Untitled Quilava Lemon
_FA upload link: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/6214416/ _
_So I wrote some yiff.
Yeah, 28 pages, deal with it~ Of course, if you're that way inclined, you could just skip the 21 pages of character development and skip straight to the sex, but then you'd miss all of that time and effort I put in. And I have to at least try and justify the tag 'Writer' I give myself.
Anyway, fifteen months later, I finished a story. Sweet._
"Untitled Quilava Lemon"
By SIX~~
He span the cheap map around, once more. Was it even the right way up? Fuck if he knew. In the busy hustle of the market street, the cumbersome paperwork was impossible to unfold completely, and with the strange, unmarked symbols jostling for space around the spider-webbing marks of streets and alleyways, there wasn't even a way to get his bearings.
Fuck it. He gave in; he was lost. An hour and a half in the town, and it hadn't even been a few minutes before he'd started to doubt his own judgement - frustrated, the cheap tourist's map was roughly crumpled up, to be thrown at a nearby bin [and to his chagrin, to bounce off the rim and land on the dirty, cobble-stone floor]. The hubble of banter and chatter of the busy street quickly overtook him once more, his attentions no longer distracted, and even as he leaned back against the blank, concrete pillar at the side of the road in an attempt to relax even briefly, he found himself unable to think - there was activity everywhere, andit was impossible to focus on anything.
Pokemon. He was here for Pokemon. That was all. None of this shit, bumbling around Castelia City like some confused hick, staring at advertisements for products he'd never heard of, as city slicker after city slick bumped into him any time he tried to walk down any street. He didn't have the time for all that; it was nearly his daughter's tenth birthday, and any parent who'd ever taken up Training knew what that meant.
Soon, she'd be starting her own adventure.
And she'd have her own companion.
Daddy! Daddy-!
She'd smiled at him as she'd made her requests. Manipulative scamp, like any young girl. An adorable, manipulative, scamp. Despite himself, he found himself grinning again, in the dry January morning; just her memory could cheer him up any time, and the thought of that laughter that would light up her face when she met the companion he was trying to find for her... it made all of this worthwhile.
Finding himself in the darkest, dirtiest part of a sprawling metropolis, in a city he'd never been to? Trying to find a place to find a Pokemon for sale, when everything seemed to be written in languages he'd never seen? Nah, it was nothing. He'd do all that and more, for her.
A sudden rustling broke his reverie. A man coughed - and, his thoughts broken, he looked to his right, to find a man leaning against the concrete alongside him.
A nondescript character, with black, untidy hair, dim sunglasses, and unassuming clothes, looked extremely average in the busy street. But there was a sense of purpose about this man that he just couldn't overlook.
"Ey, man. My name is Joel." The lips moved. The voice was quiet, but articulate; there was a taint of a Spanish accent in with the clearly accentuated English. Strange to hear, in a place that was uniquely Japanese.
"Good morning," replied the man.
"I see you looking at a map. Not many people bring maps to this place! You're not from around here, huh?" It was a strange sort of... accusation. The unassuming man's head whipped to the left, where it had been staring so solidly at the ground; even behind sunglasses, eyes that couldn't be seen seemed to search for truth in his own.
He hesitated, but decided to indulge. "Yeah. I'm not from around here. I'm from... somewhere far away."
There was no pause. "You like Pokemon, huh?"
"Y-yeah. I'm looking for some."
"Eyy..." A sly, disconcerting grin cracked onto the featureless face of the man who'd called himself Joel. For the first time, he noticed, with a sense of dissonance, that the strange man was chewing gum. "I like Pokemon too, man. I like them a lot."
"Er... that's fantastic, Joel."
"If you like Pokemon as much as I do, man..." There was something, once more, so secretive about the man's speech. Joel's voice dropped, and the man couldn't help himself - he leaned in close, to listen.
"... I know a place, man. It ain't far from here. They got a selection, man, the best of the best, man. And they're all obedient. They do anything, man. The Pokemon. They do anything."
Joel leaned away once more. The man couldn't help but notice, but that sly grin had only grown more humoured, like a schoolboy who'd just shared a friend's stolen secret.
He hesitated again. Why was he listening to this immature stranger? Some guy who'd come straight up to him to tell him, what, that he liked Pokemon? Big deal. Everyone loved Pokemon. But he couldn't help himself. He had no other options, and this Joel's suggestion... well, if it proved at all true, was exactly what he was looking for.
An exasperated sigh. "That sounds... pretty much like what I'm looking for, Joel. Where can I find this place?"
"Eyyyy..." That grin grew wider still. Even behind the sunglasses, it was obvious that there was some strange, perverted sense of victory shining in his eyes. "You wanna go over there, man." - Joel pointed - "there's a little alleyway. Kinda dark. Kinda long. You wanna go allll the way down it, man."
"Oh, fantastic. A long, dark, alleyway." He sighed again. "Listen, Joel. How did you know I liked Pokemon?"
This time, Joel chuckled, quite audibly. "There's a ball tied to your belt, man. Don't nobody bring their balls down this end of town, except for very special reasons..."
He stumbled, tripping over yet another loose can in the floor of the alley. Dim, fluorescent lights were dug into the walls of each side, each fitting fuzzing and clicking like broken machinery, making it impossible for him to gain any night vision of any kind - even in the bright day, just before noon, it was impossibly dark, and the alley seemed ridiculously long - the hell was he doing?
Briefly, he stopped. This was crazy; no sane, or even safe, vendor would ever sell Pokemon down so far from the market where the signs had been posted. That man - Joel, or something - had pointed him this way. There had been a sign - he couldn't read kanji, but a sign had absolutely, most definitely, held the term 'Pokémon' on it - everything suggested that at least something was down here, but even so, it was simply ridiculous to think that he'd find what he was looking for so far from the bustling commune of the main city streets...
No, he couldn't give up. The sign had said Pokemon, and he was following the sign, even if it seemed ready to take him to the most unlikely areas of the city. His daughter counted on him for this one. He couldn't imagine the pain he would have felt, should his own parents failed to have produced his companion-
Absent-minded, his gloved fingers brushed the minimized Ultra Ball clipped to his belt, as if to reassure him, or to remind him, of the nature of the Trainer's bond, the strength and sanctity of the very friendship he hoped in a week, or less, to provide to his daughter. If there was a chance of finding his beloved a friend - well, he simply had to follow through.
A hand on the wall helped his navigation. He didn't know how far he'd walked - minutes, it seemed, just spent traipsing through a dark alley; regardless, it was long, and dark, and when he had finally reached the end, turning round a sudden corner in the tight passage, uncovering an exit that led out into the relative freedom of a street, it was with no small sense of relief.
Clear and bright, but still low in the sky, the yellow sun hung lazily, shining down; yet, as if tired, it held no warmth - it was still a cold January, harbouring no affection for a man used to the warmer climates of a sunnier Region. Despite the bright rays, the sun's shine held no reassurance, and, as if to reaffirm his own growing unease, as he finally stepped out of the alley, and truly down into the road, a cold wind blew raggedly through it. He clutched his coat to him, cursing quietly. Kyogre, it's freezing...
It was icy, and penetrative; he glanced downwind, down the length of the street, to avoid the worst of the chill on his bare cheeks.
It was empty.
No market vendors, here - there were no bright lights, there were no bustling crowds. Here, there were no yammering salesman, who were so eager to ply their trade in the name of their commission that they forgot the true nature of the cheap, plastic crap they were always hired to sell. Here, it seemed, there was nobody.
Nobody but him and the chill. He sighed, low, and slowly... his breath condensing to vapour, and trailing, as if uninspired, upwards, to be caught by the winds... he watched his mist for a moment, reflecting on the nature of his life, and comparing it to the seemingly carefree molecules of water - and caught his thoughts again with a mental slap, chiding himself for personifying his breath. With a shake of the head and a muttered curse - insulting himself, or the silence, he couldn't tell - he turned back to the alley, disappointed, to seek to rejoin the loud, bustling, annoying world that might, maybe, have just hidden what he was looking for.
Out of nowhere, suddenly, a voice sounded. It was low, and heavy; seedy by sound, and definitely one of an aged man, elderly, perhaps, before his time; or maybe so very old, he exceeded elderly. It wasn't a reassuring sound, nor inviting; but it caused no fear, and held no malice. A quiet whisper, as if the man who said it was speaking merely to himself.
"An Ultra ball... expensive technology..."
It had come from his right. Down, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was a figure; and one could tell he was old. Very old. The tartan shawl that covered his legs, body and arms, and which shadowed his face, was worn; his bare feet were clean, but wrinkled. He sat a metre or two from the empty cobble-stone street's edge; slightly in, but slightly out, of the path that a typical pedestrian would take.
The wind stirred once more, to billow out the spare slack of the large drape that covered the form, like the sail of perhaps one of the ships that crested the sea, visible on the horizon, some miles away, reflecting the white light majesty of the sun that lay behind him in the sky, and a million miles above - and, stilling, brought the cloak back down to the floor. The figure still did not move.
The trainer glanced left. No, nothing, nobody. Right, down the street - again, empty. Just this strange, silent, and unmoving beggar, he thought... but, well, the sign, and Joel, had pointed him here, to this point. It must mean something.
He stepped back out of the alley's entrance, taking two, slow, indecisive paces to stand in front of the covered figure. Several seconds passed in silence.
The trainer glanced left and right, again. Feeling foolish, he cleared his throat.
Nothing happened, for what seemed like a long, long while. The trainer continued to stand, absorbing the cold January sun, on an empty street, with his hands in his pockets, as silent in thought as the empty market.
Finally, a rustling. The shawl crinkled and moved below him; the shadow of an arm formed inside it, and brushed the hood from the figures head, before grasping at a silver-coloured dish at his side. Decloaked, he looked as old as his aura implied; his slight, but well-trained, beard hung silver from his chin, and wrinkles creased his face. But there was no cruelty; either indifference, or a life of laughter. The trainer couldn't tell, and considered it briefly, before being shaken from his reverie by the words that floated like air from the old man's mouth -
"Spare change-?", he croaked, as quietly as the wind. The shoal trembled around his form, though through a silent wind or the shaking of the body, the Trainer couldn't discern.
The trainer sighed, again. He closed his eyes... he'd placed a sense of mysticism, of secrecy, around what was exactly what it had appeared to be: an old beggar, in an empty street. Fuck it, he thought. There's nothing.
He played with the change, the loose yen, in the bottom of one of his pockets. He fumbled it quietly between his fingers, as he fumed silently inside, enjoying the feelings for a few, deliciously irritated, seconds, before letting them go.
"Sure," he mumbled. "Here."
The coins made several, pure-sounding 'tings' as they bounced onto the metal dish; scattering across its surface, two or three bashed into each other, and knocked smoothly away like the balls on a bowls green. He turned to leave.
"You folks usually come later," said the old man, in a voice filled with sudden strength. One of stone, and many years filled by labour; the syllables were clear, ringing in the cool, still air. "It was for the Pokemon, yes?"
The trainer turned back round to face the older man - and couldn't believe what he saw. The 'old man' had rose; now, he was the image of a powerful, dignified senior - the shawl wrapped around his body with the same sanctimony as a monk's robe, and his bare feet stepped into sandles previously hidden behind the once-sitting figure. His face was set, and not stern, but uninquisitive; the blank stare of... well, the Trainer could only relate it to his own experience as someone who was used to upholding exclusivity. A bouncer. But one, as old as this?
"You've an Ultra Ball clipped to your belt. Forgive the ruse; it's early. Too early for normal custom, but you are not a normal customer, hmm- ?" - the inquiry was phrased without invasion, but it invited no friendliness. It was asking for a matter of fact, and left no room for redundant terms. The Trainer could only stutter, taken aback by the transformation. What was going on?
Half-formed syllables escaped his mouth as he attempted to answer, and the elderly bouncer watched impassively.
"First-timer?"
This man was direct, conceded the Trainer, and somewhat... impressive.
Collecting himself, he finally replied. "A- uh, yes. Yes, I guess. You mentioned Pokemon..?"
A chill wind blew through the silent, empty street.
The impressive senior, once mistaken for a beggar, made a hmph in his throat, before stepping backwards, turning, and made as if to walk back down the alley.
"Yes, I did." He smiled, as if smug, or just caring - condescension, perhaps... "They're this way."
Slowly... so slowly. In speed, one could rush that which one tried to achieve... It was the journey, not the destination. Control, patience... these are ideals.
So mused the old man, who's wrinkled hands cradled a large, fine, black fountain pen, rounding the curve of the final character of another sentence. The ink that he controlled was to stain the paper forever, and could never be undone... there was beauty in perfection; there was no perfection higher than that in the linguist. Words were ideas, coherence distilled... a deflection; a point. The full stop. Lo, it was finished.
Sighing deeply, his old form leaned, tired, but with dignity, back from the walnut tabletop. Minutes became hours, the flow of time inexorable.. but in writing, he found peace. Time would never matter; he would craft perfection beneath his pen. His words would stand forever, some day. Recognition awaited, in the completion of his efforts...
He smiled, his wrinkles creasing, eyes brightening- he'd crafted a page. A page of characters, of ink, melding themselves into words, forms, sentences that would last forev-- His reverie snapped. He frowned. There... was that a bump in that 'j'-?
He leaned in, closer, peering into the paper, nose not even a millimeter from the papyrus, staring intent- before, suddenly, the door he was stationed to guard opened. In the quiet, still room, the slight squeak of the old hinges on the heavy, oak-paneled door were like groans in his ear - he flinched, flicking his fountain pen - ink spraying out, three drops raining down heavily onto the papyrus, and the remainder staining the valuable, wooden desk.
"Oh--!" He moaned slowly, quietly, the ruin of his day's work registering only dimly in his mind as he dropped to the floor, his bag, his stationary, searching frantically for blotting paper, paper, tissue, anything to prevent damage to the beautiful wood that had served him so well...
"Hey-! What are you doing, Marc-?" A rough, quiet growl from above.
A sequence of rapping against the wood above him, as he scrambled on the floor in the small reception cubicle, snapped him back to the moment, and his job. He peeked up, from the below the wood, his timid scholar's eyes meeting the impressively.. present gaze of his colleague.
He raised himself up, grasping the wood for support.
"Ah.. ah-ah.. ah, yes?" he stammered, shaking his head suddenly, recovering his dignity and focus. He swallowed slowly, seeing, some metres behind his coworker, Hans, the greeter, a man... a client?
The old receptionist, Marc, looked him over slowly. Some six foot... denim jeans; black... a large coat, flared at the base - a wide collar... brown hair, mulleted, and hands, deep in his coat's pockets... a sense of.. power, perhaps? No... thoughtfulness?
He watched, nervous, as the man's gaze swept over the fixtures of the reception, the three dun-leather low couches around the dimly-crackling stone fireplace, the paintings hanging on the oak-panel walls, lit in a soft, sophomoric glow by faux-limelight candles... his eyebrows raised, in the polite concession of a man impressed with what he sees. Marc felt a flush creep into his aged cheeks. This was his design, his work. This room, this impression, was his creation...
"For gods sake, man.." hissed Hans, through the receptionist's window. "Client."
"Ah, ah, yes.. him.. does he.. what do... -" Hans glared, and Marc flinched instinctively. Finally, he squeaked his question... "Name?"
"The hell would I know-?" growled the irritable Hans. His relationship with the man was tenuous at best, and the man's shy grovelling nature was no benefit to his working friendship. "Ask the damn man yourself."
He stammered noiselessly, the whispered imperative somehow intimidating... "I-I-I.. I... ah... yes. Yes.." he whispered, conceding, before finally calling out to the man of black fabric. "Ah- sir!"
Impressive.
It didn't match up, really. Classy? The oak walls and the soft lighting, the heavy doors that had been so well hidden in the dark alleyway, obscured by the lights themselves...
He leaned back further into the dun leather sofa, the three-seater couch his own, the other two men taking one each of the remaining two, now staring absently at the stone hearth, crackling lightly, and smiling. What word, of all the words he knew, described this room? It was as if class had been distilled, and its essence soaked through the walls... yet there was power, and price, a thousand features...
"Turk," he said, out loud, to nothing in particular.
"T-Turk... a regal name... a pleasant sound, too," replied the older of the two men, this one in the chair to his right. He had identified as Marc - an ancient-looking scholarly man, and carrying the dignity of his years... and, somehow, a smaller presence than the greeter, Hans, sat to the Trainer's left.
Both of the men - whom Turk had began to see as monks; perhaps charged by religious duty to protect the Pokémon they had begun to discuss - were very old. The shawls and sandals they both wore were identical - a plain tan, simple, but the sheer minimalism betrayed by the awe-inspiring room the trio now sat in.
Hans, who was leant forward in his chair, hands clasped over his knees, glanced at Marc, who's stutterings died away as the more powerfully-built man began to speak.
"What Marc means to say, is, we're happy to have you here as our client. If we can do anything-" - he glanced at Marc pointedly, though, the meaning was lost on the Trainer - "-and I do mean, anything, to make your stay better, we're happy to oblige as far as we can."
He leaned back into the couch, relaxing, while Marc stuttered quietly, his thin protests fading again as Hans began anew.
"What we offer here is a rare service, where a Trainer such as yourself can... acquaint themselves with... certain exotic species of Pokémon. Though technically illegal, we do have our status as Pokémon resellers, though disputed, and it allows us to keep customer dealings with our Pokémon confidential. We keep no record of your identity, though, we may.. ah, record your stay in our premises... with your permission."
Turk listened quietly as the man went on. The accentuated words and phrases were vague, and he couldn't discern the motive for sharing them.. but... they were Pokémon sellers, and the old man had said it himself.
"... and we ask nothing of you for using our service, except the hourly fee and, should you be inclined, a service charge..."
An hourly fee-? What was going on..?
"... and, if all is understood, we welcome you to our clientelle with open arms."
Hans finished, his flatly emotionless face dimming the value of his sentiment. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth... there was silence - and, finally, the elder Marc spoke up.
"A-ah... Indeed, welcome to our, ah, our, clientul." He grinned widely, his smile awkward - fading, as Hans groaned quietly, the mispronunciation ringing clearly in the wood-paneled room. Turk chuckled, taking a quiet sip of his complimentary drink; a golden, viscous liquid, tasting of sweet apple, and warm, like a refreshing summer. He thought for a moment, considering. He'd never seen these men before, or heard of this place. But every corner, every wall, the men themselves, the sofa he sat in - it was an essence of expense. Yes, that was the word. Money itself, used to disguise the use of money.
He blinked, suddenly, recalling Hans' phrasing.
Technically illegal...
"I appreciate your hospitality, I really do." He smiled as he spoke, trying not to betray his confusion. "But, what about your business would break the law? You sell Pokémon, do you not?"
Marc started - Hans broke in. "Yes," he murmured, as if conceding, narrowing his eyelids slightly at Marc - who's half-opened lips quickly sealed - "should a client decide he enjoys the Pokémon he or she experiences in this building. We would not deny the client."
A clever dodge.
He laughed. "Well, I am looking for a particularly experienced Pokémon. I would wish my daughter the best chances as a Trainer a father could give her..."
Hans' mouth opened slightly, questioningly; he glanced at Marc, who glanced back, their eyes meeting. The reaction was not lost on the Trainer.
"A problem, gentlemen?"
Hans blinked twice, looking back at the Trainer, his mouth still open - as he seemed to shake himself awake again, blinking, his business manner resumed.
"Ah... no, none. You are a liberal man, Turk. It is rare that a man with a daughter would find himself in this building. It is far rarer still that that man would wish his daughter to be with him in this building."
What?
"Oh, I wish. I wish she were here. She's never yet experienced the power of a companion."
There was a pause before Hans spoke again. Marc sat back in his chair, as if something heavy weighed on his mind, his brows furrowed heavily, as if reading deeply into some new text. The fire crackled. Turk took another swallow of his heavy, golden drink.
Finally, Hans laughed, loudly, clapping his hands together, splitting the silence.
paw floor ground sky sun run chase take get...
tree dodge run get mine
Noise-
An eyelid flitted open, an ear perked up. A red eye examined the area. No, no, nothing... but the dream was over now. It was real-world day again.
The bright light in the sky over there was there again. He raised his head, opening his maw slightly, the air around him tasting the same as it had earlier... but...
He yawned, widely, slowly, the action a recuperation. He opened his other eye, tired, but waking. Hunger. Boredom. His head lowered again, lying on top of his two forepaws... curled around, his slender form in the black fur sleep cushion bed...
No, noise again- a slap, a clap - the two men? He slowly unfurled, raising his body and spine, stretching out... the sky bright light perhaps just coming towards its peak in the sky, or just leaving it. But cold, cold...
He focused on himself, and, with a frssh, his flares alighted. Warmth-! The twin fires, fuelled by the fire within, were comforting in the cool air. He finished his stretching, the morning far more welcoming with a warm and able body...
The newly-wakened Quilava stepped out of his cushion, yawning again, to begin another day. In a silver bowl liquid dish, he lapped at water, a tongue snaking out, licking softly at its surface... his eyes closed, as he refreshed himself with the pleasant, cool liquid.
"Marvellous, marvellous. A fantastic humour you have, our client - Mr. Turk." The old man's smile was wide, and real, the leaf-green of his eyes shining in the warm amber light of the room, no longer hidden under a suspicious brow. "Were you looking for a particular breed, a specimen... or, might I offer you a tour of our pride?"
Turk shook his head politely, after a moment to think. The thought of caged Pokémon was a reality, he knew, but he didn't want to share in it. "Thankyou, but, I was looking for.." he began, but stalled.
Mm. What was it-? The name slipped from his mind, as he searched through his memories...
Damn.
"Ah, one of these... a moment..." He reached into his coat pocket, producing two small rectangles of paper. On the first, an image of his joy, his daughter; smiling at the camera, as young girls do... so pretty, her golden hair, stirred behind her in a breeze... he smiled, finally glancing at the second. She was much younger, several summers before. It had been a zoo... she was no longer looking at the camera, but crouched on the muddy ground... her hand through chicken-wire fence, as if to stroke the long, twin-coloured snout of the inquisitive creature trying to determine her scent -
"- Cyndaquil."
Hans' smile remained still, and he turned to face Marc, who stuttered again, flustered.
"Ah-ahah.. Ah, yes. Cyndaquil. Smaller... fire mouse, yes..." He caught himself, recovering, before looking right into Turk's eyes - it was an uncomfortable stare, and Turk looked away.
"W-well, ah, we had one... they're rare taste, small as they are... yet, an experienced one indeed.. h-he evolved in the last week, at night.." ... his voice faded again.
"It's alright. Evolution suggests power." Turk shrugged, taking his eyes off the floor, looking pointedly at Hans, avoiding the strange stare of the ancient Marc. "The Quilava sounds fine. When will I meet him?"
Marc squeaked oddly, effecting glances from both of the other men. His eyes flitted from one to the other, from Turk to Hans, before back to Turk, then to Hans again.
"A, uh - a male-?" He stuttered quietly, before catching himself quickly, as Hans levelled him a slim, but ferocious, glance. He seemed to content himself with rubbing his hands over each other, shrinking into the back of the chair, muttering quietly to himself, as Hans turned back to Turk, recovering the Trainer's attention with a shallow chuckle.
"Our females can be quite... docile." The corner of his mouth fluttered lightly, the ghost of a smile creeping onto the old man's lips. "And our males are somewhat more active. I assume that's what you would be looking for in a partner, hmm- ?"
"Actually- " Turk began, stalling a little, still concerned about the other man's - Marc's - reaction. There was a dim pressure at the edge of his thoughts; the recognition of a misunderstanding. A warning, perhaps - yet, his thoughts went back to his pride and joy; his daughter. But where else could I find a Pokemon for her- ? She needs a companion. There are none anywhere else... I left it so late...
He woke himself from his thoughts slowly, blinking, his hand slipping down into his pocket, feeling his finger brush over the smooth ink that he knew portrayed his daughter. The smile on her face, the sun on her hair, reaching through the wire to brush the snout of that Cyndaquil those years ago...
"- there shouldn't be a problem. My daughter- she did hint at wanting a male. And I'd love to see him; soon, if I could."
Hans smiled, eyes glittering. There was a hint of mirth, the holding back of laughter. Then, a grin. "I can show you to your room. When you are comfortable, we will bring him..."
Turk paced the room. It was a wide, well-lit room - sunlight streamed in through the thin, white, linen veils, swept loosely across a wide, impressive window, its two white shutters pinned back against the outside of the room - which was several stories above the ground. In the warmth of the chamber, he wore only a shirt over his chest - and in that heat, his black denim jeans were growing to become oppressive; but, regardless, there was nothing he could do about that. Glossy white walls shone in the noon's sun, the morning long since passed, and the veils across the window shimmered lightly in the breeze playing against them, their soft swishing the only sound to be heard.
A coat-stand of light, polished wood stood proudly in a corner, dutifully holding the Trainer's thick, black coat, and guarding over his shoes - removed, in light of a quite flustered Marc's objections. A bed, with a frame of teak, was flush against a wall; on the other side of the room, a table of hard, brown oak sat neatly and unobtrusively, two chairs tucked neat underneath.
In the silence, faint birdsong - perchance Pidgeys - could be heard, sounding softly in the distance...
The trainer brushed a hand against his cheek, running it through his light-brown hair. Time... time was passing. He'd been here hours, now; the two strange old men talking about legalities, confidentialities, moralities, and all manner of who-cares_ialities. _Bureaucracies.
Still... He couldn't help going back to Hans' comment. Technically illegal... As far as he could tell, these two men, though somewhat eccentric, ran a centre for the sale of Pokemon. It was shrouded in obscurity, and he was damn sure that that smile of Hans' hid more behind the words than he could ever interpret. But he'd said it himself.
Though technically illegal, we do have our status as Pokemon resellers...
He sighed, dropping the thoughts, his hand creeping into his back pocket, his fingertips lightly caressing two strips of waxy paper; the two small photos he would always carry with him. He closed his eyes, remembering clearly in his mind every one of the smallest details in each beautiful memory, every slick of dew on each of every blade of grass, every one of the many shades of blue in the irises of each of the two eyes on the face of his smiling daughter...
He sat down on the bed. It was low, barely a foot above the floor, but the mattress was reassuring against him, the quilt feeling as soft and light below him as it could hope to be.
He allowed a smile to creep onto his features, as he toyed with the beige, shagpile carpeting under his feet. He was tired, and looking forward to going home. Maybe see his daughter. Yet this bed was quite clearly far more satisfying than his own, especially after his wife had pushed him out of theirs and forced him onto a couch in a cold livingroom...
Cheating, my ass...she's the one refusing to hold it all together. Bitch deserves to sleep alone, if this is what she thinks of me...
Harsh mumbling sounded from behind the door, interrupting his reverie, before stopping suddenly, as if a whispered squabble had been silenced by command. A few moments passed, as Turk stared at the door, bemused, before, suddenly, there were three loud raps against it from the other side.
"S-sir?", sounded the squeaky, nervous voice of Marc, dulled by the thick, wooden door.
There was a jangle, the fumbling of keys, before finally Turk heard the sound of a lock shifting aside, and the door slowly opened. Marc stepped in, an awkward host's smile on his face, holding between his hands something covered with a black, velvet sash - a something that was rather heavy for the man, Turk considered, judging by the strain showing in the old man's temples...
He watched the man hobble over to the small oak table, before placing it - with a sense of victory, one that Turk found amusing - near its centre. Appearing to collect his breath, Marc turned to face the Trainer, twiddling his newly-unburdened hands over themselves, looking down at the sitting man with a strange, perhaps forced, smile.
Turk looked back, still sitting, matching the old man's smile with a featureless glaze. Time passed.
He blinked. Marc fiddled with his thumbs, rocking on his heels, plastic smile still on his face.
More time passed.
Turk blinked again. And, suddenly, Marc flinched, as if a realisation had struck him. He squeaked an embarrassed chuckle, rolling his hands over the other faster than before, before stepping to the door, closing it behind him and leaving with his visit a sense of denied dignity. Turk chuckled.
It was quiet in the room. The Trainer enjoyed the silence for a moment longer, musing over the room's pleasantly-lit decor, before finally looking at the strange, heavy object that Marc had brought him.
It sat on the oak table, perhaps six inches tall, the black sash that covered it of a silken sheen, shimmering in the airy room. It had an inexorable attraction, a liquid sheen; something that spoke of quality, of secrecy, a forbidden treasure secreted away, demanding release. Turk stood, rising towards it, brushing his palm gently against the soft velvet... before gripping it, to slip it off what it was hiding beneath.
With a soft swish, the fabric fell away from its prize. Heavy, thick, crystal-clear glass, a bell-jar, sat proudly over a simple black, plastic base; it dappled the light that shone through it, splaying a diffused rainbow onto the white wall behind the table it sat on. But the effect was lost on the Trainer, his attention stolen by the sphere inside the glass.
A Pokéball rested, raised majestically on the molded black plastic, its red-and-white colouring its giveaway. Tilted upwards, the raised button in the middle of a thin, black strip, stared back at Turk, meeting his gaze, as if defiant. Daring.
He took a step back. These jars were high technology, and he knew the simple black plastic beneath held a wealth of electronics. Of all the places he'd ever seen jars like these, all were Pokémon Centres... save for one; Indigo Plateau, in the hands of the Elite Four he'd sought to take down. He'd never seen this technology anywhere else before. It was expensive. Very.
What is this place..?
There was no way a Pokemon reseller could afford this sort of thing.
He tried not to think too hard about a mistake he didn't want to think he'd made.
Twenty-two years old, he had quietly slipped the electronic key into the scanning eye of his university flat's door... with only a soft beep, and the click of a lock, he'd snuck in, a wrapped present well-hidden behind his back. The crook of his arm had pushed against a closed door, his roommate's; knowing he wasn't expected back for hours, he had grinned, imagining the look of surprise on his best friend's face as he'd hoped to jump out and yell - 'Happy Birthday!'.
But the cheer had died in his throat as he peered inside. A Mightyena lay on its back on his roomate's bed; legs and paws spread apart, head leant well back, a canid tongue half-lolling out of its absently-open maw, as his roomate kneeled at the base of the bed, back to the door, head bobbing aggressively up and down between the Mightyena's wide-open hinds in time with its own pleasurable panting...
Slipping up and down, the rough panting of the partners breaths had matched the pace of his roomate's pounding down, the canid arousal sliding into his mouth - he'd watched that pink, thick length push past those lips...
He'd watched, numbed, his presence unknown, as the wolf's panting rose in tempo and pitch, its paw now resting on his best friend's head as it bobbed quicker and faster, again, and again; flashes of pink and red visible between the two, the heavy breathing accompanying the creak of bedsprings and the soft, occasional rumble of pleasure from the throat of the serving Trainer...
He'd come back to reality. He'd turned. He'd left. The door had shut behind him; he might have made a noise - he hadn't cared. All he could think about was walking away - or that had been all he was trying to think about. One part of his mind played the scene he'd witnessed in his mind, over and over - a last part, small, but insistent, had pointed out to him the faint tension in his own trousers...
He shook his head to clear it. An argument roared silently in his mind; the words of Hans and Marc rolling in his memory.
No, that can't be it. Surely not.
Their reactions... their words...
Technically illegal...
He tugged his collar, forcing himself to drop the thoughts, before realising his other hand was already on the bell-jar. Slowly, trying to find a reluctance that just wasn't there, his hand slipped from his collar to the other side of the thick glass jar.
Even slower, he began to unscrew it.
The Quilava pawed at the 'false' earth. Every day, after the dark sky light-orb fell from the sky, the grass got wet. And water was bad, so he couldn't rest in water.
He shivered slightly at the thought. Water.
It was enough that those two wrinkles shawls fabric old men rarely fed him, and that so often he was called into this fake-world monster ball, without having to sit in water. But at least whenever those two happy leer monk cruel men did call him into his fake-world, it often meant he was going to meet someone nice. Most of the time they were females. They were always talking nice to him... and they always complimented him.
He blushed.
Sometimes it was males. They weren't always so kind... they were never kind. They talked rough and smelt rough and they touched rough, too... well, the ones that were male-males did. Like they had something to prove.
The ones that were female-males were just like the females.
He hoped he was going to meet someone. He hoped it was a female.
Maybe a female-male.
He flinched as his paw brushed wet grass again. Horrible water.Grass was easy, he could cope with grass. But always, when the light sky-orb rose after the dark-sky light-orb fell, the grass got wet.
He mewled, discomforted. Water!
Fuck it. He focused on himself, his flares bursting into life. If it was a male, they better prove themselves. Enough was enough. Males were never nice.
A final twist, and the bell-jar softly separated from its base. Lifted, the thick glass sparkled lightly, and Turk placed it back down on the table carefully, next to the Pokéball's pedestal. With the slight click of some connecting mechanism, he was able to pull the ball from its base.
With a sigh, he sat down on the soft, low bed again, still holding the ball, clasping it between his hands and staring at the button he knew he should be pushing. But, it just kept looking back at him. The thing was mocking him. Why was he afraid of that button?
He stared at it.
"Fuck." he muttered, to nobody in particular. With a creeping sense of finality, he pressed the button, letting the ball drop from his fingers. It hit the floor with a hollow snick, bursting open - a jagged stream of white light flowing out of it, pooling with itself, glowing brightly in the already-well-lit room - the glare was too strong to cope with, and the Trainer shielded his eyes behind his arm, grimacing as the bright starburst flared painfully through his shut eyelids.
Slowly, the glow dissipated, the glare diminishing from behind his eyes.
Then, something mewled, a tone that rang as the ting of a low metal chime, tapped lightly.
"Quil-?"
It was an inquisitive sound, like a child raised from sleep. Turk rubbed his eyes, blinking in the aftermath of the bright flare, and looked over the creature he'd just summoned.
He let out a slow breath, admiring the sheen of the Pokemon's golden and blue fur. The Quilava was on all fours, and he gave it a quick guess of some three foot long, its slender body punctuated by two small, curved ears pointing from the sides of its smooth skull, tapering to a rounded snout. Two eyes, their shiny red irises gleaming, looked back at him with a fiery passion, as if intensely curious - or intensely angry...
The Quilava seemed to glance over Turk's face, as if some fierce intelligence was looking through him indifferently, even as he was admiring the creature. Then, as if from deep within the sizable ferret's throat, there was a low rumble. He realised, slowly.
It was growling at him. What had he done wrong-? He hadn't done anything!
A fear gripped him, like a spark that shot through his legs, and up his chest, freezing his mind - emotion left him. The Quilava looked cute at first. Hell, it had sounded cute. But, growling, one was reminded of the feral power that lay latent in the muscle that seemed to ripple slightly under the Quilava's skin, beneath the smooth, glistening lupine fur...
He chuckled, despite himself. "Cute," he said, voicing the thought that was now so ironic to him.
The Quilava stopped growling, blinking up at the Trainer as if taken aback. It tilted its head, as if confused. An ear twitched, flicking humourously at the side of its head. Its eyes unfurrowed. Now, strangely, it seemed... likeable.
Turk couldn't help it. The situation was bizarre. In an ornate hotel room at the top floor of an obscure 'shop', surrounded by antique furniture, he found himself the client of two ancient men and being backed up into the wall the bed he was sitting on was against by nothing less than a sleek, fire-type ferret, and one that had flipped from hostility to something that seemed like an animal pride, just at the term 'cute' - - a laugh, an honest laugh, escaped from his chest.
"Nah," he grinned, looking down at the creature. "You're not just cute, are you-? You look like a pretty powerful Quilava..."
He tailed off, admiring the creature's physique for a moment. It was sleek, to be honest to himself. With a grudging admiration, he relented to himself - this Quilava looked, just from this short meeting, like something of a challenger... if this was the Pokémon his daughter was going to grow up with, she would have no trouble. That seemed obvious.
The Quilava preened, his initial anger vanishing. Well, well, well-! This was a surprise... the man he'd been due to meet wasn't like the others. He was still a male, and he looked like a male-male... but no other male had called him 'cute' before...
You look like a pretty powerful Quilava...
Powerful- -! Yes, yes, yes! He liked this man. He liked this man very much. Oh, he was very powerful alright, the females always noticed...
For a moment, the Quilava allowed himself the pleasure of remembering his past conquests.
Then he put the memories away. Enough of the past. Not of all of it was so great. And for now, the present called.
Oh, and the man was making noises. Was he speaking?
You know, little guy - [Little! Maybe this man wasn't so great...] - I was starting to worry...
He chided himself. He could feel an embarrassment... it wasn't flushing in his cheeks, but his emotions were certainly burning.
"I... I'd started to suspect this place of something it's probably not," he started, before tailing off. Who was he even speaking to- ? The Quilava?
That'd be a mistake. He was, after all, talking about the 'mon he was talking to... He glanced at the ferret, again; this time, he was surprised.
It was sat back on its haunches, looking up at him. Its head was tilted, as if curious, interested; there was a keen intelligence in those deep crimson eyes that shone back at his gaze - and there was something that let him know the Quilava, Pokemon as it was, was listening to him.
He felt heat behind his cheeks. It wasn't something that happened often... but, it was undeniable. There was something indomitable about the Quilava's stare. It was a sharp interest, something that couldn't be denied. He'd got the creature's attention, somehow. And he could tell he didn't want to lose it. And he didn't want to look away from its eyes... there was no other word to describe them, as much as he searched. There was a tempered fury in them, an unmatched intellect, a fiery spirit. It had beautiful eyes.
Shit...
"I-It's nearly my daughter's birthday," he began, cursing inwardly for the stammer that he couldn't account for. Something about this Quilava was... there just wasn't any way round it. It was intimidating. Yet, the attention... it felt flattering. He couldn't understand it; he was confused.
Why do I feel this way?
"a-and... "
Shit, shit, shit...
"... she's nearly nine. I-I, mean, she will be ten," he corrected himself, catching his breath. How could he forget that? What on earth? Who was he to forget his own daughter's age?
"- - back when I was ten," he resumed, trying furiously to hold back a blush that he could tell was creeping up to his cheeks, as the Quilava maintained its intense stare. "There was a professor of Pokemon. A researcher, of creatures like you. S-she asked..."
The Quilava tilted its head to the other side. There was something in the glint of its eyes...
He finds me funny. Of all things, funny.
"... anyway, it doesn't matter, but I got to see the world. My, uh, companion, was a Cyndaquil. Before long, she was a Typhlosion... mean brute, too. She really did some amazing things..."
He caught himself, before he went too far down that road. Memories could hurt.
Turk glanced at his listener. His crimson eyes glittered; an ear flicked. He was paying more attention than ever before, it seemed...
"-- - a-and, I want to do the same thing for my daughter. My, ah, Typhlosion, she had a child. Another Cyndaquil, and my daughter - she was young then - she really loved him. They played every day, until, well..."
He paused, shaking his head. Rambling, dammit.
But why do I care so much? I'm talking to a Pokemon...
He was exasperated, he realised. The day had been long, the week had been hard, and it'd been a while since he'd been with any company. Confused; tired, and shooting the breeze with a flammable ferret.
He collapsed backwards, hitting the soft mattress silently.
This was a surprise.
He'd been taken in a virtual world-ball to see a man. Yet another man who wanted him. Still, there was something about this one...
The man had called him cute. And now, the man was saying lots of words at him. The guy wasn't even making the first move- and hell, if that wasn't something he had to deal with way too often...
And even as the man was talking at him, suddenly, the man stopped, choosing not to finish his sentence, but to fall backwards onto the human sleep cushion.
The Quilava blinked. Well, the man certainly liked using his mouth.
A flow of energy passed through his body in excitement; nobody needed to tell him - he was definitely going to be making the first move today. The guy was obviously a first-timer... and they were always, always fun to break in.
And hell if he wasn't going to put that man's mouth to proper use.
Turk stared at the ceiling.
It was intricate - patterns of plaster swirled round each other like racing streams, and images formed in his tired minds as the peaks and valleys intermingled in his imagination, forming names and faces, places and scenes...
Oof-!
He jolted upright, a massive weight suddenly landing on the other side of the bed. A flash of blue and gold- and, suddenly, those red irises were looking at him once more.
The Quilava's golden forepaws straddled his right thigh, and its body was low, as if the creature was hugging his leg to its chest. There was something about his posture; not possession, nothing threatening... but, as if secretive, the Quilava was hiding something from his sight.
"H-hey," he began, tentatively. "S'alright..."
Why did I say that-?
The Quilava's stare was something new. Ferocity, perhaps, but no malice. Desire- ? Desire for what?
Maybe it just wants better company. Kyogre knows I've been talking too long.
A moment of indecision. Emotions he couldn't place rolled within him, strange feelings he didn't understand writhed in his chest, and he couldn't help it, control it... and he was fine with it. The paws against his leg held a substantial weight, and the Quilava was easily half his size, but the contact - a contact he hadn't felt in a long, long time - something about it; he couldn't stop himself. Slowly, he leaned in towards the creature, reaching out with a hand...
Suddenly, the Quilava stirred. It blinked, stepping forward, meeting his outstretched arm and, with a warm, welcome pressure, began to brush the soft fur of its cheek against his palm.
The Trainer held back a gasp, his throat catching on the sound - from hostility, to this-! The Pokémon was a power to be reckoned with - its red eyes a testament to the depth of its own limitless strength. Yet, here and now, it was letting him experience the warmth its friendship could provide, the shimmering down of its fur playing through the gaps of his fingers, an ear flitting as he passed his palm over it...
Those deep, red eyes... staring right back at his. They held his stare, twinned, even as the bed shifted beneath him, and the Quilava moved - paw after paw, it drew closer to him, straddling his leg slowly, almost defensively... the sense of secrecy overshadowed by a strange, animalistic desire.
Turk felt something tug within him. Something animal, something deep within him, wanted to share in that desire.
He leant back as the 'mon drew closer, until, finally, two paws lay on the middle of his chest, the Quilava looking at him, the intense stare matching his own gaze back, an intensity he couldn't hope to compare with.
He's beautif--
He caught his thoughts, suddenly, scratching them, trying to correct them. He hadn't thought that thought. No way.
The Quilava leant on him, mounting his chest. Its weight was an assurance; he was reminded, suddenly, of all the muscle that lay beneath its fur, of all the power that a trainer could use...
Now, its face was right above his. Its forepaws pressed down against his shoulders, like something roughly playful; its hind legs sat at his hips, pressing down against his softer lower chest. The trainer was dimly aware that he was, in a way, trapped... the Quilava, if it wanted, could rip his neck open here and now... but, the notion was drowned out as thoughts rushed through his mind - the Quilava was on him, its eyes looking still at his face, a mischievous glint hiding in their depths, and the beauty of its golden fur running from the base of its maw, down its slim neck to its chest, down still further, running to its...
It's male.
The trainer's mind was numb, frozen. A single thought pumped in his head, screaming at him, overriding his ability to move. The Quilava's secrecy. Its desire. The squeak of Marc, minutes, hours - years ago.
Beneath the Quilava's furred chest, a slip of pink protuded from a furred bump between the pair of its hind legs; a musk, on the edge of sensual, undoubtedly_male_, suffused his senses, a smell that he'd smelled before, a long, long time ago...
And, he couldn't deny the realisation... once more, as long ago, there was an uncomfortable pressure in his own jeans.
He stared. The room was heated, oppressive; or maybe he was just suddenly hotter than he'd ever been. And he couldn't help but notice, with a fiercely rising arousal, the Quilava's size, one that was still growing, even as he watched with wide eyes, and with a mouth that was suddenly dry...
"No," he said aloud, quietly, nearly silently. A ghost of a whisper.
Yes- said his thoughts.
"I -- I'm not..."
He's beautiful..
Lost, he looked up at the Quilava, up at its crimson eyes, eyes with a dangerous beauty.
Fuck, I am...
The Quilava leaned in towards the Trainer, its maw hovering just tantalising millimetres from the human's face. Fur hung above flesh, irresistible... a heat filled the air, and Turk felt a bead of sweat slip down the side of his face, rolling down to his cheek...
A final whisper-
"No..."
I want this. The thought was impossible to escape. His body knew it. He knew it. And, with a sense of finality, as the Quilava's maw descended to his own lips, he tilted his head to meet it.
The Pokémon's maw was warm against his lips; the subtle taste of fine spice played on his senses, and he couldn't resist- his lips parted as the creature's did, allowing the Quilava's tongue to slip inside him, toying with his own, investigating his mouth with a tongue like no human he'd ever been with - its slick, roughened texture enticing his own, the painful throb of his hardened manhood pushing against his jeans...
It felt like nothing he'd felt before; the Quilava's longer, thinner tongue sliding against his own; slipping over and around his tongue with a domineering intimacy. Thoughts raged in his head - the taboos he was breaking, the trusts he was holding- they didn't matter. Swept aside, they were meaningless, and the moment took hold.
Only one thought lasted in his mind. Twenty-two years old, he'd seen something incredible. He hadn't been disgusted, he now realized.
He'd been jealous.
With a final, dexterous flick of its tongue against his own, the Quilava slowly broke away; its maw again hovering once more just above his own lips.
Shit...
It was hot. The room was hot. Or he was hot. He couldn't tell. Fuck... He had to cool off, somehow... but there really was only one way. His hands trembled as he hooked them under his shirt- the plain fabric easily sliding up his smooth, moderately toned chest - the Quilava easily adjusting its balance, as he pulled it off over his head, chucking it somewhere - anywhere - into the room.
He was panting, he realised. Or out of breath. Or just.. excited. Something, like an energy, pulsed through him; he was more alive than he'd been in a while. A wife who didn't care about him; a job that he had to struggle through. Fuck that.
Right now, he didn't care about any of it. All he wanted was to stare back at those crimson depths above him; the eyes of the creature that so predatorially now sat atop him, a mischievous glint shining from the pair, soft hindpaws padding at his chest...
Something was about to happen, he realised. The Quil had something in mind...something it wanted from him. It seemed to preen, looking up from him, beyond him; stretching, almost... as if to show off. Or taunt, perhaps, the man beneath him.
The weight suddenly let his shoulders, as the Quilava leaned forward. It stepped over him; slipping its warm, golden fur across his face. And, suddenly, he knew what was happening; a spark flared through his chest, an apprehension that flooded though him suddenly denied by the desire of the moment. The Quilava's back legs now straddled his neck, and its forepaws, he knew from the creaking of the mattress, were just behind his head.
It didn't take much to know what was going on.
Suddenly, it happened. The Quilava's legs lowered around him; his face was straddled, fur playing first against his forehead and settling quickly across him until suddenly something new rested against his lips, the tip of something warm settling against him. The contact effected a new shiver of anticipation; this was what he had wanted, he knew it - there was nothing more or less; fuck!
It pressed against him, like something insistent, asking for permission. But there was no misgivings; he knew what he wanted. Twenty-two years old...
He parted his lips once more, slowly opening them around the length pushing against him. Faintly, he registered a rumble in the fur above him; like a pleasurable mewl, constrained for composure- the warm length slipped inside him, naturally slick, quickly pushing into his mouth, sliding against his lips.
It was a new sensation. The member throbbed pleasantly inside his mouth, its at once alien but welcome texture slipping against his own slick tongue, leaving a foreign taste of forbidden spice; it felt wide against his lips, and already he knew he was taking on a challenge. But, fuck, did he want this.
He opened his mouth wider. He wanted it all. He wanted the whole thing; the Quilava obliged, sliding, with a push, what felt like the final stretch of an ungodly length into the depths of his waiting mouth. It pushed against the back of his throat; he tried, successfully, to hold back his reflex.
Kyogre, it's huge -!
He heard it this time, a squeal from above him. Despite the creature's confidence, he knew he could do this; he could make it beg from him as much as it could make him could beg from it.
He might have smirked, had his mouth been free.
He was new to this. But he knew enough... slowly, he began to explore the Quilava's slick, hot length with his tongue, gliding his own slick muscle against his partner's, tasting its exotic musk with a feeling of renewed vigour. He felt the creature shudder pleasantly against him; a response that meant everything...
He toyed with the creature's sensitivity, pressing and sliding, his own pleasure stemming from the responses of the 'mon; now suckling lightly against its flesh, seeking out with experimentation the best way he could find to get the creature above to react-
Suddenly, it did.
"Quil-!" it squealed. It shuddered against him, fluff and flesh pressed softly against his face for a moment. It seemed to contact around him; suddenly, two paws pressed against the crest of his head.
It's hugging my face-
He didn't have time to think as the Quilava slipped slightly out of him, leaving his mouth feeling uncomfortably void in comparison. There was a heartbeat of respite.
Suddenly, it thrust back into him, a powerful stroke that pushed the length into the back of his mouth again. He gagged lightly, stifling a jerk that passed through his body; the warm length slipping back out again as quickly as it had arrived, before pressing into him again- it pushed against his lips, over his tongue; a spark of feeling that nearly amounted to pain, but wasn't far from pleasure, flooding through him with each thrust of the Quilava against him.
It forced into his mouth, again, and again; the fur against his face sliding up and across his bared skin, and the paws against his skull forcing him lightly up into the pressure of the push, before slamming the warm, sensitive member down him and against him once more... over, and over, it seemed to slide into him, the creatures length forcing itself down against his lips and into the back of his mouth, driving with a force that was at once amazing, and intimidating...
The Trainer could only submit to the Quilava's pounding into him. There was some dimly registering morale, trying desperately to get him to stop, hold, anything; but it was drowned, overcome by an intense pleasure, feeling only the moment, the animalistic jerks and thrusts of the golden-furred critter hugging his face and driving that hot length down against his lips to thrust into his mouth again and again- It was incredible to feel the fur against his flesh, the heat of the room; the feeling of filling matched only by the satisfaction of hearing the Quilava above him, its pulse racing through its fur, the paws against the crest of its skull forcing a pressure that ebbed and peaked as it mewled with each forceful push down into him...
There were paws tight against the back of his head, two hinds pushing down at his neck, warm, yellow fur smothering his field of vision and, again, and again, that hot length driving down into his mouth, roughly spreading his lips apart with each driving thrust of the creature above him - an unbelievable heat suffusing the air as, with a sudden burst of realisation, he noticed the white walls of the room brightening around him...
"Qui- -iil-!"
His eyes widened suddenly as he tried to gasp, the heated, stiff, and throbbing arousal slamming down inside him - he could feel that hot, thin tip, almost right inside his throat! - a last, powerful, jerky thrust that left the Quilava's huge prize buried inside his mouth, its warm, firm shaft slipping against his tongue, against his lips-
Fuck-!
- and, with a sudden throb of the hot member, warm, liquid seed spurted from its tip; splashing against the back of his mouth, his tongue, throb after throb - firing again, and again, loosing an intense heat inside him, and sliding down the back of his throat... coating his insides, with an incredible, musky flavour...
Slowly, slowly, the liquid spurts began to peter out, and as his own awareness returned from the flood of sensation, he could hear the exhausted pantings of the Quilava above him. Light seemed to flit erratically around the room, as if the creature's flares were low and dim, waving- and all he could smell was an incredible sense of... of satisfaction, of victory...
He slipped his tongue against the Quilava's length, still so deep inside him... eliciting a pleasant shudder from the creature - accompanied by a quiet, gasped, shaky Q-quilll... - letting the flavour that had flooded him swill against his tongue; just enjoying that final moment...
Still, he couldn't hold the creature inside him forever... as much, as he'd begun to realise, he wanted to. Twenty-two years of age, he'd seen this - damn, why hadn't he tried this sooner-?
He slipped his arms upwards, wrapping them around the Quilava's soft belly to, slowly, hoist him from his face. As if resigned, the paws fell away from his face without a struggle, and as he sat up to face the three-foot creature - admiring, with a slight twinge of dark humour, what was left of the length he'd managed to take inside him...
It tilted his head at him, the flares on its head low and dim, as his gaze swept up the golden-furred chest of the Quilava, finally meeting that gaze once more. Crimson eyes... he swallowed, finally, feeling that warmth, that flavour slide down inside him...
Holding the three-foot Quilava in his arms, staring at those eyes, made him realise suddenly - everything he'd done today, the day before, he'd never have even thought about. It was ridiculous. Hell, it was laughable. It was...
"Heh..."
pretty damn funny, actually.
He chuckled, quiet laughter rolling in his chest, as he leant over, placing the Quil on the floor. It turned to face him as he stood up, head still tilted, as if curious to watch him.
He couldn't help but chuckle a little louder at its expression.
Crazy, crazy male-male. But god damn, the man was a good ride!
Hell, he'd be happy to see that guy again. Mmf... the tingling afterwards-feelings were still spreading through his body. Like little pikachu-strikes running through him... mm, it felt great... and he was so deliciously exhausted, too...
With an absent gaze, he noticed the strange man was by the table, now, collecting one of the soft colour-pattern-fabric pieces all humans seemed to use to cover themselves before they had their fun with him. And he was making all these noises, too! Like soft... soft 'laughter', they called it.
He always wondered why they put that fabric over their bodies. It seemed so strange to wear those things outside but not inside.... or maybe, they were just trying to make up for all the fur they didn't have.
He preened, stretching himself out, admiring the way his blue and golden fur rippled along his body... watching, with more than a little feeling of superiority, as the man slipped that strange fabric they wore back over his head, to cover that warm chest he'd been so close to.
Words, muffled under the 'shirt', reached him, and he tried to make sense of them.
"Don't happen to know how I call up those old guys, do ya', little guy?"
Little-! He wasn't little, dammit!
Turk watched and chuckled once more, as the Quilava eyes seemed to flash with indignation. Tired as he might be, there was still humour in the situation... there was a stiffness in his trousers he was uncomfortably aware of, and, frankly, he already had ideas on how to deal with it.
Technically illegal...
I don't care how much you cost, buddy.
But I'm taking you home with me.