#But trickster is fast now so they fucking good and nasty

[jade-lynxx]

Back on my bullshit

[spicysoftsweet]

Blow - Hisoka x Reader **NSFW**

A/N: This is what happens when you get lack of sleep, extreme thirst and feel like listening to Beyonce. Please enjoy this songfic, it’s dirty af.

Song: Blow by Beyonce here - highly recommend you play this song (WITH HEADPHONES) when reading this. 

---

I love your face

You love the taste

That sugar babe, it melts away

You weren’t exactly sure what to do about Hisoka Morow.

You navigated life as though you were not entangled with the magician, carrying on day to day without bothering to factor him into your plans, working and seeing friends as usual, only to come home and crash onto your bed, passing immediately into a deep slumber. He had a tendency to ruin all of your plans whenever he appeared without warning anyway - in fact, you were pretty sure he lived for it. 

But your days with him were pure magic.

I kiss you when you lick your lips

I kiss you and you lick your lips

His lips, always sweet like cotton candy, met yours with fervor, always suddenly, always hungrily the instant he returned from a long absence. Sometimes he didn’t bother to say hello, greeting you instead with an open-mouthed kiss, strong fingers steadying your jaw and a hand firmly grasping your bottom. Once he’d taken your breath away with such a strong entrance, he would pull back and grin, gazing at your half-lidded eyes and the softness of your expression when your mouth was left slightly open and wanting, reveling in the power he had over you. 

“Did you miss me?”

You like it wet and so do I, you like it wet and so do I

I know you never waste a drip, I know you never waste a drip

I wonder how it feels sometimes

Must be good to you

It never took long before Hisoka’s head was between your legs, whether it was hovered over your body splayed across any surface (your bed, your couch, your coffee table, your counter… so on and so forth). Maybe he prepped you by peppering your body with kisses from head to toe, sometimes paying extra attention to the sensitive, taut nipples with an almost inappropriately gentle roll between two of his fingers, sometimes not. Regardless, he always descended on you like a natural predator, and your body responded in turn to the swish of his tongue in and out and around that space below, alternating with a pump or two of his fingers.

Keep me coming, keep me going, keep me coming, keep me going

Keep me humming, keep me moaning, keep me humming, keep me moaning

Don’t stop loving ‘til the morning, don’t stop loving ‘til the morning

Don’t stop screaming, freaking, blowing

Your mouth cries out his name in whispers, then moans, then groans as pleasure courses through you like multiple electric shocks. Your thighs tighten around his head as you try to keep composure, holding in the lewd indulgence overflowing from your insides, arching your back, biting your lip, closing your eyes…

Can you eat my skittles?

It’s the sweetest in the middle (Yeah)

Pink is the flavor

Solve the riddle (Yeah)

His hands grip your inner thighs as his tongue plunges in as far as it can go and you cry out as he stops moving inside you. 

“Shit, Hisoka!” You scream, and you can’t tell if you’re mad that he started, mad that he stopped or mad that he exists. His thumb flies automatically to your mouth, a silent command to suck. Hisoka looks up at you, then down at you as he rises, his narrow eyes gleam with lust.

“Don’t come, darling… not yet,” and he palms your quivering cunt with the rest of his hand.

Imma learn back

Don’t worry it’s nothing major

Make sure you clean that

It’s the only way to get the

Flavor 

“How bad do you want me?” His hand still covers the expanse between your legs, your sex is literally in the palm of his hand. He’s teasing you.

You bite your lip and cease from answering, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of telling him how much you need him right now and he narrows his eyes even further then slips not one, not two but three long, slender fingers in a fluid, rapid motion and curls them inside you, hitting just the right spot.

You find yourself letting out the filthiest sound and his chuckle is soft as he brushes his lips against yours.

“You can be stubborn but your body isn’t,” he purrs into your neck.

When you’re thirsty and need love.

I give it up ‘til I’m empty babe.

Must be good to you

If you’re lonely in your bed, fill it up to the top

Must be good to you

When he bottoms out, his impressive length sheathed entirely inside you, you’re face-down with your face stuffed into a pillow to muffle the sounds that seem to jump out of your throat. His hands massage your ass in between long, deep strokes, and you swear you can feel him in your diaphragm. Your breath hitches with every thrust and you’re still moaning indecorously. You’re almost embarrassed by the sounds you make but you hope he never stops. You’re enraptured by the way he feels inside you, and his own passionate groans let you know he probably feels the same.

Keep me coming, keep me going, keep me coming, keep me going

Keep me humming, keep me moaning, keep me humming, keep me moaning

Don’t stop loving ‘til the morning, don’t stop loving ‘til the morning

Don’t stop screaming, freaking, blowing

The room is filled with the sounds of sin, flesh slapping flesh and body fluids mixing together. Your bodies are coated in the thinnest layer of sweat, you more than him of course, and you swear he can ejaculate on command, timing it with the very moment your back arches violently in pleasure.

He moans your name once, and maybe you came a second time even more powerfully than the first. It’s not normal for you to feel this attached to someone. What does it mean to be this passionately linked to another? Especially when you’re not sure the lust they have for you will ever turn into something more akin to love?

“I love you,” you whisper, as you settle into his embrace. Your breath is still rapid and soft, and your heart beats fast against him. He holds you tighter, but he doesn’t say it back. Instead he brings one of your hands to his mouth and kisses the back of it.

You smile softly, noticing he can’t bring himself to say it back. Instead you change the subject.

“Hisoka, how long are you staying this time?” You demand to know, tracing a finger on his chest. The trickster glint in his eyes intensifies as he looks into yours.

“How long do you want me to stay, kitten?”

---

I can’t wait ‘til I get home so you can tear that cherry out

Turn that cherry out, turn that cherry out

I can’t wait ‘til I get home so you can tear that cherry out

Turn that cherry out, turn that cherry out

I want you to turn that cherry out, turn that cherry out x4

The next day, you stand side by side with your research advisor, holding out your phone so that the two of you could take a look at the phone application you’d pulled up to demonstrate.

“See, all you have to do is plug in these values -“ you tap the screen a few times with your fingertips before holding it back into position, “and it does the math for you!”

With this, you turn to grin at the old man, quite proud of yourself, but his face quickly went from a look of wide-eyed interest to a look of even wider-eyed unease as your phone vibrates once, then twice in your hand.

Oh no…

Your stomach turned as you brought the phone close to your face, hunching over slightly, and checked your messages frantically. You already assumed the worst and you hoped you were wrong.

Unfortunately for you, your suspicions were spot on.

Come home right now, kitten, read the first message. And the second:

I plan to turn you inside out, my dirty little minx~ 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

You could feel your face grow hot as a furnace, and you put the phone in your lap as your research advisor rose to his feet, and placed his hands behind his back, clearing his throat.

“I… er… think it’s probably a good time to dismiss you. It looks like you have something… important to attend to.”

As you walked out of your boss’ office, wondering if this moment of shame would mar the two and half years of impeccable work you’d kept up, you swore that this time you’d give Hisoka the biggest talking to of a lifetime.

Ooh, I’ve had a nasty thought today, baby

Every time I close my eyes

Talking never worked on Hisoka. 

In fact, while you were still walking home and giving him an earful through the phone, you only heard a soft hmm of response ever so often. An exercise in futility.

Then your phone buzzed suddenly mid-rant and you realized he’d sent you a picture of his dick, and you let out a scream of frustration and hung up. Unfortunately, you were already in front of your door, and before you could consider making an about-face and going elsewhere for the rest of the evening, he’d already sensed your arrival.

You could hear the door swing open and Hisoka stood, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes glinting and seductive, and his fiery red hair only slightly drawing attention away from his very fit body, very nude save for a tight pair of boxer briefs.

“Where are you going, kitten?” He purred. “Wouldn’t you like to unwind after work?”

Your mind said no, but your body said yes. 

But you steeled yourself. “You put me in an awful position today, Hisoka! Stop making jokes!”

“I’m sorry, darling, but wouldn’t it be better if I put you in some more favorable positions?”

With that simple statement, he hoisted you up, and brought you back into your apartment and you just didn’t fight it.

Bring ya work home on top of me

I’m-a let you be the, be the boss of me

I know everything you want

Give me that daddy long stroke

As you lay against him, worn out for the second night in a row, you realized how far deep you were. Suddenly you hoped he wouldn’t stay. Your feelings for him were… dangerous. 

Can you eat my skittles?

It’s the sweetest in the middle (Yeah)

Pink is the flavor

Solve the riddle (Yeah)

[new-endings]

The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting

Summary: As Hell’s bastard prince, Crowley is expected to wed an Archangel of Heaven’s kingdom to bring peace between the two warring nations.

It really is too bad he only has eyes for his sweet, bastard of a Guide, the Principality Aziraphale, who is dead-set on making sure the engagement happens.

For the sake of their kingdoms, Aziraphale leads him through the long, arduous road of winning an Archangel’s favor and affections. However, Crowley would much rather use that romantic guidance to win him over instead.

Chapter 5: Plan an Exit Strategy 

Chapter Summary: In which a vacation is had and skinny-dipping is involved.

Now would be a great time—the best time—c’mon you bastard, just—say it, say it now—

Say it now, when his eyes are bright with starglow, when he’s smiling at the rain and sky like they’re one in the same, when you know damn well you put that smile on his face as you carded your fingers through his wings when no one else has for bloody ages, when he’s so close that he must feel the way this wretched heart beats and breaks for him—

Say it now, now that the time is right—before the moment slips through your fingers. 

“Angel…”, Crowley started, half-whispered, half-begging, “I—”

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4, ao3

As far as first meetings went, this was certainly not Aziraphale’s ideal.

Still, careening off to the skies whilst in the clutches of a dragon stood a bar just a little below the humiliation Aziraphale faced having been bamboozled by one particular demon prince.

“Say, you—err, wouldn’t happen to be thinking of turning around, would you? Your owner must be terribly concerned—AAAAAH!”

Unruly thing. Bentley seemed to give a conceited warble after a rather steep dive that made Aziraphale’s insides twist with dread. Calming himself after the bloody dragon took off soaring at a more appropriate elevation, Aziraphale steadied his heart, attempting to tame the panic. If the blasted thing wouldn’t listen to reason, then perhaps it was time to make a break for it.

He may not have the agility to outfly a dragon—but he might have a trick or two up his sleeves.

He squirmed in her claws, striking up conversation once again. “You know, it really wouldn’t do to fly so far off—it’ll be night soon you know so—Ah!” Another rough switch in vector, this time steering straight towards the clouds, affording him a little more freedom to thrash in her hold and masking his intentions with fear.

It was ever his fortune that Bentley wasn’t crushing him with her massive talons and if he wriggled just a little bit more—

There. A bit more room. The dragon let out a shriek, a threat, a warning, as she felt her grip loosening and not for the first time in Aziraphale’s life, he decided to take that warning to Sit, stay, don’t do anything rash and completely fuck it.

He gave one last heave, the unexpected burst of strength allowing him to slip free and drop straight into the waves.

There was a roar behind him and Aziraphale unfurled his wings as they tore open from his back, gliding through the gales and gyres.

He didn’t get very far before a mass of scales appeared in his periphery.

Right.

There’s actually no way for him to out-speed the beast, as demonstrated by how easily she was about to overtake him. He feigned a dodge to the left, noting with both intrigue and terror at how the dragon lunged mid-air in attempts of trapping him. Luckily, Aziraphale dropped and hurled a few meters beneath her just in time, catching the winds to keep him aloft and to keep up his speed.1

It afforded him a few, precious seconds, but dragons were notoriously intelligent.

He wouldn’t be able to pull off that trick twice.

After gaining some distance between them, Aziraphale rocketed upwards, expending more and more energy as the snarls from below came closer and closer. Breaking through the lowest layers of skies, Aziraphale sustained flight and laid in wait for a massive snout to crest through the clouds. Once he caught sight of the black maw, gnashing in frustration a few seconds later, he did the only thing natural for a bird like him.

He dove.

He spiraled downwards as he closed his wings, the rush of the night air escaping him and leaving him breathless. There was another bellow of the beast breaking through the atmosphere and fear seized at the Angel.

Fall too slow, he’ll be caught again and then who knows what will become of him. The bloody dragon may be fond of Crowley, but that did little to ease Aziraphale’s concerns. A shock of guilt trembled its way down his spine at the thought of leaving Crowley alone to face his burdens—alone with the guilt should the unthinkable happen to Aziraphale at the hands—err, claws—of his own dragon—

Oh, not to mention the ensuing war should Crowley fail to marry an Archangel without his guidance.

Fall too fast and. Well.

He’d shatter all his bones. That was hardly ideal either.

But Aziraphale knew how to control his dive, knew at which exact moment to allow the winds to break his fall. Once more, as loathe as Aziraphale was to even mentally admit it, Gabriel was a very good teacher.

Moments before crushing impact against the black waves below, Aziraphale unfurled his wings, its large span catching onto what little windspeed remained. The Angel drifted onto a windward climb at a more comfortable speed and braced himself as a few seconds later, a roar followed by a crash onto the waves resonated throughout the night.

Aziraphale never thought he’d be so grateful for a dragon’s one-track mind in chasing down their prey. He never thought he’d be grateful for their large size, leaving them quite ineffective at keeping their momentum in check, either.2

But he didn’t celebrate for long; he still had a prince and a stern talking-to awaiting his return.

.

Thankfully, the bloody dragon hadn’t taken them far, using loops and dives to keep Aziraphale busy with pure panic rather than covering a grand distance.

Still, that was far more exercise than Aziraphale had signed up for and the Angel noted with displeasure at the deconditioning his body had undertaken. He was out of breath for goodness sake! And he could barely muster up the energy to start berating the bloody idiot that got him into that situation in the first place!

And it had absolutely nothing to do with the relief flooding Crowley’s eyes at his return. “Oh, good you’re back!” Not that Aziraphale almost entertained the notion of forgiving him at the concern lacing the prince’s voice. “You all right there?”

“Tickety-boo,” he wheezed out, ever-grateful for the sea’s winds keeping him afloat on the flight back.1 What he wasn’t grateful for was the shadow towering over him and the snout that nosed at him from over his shoulder.

“Ah!” A startled yelp seemed to be the only appropriate reaction—

—as was flying straight into Crowley’s arms. “Hey, look at that,” the prince noted, thoroughly ignoring the way Aziraphale scrabbled to get them away. “She likes you!”

The little—

He had the audacity to sound delighted! “Crowley, please.” Aziraphale gave another squeak and tightened his hold on the prince’s shoulders as the dragon pressed a curious nose into his curls. Reflexively, he folded his wings, covering them both. He didn’t think he had enough physical or mental energy left to expend in another escape attempt.

Crowley gave a chuckle and a soothing hand over his back that did little to settle Aziraphale’s frazzled nerves. “All right, all right. Hey, Bentley.” She seemed to consider his words for a few moments before turning attention to the Demon. “Give the Angel some space, would ya?”

Aziraphale wanted to scoff. Nicely put, Crowley.

There was another snort and a nuzzle to Aziraphale’s back that left Aziraphale squirming into Crowley further before she trotted over some feet away, those golden eyes watching on with mild interest as Aziraphale hesitantly looked over.

“Oh. So now she listens,” Aziraphale muttered, extracting himself from Crowley’s hold. When did the prince put his arms around him anyways—

But Crowley only shrugged, looking pointedly at the ground. “She’s usually quite good at it, but she must have just wanted to…get to know you personally?”

Right. Because snatching him from the ground and taking him across the waves was a completely proper way of self-introduction.

“Quite possible,” Aziraphale returned. He obviously learned quite a few things about Bentley. Mostly in that she adored Crowley and perhaps that played a major reason as to why he was taken. Perhaps she viewed him as a threat. Perhaps she wanted Aziraphale to prove something to him.

Aziraphale could only hope he passed whatever test this impetuous reptile had rigged up.

At least the prince seemed to be in high spirits again as he greeted the dragon with soft adoration. “Must’ve given the little Bird a scare, didn’t you girl? Yeah?” Bentley gave a soft rumble and Aziraphale had to remind himself that this was the nasty little beast that up and plucked him from the ground, not an adoring house-pet. “Scared the feathers off of him?” Crowley cooed.

Bentley gave a warble of contentment, rumbling happily at the attention and Aziraphale would have found it completely adorable—

Had it not been at his expense.

Crowley gave a snicker, calling out, “Say Angel, did the life flash before your eyes again?” That reminded Aziraphale again, this was the rotten little trickster that humiliated him once before.

That was when Aziraphale decided that his patience was taking its own vacation. “No, not at all,” he replied primly, dusting himself off and—good lord, he was exhausted—ambling off back towards the direction of the capital after a wave goodbye. “Well, now that’s done, do enjoy your vacation—”

He could hear the frown in Crowley’s voice. “Angel—”

“—and be sure to return within three days’ time or I’ll have the Powers fetch you from Old-End.”

“Angel—” As well as that insufferable whine.

But Aziraphale will not be swayed. He turned, giving a blithe, terse smile. “Have fun, try to be safe, and avoid slipping on any rocks and cracking your hollow head open, dear.”

As for Crowley, he winced at the cold, placid expression his Angel wore. “C’mon, I’m sorry!” All right, he might have taken the teasing a bit too far. The dragon seemed to read the situation straight away as she gave an unhappy cry. Crowley smoothed her scales, murmuring a calming, “Stay, girl,” before turning and chasing down his flighty Bird. “Angel!

Thankfully it seemed Aziraphale was still too exhausted to simply fly off. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale would appreciate being chased down by a dragon twice in the same day. That, or his Bird really wasn’t thinking of leaving Crowley all by his lonesome on some island in the middle of nowhere. Not when Crowley had painstakingly planned this entire trip for them both. Sure it went a bit…pear-shaped at the end with him meeting Bentley, but surely he’d forgive that, right?

At least, Crowley hoped so.

“Crowley.” Said Demon stopped immediately in his tracks at the sound of that icy tone. He immediately scrambled to attention when Aziraphale turned, face impassive and eyes giving off a chilling glow.

But alas, the poor Bird was far too exhausted to keep even his irritation aloft. “What do you expect me to do at Old-End?”

What indeed. Obviously, Crowley’s best-case-scenario was out of the question since his bloody mate couldn’t read a poetic profession of adoration and worship if his life depended on it. “I don’t know, just…” Take some time off. Enjoy your time off. Enjoy your time off with me. “Make sure I don’t slip on a rock and crack my hollow head open?” he offered weakly.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale was hardly moved.

“C’mon, Angel, I’m begging here. Plus, isn’t it your job to make sure that I stay out of trouble?” he needled and ah. There it is. Crowley felt some inkling of guilt as seeds of doubt were planted. Later on, he knew he’d feel much worse about his next words choice of words, but right now? He had a vacation to save. “That you’d protect me?”

There was a spark of fury that erupted in those lovely eyes, not that Crowley could blame him.

But he knew he’d always be able to win Aziraphale over in the end.

Crowley tried to hide the self-satisfied smirk on his face as the Angel’s resolved cracked with an exasperated, frustrated, and exhausted, “Oh, you wily—serpent—” Poor Bird could barely muster a scowl as Crowley politely, sweetly, offered his arm with all the smugness of the cat that got the cream. He took it anyways. “Fine. But if I smell even a whiff of peril, then we’re flying straight home, do you hear me?”

“Agreed,” Crowley promised; he wouldn’t be putting his Angel in a situation like that again—even though he was certain Bentley wouldn’t allow any harm to come to someone Crowley considered his.

Fairly certain.

Also, “What does peril even smell like?”

Aziraphale gave a sniff and looked deliberately at Crowley. “Usually of fire and brimstone.”

Crowley didn’t bother holding back his laughter this time.

.

As they approached Bentley, Crowley felt Aziraphale instinctively stiffen against him. He frowned. It seemed his Bird was still very much wary. But Bentley merely gave a snort and lowered herself to the ground as the pair rounded towards her back.

Gingerly releasing his grip on the Angel, Crowley hoisted himself over on the saddle. He looked over, noting the hesitancy in Aziraphale’s eyes. Once more, he extended his hand, figuratively and literally.

“Don’t worry,” he assured, dropping the bravado. “She knows better than to pull off the same stunt twice.” Please. Crowley held a breath as a conflict of emotions flickered across the Angel’s face. Just trust me. Ever-so-reluctantly, Aziraphale took his hand and Crowley’s heart thundered in his chest. “Up you get, Angel. And,” Oh thank  Go—Sata—Someone the Angel chose to ride behind him instead. “Hang on tight, all right?”

If he had ridden in front, Crowley didn’t know how long he’d be able to survive having that sweet, soft form to hang on to before it ruined him and his trousers.

“Bentley,” he warned as the dragon suddenly rose on all fours, causing Aziraphale to simultaneously gasp and clutch at Crowley’s middle. Satan preserve us. “Go easy on him all right? It’s his first time on a dragon and I—"

The dragon paid no heed and immediately took off, straight into the clouds and by the blinking of the stars, soaring, diving, wheeling, and careening to an aerial dance to the moonbeams above.

And Crowley loved it—there was nothing quite like the speed, power, and freedom he had when on the wing. Just him, Bentley, the rush of the winds and the blur of the skies and seas—

And now, he had his Angel with them as well.

Aziraphale let out a scream—a fantastic mix of abject terror and pure exhilaration— and a very besotted, very sadistic part of Crowley swore it was one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard. He committed the sound, this moment, to memory.

Something bubbled in him, bright and warm, loosening a laugh from his throat as Bentley flew, faster, and faster still as Aziraphale held him tight, warm and solid behind him.

It felt like happiness.

.

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to recover from the shock; it also helped that Bentley eased up on the airborne acrobatics. Crowley leaned back and placed a hand on the arm clutching at his left hip. “There’s nothing like it, eh, Angel?”

Goodness, his poor Bird was still shaking. “It’s—quite different from flying on your own, I assure you that.”

Crowley gave a hapless shrug. “Wouldn’t know. Demon and all.”

“Oh.” The Demon scoffed. Of course Aziraphale would forget. “Right…”

Flight was only a small part of what they lost when they broke away from Her kingdom. Removed from Her light, their bodies changed, transformed until they were Angels no longer. Many embraced it—what else could they do? But many, Crowley knew, mourned as they looked to the skies and all it held with a marrow-deep longing. Cursed are you above all She had proclaimed as the gates of Heaven slammed behind the first of the Fallen. You will crawl on your bellies, groveling in the dust as long as you shall live.

And now…now She wants to make amends? End the wars, forge peace, but to what end?

Just what is She planning, Crowley wondered.

He was pulled from that rather unsavory road of thought by his Angel’s sweet voice. “You know, dear…” Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle at the other’s wavering; he thought Aziraphale would know by now that Crowley would never rebuke him for anything he had to say. “I was a bit concerned that your inability to fly would put a damper on the courtship flight—”

Except for this one time. Wait—

COURTSHIP FLIGHT?

“—but with Bentley here, I’m sure she could impress any of the Archangels!” Aziraphale chirped merrily.

I knew there was a bloody mating dance involved in this—augh it certainly explains why these blasted wings keep popping out every time we’re in his nest… Crowley sighed. “Angel, we’re here to relax, not talk about work!”

“Right, sorry!” Aziraphale amended.

Crowley let out a breath, stamping down his mounting frustration. Would that have worked then? If he were able to fly, would his feelings reach Aziraphale that way? If they weren’t so bloody different, would Aziraphale understand what Crowley felt for him?

“It’s just a—very important aspect of courting—”

Crowley groaned. “Angel!”

At least his Bird was quick to relent. “Okay, we’ll resume our talk later!” But really, there was no need because Crowley already took it to heart.

If it took a bloody courtship flight to get his Angel to see, then a courtship flight he’ll have.

.

If Aziraphale was honest with himself, the smart thing to have done was keep track of exactly where they were headed. They had been traveling east for a few hours now and while the moon still hung silently over them, it was difficult to gauge how much distance they covered.

If Aziraphale was honest with himself, the smart thing to have done was to stop at home to pick up a map rather than depend on Crowley’s self-proclaimed fantastic sense of direction3and Bentley’s affirming huff.

It Aziraphale was honest with himself, the smart thing to have done was to have was to stay home and turn in his halo, because deep down in his gut, he knew this Demon was going to end up killing him.

Inadvertently or otherwise.

But just when all hope was lost and Aziraphale started to seriously consider slipping off the saddle and gliding his way back home—wherever direction that may be—Crowley made an animated gesture that dragged Aziraphale out of his doubtful and skeptical lull by nearly smacking him in the face.

“There we are, Angel—” he announced giving a grand sweep to the mote of land over by the stretch of the horizon. “Old-End.”

Aziraphale could only hum, the awe not quite catching up to him yet; it was probably left behind some kilometers away, along with his remaining sanity.

Bentley landed on its shores, a gust sending sand flying every which-way. Crowley jumped off and landed with the grace of a slug. Understandable after hours of flying. The very fact that Aziraphale didn’t comment on it other than making a noise of concern reaffirmed to the Demon that this Angel was indeed meant for him.

True to the legends, beyond them laid an impenetrable fog where even moonlight wouldn’t dare touch. It was a barren isle in that no Angel-made structures dotted the land, no light shone to pollute the skies, but rich in its overgrowth of vegetation that even swallowed the old post created by Angels decades before. The latter had been a concern for the Angel as he assumed they’d make camp there, but instead Crowley took him by the hand into the brush and trees.

Bentley followed diligently, clearing a path behind them. And while Aziraphale would never say it, it gave him some modicum of comfort now that the dragon wasn’t actively trying to kidnap him like a damsel. She did, however, startle him as she suddenly ran headlong into the grass of a clearing, disrupting a host of birds and other small creatures and sending them scurrying off.

Crowley gave a laugh as Aziraphale ducked from a rather irate waterfowl, squawking off after the dragon’s disturbance. “Well, looks like she found the perfect place to make camp.”

.

“Crowley, you didn’t happen to…pack any bedding, did you?”

Crowley turned over from where he laid against the curve of Bentley’s underbelly and just from that look alone, the one that said You’re looking at it, Aziraphale knew he was in for a very long weekend.3

Or however long they’d survive until then.

While Aziraphale should have known better than to trust Crowley to pack the essentials, he again…trusted Crowley. And now he was basically marooned on this God-forsaken spit of land without so much as a blanket for bedding, and without any utensils to cook with.

At first, Aziraphale had been furious—but it was late. It would require expending more energy to maintain that anger, and it was far past dinner time. Not that he’d start arguing now; the Angel knew better than outwardly berating the Demon while his pet dragon slumbered nearby.

So instead, Aziraphale followed in Crowley’s lead and tentatively sat against the warm beast (quietly letting out a breath of relief as she did nothing but turn towards him in curiosity and laying her head back down again). That seemed to brighten Crowley’s mood immensely and the Demon shuffled closer.

Shoulders almost touching, Aziraphale allowed himself to bask in the peace and stillness of forest, with starlight raining down on them from above.

Speaking of which: “What if it rains.”

Crowley cracked one eye open. “It’s not going to rain,” he insisted.  

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You can’t know that for sure.”

“Cloud-readers said the weather would be good all weekend.”

“The meteorologists only read the forecast for the capital’s weather.”

The Demon gave a lazy stretch, careless and carefree. “Okay sure. But for the record, you jinxed it.” Then, as if in realization of something, Crowley frowned. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Good lord, Gabriel was right. He really had adapted a little too well to civilian life…Not that it had been anyone’s fault. But, in Aziraphale’s grouchy mind, if he had to take a guess, he’d have to point a finger at the Demon Prince who’d been fattening him up like a Light’s Festival goose. “Starving, actually,” Aziraphale admitted with pinked cheeks. “How can you tell?”

“We’re usually finishing up our dinner at this time,” Crowley reminded him as he stood, causing Bentley to grunt in dissatisfaction. “And you always want to start an argument when you’re peckish.”

Aziraphale tried (and failed) not to look too affronted. “I do not—”

“You’re only proving my point, Angel,” Crowley sang as he clambered onto Bentley’s saddle. “Say, what’s your favorite animal?”

Aziraphale had opened his mouth to disagree once more but paused at the rather odd turn of conversation. What indeed… “Oh, I have so many…rabbits are particularly nice, I suppose?”

He always did love them, soft and shy as they were with their cute, twitchy little noses…he loved his dear Harry the moment he adopted the dear little thing and never quite got over her rather unfortunate fate.

Since then, rabbits always reminded him of a robbed innocence. But they were still his favorite.

“All right,” Crowley nodded and with that, whistled to Bentley. The dragon (grumpily) stood, causing the Angel to lose his support and fall over onto his back.

There was a disgruntled roar and Bentley took off once again, leaving Aziraphale gazing up at the stars where a mass of scales had once obscured his vision. The Angel wondered briefly what on earth just took place but found little reason to leave the wide indent of the grass where Bentley sat, nice and warm.

When he came to, it was to Crowley’s golden eyes gazing at him with a sort of…strange expression that his sleep-addled brain couldn’t quite name. “Crowley?” he murmured, voice still laced with sleep. The prince helped him sit up and it was only then that Aziraphale noted that some feet away, there laid a fire atop some freshly dug earth, clearing away the surrounding grass.

A flask was thrust into his hands as Crowley smiled. “Rise and shine, Angel.” Aziraphale took a gulp, relishing at the cool, refreshing taste of clean water. They must have found a stream nearby as well, keeping themselves quite busy.

All while Aziraphale was sleeping.

How embarrassing.

There was a gentle warbling beside him, and the Angel startled at the large snout pressed against his side. “Oh! Erm, hello dear.” A different set of golden eyes looked to him and, with all sorts of reluctance yet at Crowley’s encouragement, Aziraphale ran a soft, plump hand against the smooth, midnight scales. There was a pleasant rumble from deep within her throat and Aziraphale felt his breath hitch.

Not from fear, however.

Aziraphale also didn’t know how on Heaven’s gates he’d managed to get on the dragon’s good side, but he’ll take it.

Crowley was looking at them with that same look again. “Well, would you look at that. She’s taken quite a shine to you.” The very one that, even with his mind slipping more and more into consciousness, Aziraphale still couldn’t decipher.

“Oh, also—here!” Crowley hummed cheerily as he reached over behind him and dropped a bloodied, furry thing at Aziraphale’s feet. Upon further inspection of the mass, Aziraphale felt the very blood drain from his face.

A…rabbit.

Aziraphale was definitely awake now.

A RABBIT!? WHAT IN THE—

“Caught that one especially for you. Little bugger was a runner,” Crowley rattled on excitedly and Oh no, oh goodness gracious this was not what Aziraphale meant by his favorite animal—

But at the earnest look of pride on the Demon’s face and the honestly good intentions behind it, and the thought that Well, it’s actually a very sweet gesture of him to try and…hunt me my favorite animal—Aziraphale could do little more than give a small smile as his face seize between a mix of horrified concern and helpless gratitude.

It seemed to appease Crowley immensely at least. “And look! Peace offering!” Crowley gesticulated excitedly as Bentley lumbered over, dropping a heap of wet fur, and bloodied lumps, and dragon-drool—all onto the Angel’s awaiting lap.  

“I think she really likes you,” Crowley duly informed as Aziraphale’s throat tightened up before he could let out a shriek.

Aziraphale nodded stiffly, a wooden smile upon his face as he regarded the dragon with awe and quite a bit of trepidation. “R-right.” Turning to his left, “Thank you, Crowley…” At that, the Demon gave a bright grin. And tuning over to his right, “Thank you, Bentley.”

She gave a cry of delight that almost made up for the blood stains on his robes.

Almost.

For the first time in Aziraphale’s life, after giving a short prayer begging forgiveness from his dearly departed Harry, tasted the savory, tender flesh of fire-roasted rabbit.

And to his utter horror, found it delicious.

.

Daylight found Crowley waking to the lovely sight of his Angel and the Demon vowed then and there that one day, it would be a sight he’d get to see every day: sleep-tousled white-blond curls, sea-storm eyes, and alabaster-smooth skin bathing in the soft morning glow.

And currently in mourning at the red stains on his robes.

“Dragon-drool,” Crowley muttered, startling Aziraphale out of his grimacing. “A nightmare to wash off.”

Crowley regretted the words as soon as it left his mouth from the look of despair on his Angel’s face. The Demon groaned, rolling over to the side, hoping to shield himself from the effect of those blasted pleading eyes and that damned kissable pout. But it was pointless.

He was besotted.

And Aziraphale, bless him, had Crowley wrapped around his well-manicured pinky.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he extracted himself from Bentley’s cozy warmth and stood, wobbling onto his feet. “Come on, let the reptile rest.” He bit back a scowl at the sight of that same, pleased smile Aziraphale wore whenever Crowley begrudgingly indulged him.

Spoiled little thing.

As he should be.

“There’s a stream with a small waterfall further inland. We’ll get washed up there,” Crowley said, offering his hand again.

The Angel took it with enthusiasm.  

It was a mostly quiet trek into the island, with the pair abiding by the early hours’ silence until the sound of rushing water broke through the trees. The pair followed the gentle hum and Aziraphale found himself internally apologizing for ever doubting Crowley’s self-proclaimed fantastic sense of direction.

A cascading waterfall stood at the mouth of the lake, crystalline waters rippling into the deep body of water from the stream further up the cliffside. Its rocky shores surrounded by paradise-greens from the forest framed the painting-perfect lake and Aziraphale had to pause to allow his breath to catch at the sight of such a picturesque and undisturbed beauty of nature.

Only for him to choke on said breath as Crowley began to wriggle out of his clothes right in front of him, exposing inch after inch of toned sun-kissed skin and lithe muscle.

A beauty of nature, indeed, came an unbidden thought as Crowley thoughtlessly dropped his undergarments and strutted recklessly in the nude. Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat up before he could sputter out in affront. “C-CROWLEY!”

Said Demon didn’t bother hiding a smirk as he turned to the delicious sight of those fiery cheeks. Crowley knew how to look good, how to dress well, and despite being on the trim side, was graced with handsome features and the swagger to back it up. And while Crowley obviously didn’t make it a habit of intentionally displaying himself, he understood the importance of giving them a little taste now and then. Sampling the goods so to speak.

Besides, as scandalized as Aziraphale may sound, it at least let Crowley know that the Angel was intentionally looking.

And right now, Crowley would very much like it if he could have a look at the Angel too. “Come on, Angel! That stain’s not going to get itself out!” he called as he dipped his toe in the water before diving in.

Aziraphale took a breath and uttered a short prayer for divine strength—and possibly intervention—before heading to the shore. He picked up the bottom of his robe, utterly ruined after hours of drying by firelight and the cool night breeze. There really was no point to washing it, now was there? There wasn’t any reason to go in…

More unbidden thoughts surfaced, particularly the unpleasant echo of Gabriel’s words.

Soft, he had called him. Unbecoming of a warrior. It was honestly such a silly thing to ruminate on, but he couldn’t help but feel that familiar burn of shame, hot and unrelenting at the back of his neck. Especially next to Crowley—

That train of thought was promptly derailed as Crowley gave an obnoxious wolf-whistle. “You know I could stare at those bare calves for ages, Angel.” Aziraphale whipped his head to where Crowley swam, eyes sparking with mirth. “But there’s no need to draw this out, you utter tease.”

The Angel felt his eyebrow tick with irritation.

That little—

And without further preamble, Aziraphale disrobed hastily—to Crowley’s absolute delight—and chucked the ruined clothes straight at his face.

“Souvenir?” the Demon asked with a smirk, easily catching it.

What he didn’t catch, however, was the Angel diving straight at him with all the grace and tact of a military-grade projectile and smacking him right in the face with a wet wing.

And as much as Crowley utterly loved that reaction, he couldn’t help but give a startled yelp, immediately causing Aziraphale to retract and fret at his impulsive actions. “Oh my—oh I’m so sorry—”

Wiping the water from his eyes, Crowley would have cackled at the modest reaction had he not been rendered completely helpless at the sight of all that delectable soft, bare skin laid out before him like a feast.

And oh, how Crowley longed to take a bite, sink his teeth into him, and mark him up for all the damned kingdoms to see.

He cleared his throat, suddenly dry and thirsting. “Think nothing of it.” What was that saying again? Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest? “I think I’d prefer you as a bastard as long as you’re enjoying yourself.” He tossed the robes over to Aziraphale, who gave him a grateful look in return and Crowley silently wondered just how far that darling blush could go. “And of course, if it’s not always aimed at me,” he added with a wince as Aziraphale unfurled those lovely, messy wings, the Angel taking to the water with candid ease.  

“You shouldn’t be so crude,” Aziraphale defended, continuing to fruitlessly scrub at the stains before sighing. Just as he had feared, the stain had long since set. He tossed the ruined garb over to the rocks dotting the shore and dove into the water with effortless grace. At the very least, he could enjoy his bath.

And at the very least, all Crowley could do was stop and stare.

His Angel had never looked lovelier with that blissful grin on those pretty lips (it made Crowley wonder how they would look, screaming in rapture), sun beaming down on him and his blessedly plump form (it made Crowley wonder how his Angel would look, bathed in the glow of firelight, that soft body against his silken sheets), the sight of him glistening with water, rivulets cascading down from his slopes and curves (it gave Crowley a very good idea of how his Angel would look, dripping with sweat, panting with exertion, and crying out for more, more, more—)

And it had the worst (best) effect on Crowley.

Here his mate was, displaying himself, bright-eyed in unrepentant joy and Crowley couldn’t help the satisfaction it gave him knowing he had a hand in putting it there, the spark of desire that rushed through his blood at the knowledge that he could fulfill his mate in every sense of the word and that his darling Bird may or may not be unintentionally goading him to give him more of what he deserved.

The very threads of his self-control were snapping one by one, especially at the realization that right here, right now, they were alone.

No Birds.

No Archangels.

No Hastur and Ligur.

Nothing stopping him from letting Aziraphale know exactly what that poem had meant.

Could he do it right here? Right now?

Could he bare his heart and soul, offer it up on a silver platter to his sweet, guileless, tormentor? And how would Aziraphale take it? Would he take it with an appalled gasp, loyalty to his kingdom, to his people, to his Queen superseding his own heart? Would he take it with confused hesitancy, still unknowing of his own heart but willing for Crowley to take his hand and show them that they were meant to be? Would he take it with bated breath and coquettish bliss, asking, begging Crowley to draw him to a princely, perfect kiss?

Would he take it on his hands and knees, offering his body for Crowley to take, own, ruin, and worship?

There was another throb of heat and Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would even question it if Crowley waded over by the plunge pool to cool his head.

Both heads, as it were.

A roar reverberated through the air and Crowley simultaneously thanked and cursed Bentley for her (un)timely arrival.

Especially since Crowley was on the verge of combustion as Aziraphale waded his way to shore where he laid his clothes out to dry under the sun, his scrumptious backside in all its glory exposed to the wilderness and immortalized in Crowley’s greedy gaze.

That was enough wanking material to last Crowley throughout this entire, frigid, courting process…

As if sensing eyes trailing ravenously over his body, Aziraphale turned as the prince ducked into the water, the latter uselessly commanding his arousal to ease. “Crowley, get out of the water!” his Angel called. “You’ll wrinkle like a prune in there!”

“No thanks, Angel,” he croaked out as he resurfaced. “I’m fine where I am.”

Aziraphale sighed as he fixed his robes. “You can’t just spend the rest of the day there!”

Bloody Bird— “We’re on vacation, Angel! We can do whatever we want!”

And I’d rather not go through the mortifying ordeal of letting my feelings be known in such a humiliating and visual manner.

Aziraphale gave roll of his eyes and looked over to the dragon, sunning herself over by a slab of rock. The dragon lifted an eyelid to look over at the pair and Aziraphale shot her that same, damned pleading look Crowley was more than familiar with.

Bentley gave a languid stretch before lifting herself up sluggishly and made her way to the lake towards where Crowley swam. The Demon watched with distracted curiosity at what Aziraphale could have asked of her with those pretty blue eyes. That curiosity quickly morphed into abject horror as the blasted beast blew fire straight into the water.

With a yelp, Crowley leaped out of the lake and clambered onto a proffered dragon wing. He felt suddenly stabbed with vicious betrayal. “WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON!?” he hissed.

He was only met with a warble of amusement from his dragon and peals of laughter from his Angel.

“I do believe you’re right, my dear.” Aziraphale— damn him—gave an adorable giggle that made the irritation dissipate almost immediately. “She’s definitely warming up to me.”

“Traitors,” Crowley grumbled, as Bentley dropped him off to shore, his lips twitching to a smile despite himself. “The lot of you.”

.

Aziraphale couldn’t quite remember what lead up to it, but as Crowley expertly preened his feathers, slim, nimble fingers combing through the coverts of his wing, the Angel found himself caring less and less.

Even if the Angel had an inkling it involved a few crude words from Crowley’s behalf on the state of his wings.

He gave a sigh of pleasure as the prince dug into scapulars, tension oozing out from his aching wings after the distressing flight yesterday. In turn, he smoothed over the dark feathers, finding little to do with how immaculate Crowley always kept his wings.

He did his best to tidy them anyways. It was only fair, after all, especially with how much Crowley seemed to enjoy the attention he gave to the little spots he couldn’t reach himself.

“Ohhh,” the Angel moaned as those fingers massaged the joint just right, choosing to ignore the breathy chuckle Crowley let out in turn. Utter tease, indeed.

The sun had long set after a pleasant meal and the stars began dotting the sky to light a path for the moon. Bentley slumbered nearby after drying her scales from the dip in the lake, and the fire crackled at the pit where they had roasted the native island’s fruits they gathered that afternoon.

Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he’d been so at peace.

So much so that he almost didn’t mind the drop of water that landed on the tip of his nose.

But then those drops quickly multiplied, so much so that even Bentley was awoken with a grunt. Crowley let out an annoyed hiss but made little efforts to move from his spot by the Angel’s side.

Even then, all Aziraphale could do was chuckle as Crowley glared at him at the fire’s dying gloom. “I told you it might rain,” the Angel reminded.

“And I told you that it was your fault for jinxing it,” the Demon shot back.  

But instead of retorting, Aziraphale merely lifted the wing Crowley had been working on, shielding him from the light downpour.

And what was a poor Demon to do but fall even more in love?

Especially with the delighted and grateful laugh his Angel gave Bentley as she opens a massive wing, providing refuge for them both.

The two settled themselves against her, Aziraphale’s wing still hovering over Crowley instinctively. Now the Demon thought, Now would be a great time—the best time—c’mon you bastard, just—say it, say it now—

Say it now, when his eyes are bright with starglow, when he’s smiling at the rain and sky like they’re one in the same, when you know damn well you put that smile on his face as you carded your fingers through his wings when no one else has for bloody ages, when he’s so close that he must feel the way this wretched heart beats and breaks for him—

Say it now, now that the time is right—before the moment slips through your fingers.

“Angel…”, Crowley started, half-whispered, half-begging, “I—”

“How wonderful our Queen must to be to have had a hand in making all those stars,” Aziraphale murmured in awe and the in that statement, in that second, the moment slipped away, sand in sieve.

And with it, Crowley’s bravery. He sighed, almost heartsick with himself at his cowardice. “You really believe in all that?” he muttered, turning his attention back to the Angel’s words. “I mean, it just doesn’t make a lot of sense, right? The Queen herself is barely in court and we’re all to believe that she’s off doing bigger things in places unexplored beyond our realms when there’s still turmoil here.” He gestured vaguely, at the air, to the horizon, to himself. “Not only that, but what about the Other Side? Since the war started, it’s yet to be fully explored.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What is it that you’re saying, Crowley?”

The Demon gave a thick swallow. “I just want facts…that’s all.” Why did She decide this—and why now? They say She’s omnipotent, that knows and sees all— “Can’t fault someone for asking questions.” Did She know that I’d fall in love with you? Did She know that you’re the one I want…

And that your sense of duty may never let me have that?

Crowley half-feared that he overstepped a boundary somewhere; he always knew Aziraphale was devoted to his Queen—it was why he took Crowley under his wing (literally and figuratively speaking) in the first place.

But the other half of him knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t fault him.

Not him. Not his Angel. “It’s…understandable.” He gave a hesitant nod. “And it’s hard to put logic and faith together, isn’t it?” Aziraphale gave a rueful smile. “The point of faith is to abide and believe, despite what it may seem. And logic falls to the opposite—the likeliest of chances.” Aziraphale leaned against him, his weight comforting, anchoring. “What matters is, in the end, is truth, and both faith and logic fight for what they ultimately can’t prove yet.” His Angel looked to him, those sea-storm eyes ever-honest. “I can’t imagine how one could possibly fault you for that.”

Crowley felt his heart swell, the wild thing thrashing against the cages of his ribs and all Crowley could do—for the first time in his life—was pray to Her that he would get to keep this. If She would allow it. If She had known that he’d fall so perilously and deliriously in love with him, that it wouldn’t be for naught. That he’d earn and keep his love, his Angel, his Bird, his Aziraphale—

But, as he cast his hopes to the heavens, there was only the resounding rumbling of thunder overhead.

“I understand what you mean about the Other Side as well,” Aziraphale added, almost as an afterthought. “I’ve actually got a small collection—some fragments of maps that I—uh, borrowed from a cartographer!” Crowley couldn’t help but snicker. There was absolutely no chance of that guy ever getting his maps back.  But then Aziraphale was humming contentedly, a dreamy, far-off look in his eyes. “I wonder if we’ll ever set our eyes towards other lands again. You know. After this entire debacle of hellfire and holy water subsides.”

And maybe, that was where Crowley’s answers laid.

Not in the vast taciturn promises of an omnipotent Queen, but in the sleepy words of his Angel who—despite previous warnings—always seemed to give his Demon the best ideas. “I don’t know, Angel,” Crowley murmured, laying his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, plans forming, preparations taking shape, a storm brewing overhead.  

It’s here under the rains of a new beginning that Crowley decided on this last-ditch effort: if he can’t get their respective sides to maintain peace without him selling his life and tying his soul to one of Heaven’s Divines, then they can run off. Together.

It would start with those maps—

—And lead them to their Own Side.

“Only time will tell,” Crowley said, the words spoken like an oath of love.  

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The cheese factor was kicked up a notch because my friend came over and brought me cheesecake.

1-Aziraphale is built like an Albatross here! They’re known for dynamic soaring which helps them not only pick up speed but also expend very little energy to travel great distances (up to weeks at a time out at sea!) and some species are quite good at diving.

2-(And dragons, being larger, have more momentum and thus need far more energy to stop, like with what happened with Bentley here.)

3-Crowley looked at a map from Old-End earlier; he memorized it instead of taking it with him. He’s traveling light because he doesn’t want to arouse any suspicion from Hastur and Ligur.

Also, I do plan on writing smut.

You know. Eventually.

[ardenttheories]

seeing how gooD at classpects you are, i was wonDering on your oppinion on lorD of hope powers anD or anything relateD to the classpect. Not alot of info on them online

So, in my own personal theory, Lords completely Own their Aspect. There is no part of it that they don’t hold Dominion over, and in general, they’re fully in Control of everything their Aspect can do.

As one of the two Master Classes, Lords tend to take on the most active roles of their Aspect - so anything from the powers of a Witch to a Prince to a Seer to a Knight - with the drawback of being very restricted by what their Aspect’s rules dictate (while Muses, which are much more passive, tend to be able to define their Aspects a bit more to compensate). 

So, a Lord of Hope quite literally holds Dominion over Hope. There’s no aspect of Hope they can’t Control; Positivity, Beliefs, Acceptance, Euphoria, Optimism - it’s all well within their reach. 

Now, this initially sounds like a good thing, right? But it’s really not. When someone can Control every good thought, every Positive thing, every Optimistic outlook or outcome, every Belief you’ve ever had or will have - it can become pretty nasty pretty fast, especially with how Selfish Lords tend to be. 

Lords tend to be very arrogant as a result of their Control. When you’ve got that much power, there’s really nothing that couldn’t go your way. They work everything to their own gain, and see no reason to accept that which anyone else thinks. For a Lord of Hope, you can immediately see the issue; once he’s got his mind set on a Belief, there’s literally no changing it. Worse, because Hope is all about Belief, Lords of Hope can probably make anything they Believe come true. So, a Lord of Hope wholly and 100% believes in the Messiahs? Sorry, guys. The only true religion in existence is now the Messiahs. He’s literally just brought them into complete and confirmed existence. 

This also works in reverse. If a Lord of Hope believes that, for instance, dogs don’t exist, then dogs just don’t exist anymore. Hope can literally bring things into existence, and with a destructive Classpect involved in the process, it can very much take things out of existence, too. I think to this degree, reality can bend around the Lord of Hope to create the world they most like and desire - the one which benefits them and what they Believe the most. 

I think, for as destructive as they can be, I think they’re probably so hyped up on Hope that they’re just annoyingly chipper. But they’re also stubborn and a little ignorant. Their Beliefs are the only Belief, and everything else is false; they’re probably likely to shove their fingers in their ears and go “lalalalala not listening!” if you try to say or do anything that would diminish their Belief. That, or they’d just argue with you upfront about it till you either Believed them or gave in - or maybe they’d just grin at you and act completely ignorant until you eventually left them alone, because I think Hope players tend to like confrontation the least. 

They likely wouldn’t realise that they’re actually changing things, however. Hope does tend to retain a little ignorance in it in the form of naivety. If the world changes to suit their views, then they’d never realise that they’re the one actually changing things. This is also why they’d never Believe what anyone else said; the evidence is right there, proving them Right. Why would anyone try to go against the facts? 

So, I know what you’re thinking. What about Positivity? Or Optimism? Euphoria?

Lords of Hope, I think, can control to some degree what people feel. If you’ve read the Epilogues, especially Candy, you’ll remember the scene where Jake literally becomes so optimistic that he starts to glow - and while in that glow, John physically cannot be unhappy. 

A Lord of Hope could do this but on a much bigger scale. They could make everyone within a huge radius unspeakably happy, and draw in all the Positive feelings in the whole world right into their epicentre - but they might leave everyone outside of it unspeakably miserable as a result. Or they might just make their entire inner circle seem fucking weird to everyone who isn’t affected by the Hope Sphere. It depends on how much the Lord of Hope is really focusing on their powers, I think, and whether or not they’re actively trying to use good feelings elsewhere to replace bad feelings closer to home (in other words, if they’re acting like a Thief or a Knight). 

Of course, this does have its downsides. Dahni explains Hope as a definite YES! feeling, and if you can imagine a Lord of Hope spreading around these good vibes, making everyone feel elated, like nothing bad is happening in the world, spreading around their naive ignorance and sealing everyone up in this little bubble, then you can also imagine that they’d accidentally make everyone unaware of the important things they need to be doing, or of horrifically bad things that are happening around them. Players affected by the Lord’s Hope quite literally wouldn’t be able to see or feel anything bad. I’d say to some degree they probably wouldn’t even be able to feel pain. 

This also means, naturally, that they can’t say no. It’s like they’re drugged up and all they can think about is the good feeling running through them. If the Lord of Hope says, “lets go to hell!” then everyone around him would cheer like he’d just said “we’re going on a summer vacation!” Actually, to that degree, it’s like making everyone go Trickster without the lollipop, which makes the idea of a Lord’s JuJu vaguely more terrifying, should they be a Cherub.

Of course, I’ve mostly been focusing on the bad aspects of a Lord of Hope, and that’s entirely because of their Classpect’s requirement for growth. The whole point of a Lord’s journey is to understand that they’re Controlling everything and that they need to let go of their Control; that they can’t just wilfully do as they please, that they need to grow out of their nigh-childish dictator-like Dominion and grow up. 

This is going to be especially hard for the Lord of Hope. Lords of Hope don’t recognise the way they’re influencing the world, and don’t want that worldview to be crushed. They want, to some degree, to remain ignorant; for things to be happy and peppy and wonderful all the time. They don’t want to think that things could be awful. They hate the idea. They hate Rage. They’re maybe even a little terrified of it. 

But they eventually have to learn that what they’re doing isn’t good. That they’re hurting the people they care about, that the world they’re creating is only perfect for them, that sometimes bad things do need to happen - that everything admittedly becomes a little Fake if it’s 100% good all the time. They need to understand that the Trickster-like hype they’ve kept their friends in isn’t an accurate representation of who their friends are and what they like, and that they’re ridding their friends of their individuality as a result. 

Now, don’t get me wrong; they still need to retain Control over their Aspect, and they still 100% hold Dominion over it, they just need to learn to share it out a little more and use their abilities to the gain of the group. 

Yeah, keep everyone pumped up - but don’t make them ignorant. Yeah, make them immune to pain - but don’t eradicate all pain. Yeah, surround everyone with Optimism and Positivity - but don’t destroy who they are and their free will in the process. Yeah, put emphasis on your Beliefs and maybe even Control what people Believe on a minor scale - but don’t erase their Beliefs with yours if their Beliefs aren’t hurting them and make them happy.

In that sense, they need to learn to become a little more passive. To calm themselves down a bit from their complete Control and just go with the flow a bit more - to listen to other people, and to accept the way things are. 

I hope that helped a little, dude. I think Lords of Hope are incredibly interesting! Definitely something I’d like to think about more in the future.  

[carmineclock]

> I’m a candy shark suck my d

#survivalmemo

CD: So what are you going to do next? just go gordon freeman on every tricksters ? what if they take it from you

04: nah, that won't solve anything. 04: we're trying to find the original source the greys gave.04: maybe if that's broken, it'll break the curse for everyone.

CD: do you think snowman was dumb enough to toss it somewhere ?

04: i wouldn't bet on it.

05: maybe somebody can ask ? she has been replying to everything people ask her about 05: i don't want to do it 05: i told her to keep it somewhere safe gghhh

03: What was it

05: A lollipop i think

03: Hmmm

JH: LIKE A LITERAL LOLLIPOP ? over

CD: sounds stupid enough for me to believe it

04: be careful.

EB: well the candy is a theme so i wouldn't be surprised.

05: Trace what are you doing ?

03: Trying to find where that damn lollipop is I guess

04: ....wait, you're not going to bring her to you, are you? 04: because there's-- already a plan, and. 04: son of a fuck i should have just stayed outta here.

#allchat

03: Snowman, ma'am', miss universe, Mme des étoiles dans le ciel, if I may have your attention

08: WHY HELLO TRACE DARLINNG~!! OH IT'S BEEN AGES WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN

03: Oh, here and there 03: But I can't help but wonder 03: Just what may have been so fantastic and fabulous to bring you to such delight 03: It must taste absolutely incredible

[09>03: Lad, what the hell do you think you’re doing?]

[03 > 09: With any luck, progress ]

08: HMMMM, WHAT OH WHAT COULD IT BE INDEED~? 08: IT WAS SO DELICIOUS AND SWEET~ 08: STILL IS~

03: Really? Please, if I may ask, do tell, where could I find it 03: I'd love to have a taste

08: WHY, MY DARLING SWEET TRACE, I HAVE IT WITH ME, OF COURSE~ 08: PLEASE OH PLEASE WON'T YOU LET ME SEE YOU TO GIVE YOU A TASTE~

03: Ah, alright. But no, no need to, I don't want you to trouble yourself

08: MY DARLING, IT'S NO TROUBLE AT ALL~!!!! 08: I CAN BE WITH YOU IN JUST 08: ONE

#survivalmemo

05: i don't like this 05: trace stop it

03: So apparently she has it with her

05: YEAH NO SHIT

04: hey trace have you considered. 04: asking before you do things.

03: Hey now 03: In my defense, we've been out in the desert for three days

04: goddammit. 04: are you still at the same camp, i'm coming back.

EB: holy shit you're in the desert? EB: i'd make a pun about dessert but something tells me now isn't the time to be mentioning sweets.

06: Haha, oh fuck.

03: Ah well [ --- 03 left the memo ---]

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 9:21 PM

> Appear before Trace in the desert, high in the sky and a bit away but VERY much within line of sight. "SECOND~"

The Hamst⭐r (05/JH/CD)Yesterday at 9:22 PM

>Fin is already running into the desert abandon ship

🎩 🐇 (03/Dave/MK)Yesterday at 9:23 PM

> Well, to the surprise of absolutely no one, this was a stupid plan. Your heart skips a beat, but you realize, panic is absolutely pointless, so you send another thing on your phone, then put it away. "Good evening, ma'am."

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 9:25 PM

> You giggle as you watch Fin book it into the desert before you float down closer, fast as you please, until you're within arm's reach of Trace (and maybe Nepeta? depending?).  You fold your hands beneath your chin as you grin at him.  The front of you is covered in bright red and blue blood. "GOOD EVENING, TRACE~ TRACY TRACY, DARLING~ STILL OUT HERE PLAYING IN THE DUST AND THE RUINS~?"

🎩 🐇 (03/Dave/MK)Yesterday at 9:27 PM

> Nepeta better be running. You hope Fin is pulling her with him, if not, he's gonna tell her to run.

> Boy, what a lovely sight. A chill runs down your spine. You're aware that trying to outrun her is useless, especially once she set her sight on you. You also faintly recall Fin telling you that refusing the tricksters is a bad bad idea. But maybe you can give Fin and Nepeta enough time to get out of her sight. "Yep, it's quite lovely here, isn't it?"

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 9:32 PM

> You float lazily around him, coming up behind him to wrap your arms around his neck.  You nuzzle against the back of his head, and you smell like sanguine sangria, so close up.  You're purring, loud and low in your throat. "IT IS~ THOUGH IT USED TO BE MUCH LOVELIER~"

🎩 🐇 (03/Dave/MK)Yesterday at 9:33 PM

> Ahhh, more chills. She smells disgustingly sweet. Ma'am, have you tried replacing some of that sugar for glitter, worked wonders for my coffee. "Oh, please, would you like to tell me about it?"

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 9:34 PM

> You dip your head down then, pressing electric blue lips against his ear as you whisper. "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TRYING TO DO, ALBERT~ YOU CAN ONLY STALL FOR SO MUCH TIME~"

🎩 🐇 (03/Dave/MK)Yesterday at 9:39 PM

> God, you're fucking scared, and a little... thrilled? "I'm sure you do. But don't you  want to find out for how much longer I can stall? I really am interested."

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 9:43 PM

> A hot breath of laughter is pressed against his ear and you swipe your tongue over the cone of it. "WHY STALL WHEN I CAN GET WHAT I WANT NOW~? I HAVE YOU RIGHT WHERE I WANT YOU, AFTER ALL..."

🎩 🐇 (03/Dave/MK)Yesterday at 9:49 PM

> Oh yeah, your time is definitely running out. If you didn't have goosebumps yet, you get them now. And you can't help the grinning... Funny, how fast this terrible idea went downhill. "I suppose you're right. But then, perhaps, could I have the lollipop? You promised, didn't you?"

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 9:53 PM

"HMMM~ OHH, THAT OLD THING~?" > You twirl about him now, cupping his cheek between your bloody palms. "DID IT NEVER OCCUR TO YOU THAT I MIGHT BE LYING, SWEET ALBERT~?"

🎩 🐇 (03/Dave/MK)Yesterday at 9:56 PM

"Now, that would be awfully rude of you. Would you really play me like this?" > You somewhere in the back of your mind register that the healthy instinct would be to pull away, but you lean in a little more. "But then, where is it~?"

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 9:57 PM

> You lean in close now, your lips brushing his. "IN ORBIT AROUND MERCURY~"

🎩 🐇 (03/Dave/MK)Yesterday at 10:01 PM

> Well, there goes your last bit of hope to escape this madness, both in immediate and the far future. "How clever..." > You finish blindly typing something on your phone in your pocket and then give in to the temptation before you.

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 10:02 PM

> You wrap your arms around his neck and dive in deep.  It's time for Hot Nasty Bloody Trickster Makeouts.

🎩 🐇 (03/Dave/MK)Yesterday at 10:03 PM

> Who knew that you could be so into making out with a lady.

Carro (DD/08/WQ)Yesterday at 10:04 PM

> ;))) > You'll make it the best make outs he's ever had.

[shootfastrunfar]

My first taste of Failure

                   On Sunday, April 8th, I failed for the first time in my life.

               That statement is, to a degree, hyperbolic.  I’ve failed many times in my 22 (almost 23) years on this planet.  I’ve failed out of college due to laziness.  I’ve failed to bench press 225 for years.  I’ve failed to crank out 20 pullups on a PFT.  I’ve failed tests.  I’ve failed to make food properly.  I’ve failed to make good first impressions.  I’ve failed to talk to my grandfather for years before he died. But on April 8th, 2018, I failed in a way that I’ve never failed before, and it rocked me: I failed to do something that I set my mind to do.  In that way, I truly failed.

               My failure was, ultimately, my own doing.  I failed to properly prepare for something that I knew would be difficult, for a myriad of reasons; I was tired, I was busy, I had trained enough to get by, I was sore, or maybe I just said “Fuck it”. Ironically, that phrase has gotten me through some of the most physically and mentally demanding situations in my life. That phrase has also led me to this failure in the worst possible way.  It bred an attitude of complacency in me.  It bred cockiness.  It led me to believe that I could simply power through whatever challenge lay before me, through sheer guts, balls of steel, and a willingness to believe that I could do anything.  Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!  And then Ironman 70.3 Galveston grabbed me by the balls and Stone Cold Stunnered me back to earth.

               This story begins just over two years ago.  I had convinced my roommate to run the 2016 Marine Corps Marathon with me.  During that conversation, he brought up something called an Ironman.  Having never heard of such a thing, I asked him what it was.  What he described to me simultaneously scared and excited me.  A 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride, and a full 26.2 mile marathon, all in 17 hours?! I suddenly had a sinking feeling.  I realized that simply running a marathon would no longer suffice for dick measuring contests.  If I were to ever have the largest genitalia in an argument, I realized I was going to have to step up my game.  

               First things first, however.  The marathon would be run first.  So with the Hanson’s running method under my belt, a brand new pair of Brooks Launchs, and a belly full of Gu, he and I began our training. Out of a 5 month program, we completed maybe 2/3 of the workouts.  And the last three weeks, we did 2.  Life started taking hold, and we both entered that race woefully unprepared.  But with a little bit of luck and a lot of motivation, we managed to stumble across the finish line before the cutoff time.  JUST before the cutoff times.  To say we “ran” the marathon was generous.  We jogged/walked/stumbled it.  But we finished it none the less, and I have the medal proudly sitting in a shadow box to prove it.  

               Fast forward 8 months.  The post marathon blues had destroyed my fitness.  I had stopped going to the gym for money and time reasons while training for the marathon, and it took me months to be able to start going again.  I was in the worst shape of my life.  I managed to somewhat get my shit together, just enough to convince myself I needed to make a big change.  So AT (Annual Training) 2017 came around, and I decided I was going to start my Ironman Journey.  The day before we went to the field, I signed up for my first Sprint Triathlon.  After returning, I forced myself to buy a cheap road bike and start training.  That first Tri came and went, and I was itching for another.  So I impulse signed up for Ironman 70.3 Galveston, bought a training plan, and once again gaffed off over half the training sessions, and did all of 2 in the final month.  Hell, I had done some of the longer rides and runs, so I knew I could just dig deep and power through, right?  I’m a goddamn US Marine (one weekend a month, anyway).  I could do a little fucking triathlon!  It’s not even a full Ironman! It’s the Triathlon equivalent of a half marathon! You just show up and crank it out! How hard could it be?

               The race started out well enough.  I actually crushed the swim, the area I was most concerned about.  Roka makes a damn fine wetsuit.  Their sleeved Maverick Elite II was well worth the money.  I had done no open water swims in my training, had briefly swam in the wetsuit ONCE for all of 3 minutes, and had never swam farther than 800 Meters. And I still crushed the swim in just under 45 minutes.  Not an amazing time, but I came out of the water barely winded and ready to make the rest of the race my bitch.  And then everything went to shit.

               Now, I’m not the strongest cyclist.  Most of it is me, obviously.  The bike is only as good as its engine, and I’m not exactly a V8. More like a V4 Ecoboost.  Without the eco boost.  My main enemy is wind resistance and hills.  Riding a fairly heavy road bike, and being a fairly heavy guy for my height (triathlon wise anyway), and being about as aerodynamic as a full bred Russian Boar makes those things a nightmare for me.  That’s no excuse, but it did make things a lot harder. And it REALLY made my lack of training shine.  Clydesdale after Clydesdale passed me, and I realized that my gear wasn’t the problem, I was.  However, I managed to cruise at 16.5 MPH regardless.  Not a great time, but hell, I had a headwind, and I would make cutoff. And then I hit the turnaround, and things got bad fast.

               After taking a quick pit stop and grabbing some Cliff Shots, I attempted to mount my bike.  And for the first time ever, I fell over while clipping in.  I had managed to avoid it for nearly a year, and was proud to say I had never fallen over.  That ended quickly.  I managed to get up and get going after a few seconds of cussing and swearing vengeance against the trickster god who was clearly fucking with me.  I immediately noticed something was wrong.  Why was it so hard to get back up to speed, and what was that squeaking?  Marvelous, my brake hood was cocked inwards, and my front disk brake was slightly engaged. Not enough to stop me, but enough to stop the wheel from spinning freely.  No matter, I’ll power on.  I had enough of a buffer that 2 MPH slower wasn’t going to DNF me.  And then I realized that the headwind I felt going out was not, in fact, a headwind.  It was a slightly to the side tailwind. >OhNo.jpeg. NOW I was riding into the headwind.  And it was going to work me for all I was worth. I had to switch into the small gear for the first time in my life.  I was struggling to maintain 11.5MPH.  No matter, I thought, this is gonna suck, but I have enough of a lead that I’ll make cutoff. And then I slowed to 10.  Then 9.  The squeaking was getting worse, so I scavenged a full water bottle that someone had sent flying.  I desperately tried squirting water on the front brake to maybe give it slightly better lubrication.  Surprisingly, it worked.  Until shit went tits up, literally.

               While doing this particular stunt one time, I managed to lean too far forward, get hit by a particularly nasty gust, AND avoid a water bottle on the path all at the same time.  I then had the pleasure of experiencing my first bike crash! This race was full of first experiences! About 1.5 seconds later, I was on my back, seeing starts, knee gashed, other knee starting to swell, arm and shoulder throbbing, and worst of all, I’m pretty sure I scuffed my new saddle JUST enough to render it unreturnable.  So there goes that fit guarantee!  After a few minutes of bitching and swearing to the Old Gods and the New that I would smite whomever was responsible for that water bottle in the road, I managed to mount my trusty, broke steed for another 10 miles.  And as I approached the final aid station, and glanced at the time, I realized my lack of training was coming for its due.  Despite the bad weather, despite all my gear failures, and despite my all around shitty luck, I could have finished.  I missed cutoff by 4 minutes.  4 minutes of a 3:30 hour ride.  4 minutes of a 40 minuet swim.  4 minutes of extra effort.  Gone.

               I’m a “Balling on a Budget” triathlete.  While not the poorest in this sport, I definitely don’t have money to waste.  And $500 on registration, lodging, and gas is a HUGE hit to me.  Enough that I can really only do 1 Ironman branded event per year. Hell, on my motivation board, I have “YOU PAID $2600 TO BECOME AND IRONMAN SO FAR.  DON’T LET THAT MONEY GO TO WASTE!”  This sport has claimed almost all of my disposable income the past year, plus some. The financial burden of this failure was almost worse than anything else.  And the realization that I let all that time and money go to waste was crushing. While being driven back to the transition area, I strongly considered selling all my gear and getting out of the sport.  Cutting my losses and paying off some debt.  Putting this whole thing behind me.  It would allow me to focus on my PFT, powerlifting, and bodybuilding.  The types of physical activity I prefer. Lord knows it would greatly increase my ammo budget.  That would be the smart thing to do, right?  Accept the fact I’m not cut out for the dedication this sport takes, and move on with my life.

               Well, in case you didn’t read the first paragraph, I’m not a smart man.  I joined the Marine Corps and failed college.  So clearly I’m a bit of dumbass.  

               Failure will not be my legacy with this sport. This was a wakeup call.  If I want the title of Ironman, I’m going to have to work for it, and work harder at it than anything else in my life.  My plan has not changed: Ironman Texas 2019.  I will NOT back away from that.  But I need to evaluate my discipline, my work ethic, and my training.  From here on, I must make EVERY workout be as intense as possible.  I must fall into bed EVERY NIGHT exhausted from training and work, and rise every morning with wrath in my heart and bloodlust in my soul. I must look at the weakness in my and kill it, because if I fail to do so, it will kill me.  I must forge on ahead, ready for the hardest 12 months of training in my life.  My lofty goal of qualifying for Kona in 2020 seems all the further away, but luckily I have one simple phrase to get me through:

                                                      “Fuck it.”

And so we go.

[goodguidanceptc]

Race Report: Ironman Arizona Race Date: November 19, 2017

2017 started with the mantra, “Make the Kona choice.” I used this to plan and execute training, diet, meal timing and portions, as well as social activities, bedtime, even reading materials. As training data and assessments coalesced, I tweaked it to a more intrinsic, “Make the sub-10 choice.”

Why sub-10? According to www.coachcox.co.uk (which I highly recommend for robust IM data analysis), over the last ten years, the Average KQ time for AG males, 45-49 at IMAZ is a vicious 9:34. In fact, to even sniff at KQ at any Ironman, sub-10 only sometimes gets you in the running.

As volume and intensity of rides and runs increased over months of training, “Make the sub-10 choice” was truncated even further to: “1-5-4,″ an oversimplified shorthand for my expected S/B/R splits. Aggressive? Sure. Mistake? Maybe. But “Aggressive Mistakes” could be the tag line for every middle age endurance athlete. I wanted to redeem a terrible 2015 IMOO, be one of the guys at the pointy end of the bell curve, and with a healthy injection of luck, maybe earn a Kona Qualification.

To help make rides and runs (and lifting sessions) fun, like most folks, I built a playlist library. As I shuffled new songs in and out, the playlists became a mish-mash of blues, hard rock, EDM, classical and funk. Fun. Odd. Me.

I’ll save you some time (ha!)... I didn't get anywhere near sub-10. I made great strides in fitness, learned quite a bit and had some big fun doing it. Falling well short of a 10 hour Ironman has generated a mixed bag of emotions. So, not unlike my playlists, now that IMAZ is done, I’m all over the place. Here’s my race report.

Day Before and Race Day

In light of the result, one very small detail stands out from the day before: as a light snack at about 3:30, I had some corn chips and approx.1/2c guacamole.

Race day: All good. Proper fueling, proper timing, proper execution. 

Lesson: I’m well prepped on race day. Very little anxiety or stress; I planned the race and I’ll race the plan (mostly). But remember that guac snack.

Swim (1:08:32)

Tempe Town Lake is basically a giant, unfiltered pool, murky but calm, a Lake Michigan Lite. Two challenging aspects of the course are 1) officials make it very tough to preview actual course and 2) about 400 yards of swimming directly towards a 7:02 sunrise.

The new self-seeding race start works fine for me, I’m no mass start purist and I’m happy to navigate fewer dolts over the first couple hundred yards. I’d been in this water twice over the past 30 days and shaded goggles got me through.

In candor, while there’s always room for improvement, my Garmin indicated 1:26/100 avg. over 2.58mi and mapped very close to where Ironman says the buoys were placed. So in terms of efficiency, the extra .18miles could be attributed to race-start procedures/location, where I hit my T1 button as well as some normal jostling.

Lesson: better sighting and overall technique will help improve time.

T1 (5:14)

Smooth. Almost half the time my coach thought I’d take. I don’t fuck around in transition.

Bike (5:41:43; 19.7mph avg)

My plan was simple: “Front side strong side, back side fast side.” I’d muscle uphill to the Shea Road turnaround (strong side) and let gravity and aero deliver high speeds back into town (fast side) for three loops. This also fits my general race strategy of “take what it gives you.”

Furthermore, even the windiest rides I’d taken over the month that I lived in Tempe to train, the gusts rarely got above 15mph. So 5-10mph wind forecast was manageable. I had a solid, tested nutrition plan. I’d rented a small profile front wheel and disk back (practiced on during my stay) and a respectable 289 FTP. I made my race weight goal of 162lbs (74kg).

But Ironman is a bitchy trickster.

Because on race day, that bitch wind that usually hits at Beeline Highway, was already in everybody’s face at McKellips Road, a full 10 miles earlier (per loop), than any practice ride. However, logic indicates that if it’s that nasty outbound, it’s at my back inbound! Sure enough, IM tracker data supports this over first and second loops, essentially indicating 17mph outbound, 26mph inbound, though less dramatically on third loop data (16mph out/19mph in).

To stay conservative, I deliberately turned down watts to manage the additional 30miles of headwind on McKellips. Garmin says: 183 avg watts (63% FTP) overall. This may indicate I left some power out there, or(!) that good technique and aerodynamics on the “fast side” kept watts down despite high avg mph.

On the front side of the second loop, lots of “47″ and “46″ male calves passed me. I really hate getting passed. IMAZ results say I ranked 39th out of the water but 60th off the bike. So you just gotta believe me when I say that I let a lot of people go. Is that a positive step in my evolution as a competitor? Or was that concession to windy course conditions? All I know is that I took too long on the bike and there was a lot of conflicting chatter in my head.

To compound the problem, every time I peed, i had to gear up/mash hard in order to coast long enough to straighten a leg as I went. And if a few guys got past me as I peed, I had to catch them. Was that racing my plan? Yes and no. Yes I’d always planned to pee on the bike, but the wattage spikes to regain momentum may have caused problems later. On the other hand, 183 avg watts! So it’s a circular conundrum.

Two other items of note. 

I ate one Clif Bar within the first hour, as planned.

As is my habit, I thank volunteers as well as first responders (police, EMTs, Firefighters) as I go.

Lesson: trust the training. A good plan, well executed, will get it done.

T2 (2:49)

Again, smooth. No issues. I’d gotten all my nutrition and hydration in on the bike and my full body scan was all good. Even gave Susan a quick peck as I went by.

Run (4:21:26 or 9:58/mi)

Ten. Minute. Miles. Criminal. A heinous crime.

What happened? Started slowly--as planned-- and knew the course. Everything for the first two miles was A-OK! I wasn’t pushing. What happened? No problems on second loop whatsoever, I had the legs and the stomach was fine. Cola provided a great boost around mile 24. I ran the last two miles at sub-8:00 pace but did not negative split. I didn't get anywhere near my expected average pace of 8:30s or better. What happened?

One. Bad. GI moment. At Mile 2, forced porta-pottie stop to release the terrible pressure. 

So let’s Tarantino this crime... let’s go back... rewind... maybe you already know where I’m going...

IF I had started cola earlier (mile 16?), I could have negative split...

IF I had not had a brief but sudden bout of diarrhea at the second aid station (symptoms started bubbling at first aid station)...

IF only I hadn’t over-reacted in FEAR, slowing at every aid station to ensure that I was never too far from a port-pottie.

Did I need to walk every aid station? Absolutely not! 

In other words, despite near perfect race day plan and execution, that one  single, sudden burst of diarrhea blew up the whole run. Because once it started, that fear of it becoming a serial killer dominated my race management. Now, in the court of my post-race opinion, where does the blame belong? 

Infinite formula? Both bike and run formulas were used extensively during training. Verdict: Innocent.

That Cliff Bar early on the bike? Circumstantial evidence does point to this suspect, given IMOO results and frequent immediate distress after some(!) training bricks, but the timing doesn’t seem right and, again, used plenty in training. Verdict: Innocent.

Heat? It reached mid-80s. But I never felt that oppressive burn (or other symptoms) of being overheated AND I’d been training in it for over a month AND I did not cramp up afterwards. Verdict: Innocent.

Loss of Confidence? I don’t think of myself as a runner despite having completed multiple 70.3s and lots of long training runs, not to mention the friggin’ Chicago Marathon, sub-4 in 90+ degree heat. Verdict: GUILTY, Aiding and Abetting.

Guacamole? Forgive my grossness here but this suspect matches the volume and consistency of evidence left in the second aid station porta-pottie. Timing fits, too. Verdict: GUILTY.

Lesson: sometimes “take what it gives you” is not the right move. Sometimes fortune favors the bold. Should have and could have run harder and let the poops fall where they may.

OVERALL RACE TIME: 11:19:26

OVERALL RACE GRADE: B-

I had faster time expectations in all three phases, especially the Run. Honestly though, it is somewhat disingenuous to suggest that 11:19 is not impressive. It is. Especially given that this was only my second ever full 140.6 race.

Did I redeem a terrible 2015 IMOO? Unequivocal YES.

Am I one of the guys at the pointy end of the bell curve? SORT OF, depending on how pointy #48 out of 495 ranks in my AG (largest AG at IMAZ).

Did I KQ? Unequivocal NO. Not even close.

Furthermore, I admit that 1-5-4 was a stretch goal from the very start, especially given my limited time in the sport. I also have to admit that there was never any data to support the kinds of power or paces I know to be required for sub-10 results, including but not limited to:

1-5-4 does not account for 10-15 minutes of transition

A 5 hour bike split indicates a 22.4mph average speed

3.2 - 3.4 w/kg is well below elite ratios of 4.0+w/kg

A sub-4 standalone marathon does not project to a sub-4 IM marathon

A 5-hour 70.3 does not project to a 10-hour full

SWIM: A-

Could reasonably trim 7-8 minutes, or about :10-:15 seconds/100.

BIKE: B+

Wind. But also, could have managed/reduced surges better. Could reasonably trim :30 minutes with a few extra watts.

RUN: C

That initial shock of FEAR so early in the run created a tactical overreaction predicated on a lack of faith in my own abilities. I’ve just got to start thinking of myself as a runner. Then, run.

Finishing / Post Race

I’m very grateful to my lovely wife Susan and my wonderful kids, Peter and Veronica for their support. Susan, you are my salvation.

I’m grateful to have the expert professionals Coach K and Coach Sharone and the entire Well-Fit staff who share their wisdom. 

I’m grateful to my inspiring and impressive training partners, including but not limited to the TriFam (Adam, Anjelica, Bernie, David, Kelly, Lauren, Megan, Sach), the Well-Fit Elite Team (too many bad-asses to list) and other triathlete rockstars like AJ, Jeremy, Kristin D., Laura B., Thomas, Tony, and all the Pauls and Mikes.

Special gratitude to Tatsu, Jeremy and Paul Z who were involved, but thankfully not harmed, with my training ride crash. Tatsu was especially gracious and understanding. Thank you.

I’m very grateful to anybody willing to excuse my terrible smell, deplorable language and barbaric sounds during FTP tests.

Maximum gratitude to Well-Fit, FFC, UIC, Whitney Young, Get-A-Grip, Live Grit, Fleet Feet, the Lakeshore path, Joliet Bicycle Club, PSHS and the pros at Moxie Multi-sport in Tempe.

I’m grateful for Crushing Iron (C26), Matt Fitzgerald, Joe Friel, Training Peaks, Scott brand bikes, Garmin, Apple, Chipotle, Lifetime Fitness, Ironman.

Thank you to all the on-course maniacs cheering and making signs and wearing all sorts of crazy outfits to show love and support. 

Special thanks and appreciation to Matt Dryden, Rob Lemons and Bernie Mc for the most amazing on course support--with special Top Marks to Bernie the Leprechaun!

I’m grateful that I’m able to race triathlons.