Hello, everyone, Kazuki here. This is my attempt at a decidedly different pairing--Cpt. Falcon/Marth. Now, I'm sure a lot of people would have things to say about this, not all of it good, but try to keep the flames to a minimum, all right? Standard disclaimers apply--I don't own any of this stuff, except possibly the sort of nonexistent storyline. Warnings: Citrusy content, folks. It's scattered around the fic, so just be aware that you may not want to be reading this at work. Also--language, and male/male content, in case that pairing up there was not blatantly clear to you. No, Marth is not a girl, and will never be one despite his feminine looks.
All right. If you're still here, and somehow didn't read the warnings, one last chance. There is male x male content in this. If you don't like it, don't read it. The back button's up there as usual, unless you somehow broke it. In that case please push Alt + Left Arrow and that should take you back to where you came from. For the rest of you, please enjoy. Yes, I took the title from a song by the same name, I think.
Here's to the Night
Do you even remember my name?
Sometimes it escapes you, especially on the fields we are called to fight on—sometimes together, sometimes against each other. In the heat of battle names are forgotten, memory vanishes, and all that truly matters is the rush of adrenaline that drives forth the fighting spirit. I have never forgotten yours, but then again I have spent far too much time thinking about it. How did you come to acquire such a name? It fits you, though. In the battle stages you are strong and confident, and I am reminded of a gyrfalcon--a king's hunting bird.
But that attitude you put on during the day is different at night, those days when you ask me to come talk to you in your room after we have all disbanded to keep our various self-imposed curfews. I can tell I'm not the only one you've ever asked, and certainly not the only one you play around with. It's obvious in the way you walk and the almost too arrogant tone of voice you use, and the days you disappear into the city for the weekend and come back wearing the musky scents of the various women you've been with like cologne. You seem like the type who's been around a bit, which worried me the first time you asked—
--but of course you couldn't care less when I asked how many people you'd ever fucked, and when I asked if you were carrying anything I might want to avoid you laughed. And then somehow I was on my back on your bed arching under your hands, which were going everywhere and I wondered how a racer could possibly become so damnably good at knowing where to—ah!—touch.
I suppose it wasn't only women, though, you must have learned that somewhere. I admit that you were right, I ventured into your realm knowing what could happen. You had no need to convince me to, you merely asked if I wanted to move the conversation to your room and I (albeit unwary that things could move so quickly) said yes. I had not remembered the remark you had made in ignorance of my sex until after the door was half-closed behind me, but I remembered--how could I forget--the way you looked at me that day.
I also remembered the look of incredulity as someone, Roy probably, informed you that I was not actually a girl.
Your room wasn't nearly as messy as I expected it to be, but rather… somewhat Spartan. I had envisioned you having an array of racing trophies on your shelves, posters plastered here and there on the walls (of various subjects, ranging from your car to scantily clad swimsuit models and pop singers)—various clothing items tossed over a chair and on the foot of the bed, maybe even the odd naughty magazine you'd forgotten to hide once you were done with it. In reality the place was sparsely furnished, not a trophy in sight—your spare suits were tucked away neatly in the old armoire in the corner, and your bed was made. There wasn't a magazine in sight, not even an innocuous title. You offered me the solitary chair and plunked yourself down on the bed, with a grin that was more shy than I was used to. Who are you, anyway? I do not think I could ever hope to understand you.
You were polite, well enough for not normally dealing with royalty anyway (not that I liked all that bowing and scraping, which was probably why I didn't correct you), and even that was a little beyond what I'd expected of you. Perhaps it was because you put on such a self-confident face outside of your room, where you were someone you'd crafted for everyone else to see—I just expected someone who cared less about protocol, who saw etiquette as something of a needless thing and simply got straight to the point.
--but there was a flash of that brash confidence right there, as you grinned almost smugly and leaned down to lap at one of my embarrassingly hard nipples and I couldn't help but cry out because I'd never even thought that those were that sensitive. And you knew how to keep me moaning and writhing in torturous pleasure, never once questioning how you came to acquire this knowledge, never once asking you how many you have seen like this. Pausing for a second, you shot me that grin and I knew I would never ask.
I was curious, though—if you were not that man who trusted his fighting ability, who cried "Show me your moves!" in such confidence that he would win, then who were you really? I saw under the helmet for the first time that night, and I still don't know why you keep it on all the time—though your features are a little rugged (whether beaten by stress or by time I cannot tell) they are not wholly unpleasant.
--your hands, callused from driving the Blue Falcon and often proven to be dangerous on the battle stages, were so gentle as you cupped my face in them and stole a kiss from me—so shocking me that I didn't think to reciprocate. Yet when you did it again I think I surprised you, by kissing back. It was probably then you took the tiara off my head and put it on the bedside table, and I forgot about it as you began playing with my hair and making some comment about how you couldn't believe it was really blue. It was when you managed to get my pants off that you learned that yes, it was. I kissed you at that point, and this time you were the one shocked—though it didn't keep you from answering in kind.
And I suppose that is why I came back for more. I know there's nothing serious between us—I hardly know you, and I have spoken little of myself in your presence. It is too soon to say anything about feelings, and I often wonder whether I am not simply lining myself up to become yet another one of your nameless conquests. But in the end the stress relief value is too great—I find myself in front of your door once more, wondering whether you've tired of me yet. Every time I see your face without the helmet, I have my answer.
And indeed, you never seem to be tired of me, for each time you've had me in your bed you map my body with firm—if a bit rough—fingers, inch by inch until you probably know more of me better than I do. It's too much when you trail those same fingers down my hard length so teasingly—it is enough to rip a ragged moan from me, but nothing more. Though it is purely for stress relief, I try never to make too much noise—I know the walls are not as thick as I would want them to be. I shall say nothing of letting my own hands wander about your firmly built body, though…
And yet there is always something in your eyes, once you've removed that helmet and stripped off the bodysuit, that asks me why I remain so guarded. How can I not, though? But I can feel the firm press of your muscled body over my own more slender form, and when we make contact something sparks in me—as you press in, slowly, gently, much more tender than you would ever seem to a casual observer, I find it is a little easier every time. And then you hit that spot, and white lightning streaked down behind my eyes—and it is there that I lost sight of my reasons for remaining so walled off from you. You aren't half bad, after all… and somehow I am no longer so embarrassed by the prospect of having my voice heard coming from your room.
I wonder if you ever will tire of me. You have invited me to come back whenever I pleased, but I may someday walk down to your door and find someone else in the place I used to occupy. And yet... yet it is not something I should think an affront to my person. This is merely temporary—I know it is only temporary. However many times we do this, in the end I am still only your lover for the night. So... should I knock, or shall I walk away? I stand before your door nonetheless.
This is terribly fucked up, if you will pardon my vernacular. I think… sometimes, regardless of how little I really know about you, I love you anyway.
"Marth," you breathe, and for a split second my heart stops beating. "Marth, you're just too damn beautiful for your own good. I don't know how I'm gonna be able to go home after the tournament's over without you."
I could not help but crack a wry smile. "But you will manage, will you not, Captain?"
"Just Falcon's fine," you murmured. Is this the first, second, third night? I cannot remember.
"As you wish... Falcon." Our lips met.
A/N: And that's that. El Nino1, although this was probably not what you had in mind (if you're even reading this), it's for you. Sort of. Because you mentioned this pairing in your profile and I thought, "Hmm. I could do something with this." I would also like to add that I think you're a damn good writer, even if you don't like your writing.