Challenge: 50 themes, 50 sentences
Rating: up to an R
Notes: Wow, the fanon that I use. It bleeds. Also uses story elements from a thousand different plots I've been wishing to start/finish. Hints of Raccoonshipping, exSacredshipping, exWingshipping, and SkySplittershipping.
- b - e - g - i - n -
And like a white knight on the back of an eagle, Falkner held out his hand to him and said, "Come touch the clouds with me."
The berry was held up before him; "Can I shoot this off your head?" Morty asked, and Falkner snatched it vehemently, took a bite from it, and shook his head: "No way, no way," it meant, because as good as Morty made himself look with a bow...heck no.
It was childish, to say the least, because it was only since Will and Whitney were getting closer (jealousy, he didn't want to say) that he even dared to try to kiss the other just outside the fairground; Morty didn't quite dare make it anything more than a quick peck to his mouth, but the way Falkner reacted, he might as well have shoved his tongue down his throat.
Falkner might not find it amusing that a Weedle found its way onto his back from the sky, but Morty does, and he's doing a miraculous job of keeping it inside as he puts the little guy back onto its tree.
Neither were surprised, though nevertheless shocked at the interruption, when Falkner's father found them tangled up off-site from the dig, sharing probably a week-long due moment of intimacy (in the woods? really?), his clomping the only second-long warning they had before being caught, and saying around his shamelessly smirk, "Java's up."
"If the world has any mercy," Falkner complained, as the room swam in his vision and Morty's fingers dug gently into his nape, "it will turn off the sun today."
It was a mistake, a mistake, so why are the life-shattering mistakes the ones your loved ones walk in on?
The sliding screen was stuck with a weight Morty recognized; he knelt down, put a hand to the wooden frame, and asked into the rice paper, "How long are you going to keep this between us?"
So it turns out, none of the boys had the tolerance for alcohol Whitney did (by some miracle of God, or good breeding), which meant she had three lumps to figure out what to do with, whereas Will's mentality reduced him to that of a kitten and Morty got sleepy, Falkner turned out to be a touchy-feely drunk, and Whitney snapped enough blackmail photos of him curled against Morty, with the funniest expression she'd ever seen.
He made sure to time it right when he said, offhandedly, "We might need kids someday," and was happy to pat Falkner's back as the other choked down his tea.
"This," Falkner deadpanned at the partially unearthed statue of ancient depictions of their gods entwined around each other; Morty was silently in awe, "is going to cause a scene."
Morty had to spell it out to Eusine, when Eusine got upset over who had replaced him, why this relationship was better than their past one: at least when Falkner was angry, it was turned on everything else, except his boyfriend; especially his boyfriend.
Falkner wasn't sure what was scarier: the fact Morty was dressed up like something out of a horror story (were those fangs?) or that he was actively into it (yes, those were fangs, and they were nibbling his neck, oh god!), for the Hallow-night.
Many parts of Morty's history were doused in flame: the tower's eternal stench of burnt wood, Eusine's self-destruction, and Falkner's anger and the kisses he gave him.
"No way, you show-off," Falkner grumbled, watching Morty as he nocked the arrow in his bowstring while he hung upside down from the tree branch; he flushed in shame when, while not a bulls-eye, the arrow found itself embedded in the second inner-most ring of the target, and got a quick kiss to the temple for his doubt.
"It's no different than riding a flying-type," Falkner insisted, idly stroking the bar of the glider, and Morty countered, "But Pidgeot would come after you if you fell."
It was fortunate both were taught to cook, and could managed passably, because a better part of meeting for the day was just exchanging the bento boxes.
"You've no idea what you're doing, do you?" a young Morty asked, and Falkner smiled sheepish as he undid the bandage and tried to wrap Morty's ankle for the fourth time.
Whereas the sky-meets-land was all Falkner's, the land as a resting place was all Morty's, and while where they wandered wasn't a typical cemetery, Morty explained with the faint air of sorrow what was beneath their feet--the bones, the bodies, the lost souls--and Falkner couldn't help but think of the whole world as an endless graveyard.
"Your hair color changed," Morty said one day while playing with one forelock, as though he just realized, and went on with, "It used to be an emerald shade, like your father; when did it change to your mother's coloring?"
There was one Gastly that, for reasons beyond him, felt the need to follow Falkner around like a puppy even while it got nothing in return; Falkner asked Morty about it and Morty said with a smile, "Maybe it just likes bird brains."
It was all falling apart, with no little help from family, all their personal and joint professional work crumbling; every time they looked to one another now, there was nothing but the echo of pain in the emptiness of their chests.
What do you think they were based on?
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with finding a good blond to have in your life," Wren reflected crudely, to which Falkner cried in anguish, hands clamped to his ears, "I don't want to hear about your misadventures with Mathias Surge, Dad!"
Falkner didn't know why his anger drained when Morty touched him, unnaturally so; Morty only needed the slightest skin contact to take it away, a faint touch, a gentle caress, and he would pull it away like a stray strand of hair, leaving everything else that was buried behind.
It was their job to evaluate trainers who came seeking proof of their abilities, and so they were allowed to lose with grace and dignity, because there was no shame; losing to an equal was a different matter, especially to a young and uppity Ice-trainer (who tended to wear nothing, despite living in the frozen north) with a bit of a brag to her for defeating someone older and more experienced, which rather left Falkner tense, angry, anxious, unsociable, and almost inconsolable, until Morty finally did something about it; it was a good few hours.
Morty might have been better at archery, but Falkner made his swords sing cutting the air, and while out-shooting him gave Morty the small delight of flustering him, there's equal fascination playing defense in a game Falkner all but owns the rules for, with the light of utmost control rather than the burn of ferocity in his eyes.
It wasn't like they hadn't had relationships before, though admitted one each and Clair does actually call on occasion, but the feeling of a fresh--if not a bit more wary, in a sense--start did keep a good, amiable distance at the start, which only got bridged at time went quickly on.
Agatha half-lidded her eyes in disapprovement and disappointment, that her grandson chose sacrilege over sanctity, and in one rare outburst, Morty said, "The split is 300 hundred years old, but both are pieces of something far more ancient, and if I want to have Hayabusan as my friend, or someone I fall in love with, that's my choice; I will do what is necessary for our ways, as long as they also eventually include his."
The way the two families could silence their side of the stadium without words was astounding, and Falkner dared to say it: "This is going to take forever."
"Why are you listening to her now," Morty pleaded, "when you know what sort of person she is?!"
Morty passed over a crude child's piece of artwork over the table; it was taken, Falkner eyed it with a little surprised, asked, "We were seen?" and was answered with, "Looks like."
The kids had drawn on the stone with chalk earlier, running colors of blue and pink and yellow and green over the bumpy surface, drawing over it like there was no tomorrow; when they past it again, the colors were just beginning to run in the drizzle, and they stepped through the melting rainbow, one hand each on the umbrella shaft, as they made their way slowly back to the gym.
Only later, when Morty had no choice but to admit his own psychic gifts, one common knowledge and the other none-of-the-sort, Falkner felt akin to shame welling up in his gut: the other talent was an empathic one, a one-way transfer of emotion, out one body and into Morty himself, which was then crushed by the use of Morty's own emotions, generally leaving him the somber and serene character he was now…and he was doing that to Falkner for years….
Falkner drew back the bowstring with a grim determination, an expression Morty smiled at, and he drew himself to the slighter man with gentle hands at his waist; "You smell good," he said, as Falkner froze (competitive practice usually meant a more mischievous blond to deal with), "like a bed of Roselia in the morning, before they wake."
"Dirty thing," murmured the hawker, nibbling at a flush-red ear, which was perfectly, perfectly fine with Morty, and maybe it was still perfectly fine that his hands were tied up over his head, and that Falkner was a comfortable weight with bare legs straddling his waist; all perfectly fine, but proportionally unfair because he should never had admitted he liked being teased, since there was now a stray finger trailing over his bare chest, and it was reaching under the hem of the gi top, and the neckline was slipped down over Falkner's shoulders, and the suspicious 'Is this okay, mister?' expression Morty knew was an act looking down at him, which went straight to hell as he touched himself and Morty couldn't see...have mercy and please, please, untie him!
"Someone is taking a proverb too literally," Morty mused in the face of the Arbok and Drapion duo, and while Falkner wasn't about to disagree, he said, "Then focus on the Drapion and don't worry about the Arbok!"
Any of the Matsuri family probably won't scream in fright at the sight of a ghost-type, but they will if you sneak a mitten caked in snow powder up under the layers and press it to the small of their back.
"Okay," the student whispered with a proud air of conspiracy, "so this is what I heard: Hayato-sensei…is taking up the butt," which got him several immature giggles from his fellow eight-year-olds, until they abruptly cut off like deer in the headlights, and the student received an elbow to the head and one comically enraged sensei's warning: "I dare you to say that again, brat!"
Morty sneezed enough in one day for Falkner to learn this wasn't his best season.
"This better be sturdy enough, Morty," was Falkner's only voiced concern before his mouth was invaded again, tightening his legs around Morty's waist as he was pressed harder against the statue.
Falkner wore civvies as often as Morty wore his ritual attire; Morty liked it when Falkner dressed down, but Falkner always felt agitated and uneasy seeing Morty dressed up, and he wondered guiltily if Morty felt the same every time they met normally.
The heat of the season was on, and certain people felt the need to wander around half naked and sweating, and absolutely enjoying the rare day off, all at one Ghost-trainer's expense.
Kikyou and Enju have hated for more than three-hundred years; they blame each other for what went wrong in Ecruteak that sparked a war, so when two heirs links fingers innocently one warm afternoon, unknowing of the other's background...
"Well," he said, fingers curled around the purple material objectively, trying to underplay just how strongly he felt about the change, "it's not hideous...kind of nice...a little handsome...kind of suits you..."
"Who exactly would we be fighting?" Morty asked once, and while they had their gut-roiling suspicions, Falkner didn't say a word.
While the ocean beaches in Johto weren't spectacular, the lakesides were, which meant when the weather was warm and the day planning to be perfect, Whitney generally dragged her boys to the shoreline for a day out, which she liked calling 'the best double dating situation,' leaving Will embarrassed for Whitney, Falkner embarrassed for himself, and Morty with a sunny disposition that didn't mind what it was called in the end.
"And be sure to thank Matsuba-sensei for taking the time away from his own students to come here," Falkner said with a scowl, "and I do not care what Lady Hayabusan may say on the matter; if he's not received warmly, don't expect my good graces later."
Winter was more for the dead than it was the living, so coaxing a Flying trainer out from his heavy quilt should have taken more than a cup of chocolate and a purred, "Falkner," but it worked, and got him under the quilt too.
Morty had been touching the bark of trees every couple of trunks, feeling the ridges as if testing it, and now there was one he lingered at, scratching a fingernail faintly against it, so Falkner just had to ask; the answer was one of his mellow smiles and, "I'm kind of imagining carving our names into it," and laughed when his lover dropped his head into his hands, to hide the blush and the exasperation, and maybe also the tickled part of him that wouldn't mind, if he hadn't known Morty would do no such thing to spare the tree.