreon link for more on that!)

So basically? Finally might be getting ahead of the dreaded 8-ball. At least #CharactersHell was a success! Got to count the little victories too.

The awesome thing is that it’s now October, so I have many things to look forward to. Kilt Fest again, Halloween cookies... Things that you guys might love seeing, beyond my writing updates. Which of course, this is... September rounds up below.

#WIPTruthOrDare

1- T- My WIP starts in fall, covers Halloween quite well, for a bar.

2- T- No… Maybe it's simply the way in which I've hurt MC that I don't like...

3- T- Tweety! No one else works that hard or makes it look that easy.

4-T- Tweety is a plantser… Couple ideas to start the ball rolling, but no clue what will happen after that.

5-T- Tweety has reputation to uphold, so she's always early… Providing others don't run late...

6- D- Sly slips in for this, toting a mixed bag of books, including the last book he needed, Historical Society handbook/guide. “This usually fixes everything.”

7- D- Well, the last time SOMEONE didn't do what was expected, a good guy ended up with a black eye and handcuffed to a bed frame...

8- T- Tweety has those friends that pick on you for fun. But the Antags are the worst.

9- T- Deej has a “pet” Lynx or two.

D- Antag would like to know if humans count as pets?

10- T- the accents! The Scotney needs a proper balance, or else it's too harsh!

11- T- For no spoilers, we go to Woods, who's waiting to see if the band gets signed.

12- D- Already did it, got to read the book…

T- From that same, yes… Plus exhausted legs all the time.

13- T- Some are, some aren't. It's a diverse community, so all sorts of beliefs.

14- T- Tweety writes, reads, sleeps… mostly soaks and falls asleep journaling.

15- D- Costumes! Write a specific or nonspecific creature into WIP and share! Vs Halloween costumes

16- T- so close they call the bunch of them Trouble girls. At least 3-5 of them.

17- T- Soak, pick out an outfit, write and sleep, only to change her mind in the morning.

18- T- Truth be told, someone had to be… Or at least a clear “villain” in that scene.

19- T- Both. One cannot truly live without both. One you just see more of...

20- T- Tweety is a soda only sort of woman. She can mix a mean punch though.

21- T- Yes. Sophia avoids the ex that's with her employee. Love triangles suck, and people suffer.

22- T- Tweet wakes up, dresses, works, sleeps and repeats with small breaks of craziness.

23- T- Yes as it's a semi current Earth.

24- T- Sophia takes a drink since Tweet is too “nice” while Brandon and Tim just take a shot at her.

25- T- Tweety. She's the kind one taking care of others. No one likes the things that happen...

26- T- Tweety and Sly. Tweet’s prepared for crazy and come ons, while Sly is a wealth of knowledge.

27- T- Honestly? This Diner/Beach Travel thing. So real and intimate...

28- T- The same one who regularly fries the Jukebox trying to “fix” it. - Deej

29- T- I think Remmy, or Sly have a great grasp and can do justice as narrator.

30- T- Tweety does even to her own detriment… #spoilers

#wipwordsearch

1- Bebe shot through the room, if one could #run and skip, she seemed to be doing it.

2- Even nearly #falling onto a guy and barely keeping her red rubies caged looked classy.

3- Angus and Scotty had the good sense to first agree with Woods, and then do their darnedest to get Brandon to #leave while he was still in one piece.

4- Frost #groaned, something in her face gave him the funny feeling in his gut again.

5- When Tweet, Runta, and Ally came out from their fix up, it started with one #whistle, which turned into more and soon had the girls blushing at the reaction.

6- The #gravelly tone wasn’t lost on either of them, "Tonight's lesson- don’t start anything you can't control."

7- He seemed to lose himself in that thought; mindlessly working the bottle around, as if #twisting it would #twist him free of whatever plagued his mind.

8- He didn't stop until she looked much more alive, and likely to melt and #drip right out of the car.

9- Not that Bebe on her side of the bar would be outdone. She would make her own group #gasp at her antics and outbursts, Nira at her hip, egging her on.

10- She could still see and remember all the ugly things she believed of herself, but now she couldn’t touch it, couldn't revel in it like a pig in #mud.

11- Woods smiled again, already figuring out how to #rock out as a version of Wolverine.

12- "If it's a pole you want luv, I'm ready and willing to be of assistance anytime." He chuckled, her eyes #rolled in exasperation, yet her face said she loved it; even her lips twitched warring not to smile.

13- Woods' gaze #drifted to the stage, and a smile stirred his face for the first time in what felt like a long time. "Do you mind…?"

14- A #chill went down Tweet's spine, she could have done without music now, and certainly never wanted to hear that song ever again.

15- NO DUSK

16- NO GUTTERAL

17- "Ok, ok I'm sorry I snore, but you kick. If either of us should #cry over bad sleeping habits, it could be me."

18- She first needed to wash away the sweat and #grime that came from his violent sleep.

19- "It's just that he's a big ladies man, #spent most of the day getting all kinds of attention from the ladies, probably thought he could get you to do it too. Roger's not a bad kiddo, just not smart about his manners."

20- It had been so long ago, but now he clearly remembered #Grandma Jeanie.

21- They even coaxed a guy into trying out as a chef. He'd been #sweet talked into whipping up some lunch, even if it was sandwiches, and somehow he was grateful for the opportunity.

22- She hated the battle, but knew in her #heart, it was right to worry about the complications of leaving and untangling things.

23- Her father sounded similar when he was drunk, and her mother usually #bore the bruises to prove it.

24- "I spoke the truth doll face; it does look like your #closet exploded." She stuck her tongue out at him, and he made the pinching motion at her.

25- Most of the surrounding clubs were #seedy and their names tried to sound respectable, but you could see it from the street how they operated.

26- Smiling to himself, his randomness started to sound like Bill #Withers to his own ears. Use Me came to mind and he went with it, making sure to pay more attention on Tweety.

27- The band started playing on the stage; the cymbal #crash and reverberation out of the guitar were perfect attention getters.

28- the one time she would enjoy having a silent sort of boyfriend was also the time he decided to talk..."I swear to god, if you open your mouth, it better be to #sing or to simply use your lips. Anything else and I will walk out right now."

29- She moved to strapping on the mask, a pretty purple piece, with lines of glitter around the eyes and the mask edges. It had slight points at the top edges of the mask, and on them were a line of gems; in amethyst, ruby, and #sapphire blue.

30- He had too many hopes and dreams for one night. If she was as good as he hoped she was, a #month wouldn't even be enough to scratch the surface.

#CharactersTell

1/9- *Looks around before stepping up* “I believe I am to volunteer for this round of questions, as education is my strong suit. While you may have heard me called a Thesaurus, I prefer Sly, your night time bartender.” (in the Red Letters series)

2/9- Sly- “Currently, I am a college student, but I have an education from books. Well read is an understatement for me...”

3/9- Sly- "I'm a transplant. An Aussie originally, these classes abroad are amazing, but the hours are rough on me. So what if they joke I'm a vampire? At least I have all sorts of foreign educations…"

4/9- Sly- "Up until recently, I preferred to be a lone wolf if you will. Maybe I had a friend outside of school that shared my hours and moods, but usually only one at a time."

5/9- Sly- "The subjects that were not my best, they had a tendency to bore me or be harder. In my favorite classes, I did get much further ahead. Certain classes were practically finished in months."

6/9- Sly- "I do prefer my solitude yes. Only now am I learning to embrace the education from interesting people."

7/9- Sly- *The verbose bartender pauses* "I do not like talking about that with anyone."

#CharactersTell

8/9- A strange woman walks on stage, dressed in mismatching items with a pink wig on. "Oh honey, if you don't know who I am, you're in the wrong bar. You may have the privilege of calling me Lady Sophia."

9/9- Lady Sophia- "What education do you think you deserve? I have many teaching styles…" (So, not your Ivy League grad here…)

10/9- Lady S- "This is a toss up. I personally loved music classes, as I AM a singer. But I did attend nearly every gym class… Between the health classes and all that physical movement? Best thing to study and then put into practice, usually behind bleachers."

11/9- Lady S- "Of course. History already happened, so who cares? Only reason I kinda went to math and economics class was because of a guy. Really if there wasn't something to stare at, I picked and chose."

12/9- Lady S- "Define popular? Like rah rah shove a pom pom up my (bleep) popular? (bleep) no darling, but I did develop my own following and acclaim, for my talents…"

13/9- Lady S- "Bothering is such a simple word. I had my share of "stalkers" and "can't get enoughers" but there were people who considered me a "bother". Inappropriate is really in the eye of the beholder, you know?"

14/9- Lady S- "As much as that does not matter now, I actually had great grades in economics and decent ones in business related electives. No wonder where my business owner skills came from."

#CharactersHell

1- Just your average bar for crazy people. Little history, little future building, lots of music and dreams...

2- It's a woman's fiction genre because it's more than just a romance or slice-of-life story.

3- The challenges are the characters mostly! Some go off the rails and it's hard to get them back… Others think I am writing SFF, or something more X rated. Mostly it's just "how to host/run a bar while antisocial."

4- This WIP is something I've been working on for a long time, and I can never get it out of my head. This story wants out and it's pursuing me to no end, challenges and all.

5- I wouldn't say my world is very harsh, but there are some bad elements that make it less than pretty...

6- There are multiple levels of evil, some you can see, others are working in secret together.

7- Besides the fact that it's a bar, therefore full of alcohol? Well, there is a sort of brothel thing going on in the background that Tweety doesn't care for...

8- This one's a toss-up. Remmy is in a broken relationship from the start. Tweety is in a relationship, and yet not….

9- Remmy is aware, though that doesn't make it hurt any less. Tweety wasn't to start, but does realize, and it makes it harder to work.

10- Remmy is at a 9, while Tweety is at about 4. One is more likely to leave than the other, and Tweet has far more than a budding relationship to worry about.

11- For Remmy's hellmaker, she's aware she just doesn't care. For Tweety, Woods doesn't realize her inner workings. Woods can be kind of clueless...

12- Remmy does, in Long Island Iced Teas made by Tweety. Tweety can over flirt when her feelings are hurt or she's trying to pretend...

13- Oh definitely. The third parties are endless, including the bar owner Sophia, bandmates like Brandon, and just general other patrons in the bar. Can't forget Tim too...

14- In a relationship likely to cheat? Has to be Raven. The rest of the group have sort of fluctuating relationships where you can't tell if they're together or not so you really can't call it cheating.

15- Tweety is to blame for some of what she's gotten herself into, but not all of its her fault, some of its circumstance from the job she's in...

16- Oh all the time. Tweety isn't known as a Trouble girl for no reason, and you don't hear them calling Double or Triple Trouble without her friends.

17- They are in both kinds of hell. It's a lot of psychological stuff, until it becomes physical. Breaking things both mentally, and the furniture too.

18- It's likely a lot of characters won't come out the same. But they will survive, just changed, and scarred...

19- Oh yeah the lusty people are the original bar workers, with the exception of Frost.

20- As it says in the book, nobody would be hanging out in a bar if they didn't have personal stuff too. At least our bar workers, patrons are different story.

21- Generally it's not very gory, except for the scenes that are meant to be. Try to keep them to at least one really graphic thing a book...

22- I hate editing, it's harder for me to fix things when I'm still not seeing the problem.

23- Now I do, some software, an actual editor (mine's @scribecat check out her awesomeness!)… makes this process a little easier.

24- A lot of the time it's binge-watching something and getting away from writing.

25- if it's a long weekend, and I know I don't have to work the real job, sometimes there's alcohol...

26- My problem characters are always the smart ones. Like Sly, who's nicknamed the human thesaurus; or Nira, who's like a crazy genius… Sometimes they are smarter than I am.

27- I hold on to a lot of stuff, so worst memories are critiques- school writing stuff long before I knew I was to be a writer.. stuff I should be over but still haunts me. Or the times I tore out notebook pages with "failed" first chapters. Never get those back..

28- #FF

29- Tim hits almost all of them, like Pride, Lust, Greed, Envy and Wrath. They pair up, like pride and greed, but especially lust, Envy, wrath working all together...

30- Tim? Oh he's depraved enough to revel in it, and I doubt he'll be redeemable… Can't make the leopard change his spots.

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