Posted with Mistress Encyclopika's permission.


Title: Pinioning
Rating: NC-17
- Characters: Falkner, Morty (others, OCs)
WARNINGS: Graphic rape of a male character by another male character, gratuitous use of headcanon, bypassing the language censor to preserve the content (forgive me)
Status: Complete
Prompt: Rape!Comfort fic. I want one character to get raped by another, and then the first character's lover has to comfort him/her. Maybe a little of the first character trying to get over the rape. Would really like Falkner to be the one getting raped. However am not picky.
Found on: pokanon, my LJ account, FFN, and BMGf

Notes: This was based on a prompt from the pokanon anonymous kink meme. Far be it, there is little kink to be found here. It slowly became the most frightening adventure I'd ever had in writing, and that began when I hit the aftermath. Because it got serious. I spent the last 16 years reading fanfic, and when rape was involved, it was always used as a reason to get the heroine in bed with her hero so he can comfort her through the power of the Healing Cock (excuse my vulgarity) and they finally admit their feelings for each other.

WTF no. Would not take that route. Easily succeeded; victory is nigh.

Trying to get inside the mind of someone who'd suffered a life-scarring event (made worse in the fact that he is male and I am not) was a trial. I second-guessed everything I wrote in attempt to portray this as realistically as possible. And I'm still convinced I got the mindset wrong in the end (but people seemed to like it on FFN, so I can only hope they don't know either).



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He could feel the circles under his eyes, the ache of them lessening none as he rubbed futilely at them. Falkner did not fight the yawn, however, as one in several came. The cold of the night stopped being effective once the adrenaline had flushed out of his system, while he and his fellow officers were left clearing out the storehouse full of ducks and swans.

Swanna and Ducklett were popular in the smuggle trade, due to the special quality of their feathers, called in Unova "Wings". Getting a steady supply batch was nigh impossible without having them gathered in such a way, so when the police noticed an increase in their use in Johto, red flags went up and tracking them down was on the agenda. Having a bird expert on the force only helped localize where the smugglers might be, using the aged quality of the Wings. They were best used fresh, right off the bird. If it was fresh, it was somewhere close. It had to be.

But Falkner did not pull all-nighters often. They were not his thing, mostly. But when you were an expert of a case, you were an asset. What they really needed him for was keeping them calm. And he was probably going to be fostering the mighty number of 127 pokémon before they can be cleared for transport back to their native land, so building a rapport with them should start as soon as possible. Three in the morning was a good enough job, anyway.

The smuggle ring had had about eleven estimated members involved. In their raid, the police had caught eight, including the ring leader. One of the missing was the leader's son, and finding him in Goldenrod's vast limits was not happening, if it had not in the last few hours.

"Hey, hey," Falkner whispered, stroking the blue head of a crying Ducklett. "Shhh. It's okay. Worried you won't fly again?" The sad fact was, the pokémon all had to remain in their cages. Capturing them would ruin their purely wild status. Untainted pokémon products were worth more, tasted better, worked more effectively, if they were not dulled by capture. That was simply the way it was. And loading cages was not fun. The first van-full was due to drive back to Violet City, shortly, to the gym's aviary. But the Ducklett in his arms was a little beaten, patches of feathers missing. Pokémon suffered emotional anguish as much as any human. Some of them did not handle it very well. He was going to need to hold some for extensive therapy, this little one included. And if he could swing a permit, maybe he could even keep one...

The Ducklett quieted, tired and tuckered, but putting it back in its cage caused it to kick up a squall again, clinging and kicking its webbed feet. One of the officers in duty helping him at the loaded snickered, and Falkner glared, but more policemen were used to hound-type partners, trained to absolute perfection. What they must think watching on of their own (loosely speaking; they still saw him as a Gym Leader more than a fellow law enforcer) having to handle a youngling. But Falkner sighed in the end. He was tired and too exhausted to argue with an insistent ducky. Tucked into one arm, he continued to see to the other squalling birds.

"I need to make a call," the other officer told him, some minutes later. Which was fine, Falkner thought. The birds had his attention; the humans involved were like babbling streams: it was a low rumble of nothing from their mouths. Words, they were dying inside his head, he was so tired. Just a few more minutes before they were heading for home---

He did not see the double fist that clocked him.



Waking up was an ordeal. It was also like entering into a dream, numb and unbelievable. His mind could not focus on any one thing, even barely able to comprehend the unfamiliar, ruggedly red-haired bloke, hovering over him and bringing a hand back. Which accounted for the dull stinging across his face.

"Think you can touch us," he was muttering. "We got lawyers and paid officials. Johto's like a small pocket investment, so fucking listen to me now, you damn fucking corner popper. Like a joke, you know. Johto's stupid and you think you, a League pet, can play hero? So what are you doing getting caught by the villain?"

But then the knife came into view, and then Falkner was awake. His teeth clamped on a dirty-tasting something cutting over his mouth. His arms tugged and metal clanged with metal, probably the bite of his own handcuffs trapped by a something, a...warehouse. Pipe or beam and was this still the same district? Could he be found? Because the situation of his kidnapping ("?!") had become very real. Especially when the knife dangled point first over his unscarred eye. He went dead still.

"Gonna give you something bigger to hide than those little scratches, fucking copper patsy leader. Take down my future. Gut my empire. Dad will get out, but restarting... Unova. Will need to go back to that shithole and start again. And your eye, or maybe your whole head, would be a good present. But that's not fun. I want you bleeding in humiliation. Let's take that for a spin."

His heart nearly stopped when the knife moved, flipping up to change grip on the handle, but once the son was moving, so did Falkner try to do the same. Feet scuffed at cement, but any traction he caught was quickly rendered null, as the son grabbed at his waist belt, and pulled him back, bringing to the forefront just where exactly the son was seated: between his legs. Panic bubbled in his throat, and so did a scream, because even as Falkner struggled, it was clear (at least what was at stake) exactly what was going to happen if he could not manage to get away from the madman, as the son undid the buckle in an eye blink.

Falkner's own fighting helped do him in, the momentum of one leg trying to kick carried over onto the son flipping him over, his arms twisting into a useless, tight lock, as the chain of the cuffs did not reach all the way around the support pole. It hurt, and he was shouting through his gag, still trying to make this harder, until his slacks were caught on his knees and the son had his weight on the crotch of them, creating another sort of immobilizing restraint with his ass high in the air.

The son laughed, and he thought that was the most terrifying part, freezing his blood, but then, there was cold--- Falkner frantically tried to look behind himself, but once the pipe rod began getting itself shoved inside him with no mercy, trying to figure out what it was became replaced with screaming that echoed off windows, walls, crates, machinery, an endless, throat-wrenching scream.

There was no way to describe the pain as it was jerked inside and out, turned and rotating widely. It was blinding, tearing away at flesh, he was sure, and nausea was not practical when your face was planted into concrete flooring and gagged, because he did throw up, and it burned as it was caught to slowly dribble, and sear his navel cavities as it also escaped from his nose. He couldn't breathe--

When the pipe was removed, it felt like everything inside him slid out with it: guts, organs, whatever. The gag was removed, too, a small prayer answered as he choked and cried and spit and inhaled. But it was not for his benefit. It was for the son's. Because the man chose to lean over him then, sliding the almost forgotten blade under his chin, and whispered, "All lubed up, now. Open for Daddy, bitch." And whether it was the encore or the main course, did Falkner find this man's cock sliding easily into him, pumping his hips, furthering the violation to another degree Falkner could not handle. Sobbing and pleading Falkner was, as the son kept talking, the edge of the knife jerking into his flesh at every thrust. "How's it feel knowing a real man's dick? You're a fag now; you like this you sick fuck. Feel me, feel me slapping your ass, bleeding like a woman. How's it, bitch? Packin' your shit, you dirty fag, gonna come so deep inside you, you'll never get it out."

"Please stop! Pleaseplease, stop it!"

"Have a baby, bitch. Fuck, coming, coming. Fuckfuckfuck, coming!" And true to his implications, the son thrust in and did not withdraw, stilling himself as his body twitched in orgasm, biting unconsciously at Falkner's unremoved coat. It was too much to bear. Falkner shut down.

He missed the gunshots being fired, missed being splattered with blood not his own, and missed the body falling away from him. Missed Officer Jenny's heels on the cement, having to be freed by metal cutters, being taken to the hospital. Missed it all, until he finally woke up a few days later, in the middle of the night.

One of his mother's retainers sat in a corner, fast asleep under the dulled lighting of the room. And the Ducklett, still missing feathers, was also asleep at the foot of his bed. He had about three different IV bags hooked up to one drip in his arm, and it probably accounted for the mildly fuzzy feeling.

Then it was like a shift, and it was bright, killer bright, with a window open and a breeze and cheerful birdsong and his stomach twisted. He was alone, but a quick find of the call button had a nurse in there pronto. Which led to a doctor. Which led to realizing he loved the drugs that were being punched into his system by the drip, because he was hearing everything and processing none of it, because who wants to know they had had surgery to repair their ass? Not really him. Remembering alone was going to turn him into a pale mess. But he did ask, "Who knows what...happened?"

"Your mother, one of her aides, your superior officer, and the two who found you. Those are the only ones I can confirm."

The news left Falkner unsettled, equally relieved and upset. Because no one told Morty, as far as the doctor knew. Well, no one probably knew to tell Morty, but would the blond have asked after him?

But as the doctor left, he was immediately replaced with Goldenrod's Officer Jenny. Who was holding his Ducklett. Seeing him awake, though, the Ducklett had other ideas than being held by her, and it leaped onto his bed and promptly dropped, wings spread, onto his chest.

"It helped us find you," Jenny explained. "I think it rather likes you."

"We'll see about it," Falkner murmured. "What happened to the son."

"Dead."

It was all Falkner needed to hear.



Looking like death warmed over, he was treated like glass when he returned home. The students were more wary of him (they didn't know what really transpired), and the retainers and monks were more eager to serve him (they did). His mother barely looked at him, and Falkner knew through word of mouth that she had not contacted his father or younger brother about it. Oriole had also temporarily taken up position as the gym's Leader again, giving Falkner just a week to right himself. "You have a duty," she had made perfectly clear.

While in the hospital, they had gone on and evaluated the recovered birds, reporting only fourteen would need to remain for longer than another two weeks, including the Ducklett who had formed a deep affection for him. It was less willing to leave his side than Pidgeot was, but Pidgeot has its own duties, and Falkner would not allow it to stay for his sake. He would rather have none of his partner's company, personally, but the Ducklett was worse than the others, who were use to orders and hardly ever disobedient (even when they wanted to be). And so it stayed with him, quietly, as he spent his days in bed, taking pills (painkillers, antibiotics, antidepressants; he did not know anymore) and trying not to scream when it was necessarily unavoidable to cause himself unwanted pain. But he could not keep himself from shutting out the world entirely. The windows were open, and all Falkner saw out of them was the unchanged blue sky.

It felt like he would never want to fly it again.

He managed like this for only a couple days, before he was alerted, by a surprised quack no less, to a new presence inside his apartment. Falkner recognized the Gastly immediately, as it was the one always following him around when he was in Ecruteak City. And it could not tell if it itself should be happy to see its favorite...or worried over something being wrong, as it shifted through smiling and frowning at an erratic rate. And Falkner finally remembered that at some point before this week, he had had a life. And he could not fathom how to deal with that stress, especially knowing if he did not tell Morty, Morty would find out regardless. Empaths were hard to keep secrets from; Falkner would be a great big beacon of something, and then it would be obvious. ...Then there was the Other Thing. The Other Thing he also did not want. Ever. Falkner cared too much for Morty to do the Other Thing, but he would, and that's not something Falkner would want to share. No one deserved it.

But fuck if it came when he needed it least. It had a master. It would tell its master things. It needed to go away with an excuse. Because he did not want Morty here.

"Tell your master," he said roughly, and it ripped his heart out to even say the words, "that I'm busy. Too busy to see him. And don't you dare tell him anything else but that." And he rolled over. Because it was for the best, even if it killed him inside to say such a life-wrenching thing. Because he felt broken. Can't let Morty know, can't know, let him think the worst of me but don't let him know this. Not this weak.

He had to fix it on his own, or it wouldn't be fixed at all.



But nothing went right that week. Couldn't protect himself, couldn't recover immediate, and couldn't even manage getting back into his way-of-life properly to save his pride. First day from seclusion, and he had run after an hour. Left him in shakes, terrified, and exhausted from giving one of the students a verbal third degree lashing, for making a simple, correctable mistake. He was pretty sure someone had whispered, "Moon sickness," as he left, and if only that were the answer. If only he was crazy. If only he was some raving lunatic.

Then he could blame Lugia. Or one of the other moon deities. Because no amount of worship fooled any of them into thinking pokémon were cosmically responsible for what happened to humans in their day-to-day lives. That was fucking ridiculous.

But the sanctity of his apartment was not enough to calm him down. Nausea pinched him and he pitched himself into the bathroom.

It hurt no matter how he sat around the toilet, dry heaves the only thing coming because he had not eaten anything. He could not apologize to anyone who had tried to feed him, either. They came too close, even odorless foods smelling unbearable, and he was shouting at them to take it away, get out, leave him alone. Lashing out became easier than ever. Any hard work Falkner had done for his temper was gone.

Falkner felt stupid. Anger, fear, shame, guilt, pride, fault, anxiety. Day four of the hospital discharge was still no better than the last. Nightmares plagued him, and he dead-bolted his door shut so no one (friend, colleague, or stranger) could rescue him from them. Because they would touch him. And he would break an arm as price for anyone making that mistake.

Which is why, forgivable of not, he lashed out instinctively the moment he realized his hair was shift out of place, being gently scooped back, a whispering brush against his neck--

Dirtybloodypainfulhurtingsharpbleedingplungingripp ingtearingtakingstealing filthy disgusting violating humiliating shattered--

Morty, clear as day, paused in some form of shock, hand still raised and pretty eyes wide. Because Falkner's swell of panic had tore himself away from the toilet to tuck himself under the sink into the corner of the modern bathtub and wall, the pure horror he was experiencing (growing worse with Morty before him; it was not a hallucination, right? Did victims get delusional to this point?) visible for anyone to evaluate and judge.

And Morty was not a fool. "What happened to you?"

But Falkner was not ready to confront this, his breathing coming shorter just at the thought, and already breaking out into a cold sweat with the tears in his ass dully reminding him they existed, painkillers aside. "How did you get in here?" His mind went to the locked door.

"The window. Falkner, talk to me--" He took a step forward on the tile, further reaching his out-stretched hand and it was the single most frightening thing, to wind up touched by that hand.

Falkner's chest seized, and he kicked out his legs to emphasize the point he was about to make. "Get away from me!" Because Morty had a trick, on top of his psychic cognition. The Other Thing. It was another touch ability, the kind of touch that could take away emotion if Morty willed it (with personal side effects Falkner thought were too costly, but Morty used them anyway. On him, especially). On so many layers, Falkner did not want Morty near him.

But the hurt on Morty's face was evident, and it was heartbreaking. Falkner knew, he knew, this was the worst way to handle your partner after suffering that sort of trauma. Emotions do not simply get turned off, much like memories do not. Life was sadly messier than humans could control.

But Falkner could not see this as being selfish; he considered it self-preservation, guarding himself. Hypocritically, he thought Morty was selfish, the instant the blond started moving again. This time, however, nothing was deliberately slow for Falkner's sake. Dropped to his knees on the tile none too softly and his hands were already clinging to Falkner's nape and cheeks, keeping a hold even after Falkner tried, impulsively, to tear him away at the wrists.

But then, it started.

Falkner could not breathe, the ice of sheer terror coursing underneath his skin as Morty kept hold of his head. But the fear, panic, and paranoia, were slowly and involuntarily being drained from his body--from his mind, and the longer Morty held on, the less Falkner could fight the fact he was being robbed of the emotional layer that was protecting him from what he could not face, his own energy going with it.

"Stop stop stop..." Because if he was being stripped down to the bone, there was only one thing down there. Something ugly. Something that, for the sake of his tattered pride, Morty should not see in him. But it was too late. As Morty sucked away his emotions (for lack of a better way to describe it, on Falkner's part), what had been forced down was being left behind was bubbling up.

Vulnerability.

And Morty, who was not stupid, saw the mess that Falkner was as he began to cry, reaffirming his grip on Morty's wrists. Once it started, it did not stop.

"The hell is all that?" he murmured, stunned. "Something else. Falkner, tell me." Sounding desperate as his thumbs ran uselessly beneath Falkner's eyes, spreading tears rather than wiping them away. "What's scared you?"

Falkner shook his head--"No no no no no--" causing Morty to pinch his lips together. In the blink of a wet eye, Falkner found his face pressed into Morty's shoulder, enveloped so securely in Morty's arms that he could hardly breathe. He struggled, but he had no energy to put up much of a fight. It left him in a dangerous place, because--

A familiar scent.

A familiar embrace.

A familiar voice.

A familiar person.

Falkner finally submerged.

Morty's grip on him tightened as Falkner began to wail. Fists found themselves in Morty's sweater and a shoulder and scarf grew wet when he buried himself the crook of Morty's neck. Falkner clung to him like the last outpost before hell, and if there was any embarrassment or shame in being a full-grown man crying his heart out, it impeded the gushing flood not at all.

His hair was stroked, he was whispered soothingly to, he was cradled and supported. Falkner didn't even notice the lack of nausea that came paired with handling the very idea of human contact, never mind dealing with it up front. This...this was safety. Protection. A bubble where no one could harm him. Him wrapped up by and around his partner on the tiled floor of a cramped bathroom space was suddenly the most secure place he could want to be.

But that didn't seem right at all.

He gulped for air, his chest tightening and his mind swimming. Looking at the other side of the bathroom, though, his dizziness wasn't just in his mind. It had to be the contract of warmth against the cold ground and maybe the adrenaline burning away or something, he figured, but Falkner felt drowsy. Which was bad timing, he thought as he closed his eyes, because he hadn't yelled at Morty properly yet, about weakening him. Going to give him a what-for. But...tired...

"Falkner? Falkner!"



Falkner woke up again back in the hospital, darkness almost everywhere but for a small overhead lamp casting light above him. Not the same room at all. Different windows, different light fixtures, different colors, different bed, and most importantly, different company. No aide was in the corner, but Morty himself was sitting alongside his bed, Falkner's non-IVed hand clutched inside both of Morty's. The blond mop of hair was down, too, forehead resting on his own arm. The radiating heat made Falkner feel clammy, but as he tried to free himself, Morty's grip inexplicitly tightened. The blond jarred himself into wakefulness, staring blearily at his partner with eyes full of lingering red, until it was just ordinary staring, and Falkner looked away uncomfortably. He said nothing, struggling in his own mind on what he could even possibly say.

Ecruteak's finest was the same. "Um," Morty started softly, and he looked away himself, eyes turning down to the hand Falkner no longer fought for. "You tore some stitching, probably when you kicked. Lost some blood. The doctors patched you up and you can leave tomorrow or the next day, if you want."

Falkner shivered. But there was no turning back the clock; he would not be in this situation if that were possible. "Did they explain it?" he forced out roughly.

"I need to hear it from you."

"No you don't," Falkner hissed, leveling Morty with a weak glare. "You've already made the worst assumption. Why do I need to confirm your fears?"

It was silent again. Morty didn't let him go, running a thumb over the back of Falkner's hand, which the bird trainer could only stand for so long. At the flinch Falkner could not repress, Morty stopped.

"You were--...hurt," Morty lamented, softening the blow of his own words, "and you shut me out in response. Can you even tell me about that?"

"You're suffocating." Morty's head snapped up, betrayal in his countenance, but Falkner met it with exhaustion. "I can turn away our retainers. I can ignore my family. But you? If the last thing I wanted was help, why would I ask you, Morty? Why would I want you to see me like this?"

"That is so fucking selfish--"

"If I'm selfish, then so are you!" Falkner inhaled sharply. "If you knew, you would do everything in your power to be my crutch, and I'm not talking metaphorically! You would have killed me with your kindness and--" His breath hitched and he swallowed awkwardly as he lowered his eyes and tried again. "If you aren't there, I'm not faced with the choice to push you away."

Morty was silent, perhaps struck dumb by the accusation. His eventual actions gave no answers either, as Morty maneuvered his trapped hand away from the bedding and lowered his forehead to press into Falkner's palm. The hair was soft underneath his fingers, and maybe absently he started sifting through the locks. "You weren't ever going to tell me," Morty asked, face now obscured, "were you?"

Falkner had no answer.



They left the hospital early the next morning. The automated doors slid closed behind them, leaving two men to face that terrible world just ready to wake up. In reassurance, Morty reached out to tangle his fingers among Falkner's unresisting ones, a hold light enough and cool enough that it didn't revolt his partner. A small mercy. "C'mon. There's a taxi stand at the end of the block."

In between the high-rising buildings that lined the street. Goldenrod's sky was in the slow shift from sleepy, dim dawn to bright morning. The weather was partially cloudy, clouds in the east bathed in the magenta of the rising sun. Falkner had kept his head down as they walked, until the morning song of a Pidgey on a lamppost made him look up. He paused, looking beyond the Pokémon to the colored zenith of their world—his territory—and felt like he hadn't seen in ages. An unchanged blue sky did change, his mind reminded him, and the clouds were bleeding, too. Couldn't go back, didn't want him back, they didn't want to be touched, either--

Morty was suddenly closer, making Falkner flinch, but the blond charged in anyway, to press his forehead to Falkner's temple. "Hey, hey," Morty whispered, stroking the blue head of his crying friend. "Shhh. It's okay. Worried you won't fly again?"

Falkner just looked at him blankly, and then rubbed at his eyes in a form of resolution. "No," he said, and took another glance at the sky. "I'll get back there again. Someday."



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Pinioning: vb. To remove or bind the wing feathers of (a bird) to prevent flight.