Sunday Match

FAY

THE ACTIVE RESEARCH OF MEMBERS OF THE UNFAMOUS ROYAL FAMILY CONTINUES.

Searches are still ongoing for four members. Fidr has served as a herald of justice and pledged twenty-three years ago to locate the remaining traitors of Faerhan and the original instigators of the Orcana Wars. Fidr thanks Faerhan's citizens for their assistance and promises recompense, despite escalating tensions.

Nogra Pallafin. "The active research of members of the Unfamous Royal Family continues." New Orc Times, June 23.

The six-day mark has passed.

Six. Harrowing. Long. Days of waiting to spend this particular evening with Tyke. Tonight is the night. We're here.

It's happening.

I exhale heavily, my lungs so dense and full. I've been breathing better since Tyke's been sleeping with me. Ever since he and I became us, in fact.

His presence has become the key that twists perfectly into a very sordid lock, removing the chain of anxiety that kept creeping over me each time I shut my eyes to sleep. Constantly, it crawled from the depths of my mind and clamped onto my chest. And no matter how I tugged at this gruesome bond, my brother, his innocence, mine... crushed. In screams, our voices shattered in the darkest of dreams. Yells of children would fill the air until it became a hail of blood, and I woke up choking. This is when I'd run to my window, try to save him, battle with a shadow gripped around him until my dream melted away and I became aware he'd been taken from me a long time ago. There, I'd sit on the sill. To breathe. To think. To settle.

This nightmare might be staved off for the moment, but I know, like a crouching beast, it's lurking, waiting to pounce on me when I'll be at my weakest. Reason why windows have to stay open, and Tyke knows it.

He's been working late shifts the last few days, preparing for a mission he doesn't wish to disclose to me, preferring slipping under my covers while I sleep. The only power charge I receive from him is from his skin against mine. Even so, I won't complain...

I'm chewing on my lip like gum. Tyke and I are finally seeing this much-anticipated game—Mets vs Angels. It's a special one, too. It'll be played with glow-in-the-dark bats and pitch balls. You'd think I waited months for this—more like years! The best part is I get to see it with my favorite monster.

I'm anxiously watching the digits shift on my phone while Tyke is grumbling under his breath. "There's no way we can make it... Look at that idiot. You'd think one slot would be enough, but no, he has to take three." The Cadillac's been circling in an overcrowded parking lot for the past ten minutes, despite my phone showing a disturbing 6:52 p.m.

"Hurry, please." We're going to miss the game.

"We could've taken the subway, but that wouldn't have been wise, certainly not riding it with your clearly unclothed self. No, thank you, I love life," Tyke teases, roughly sliding a possessive hand under my skirt, his other on the steering wheel as he maneuvers into a tight parking spot. I chuckle inwardly, wondering why—I know!—he prefers to keep one hand on the wheel rather than two.

One hand brake pulled, and two car doors shut later, we reunite and grab hands. We're late—my fault. I told him to take Astra Boulevard when everyone had the same idea. Got stuck for thirty minutes in traffic and told him I was sorry, during which time fae dust was ruining his AC system.

In return, Tyke cough-said, "I waited eight hours to be with you. I can assure you, it doesn't matter where I am, as long as you're with me."

Consequently, my brain overheated to the point of no return, my speech collapsed, and I was left only to play with his dark, green tourmaline-colored fingers. Solid, smooth, and suave long limbs. Everything S. Everything super... I don't know where my feminist side went; Tyke certainly didn't chuck it into a garbage bin, but let's just say there is something about orcs that makes you swoon at every grunt, waist grab, and other bestial coo, the two famous Ps a bonus—possessiveness and protectiveness. Traits that run in their blood, and suit me well because no one likes to take responsibility in the cold freezing rain for the sake of independence or... stupidity. An umbrella and a warning that he will heat up your bum cheeks if you catch a cold, followed by a warm sweater, never harmed anyone—and certainly not me.

Take Me Out To the Ball Game is booming in loops from the stadium's loudspeakers, sending goosebumps up my wings. "Come on, faster. Tyke, please!" Up and down the street to Citi Fae Stadium, I fly in the crowd and out of it as fast as possible. Three times now. This game has me so pumped, I'm that sugar-addled wasp constantly returning to my giant green syrup, beating his ears until he hurries, to no avail.

He's dragging his steps, sometimes halting as if he's noticed something. "Bug..." he says with an impervious voice, his stride a snail's pace, and I can't help frowning because I'm on tenterhooks here! "Your skirts are getting shorter each time I see you."

So that's the deal with his slow pace? I revolve in my half-feet, half-wing skipping motion, chuckling. "Could it be your anxiety getting longer?"

"I love your little legs, but you're a tease away from—" His gasp echoes off my shoulder, and as I'm tugged forth by an apparent force, I catch his worried expression. Tyke pulls me hard, and I get hit by his warmth, his chest firm to greet me, a heart beneath it, thundering. "Getting into trouble." A burning bin rolls down the street, whooshing past us, and I swear, I heard a scream inside it.

As the blazing object hits a lamppost and keels over, nothing remains but trash and squeaky wheels whirling at all four corners.

"Tyke." My worries are immediately anchored in his gaze, but also worries that are fast to disperse as he steepens his golden eyes on me.

A mellow pressure swells lightly around my wrist, followed by a nudge. "Keep walking." Keep walking, keep walking. Suck it up, Fay. I decided to live in the city, yet I sometimes wonder why. Madness is almost always the mood here.

I realign my attention to Tyke and exhale deeply.

The Mets cap I gave him fits him like a glove. That's right, my monster surrendered, submitted, or whatever term is used for abdication. In truth, I didn't leave him a choice. Yes, I made our outfits match, and yes, he growled at first. I was on the ball with that one. And yes, again, I exploited his weakness and went for his orc juices all the way down until I disappeared between his legs, so he had to agree if he wanted me to finish him off and give him head in the future. I was too far away in the game for him to stop me, anyway. I'm inwardly chuckling because it was a perfect plan. So here we are, his shirt and cap matching mine, number 22. Nothing else but Pete Elfonso's number, seven hundred and seventy home runs. I know. He's the best.

I flutter up, adjust his cap, and can't help but drop a kiss under his eye. Tyke grabs me like a wad of dollars flying from a stolen bank security van. "Gotcha."

"I'm not that hard to catch," I scoff, trying to breathe.

"You kept showing me your backside, a little skirt hiding nothing but a narrow white band," he whispers, replacing this indeed thin band with a finger, now gently rubbing against my clit. "I don't know why we can't watch this from your place or mine, Fay. We could cheer on the couch, you for 22, me for your sweet little purple..."

"Stop," I say, lips covering his mouth as a centaur couple trots past us.

However, Tyke doesn't give up. "Lips and musk, so sweet and soft..."

My cheeks are flushed as Tyke carries me, his hand hidden under my skirt, a finger deep inside me, giving me a fever. I could climax; this accompanied by the smell of hot dogs and popcorn wafting from the stalls ahead of us. I'm in heaven!

"Say, ah," this dirty orc murmurs as we approach the ticket booth. I squeeze my thighs and cheeks, struggling to keep my 'ah' in check as he whirls his finger inside me. It seems he's having a good time, too, and tonight could not be more perfect. As he leans to the ticket taker's window, he wags his finger with more pressure. The moan flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Ah"

"Lo," this mongrel finishes a word that wasn't one, "two tickets, please."

"Sure." The naga lady tsks at us, sending my mood plummeting because I sense a raised red flag.

She drops two digits on the tickets Tyke just slid under her screen, reads them, and begins typing something as the tip of her tail flaunts a stamp in its little fold.

"You can still change your mind, Fay." My cheeks burst into white-hot heat as he wiggles his finger the size of my sex toy.

"Stop it, Tyke."

The woman cocks her head and looks at Tyke for ten seconds, and then at me. "You're together?" Snorts, hisses, spits. A game of fangs and tongues, the whole threatening serpent poised to strike. She hates us, and one glance was all it took.

"Yes," I say, cutting Tyke off in mid-sentence.

"Tribune two for orcs. Left side," she says, circling Tyke's seat on the stadium's map before sliding it in the gap beneath the counter screen.

I hold my breath. Tyke senses it and places me on the ground, my legs a little wobbly from this body temperature check.

"For you, ma'am, seat C, wing five," she says, tapping her finger on my ticket, her tail stamping it with violence, and I jump a little.

I tiptoe and smack my palms on this mucky counter with spilled soda, all grunged up with stickiness and yuk. This bitter black-haired crotal had us at tribune two for orcs, and if my eyes could bite, I'm pretty sure she'd be mauled to death by now.

"As you cared to ask, and as I cared to answer, yes, we are together, so you can just give me an orc seating ticket, please." My voice is snarling because screw that. "Or simply give him a seat in wing five."

"Hey, mothball?—"

Mothball? Her empathy is like salt on a wound. Maybe I'm a little too emotional? Yeah, no. "Listen up, you one-limbed sociopath, I don't care that you're bothered by our togetherness..." My breath quickens. "But what the fuck is up with that?!"

Tyke grunts behind me, grabs my wrist, and pulls me down, pushing me behind him. "Let me handle it." Here again. Did you see it? It was my feminism—it came, it saw, it left.

In a relaxed manner, Tyke rests his elbows and takes a placid voice. "Look. We just want to sit together and watch the same thing."

"There's just an issue."

"What's the trouble?" Tyke grumbles.

"You," she hisses. "You go in the special bleachers. There's too much tension."

"What do you mean?"

"Your kind is said to be trouble. You're too strong to handle. Therefore, be a good boy and go to the seating area assigned to your species."

Right now, I can't imagine what's going through his mind. Mine, however, is known. "How can you be okay wi?—"

Tyke squeezes my wrist, throwing me a forbidden glare, grating, "Bug," before turning his head toward this scaly creature. "Too strong? Is that the reason?"

Obviously, my dumb self can't help adding, "He wouldn't hurt a fly!"

"I can see that," she mocks.

Tyke's fist slams into the counter, shattering the glass panel in two as the slab cracks. The snake immediately hits a button. Fucked up little bitch!

A colossal alarm goes off, meaning only one thing: game over for us. "Polly Robinson Rontoda entrance. Situation, code orange, booth seven," she spits into her mic.

"Tyke," I mutter.

"Wait for me outside." He looks at me with guilty eyes, but he shouldn't feel guilty. I'm feeling sick to my stomach, my entire being tangled in knots of frustration, each twist and tug tearing at me so many times, I could rend into nothing. It's just too much.

I look around.

A hundred eyes.

A hundred frowns. People speaking under their voices, muttering under fingers clasped over their mouths. Fucked up déjà vu...

"Give them the tickets. They're just lovebirds."

"Suits you. I don't want my head smashed while cheering for the wrong team!"

"Give them some slack!"

"No place for orcs."

"There should be a law prohibiting such couples from getting together..."

I track Tyke's gaze on the queue behind us and shudder, my heart cracking when fingers like satin run over my trembling skull. "Bug. Wait for me outside... Please."

I rest my eyes on his, taking in the wet sparkle of a mentally tired orc warrior who should be holding a bloodied hammer somewhere, defending his tribe and honor.

I am, honestly, insanely upset!

"Think of yourself as patriotic?!" I shout to the crowd. "Little confession, I'm not. I hate every single one of you, this country. Even a torture room is more pleasant than this debased gong pit! And you know what? Fuck you all!"

I take a few breathers as I whirl up my wings to this specist's little window. "Oh, I guess there is something more ugly than a debased gong pit. It's you." She's ogling me with her almond-colored snake eyes, her thin tongue licking her nonexistent leathery lips repeatedly, so long I wish this nagga could swallow or poke an eye with it.

I spit at her pathetic window. It's a brutal one that she slithers back. "What, you scared of a mothball?"

"Fay," growls Tyke. I can hear the splintering sounds of his ego breaking, crushing my own, and I'm out for blood.

Let's make it messy!

"Dear little piece of shit, I hope you die alone, that no one wants you, and frankly, I'm sure you're perceived as a loner. Look at you, spitting like you have a condition called 'I spit on everything happy.' Let's reverse the game here; what's the problem with snakes like you!? You know the who hates you/ who likes you kinda question? I'll tell you. No matter how often you shed your skin, you stay the same dull piece of mono-limb, and let me tell you, it's not looking good."

"No magic allowed here!" she shouts, covering her face, the glass panel reflecting a glow that's blinding me.

"What magic, you stupid withered handbag? You're so fake, even your hide would look bland on a shoe!"

"Fay." His voice is softer as he twines a couple of fingers around my levitating ankle.

I don't turn my head. "Let me speak up for myself, Tyke!" No, all my energy is concentrated on this little sleazeball. She begins shaking, scales lifting, some... oddly floating as they detach from her nuzzle.

"Security!" she bawls, clutching her thin slits for nostrils.

"No matter the work you do on yourself, you stay the same social toxic fucking critter. Go die in your den full of bones, sorrow, and rot," I grate.

Her scales are detaching themselves from her body, suspended in the air like weightless yet sizable specs. ""Even your own body can't stand you.""

"Fay!" The second Tyke's glare meets mine, he shoves me away.

Immediately he leans toward me, knees a break, hands at my waist while the sound of thousands of grains falling on the ground resonates from inside the nagga's ticket booth. "Bug, please, you have to calm down," he says in a rush.

A string of six security trolls are heading toward us, each carrying a bludgeon. "Hands behind your head. Kneel!" one of them yells.

"The fae... she used magic! I need medics," the withered stick screams.

"I haven't!" I look at Tyke for reassurance. "I haven't, right?"

"Fay, get out and wait for me at the entrance." I watch Tyke as his knees hit the ground, a feeling of fire growing on my wings. "Go!"

I won't make him insist.

Another crack riddles my heart as I wipe a tear from my cheek, adding another fracture to strewn along its beating walls. Miserably, my feet turn and streak me out.

It seems another wrong decision was made in Fucktown.

Tyke grunts as he takes in what sounds like a rough hit, and my mind splits.

I keep walking.

I won't look.

I won't go back.

An empty plastic soda cup, tipped over on the sidewalk, grows in my vision as I drag myself toward it. Taking a seat next to it, my palms flat on the asphalt, I stretch my legs over the road and watch my tennis shoes tap against each other.

I wait there on the pavement, trying to stop my lips from wavering, thoughts of Tyke being beaten in front of the crowd making me want to throw up. We only try to do our best, and even that doesn't seem to be enough.

My wings burn, my back, my ribs, right up to my shoulder blades...

I breathe in and out. My vision is twisted and blurry, but after a few seconds, it finally lifts. The pain? No, that little clinger stays. It no longer rims the side of my wings, but instead, it's buried in my chest.

As I blow, I make my stupid rubber band slap against my wrist. Attempting to deflect dark thoughts, darning the holes in my mind before they creep through them... The problem is that my pain is a torrent coming directly from a ruptured dam.

My anger makes it impossible for me to cry more. And somehow, I'm furious about it.

Things take time...

Things change...

They always do.

Patience...

Ten minutes later, Tyke comes. There's nothing out of place. Walking past me, he strides over my legs calmly and collectedly.

Warmth, at last, sits next to me, just as I was beginning to despair.

"Are you alright?" Rich and smokey, Tyke's voice crashes against my collarbone. And soon, I drowned once more in the gold of his eyes, while a finger of his glides over my cheek, making me sink deep.

"Never been better," I say, trying not to burst into tears as I notice blood dabbed under his nostril from a first wipe.

"I sure wasted your time, bug." He gathers a knee to him, making a stone roll under his shoe.

"They can't hurt us, you know. We might be feeling short tonight, and it's fine." I can't help laying one of my wings on him. Mine are too stiff to cover him like a blanket, but I press it against him with all my might. "Faith always opens doors to the believer, Tyke, and we must keep believing the world will let light into their eyes." I lean forth, trying to catch his far-reaching gaze. "And when it does, it'll understand how much orcs make monsterkind better..."

Silence.

He licks his lip, gazing at the small avenue leading to the parking lot. I give him time. Hold my words, arms, and breath.

And then slowly exhale when... "Little pointer for you, bug; don't speak up for me. I don't want to return to the slammer because you tasted the tip of a cudgel. If I hadn't had my badge with me, I don't know what would've happened..."

I turn and catch him wiping another stream of blood pushing down over his lips. Stress makes my nails scrape against my temples as I push them into my hair. "I hate this city so fucking much! I hate everything about it."

Placing myself between his legs, I pinch the hem of my T-shirt and raise it to his face. With all this shit going on, I can't believe he managed to keep his face intact. I gently press the fabric under his nostril, removing blood that should've stayed inside him. My lips tighten to know he could kill them all—it would only take him one singular blow to send four trolls down. I've seen it once, with a cyclops, singular chunks of muscle from head to toe. Hoodlums said something out of place to me, and he sent them to the hospital with one mighty punch, one knuckle striking a fine line of jaws, teeth flying on the concrete. It had rained that day, but the street didn't smell of petrichor; it smelled of iron, males withering like worms on a dog-piss-and-puddle-covered pavement. Tyke went to prison for a month... or was it two?

"Fay, please." Neither man nor beast, Tyke is equal parts an orc and diamond, tusked sharpening the light at every glint. A female has seen nothing of beauty until she sets eyes on a rough piece of jade; every angle has been delicately chiseled by unseen elements, a skin flooded with passionate blood.

"Bug, don't." Fingers, the softest of touch, enlace around my wrist. He could snap it like a toothpick, yet he doesn't. He's a good man. Faerhan people are the true savages!

I caress his chin, thinking how every alpha friend of Donna's cowers when Tyke enters the flat.

"Fay."

No matter how much hate the precinct had for orcs, they all kept their mouths shut when Tyke came into view. Maybe it's his bone features, razor blade-like! Or his piercing almond-shaped eyes. No... it's his well-sculpted cheekbones, so high that any bite encroaches on you, like a feline. Fuck that, it's his aura. He's a dominant male, the leader kind. He's righteous, fucking patient. No one can deny it, so they spit on him because they know it!

"Listen, bug, it's okay."

New Orc is never neon or gray, but Tyke shines at every stride; his looks inviting like a cult...

With a growl, he yanks my working wrist down without freeing it. "You are ruining your top!"

Without notice, Tyke gets up, takes my hand, and heads to the car without looking at me. He then halts as if he'd forgotten something and mutters, "If you want to fly back home, I'll understand."

Something in me leaps back, and perhaps my face does that backward tilt. And maybe some adrenaline races up in my veins, they seem to wanna come out of my eyes. And it stings, badly. "Are you pushing me away?"

"What?"

"Is it because I'm fae? I know it didn't go according to plan. I'm sorry. We have to trust time. Things will get better. They always do."

Tyke removes the tiny space between our feet. With two hands, he clasps my cheeks and squeezes them firmly enough that I must look like a suckerfish. "I don't have wings, but you do. If you want to have a night's flight, I can walk. That's all I'm saying."

"Walk?" There are days when I want to rip off my wings with a bread knife. "I wish I had no wings. I wish I was an orc," I whisper, anything to soothe his bogged state. And oh, do I wish to go through the same shit as him... The man is suffering. His chest is heavy, teeth clenched, and his blinks are slow and controlled when they shouldn't.

He grabs me by the waist, and my face goes riotous: twitches, heat flushes, full dry lips. I rack in my bottom lip, taking in some skin crumples and sheds, eye corners leaking water with every fast blink.

A balmy breeze flows between us, catching in our hair, intertwining our strands, softly swaying them as it seeks an escape. The edges of his lips come to contact as Tyke leans over, the city lights bowing a reflection on the bridge of his nose—now all blue and swollen! "Fay, I adore your wings. Never say that. And between you and me, you give me wings whenever you're within reach."

A dreadful hiccup hikes up my throat, and I catch it midway, holding a sob from escaping my mouth. "What about your car?"

"I'll ask my partner to get it back tomorrow."

I don't want to end this night like that; I won't allow it. Tyke is leaving tomorrow and returning, gods know when. "Why don't we save the night?"

He exhales, digging a hand in his pocket. "Tell me."

"Take the car, grab some bats, then head to Central Arc. Just Cerberios, you, and me, and a few swings at Golden Sands Lake."

"You had me at you and me." He smirks, pulling out his car key, the sound of a Cadillac unlocking nearby.