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Icon living


There's a lot that could be said about the state of Corneria, or even the Lylat system for that matter.
But if you asked Fox McCloud to comment, he'd ask you why even bother?
Things are shitty, and because things are shitty, he has a job that he enjoys well enough and pays well enough. He was always good at destroying things. And if there's one thing his daddy always taught him, if you do something well, don't do it for free.

There's a lot of things his daddy always taught him. He didn't really like him much when he was alive, but he was right about a lot of things.
Fox wouldn't tell you the truth about his dad if you asked him. In fact, he'd tell you the opposite. "My daddy was a wonderful man, and that sum'bitch took him from me." He'd say it coldly, too, like he meant it. But it was more of an excuse.

Rationalizing their differences when it came to his hatred for Wolf O'Donnell, it was more their similarities that sickened Fox to his core.

His eyes seem to just pop open, and a blurry familiarity tames itself into a state of clarity.
His ceiling, his room. He blinks a few times. The spark of a lighter. Her familiar coughing.

A familiar smell curls its way into the air above him in a cloud of smoke. Permeating the room. An intoxicating seduction brings his gaze by the nose downward, first catching her from the corner of his eyes, to bringing his full attention to her.
Sitting at the foot of the bed, coughing. She looks back at him as if she knows. As if their consciousnesses are linked and she can just sense it.

Her eyelids droopy and her eyes red. She rests the pipe cutely against her cheek, mouthpiece towards him. Offering.
Eyebrows raising, licking the lips of his dry mouth. Temptation on all fronts. He shakes his head and digs around on his nightstand for his half empty pack of cigarettes and the lighter sitting atop them. He sits up and tucks the filter of one in the corner of his mouth before setting the pack down and lighting it.

"You gonna be a stick in the mud and not smoke with me today?" Krystal asks as she drapes herself over his legs, looking up at him with those deep blue eyes. Mouthpiece of the pipe resting against her chin.

"Work today," Fox sighs, digging around the sheets for his hastily dispatched shirt. He sets his cigarette down in the ashtray on the night stand and flips the shirt outside out by the sleeves. Stuffs himself into it like a circle peg into a round hole. "Save some for me tonight," he ashes and retrieves his cigarette, taking a drag.

"No promises, stick in the mud," she winks at him and cranes her head slightly to bite the end of the pipe. "How late will you be?"

"I'd sure like you to wait up for me but I wouldn't recommend it."

She blows the smoke in his face and she laughs.
Krystal is just as seductive as the opium and she knows it.

But, as his daddy always told him, "respect the pod. Don't be a slave." And he'd say that to himself. Really.

His fingers graze the fur on her cheek gently before he scoots out from under her. She lets gravity take her head to the bed and she pouts and whines.
Locating his discarded trousers he steps into them and pulls his pants up both legs by the waistband and fashions them over his shapely behind. You admire it from behind the safety of your computer screen, and feel slightly titillated.

Fox McCloud is a strong character and you identify with him a lotta bit of a little bit. Or maybe just a little bit of a lotta bit.
Unless you're female, in which societal gender roles dictate you identify with Krystal, who has a very strong character built on the foundations of loving and flirting with Fox McCloud. They shared an awkward moment, once, that's canon.
He leans over to kiss her and it's very passionate. You decide this is your OTP if you haven't already and no other pairings are allowed.

He retrieves his cigarette from the ashcan and relights it. Taking in a long pull and blowing it back at her. "You behave," he says, winking at her.
"Don't you tell me what to do, Fox." She winks back.

He throws his coat over his shoulder and stuffs his arms into it cleanly. He adjusts his collar and is ready to face the evening.


Fox lives in the back of an opium den and massage parlor fronted by a bar.
He liked to keep his vices close to him as possible.

One of the girls passes him in front of the bar with a tray of freshly refilled glasses and pipes and winks.
He'll be seeing her in the early bottom of the morning if Krystal wasn't up to be sure.

Sitting at the bar, he orders himself a double whiskey on ice. When it arrives, he drains the glass far more quickly than it took to fetch and orders another one. Gotta get his head straight for the evening at hand.

"Working tonight, Fox?" the bartender asks, setting down Fox's second glass of whiskey and ice.

Fox nods in response. He doesn't remember the bartender's name despite it being present on his chest. Written on his nametag. Right in front of his face.

The glass nurses him, and he takes his time with this one. Enjoying it.

"Well, uh, good luck out there, eh?"

"Thanks." Ice crunching between his molars. He snaps and points at the ashtrays.

Without hesitating, the bartender, whose name is Jeffrey, sets one delicately in front of him. He nods in approval and Fox dismisses this by ignoring him.
He fishes around in his inner jacket pocket and pulls out his pack, stuffing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

He's fishing in his side pocket when he notices the bartender has offered him a lit match. He grumbles quietly to himself as he accepts the convenience and leans in to inhale through the unlit cigarette, lighting it.

Noticing a flash in the bartender's eyes that he's struck by, he leans back and plucks the cigarette from his mouth with the two index fingers on his left hand. He imagines fucking the bartender into his falling pile of glasses and bottles while the bartender screams for more. Smoke jets out his nostrils as if he were some sort of dragon as he grimaces at himself. Fox is very straight, you see, and these thoughts of homosexuality and debauchery were an unwanted extension of his psyche.

"Did you have that dream again, Fox?"

"That dream where I was a videogame? Yes. I had that. Dream."

The bartender's voice would sound like god to Fox if that wasn't indeed the sound of his own.

"The dream where you killed Wolf." The bartenders voices say. Suddenly he has several of them that speak and whisper simultaneously. "When are you going to make that a reality?"

"I'm working on it."

"Drinking, fucking and smoking opium. Chasing small time crooks for chump change. You've accomplished nothing. You are nothing."

Fox's eyes widen and then narrow. Among the many voices of the bartender, he recognizes his father.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"You aint got no worth ethic, boy," he says, daddy's voice dominating. Dominating. "Looks like I gotta teach you another lesson."

Fox drains his glass and hurls it into the bartender's face. He starts screaming as blood leaks from the cracks in his hands covering his face. His muffled screams calling the attention of the coherent people in the lounge. He's screaming in his normal voice, just the one.
He wonders how bad the damage is when he drops a few hundred credits on the bar and walks out.


"Looks like he's headed for the convenience store on the corner," Fox says discretely into his radio.
Keeping his head down and his target in the corner of his eye.

"Gryndletyns?" The high pitched voice comes through the other end. Slippy.

"That's the one."

"Falco, what's your 20?"

"Across the street," the bird chirps in Fox's ear. "Headed inside. Towards the magazine rack, to the back left of the store."

"Roger, close in," Slippy says.

By the time Fox makes it to the door, Falco's already into position. Discretely nod at one another behind the target's back.

Kirk Krunn, wanted dead or alive for armed robbery. Probably on the job, Fox muses to himself. Best hang back and watch the fireworks.

Fox finds his reflection in the drink cooler in the back. His eyes move from himself to Kirk.
Glancing quickly to his left at Falco pretending to read a magazine. His back to the rack.

Meandering slowly to the left, pretending to be trying to make a decision.
Sure enough, it's showtime. Guy pulls a knife to the throat of the guy between him and the register. Previously digging through his wallet, his eyes pop open wide and he drops it on the counter and raises his hands.
He knows exactly what's happening to him. The cashier seems jarred, confused.

"M-my wallet's on the counter - please take it."

"Empty the register," the voice growls. Peeking over the dog's shoulder.

"Wh-what?!" the dog barks.

"Not you," Kirk says. He nods at the cashier and sets a bag on the counter. "You. Empty the register. And his wallet. And yours. Or he dies."

The cashier catches on and pushes some buttons to open the register. Trembling.
Enough. Fox draws his army issued 1911 and thumbs the safety off. Cocked and unlocked.

He points and aims for his head. Locked on.
Speak.

"Hey dirtbag."

Kirk is a filthy alleycat. Fox has no respect for such ilk. No work ethic. No inherent value. Just a thick, smelly slime on the city.
Coating Corneria with filth.

A moment of silence. The target doesn't move. "I have a knife to this man's throat. His life is in your hands, citizen."

"Yeah, yeah," he laughs. "You go ahead and kill that mutt. You'll just die with him."

"You think I'm bluffing?"

"You heard me, scat cat. I don't give a fuck if you are. There are two ways we can do this."

Before Fox is done talking Kirk guides the dog's neck around with him by the blade, facing Fox. The sudden movement jolts Fox's trigger finger into action, unloading all nine rounds into the innocent dog's torso at a tight grouping as casings eject from the weapon and rain down on him.
Bouncing off his head.

Kirk ducks down behind his shield and draws the shotgun in his coat.

Thumb on the release.
The empty magazine bounces off the tile floor while Fox fishes in his jacket for another one.

Kirk kicks over the body and fires the shotgun before racking it and aiming it again.
Blast to the chest sends Fox backwards into the drink cooler.
Glass shattering under his weight, beer and shards raining down on him.

As the empty shell bounces and rolls into place under a shelf Kirk takes a step forward, presumably to make sure Fox is dead. A single shot from his left caves in the side of his head and face as he drops to the floor. Blood sprays across the cashier's face. He screams.
Falco holsters his weapon.
Fox sits up in a mess of cracking and falling glass and gets up. He shakes it off. One of his ribs is broken from the impact, but if there's one thing his daddy taught him, it was to ignore pain. So it's not something he's ever aware of.

"Good thing you brought me along, eh? I had to bail you out of another one."

"You didn't bail out shit, Falco, shut the fuck up. I would have killed his ass after I got up."

"Sure, sure," he snickers. "You're making good use of that vest, eh? Getting shot all the time."

"Makes it more of a sport. Fucking hell, Falco, you blew half his goddamn face off."

"Saving your worthless life," Falco mutters, holstering his .357 again. Didn't he already holster it?

Fox stuffs the magazine into the pistol and releases the slide. Thumbs the hammer back and switches the safety on.
Cocked and locked. Semper Fidelis.
He holsters it in the back of his pants behind his jacket and brushes excess shards and bits of glass off his coat and out of his fur.

"If they don't accept this, you personally owe me my cut of the bounty."

"Like hell," Falco laughs.

"Slip, send for cleanup," Fox tells the radio. "Target acquired dead. Over and out."

"Roger," the radio tells Fox.

He cuts communication and picks up the empty magazine and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. He notices that the cashier is still screaming, sobbing. Cowering behind the counter like a filthy, useless animal.

No work ethic.
No ambition.
No spine.

So pathetic, the population of this wretched planet at large.

Fox rolls his eyes and waves to the cashier before leaving the convenience store and disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk.


"Hey mister!"

Fox ignores him. Turns down the alleyway. "Mister!"

The little fuck touches his shoulder. Probably still a teenager.
Fox glares at him. Not stopping.
Young wolf. Similar to him in color.

"I thought you looked familiar!" He says excitedly. "You're Star Fox!"

Fox grits his teeth.
He hates being recognized.

Sighing, he stops to face the kid. Looks down into his eyes full of wonder.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Jeffrey!" the kid says, excited. A little enthusiastic for his age, Fox muses. Why does that fucking name sound familiar?
"Jeffrey, huh?" He looks around. Situational awareness is key. "Do you have a family, Jeffrey?"
"I do!"
"That's good," Fox says, nodding at him. "That's real good, Jeffrey. Do you know why I do what I do, Jeffrey?"
Jeffrey shakes his head no. He doesn't say anything, it's a physical response. When you add useless sentences like that to your writing, IE "filler", it fleshes out the characters more and makes for a more interesting read.
"I do it for people like your family, Jeffrey. So they can live on to mourn you another day."
Jeffrey is visibly confused. "Wh-what?"
"Why the fuck does your name sound so fucking familiar?"

Fox punches him in the nose and breaks it. His face bleeds. Fox hits him again.

"Jeffrey, was it?"

"HELP!" the kid cries out when Fox grabs him by the face and slams his head into the brick wall behind him, pinning him there. He yelps out in pain.

"If you say one more word," Fox says, licking his lips, "I'm going to cut your tongue out."

"P-please," he's crying. He's scared. "Please, I'm sorry, please let me go-"

Fox tsk tsk tsks at him. "What did I say, Jeffrey? Now you gotta lose your tongue."

Jeffrey sobs and clenches his jaw as hard as he can.

"Now, Jeffrey, open up or I'm coming in."


The slurping and lapping from under the sheets is lost on Fox as the girl continues tonguing his balls.

Fox is somewhere else, spiritually and sexually.


Prying open his lips with the hand he steadies his head against the brick wall, he draws his bootknife from his boot with wetting anticipation.
In the alley way, there are two trashcans and a dumpster, and a homeless owl asleep in a pool of his own piss and the gasoline he was drinking. His name is Edward Timmels, and in the morning he would lament the fact that he spilled half his gas before finding another corpse. That's a fairly common occurrence around these parts, so mostly he'll just be happy the wallet and cheap watch hadn't been stolen off his dead body.
The distant, blocked streetlight makes the lighting of the event rather dire.

This is good writing.

Fox at first tries digging the knifetip slowly into Jeffrey's gums but miscalculates and comes to a stop at the roots of his upper teeth.
The knife slicing his gums and scraping against his teethbones. There's a bird overhead and somewhere in the city, several people are masturbating.

He sighs and starts chiseling away at his teeth and gums, cracking them at the roots and down the center and spraying himself in the right eye with blood.
He gets angry and he scoops out the poor runt's teeth fragments as he tears the flesh from the top of his jaw. More screaming. More blood.

In the present, he's about ready to cum.


It's the present, and as promise, he cums hard from having his ballsack licked while thinking about that kid he killed earlier that late morning.
He cums and he screams loudly, jarring Krystal from her peaceful slumber.

"Fox, what the fuck, are you okay?"

She blinks her vision into focus, unsure for a moment of what's happening.

"Nothing baby, go back to sleep."

"What the fuck is that?"

"What the fuck is what? Go back to sleep."

"Please don't tell me you're stupid enough to have some bitch give you a blowjob in our bed while I'm fucking sleeping in it."

"It's not a blowjob, Candiii is tonguing my balls and asshole. Right, Candiii?"

A nod from under the sheets, more slurping and suckling noises.

"You've got a lot of fucking nerve, you piece of shit," Krystal says, getting up and getting dressed. "You stupid fucking piece of shit."

"Don't call me stupid you goddamn whore."

"Don't call me a whore you goddamn pig!"

"Don't call me a pig you goddamn whore!"

"Is that all you got? Fucking idiot. Miserable piece of shit. Asshole!"

"Whore," Fox says, shaking his head, his eyes closed, disappointed in her for being such a whore.

"You're lucky I'm canonically required to be together with you forever you fucking asshole, or I'd be leaving permanently instead of just causing a scene."

"Cause your fucking scene outside, whore. I'm busy here."

She throws many things at him. The remote. Empty cans. A single nipple clamp (she couldn't find the other one[it's under the loveseat at the end of the bed]), handfuls of clothes, shirts, pants. Underwear. A half empty two liter of cola. An ashtray. That one would have really hurt if she acknowledged pain. She'll blow off some steam and need some opium and she'll be back. She always comes back. She's canonically obligated. She doesn't do butt stuff but Candiii does so it's okay. In the room there are clothes everywhere, piled on the floor with trash she has to step over to storm out. On the nightstand is an ashtray and a box of tissues Fox uses to wipe down his loads and toss in the corner. The bed is up against the wall longways facing a flatscreen Tv from the side. Across from the Tv directly is a loveseat covered with clothes and trash. Under the loveseat is a single nipple clamp, a strap on dildo, food wrappers, a couple of dirty plates and a sock that's been fungus damaged beyond repair.

Muffled, from under the sheets: "Should I leave?"

"Nawh," Fox says, guiding her head back to his genitals with her hand. She's excited about this, as if she were catching a fish. "Keep doing what your doing."

More licking and wet smacking as Fox zones out in silence. He thinks about forcing that knife through the young wolf's tongue and through the bottom of his mouth. Watching him choke on his own blood and teeth. Tongue falling out of his fucking face. He gets hard again. On the Tv is an infomercial about a lunchbox that heats up your food and a self-lubricating soaprag. Behind him, framed and hanging from his wall over the head of his bed is the October 9595 centerfold of Foxxy Bulges magazine, featuring James McCloud's nuts hanging out of the thin of his thong.
It's the only picture of his daddy he has left.


cornwallace - 2018