Story Notes:
Yes, another Riolu/Lucario story. You'll have to deal with it, sorry.Sexless until chapter 5. I wanted to develop the characters' personalities first.
Chapter 1
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Other standard stuff applies as well. You don't like Pokemon smut or are under 18, leave now. Otherwise, enjoy.
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I should probably start out by mentioning that I have had first-hand experience in the nature of the bond between a Pokemon and its trainer. There really is nothing like it, to be honest, though granted I don't have all that much to compare it to, being only 16 years of age. Still, it's one of the most potent forces I've yet to encounter.
But I'm sure you've heard all that before, so I hope you'll forgive me if I stop trying to merely explain its nature and instead show you just what I mean through my tale. The events are still fresh on my mind as if they happened within the last year. Which they did. But that's beside the point.
My name is Justtyn Waters. With two Ts and a Y in my name, it's easy to imagine the number if times it's been misspelled. Not that it really bothers me or anything, but I do have to wonder just what my parents were thinking when they signed my birth certificate. I'd ask them, but I haven't seen them in so long that I doubt I'd recognize them.
My mother passed away when I was eight you see, too long ago to really remember her face. Back then I only knew that she was sick and was in the hospital to be treated. I didn't understand what "cancer" meant. Or "malignant." I did understand the concept if time though, and I knew that "six months" was a long time, or so I thought. That was the first time I had lived at home with only my father, and I found it a difficult task. He tried to explain what was going on, but I didn't understand. No, it was more that I didn't want to understand, didn't want to believe, still clinging to the faint glimmer of hope that she would one day come home, bursting through the door with a hearty laugh and a plate of her amazing cookies.
Well she did come home near the end, no cookies to her name, hospital employees at her side the whole time. I was glad to see her, but it didn't ease the fear inside of me, did nothing to relieve the tension built up over the past few months. I had always been a strong boy, but I was truly afraid then more than ever. We ate lunch, talked about my soccer team, and tried to fool ourselves into believing it was just a normal day, just like the good old times. Not that anyone believed it.
That was the last time I saw her. After the visit my father told me I couldn't come with him to the hospital with him anymore. I understand now he didn't want me to see her weakened condition during the final days, to keep my memories of my mother more cheerful and less corrupted, and I guess in the end it worked. At the time though, I didn't get it, couldn't fathom his intentions. All I knew was that he was standing between me and my mother. For that, I resented him.
He kept me from the funeral too. For that, I stopped speaking.
My lapse into silence wasn't all his fault of course. The overall experience just caught up with me I guess. I descended into solitude, shutting myself out from the world by building a wall around me, using my grief and sorrow as the bricks and mortor. Between meals I sat in my room, tormenting myself with my own pain, unwilling to accept the fact that she was gone. If only I had been a better son to her, or if I had paid more attention to her, or... well, I think I've made my point. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly the most popular kid at school. On the contrary, I was the kid nobody wanted to befriend. Don't get me wrong, the school did an excellent job at handling discipline and I was never physically bullied, but in this case words stung more than daggers, and being called "emo" by most people I knew (and many I didn't) certainly stung quite a bit. The few that pitied me were worse, treating me as if I was helpless (which I was) and refused to admit it (which I did). Their attempts to reach out to me and help me backfired and made things hurt worse than before.
My father must have blamed himself for my behavior. Why else would he have brought me to as many concerts and sports games as he did? Or try to coax me to the park for hours on end? Anything to get me out of the house and away from painful memories. Yet his efforts were futile, and after three (highly) awkward years, he gave up. I was given to my grandparents to raise, and my father left. That was it, with hardly a goodbye. Perhaps he thought I wouldn't listen to a goodbye speech, or perhaps he was so discouraged that he couldn't summon up the enthusiasm for a decent farewell. Regardless, I don't know where he went, and I haven't seen him since that time when I was nearly twelve.
My grandparents, well, let's just say they hardly noticed I was there. I learned to make my own breakfast (something my father always dutifully prepared for me back at home), learned to do the laundry, and discovered that as long as I did my chores I would be left alone for the most part. I was finally allowed to be by myself without constant nagging about being "antisocial," whatever that meant. My excitement was resurrected temporarily only to fade away again. "This is paradise! ...this SHOULD be paradise... why isn't this paradise?"
I thought the freedom to do whatever I wanted would make me happy. I was wrong. I started speaking again, but as time progressed I found that solitude could not bring me the relief I so desperately craved.
I found something better.Chapter End Notes:Again, this is mostly just an introduction chapter to help give the characters some, well, character. More to come as I find more inspiration to write
Other standard stuff applies as well. You don't like Pokemon smut or are under 18, leave now. Otherwise, enjoy.
---------------------------------
I should probably start out by mentioning that I have had first-hand experience in the nature of the bond between a Pokemon and its trainer. There really is nothing like it, to be honest, though granted I don't have all that much to compare it to, being only 16 years of age. Still, it's one of the most potent forces I've yet to encounter.
But I'm sure you've heard all that before, so I hope you'll forgive me if I stop trying to merely explain its nature and instead show you just what I mean through my tale. The events are still fresh on my mind as if they happened within the last year. Which they did. But that's beside the point.
My name is Justtyn Waters. With two Ts and a Y in my name, it's easy to imagine the number if times it's been misspelled. Not that it really bothers me or anything, but I do have to wonder just what my parents were thinking when they signed my birth certificate. I'd ask them, but I haven't seen them in so long that I doubt I'd recognize them.
My mother passed away when I was eight you see, too long ago to really remember her face. Back then I only knew that she was sick and was in the hospital to be treated. I didn't understand what "cancer" meant. Or "malignant." I did understand the concept if time though, and I knew that "six months" was a long time, or so I thought. That was the first time I had lived at home with only my father, and I found it a difficult task. He tried to explain what was going on, but I didn't understand. No, it was more that I didn't want to understand, didn't want to believe, still clinging to the faint glimmer of hope that she would one day come home, bursting through the door with a hearty laugh and a plate of her amazing cookies.
Well she did come home near the end, no cookies to her name, hospital employees at her side the whole time. I was glad to see her, but it didn't ease the fear inside of me, did nothing to relieve the tension built up over the past few months. I had always been a strong boy, but I was truly afraid then more than ever. We ate lunch, talked about my soccer team, and tried to fool ourselves into believing it was just a normal day, just like the good old times. Not that anyone believed it.
That was the last time I saw her. After the visit my father told me I couldn't come with him to the hospital with him anymore. I understand now he didn't want me to see her weakened condition during the final days, to keep my memories of my mother more cheerful and less corrupted, and I guess in the end it worked. At the time though, I didn't get it, couldn't fathom his intentions. All I knew was that he was standing between me and my mother. For that, I resented him.
He kept me from the funeral too. For that, I stopped speaking.
My lapse into silence wasn't all his fault of course. The overall experience just caught up with me I guess. I descended into solitude, shutting myself out from the world by building a wall around me, using my grief and sorrow as the bricks and mortor. Between meals I sat in my room, tormenting myself with my own pain, unwilling to accept the fact that she was gone. If only I had been a better son to her, or if I had paid more attention to her, or... well, I think I've made my point. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly the most popular kid at school. On the contrary, I was the kid nobody wanted to befriend. Don't get me wrong, the school did an excellent job at handling discipline and I was never physically bullied, but in this case words stung more than daggers, and being called "emo" by most people I knew (and many I didn't) certainly stung quite a bit. The few that pitied me were worse, treating me as if I was helpless (which I was) and refused to admit it (which I did). Their attempts to reach out to me and help me backfired and made things hurt worse than before.
My father must have blamed himself for my behavior. Why else would he have brought me to as many concerts and sports games as he did? Or try to coax me to the park for hours on end? Anything to get me out of the house and away from painful memories. Yet his efforts were futile, and after three (highly) awkward years, he gave up. I was given to my grandparents to raise, and my father left. That was it, with hardly a goodbye. Perhaps he thought I wouldn't listen to a goodbye speech, or perhaps he was so discouraged that he couldn't summon up the enthusiasm for a decent farewell. Regardless, I don't know where he went, and I haven't seen him since that time when I was nearly twelve.
My grandparents, well, let's just say they hardly noticed I was there. I learned to make my own breakfast (something my father always dutifully prepared for me back at home), learned to do the laundry, and discovered that as long as I did my chores I would be left alone for the most part. I was finally allowed to be by myself without constant nagging about being "antisocial," whatever that meant. My excitement was resurrected temporarily only to fade away again. "This is paradise! ...this SHOULD be paradise... why isn't this paradise?"
I thought the freedom to do whatever I wanted would make me happy. I was wrong. I started speaking again, but as time progressed I found that solitude could not bring me the relief I so desperately craved.
I found something better.Chapter End Notes:Again, this is mostly just an introduction chapter to help give the characters some, well, character. More to come as I find more inspiration to write