Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Untitled Quilava Lemon	By : sandlava Category: Pokemon > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 5124 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Don't own Pokemon, Quilava, or any registered trademarks of The Pokemon Company; am not writing for profit, yada yada

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
"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-caresialities. 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.
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Untitled Quilava Lemon