Hippo Birdie Christina!
The Piig is having herself a wee birthday! So she gets a little bit of crack, and a little bit of loot.
Here it is: A Cracky Romp through the Piigverse.
TopHat
"Thank you."
The top hat was old and wise, and looked rather dashing for its age. It had ridden many a head and had perceived many a peculiar thing. What it sensed now was the approach of two large, capable hands, and the head he rode tipped invitingly towards them.
Peculiar. Always before she'd guarded it fiercely.
The hands grasped the hat's brim with a care the hat appreciated. Faint particles of engine oil and salt diffused across the hat's skin. This one worked hard. This one also had an interesting mix of hormones tangling. Interacting.
The hat felt itself lifted, cool air rushing into the space its own untidy, living head had just been. A cool draught, being scooped hollow and poured full of air. The hat felt itself held carelessly whilst the large, capable hand thrummed. Racing heart.
Time just passed
Samuel Ellis disdained the walker, though his knees weren't anything they used to be and his hip replacements had begun to fail. He hobbled with the aid of a cane and enjoyed blocking the hallway so that the home's spryer residents were forced to his pace.
He carried an insulated mug of coffee in one hand, liberally enhanced with irish cream. He wore fuzzy Ion Man slippers and his boxers, and nothing else. High summer, and even with the windows thrown wide it seemed everything in the world was sticking to *something*.
The textured floor rang each time Samuel's cane struck it, and when he at last turned the corner into the entertainment lounge the hag behind him snapped, "About fucken time!"
Even five years ago Samuel would have cursed at her, maybe tried to hit her with his cane. Just wasn't worth the effort, though. So he just bared his dentures in a sneer. She didn't see -- she'd already gone past the doorway, and anyway he tried not to turn his head too much anymore. Made his damned neck hurt.
"Who's that? Sam?"
"Yeah," Samuel said. He set the mug on the table and lowered himself gingerly onto the couch next to Hugo.
"Was beginning to think you'd fallen again," Hugo said. Samuel set his cane on the table and lifted his legs one at a time onto the footstool.
"Nah, just holding up traffic," Samuel said. Hugo snorted and turned towards Samuel; his broad face was a mess of wrinkles, and his eyes were milky and vague.
"Shouldn't you have mellowed out by now?"
"Nah," Samuel said again. Having settled his feet, he grabbed the mug. "You don't want me to mellow out. You'd think I'd gone senile."
Hugo's mouth twitched. Samuel caught his hand, the skin papery and thin, calluses and firm muscles long gone. Samuel pressed the base of the mug into Hugo's hand until he'd grasped it, and kept his palm against the warm plastic to help still the tremors as Hugo took a noisy sip.
"'s good," he said. Samuel grunted and reached for the remote. "I'll find us some porn," he said.
"Only if you narrate it properly this time, no making shit up." He transferred the mug to the other side and groped for Samuel's hand.
Aliens
Randy wasn't old enough to understand why the older kids teased him about his name. He wasn't dumb enough to bring it up with his mother, either, and he was smart enough to watch his mouth around the teachers. Hungry enough to steal lunches from the other kids, some days, feral enough to fight when he had to. Randy didn't have friends -- he had a few allies, a few of the tinier ones he protected for reasons he might never be self-aware enough to understand.
Threadbare Spiderman sheets. A Swiss Army Knife he'd stolen from one of mother's men.
'Fitting in' was what other people did. Randy wasn't interested.
He'd seen alien movies. He'd seen cartoons. He'd seen sparkles in the air, some nights, like every-colour fireflies.
Pain is better than Guilt
Humid as Satan's sock drawer, and Candice's mohawk had gone all limp-dick. She folded her arms and leaned against the wall, glowering at anyone who came past.
"Kev, hurry up!"
"Yeah, whatever," Kev said amiably, his voice muffled by the door. An over-muscled 'roid monkey pushed past Candice with an insolent look. She bared her teeth at him and flipped him off. The gym's locker room smelled like any other locker room, testosterone and wet towels and male sweat wafting out anytime the door opened. 'Roid monkey continued past as if she'd done nothing. He wouldn't have ignored Kev like that, but Kev was big and hairy, and anyways he had this way about him, friendly, a casual capability that repelled trouble. Only fights Kev had ever gotten into were protecting her, when she'd been littler, or coming into things on her side. Kev's support was absolute, though he'd scold her after if he thought she'd been 'unnecessarily provocative'.
Though in all fairness Candice could provoke people into a scornful rage just by standing there and breathing. Her sneakers had come undone again.
Kev butted the door open with his hip and draped his towel over Candice's head. She whipped it off and swatted him with it, followed him to the machines. Eyed him whilst they warmed up and wished for the millionth time that she looked more like him. Sports bra a size too small to strap the breasts down and a bulky man's watch on her wrist. She'd borrowed it from him three years ago. She'd give it back, she supposed. Eventually.
"Any day now, Dicky," Kev said. He was on the bench, flat on his back, and he'd already set the weight, his hands in place on the bar. Candice went round to stand at his head. She set her feet.
"I've got you, I've got you! Sheesh. Relax."
Surfing
Cam had hesitated, unsure whether to cheat and set his mohawk like stone or not to bother at all.
He decided not to bother. He hadn't flown to the other end of the planet and rented a scruffy van for nothing. There was no-one around. Battered van with some shit thrown in the back, one step up from camping, but barely. Sand everywhere, in everything, salt thick in his throat.
Australia. He'd nearly snarfed his coffee when he'd heard someone call it OZ. Yellow sand, broad beaches hammered by water, swells heaving and crashing like thunder, like whips. Sun gleaming on the water like knives, froth like tattered lace on the wind, thick sweet smells from plants he couldn't name.
Cam wore baggy surf trunks, a ratty old binding he didn't mind ruining. The sun felt good on his shoulders, like warm firm hands. He couldn't remember the last time his hair had actually *moved* with the wind. Felt peculiar. The day was so new it still smelled like dawn. The sand wasn't even hot yet.
8-footer under his arm, fiberglass waxed 'till it'd practically stick to him all on its own. The sand was crisp, a brittle layer above coarse silicon grains that shifted beneath his feet. He'd smeared himself with sunscreen, twisting his arms all around in an attempt to cover the middle of his back. Didn't wish for a moment that anyone else were here-- needed a *break* after all that shit. Unravellings and betrayals and watching Kev flinch when that *bitch* had barked his name. Jesus.
Cam hitched the board a little higher, inhaled when the wave crashed right before him and engulfed his legs to the knee. Cold, but bracingly so, not the shivering-hypothermia cold. Living sea, backwash tugging at him. Cam waded forward, took the next wave on his abdomen, water crashing up over his face. He shook his head, wet hair flying; clamped the board to his chest and thrust forward along the moving water, paddling out, riding the crests. Sat on the board just beyond the break zone and watched the incoming swells. It looked like drips of sun had pooled like oil on the surface of the ocean, like if he went out far enough he'd be covered in gold.
Wheek
Trevor finished his Tequila Sunrise, sneezed violently, and turned into a calico guinea pig.
"Wheek?" said the guinea pig.
Randal swallowed, startled, so the motion was painful. He set his beer down with a thunk. The table was ringed with condensation, and his sleeve darkened from the water as he stretched his arm along the tabletop and poked the guinea pig's fat side. It twitched, its nose working.
"Oh my God," he said, and rocked his chair back to holler for Shae.
Shae licked at the rim of her Corona as she ambled over. She set her bottle down and leaned on the table, scratched the guinea pig's forehead. It let out a chittering sound and shook itself. Randal stammered an explanation, wild-eyed, and gulped the rest of his beer.
Shae hummed thoughtfully.
"What are we going to do?" Randal said, in a tone that was close to a squeal.
"I have no idea ^^," Shae said. She scooped Trevor-guinea-pig up and set him on her hat, then planted herself on a stool and sipped her beer without tilting her head.
"Wheek?" said the guinea pig.
Spies and Agents
Agent Barret, his Majesty's finest, had penetrated deep into enemy territory. Black tux, pressed crisp, his vivid hair slicked back, weapon held loosely in his left hand. It thrummed softly in readiness. All the materials he'd need were tucked into his pockets, and a few other things beside.
The floor was cool beneath his bare feet, bare on account of the noise shoes would make. He had to be sneaky. His opponent would doubtless be stalking him even as he crept through the moon-shadowed halls. A clock ticked and whirred somewhere,
Micah's hand closed about the shaft it held, he kept close to the wall; paused and listened before easing out into the open room, cool night air and warm darkness.
A flare of yellow as the light was switched on. Micah threw an arm over his eyes and swore.
"Dammit, Kin!"
Kin let out a sound anyone else would describe as a giggle, and said "Oh, don't be such a wussy, Mic. Open your eyes."
Micah squinted against the glare, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of one hand. He heard the rustle of walking, sensed an approach. Kin was wearing...it wasn't cologne, it wasn't aftershave, but it was practically mouthwatering. Kin gripped Micah's bicep, slid his hand down, palm flat, and disarmed him. Micah still couldn't see. A hand tangled in his hair and dragged his face down. Kin kissed him. Micah's breathing stuttered.
Kin said, "...I like the tux."
"I should hope."
Micah squinted. Kin rest his hand high on Mic's shoulder, thumb rubbing lightly along the carotid.
"I see you found your present," Kin said. Smirking should not be so sexy. Mic nodded. Kin's smirk widened, and he dropped a string of tiny, damp kisses along Micah's jaw before switching the toy on.
"It's a Kinnith Flagg special." He trailed the clean, buzzing plastic down Micah's throat, down the crisp white shirt until it rested against Micah's hip. "Wanna try it out?"
Perceptions
Beo pretended he wasn't watching the shadows Sam's glasses cast on the planes of his face, or the deft movements of his hands. Pretended he liked the silence of the shadowvoice. It hadn't spoken--
"Beo?"
Sam hadn't looked up. The tip of a tail flipped idly. Beo flopped onto his back in exasperation, leaf-litter crunching beneath him, smelling spicy and sharp. The perpetual twilight was interrupted here and there by patches of faintly glowing moss, a bioluminescent bug, a flash of eyes. Sam was coiled against the jagged bark of a twisted tree, endless legs bent awkwardly. He watched his own hands as he manipulated the cube.
"Beo?"
A heaved sigh. "I'm listening, Sam."
Sam looked up at last. Beo wasn't sure what to make of the light in his eyes. Sam held up the cube.
"Do you think the colours know that they are moving?"
And Then He Woke Up
Cam opened the closet door in the grey light of too-fucking-early.
Kev was there.
Cam closed the door. Stared at the lacquered wood. Opened the door.
No hangers, no clothes. Kev, thin and pale, arms folded, propping against the back of the closet. He wore a collar, like Randal's, he wore that awful uniform. Cam closed the door and rested his forehead against it.
"Ah, fuck."
Cam opened the door and stared at his brother. Kev raised an eyebrow, gave a one-shouldered shrug, tossed Cam a spool of thread.
Cam slept for another three hours. When he woke, when he leaned over the toilet retching, he told himself it was a hangover. He'd had two beers the night before.
Wrestling the Tofu
Hugo dreamed.
Hugo dreamed he was tofu.
Bland. Futile to struggle against; wrestling the tofu yielded no winners.
Resilient. Tofu had no shape to keep, but kept it well. A mangled piece of tofu would regain it's original nonshape.
People grew bored with tofu if fed nothing else. People grew desperate when deprived of it in the absence of alternatives. People ate tofu without thought, until the tofu was no longer there. Nobody *wants* tofu. Nobody mentioned tofu, until deprived of it. But then, nobody mentioned air.
Wings
"Hee!"
Cam's head came round -- Shae only made that sound when suffused with fiendish glee, and it always meant trouble. She was short and weird as all get-out and he still wasn't sure how they'd come to be dating. He poked his head into the bedroom.
"Babes?'
Another giggle. Cam's jaw sagged.
Shae was naked except for the top hat, and bobbing a few feet above the floor. Each ankle had sprouted a tiny pair of black-feathered wings.
"Um," Cam said, unsure where to stare. Shae giggled again, and the glossy wings fluttered.
"Surprise!"
Woke Up Straight
Randal seldom indulged in introspection. He felt even less inclination towards it this morning, else he would have noticed immediately that something was...off.
As it was, he yawned hugely and slid one hand into his boxers and scratched. None of his body parts had dropped off, there was leftover pizza in the fridge, and game 4 of the Stanley Cup was on tonight. Today would be a good day. If nothing else, Randal worked for Deva Herself, and almost every day was a good day, on account of Her figure and the magnificence of her breasts. Lethal weapons, those. Just lethal.
Twins/ non-canon siblings
Candice kicked the bathroom door. "Shit, aren't you done in there yet!"
No answer but the rush of the shower. Candice's untied shoelaces flipped as she kicked the door again. "I mean it, Kev says we gotta leave soon!" She had a towel, a clean beater, and a rumpled pair of cargoes.
The water got cranked off, and her brother snapped "Settle down! There's plenty of time. What, are you going to dye your hair? Put one some maaaakeup?"
Thumps, rustlings, and Cam tossed the door open. He'd wrapped a towel round his waist, and his wet mohawk was plastered to his skull. Candice wouldn't let him pass.
"Stop taking so long in the shower! You always do that."
Cam glared wetly. He indicated his jaw with the jab of one finger. "I was shaving! Jeez. Don't be such a girl."
The fight lasted 15 minutes, but the sulks lasted for 3 days. Kev just rolled his eyes and sent them to opposite ends of the house.
Western!
Shae's horse was the brightest of the lot, a merry little pinto mare with patches of white and red on her black hide. Cam rode a solid grey gelding who was utterly unflappable. Ellis rode a scrubby roan mare he called Anna. Anna had a tendency to bite. People usually figured that out about her real fast.
The three horses were currently tied up outside whilst their riders lounged in the saloon, elbows propped on the stained, sticky tabletop, except for Ellis, who had his boots on the table. He was trimming his nails with a knife.
Cam and Shae were competing over who could flirt with the barmaids best, and whether 'best' was the effusiveness of the compliment, the smoothness of the delivery, the quality of the leer, or the colour and spread of the flush evoked.
Though if the blush were the yardstick, Ellis won. What he told the tiny blonde may have been accurate and even effusive, but it certainly wasn't printable.
Tummy Trouble
When Ellis threw up every morning for two and a half weeks, Hu just figured it was a little stomach bug, or some sort of relapse into withdrawal ("After a fucking year?"/"Well, what else is it, then?"), or even a late-onset allergy. Ellis just swore, whined, and insisted it was Hu's fault, somehow.
When the nausea went away, they both forgot about it. Ellis's increased friskiness (he'd taken to tackling Hu at the door) was attributed to healthy(ish) living. It wasn't until--
"The fuck?"
Hu poked his head out of the bathroom. The swearing wasn't unusual, but the incredulous tone was. "What?"
Ellis attempted to hitch his pants up, but they wouldn't fit over his hips. "I'm FAT."
Hu snorted, wrapped a towel round his waist, and wandered over. He set his hands on Ellis's hips. "No you aren't."
"Then why don't my pants fit?"
...
Things went downhill rapidly at that point. And stayed there. And when Anna ("We're not calling her Anna!"/ "What else could we call her? Fuck, she's mine, I name her. Anna. ... What other name is there?") arrived, Hugo watched her sleep on Ellis, who looked simultaniously smug and about to twitch out of his skin. And then Hugo'd touched Ellis's face, and, daringly, trailed a finger along Anna's forehead, and left to set up a trust fund.
In Which Kin is Assaulted by a Lack of Continuity
"Whose turn is it to make coffee?"
Micah didn't look up from his newspaper. "Yours."
Kinnith's hair was unbelievably frazzled, and the thin fingers he raked through it only made matters worse. "Didn't I make the coffee yesterday?" he said.
Micah took a sip of his coffee, and shrugged. Kin rubbed the morning stares away and polished his glasses; he leaned forward to peer at Micah.
"...you have coffee," he said. Micah eyed the cup, sniffed its contents, and slurped noisily. "Well, it isn't tea!"
Kin folded his arms across his narrow chest. "You didn't have that cup a moment ago."
One eyebrow rose majestically towards Micah's hairline. "I did. I made coffee, just now. Did you fall asleep?"
Kinnith flailed. "You did not! I'd've seen you."
Micah tossed off the rest of his coffee. The cup vanished, Kin was watching. Before he could say anything the air around Micah rippled and Micah abruptly went from breakfasttime-almost-naked to fully-dressed-hair-combed, smelling-of-soap-ready-to-leave-the-house dressed.
Kin choked. Micah paused by the door to glance back over his shoulder with a concerned look on his face.
"Oh hell, are you okay? You look a little peaked."
"How did you get over there?"
Micah looked worried now. "I WALKED." Micah jingled his keys, shoved them into his pocket and came closer, rested his hand on Kin's neck and bumped their foreheads together.
"Listen, if you aren't feeling well, maybe stay home today? You're looking twitchy."
Kinnith wasn't sure what he said, but it reassured Micah. The worry-crinkles by his eyes eased. "Call me if you need me," he said, and dropped a kiss on the tip of Kin's nose before vanishing. *Poof*, almost, and Kin heard the car start. He made it to the window to wave goodbye. His thoughts were:
And, clad only in pikachu boxers and scruffy hair and stubble, Kinnish dashed to his workroom.
He never did make it out of the house that day.
At least, not through the door.
Here it is: A Cracky Romp through the Piigverse.
TopHat
"Thank you."
The top hat was old and wise, and looked rather dashing for its age. It had ridden many a head and had perceived many a peculiar thing. What it sensed now was the approach of two large, capable hands, and the head he rode tipped invitingly towards them.
Peculiar. Always before she'd guarded it fiercely.
The hands grasped the hat's brim with a care the hat appreciated. Faint particles of engine oil and salt diffused across the hat's skin. This one worked hard. This one also had an interesting mix of hormones tangling. Interacting.
The hat felt itself lifted, cool air rushing into the space its own untidy, living head had just been. A cool draught, being scooped hollow and poured full of air. The hat felt itself held carelessly whilst the large, capable hand thrummed. Racing heart.
Time just passed
Samuel Ellis disdained the walker, though his knees weren't anything they used to be and his hip replacements had begun to fail. He hobbled with the aid of a cane and enjoyed blocking the hallway so that the home's spryer residents were forced to his pace.
He carried an insulated mug of coffee in one hand, liberally enhanced with irish cream. He wore fuzzy Ion Man slippers and his boxers, and nothing else. High summer, and even with the windows thrown wide it seemed everything in the world was sticking to *something*.
The textured floor rang each time Samuel's cane struck it, and when he at last turned the corner into the entertainment lounge the hag behind him snapped, "About fucken time!"
Even five years ago Samuel would have cursed at her, maybe tried to hit her with his cane. Just wasn't worth the effort, though. So he just bared his dentures in a sneer. She didn't see -- she'd already gone past the doorway, and anyway he tried not to turn his head too much anymore. Made his damned neck hurt.
"Who's that? Sam?"
"Yeah," Samuel said. He set the mug on the table and lowered himself gingerly onto the couch next to Hugo.
"Was beginning to think you'd fallen again," Hugo said. Samuel set his cane on the table and lifted his legs one at a time onto the footstool.
"Nah, just holding up traffic," Samuel said. Hugo snorted and turned towards Samuel; his broad face was a mess of wrinkles, and his eyes were milky and vague.
"Shouldn't you have mellowed out by now?"
"Nah," Samuel said again. Having settled his feet, he grabbed the mug. "You don't want me to mellow out. You'd think I'd gone senile."
Hugo's mouth twitched. Samuel caught his hand, the skin papery and thin, calluses and firm muscles long gone. Samuel pressed the base of the mug into Hugo's hand until he'd grasped it, and kept his palm against the warm plastic to help still the tremors as Hugo took a noisy sip.
"'s good," he said. Samuel grunted and reached for the remote. "I'll find us some porn," he said.
"Only if you narrate it properly this time, no making shit up." He transferred the mug to the other side and groped for Samuel's hand.
Aliens
Randy wasn't old enough to understand why the older kids teased him about his name. He wasn't dumb enough to bring it up with his mother, either, and he was smart enough to watch his mouth around the teachers. Hungry enough to steal lunches from the other kids, some days, feral enough to fight when he had to. Randy didn't have friends -- he had a few allies, a few of the tinier ones he protected for reasons he might never be self-aware enough to understand.
Threadbare Spiderman sheets. A Swiss Army Knife he'd stolen from one of mother's men.
'Fitting in' was what other people did. Randy wasn't interested.
He'd seen alien movies. He'd seen cartoons. He'd seen sparkles in the air, some nights, like every-colour fireflies.
Pain is better than Guilt
Humid as Satan's sock drawer, and Candice's mohawk had gone all limp-dick. She folded her arms and leaned against the wall, glowering at anyone who came past.
"Kev, hurry up!"
"Yeah, whatever," Kev said amiably, his voice muffled by the door. An over-muscled 'roid monkey pushed past Candice with an insolent look. She bared her teeth at him and flipped him off. The gym's locker room smelled like any other locker room, testosterone and wet towels and male sweat wafting out anytime the door opened. 'Roid monkey continued past as if she'd done nothing. He wouldn't have ignored Kev like that, but Kev was big and hairy, and anyways he had this way about him, friendly, a casual capability that repelled trouble. Only fights Kev had ever gotten into were protecting her, when she'd been littler, or coming into things on her side. Kev's support was absolute, though he'd scold her after if he thought she'd been 'unnecessarily provocative'.
Though in all fairness Candice could provoke people into a scornful rage just by standing there and breathing. Her sneakers had come undone again.
Kev butted the door open with his hip and draped his towel over Candice's head. She whipped it off and swatted him with it, followed him to the machines. Eyed him whilst they warmed up and wished for the millionth time that she looked more like him. Sports bra a size too small to strap the breasts down and a bulky man's watch on her wrist. She'd borrowed it from him three years ago. She'd give it back, she supposed. Eventually.
"Any day now, Dicky," Kev said. He was on the bench, flat on his back, and he'd already set the weight, his hands in place on the bar. Candice went round to stand at his head. She set her feet.
"I've got you, I've got you! Sheesh. Relax."
Surfing
Cam had hesitated, unsure whether to cheat and set his mohawk like stone or not to bother at all.
He decided not to bother. He hadn't flown to the other end of the planet and rented a scruffy van for nothing. There was no-one around. Battered van with some shit thrown in the back, one step up from camping, but barely. Sand everywhere, in everything, salt thick in his throat.
Australia. He'd nearly snarfed his coffee when he'd heard someone call it OZ. Yellow sand, broad beaches hammered by water, swells heaving and crashing like thunder, like whips. Sun gleaming on the water like knives, froth like tattered lace on the wind, thick sweet smells from plants he couldn't name.
Cam wore baggy surf trunks, a ratty old binding he didn't mind ruining. The sun felt good on his shoulders, like warm firm hands. He couldn't remember the last time his hair had actually *moved* with the wind. Felt peculiar. The day was so new it still smelled like dawn. The sand wasn't even hot yet.
8-footer under his arm, fiberglass waxed 'till it'd practically stick to him all on its own. The sand was crisp, a brittle layer above coarse silicon grains that shifted beneath his feet. He'd smeared himself with sunscreen, twisting his arms all around in an attempt to cover the middle of his back. Didn't wish for a moment that anyone else were here-- needed a *break* after all that shit. Unravellings and betrayals and watching Kev flinch when that *bitch* had barked his name. Jesus.
Cam hitched the board a little higher, inhaled when the wave crashed right before him and engulfed his legs to the knee. Cold, but bracingly so, not the shivering-hypothermia cold. Living sea, backwash tugging at him. Cam waded forward, took the next wave on his abdomen, water crashing up over his face. He shook his head, wet hair flying; clamped the board to his chest and thrust forward along the moving water, paddling out, riding the crests. Sat on the board just beyond the break zone and watched the incoming swells. It looked like drips of sun had pooled like oil on the surface of the ocean, like if he went out far enough he'd be covered in gold.
Wheek
Trevor finished his Tequila Sunrise, sneezed violently, and turned into a calico guinea pig.
"Wheek?" said the guinea pig.
Randal swallowed, startled, so the motion was painful. He set his beer down with a thunk. The table was ringed with condensation, and his sleeve darkened from the water as he stretched his arm along the tabletop and poked the guinea pig's fat side. It twitched, its nose working.
"Oh my God," he said, and rocked his chair back to holler for Shae.
Shae licked at the rim of her Corona as she ambled over. She set her bottle down and leaned on the table, scratched the guinea pig's forehead. It let out a chittering sound and shook itself. Randal stammered an explanation, wild-eyed, and gulped the rest of his beer.
Shae hummed thoughtfully.
"What are we going to do?" Randal said, in a tone that was close to a squeal.
"I have no idea ^^," Shae said. She scooped Trevor-guinea-pig up and set him on her hat, then planted herself on a stool and sipped her beer without tilting her head.
"Wheek?" said the guinea pig.
Spies and Agents
Agent Barret, his Majesty's finest, had penetrated deep into enemy territory. Black tux, pressed crisp, his vivid hair slicked back, weapon held loosely in his left hand. It thrummed softly in readiness. All the materials he'd need were tucked into his pockets, and a few other things beside.
The floor was cool beneath his bare feet, bare on account of the noise shoes would make. He had to be sneaky. His opponent would doubtless be stalking him even as he crept through the moon-shadowed halls. A clock ticked and whirred somewhere,
Micah's hand closed about the shaft it held, he kept close to the wall; paused and listened before easing out into the open room, cool night air and warm darkness.
A flare of yellow as the light was switched on. Micah threw an arm over his eyes and swore.
"Dammit, Kin!"
Kin let out a sound anyone else would describe as a giggle, and said "Oh, don't be such a wussy, Mic. Open your eyes."
Micah squinted against the glare, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of one hand. He heard the rustle of walking, sensed an approach. Kin was wearing...it wasn't cologne, it wasn't aftershave, but it was practically mouthwatering. Kin gripped Micah's bicep, slid his hand down, palm flat, and disarmed him. Micah still couldn't see. A hand tangled in his hair and dragged his face down. Kin kissed him. Micah's breathing stuttered.
Kin said, "...I like the tux."
"I should hope."
Micah squinted. Kin rest his hand high on Mic's shoulder, thumb rubbing lightly along the carotid.
"I see you found your present," Kin said. Smirking should not be so sexy. Mic nodded. Kin's smirk widened, and he dropped a string of tiny, damp kisses along Micah's jaw before switching the toy on.
"It's a Kinnith Flagg special." He trailed the clean, buzzing plastic down Micah's throat, down the crisp white shirt until it rested against Micah's hip. "Wanna try it out?"
Perceptions
Beo pretended he wasn't watching the shadows Sam's glasses cast on the planes of his face, or the deft movements of his hands. Pretended he liked the silence of the shadowvoice. It hadn't spoken--
"Beo?"
Sam hadn't looked up. The tip of a tail flipped idly. Beo flopped onto his back in exasperation, leaf-litter crunching beneath him, smelling spicy and sharp. The perpetual twilight was interrupted here and there by patches of faintly glowing moss, a bioluminescent bug, a flash of eyes. Sam was coiled against the jagged bark of a twisted tree, endless legs bent awkwardly. He watched his own hands as he manipulated the cube.
"Beo?"
A heaved sigh. "I'm listening, Sam."
Sam looked up at last. Beo wasn't sure what to make of the light in his eyes. Sam held up the cube.
"Do you think the colours know that they are moving?"
And Then He Woke Up
Cam opened the closet door in the grey light of too-fucking-early.
Kev was there.
Cam closed the door. Stared at the lacquered wood. Opened the door.
No hangers, no clothes. Kev, thin and pale, arms folded, propping against the back of the closet. He wore a collar, like Randal's, he wore that awful uniform. Cam closed the door and rested his forehead against it.
"Ah, fuck."
Cam opened the door and stared at his brother. Kev raised an eyebrow, gave a one-shouldered shrug, tossed Cam a spool of thread.
Cam slept for another three hours. When he woke, when he leaned over the toilet retching, he told himself it was a hangover. He'd had two beers the night before.
Wrestling the Tofu
Hugo dreamed.
Hugo dreamed he was tofu.
Bland. Futile to struggle against; wrestling the tofu yielded no winners.
Resilient. Tofu had no shape to keep, but kept it well. A mangled piece of tofu would regain it's original nonshape.
People grew bored with tofu if fed nothing else. People grew desperate when deprived of it in the absence of alternatives. People ate tofu without thought, until the tofu was no longer there. Nobody *wants* tofu. Nobody mentioned tofu, until deprived of it. But then, nobody mentioned air.
Wings
"Hee!"
Cam's head came round -- Shae only made that sound when suffused with fiendish glee, and it always meant trouble. She was short and weird as all get-out and he still wasn't sure how they'd come to be dating. He poked his head into the bedroom.
"Babes?'
Another giggle. Cam's jaw sagged.
Shae was naked except for the top hat, and bobbing a few feet above the floor. Each ankle had sprouted a tiny pair of black-feathered wings.
"Um," Cam said, unsure where to stare. Shae giggled again, and the glossy wings fluttered.
"Surprise!"
Woke Up Straight
Randal seldom indulged in introspection. He felt even less inclination towards it this morning, else he would have noticed immediately that something was...off.
As it was, he yawned hugely and slid one hand into his boxers and scratched. None of his body parts had dropped off, there was leftover pizza in the fridge, and game 4 of the Stanley Cup was on tonight. Today would be a good day. If nothing else, Randal worked for Deva Herself, and almost every day was a good day, on account of Her figure and the magnificence of her breasts. Lethal weapons, those. Just lethal.
Twins/ non-canon siblings
Candice kicked the bathroom door. "Shit, aren't you done in there yet!"
No answer but the rush of the shower. Candice's untied shoelaces flipped as she kicked the door again. "I mean it, Kev says we gotta leave soon!" She had a towel, a clean beater, and a rumpled pair of cargoes.
The water got cranked off, and her brother snapped "Settle down! There's plenty of time. What, are you going to dye your hair? Put one some maaaakeup?"
Thumps, rustlings, and Cam tossed the door open. He'd wrapped a towel round his waist, and his wet mohawk was plastered to his skull. Candice wouldn't let him pass.
"Stop taking so long in the shower! You always do that."
Cam glared wetly. He indicated his jaw with the jab of one finger. "I was shaving! Jeez. Don't be such a girl."
The fight lasted 15 minutes, but the sulks lasted for 3 days. Kev just rolled his eyes and sent them to opposite ends of the house.
Western!
Shae's horse was the brightest of the lot, a merry little pinto mare with patches of white and red on her black hide. Cam rode a solid grey gelding who was utterly unflappable. Ellis rode a scrubby roan mare he called Anna. Anna had a tendency to bite. People usually figured that out about her real fast.
The three horses were currently tied up outside whilst their riders lounged in the saloon, elbows propped on the stained, sticky tabletop, except for Ellis, who had his boots on the table. He was trimming his nails with a knife.
Cam and Shae were competing over who could flirt with the barmaids best, and whether 'best' was the effusiveness of the compliment, the smoothness of the delivery, the quality of the leer, or the colour and spread of the flush evoked.
Though if the blush were the yardstick, Ellis won. What he told the tiny blonde may have been accurate and even effusive, but it certainly wasn't printable.
Tummy Trouble
When Ellis threw up every morning for two and a half weeks, Hu just figured it was a little stomach bug, or some sort of relapse into withdrawal ("After a fucking year?"/"Well, what else is it, then?"), or even a late-onset allergy. Ellis just swore, whined, and insisted it was Hu's fault, somehow.
When the nausea went away, they both forgot about it. Ellis's increased friskiness (he'd taken to tackling Hu at the door) was attributed to healthy(ish) living. It wasn't until--
"The fuck?"
Hu poked his head out of the bathroom. The swearing wasn't unusual, but the incredulous tone was. "What?"
Ellis attempted to hitch his pants up, but they wouldn't fit over his hips. "I'm FAT."
Hu snorted, wrapped a towel round his waist, and wandered over. He set his hands on Ellis's hips. "No you aren't."
"Then why don't my pants fit?"
...
Things went downhill rapidly at that point. And stayed there. And when Anna ("We're not calling her Anna!"/ "What else could we call her? Fuck, she's mine, I name her. Anna. ... What other name is there?") arrived, Hugo watched her sleep on Ellis, who looked simultaniously smug and about to twitch out of his skin. And then Hugo'd touched Ellis's face, and, daringly, trailed a finger along Anna's forehead, and left to set up a trust fund.
In Which Kin is Assaulted by a Lack of Continuity
"Whose turn is it to make coffee?"
Micah didn't look up from his newspaper. "Yours."
Kinnith's hair was unbelievably frazzled, and the thin fingers he raked through it only made matters worse. "Didn't I make the coffee yesterday?" he said.
Micah took a sip of his coffee, and shrugged. Kin rubbed the morning stares away and polished his glasses; he leaned forward to peer at Micah.
"...you have coffee," he said. Micah eyed the cup, sniffed its contents, and slurped noisily. "Well, it isn't tea!"
Kin folded his arms across his narrow chest. "You didn't have that cup a moment ago."
One eyebrow rose majestically towards Micah's hairline. "I did. I made coffee, just now. Did you fall asleep?"
Kinnith flailed. "You did not! I'd've seen you."
Micah tossed off the rest of his coffee. The cup vanished, Kin was watching. Before he could say anything the air around Micah rippled and Micah abruptly went from breakfasttime-almost-naked to fully-dressed-hair-combed, smelling-of-soap-ready-to-leave-the-house dressed.
Kin choked. Micah paused by the door to glance back over his shoulder with a concerned look on his face.
"Oh hell, are you okay? You look a little peaked."
"How did you get over there?"
Micah looked worried now. "I WALKED." Micah jingled his keys, shoved them into his pocket and came closer, rested his hand on Kin's neck and bumped their foreheads together.
"Listen, if you aren't feeling well, maybe stay home today? You're looking twitchy."
Kinnith wasn't sure what he said, but it reassured Micah. The worry-crinkles by his eyes eased. "Call me if you need me," he said, and dropped a kiss on the tip of Kin's nose before vanishing. *Poof*, almost, and Kin heard the car start. He made it to the window to wave goodbye. His thoughts were:
- What the hell is going on?
- When did we get a car?
- What the hell is going on? It's like bad fanfic.
- Oh my god, this is a bad fanfic!
- Ohmigod the writer doesn't know anything!
- !
- I MIGHT HAVE FINISHED THE TELEPORTER.
And, clad only in pikachu boxers and scruffy hair and stubble, Kinnish dashed to his workroom.
He never did make it out of the house that day.
At least, not through the door.