Yees. Well, pretty self-explanatory. Ember is a dork who still loves her Pokemon games and has nothing but fond memories of that anime. And y'know what? She's just fine with that.
Each one is marked with ship and rating before each story, but remember, kids- this is brewed by the mind of one... strange individual. So don't come here lookin' for your daily dose of Pokeshipping or Rocketshipping Most of them will not be between a guy and a girl; many won't be between two humans. The very first one is a good example of that.
First--
Every Morning- Propositionshipping
by Ember
Pairing: Propositionshipping (Tyson x Meowth)
Rating: PG for yaoi and harmless, wiggly human x pokemon sadfluff
A/N: So, let's start this off with a bang, shall we? My human x pokemon OTP so far as the anime is concerned... 'cause damn it's cute. And soo damn canon. Tyson spurred me to watch the anime for, like, four episodes. And then I fell out of the habit again. I still spam them with love.
It's pretty short and pretty pointless. Reviews are always appreciated! Don't be a stranger, now!
--
Meowth didn't know why he hung around.
Every morning he chewed it over in his mind, and worried over the pulp it rapidly became. He would wake up before his trainer, sliding off the bed they shared- Meowth sleeping curled around himself on the pillow where Tyson's rythmic breathing stroked feather-light fingers over his fur- and pulling on his boots before he would dare put weight on his misshapen legs.
He would wait for Tyson downstairs, perched on the edge of the couch. It was so routine, almost domestic. Shifty's jaws would stretch wide in a yawn as he woke, brushing stiff branches over Hariyama's belly as the puppy-pile of Tyson's powerful monsters slowly stirred.
"Morning champions." Tyson, his hair messily flopping into his face, his bedclothes rumpled from another restless sleep, would hurry downstairs and rummage through the cabinets for the pokemon food. He fed them first, reliably, every morning; addressed them as 'champions' since he said they deserved the title more than he. Donphan and Sceptile would hustle forward, pressed in to investigate the routine morning proceedings, anxious and eagar to bulge out their taut stomachs. And every morning, Meowth hung back. He was stronger now than he'd ever been, and it didn't escape his notice that he was more than strong enough to fend for himself in the wild- find berries, hunt Rattata and Pidgey and, clearly, Pikachu; surely, then, strong enough to win back his pack.
Every morning, Meowth wondered why he hung around.
He didn't go out to hunt down his own food- he stayed in the heated shelter that was Tyson's corner apartment in Mauville, pulled his bowl of pokemon chow and Lum berries into his lap and ate, slowly, with his paws.
Why was he here? (Existentialist question of the day: there shouldn't be an answer, should there?) He was here because at one point in his life he had needed a human's help to survive, and he stayed because he needed to be stronger- and now, he had reached the pinicle of his power, as strong as he'd ever been.
There was nothing left to it. He knew that. The rest of this? It was all just wasted time, wasted effort, wasted air. He didn't owe the human anything- he'd won the Hoenn league for Tyson, hadn't he? They were even, now; every morning, Tyson shot his best friend a glance, as if to ask, why are you still here? Why are you hanging around? Meowth wasn't like that kid's Pikachu; he had a life outside of his trainer's, and goals, desires, dreams of his own. Meowths are like that.
But his goals and his desires and his dreams had changed, and these days they seemed to revolve around a little apartment in Mauville and a softly-smiling trainer reclining on the couch, eating his own breakfast only after seeing to his pokemon, one small bite at a time.
Tyson went to work, incubating eggs and grooming pokemon at the Daycare a brisk walk west, and Meowth followed a few steps behind. Whenever he fell too far back he hustled forward until he was close to his trainer again. He spent a lot of time close to his trainer; as close as he could be. No one ever really noticed; not the other pokemon, and certainly not Tyson.
Every afternoon, Meowth came home with Tyson. The world and the wind and the pack and the Persian chased their tails around his head, but the world had narrowed down the the breadth of human shoulders and the wide expance of a human's smile; all the wind in the world was eclipsed by the sound of every rhythmical human breath, and the pack had nothing on five teammates and a human.
A human.
Every afternoon Meowth wondered, why did it have to be a human?
He trained with the others as daylight slowly wore out its welcome and faded away. Dinner was a light affair, and Meowth ate separated from the others, and finished long after they were done- even Metagross, who always ate much slower than the other four, patiently lifting each bite telekinetically and sliding it into his mouth, emitting psychic waves of his own enjoyment through their minds. They all slept downstairs; Meowth slept upstairs, with Tyson. He wasn't sure when that tradition started, and trying to map it out in his memories gave him something to think about while Tyson undressed.
Every night, Meowth wondered if he had the courage to kiss him.
It was a strange gesture, he thought- the closest Meowths came was to nuzzle so your charm touched their lips, but the meaning was just slightly different. Meowth knew enough about humans to know that a kiss neatly summarized everything he was feeling. All that indecision, these Meowth-eating Beautiflies, the desperation to be near him, the choking admiration, the sick loyalty, all tucked into that simple motion, stampled into his trainer's lips, ripped from his own mouth, his own tongue. But he couldn't make himself do it.
Maybe tomorrow.
"Good night Meowth," Tyson said into his pillow.
"I'm in love with you," Meowth replied, but all that came out was "Meow Meowth." He slid his boots off, steeled himself against the contact, and curled up at his trainer's side.
Every morning, Meowth wondered why he stayed.
And every evening, he wondered where he found the strength.
Tomorrow was another day, he told himself, as Tyson's breathing found its normal nighttime rhythm and brushed feather-light through Meowth's fur- unintended butterfly kisses, setting the scenes for another dozen empty dreams.
–End
((Yep. The End. Ember -is- capable of writing something with an unhappy ending.))