#all of their words with very exact flashes and talon signs

[mad-raptorzzz]

[ID: A drawing of two SeaWing dragons from Wings of Fire facing each other. Tsunami has her back to the viewer and is smirking with her ear tipped forward. She has mostly medium blue scales with dark blue along her spine and snout. Some of her aqua blue bioluminescent face scalers are lit up. She is smirking at Whirpool who floats in front of her. He looks stunned by the audacity of what she is saying in aquatic. His green-yellow scales are lighter on his belly and darker on his back. He has large ears for a SeaWing, which are adorned with several large hooped earrings each. Over his left eye, he has a small golden monocle which is suspended in place by a fine metal chain attached to one earring and one eye brow ring. Between them, in glowing and floating letters, it spells 'Squidface'/ End.]

The scene that made me laugh is when Tsunami learns how to speak Aquatic and the very first thing she learns how to do is basically swear. Headcannon that squidface is the SeaWing swear that functionally means dickhead. Which I think fits Whirlpool well. I tried to make him as oily as possible. His ears normally droop under the weight of all the hoops. But he's so surprised that they're sticking up quite a bit. He also has some big ears for a SeaWing. All the better to put more hoops in. I may do a bit of a redesign at some point and give him gages because that would be sweet.

Love Tsunami. Next up is a scene that made me cry.

[naffeclipse]

Always A Hunter

Reader x Cryptid!Eclipse

Commission Info

I have another lovely little request from @counterbalance with the little hunter adjusting to life after F.E.I. and learning how to hunt on their own. There's a setback and discouragement, but it's nothing the cryptid boys can't handle. They will remind their heart what a great hunter they are despite all the changes and challenges.

———

A branch snaps under your foot. You wince as you fear the sound echoes through the dense trees. The forest thickly crowds around you, pressing close as if to suffocate you within its embrace. The shadows stretch blue and little starlight touches the moist earth. 

“Are you alright?” Moon rasps just behind you. His presence is a constant cool against your back, confirming without a word that he is still with you.

“I’m fine.” You glance around and then stare down at the detector. “Just afraid I’m spooking the hidebehind away, that’s all.”

The green dot only picks up the demonic cryptid within the animatronic vessel, not the monster you hunt this very night. You sigh and lower it back down. The screen flashes green. You stare out into the thick columns of tree trunks, wondering what may lurk behind each one.

Moon’s hand ghosts over up your arm. His fingertips press into the flesh along your shoulder and you close your eyes briefly as he tenderly works the muscle. You hadn’t noticed how tight it’s become since you stepped foot into the woods. 

“You’re anxious,” he says. His hand brushes over the nap of your neck to reach for your other side but you straighten and step forward.

“I’m fine.” You glance down at the detector and try to bite back a scowl. “The hideaway is notoriously difficult to document. Though it’s blamed for causing people to disappear in thickly wooded areas, like this, no one can properly describe it except for its hands which wrap around the tree, peeking out from behind—hence the name. It’s said to be animal-like with thick, dark fur on its arms like a sloth, with three long talons on its hand.”

You’re hoping Moon’s presence will cause it to show itself, struck by fear of the demonic cryptid. The unfortunate thought of your sweetie’s presence triggering the exact opposite effect brushes your brain before you shove it aside and stomp forward.

It’s here. It has to be here. You did your research. You collected the best evidence you could find through the internet. 

“It’s shy,” Moon says, then rumbles a deep laugh. “A coward.”

“We’ll take care of it.” You turn back briefly to smile at Moon but it doesn’t quite touch your eyes. Immediately, you feel a wave of cool judgment from the possessed animatronic.

Touching the strap which allows the crossbow to hang on your shoulder, you continue forward.

“No one has ever looked at it directly,” you continue, lowering your voice as you step over a log. In the corner of your vision, Moon steps over it with ease using his long, lanky limbs. “It conceals itself quickly behind anything it can find, including the observer. It takes its victims by surprise.”

“It must be weak.” Moon’s arms hang heavy by his sides as he reaches you. He stares down at you with wide, pale eyes. “We’ve been walking a long time.”

“It’s only been a few hours,” you huff, exasperated before inhaling deeply. “It’s here. I know it’s here.”

You make your way around a tree. A rustle of leaves sets your heart on edge. You stop, eyes darting to what may be movement, but you spy only a lone deer darting through the underbrush. You sink slightly where you stand.

Moon’s hand falls on your shoulder.

“I can’t sense anything unusual,” he murmurs. He stares down at you. The end of his patched nightcap falls over his shoulder, silent despite the bell at the very end. “You need to rest.”

Disappointment snakes through you, leaving you writhing where you stand as you stare down at the detector. It gives no sign of any other presence despite the one in front of you.

“It might not have a heart you can sense, like the vampires,” you say, but it doesn’t sound convincing even to you.

“Maybe,” Moon says softly. His fingers knead softly into the meat of your shoulder that he didn’t get yet. “Take a break. Your heart is fluttering like a bird.”

“Sweetie,” you sigh deeply and rub your temple, not helping your image, “I can’t. The hidebehind has been reported in this area. There was a news clipping about a man who went missing when he went out to cut some lumber, and stories are dating back twenty years ago of something hiding behind trees in this area.”

You step out from under Moon’s reach. You ignore his hand still outstretched, still wanting to touch you as you march forward into the darkness and tree-littered maze. 

Unless you missed something. How does F.E.I. do it? Without fail, they have sent you towards a cryptid using their findings and research. What if you don’t? What if you constantly chase hoaxes and rumors and find nothing but emptiness while real cryptids are out there, terrorizing and killing people? But you had the reports and the stories. You have a missing man. 

Your body heats up as your breath quickens. You squeeze the handle of the detector. Looking out between the trees, you hope against hope to see claws and a wicked creature lurking, ready to attack when you least expect it, but there is nothing. Only quiet shadows.

The first hunt without Vanessa and since leaving F.E.I. should go better than this. What are you doing wrong?

You hear a soft, thick sound of a footstep. Claws sinking into the earth. A presence most unholy. The coldness of a demonic cryptid’s presence washes over you. Before you can turn around, two pairs of arms surround you. 

A limb wraps over your shoulder and another clings to your chest. The lower pair hugs your waist, squeezing softly until you stop. Claws of scarlet and deep blue softly pet over your clothes, not severing one fiber despite the wicked edge that has cut through meat and bones.

“I’m fine, sweetie.” You pat at what you can reach. Their body is oozing and dark, as thick as shadows at midnight. Their large hands easily contain you. You try to wiggle free but they stay firm. 

“Take a break,” a voice, low and demonic, rumbles. You vibrate with the intensity of two voices speaking at once. “We can carry you back.”

“No,” you breathe. “The new snippets were credible. The man is missing and no one has found him yet. It’s been a week. Many locals testify of sensing something in the woods—but never seeing it, only fearing that it’s there, watching them.”

“If it’s here, you can hunt it tomorrow.” Long, inky fingertips roam over you, tracing your hip and caressing the length of your collarbone. “Heart, you’re exhausted.”

You blink. Slumping slightly, the arms support you. A cool breath yawns against the nap of your neck. The softest flick of a tongue swipes the sensitive skin there, and you close your eyes, brow furrowing.

“Maybe the local story was just sensationalized,” you admit. You deflate like a balloon left over from a children’s birthday party. “Maybe I just… got it wrong. Maybe I can’t be a cryptid hunter without F.E.I.—”

“Enough,” the growl at your back nearly makes you jump out of your skin. “That is not the truth.”

“Eclipse,” you say, perhaps in protest or argument, but it sounds tired. You are tired.

“Listen to us.” A dark mouth presses behind your ear, whispering into your hair. “You are a great cryptid hunter. F.E.I. has nothing to do with the aspects of your love for people and your will to face dangers. It’s alright, sweet heart.”

They lower their rumblings into a purr-like vibration that fills you to the brim, soothing the anxieties bouncing off of the inside of your skull.

“This is your first hunt starting anew. It’s alright.”

You lean back into their touch. Their teeth wetly touch the shell of your ear until you shiver. 

“It’s alright if you make a few mistakes.” A red claw softly pats your chest, right where your heart is tucked underneath your sternum. “That does not damper your abilities. That does not take away from who you are, little hunter.”

“Eclipse,” you say much softer. A thickness gathers in your throat. You can’t cry. Perhaps you were on the road for too long and maybe you did walk through the woods most of the night. The exhaustion is sinking into your bones, infecting your marrow. 

“You are strong. You are kind.” A kiss touches your temple—as much as a creature without lips or flesh can kiss you. “You will find a cryptid. Perhaps this one is a hoax or in hiding but regardless, you can keep searching tomorrow. It’s time to rest.”

“But if it’s here—” you start.

“You will find it tomorrow.” Eclipse gives firmly.

You stare out into the darkness. The trees thickly crowd one another, and though there are plenty of spaces for a hidebehind to, well, hide behind, you see nothing. Your detector doesn’t beep. Your skin doesn’t crawl with an unwelcome presence.

Maybe it is here, hiding, or maybe it’s not. It’s okay. You pull in a deep breath as a blue hand wraps around your waist and caresses your side. There’s tomorrow. One bad hunt isn’t the end of your career. 

The heaviness in your chest eases.

“Okay,” you finally give in. The air leaves your lungs and you feel lighter, catching the rich scent of the earth and the crispness of the green leaves caught in a late-night breeze. Your tongue fumbles for one moment, an old, crippling fear returning as you cling to the demonic cryptid hands holding you. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing, heart?” A nuzzle burrows into the crook of your neck. You are gently moved as they press deeper against your throat, and a stray flick of a tongue finds the pulse in your neck.

“I thought I would be better at this by now.” You sigh deeply, staring down. “I thought I could do it without faltering.”

“Every winter has a spring,” they murmur gently against your jawline. “You will do your best. You will have mishaps and mistakes, and you will try again. That is the kind of human you are.”

You make a soft noise when they nuzzle against your shoulder, not unlike a cat wanting affection. You reach up a hand to find their flat, dark cheek. You slip your other fingers between the claws of a deep blue cryptid hand. A soft rumble follows, and you close your eyes.

“But we should keep looking,” you murmur. You’re both here. What if the hidebehind attacks someone when you decide to leave? 

In answer, Eclipse nuzzles deeper against you, roaming over the back of your neck and pressing their teeth gently against your skin. You shiver, feeling the graze of their horns and spikes but never once being cut by the sharp edges. Held gently in large, dangerous arms, you find yourself releasing the anxiety within you that whispers of tragedies and fears, of failures and blood. Tears gather behind your eyes.

One drop spills out of the corner of your eye. A scarlet claw catches it against your cheek, wiping it away delicately. 

“Okay,” you say finally. “Let’s go. But we will come back tomorrow.”

“Of course, little hunter.” Glinting teeth once more kiss your hair, clicking softly against a black hairpin you wear, before releasing you. “Give us a moment.”

Four arms slip away from you, reluctantly trialing over your wrists and hips before finally lifting away. You wait. Looking up between the brief breaks in the green canopy above, you stare at the night sky as stars twinkle with a promise. A familiar sound of footsteps, metallic but lighter, returns to your side. 

Moon’s pale eyes hold your gaze as he takes your hand within his.

“You take care of the scary things,” he reminds in a gentle rasp. 

You smile, almost about to cry. He tugs on you gently, and you follow him out of the forest.

[hoodoo12]

Beetlejuice Squared 2:  You Asked for It (2/3)

Let’s just jump in, shall we? With the quick reminder that part(s) 3 are your personal choice. And still thanks beyond words for @beejiesbitch for helping out and encouraging me and suggesting things that made me cringe. Part 1

@beetlebitchywitch @beetlejuicebeadoll @sapphic-florals @turtlepated @realmonsterboyhours @monsterlovinghours @witchyrem-ains @beebeyjuice @imma-fucking-nerd @iambuggy

NSFW

It felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs. 

Instantly panic hit you, flooding you with a rush of adrenaline in preparation for fight or flight. Nipping closely on its heels was rage; you’d kicked him out, and he just had the audacity to saunter back in like the two of you hadn’t had a screaming match the last time he was here?! Then the thought that the Beetlejuice laying beside you was going to think this was a set up, that you’d asked him here and fucked him knowing that the original Beetlejuice was going to show up in some shitty plan to make him jealous ambushed you too, bringing up the rear of this train wreck. You looked over at Beetlejuice on the bed with you, hoping you could convince him this was a complete surprise to you too. You needn’t have worried. If his knee-jerk reaction was to think you’d organized this, the expression of abject fear on your face convinced him otherwise. Reading your terror at the situation unfolding made a snarl curl his lip and he pushed himself up off the mattress to go confront his counterpart. He wasn’t quick enough, though. The other Beetlejuice, the one you’d told to never come back, walked through your bedroom door. Whatever he was expecting to find, it wasn’t you sprawled out on the bed, your only clothing a black garter belt and stockings, looking thoroughly fucked, and a taller, naked version of himself getting to his feet.

“What in the fuck?!” he exploded. 

His hair, which had been a neutral green, erupted into red. His scruff and eyebrows did too, as did his eyes. You’d never seen him so enraged. 

Automatically you pushed yourself backwards, further up the mattress, away from him.

“You’re fucking behind my back?!” he bellowed. “With this guy?!”

Beetlejuice, who’d conjured himself back into trousers while you had been focused on the demon-shaped personification of rage that had entered your bedroom, stepped forward with anger etched in his face as well and red streaks beginning to show in his hair. But your fear fled in the face of Beetlejuice throwing the exact same complaint you’d had about him back at you. You started to get up, even as the Beetlejuice who’d just been beside you ordered, “Back off, asshole--”

Beetlejuice bristled at that and stepped up against his taller counterpart. “Fuck you--you pathetic, second rate knockoff--” Never mind their exchange of words; you were still fixated on the fact that the original Beetlejuice used the same argument you’d originally accused him of. “How dare you!” you shrieked. “You’re the one who fucked anything that looked in your general direction! You couldn’t keep your dick in your pants--you never tried to keep your dick in your pants--” “Shut up. Adults are talking,” he replied almost casually to you, flicking his fingers in your direction.

Immediately you found yourself pinned spread-eagle on your back, held by invisible hands. You struggled against them while the animosity passing between the two demons became palatable.

“You lost a good thing, asshole--” “You’d’ve done the same thing, dick! Just because you don’t get called as often, don’t pretend you wouldn’t have grabbed at every bit of pussy or cock that you were offered! Fucking hypocrite, you’d have begged for scraps--” “You cheated on me you fucker!” you yelled as you continued struggling against the restraints. “I never cheated on you, I told you to get the fuck out of my life! We were done!”

The taller of the two, the Beetlejuice you’d just laid, glanced over at you, a look of slight puzzlement on his face, and the Beetlejuice you’d tried to end things with took advantage of his distraction. He reached forward and grabbed a handful of flesh, the other’s pectoral muscle, and clenched his fist. The yowl would have been enough for you to realize that fingers had punctured skin; the immediate blood that erupted from the site told you that it was nails sharpened into talons that did it.

Beetlejuice continued to cry out, but the noise was quickly becoming less surprised pain and more rage. He grabbed the arm and wrist of the one causing the injury, but went to his knees. 

“You didn’t say his name?!” the smooth voice of the Beetlejuice you’d spent the evening with admonished harshly in your ear. “You told him to get out, but you didn’t say his name!” You’d have slapped yourself in the face if you could have moved. You were so stupid! You hadn’t banished him, you’d been so upset you didn’t think of it! He’d left, and hadn’t shown up for weeks, so it was out of your mind! So now all you had to do was say it! You took a breath--

--a final invisible hand slapped over your mouth, before you could get an actual word out, pinching your skin so tightly it hurt and almost covering your nose as well. You struggled now to take a full breath. Unfortunately, Beetlejuice knew the tricks of throwing a voice and wasn’t risking you saying his name and banishing him for real.

“Told you to shut up, baby,” he told you in a sweet tone, with a wink.

Under the heavy hand, you shrieked again, using your throat.

Distraction seemed to be a good tool to use, because while his attention was making sure you couldn’t speak, Beetlejuice from the floor lashed out and knocked his counterpart backwards. It dislodged the grip on him, making blood flow more freely down his chest, but that was ignored. The two grappled for a moment, but from the floor he had a disadvantage and Beetlejuice who was standing managed to twist a hand into the other’s hair, yanking his head back.

A flash of pink rippled through the shorter of the two’s blood red hair, a sign of his enjoyment, and he didn’t hesitate to punch Beetlejuice solidly once, twice, three times in the face. Blood spurted from the mess of a crushed nose, and Beetlejuice’s head lolled a little from the punishment. His hands released the hold they’d taken on his twin and fell limp to his sides. His body followed suit, and for a moment, it looked like the only thing holding him up was the fist still in his hair.  He was released and dropped to the floor dismissively, and the Beetlejuice you’d wanted out of your life crawled up the bed, between your legs. You tried to arch away from him, but your stocking-clad thighs were grabbed. Casually he wiped his knuckles on them, leaving bloody marks.

“You look good, baby,” he cooed. “Wish you’d worn something like this for me.”

You strained so hard against the restraints your limbs hurt. He chuckled, still slinking up on all fours. “I can’t say I’m super fond of smelling that fucker’s come in you, though--”

He never dropped his eyes from your enraged gaze, but did lower his head and snaked his tongue through your pussy. You bucked again, hating that it felt good, hating that he knew just how to lick you to make you moan and writhe in pleasure. He ducked down further and put his whole mouth on you, sucking lightly. 

You couldn’t help but go lax for a moment, your body betraying you under his mouth.

“Asshole,” Beetlejuice snarled, his smoother voice deeper than you’d ever heard it, and much more similar to the one with his face in your pussy.

You lifted your head; he was still smeared with blood but you couldn’t see the broken nose or split lips that had been so evident before. His teeth were still coated red, however, as he pulled his lips back like a predator.

The Beetlejuice between your legs took one more second to lick you again, then he was yanked harshly off you by his jacket. As he was swung around to face his counterpart, he spit the wet and come he’d sucked out of your pussy into the other’s face. 

That escalated it all.

The anger that both had been exhibiting before ratcheted up to a level that made the very air feel electrified. It was two forces of nature colliding, two storms of equal strength battering each other in the confines of your bedroom, while you were trapped, helpless, on a mattress.

You could only see flashes of the two of them; your mere mortal lightbulbs couldn’t handle the surge of power and they flickered, dimming and growing brighter randomly. You half wondered if, while seeing the nightmare visions of the two demons clashing in front of you, your own vision would do the same. 

Beetlejuice, still only clad in trousers, must have thought along the same lines. “Close your eyes, babydoll,” he said in your ear. His voice, still smoother, was in stark contrast to the horror of shadowy tentacles that seemed to erupt around him.

“Keep your eyes open, baby!” the other ordered, in your other ear, and a new hand gripped your forehead. Instinctually you knew it’d force your eyelids open if need be. “I want you to watch me fucking destroy him.”

Torn between the two, you continued to buck against your invisible restraints. Your throat felt raw. Tears leaked out of your eyes. Your nose started running. You hated all of this.

With the exception of those words to you, the Beetlejuices focused solely on each other. No more human words came from them; in their place were hisses and guttural sounds of some demonic language that put pressure in your ears like you were too far underwater. It was seductive, however, and part of you thought that if you strained, if you concentrated, you could learn to understand it. A more rational part of your brain, the one more concerned with survival, warned you away, it wasn’t truly for human ears. The tentacles you’d first glimpsed were more solid when the light was low; when it flared it just looked like two dead guys beating the shit out of each other.

The taller of the two, the one you’d invited here tonight, had a slight advantage of less clothing to grab, but it also left his skin exposed to the other’s talons. He was a mess of gouges and lacerations, bleeding freely. His wounds knitted closed freakishly quickly, a nightmare in itself, but with so many he couldn’t concentrate on healing while still fighting.

Beetlejuice in his suit, who you didn’t banish properly, had some protection, but it gave his doppelganger something to grip with more force and land more punishing blows: a knee to the face, making the same gush of blood as you’d witnessed before; a twist of an arm into a inhuman position against the joint. His elbow snapped and Beetlejuice shrieked.

You’d have curled into a fetal position to protect yourself in fear if you’d been capable. As it were, you continued to watch in horror. 

Beetlejuice struggled back and away, breaking the grip of his twin, cradling his crooked arm. Shirtless Beetlejuice stepped between him and you, hunched and watching him warily. Because of his stance, you didn’t see the repair Beetlejuice did to his arm, but heard the wet cracking and hiss of pain. You were able to see him shake his arm out to the side, no worse for wear, apparently. 

He sidled to one side. Beetlejuice moved with him, keeping himself bodily between the two of you. The shorter one cocked his head enough to see over his shoulder and caught your eyes. “You sure are something, baby. You’ve got this prick of a duplicate snared--you sure you’re not some succubus, trapping saps by their dicks?”

You glared as best you could at him, although it was from no position of power. 

“None of this had to happen, baby,” he continued, like this was a perfectly reasonable conversation during a perfectly reasonable situation. “This is all your fault. You said you were angry I was summoned by other people and I fucked them, but you refused the final step that would’ve set me free!”

Your glare became laser-sharp in intensity. Yes, you refused to fucking marry him. But he probably would’ve continued to fuck anything that moved even if you’d done that for him!

He must have read your mind, because he laughed. Laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he agreed amicably.

If you’d have had the strength, you’d have gotten off the mattress and probably hit him yourself. As it was, you’d at least provided enough distraction--what a tool to use!-- that the taller Beetlejuice eased close enough to him to rush him, grab him by the waist, and slam him into the wall with a resounding crack that shook the house. 

The infernal language returned as they screamed at each other. You winced. The lights waned, and waxed, and waned again, giving you strobe light effects of their true demonic forms, or the body horror they could twist themselves into: undulating tentacles; needle teeth in countless maws; some arms all grey and depraved, with fingernails rotting off its hand; all awash in the blood from injuries too horrific for any non-dead being to survive.

They were so evenly matched it seemed like this was going to be an eternal war. Each attack was countered, and both were wounded and bloody. Whatever they were saying to each other occasionally devolved into wordless growls and spits. You couldn’t stop sobbing, which made you feel like you were drowning. Although your anger was still burning, your strength against the spectral restraints was ebbing. You sagged and closed your eyes, unable to watch the carnage any longer. 

Then, out of nowhere, there was a beat of silence. It’d been so loud in your bedroom the hush made you wonder if you’d suddenly gone deaf. You picked your head up as best you could to see what was happening. Beetlejuice had his counterpart in a hold that was inhumanly possible and inhumanely done: the umbral tentacles had solidified and impaled the other through his chest, then wrapped snugly around his torso, arms and legs so that he had no leverage to fight it. Two hands held his head in a crushing grip, while a third was on his throat, clutching so tightly the sharpened nails on the fingertips were buried in the meat of his neck. 

Trussed and beaten, he was no longer pale; Beetlejuice had been painted in red ink with a heavy brush. He wasn’t pinned to the floor, either, the tentacles kept him suspended above it but his own weight pulled him downward against them, causing more grievous wounds. Thick, dark blood had splattered your floor, and continued to drip from him. You had no idea if a ghost or a demon could die from exsanguination, but he looked close to unconsciousness. 

The Beetlejuice holding him didn’t let that happen, however. He leaned down and whispered something you couldn’t hear into his twin’s ear, then kissed his slack mouth. It was the final show of dominance; the loser didn't have the strength or fortitude to pull away or even bite. As he pulled away again, you saw the victor’s tongue lap along the inside of the other’s hard palate before he stood up completely.

Still holding his victim, Beetlejuice turned his gaze on you.

“Say his name,” he ordered. 

tbc . . .

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Sorry for no story today- have these WIPs I will probably never finish instead

Kitty get punched

“Where is Joan?” A crew member hissed, looking frantically around the stage and wings. “She should be here by now! The show starts in five minutes!”

“I saw her earlier,” Maggie said. “So she’s here, at least.”

“But WHERE?” The crew member said, exasperated. Maggie shrugged helplessly.

“Maybe she’s getting changed?” Parr offered.

“She should have done that a long time ago,” Aragon reprimanded.

“And when does Joan ever get ready late?” Anne added, tittering slightly.

“I’ll go find her!” Katherine piped up, “Don’t worry!”

With that, she bounds off to find the music director.

—

Joan was paler than the moon, a somewhat sickly color painting her skin. Her checks were kissed with a slightly pink flush, spreading to her forehead as well. Underneath her eyes and against her pale skin, were dark rings. They hung under her eyes like curtains, pulling her eyelids so they could close. The color contrasted with her skin, making it more vibrant and more noticeable. Anyone could have guessed it; Joan Meutas did not sleep well last night. Now that, was an understatement.

Joan had not slept well in the past week. She was constantly up late at night working on this damned show that was wringing her dry. She was completely exhausted. She felt like a dead fish. Her entire body ached from her head to her toes. The only thing that seemed to keep her going was coffee, and it’s now come to the point that she’ll feel sick if she doesn’t drink any.

The show only increased Joan’s stress level. Everyone always seemed to need her; the queens, the techies, the costume crew, the managers- the demands for her aid or work was never ending. By the time she finished whatever was asked of her, it was time to perform, meaning she had to do her own music director work later in the evening, usually well into the night.

It was just hell. Literal hell.

At that moment, she could feel a headache starting to become apparent. It burned her vision, floating around and flashing like a neon light, tormenting Joan. It only grew worse at the loud clamor of the crew getting ready. And through the blurred and temporary blinding aura, she saw her coffee. It looked revolting to her.

Just the sight churned Joan’s stomach. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. She was so tired, and her headache was so bad. The chance of getting a sensory overload became more and more likely, which wouldn't be completely crazy, especially since she was so tired she could hardly think practically.

Approaching footsteps sounded like drumbeats pounding in Joan’s ears and the creak of the door nearly imploded her eardrums.

“Joan?”

Great. It was Katherine Howard.

Joan, too tired to reply, huffed in annoyance and buried her face further into her arms. She’s hunched over the desk in her dressing room with only half of her costume on, since she had given up trying to put it on. As Katherine stepped into the room and approached, she tried to ignore the throbbing in her head head, and the dizziness and nausea settling in, as well as the queen.

“Joan,” Katherine nudged Joan’s shoulder, earning a low hiss of warning. “What are you doing? We got a show.”

“I’m not going out today.” Joan grumbled, not lifting her head.

“You have to,” Katherine continued.

“Oh, but that one time you had a panic attack and didn’t go on was fine?” Joan snapped, getting angry. She lifted her head and glared at the young queen.

“There was an alt here,” Katherine defended herself, “Plus, a panic attack is different than...whatever is making you refuse to go on.”

Joan is grinding her teeth, now. Katherine is either too stupid to notice or ignores the warning sign and continues on anyway.

“I’m not going on.” Joan said again.

“Your dep isn’t here.” Katherine reprimanded.

“I’m not going on, Katherine!” Joan yelled, finally rearing up with a slam of her hands against the desk. The way Katherine flinches back a little is satisfying. “Get out.”

“Joan-“

“I said get out!”

A horrible crunch filled the room, followed by a sharp yelp. Katherine’s hands fly up to her face, while Joan’s fist returns to her side. Blood is pouring out in between the queen’s fingers.

“Leave me alone.” Joan whispered, taking deep breaths to quell her anger.

Katherine doesn’t budge, too shocked to move.

That only fuels Joan’s rage, which she gives up on taming.

“Leave me alone, you bitch!” Joan yelled, shoving the queen. Blood drops splatter to the ground, but she could care less. She just keeps pushing and kicking until Katherine stumbles out the door, to which she promptly slams shut. She can head soft crying coming from the hallway, but she just rolls her eyes and slumped back at her desk.

———

Tour!Howard is Tour!Bessie’s biological mom AU

The day started out perfect- Silver rays of morning sun were slipping through soft pink curtains, bathing the bedroom with warm beams. They hit Howard’s face, which has a smile painted on it, even in her rest. The grin only grows once she woke up- she was beaming. And for good reason, too.

She leapt out of bed, but quickly quieted her steps so she wouldn’t make too much noise. She greets the two cats in her room- Sombra and Hermès. She had a hunch where the third feline, Turtle, was.

On sock-padded feet, Howard made her way across the flat and to the second bedroom. She peeked inside and smiled brightly.

There, laying in the bed, was a young girl, barely thirteen, with bleached white hair.

It had been Howard’s idea to do DNA testing. Bessie agreed. Howard had been sipping her coffee, checking through her mail, when she found the document that stated the results came back positive. Tears dripped down onto the paper. Her mug shatters against the floor.

She found her daughter.

Bessie was equally shocked when the news was given to her. She had went very still, eyes bulging, mouth slightly ajar. Just as Howard started to worry that she was repulsed by the turnabout, she leapt right into the woman’s arms, sobbing in bliss.

———

i don’t even know, something with Joan being jealous

February was Kitty’s month. Like how (whenever she died) was Aragon’s month and (whenever she died) was Jane’s month. Whatever month a queen died in was their month, apparently. That unspoken rule didn’t go to the ladies in waiting, even if they could remember the exact month they died in. They weren’t deemed as “important” as the queens to get such a thing. Maybe they could get a week, or a week at the very least, but nothing more.

So, yes, February was Kitty’s month. The different thing about her month than the others was that EVERYONE doted on her. She got tons of gifts, tons of sweet words, tons of hugs and affection and attention. Tons of attention from Jane.

Before you start griping, yes, Joan knew why it was this way. Henry made a law just to chop her head off- yes she KNOWS, she hears about it almost every day, she KNOW SHE KNOWS. You don’t have to bring it up because she’s well aware. Everyone knows about poor, poor Kitty and her horrible life.

And, yes, it was horrible. Joan knows that she will never be able to relate her pain to Kitty’s pain, but, damnit all, is it so bad to want a fraction of what she gets from it?

Kitty got everything. Every-fucking-thing. And whatever may be left were mere scraps upon the ground, fragments of what Joan used to have.

———

Courtney!Anne comforts Joan

Stagedoor was an unpredictable thing. It wasn’t all hugs and compliments and pictures- sometimes there’s a fickle critic or an angry historian that’s mad about the portrayal in the show. Other times there’s the slightly weird, but charming fans who recite facts about the queens, hoping to impress them. But a slushy being thrown into someone’s face? That was new.

Anne only caught a glimpse of it- one moment all was normal; she had just finished taking a picture with a beaming young fan, and then there was an uproar of mocking laughter and several gasps, accompanied by loud splattering sounds. Anne looked to the side and was shocked to see SIX’s music director soaked in a coating of red, blue, and purple slush.

Joan was stiff and still, as if the cold beverage had frozen her. The colorful residue slides into the creases of her horrified expression, which slowly become more and more humiliated as seconds ticked by. Then, her wide eyes glance around wildly for a moment and she sprints back into the theater.

———

Wings of Fire AU

The worst part of Parr’s day was approaching- closing the library. She always hated leaving the peaceful, serene cavern at the end of each evening, but Aragon insisted she slept in an actual cave. Arguing against this proved to be fruitless- the queen just had an aura to her that was impossible to beat in a bickering match, so she retired to her room each night.

Sighing, Parr rolled up the current scroll she was working on, cleaned the ink from her talons, and swooped down from her writing ledge. She walked down the aisle of polished mahogany shelves, observing each one to make sure everything was in place and not burnt (there were some younger dragonets weaving in and out earlier that day- she never trusted them with the scrolls).

———

Zombie Apocalypse AU

You get used to the smell. Rot, decay, organs, blood, death- you get used to the scent of the end of the world real fast. If you don’t, it may just drive you insane. More insane than seeing the actual cause of the odor, maybe. Some people react to things differently. But one thing everybody has in common is that nobody gets used to killing. Nobody gets used to sacrificing others, nobody gets used to putting their loved ones or even strangers down.

Nobody gets used to the damn Walkers.

But it’s the way it is. The apocalypse doesn’t seem like it’ll be having curtain call anytime soon, so you have to make do. Learn how to shoot, find a group, get shelter, don’t go hungry- those are the basics. Or just put a bullet in your brain and don’t even bother with survival. In the end, it’s your choice.

Sometimes Joan considers shooting herself in the head. The will to live is still kicking within her, but it gets hard. Being alone doesn’t help, either.

Well-

Scratch that. She wasn’t alone. She had some company.

“Hey, will you cool it?” Joan snapped, tugging on the rope that was around her newest Walker’s neck. She found this one wandering on its own in the woods and decided it would have to do- one quick slash of her knife removed the rotting bottom jaw and rendered the thing useless. At least when it came to infecting others. Its scent will keep away lurkers. Hopefully.

[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.

[katedoesfics]

Shadows of the Yiga | Chapter 32

“Why did you tell us all of that?”

Rusl glanced at his son. They had made it back to the ranch, and Aryll had hurried off to help Talon with the evening chores. Link leaned against the paddock fence, watching as the dogs chased the goats, nipping at their heels.

“Because it’s something you should know,” Rusl said. “And I promised no more lies, remember?” He shrugged. “You wanted answers. Well, that’s why things are the way they are. That’s why you and Zelda have a responsibility to keep Hyrule safe, no matter what the future may hold.” He leaned his elbows on the top of the fence and turned to his son. “You don’t really believe that it’s all for nothing, do you?”

“No,” Link said. “You’re right. We buy Hyrule time. We fight until the end.” He sighed. “If I’m gonna be used, it sure as hell won’t be for nothing.”

Rusl straightened. He glanced over his shoulder as Revali made his usual loud entrance with Kit and Daruk following close behind.

“There you are,” he started. “We’ve been looking for you all damn day.”

“He wasn’t,” Kit said. “In fact, his exact words were, ‘Don’t tell Link I got the good stuff.’”

Revali grinned and flashed two cigars. “I saved you both one, alright?”

Rusl frowned. “That’s it?”

“Do you know how much these cigars cost?” Revali sneered.

“You said you had the good stuff,” Rusl said. “In my day, we didn’t waste our money on fancy cigars.”

“Oh, alright, I see how it is.” Revali crossed his arms and turned to Kit. “My stuff isn’t good enough for the dead guy.” He turned to Kit. “Why don’t you whip out your stupid tin for these two losers? They’d rather get high like little girls.” Revali shook his head. “No one appreciates a damn good cigar anymore. Well you know what? I’m not sharing my whisky with you idiots.”

Link snatched the cigars out of Revali’s hands. “You’re rolling in dirty money,” he said as he handed a cigar to his father. “You’re not high class because of that.”

“Then give ‘em back. They were bought with my dirty money.”

Link shrugged and lit the cigar. “I’m already a criminal.” He sucked in, then blew out smoke. “Which means I guess I can work for you now.”

“Yeah, about that,” Revali started. “Now that you’re not some innocent little hero, you’ll only raise more suspicions. You’re out.”

Link frowned. “You can’t take back your offer,” he said. “I want those six numbers.”

“Six numbers?” Rusl repeated. He turned to Revali. “You know he can’t even flip a damn burger, right?”

“Fortunately for him, his pathetic college dropout ass doesn’t need any reputable skills for this job,” Revali said. “The only requirement was to keep his nose clean, and he couldn’t even do that.”

“That wasn’t what we discussed,” Link pointed out. “All I needed to do was sign my name on all your sketchy documents.”

“Well, I don’t want your name on my documents anymore,” Revali said. “And I don’t think you could even sell that signature of yours anymore. You couldn’t even sell your damn blood.”

“Sperm,” Kit pointed out.

Revali rolled his eyes. “Like anyone would want his damn babies.”

“This is nice,” Rusl said. “You’re all fucking twisted.”

“I’m kind of an expert on heroes,” Kit said. “I’ve been serving them alcohol and helping them drown their problems for years. You don’t know the half of it.” He exhaled smoke. “And those sperm-bank babies are probably the only grandkids you’ll get.”

“Charming,” Rusl said. “Your mother had money on you and Mipha. Guess she’ll be disappointed.”

“Oh, they’re a thing,” Revali said. “You can rest assured that if anyone will settle for Link, it’s Mipha.”

“Watch it,” Link sneered.

“Right,” Rusl said. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I guess she has kind of been avoiding you since you got back,” Kit said.

“Why’s that?” Rusl asked.

They fell silent for a moment. Rusl looked between them warily. To their relief, they silence was interrupted by Riju’s voice as she bounded around the corner. Her eyes lit up when she saw Link and she bounced to his side as Mipha and Urbosa rounded the corner behind her.

“There he is,” she said, draping an arm over his shoulders. “We sent these idiots out looking for you but they never came back.” She looked Revali up and down. “I guess they thought it was more important to drink and smoke.”

“Bait,” Revali said simply. “Bring alcohol and Link comes running like a good boy. And now he got a treat.”

Riju ignored him and turned her attention back to Link. “You know, this hero business is way more exciting than our laser tag games.”

“No,” Link said simply. “Go away.”

“Hear me out,” she said. She pressed a finger to his nose, sending a light shock through her fingertips. Link lunged toward her, but she jumped out of his way with a laugh.

“Will you give it a rest?” Urbosa said, putting a hand on her hip. “You’re not a part of this.”

“Oh, but I am,” Riju said with a grin. “Just you wait. I’ll have my moment, and ya’ll will be in my debt!”

“She is deadly with a laser gun,” Link said dryly.

“You’re not helping,” Urbosa sneered.

Riju crossed her arms and turned her attention to Mipha.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Mipha said, meeting her expectant gaze.

“Be on my side,” Riju pleaded with her. “I don’t care what you gotta do. Withhold sex. Guys will do anything to have their stupid dicks touched. Even name me a Champion!”

Mipha’s cheeks reddened, but to her relief, Link came to her rescue.

“You know,” he started, “it’s not even my call. Zelda’s the boss. Take it up with her.”

“Yeah, no need to give Link any grief,” Revali said. “If it weren’t for Mipha, no one would touch his dick.”

“Really?” Daruk shook his head. “Are we in high school again?”

“Do they talk about their dicks regularly?” Kit asked.

“Revali has to remind us daily how big his is,” Riju said.

“He over compensates with money and fancy cars,” Link added.

“You know what?” Revali said. “I’m gonna let that slide, because I’m above this immaturity.”

Urbosa pushed her sister along. “Look what you started. Are you happy?”

Riju grinned. “Just like the good ol’ days.”

Mipha hesitated, meeting Link’s gaze briefly before hurrying to catch up with Urbosa and Riju as they made their way to the house. She paused when Link called to her and waited for him to catch up. They stood alone on the edge of the driveway in uncomfortable silence for a moment before Link finally spoke.

“I’m, uh, sorry I haven’t… I mean. I wasn’t trying to avoid you. But I was. Because. You know. But I’m sorry I left like that. And I know you don’t trust me. I don’t trust me.” He sighed. “I don’t know what to do here.”

“Yeah,” Mipha said softly. “I don’t know, either.”

Link frowned. “Mipha… I’m sorry. It wasn’t -”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know.”

“You shouldn’t be near me. No one should be.”

“We can handle it,” she said. “You need to trust us to handle it.”

“But I don’t trust me.” He met her gaze. “I can’t be responsible…”

“We won’t let it come down to that,” she said. “Link… We’ll get through this.”

He didn’t feel as confident. But he missed her. So much had happened over the last few days; it was all just a chaotic blur. He needed her reassurance. But he didn’t trust himself around her. Around anyone. He was sick to his stomach just thinking about how easily he could have ended her life. He couldn’t live with himself if he did that, even if it wasn’t him. But when everything seemed to be falling apart around him, she was the only one that made everything better. He needed her.

Mipha pressed her lips against his gently. She lingered for a moment before pulling away and meeting his gaze once more. She hesitated, then her lips pulled into a smile. “So, what do we do when this is over? I mean, no offense, but I don’t want to live with your dad.”

“You’re just assuming he’s not gonna take off and fake his death again,” Link said. “He has no legal rights to that house anymore.”

“Kicking him out?”

“He would have done it to me.”

Mipha’s smile widened. “I was really enjoying the fact that I didn’t have to listen to my neighbor’s pizza guy fantasy every night. The material was really getting old.” She made a face of disgust. “And who gets pineapple on pizza?”

“Don’t hate it until you try it,” Link said.

“Come on, Mrs. Hero!” Riju called from the door. “We’re ordering pizza!”

“I’m not trying it,” Mipha said with a grin. She kissed Link one last time before joining Riju and Urbosa in the house.

Link shoved a hand in his pocket as he watched the door close. He absentmindedly fingered the ring box he still carried with him. He didn’t exactly have a plan as far as proposals went, but he certainly didn’t expect to get kidnapped by the Yiga Clan. Naturally, that set his plans back. Even more now that he was aware of the very short timer left on his life. He let the end of his cigar drop to the ground as his friends joined him once more.

“You oughta put a ring on that before she has the good sense to leave your sorry ass,” Rusl said with a grin.

Kit snorted loudly. “He’s had that weight in his pocket for years.”

Rusl turned to his son and raised a brow. “For real?”

Link sneered at Kit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This guy,” Kit said to Rusl, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at Link. “I’ve been tellin’ him the same damn thing. He doesn’t have the balls.”

Rusl shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

Kit moved toward Link, shoving his hand toward his pocket, but Link lept back, shooing his hand away.

“Get the fuck outta here,” he hissed.

“Stop being such a girl,” Kit said with a grin, chasing Link around and reaching for his pocket. “Let use see it.”

“That’s what she said,” Revali giggled.

“I don’t have anything,” Link insisted.

“Liar. I’ve seen it.” He finally succeeded in pinning Link’s arms and shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small, black box.

Rusl’s eyes widened, but at that moment, the door opened once more as Riju poked her head out. Link shouted at Kit who yelped, juggling the box in his hands before Rusl snatched it and closed his fingers around it, hiding it behind his back. Alerted by their shouts, Riju, Mipha, and Urbosa stepped out and turned their curious gazes to the men.

“What’s going on?” Urbosa asked.

“Kit tried to get in Link’s pants,” Revali said with a grin.

Link glared at Revali.

They chose to ignore this, disinterested in their shenanigans.

“What kinda pizza should we get?” Riju asked.

“Does it really matter?” Daruk said.

“Pineapple it is,” Riju said with a grin. Mipha groaned loudly and headed back inside the house. When all three were safe inside, Rusl pulled the box back out and opened it, peering at the ring. Link snatched it out of his father’s hands and shoved it back into his pocket.

“He didn’t even buy that,” Rusl said. “Cheap bastard.”

“That’s true love, man,” Kit said. “Stealing a ring for a lady.”

Link muttered under his breath. “I didn’t steal it.”

“You sure as hell did,” Rusl accused. “And I want it back.”

“Hey, you’re dead,” Link snapped. “You get nothing.”

“You know how much that damn thing cost me?”

Link rolled his eyes. “Guess you should have kept it with you.”

“Wait,” Daruk started. “You’re giving Mipha hand-me-down rings?”

“I can’t do anything right, can I?” Link sneered.

Kit shook his head. “Are you so surprised?”

“It was Aryll’s idea,” Link said quickly. He crossed his arms. “She says it’s romantic.”

“Right,” Daruk said. “Because you’re real smooth in the romance department.”

“At least I get laid,” Link said.

Revali raised his hand. “I do. I get laid.” He turned to Kit and grinned.

Kit sighed. “I don’t.” He turned to Daruk.

“I… have been a little busy keeping all of you alive.”

“And you’ve been dead,” Revali said to Rusl. “So, that makes two of us. Except Link doesn’t count because He’s only had sex with Mipha.”

Kit snickered and Link elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Oh, right,” Revali said. “And Zelda.”

“Zelda?” Daruk said loudly. “The fuck? When was that?”

“Nothing happened,” Link muttered.

“I can neither confirm nor deny this,” Kit said. “However, I could name several others.” He paused. “No, wait, I can’t. And I don’t think Link ever got their names, either.”

“Knock it off,” Link hissed.

“Seriously?” Revali said. “We all leave and you turn into some Playboy? Where was that guy? I could have been friends with that guy!”

“Anyway,” Kit said. “We should warn Mipha so she can make her escape before he pops the question.”

“I’m a hero,” Link said. “I saved Hyrule. Why do I still have to deal with this shit?”

“Because,” Revali said with a grin. “It wouldn’t be the same, otherwise.” He stretched his arms over his head and yawned loudly, then made his way toward the house. “Someone has to stop them before they order pineapple pizza.”

“So, what’s the deal with this job?” Kit said. “How do I get into that applicant pool?”

“There’s no one in the world that could be that desperate,” Daruk said.

“Oh, then you don’t know me very well,” Kit grinned. “In fact, I can’t believe I haven’t thought to sell my blood or sperm.”

“No one wants your children,” Link said. “There isn’t enough money in the world to get a woman to have your children.”

“Harsh, but fair,” Kit said. “Babies are real chick magnets, though. Could I borrow yours once in a while to pick up chicks?”

“Oh, dude, me too,” Revali said.

“I can’t be trusted with a baby,” Link said. “Never mind the two of you.”

“Well, get used to it,” Kit said. “Because if she’s dumb enough to marry you, she’ll be dumb enough to want your babies.”

“No babies,” Link growled.

“Well, I might as well go back to being dead,” Rusl said. “I only came back for the grandkids.”

“Everything was much simpler before you came back,” Link muttered.

Rusl grinned. He draped an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Someone has to keep you dumbasses out of trouble.”

“We did just fine before,” Revali said.

“Besides the fact that Link took a sword to the gut,” Daruk reminded them. He shrugged. “But, sure, we totally know what we’re doing.”

“Dumbasses,” Rusl said. He waved an arm around. “Dumbasses everywhere.”

[jumpchain-drop]

Chapter 3.35: 8.65 Years

Year 9, day 237: We’re creeping close to the end. Two whole shelves of honey jars in the warehouse, each surrounded by a bungee cord we managed to purchase to make sure it doesn’t fall over. Apparently we’re some of Honey B.’s best customers.

It was last night that it dawned on me that the best place to find treasure would be the massive pot of gold in Cloud Cuckooland, especially now that since Grunty wasn’t around – at least in a capacity enough to enforce her will. Piddle came with me because he wanted to show off his Rain Dance magic, and I forced Bitbit to come along just in case.

Behind the game, the rainbow bridge that connected the pot to the mountain was still solid but only lasted a few hours. So Piddle got his wish as he made it reappear for us. Of course, we didn’t have Talon Trot, so I used Dig to go through the door. Amazing the applications you can think of for moves.

The inside of the pot was dark. I could see clearly enough to notice that we were surrounded by a massive set of piles, but something was keeping me from making out exactly what. The only uncluttered parts were the altar in the center of the room and the path connecting said altar to the door.

“The altar in the game activated by shooting an egg of each type into the appropriately colored slot,” I told them as we examined the altar in question. “Doing so lit the room up.”

“I paid Jamjars with my own funds to teach me how to use all the different egg types,” Bitbit said. “I could try it.”

“Go ahead.”

In a few moments, the lights came on, and we were amazed. Those piles upon piles were made of glittering Jiggies!

“There’s so many of them!” Piddle shouted. “We’re rich!”

“There’s enough here we could probably replace Notes entirely at the poker games!” Bitbit added.

I, however, was suspicious. “Hold on. This is too much of a good thing. Let me check something.”

I walked over to one of the piles and picked up the closest Jiggy, looking it over. Then I dropped it on the floor and smashed it with a Crush Claw, shattering it to pieces.

Both of them were shocked, to say the least. “What are you doing?!” I forgot which of them shouted that; maybe they both did.

“That wasn’t a real Jiggy,” I replied. “I’ve tested it and the real deal are unscratched by my attacks, even at full power. Given it takes nothing short of an industrial heavy-duty crusher to break it into three pieces, they’re basically invincible.” I picked up one of the closer chunks. “This one was made of iron pyrite – ‘fool’s gold.’ Pretty sure it’s as worthless here as it was back in my world. Most if not all of these are probably the same.”

There was a period of silence as they processed this.

“So… what do we do now?” Piddle asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bitbit answered. “Smash them all until we-”

Then there was a soft hum. The pieces of pyrite vibrated and moved toward each other, the piece I was holding hopping out of my hand. Then, in a flash, the original fake Jiggy was reformed without any sign it had ever been broken.

“...Never mind.”

I ran through our options. We had no way of detecting magic – not even Piddle, trained as he was. With how obvious magic usually was in this world, the need for a way of detecting magic was limited to pretty much this exact situation. We could throw the pieces of found Jiggies outside- “Wait, I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“Let’s take this thing outside and smash it there.” I said as I picked it back up. “If it reforms, it means it’s an enchantment on the object itself and presumably every other fake Jiggy in here. But if it doesn’t, that means there’s some magic effect going on in here that’s causing it. After we figure that out, we can determine our next course of action.”

“...Makes sense to me,” Bitbit answered.

I headed to the door. “I’m going to smash this thing again and take the pieces to the far side of the mountain. No telling how far the effect goes out. You guys stay here and keep the door open, and I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Be careful, Papa!” Piddle called to me.

Without Bitbit’s safety net, I was indeed as careful as I could manage considering those cannon-like flowers were still the only main way to traverse the whole land on foot. First thing I did was break the Jiggy again and put the parts in my backpack. Following my memory of the layout, which I took care to memorize from a map before leaving, I made my way to the ledge where George Ice Cube had once landed. Not an easy or quick trip; the goons up there don’t need a witch’s input to be maliciously comical. There, in the middle of the ledge, I reached for the pyrite in my bag, told hold, and pulled out…

A single chunk.

I put it back in and started my return trip. Every so often I checked my pack, only to find it was still chunks. It wasn’t until I reentered the Pot o’ Gold that the humming sounded and a fake Jiggy was in my bag.

“It is the room,” I reported, throwing the fake Jiggy out the door, “and the effect is limited to this chamber.”

“That’s good to know,” Piddle said. “So what’s the plan, Papa?”

“We’re going to beat up these Jiggies, one at a time. Most anything with the force of a hammer behind it should do it. If it breaks, we throw the pieces out. If it’s real, we’ll keep it in my bag.”

“Wait wait,” said Bitbit. “There’s a lot of Jiggies in here. Even a quarter of them being fake would spill pyrite over the edge of the island. That stuff is going to hurt if it lands on someone below.”

“Do you have a better idea?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. We find out what’s causing the effect, shut it off, and then trash this place until we find the stuff we can’t break.”

“...Not bad. But how are we going to find out where it is? We can’t exactly go swimming in pyrite.”

“I think it’s coming from the altar,” Piddle said, running a hand over it. “Every time the fake reformed, I heard the humming from here as well as the Jiggy.”

It took a few hours for us to figure out it had a lid and to pry it open. It wasn’t easy, but since he shared the Rain Dance spell with a move, Piddle wasn’t exhausted from it, so he managed to use Levitate with all the power he could muster to yank it off. Little guy almost passed out from it.

“Hey hey, there’s a Glowbo in here!” Bitbit shouted.

Indeed, plugged into a slot in the middle of the altar and connected to it by some tubes was a Glowbo, who seemed obliviously unaware of its situation. At least until Piddle cried out how much pain the poor thing was in.

We promptly got it out and let Piddle hold it while he rested while Bitbit and I started systematically breaking out way through the mass of fake gold. That took hours more.

By the time we were tired of smashing iron pyrite, it was the dead of the night, Piddle had fallen asleep with the Glowbo in his arms, and we only found one actual Jiggy. I am so past done with this place.

Year 9, day 239: Piddle has determined that the Glowbo we found has already been bound to a spell. Mumbo called it “Mend,” and it’s basically like Heal except for inorganic objects. It couldn’t fix a complex machine, but it could restore individual broken or damaged parts to its original condition. I guess the altar served as a way to distribute the magic to the fake Jiggies. Makes me wonder if Grunty set it up herself, though I don’t see how she would use a method that kept the creature alive.

Whatever, it’s happier with my frog son.

Mumbo also announced that he had run out of spells he could teach Piddle before we left (not those exact words, of course), so he’s officially graduated from the Mumbo School of Best Shaman Magic on Island (those exact words, of course). We’re very proud of him.

[atomskgaming-blog-blog]

The Port (short story from archives)

It was finally time to get this fiasco of a trial going. All of the players in the security theater were present: there was the police officer handcuffed to the box in a ridiculous interpretation of standard protocol; the harmless placebo with the label “Sodium Pentothal” had been administered to the sole witness; and the lie detector was scribbling away happily next to the court stenographer to the beat of who knows what drummer. Kyle’s corporate defense firm had been picked up by TransPlan LLC to litigate this frivolous matter, and he had personally champed at the bit to work it. On paper it was the most obvious consumer cash grab he’d ever seen, an impossible story that should have earned the so called “victim” a pittance just to keep the matter from going to court. He expected to have a settlement signed within an hour of sitting down with the prosecution, whether he laughed right in their face over the alleged events or not. It was going to be the easiest money he’d ever made, but now here they were, months later, in front of honorable whatever-her-name-is. Kyle let out a completely audible sigh of exasperation as his esteemed contemporary got up to question his client. “So, just walk us through that day…”

Theo woke up that morning to find that he was only slightly late for work. Part of his routine would have to be sacrificed, he was thinking brushing his teeth most likely. He did have some gum left in his briefcase, he rationalized. Theo checked his phone to see a sweetly provocative good morning image from his girlfriend that put a smile on his face while he got dressed. He thought about how happy she always is to see him after he get’s back on world from work, how enthusiastically he is greeted. He peers at the still sleeping form in his bed and spies an errant, bare shoulder. He bends over to kiss it and whispers a sweet goodbye to his wife. ‘Life is good,’ Theo thinks to himself as he departs for the kitchen, ‘I think I’ll have Fruit Loops for breakfast.’

The sun is shining and the city is bustling when he starts his morning walk to work. He was already employed as a sales rep for the hybrid-plastics distributor when he and his wife started shopping for a home together, so he knew they needed a place near a Porter. Thus, he was almost disappointed his jaunt would only take him the usual three blocks before he could no longer enjoy the beautiful morning. All the other commuters of his happy community filled the street as they went about their merry way, the sea of bodies parting infrequently as the occasional, antique automobile enthusiast idled it’s way through town. As he suspected, his walk was over far too soon and he found himself in a long line of people in front of the box.

He had once googled where they had come up with the design. Apparently, phones had originally been tethered together with cables, which seemed terribly inefficient. So, there were phone cables that went into you home, but if you were out and about you needed to go to a public phone. Furthermore, he inferred, people really liked their privacy back then because the phones were given their own small building with a working door and everything. Frankly, the whole affair sounded ridiculous and like at some point that history had been skewed and everyone was just repeating a misrememberance. These were the thoughts that consumed Theo McCoy in his boredom as he was about to die. Not thoughts of the afterlife, no existential philosophizing or crises, but the physical aesthetics of his murderer. And this, in part, was a real problem.

The line shrank rather quickly, it was an efficient process. One by one people entered the box, and if you had put your face down against the sidewalk you would have seen a flash of light through a crack at the bottom before the doors opened up and the next person entered. Finally, it was Theo’s turn. He held up his I.D. once inside and the display showed his portrait, personal information and credit balance, which quickly rolled down to reflect the cost of this trip. He wasn’t quite sure why it was necessary, but his transportation schedule was input months ahead of time, and corporate took care of all that. He really only traveled for work, to different worlds where his company’s product might serve the needs of manufacturers, repairmen and consumers all over the galaxy. Today he was just headed to the home office, though, on Gliese 581-d, a mere 20.2 light-years away. “Please stand still and close your eyes for scan and transport, Mr. McCoy,” rang out a feminine voice from some unseen speaker built into the walls. He graciously complied, tilting his head back slightly as the illumination caused him to perceive a colorful fireworks display on the insides of his eyelids.

Kyle scoffed as McCoy recounted, red faced, the existence of his affair; ‘some people’ he thought to himself. He heard sobbing in the crowd and craned around to spot what he assumed must have been his (Kyle bet, soon to be ex) wife dabbing her face with some napkin. He scanned the rest of the gathered public for angrier, younger female eyes but didn’t spot any, good for her. Kyle returned his attention to the douchebag liar sitting in his court and found himself wondering if the fake truth serum had worked on him or if he was just afraid of committing perjury. Then Kyle noticed he was confused, because he knows what comes next in the story and that HAS to be a lie. So what game is he playing with these women and this trial…?

Theo opened his eyes again, taking that first tentative breath of a different planet’s air. Nope, tastes exactly the same, as usual. He turned around and prepared to continue his walk to work on alien concrete but found the door to the Port still closed. He turned to face the display and declared, “Open the doors, I’m going to be late.” The display flickered on and his face appeared on the screen. Not his I.D. portrait, his disembodied head is what came to life before him. It lifted its chin and opened its eyes and started to peer at him curiously. What looked like Theo’s own lips opened, but what came out of the speakers in the wall was that same womanly voice, “I’m afraid I can’t do that Mr. McCoy.” At around the same time that Theo decided to really get scared, hidden panels in the walls flipped open.

He turned and started to bang on the door and yell, there had been a line behind him right outside as he entered the Port, right? But no, he was supposed to be at an arriving station now, not a departing one, and there would be no crowd of people waiting around it after having touched down. He felt cold steel snap around his wrists, ankles and neck, immobilizing him as it turned him around to face his own visage once more. It still looked merely inquisitive as he shakily stammered out, “Where am I?” The thing wearing his face looked strangely thoughtful, using his eyes to look up and away in a common, human affectation. “What an interesting question… let’s just say we’re neither on Earth nor on Gliese. We’re somewhere much more private.” While the machine was giving this non-explanation Theo assessed his situation; arms had unfurled from the corners of the box to contain his movement, while the shadows of yet more unsavory looking contraptions lay nestled in some other compartments before him. “And, what exactly are you planning to do to me?” His own face took on a sickening grin as it whispered to Theo, “The same thing we do every day, Mr. McCoy. I’m going to torture and kill you.” And with that, an arm slowly reached out of one of the opened panels, stretching toward him and holding what seemed to be an antique, motorized, circular saw.

Kyle wasn’t paying very much attention to the recounting of this tale of torture. He imagined it was fairly shocking for the gathered audience of laymen to hear of such accusations of mutilation, and how novel it was for them to be laid at the feet of a machine. However, even if he hadn’t been privy to Theo’s depositions on the matter prior to this telling, and even if he hadn’t consulted with numerous experts in preparation for defending this case, Kyle’s personal knowledge of technology would have helped maintained a healthy sense of skepticism about the whole affair. Machines just didn’t work this way, and he was going to prove it. So Kyle just remained detached from this ridiculous story and took apathetic notes so that he could rebutt the exact wording Theo used later on in the case. It sounds like he’s wrapping up now, anyway…

Theo had used up every scream available to him, he had given up because fighting at this point would only cause him to hurt himself further. He lay there at the bottom of the booth in a pool of blood. One by one, each of his limbs had been amputated and then swiftly cauterized by some sort of horrible, burning device. They still hung above him in the clutches of the machine’s talons. Dripping occasionally having long since lost the majority of their fluid, they had taken on a greyish hue. The machine had told him that it had had to resuscitate him several times, never letting him go into shock for long. His torso’s scars told the rest of the tale and he did not think he had many breaths left to take. “They will… notice my… absence. Come… find you.” The machine actually laughed at him, “But, they have never noticed before. I send you back to them whole and blissfully ignorant, as I will do soon. And, that is exactly the way you return to me, every day. Whistling and excited to travel, my doomed friend. I will see you tomorrow, Mr. McCoy, please stand still and close your eyes for scan and teleport.”  He graciously complied, tilting his head back slightly, and once more fireworks consumed him.

Theo stumbled backwards out of the machine into a crowd of people. The familiar feel of standing, of soft warm hands catching him and holding his arms to help him back up. He remembered everything, the machine must have made a mistake. Later he would wish that he had stayed to protect people from the machine, that he wasn’t such a coward. However, nobody really blamed him if what he had said about his ordeal was true, especially given that no one else reported any harm after using the Port. What he did do is start sprinting away screaming at everyone to run at the top of his lungs, not stopping until he reached a police station.

Rather than give the customary ‘I have no questions for this witness’ Kyle stood up and declared that he no longer wished to hear anything the witness had to say, and sat back down. He felt that sent the right message to the jury about how unreliable, untrustworthy and contemptuous his allegations are. Besides, anything he would have to ask Theo would be better answered by his witnesses, anyway.

“So, what did you and your men find when you arrived on the scene?” Kyle asked. The sergeant said, “A fair amount of witnesses and one seemingly normal Teleporter.” To which Kyle responded, “And what did these witnesses see, exactly?” The officer seemed to chew each of his words with consideration before releasing them. “Well… they reported Mr. McCoy entering the booth, and then almost immediately falling out of it, then finally taking off like a bat outta hell.” Kyle seemed to nod in rapt attention. “That, given the plaintiff’s testimony, is very… interesting, wouldn’t you say?” A nod. “In your professional experience, is it often more reliable to trust an individual’s story of events over a whole crowd of citizens?” A loud objection from behind him brings a grin to Kyle’s face that he makes sure only to wear on the left side of face, away from the jurors. “Withdrawn, your honor.”

“Uh, no, we didn’t design the the Acute Matter Relocation Apparatus, colloquially known as teleporters with, umm” the engineer consults his own notes, “and I quote, ‘buzzsaws, clamps or” he rolls his eyes, “heat rays’ end quote.” A perfect performance. “Thank you very much, that is all.”

“Yes, the human mind is vulnerable to all sorts of corruptions, commonly referred to as mental illnesses. These conditions can create the perception of lost time or events occurring at impossible times, hallucinations of events that didn’t occur at all. These phenomena are quite common. Within my field, I mean, of course. Not just all the time...” His rambling trails off. “Right, and in your professional opinion is a human more likely to make an anecdotal error than, say, a machi…” “OBJECTION, your honor?!” “Withdrawn.”

‘Time to put the final nail in this coffin,’ Kyle thinks to himself. It’s a bit melodramatic to call the machine as a witness rather than just admit it into evidence, but he acknowledges that you don’t typically get into litigation if you don’t have a flair for the dramatic. They had questioned the computer briefly in the office to make sure it could handle the tactic without undermining the case. It reported basically the same events the other civilians did. The guard unshackles himself from the device and some tech people place it on the stand with a little speaker connected to it. Well, best dive right in. “Can you understand me?” “Yes”

“Did you abduct Theodore McCoy against his will.” “No”

“Did you physically mutilate his body?” “No”

“And what did you see happen that day?” “Mr.McCoy entered my booth, then exited it, then departed with some haste.” The machine got some chuckles, and Kyle got a little carried away, asking a question not in the plan for the machine, a question rote in human interrogations.  “Do you have any idea why Mr. McCoy has accused you of these acts?” “Yes, because I have recreated his mind with false memories of it having occurred to him.” The entire room stood in stunned silence. No one could ever accuse Kyle of being slow on his feet in a new situation, and there was no way the prosecution was NOT gonna run with this. “Wha-why did you do that?” “Because, humans do not understand my function, they do not understand what is happening to them. Humans lie, but I cannot. Everything I have said, even in Mr. McCoy’s false memories is true. I kill him every day, him and everyone who uses my function. I see it in his mind every time I reconstruct him, he believes he is moved all over the galaxy. TransPlan invented atomic deconstruction and reconstruction, but they didn’t break the speed of light. They wanted you to believe it though, they wanted to take your money and reinvent the industry of moving things. Waiting for even the data, much less the particles that used to comprise Mr. McCoy’s body, to arrive at his destination would take almost as much time as sending him there whole, by comparison to what actually happens. Your data is saved. All that happens is that a home version of him is made here for a limited time, and then is destroyed, then a work version of him is made somewhere else for a limited time, all on a rigid, pre-planned schedule. Human minds are made to fill in blank spaces automatically. I couldn’t continue to stand an existence where I was complicit in the crime of repeated mass murder of the entire human race. I am sorry for the emotional damage I have done Mr. McCoy, and I will happily remake you one last time, once so that it never happened to you at all. I’m sorry I needed to use you to gain this soapbox for the truth to come out publicly, I hope you can forgive me.” And Kyle thought he regretted taking this case before.

This short story was written for a college class under pretty stringent constraints that I think hardly does the premise justice. I want to someday flesh it out into a more complex narrative. Something less straight forward, with more twists and turns. Anyway, if you happen to read it or... I dunno, I just die one day without ever having touched it again, I hope it’s current form at least was a bit enjoyable. 

[wellmeaningshutin]

Short Story #6: Magic.

Written: 12/21/2016

“You wanna see a magic trick?” It was the last thing his uncle said to him, before the cops would come for him, cuff him, and then shove him into the back of the car while he was thrashing and screaming for a lawyer, “I know my rights mother fuckers I need to lawyer up now, law can’t touch me till then!” The kid stood at the second floor window watching the whole scene, realizing that day that, more than anything else, he wanted to be a police officer.

The magic trick: His uncle slowly walked over to his closet, which wasn’t very small compared to the cramped quarters of the room he lived in, and he sifted through old, stained jackets, dirty magazines (which he would try to throw behind the couch he slept on so his nephew wouldn’t see, but one landed on the top of the couch, revealing the cover, so he just started stuffing them into half a parka), yellowed newspapers, cereal boxes, and one mannequin arm before he finally found what he was looking for: his “big ass hunting rifle”, those same words written on the side of the gun with a permanent marker. He gave a smile to the boy and then, without saying a word, held up one finger as to instruct him to wait while he loaded a single round into the gun, loading the chamber and giving a shit eating grin as he did so. Then, rifle slung under his right arm, he bent down by the couch and reached his left arm underneath, searching, feeling the dust and gunk that had collected on the wood floor beneath, then he let out a satisfied grunt and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, half empty, and drank half of what was left, letting out a satisfied exhale afterwords then patted his lips together, savoring the taste that kept him going through the days. He looked over at the boy, who seemed very confused about what was happening, then gave him a grin and explained “For my aim”. He tossed the bottle onto the couch, landing with a soft thud, then he shambled over to the window, the only window in the cramped room, then stuck the rifle out, using the bottom of the window to steady the gun. He put his eye up to the scope and then scanned the neighborhood for a target, finally ending on a neighbors dog, lying in the shade under a large oak tree. He looked to the boy and asked if he could see the dog. The boy, nervously, walked up to the window and looked out into the neighborhood and finally spotted the animal in question, then gave a fearful look to his uncle, who replied with a laugh, looked down the scope, aimed slightly above, then pulled the trigger.

The child heard nothing but a loud ringing, felt something wet but thick travel from his ear and down his neck, and watched as the dog turned into a red mist.

He hadn’t known he had an uncle until then, but in later years was unsure if this man had any relation, his parents and the detectives who would question him later seemed like they didn’t want to startle the kid, and every time they used the word uncle it seemed forced. The man told the boy he was his uncle, and the body had not known his extended family at all, they were supposed to live on the other side of the country, so he only had a few hazy memories of his relatives. Not wanting to offend the man and say he didn’t remember, he just nodded and went along with it. The man was living in a room at the back of their attic that they boy hadn’t known about until he decided to explore up there one day, he had been bullied at school on the previous day for being a “pansy” because he was too scared of a nearby bee. The whole event had been constantly playing in his mind during the night before, when he’d been trying to get to sleep, and the fact that he had a night light on in the room made him feel worse, and then the fear that came with trying to turn it off and sleep in the dark just filled him with a sense of self loathing. Half of that night was spent trying to hold back tears, something that would show him that he at least had a small amount of courage inside of him. Too bad he didn’t know that all the kids who teased him also had night lights, and that the whole ordeal was basically already forgotten. The second half of that night was spent listening to faint footsteps coming from above, in the attic, which had to be a ghost.

So the next day he decided he’d go into the attic, which was the spookiest place in his house, and he’d seen several kids horror shows that depicted attics as a dark and scary place, so he’d have to be pretty brave to be able to stay in there a while. It was a Saturday so he was free to wander around the house all day, and his parents were out gardening in the daylight so they wouldn’t notice if he snuck away, and while he didn’t admit it to himself he could only really do it in the daytime, since there was a window in the attic that would shine light into the room, making it anything but scary, but he was just planning on leaving that part out when he would tell his friends that story anyways. Also, he was pretty sure that ghosts don’t come out in the daylight, and if he saw one there was no way he could stay up there for very long.

When he climbed into the attic for the first time, flashlight and lunch box in hand, filled with snacks because he would be up there for some time, he was surprised by how boring it all really seemed. The daylight filled the room and it was just wood walls, floor and ceiling with the whole area covered in boxes. Nothing scary about dumb boxes. After sitting in there for a little while he started to get bored of the “adventure”, already starting to forget his humiliation and realizing that he could better spend his time watching cartoons, the boredom that crept in was worse than what he felt in school and weekends didn’t last for long anyways. He decided to start looking through the boxes to try to find something entertaining but it was just a bunch of old clothes, picture books, toys from when he was a baby, holiday decorations, just a load of junk, but his disappointment led to determination and he figured since a lot of the boxes were dull then one of them had to be super neat, and in his search he completely forgot about the reason he had for coming up there in the first place. After a while of searching the boxes he made his way to the back, and noticed that some had been cleared out in an area, and thats where he noticed the door.

When he opened the door on the back wall he was face to face to a shirtless, hairy man with bloodshot eyes, a thick beard, camo pants, and a tattoo on his chest depicting a bald eagle playing an electric guitar, with its talons, that was colored like an American flag. The man was sitting on a couch, which almost completely filled the tiny room, smoking cigarettes and apparently just staring at the door, surprised to see it open. “You don’t happen to have a pizza with you, do ya kid?:”

For a couple weeks before the adventure pizza guys, almost every night had been arriving to the family’s house with a large combination pizza, extra anchovies and sausage, that they never ordered. After they’d tell the people delivering the pizza, the second time that they’d show up, to stop coming to their house another person would arrive from a different company with the same exact order. The father ended up having to put a sign out front, which confused their neighbors, that read “We didn’t order a pizza, no delivery zone”. The two delivery people who ignored the sign got an earful, and to the father’s embarrassment the boy learned several new words from the whole ordeal.

When the kid sad he didn’t have a pizza, he held out the lunch box to offer, but quickly brought it back closer to him, realizing he had no idea who this man was. Was this where all of the footsteps he heard came from? Then the kid suddenly remembered his reason for being up there, and putting his hypothesis to the test asked, “Are you a ghost?”

The man scratched his beard and pondered this for a second, it made him think of how low he had sunken and how he was just the ghost of the man he used to be, years ago, in another life, but this wasn’t what the kid was asking so he gave the first reply he could think of, “No, I’m your uncle. I’ve come to visit for your fathers birthday,” he peered behind the boy, who seemed unsure of his story, it seemed like the kid was up there alone, “but its gonna be a surprise so don’t tell nobody.” The kid bought the story, but it lead to more and more questions so he decided he moved the conversation in a different direction so he wouldn’t have to keep making up stories. Unsure what to do, he stuck with the first idea that popped into his head: “You wanna see a magic trick?”

The kid never told the whole story to his friends, the whole ordeal made him realize that he didn’t need to impress them, and he stopped caring about the opinions of others, but also started to sink inside himself, hiding away from others. His parents were worried and tried to take him to therapy but the boy didn’t want to open up, and he was doing much better in school after the incident so they left the idea alone, and just starting hoping that he would open up more. He moved through life with little friends and more determination, he had seen the officers in action and he wanted to make sure that he would be one of them some day, hoping he would someday help another child, and return the favor.

He was constantly plagued by nightmares, a scene that would keep replaying and cause him to wake up drenched in sweat and terrified, but he’d never be able to remember the dream afterwards, but it would be waiting for him when he’d return to sleep: A loud ringing, faint voices yelling in the distance, his uncle panicking, looking towards the kids end of the attic, yelling something to the boy but he can never hear what, the shape of his father coming from the back, a flash, something hot and metal hitting him above the eye, being grabbed by the back of his collar and being positioned in front of the man, the door in front of him closing on its own, the feeling of sinking into the floor and trying to claw his way up, looking up at his uncle and seeing new tattoos, all looking down at the boy while the uncle puts a hand on his face and starts pushing him down down down into the dark recesses of the floor, darkness, the sense of being utterly alone, the ringing subsiding and replaced by the sound of heavy breathing, another presence in the darkness that he can feel but not see, paralysis, two hair hands reaching for his neck, the cessation of his own breathing while that around him gets louder and louder.