Fan Fiction Friday: Fox McCloud in "Urine"

By Rob Bricken in Nerdery, Video Games
Friday, March 5, 2010 at 3:04 pm
I'm not really sure what to say about today's Starfox-inspired FFF entry. It was suggested by J M (along with a few others, including one from the same author where Fox and Falco go to a gay bar, give a mouse amyl nitrates, fuck it to death, and then dispose of the corpse in a river), and it's not that depraved. Actually, there's no sex in it whatsoever, and it's well-written in the sense it has complete sentences and proper grammar. So why am I running it, to ask? Well, partially to keep cushioning the blow for when I eventually run The Other Story, but also... well, let's save that to the end.

Moonlight fractured through the blinds, across the sheets where Fox lay, in his boxers, comforter up to his navel. His body was sprawled in a dead man's pose, but his chest rose and fell.

Krystal padded to the bathroom in her blue lace panties, only... in her blue lace panties, groggy, eyes half closed. She flipped the switch and her eyes stung from the intense fluorescence. She cringed and turned around and lowered herself, pulling her panties down to her ankles. Her blue furry butt plopped on the seat and then she felt it. Wetness. Warm wetness. Warm uriney wetness.

On the toilet seat.

Better there than a lot of places, actually. But let's continue this after the jump.

Krystal, for those who don't recall, is a female fox and McCloud's nominal love interest in Star Fox. And you should be pleased to know that she has not been aroused by sitting in a puddle of urine.

Once satisfied, she shot up, so fast she jumped out of her panties and pulled on the shower curtains springing out of the bathroom. She flicked the bedroom light on and Fox stirred. Once he realized light was flooding the room, he recoiled, grabbing his face. "God."

"Get up," she commanded.

"What is it."

"You fucking dumbass, get up."

"What. What is wrong with you."

"I would like to get up in the night, and use the bathroom without my ass encountering your fucking piss."

Reasonable. It makes me envision a far worse fan fiction, but technically her demand is accurate.

Fox spun in the sheets and grabbed the clock. "Krystal, what the fuck are you talking about?" He looked at her and saw her naked.

"On the fucking toilet seat. You know what the fuck I'm talking about."

"Is your uterus shedding again?"

Unh. Is Fox asking if she's menstruating? I certainly hope so, because a fur-lined uterus is actually one of the few images that can disturb me nowadays, apparently.

She stomped over and yanked the pillow from under his head. His eyes shot open when the side of his face hit the hard sheets below. She pulled the back of her panties down and wiped her ass with his pillow, with the side he slept on, smiling happily at the ceiling. She couldn't get it all. The rest in her ass fur was already soaked in. She'd have to shower now.

Vicious, but when you want to train an animal -- anthropomorphic space pilot animals notwithstranding -- you have ti rub their noses in it. Frankly, if Ms. Robot pulled that on me, I'd probably piss sitting down for the rest of my life. Better safe than sleep on a pee-soaked pillow, I always say.

"What the fuck are you doing!" his voice rose into a shout. He was up now, pulling himself to his elbows.

She threw the pillow at his face and it hit him across the muzzle. He caught the scent of ass and urine. Her pheromones. His pheromones. He gagged and smacked the pillow away. It swept over the bed stand taking the clock and lamp with it. The glass design lamp shattered with the bulb and the clock stumbled into the corner.

"Good job Star Fox!" Krystal thumbed up. "ROB to General Pepper. Fox McCloud just broke Krystal McCloud's 300 fucking credit lamp her mother bought as an anniversary gift. What are our orders?!"


Fox growled and flipped his comforter off and folded out of bed to clean the mess, "It's a fucking lamp. It's a fucking ugly lamp your bitch mother thought she could impress me with."

"At least I have a fucking mother."


Fox reeled, straightening, side-glancing her with daggers. He returned to the mess, collecting pieces of glass into a pile. "That's your freebie," he mumbled.

"Oh that's my freebie?" she touched her breast, shocked. "That's my freebie? No Fox, I get as many freebies as there were molecules of fucking piss on that fucking toilet seat. And from the guess of the stickiness in my ass fur, I'd say about 7 billion. So 7 billion. Your mother's fucking dead. Your mother's fucking dead. Your father's fucking dead too."


He stared at a beautifully sharp piece of glass. It was foggy and had a little rose with thorns painted on it, long and daggerous, peeking at him from the nook where the dresser separated from the wall, in the darkness. It waved hello.

I can't decide if the author meant "dangerous" or if he actually meant "daggerous," as in dagger-like. And if he meant "daggerous" I also can't decide if it's the stupidest word ever or the greatest.

He slowly rose. "What do you want me to say Krystal? I'm sorry?"

"No. I don't want you to say you're sorry. Sorry doesn't fucking mean anything. People say sorry when their comm. rings at a movie. People say sorry when they bump into someone on the train. Right now I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to lift the fucking toilet seat and pull your lipstick out of your cockskin when you piss so you can aim properly."

"Oh no. Oh no. There she goes with the 'properly' thinking she actually has a background to use fucking terms like that. Why do you even talk in that fucking voice when you're just a mongrel from a backwards rock?"


Krystal's trap clamped shut and she stared.

"That's right. You were nothing but a loin cloth with a smelly cunt before you met me."

If any of you guys ever decide to stage an all-Nintendo version of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, I think you've found your leads. Also, then you can call it Virginia Fox. Also, that's a terrible idea. Why are you so weird?

"How dare you." She pointed. "How dare you."

"Oh yeah, I dare. I got you off that shithole. You know Krystal, our marriage could have worked so much better. There was just one thing getting in the way."

"Oh yeah? And what would that be?"

"My inability to lift up a toilet seat."

He cupped his muzzle like a megaphone. "You're a selfish cuntess!"


She slapped him and there was a stinging silence.


He held his knuckles against his muzzle and then looked at them. More silence.

She started to say something, but he sucker-punched her in the face and she cried out, collapsing against the bed, but was already scrambling to get up, running to the bathroom.


His eyelids fluttered and he looked at his hands, his weapons. "Krystal," he said quiet.

She sobbed and sniffed and covered her eye with one hand, digging into her medicine cabinet with the other, scooping items out, making noise. She dug through the drawer under the sink and grabbed her long serrated manicuring scissors, shiny, not thinking.

He stood in the bathroom door. "Krystal," he said to her back, voice shaking. He was almost crying. "I'm sorry. I don't know what hap-"

She spun, swinging, hitting between his eyes. The scissors sank to the handle.

"eeeeeennnnndddddddddddd-" His voice hung and pitched down. Like a frozen computer, eyes going glossy and crossed.

The scissors handle was strange shiny steel jewelry on his forehead, sticking out. She clutched her own face and he fell backwards out the bathroom door fumbling at it. The back of his head slammed against the bed frame and his chin hit his chest, but he didn't feel it. His whole body twitched, nervous system firing off. He grabbed at his leg, fingers flexed, random movements, gestures. One arm jerked. The leg on the opposite side kicked. He drooled. Two trails of blood ran to his tear ducts, then down his muzzle, down his neck. The movements stopped and he slumped, relaxed.

She screamed and coughed, and felt herself heaving and heaving and heaving, dry heaving at the floor, then the bathtub, then the toilet and when she grabbed onto the porcelain bowel, her palm smeared across urine. Fox McCloud urine. And she stopped heaving and sobbing and coughing and was silent. She looked at the wetness on her hand, catching the tangy odor and sneering at it. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Fox, done and dead, and she touched her tear soaked lips where they smiled.



So we have just read a story -- by all indications written voluntarily -- of two videogame characters, one of whom murders the other, for pissing on a toiler seat. At some point, this author decided the best use of his or her time would be to write a story, and that story should be about a fox from Nintendo's Star Fox sitting in Fox McCloud's urine, them having a truly mean argument, which leads to a physical altercation, then murder. There is no sexual gratification here, either for the characters, the author, or the readers. So this wasn't some fantasy -- or if it was, it wasn't sexual. The author just really wanted Fox McCloud -- and not just Fox, but also his marriage -- destroyed in the most brutal way possible.

So that second question: Why? If you're crazy in love with Optimus Prime, that's silly, but I understand why you'd write a story about having his Autobot-babies. I vaguely understand the desire to read/write about Lois Lane pleasuring herself with vegetables, although it's not my thing. But this? No fucking clue. Is his marriage on the rocks? Did his parents' marriage end bitterly? Did he really, really suck at Star Fox? All these questions are running through my mind, although I'm 100% certain I don't want to know the answer. But most of all:


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