A Drink To Remember

♥-What is Proship?-♥

Proship means pro—as in for—shipping, in contrast to anti—meaning against—shipping. It does NOT mean “problematic” shipping. That definition was coined by Antishippers to justify harassment.

Proship means you believe in Ship and let Ship, are against harassment over fiction, and against censorship of fiction.

I do not condone the problematic things that I engage with in real life. Fiction only affects reality as much as you let it affect it. You, and ONLY YOU, yourself are responsible for what you consume. My only job is to warn you.

I will block you if you have a “proship DNI” listed in your bio/pinned post. If I cannot find a DNI on your blog, I may interact with your posts. If that bothers you, please block me and consider making a DNI.

My opinion is not your opinion and vice versa. That is okay! What is not okay is harassing those who disagree with you. If you dislike someone’s views, block them and move on.

♥-About Me-♥

I'm an adult (obviously) that knows fluent English and extremely basic Mandarin Chinese. (I’m better at speaking it compared to reading and writing as I’m a classic “only speaks said language when visiting grandparents” person :P)

I’m a multishipper who loves ships! It doesn’t matter if they’re popular/rare/crack. I don’t hate any characters/ships with my range consisting of neutral to adore! But my posting is irregular because whatever divine being(s) out there knows I would be too powerful if I had all the time in the world to write…

I’m anti-harassment and anti-censorship. Most of my ships are socially acceptable so you wouldn’t find problematic stuff often, but if you’re concerned, check out the Tags + Content Warnings!

♥-Image Credits-♥

Avatar is drawn by me with my mouse on MS Paint (lmao). All images used on this blog were taken from Pixabay!

If there is no credits attached to an image, it is safe to assume that it belongs to official sources (in-game artwork, official promotional artwork, screenshots of the official anime, official advertisements etc)!

Header by Lk_Drak

-(OLD POSTS)-

Dark Image by ctvgs

‘Stop acting dumb,’ bumping her snout against his cheek, Changsheng jabbed her tail towards the window, coiling tighter around his neck like a noose. ‘I can see the way you’ve been looking at Gaming!’

Knowing that Changsheng would take any denial as confirmation, Baizhu kept silent and instead directed his attention to where she pointed. On the other side of the window was the young man in question—dear little Yip Gaming—as sweet, smiley, and social as ever.  

He stood a few paces behind Qiqi, dutifully mimicking her stretches to the monotonous chants of “one, two, seven, seven, two, two, seven, seven”. He had dropped by just earlier before the pharmacy closed, and while the cut he came for was already settled by Baizhu’s vision, Qiqi kidnapped him for some callisthenics, insisting his injury came from stiff joints just like every other wound. Gaming thankfully did not to mind entertaining her. 

Bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, he looked every part a majestic Suanni: his toned muscles put on a riveting performance of shadows with every flex, his precise movements sharp and sweet even while bogged down with the exhaustion of a workday. Beads of sweat accentuated his golden skin beloved by the day, and a mere glance had Baizhu’s heart thumping like a prayer. 

‘Gaming is wonderfully charming, that I admit,’ choosing his words carefully, Baizhu strolled behind the main counter in search for something to occupy his hands with—he desperately required a distraction that could help prise his eyes from Gaming’s form. ‘But should you really be encouraging me to go after such a young man?’

‘Please, I’ve known you since you were kid; don’t act like you’re some moral saint,’ Changsheng gently smacked his cheek with her tail. ‘Just admit that you have a weakness for young men! Besides, he’s twenty-one to your lonely thirty. It’s not like you’re a sixty-something geezer preying on a kid.’

‘Aren’t you full of excuses?’ Baizhu chuckled, flicking her smooth head with his finger. ‘Not very holy of you, oh venerable lady adeptus.’ 

‘At least this venerable lady adeptus speaks the truth,’ Changsheng hissed and recoiled. ‘It’s so hard to talk to you sometimes.’

Choosing to ignore her, Baizhu busied himself with cleaning the counter, but as Gui had already handled the closing up before going home—bless his hardworking soul—there was nothing much to do. Absentmindedly, he grabbed a large, empty bottle and set it before himself.

His eyes remained glued to the full, glorious view of Gaming’s bent hips and shapely rear, his baggy trousers unable to hide the strain of his thighs. Having patched them up on more than one occasion, Baizhu knew just how much strength Gaming’s legs bore, toned from dancing and fighting. It made him happy to know Gaming had such a healthy body, albeit one he overworked on occasion.

‘You’re totally thinking about going for him, aren’t you?’ Changsheng teased, her previously accusatory tone sliding into a sing-song trill. ‘You’re really infatuated with him, aren’t you?’ 

‘And whose fault is it that I’m thinking about it?’ Baizhu’s sighed, shaking his head at Changsheng’s little victory wriggle around his neck. ‘I’m not the one going on at length about Gaming.’

‘Why, it’s your own fault, obviously!’ Without missing a beat, Changsheng laughed as she slithered off his shoulders, coiling down his arms onto the table. ‘You want him, and all of Liyue Harbour knows Gaming wants you, too! I don’t see why you’re trying to convince yourself otherwise—’

‘What’s this about wanting Dr Baizhu?’

Baizhu and Changsheng turned towards the newcomer’s voice. Gaming, a huge grin plastered across his handsome face, sauntered into the pharmacy, his jacket slung over his bare, sculpted forearm. Baizhu hoped he was not a blushing as he smiled politely in greeting, Changsheng waving her tail at Gaming.

‘Yaoyao showed up,’ Gaming explained before Baizhu could ask him how he escaped Qiqi. ‘She and Qiqi are playing with Man Chai outside.’ 

‘Nice timing, dear boy!’ Changsheng stretched her body out toward Gaming, sounding exactly like a nosy aunty. ‘My little Baizhu has been—’

Baizhu seized Changsheng and dropped her into the large bottle. She shrieked as he corked it, her shrilly voice muffled by her new glass prison. With too little space for her to launch her body against the walls, she was absolutely stuck.

‘Wha—why did you do that?!’ Gaming burst into laughter, his unsympathetic reaction making Changsheng rattle the bottle in annoyance. ‘Won’t she suffocate?’ 

‘She’s an adeptus, remember? Air isn’t an issue for her,’ Baizhu pleasantly answered as if he had not just heartlessly dropped his oldest companion into a glass bottle. ‘She’s been spouting nonsense for some time now.’ 

‘Still, isn’t that too extreme?’ Despite saying that, Gaming walked behind the counter and took the bottle, pushing himself up on his tip-toes to place it on a high shelf. ‘Was she about to say something incriminating?’ 

‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, thank you for entertaining Qiqi tonight,’ dodging the question, Baizhu placed his hand on Gaming’s shoulder. ‘I’m heartened to see her have more friends.’

‘It’s no problem! Qiqi’s a real cutie,’ ever the pleasant young man, Gaming rubbed the back of his head, eyes gleaming. ‘Besides, I’ll take any excuse to stay here longer with you, Dr Baizhu.’

Gaming stuck his tongue out near the end. Though his flirtatious side was rarely seen, he became quite audacious when it did emerge—Baizhu a frequent recipient of his affections; a classic case of a young, playful man wishing to be pampered by a debonair elder. 

‘Am I really that special to you?’ Baizhu rolled his eyes with a smile, used to Gaming’s antics, but Gaming’s growing grin only told him that he was blushing.  ‘Or is your tongue sweet to everyone?’

‘Of course I’m only like this to Dr Baizhu,’ Gaming responded immediately—a barefaced lie, yet Baizhu found himself flattered nonetheless. ‘Does Dr Baizhu want to taste for himself how sweet his Gaming’s tongue is?’ 

Baizhu could not help but laugh.

‘I set myself up for that one,’ Baizhu hid his smile behind a hand, watching Gaming’s flirtatious expression return to a playful one. ‘Since when did you become so impudent, hm?’ 

Perhaps Changsheng’s words affected him more than he expected. It was one of his better days, so his body was as strong as it could be. The opportunity begged him to seize it, to indulge in the desires he should not be entertaining, the wants he experienced yet let pass when he was younger and healthier. The desire only grew when warm arms wrapped themselves around his torso.

Gaming buried his face into Baizhu’s chest, the sudden, intimate hug the furthest thing from an innocent show of affection. It would have been insolent had Gaming not been abusing the privilege of his youth. Unable to refuse, Baizhu returned the embrace with an exasperated, though fond, sigh.

‘Yip Gaming is kind, reliable, and strong,’ Baizhu ruffled Gaming’s head, mussing up his fluffy hair. Gaming preened at the praise and tightened his embrace. ‘Yet with me he acts so spoilt.’

‘Your Gaming isn’t spoilt!’ Raising his head, Gaming pouted as his chin dug into Baizhu’s chest, doubling down on his pampered act. ‘He just wants Dr Baizhu to know how much he loves him! Is that too much to ask for?’

Baizhu was in trouble. Only one with a heart of stone could remain unfaltering at such an expression. Escaping Gaming’s grip with much difficulty, Baizhu leaned down to peck him on the side of his mouth, shock flashing across Gaming’s features. Before he could respond, Baizhu stepped away.

‘Ah, hey! That surprised me!” Gaming scurried over to hug Baizhu once more, needy hands grabbing at him. ‘I want another one!’ 

‘Who isn’t spoilt now, hm?’ Thoroughly charmed, Baizhu booped him on the nose, Gaming’s pout making a comeback. ‘Please enlighten me, my dear.’ 

‘Okay! I’ll admit it! But you can’t blame me!’ Gaming partially let go of Baizhu to meet his eyes better, hands lingering atop his hips. ‘After all, there’s no one in the world who doesn’t crave Dr Baizhu’s attention!’ 

He laid it on pretty thick, though that only made it all the more adorable. Taking Gaming’s hand, Baizhu guided him to the back of the pharmacy where they could be shielded from the prying eyes of both humans and snakes. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Gaming obediently trailed behind Baizhu into an inconspicuous room. 

To an outsider, it may have looked as if Baizhu was about to imprison and harvest Gaming’s organs, but Gaming was completely unbothered; if anything, he looked ecstatic. Baizhu wondered if he should be concerned by Gaming’s apparent lack of self-preservation. 

Gaming lit up when he realised he was in Baizhu’s bedroom—a modest little thing with a single bed, a desk and chair, and many shelves filled with paperwork and rows upon rows of jars. Staying in the pharmacy had its upsides, with one such perk being an easy, convenient, and—most importantly—discreet space to… entertain sweet young men such as Gaming. 

Baizhu released Gaming’s wrist, shutting and locking the door behind them. Gaming beelined to his bed, plopping down on the soft mattress, kicking his legs like a child on a swing. He beckoned Baizhu closer with his sweet grin and blazing gaze. 

Baizhu settled himself next to Gaming, unsurprised when eager lips met his the moment his rear hit the mattress. For someone who strived to emulate the Suanni, Gaming was far from ferocious, his affection riddled with adorable excitement—though he was a surprisingly good kisser. He devoured Baizhu’s lips with tender fervour, his smile dripping with lust and smug satisfaction. Baizhu detected some hesitation beneath the passion; perhaps Gaming could not believe he was really going to lie with the man he so admired.

Canines ghosted over Baizhu’s bottom lip—a silent plea, begging him to open up. Allowing himself to be swept away by Gaming’s love, Baizhu wrapped an arm around Gaming’s neck, his other hand lacing their fingers together as he parted his lips. Gaming breached Baizhu’s mouth the moment a gap appeared, sweeping up Baizhu’s tongue with his own for a dance.

Gaming grew bolder with each passing second. Shedding any concerns he had, his clumsy excitement made way for mature experience, backed with the immense desire to please. He squeezed Baizhu’s hand hard enough to bruise. Gaming morphed into a raging beast swirled in ribbons of flame, his movements sharp, precise, and graceful like his beloved Wushou dance. He tasted of green tea and plum confectioneries. 

Not to be outdone, Baizhu languidly traced his tongue over Gaming’s sharp teeth, matching Gaming’s ardent greed with mild serenity. Still, he was no match for Gaming’s dancer lungs, Baizhu forced to pull away for a gasp of air.

‘Hm, it’s not that sweet,’ Baizhu folded a hand over Gaming’s mouth, halting his attempt for another kiss. ‘It’s a little bitter, as a matter of fact.’ 

A wet tongue drew itself up Baizhu’s palm in response, spurring him to pull away. The very picture of a lovable puppy, Gaming grinned with tongue stuck out, his excitement prompting Baizhu to look down. Sure enough, a magnificent tent strained against Gaming’s trousers. Baizhu marvelled how quickly Gaming had gotten excited; his sickly body could never.

Following Baizhu’s stare, Gaming’s smile dropped a little. His flushed face tinged with an even deeper red.

‘We don’t have to do anything Dr Baizhu doesn’t want to,’ Gaming hastily added. The staring must have made him self-conscious. ‘I won’t get upset or anything—’

Baizhu cut him off with a kiss, swiftly putting to rest any concerns Gaming had. Gaming’s mouth parted in shock, allowing Baizhu to take Gaming’s tongue between his lips, sucking gently. Only then did Gaming register the implications of their kiss. He grinned wildly, regaining his footing as quickly as he lost it, and dove right in, a sneaky hand slipping down to the front of Baizhu’s trousers, palming and cupping his crotch. Wicked pleasure shot through Baizhu’s body, trapping him between waves of arousal and amusement. 

‘I’m glad Dr Baizhu is just as excited as I am,’ it was Gaming’s turn to break the kiss, but not before he obscenely sucked on Baizhu’s bottom lip for a good two seconds. ‘Your Gaming will give it his all, sir.’

There Baizhu thought it was impossible for Gaming to be any more endearing; the audacity to address him so formerly while shamelessly fondling his body! Gaming coaxed Baizhu’s cock to full mast with both warmth and patience, his impertinence a testament to his affection; he struggled between remaining respectful to the man he adored and chasing his own selfish wants. Baizhu simply had to reward him. 

‘Sit still, then,’ pushing aside his fringe, Baizhu pressed a kiss against the cool metal embedded above Gaming’s eyebrow. ‘Let me indulge myself a little.’

Shifting down to kiss the side of Gaming’s mouth, Baizhu felt kiss-swollen lips quirk up in anticipation. Descending, Baizhu latched his mouth around the mole on Gaming’s neck, scraping his teeth against soft skin, smiling at the shuddering breath he elicited from Gaming. Dizzy with fondness, Baizhu slid off the bed and dropped onto the floor, his knees expertly folding over cold wood. Gaming’s eyes blew wide at the obscene sight. He slowly parted his legs, gifting Baizhu more room to settle comfortably between them.

‘So needy,’ Baizhu traced the outline of Gaming’s bulge before dipping his fingers behind the tight waistband. ‘That’s it… that’s a good boy.’

Gaming lifted his hips, allowing Baizhu to yank off his lower layers in one fell swoop. Freed from its confines, Gaming’s cock sprung out, as hale as hearty as expected. Baizhu loved it the moment he laid eyes on it. It bore the most beautiful colour with the loveliest curve, boasting of an average thickness and length. Yet, Gaming still looked uncomfortable beneath Baizhu’s gaze.

‘I hope it’s adequate, Dr Baizhu’ his shyness returning at full force, Gaming murmured. ‘I mean, I’m not sure what kind of partners you usually take.’

Baizhu never took Gaming to be one who worried about such things. Chuckling, he took Gaming’s cock into his palm, feeling the weight of it as he slotted his lips around the head, pressing the flat of his tongue against Gaming’s dripping urethra. A rough hand grabbed Baizhu’s braid, Gaming winding the hair around his palm. His other hand grasped at Baizhu’s scalp, massaging his fingers into the Baizhu’s skull.

‘Dr Baizhu, it feels—ah—good!’ Gaming struggled to stay still as Baizhu toyed with his body. He moaned at every gentle touch of Baizhu’s tongue against his cock. ‘You’re better than anyone else I ever had…’

Gaming tugged at Baizhu’s hair, clearly impatient yet careful enough for the pressure to only border on mild discomfort—not that Baizhu would have minded if it hurt. Rewarding Gaming for the consideration, Baizhu pushed Gaming deeper into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the length as his throat spasmed in sporadic bursts. One hand held Gaming’s legs open as Baizhu massaged his balls with the other. Under his palm flexed the pure muscle of Gaming’s thighs, tensed from his ministrations.

‘Dr Baizhu looks _so_ beautiful,’ amidst his gasping breaths and pleasured moans, awe dripped from Gaming’s words. ‘I’m the luckiest man alive.’

Seized with a sudden desire to see his face, Baizhu glanced up at Gaming’s flushed face, looking him dead in the eye with a smile. He slammed Gaming’s cock against the back of his throat. Gaming threw his head back with a loud cry, bucking into Baizhu’s eager mouth, nearly yanking the braid wrapped between his fingers. He panted along to Baizhu’s rhythmic swallows, keening as Baizhu slid a rough thumb between his testicles. Torturously slow, Baizhu sucked as he drew his head back, releasing as he pushed Gaming’s cock down his throat again. He worked his tongue expertly around the shaft, relishing in its heady taste, lavishing every inch of it with love. 

Invigorated by the reactions he received, Baizhu renewed his efforts, eyes trained on the beautiful scrunch of Gaming’s face. The blissful expression was heaven on earth: Gaming struggled to meet Baizhu’s teasing gaze, his irises flitting left, right, down, enraptured by the obscene sight of an older man on his knees for him—servicing him. Gaming shallowly thrusted into his mouth, any semblance of composure lost.

‘Dr Baizhu, I’m going to—!’ Gaming gasped as Baizhu took him all the way in, eyes never once leaving Gaming’s teary ones. Baizhu held his position, swallowing deep in silent permission. ‘T-Thank you!’

How cute of him to give his thanks for something like an orgasm. Eyes fluttering shut, Gaming gasped, a burst of searing fluid rushing down Baizhu’s throat. It took everything in Baizhu to not flinch away. Gaming’s cry dissolved into a joyful sigh as he emptied himself in Baizhu’s enveloping warmth, Baizhu expertly swallowing every a single drop, relishing the salty tang that lingered even as his orgasm trickled to a stop. Popping the cock out of his mouth, Baizhu gave the tip one last kiss, licking off the remaining semen. 

Much to Baizhu’s delight, Gaming’s erection barely waned even after his intense climax. Baizhu was a little envious of Gaming’s beautifully fit body, his throat already beginning to ache from the abuse. 

Only when strong arms wrapped around him did Baizhu notice he was shaking. Gaming lifted him onto the bed with utmost care, settling him onto his back like a monk laying an offering out on an altar. Gaming clambered atop Baizhu and pressed their lips together, planting both his hands beside Baizhu’s head on the pillow, uncaring of his own semen still present on his elder’s tongue.

‘That was amazing, Dr Baizhu,’ words muffled by their interlocked mouths, Gaming crooned into the kiss. ‘Let your Gaming return the favour, please.’

Curious hands roamed Baizhu’s body, stroking his exposed stomach, delighting in the way he sucked it in by reflex. Gaming ground his cock against Baizhu’s still-clothed erection. Far too impatient to properly undress them both, Gaming yanked off Baizhu’s sash and trousers, tossing everything haphazardly onto the floor. He did not bother to remove his own shirt, breaking their kiss to bring a hand to his mouth.

Before Gaming could spit in his palm, Baizhu reached for the nightstand beside the bed, pulling a bottle of unscented oil out from the top drawer. Gaming looked ready to snatch the oil away like a child eyeing up a sweet, but instead forced himself to wait and only graciously accept it when offered.

‘You can put it in without preparation,’ Baizhu watched Gaming with much delight, the sweet young man working himself into a frenzy by hurriedly slicking his cock in oil. ‘I took bigger before, so you shouldn’t be too much of a stretch.’ 

‘My ego’s hurt, Dr Baizhu!’ understandably offended, Gaming pouted, his words bearing no real heat. ‘I’ll prove that size doesn’t matter with the proper technique!’ 

Once he was properly slicked up, positively dripping with oil and semen, Gaming pressed the head of his cock against Baizhu’s twitching entrance. He interlaced his dry hand’s fingers with Baizhu’s. As requested, Gaming sunk in without opening Baizhu up first. Baizhu always found the stretch to be the best part; his body split open, parting around the hard cock, he was thoroughly filled as Gaming bottomed out within him, the warm slide against his tightened walls painting a nebula across Baizhu’s vision. He tilted his head back and exposed the pale column of his neck to Gaming, hair splayed around him like a halo. 

If he had any doubts about Gaming’s experience, they were dispelled immediately. Gaming buried his face into the expanse of Baizhu’s skin, teeth poised at Baizhu’s Adam’s apple as he took Baizhu into his oiled fist, calloused fingers encasing the dripping shaft. With a jerk, he pressed his thumb against the tip. 

It became clear that to spoil Gaming was to let Gaming spoil him, so Baizhu coaxed his heaving body to relax, permitting the Gaming to do whatever he pleased. Throwing his free arm around Gaming’s neck, Baizhu lolled his head to the side and cracked open his eyes. The sight of their interlocked hands was somehow the most obscene of all—even more so than the cock buried deep in his body.

‘You can move, dear,’ Baizhu belatedly noticed Gaming had yet to budged an inch to let him adjust. What a gentleman. ‘I’m not made of glass.’ 

Moving was easier said than done as Baizhu could not stop himself from clenching down on Gaming, and as such, Gaming was forced to put more strength into pulling back. The drag of Gaming’s cock against his enveloping walls shot brutal pleasure up Baizhu’s spine. He leaked haplessly into Gaming’s fist, the creeping emptiness of his body only arousing him further, shuddering as Gaming pressed dangerous canines over his throat, filled with blissful promise. Baizhu was being burnt alive; Gaming’s every action set his nerves alight. Stroking Gaming’s hair, Baizhu encouraged him with a gentle peck to his scalp. 

A stark contrast to the bruising kisses he left on Baizhu’s neck, Gaming’s thrusts erred on the side of caution. Back, forth, back, forth, Gaming steadily raised and dropped his hips, attempting a different angle each time. When he hit a particular spot that had Baizhu crying out, he grinned into Baizhu’s shuddering jaw.

Their height difference forced Gaming to nearly fold Baizhu in half, and as they picked up speed, Baizhu was made to wrap his legs around Gaming’s hips for much needed leverage. Gaming was a mating beast, moaning and gasping in clipped, low growls. With Baizhu not half as vocal as Gaming, he found other ways to show his appreciation: thrusting into Gaming’s fist, whispering encouragement whenever he could find his voice, clenching down as hard as he could when his feeble body chose to cooperate… 

Gaming pulled his hips back further and plunged in deeper with every thrust, nearly knocking askew Baizhu’s glasses with each jerk. Gaming was not Baizhu’s most skilled partner by a long shot, but his eagerness more than made up for it; it warmed Baizhu to his very core watching Gaming fall apart from the pleasure, yet still be so intent on providing for him, pleasing him.

After a particularly vicious slam against Baizhu’s prostate, Gaming lifted his face from the burrow of Baizhu’s neck, pressing their foreheads to each other.

‘You’re so tight, Dr Baizhu…!’ Gaming struggled to finish his sentence, bright eyes glazed over with ecstasy. Frustrated at his lack of coherency, he swore in his home dialect, eliciting a soft chuckle from Baizhu. ‘Do you feel good, too? Please tell me you do!’ 

‘With you and your silver tongue—’ Baizhu sucked in a deep breath; an arduous task with Gaming battering right into his prostate. ‘—how can I not feel good?’ 

Baizhu committed Gaming’s triumphant expression to memory before he screwed eyes shut. The assault on his most sensitive areas was far too much for him to bear; pleasure wracked through his body and overwhelmed his senses, and with Gaming confidently jerking him off, he was—

‘C-close, I’m close,’ the quaver in Baizhu’s gasp only encouraged Gaming, his pace growing sloppy and erratic. ‘You can do it inside, my dear—!’ 

Gaming must have truly been holding back: the second permission was granted, he sheathed himself fully inside Baizhu and let go, their cries mixing in a discordant harmony as they hit their limits at the same time. Baizhu released his spend into Gaming’s vice grip, feeble compared to the torrent Gaming unleashed inside him. He was so, SO warm. Never had burning felt so incredible before. 

Gaming naturally recovered first, easing himself out of Baizhu with an obscene pop. Baizhu stole a peek at Gaming’s finally placated cock soaked in semen and oil. Thankfully, there were tissues on the nightstand, which Gaming used to messily wipe them both down. Though it was not enough to fully clean everything, it sufficed for the moment.

‘Dr Baizhu, are you alright?’ Gaming gave Baizhu a once-over, brow furrowed with concern. Baizhu marvelled at how quickly Gaming regained his composure. ‘Do you need water?’

Not even attempting to sit up, Baizhu beckoned Gaming closer, who dove into the hug he offered without preamble. Gaming snuggled into his embrace, nosing at his hickey-ridden neck with a soft laugh, lapping at sweat-soaked skin as Baizhu’s adrenaline faded into heavy exhaustion.

‘Just… give me a moment,’ Baizhu sighed, amused at how pleased the spritely Gaming was with himself. ‘It’s charming how full of energy you are.’

‘Just like how you’re full of me now?’ Gaming looked up, wriggling his eyebrows at Baizhu. ‘You look super charming, too.’ 

‘Shameless,’ Baizhu rolled his eyes, pressing his lips to Gaming’s piercing. ‘Who taught you to be so cheeky?’ 

‘Dr Baizhu did, obviously, by being too handsome,’ mischief and sincerity melded as one in Gaming’s voice, light and sweet with euphoria. ‘Your Gaming couldn’t help himself. Won’t Dr Baizhu forgive him?’

With an exasperated, affectionate, sigh, Baizhu gave in with a kiss. They would need a shower later, but for the moment, Baizhu basked in Gaming’s warmth. He supposed it could be acceptable to act on his impulses every once in a while, for only with Gaming tucked lovingly into his arms did he feel true bliss.

Changsheng could stay in the bottle for a little longer. 

Ending Notes: Gaming tops because we need more younger/smaller tops in the world, plus there’s nothing more hilarious than putting Baizhu’s feeble body through the wringer.

Changsheng gets an apology snack after Baizhu frees her. Everyone wins in the end! Do you think she eats rats? (She definitely eats rats.)

Perfect Catch

TSME Week Day 1: Anniversary / Pokémon Catching

Alain and Steven spend their first anniversary watching Mairin struggle to catch a Pokémon.

Though Steven was his first love, even Alain knew that spending one’s first anniversary in a dank cave, watching a mutual friend struggle with a task as simple as catching a Pokémon, was out of the ordinary. So there Alain was, wincing as the ever suffering Bébé got knocked out by a resisted, though particularly vicious, Vital Throw.

Rating: General | Ship(s): Alain/Steven | Platonic Ship(s): Alain & Mairin, Steven & Mairin

Tags: Not Beta Read, Fluff, Established Relationship, Platonic Relationships, Anniversary, Catching Pokémon

Lumiose from the Sky

TSME Week Day 2: First Time / Miare (Lumiose City) / Dragon

Alain takes Remo flying above Lumiose City.

‘Are you sure about this?’ ‘Are you doubting Charizard’s strength?’ ‘I’m not!’ To prove his point, Remo clambered atop Charizard’s back, but he hit one of Charizard’s wings on his way up and received an annoyed swat of the Pokemon’s tail. ‘As you can see, I’m kind of a big guy!’

Rating: General | Ship(s): Alain/Remo

Tags: Not Beta Read, Fluff, Flying, Miare City/Lumiose City (Pokémon)

Little Siblings

TSME Week Day 3: Family

After getting asked by Hop if he has any siblings, Alain thinks about his relationship with Mairin.

‘I’m Lee’s little brother, after all!’ Hop was obviously trying to stamp down his ego, the sight itself rather amusing. ‘You’ve any little siblings yourself, Mr Alain?’ ‘Just Alain is fine—’ Alain found it endearing how Hop could not make up his mind to be polite or not. ‘—and I don’t…’ Alain stopped himself when the image of a certain girl flashed into his mind.

Rating: General | Platonic Ship(s): Alain & Hop, Alain & Mairin, Leon & Hop

Tags: Not Beta Read, Fluff, Family, Platonic Relationships

Unmasking Steven Stone

TSME Week Day 4: Hoenn / Mask / Release

Steven has never experienced la petite mort before. Alain uses it to tear his masks off.

‘You’re here,’ Steven rolled a shrunken Poké Ball between his fingers, returning it to its original size. Alain could not tell who resided within it. ‘I never had any doubts.’ ‘When I win—’ sending Charizard onto the field first, Alain spoke. ‘—let me do whatever I want to you.’

Rating: Mature | Ship(s): Alain/Steven

Tags: Not Beta Read, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Orgasm Denial, Crying, Non-Graphic Smut, Top Alain, Steven Stone, La Petite Mort

His World

TSME Week Day 5: Dark / AU

Alain’s task, as a loyal member of Team Flare, is to care for an imprisoned Augustine. Things do not go well.

‘Prof—Augustine, I made lunch,’ Alain sat next to Augustine, balancing the tray atop his former lover’s lap. Augustine did not move. ‘Dire—Lysandre said my soufflé was delicious, so I thought to make it for you.’ ‘I’m sure he did,’ Augustine snapped back. ‘Did he say that before or after you helped him murder more innocents?’

Rating: Teen And Up | Ship(s): Alain/Augustine, Alain/Lysandre, Augustine/Alain/Lysandre, One-sided Lysandre/Augustine, (Past Lysandre/Augustine)

Warnings: Unhealthy Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Unhappy Ending, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Imprisonment

Tags: Not Beta Read, One-Sided Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Team Flare!Alain, Flare Wins!AU

The Gift of a Surname

TSME Week Day 6: Love

A story of Alain and the three surnames he took throughout his life.

With the copious amount of presents heaped onto him, Alain realised just how much he had been given in his life, and that he should probably start doing some of the giving as well.

Rating: Teen And Up | Ship(s): Alain/Steven (Past one-sided Alain/Augustine, Past one-sided Alain/Lysandre) | Platonic Ship(s): Alain & Augustine

Warnings: Unhealthy Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Brief description of a fatal car crash

Tags: Not Beta Read, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Crushes, Adoption, Marriage Proposal, Happy Ending

Campfire Cuddles

TSME Week Day 7: FREE DAY

Alain and Ash share a moment as Charizard has a crisis about Greninja.

‘Ash…’ Alain struggled for words, his lexicon vanishing at Ash’s quizzical, bright-eyed look. ‘You shouldn’t have said that…’ ‘Hm? Why not?’ Cutely tilting his head to the side, Ash turned to look at their partners. ‘Wait, why is Charizard so upset?!’

Rating: General | Ship(s): Alain/Ash, Charizard/Greninja

‘Good job buddy,’ Alain walked over to his exhausted partner, stroking Charizard’s long neck. His partner’s roaring flames flickered down to a simmering blaze. ‘Are you hurt anywhere?’

Charizard flapped his wings as if offended that Alain even asked, though a brief falter betrayed his exhaustion. While neither of them bore serious injures, the roots had allowed them little time to rest for the last three hours; they stood no chance against Charizard’s might, but they came in unrelenting waves to compensate.

‘Alain! Charizard!’ Alain and Charizard perked up at the patter of eager footsteps. The cheerful voice was music to Alain’s ears. ‘Greninja says there shouldn’t be any more roots for now! We can rest for tonight!’

Sprinting up to them was Ash, a large, goofy smile plastered on his handsome face. Greninja followed close behind his partner. Adrenaline made way for heavy exhaustion as Alain helped Charizard revert to his base form. Seeing Greninja out of his battle bond form was a huge relief; an indicator that they were done for the night. While Alain and Charizard could not look more tired, Ash remained as perky and energetic as ever, in contrast to Pikachu slumped over his shoulder in a sulky heap.

Heading back to their campsite, Alain counted the rest of his Pokémon milling about, having completed their clean-up in the areas they were assigned to. Alain thanked each of his friends and ensured that they were all nice and healed with potions. 

He watched Ash do the same from the corner of his eye. Alain could never get tired of seeing him dance around his Pokémon, showering them with affection and praise.

Ever since he learnt about the remnants of the Giant Rock, Alain occasionally dropped by to help Greninja out—not that Greninja needed it. It was a mystery how he dealt with an entire forest alone, though clearing them faster did mean he had more time to rest. Not to mention, Charizard also greatly enjoyed spending time with Greninja, and while the opportunity for a rematch had yet to arrive, they both awaited the day eagerly.

The rest of their Pokémon lay all around the campsite, nice and comfortable in their own little areas, some even getting cozy with grateful wild Pokémon who nuzzled them. Most were already asleep, too exhausted to play after a long day of battling roots. The camp soon grew quiet save for some sniffling and the crackling of fire.

‘Ash?’ Alain sat next to the campfire and called out. ‘Why haven’t you put up your tent yet?’

“I… may or may not have forgot to bring one,’ Ash sank down next to him, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. Pikachu, as if for emphasis, crawled into Alain’s tent in a huff. ‘I was hoping we could share!’ 

Ash’s scatterbrained nature was both charming and alarming. After an exasperated nod, Ash gave him a suffocating thank-you hug where Alain froze up, still unused to physical affection after all their time together. Embarrassment crept up his cheeks, though annoyance mitigated it somewhat at the teasing look Charizard shot him. Alain glared at his partner who only defiantly kept eye contact. Charizard curled up next to the fireplace, tucking his arms under his long neck and wrapping his tail around his body.

After what felt simultaneously like an instant and forever, Ash let go of Alain. Greninja looked amusedly at them with his eyes closed in a content line. 

Greninja padded over to where Charizard lay curled up on the ground, Charizard sparing his rival a puzzled look. He abruptly squeezed himself between Charizard’s tail and torso. Greninja leaned back against Charizard, slinging his legs over his rival’s tail while letting out a pleased croak, seemingly oblivious to how Charizard visibly tensed up. 

Flustered, Charizard sought Alain’s gaze, unsure what to do. His embarrassment turned to annoyance when Alain only gave him a teasing look.

‘Hehe, Greninja looks so comfy!’ Imitating his partner, Ash snuggled up against Alain. ‘They’re so close!’ 

‘I mean, Greninja is cold-blooded,’ slightly more prepared for Ash’s affections, Alain wrapped an arm around him. Ash scooted closer in response. ‘I expect Charizard’s warmth is quite appealing.’ 

‘Alain’s really warm too,’ Ash chuckled, his brashness sending Alain’s hyperactive heart into another frenzy. ‘Nice and comfy to be close to!’ 

Watching their trainers, Charizard tentatively draped a wing over Greninja, who leaned in and unabashedly nuzzled against it. Alain bit back a laugh at the mix of embarrassment and bliss that blossomed across Charizard’s face. Usually, his partner would get annoyed, but Charizard seemed far too gone to pay any attention.

‘Greninja’s only this affectionate with people he really, really likes!’ Ash mused, oblivious to how pleased Charizard looked at the comment. ‘Like with Sceptile! They were really cuddly the last time I visited with Sawyer!’ 

Charizard’s expression fell, marking the first time Alain witnessed a Pokémon—or human for that matter—go through the first four stages of grief in rapid succession. Greninja remained leaning against his wing, either unaware or unbothered at his plight, soaking up the warmth of his body.

‘Ash…’ Alain struggled for words, his lexicon vanishing at Ash’s quizzical, bright-eyed look. ‘You shouldn’t have said that…’ 

‘Hm? Why not?’ Cutely tilting his head to the side, Ash turned to look at their partners. ‘Wait, why is Charizard so upset?!’ 

There was nobody in the world more alert and oblivious than Ash, though considering his relationship with romance, Alain supposed it was understandable he dis not, well, understand. Pressing a kiss against Ash’s temple, Alain pulled him into a hug. Ash’s attention and glittering smile was once again all his. 

‘You know I… love you so much,’ uttering the magic words required great effort from Alain, but it was worth it, especially when Ash beamed at him in response. ‘You little goofball.’

‘I love you too, Alain!’ The words came so much easier to Ash. Alain was immensely grateful for it. ‘You’re my… uh, I can’t remember what it’s called… Quirky Patient Pal?’ 

‘Queerplatonic partner,’ Alain supplemented with a laugh, kissing Ash’s forehead again. ‘But “Quirky Patient Pal” works too.’

Ash squeezed him nice and tight and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. Greninja cracked open an eye to look at them, croaking happily while petting Charizard on the neck, who in contrast looked ready for the ground to swallow him up. Alain would have felt bad for Charizard had he not been so overwhelmed with love for Ash.

⊰———❤︎———⊱

Alain bumped into Sawyer when visiting Steven in Hoenn, who had become Steven’s secretary of sorts. Sceptile had stood behind his trainer with his arms crossed, all suave and sleek with the countenance of upmost confidence.

Charizard’s Poké Ball shook so violently that Alain had to physically hold it shut. 

Ending Notes: We’re finally done with TSME Week! It’s been a HUGE blast! I was so nervous starting out as it was my first time taking part in a community event, but it was incredible!

As a longtime fan of the TSME cast, especially Alain, I had so much fun writing these! I’d love to hear which piece out of the 7 you enjoyed the most! My personal favourite has got to be Day 6!

According to the orphanage’s administrator, his parents had tragically passed from a car accident on the ride home from the hospital after he was just born. Some imbecile had been using their phone while driving, crashing into the car and killing his parents on the spot. He only survived thanks to his mother shielding him with her own body.  He supposed aside from their surname, they also gave him his life. 

As grateful as he was to her for that, the disconnect remained. There differed from most his peers as he bore no interest in learning about his parents. The kind caretakers in the orphanage always told him his surname was a gift, a connection to his deceased parents, yet he could never bring himself to associate with it. How could he, when he knew nothing about them aside from the fact they at least loved him? 

When his interest in Pokémon reached its peak at the tender age of twelve, the ever prestigious and kind Professor Sycamore had agreed to take him in as a student-slash-aide. The orphanage administrator told him he could quit anytime he wanted, but Alain had enjoyed himself so much that they allowed him to stay at the laboratory full-time. 

His puppy crush on Augustine developed surprisingly quick, likely because the professor was the first person he properly bonded with. To Alain who loved Pokémon, Augustine had been the smartest man alive by being a professor.

He was so innocent back then, so naive, the affection between them colouring his childhood days in rose gold.

The loving, handsome Augustine became his everything. Even after a decade, Alain distinctly remembered the elation he felt upon receiving his first birthday gift from the professor: an ugly, fluffy, scarf far too long for a thirteen-year-old. It was the child and victim of Augustine’s arrogance after a solid three months of online scarf-making classes.

Augustine had immediately offered to buy him a nicer scarf the second he opened the gift box, telling him the handmade disaster could be trashed immediately. Alain said no. He had worn the scarf since then and it remained as one of his absolute favourite gifts he received from Augustine.  

His greatest gift arrived much later when he turned fifteen, but not in the way he hoped. The man he loved most had asked him to become “Alain Sycamore”. 

Teenage Alain had been brutally torn up, but still he decided that staying with Augustine was better than nothing. From that point on he lived as Alain Sycamore: Augustine Sycamore’s student, aide, and adoptive son.

His crush thankfully faded once he shed the innocence of youth; a forgone conclusion turned fun memory to look back upon. He spent six glorious years with his father before setting out to become a field researcher. Gifted another treasure from Augustine—a lovely little Charmander with dreams as big as his own—Alain began collecting mega stones, enjoying a journey of adventure and excitement.

Enter Lysandre de Lys.

 ⊰———❤︎———⊱

A mentor, a boss, a father figure and a lover—the last two came with huge question marks—Lysandre had consumed his life like wildfire.

After Alain cut ties with Augustine, Lysandre suggested he drop everything related to the professor, surname included.

When Alain expressed discontent with returning to his old surname, Lysandre only responded with two words.

‘Use mine.’

At that point, Alain did not know if Lysandre was trying to adopt or marry him, and frankly he did not care either way.

The scarf stayed as Alain could never throw it out.

Legally he was still Alain Sycamore, but his soul had embraced the surname gifted to him with total submission. Alain usually introduced himself with just his first name, but when probed by others, he would tell them: ‘I am Alain de Lys.’ 

Malva laughed the first time she heard it, saying something about the Director having his fangs in deep. Celosia and Mable said they did not know their leader had a son, while Aliana and Bryony expressed surprise that they were married. Xerosic only responded with a contemplative hum before moving on from the subject.

No matter how anyone else felt, to Alain, it was Lysandre’s gift to him: the catalyst of the brutal tango that was their relationship.

Alain knew Lysandre was aware of his feelings. He also knew but deluded himself into thinking otherwise that Lysandre took full advantage of it. Lysandre banked upon that Alain refusing act upon said feelings, so he was kept guessing, kept wanting, their relationship close enough to give him that sliver of hope.

A large, comforting hand atop his, a gentle pet on the shoulder, a brush of lips against his hair… each time Lysandre gave him morsels of love, Alain would eat it up and lick his plate afterward. They bonded over philosophy and the desire to do better, and how Augustine was to be protected no matter the cost.

That chapter of Alain’s life ended in flames. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still recall the face of the man he once cherished—the man he would never see again. After all, no matter how messed up and unhealthy it was, it had still been love.

⊰———❤︎———⊱

Finally, there was Steven Stone: the man who stood by him throughout what Mairin dubbed the “villain phase” of his life.

Their relationship started as a friendship and later dissolved into one with many benefits. The romance came much later, and for the first time, Alain could definitively say it was mutual. Just like how he loved Augustine’s kindly affection and Lysandre’s addicting manipulation, Alain adored the warmth of Steven’s affection.

Likely a habit picked up by being a businessman, Steven gave him gifts frequently. From material goods to some of Alain’s more shameful nights, Steven’s presents were always of great quality. The one Alain loved most was the adamant little Beldum gifted to him to raise. His heart swelled with pride each time he looked at his powerful Metagross, second only to Charizard.

The gifts only kept increasing: silly keychains, stickers for his phone, and once a terrifying and highly impractical diamond encrusted watch Alain never wore. With the copious amount of presents heaped onto him, Alain realised just how much he had been given in his life, and that he should probably start doing some of the giving as well.

On Augustine’s birthday, Alain gave him a scarf. A cruddy thing far too short for a man of Augustine’s statue. Alain could never make something nice even after thirty-three online scarf-making classes. Augustine had burst into tears as Sophie and Cosette cackled on the background.  Alain wondered if it was that bad, but Augustine dispelled his concern by embracing him and proclaiming that it would be cherished forever.

The worst part was that Mairin somehow convinced him to put a huge “JE T’AIME PAPA” on it, the words barely legible with his shoddy handiwork. Alain seriously regretted the decision when Augustine insisted to wear the scarf everywhere, including sweltering summer months and important conferences. They reached an agreement for Augustine to only wear it during cold days after Alain threatened to set it on fire and buy him another. 

Alain never knew Lysandre’s birthday, so he settled for the anniversary of their first meeting. It was Alain’s first time writing a love letter, but the words kept flowing out like a rushing river to the sea. Love note in hand, he bought a huge bouquet of roses and returned to the site where the fateful battle took place. Burning both the letter and roses, Alain only left when the flames simmered down to embers.

As for Steven…

⊰———❤︎———⊱

‘This is for you.’

Steven looked at the small box Alain placed before him, an innocuous thing of dark ebony and about the size of his palm. Putting down the rock he had been admiring, Steven took the box in hand, weighing it.

‘Now, why would you gift me such a lovely thing? It’s not even my birthday!’ Purred the man who bought Alain a diamond encrusted watch on a whim. The box was light, and Steven cracked it open without much thought. ‘You shouldn’t have—’

Steven cut himself off, staring owlishly at the contents of the box. Alain failed to hold back the laugh at his boyfriend’s bewildered expression. Steven was always so composed and sleek, so the shocked face was new and just as adorable as Alain imagined. Laughter and smiling came so much easier with Steven.

‘…here I thought I was the suave one in our relationship,’ unfortunately, Steven recovered quickly, though he could not rid of the beautiful blush across his fair cheeks. ‘Looks like I’ll have to work hard to regain that title.’ 

Steven passed the box back to Alain, slipping off the usual band that embraced his ring finger. Extending his hand, he waited expectantly like a smug child receiving candy, unable to mask the excitement that bubbled beneath. Taking it out of the box, Alain slid it onto Steven’s empty finger.

Bringing said finger to his lips, Alain kissed the ring.

‘Well then, it’s settled,’ Steven threaded their fingers together, his flushed cheeks and sunny smile melting Alain’s heart. ‘Please take care of me for the rest of our lives, Mr Stone~’

Ending Notes: Lysandre is his own content warning and I adore it.

I like to think Alain doesn’t fall in love easily. But when he does, he falls HARD. What’s your favourite Alain ships? I’m curious to hear!

Lysandre had high praise for the dish when Alain made it for him a few days ago, but who knew what Professor Sycamore—or Augustine, as he insisted to be called in the past—would think. He ate little in the recent days, so the savoury treat should be adequate for lunch; Alain would hate to starve him. 

Thinking about food had Alain reminiscing about a certain chef he lost to once upon a time. How did he fare as of recent days? Would he agree to a rematch? Probably not. Last Alain heard, Siebold was still alive and kicking in the resistance. He would kill Alain on sight and Alain would be expected to do the same.

Alain reminded himself to not dwell on unimportant things. Lysandre promised to handle the rest, so Alain’s only priority was to care for Augustine. Carefully placing the soufflé on a plate, which in turn went atop a tray with a glass of water, Alain checked his phone’s surveillance app. Augustine lay motionless in bed, though seemingly awake, as he had been for the past few days. Both Lysandre and Alain were getting worried.

Augustine’s room was a plain but comfortable thing. Modestly furnished, it bore a mahogany desk and chair, a large bed, and nightstand—all bolted to the ground. Beside the bed was a window which spanned across the entire wall; though the “window” was more so a pane of reinforced glass, with no way of opening it. Fresh air came from the sturdy metal ducts high where none could reach.

The view below was incredible: a bustling, thriving street full of greenery and everything beautiful, where Pokémon played without worry and people walked and talked, exchanging pleasantries and all things nice. Everyone bore the insignia of Team Flare.

Augustine sat upright in his bed when Alain walked in. He looked half a corpse, with a gaunt face and his sleeping gown hanging off his thin shoulders. His sunny smile had long been consumed by a vacant, despondent expression. A pang of guilt stabbed at Alain upon seeing the cuff tight around Augustine’s ankle, its long chain attached to the foot of the bed. He could never get used to the sight. 

‘Prof—Augustine, I made lunch,’ Alain sat next to Augustine, balancing the tray atop his former lover’s lap. Augustine did not move. ‘Dire—Lysandre said my soufflé was delicious, so I thought to make it for you.’

‘I’m sure he did,’ Augustine snapped back. ‘Did he say that before or after you helped him murder more innocents?’

The words cut deep, but Alain hid his hurt. Augustine was just stressed, that was all. Anyone would be.

Augustine turned to Alain, guilt seizing his haunting face, his once pronounced features still lovely even  with the clarity of his eyes dead and gone. Augustine reached out to touch him, but before Alain could lean into those hands which comforted him so in the past, Augustine retracted them.

‘Fuck—I’m so sorry. I’ve truly gone mad, haven’t I?’ Augustine scrubbed at his eyes, nearly knocking over the tray. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, shit, it’s not your fault! It’s all that sociopa—’

‘Augustine, I’m glad to see you’re up,’ a third voice cut off Augustine’s rant. In an instant, burning hatred replaced his guilty expression. ‘I hope you haven’t gave Alain too much trouble. I hope you remember he loves you as much as I do.’ 

Alain’s shoulders tensed the second he heard the voice, instinctual submission bubbling up in his belly to obey. Lysandre strolled in, a hardened look on his handsome face, and unlike Augustine, he smiled a lot more in recent times, especially toward Alain. Still, Lysandre never did when he visited his—their—old lover; understandable, considering how adamant Augustine was in preserving the previous world.

‘Lysandre,’ Augustine spat, his voice laced with venom. Alain saw a flash of hurt flicker across Lysandre’s eyes, but his mask of neutrality otherwise stayed firm. ‘You absolute filthy, scumbag, piece of shit!’

‘There’s no need for such harsh language,’ Lysandre walked over, grasping Alain’s chin with a firm hand. ‘I’m just here to check up on you.’

Augustine winced when their lips met, Alain soft and pliant in Lysandre’s grasp. The warmth that filled Alain did little to quell his despair at Augustine’s obvious disgust.

‘Every day I pray to whatever god is out there that Diantha kicks your fucking arse,’ vitriol coated every word that spilled from Augustine’s lips. ‘I can’t believe I ever loved you, you sick, manipulative bastard!’

This time, Lysandre did not hide his anguish. Unlike with Alain, Augustine wore no regret on his face—only a fierce, defiant hatred. It was as strange as it was unpleasant to see Augustine, the man Alain fell in love with for being faultlessly kind, so spiteful. He was unsure of the details, but Alain knew that Lysandre had been Augustine’s lover before he even entered their lives. It was the reason Lysandre hid from Augustine all those years ago that Alain worked for Team Flare.

‘…you know the resistance is fighting a losing war,’ Lysandre released Alain’s chin, opting to ignore Augustine’s insults. ‘It’s best you forget it, for your own sake.’

What followed was a long silence. Alain despised talking about the resistance; they were the people who opposed the new world order, headed by the former gym leaders, Elite Four, and other powerful trainers. Diantha lead the charge with support from others such as Steven, “reclaiming”, in their words, Team Flare-run cities and the like. Still, against the mighty power of Zygarde, there was little they could do.

But they fought on anyway, no matter who fell.

It reminded Alain of the first and only encounter he had with Ash: the boy had become a man—a hurt, broken, jaded man—who chose to plead with him.

‘Come home,’ Ash cried. ‘This isn’t who you are, Alain!’

Alain had responded by attacking him.

That had apparently been the final straw for his closest friend. Alain knew Charizard disapproved of Team Flare, so he was unsurprised when they could not mega evolve no matter how hard he tried. He was even less shocked when he awoke to Charizard missing and a smashed Poké Ball on the ground the next day. The agony that consumed him was akin to half his soul being torn from him. 

Lysandre retired him from the front lines since then. He was sent to care for Augustine instead, with the rest of his Pokémon sent to a sanctuary where they allegedly could do whatever they wanted. Lysandre told Alain they went happily. Alain chose to believe his lover, ignoring how his Pokémon had begged him to leave Team Flare before they were taken.

Lysandre had no reason to lie to him. He was not allowed to visit them because he had to care for Augustine. That was all. 

Thinking about them, especially Charizard, still stung.

Augustine had gotten caught in one of the resistance’s attacks, specifically on a mission to retrieve Chespie from one of Team Flare’s labs. Mairin had been with him, and they successfully extracted her comatose partner only with his sacrifice. Alain desperately wished to know how Mairin was doing. While Lysandre explicitly ordered her not to be killed, who knew what could happen should she be caught in the crossfire?

Meanwhile, Augustine looked more than disappointed to see him working for Team Flare.

‘I still don’t get why you’re so against this,’ Lysandre’s voice snapped Alain out of his spiralling thoughts. Lysandre looked at Augustine with a tenderness reserved only for those he loved most. ‘I’m rebuilding the world into a better one for you, Alain, and I.’

‘Better? Better?!’ For the first time in forever, Augustine let out a hollow, scratchy laugh, filled with bitterness. ‘How is this any better?!’ 

Lysandre stayed silent. Augustine seethed.

‘First, you kill everyone except people you deem “worthy”!’ Augustine’s voice broke into a sob, Alain’s own eyes dampening with his. ‘All the while exploiting Alain’s guilt and feelings for you! How many more bright futures must you tear apart for your own selfish wants?!’ 

‘You, dear sir, are the fucking worst!’

The flood of emotion was too much to bear. With a choked cry, Alain covered his face, fresh tears falling in large, shameful drops. Why did Augustine say such hurtful things? Why could they not get along? People who loved each other should. Why could Augustine not understand? Why did Alain somehow understand his pain?

Lysandre pulled him from the bed and scooped him up in a bridal carry. He hushed and told Alain that everything would be alright, like a child in need of comfort.

‘Alain… you know it’s not too late,’ Augustine’s sad murmurs barely reached Alain’s ears over the sound of his own sobs. ‘Lysandre doesn’t love you—I do. So does Mairin and Ash and Steven and everyone else. We know you—’

‘I’ll leave you to your food, Augustine,” Lysandre cut him off, turning away from Augustine to make haste for the door. ‘I hope you’ll be less… violent with your words the next time Alain tends to you.’

By the time they left, the soufflé had gone cold.

Even as Alain’s lover, Steven kept his true face hidden. He swapped his usual masks for a special one worn for Alain and Alain only; the mask of a perfect lover, a patient friend, a doting to-be-husband; one who answered every “are you okay” with “I’m fine, thank you my love” even as he crumbled inside.

Alain could usually tell. Sometimes, the mask slipped, but never fell.

It was not because Steven did not love him; it was the opposite. Steven loved him too much and wanted him only to see the beautiful parts. Alain understood that feeling well, after all, who would want to look uncool in front of the person they adored?

Yet though understood, he wanted more. Alain wanted to see Steven without the walls he conjured to survive the cutthroat world.

His opportunity arrived when Steven offered him the chance to experience, albeit unofficially, the gauntlet of the Elite 4 and Champion as training. 

As expected, the Elite 4 were painfully tough. Fuelled by not just his usual desire to be strongest, Alain pulled through, striding through each personalised gate and polished walkway with more fervour than the last. One by one they fell, and soon Alain stood before the champion’s room, the giant steel doors that separated him and his love particularly stunning.

‘Once those doors close, only Steven can make them open again,’ Drake clapped Alain on the shoulder, pushing him toward said doors. ‘The room’s soundproof as well, so we won’t know anything that happens in there unless you or he tells us personally.’

The look Drake gave him was one of encouragement, or perhaps knowing.

Steven awaited him with much poise, the mask of champion firmly in place, his genuine excitement displayed on his sleeve. With a loud bang, the doors swung shut. The beautiful grin on Steven’s face took Alain’s breath away.

‘You’re here,’ Steven rolled a shrunken Poké Ball between his fingers, returning it to its original size. Alain could not tell who resided within it. ‘I never had any doubts.’ 

‘When I win—’ sending Charizard onto the field first, Alain spoke. ‘—let me do whatever I want to you.’

Steven threw out his first Pokémon. 

  ⊰———❤︎———⊱

‘A tie,’ Alain recalled Charizard with a sigh. Still, he was proud of his Pokémon for managing to stand against Steven. ‘Guess I’m not getting my wish.’ 

‘A tie can be seen as mutual victory, don’t you think?’ Steven quipped without missing a beat. ‘There’s a healing machine for our partners in the back, so let’s settle them before I fulfil my end of the bargain.’ 

It seemed like Steven wanted it just as much as he did.

‘Well then,’ Alain started. ‘Have you heard of “la petite mort”?’

  ⊰———❤︎———⊱

  Steven had heard of it before, though he lacked the pleasure of experiencing it himself. 

Alain took full advantage of that.

Their oblivious Pokémon resting in the backroom, Alain took Steven right there and then, atop the steps leading to the Hall of Fame. They made love before, but Alain had never been so merciless—driven by a craving that transcended into the ephemeral. Steven held desperately onto his mask despite the incredible pleasure. His tenacity was incredible, but he was still a mortal man, and what man could retain his composure after three denied orgasms?

‘A-Alain!’ All his layers sans his dress shirt tossed to the wayside, Steven struggled to keep his clothes away from their connected lower halves. ‘Please, just let me—’

In a violent stroke, Alain—who only managed to shuck his lower garments off in his haste—entered the champion once again, slowly but surely prising off that mask of perfection. Steven bucked into his fist, pleading, and Alain squeezed, tight, relishing the choked sob that escaped through the cracks of Steven’s farce. Steven moved to physically cover his face, but Alain was having none of that. Alain pinned Steven’s wrists above his head with one hand. Though he fared much worse than Steven, being so tightly enveloped, Alain refused to give in, adamant in seeing the true face of the man he loved.

They had a safe word, allowing Steven to tap out the second he wanted to. He did not utter it once, taking the onslaught head on, leaning in to every kiss against his wet eyelids, clenching down at every brutal thrust. He was warm and tight and perfect, the love Alain bore for him only amplifying their pleasure hundredfold.

‘Let me see the real you,’ pressing their sweat-soaked foreheads together, Alain brushed his lips against Steven’s. ‘Let me kill that part of you that wants to hide in shame.’ 

‘I’m right here,’ in a show of intoxicating vulnerability, Steven whimpered, shakily pressing their lips together. Alain took pity on him. ‘So please just—!’

Releasing his grasp, Alain gave his silent permission. Steven let himself go without preamble. His entire body spasmed with violent ecstasy, painting both their bodies white. Pace growing erratic as their lovemaking reached its crescendo, Alain took Steven into his hand once more, stroking gently even as his love quivered with overstimulation. Steven went limp as Alain, burying himself as deep inside as possible, shuddered through his own release.

‘You alright?’ Alain pulled Steven into a tight embrace, kissing his exhausted lover on the cheek. ‘How are you feeling?’ 

Lying “dead” in Alain’s arms, Steven gave no response. For a moment, time stopped, and Alain took in the man he loved most in the world; gorgeous, debauched, and completely true—his handsome face finally free from a mask. In celebration, Alain showered him with kisses.

‘Is this what dying feels like?’ Steven purred, a breathy sound so seductive Alain’s arousal roared back to life. ‘If so, please kill me once again.’

Alain was happy to oblige.

Ending Notes: When I first played ORAS, I was blown away with how good the walkways to the E4 rooms looked. A huge glow up from the originals for sure!

Drake totally knew what Alain was going to do. Hell, everyone else probably also knew and were like “GO GET HIM ALAIN GET OUR BOY TO OPEN THE F UP!!!” Or something 🤔

I was about to make a “la grande mort” joke but decided not to go there.

Sitting in the locker room, Malamar’s Poké Ball in hand, Alain contemplated the battle that took place. He disappointed Malamar the most out of all his fighters. Over and over he replayed the clash in his head, picking apart what he could have done better, what he should have done better. He tried not to think of Mairin’s crying face.

‘Lee! Are you here?!’

Alain snapped his attention toward the figure zooming into the room: a young man sporting a head full of blue hair, a wriggling Wooloo tucked under his arm. They made eye contact and the boy stopped in his tracks.

‘…are you supposed to be here?’ From what Alain remembered, only members of the staff and the Masters 8 were allowed in the locker rooms. ‘What—’

‘Whoa! It’s Alain!’ The boy, dashing right up to his face, unceremoniously dropped his partner to the ground. Expertly landing on his feet, Wooloo bleated and ran in a circle around Alain. ‘Your battle with Lee was so, so cool! Your Mega Charizard X was especially wicked!’

To Alain, the worst part of the Masters 8 was the publicity; people begging him for autographs he never gave, pictures being taken of him both with and without his permission, parasocial maniacs believing they were friends despite having never met… most of all, Alain had no idea how to deal with the bright-eyed ones gushing over him. It was awkward, but he did not want to be rude and chase the boy off.

‘Ah, sorry! I haven’t even introduced myself!’ Whatever god out there must have heard his prayers, for the kid backed off and straightened himself up. Thumping a hand on his chest, he pointed at Wooloo and then himself. “This is Wooloo, my partner. I’m Hop! Lee—I mean Leon’s—little brother!’

That explained a lot about his behaviour. Upon closer inspection, they did look alike, the hair and eyes being especially similar. Heck, even their beaming smiles were the same.

‘…I didn’t know Leon had a little brother,’ not knowing what else to say, Alain stated the first thing on his mind. ‘Uh, nice to meet you?’

‘Nice to meet you too!’ Hop was not put off the slightest by his awkwardness. ‘Didn’t think I’d be so lucky to bump into you!’

Hop’s enthusiasm was speedily growing on Alain. Plopping down next to Alain while sweeping Wooloo into his arms, Hop yammered off about battles and strategies and Charizard. Hop’s analysis of the battle ran surprisingly deep, highlighting some subtle details Alain himself missed.

‘You’d make a good professor, Hop,’ Alain commented when Hop paused to catch his breath. ‘You’re really knowledgeable about Pokémon.’

‘I’m Lee’s little brother, after all!’ Hop was obviously trying to stamp down his ego, the sight itself rather amusing. ‘You’ve any little siblings yourself, Mr Alain?’

‘Just Alain is fine—’ Alain found it endearing how Hop could not make up his mind to be polite or not. ‘—and I don’t…’

Alain stopped himself when the image of a certain girl flashed into his mind: her red hair, sparkling eyes, adorable smile; she constantly worried him with her clumsiness; his heart swelled with pride when she succeeded at something… 

‘…uh, I somewhat have… a little sister? She called me her big brother before, but…’ the word “sister” was heavy on Alain’s tongue, perhaps because of his treatment of her in the past. ‘Though we’re not related by blood and neither are we adopted siblings…’

Despite not being related at all whatsoever, both in blood and legally, Mairin was still a huge part of his life. She was a person he wanted to shelter, love and cherish to the very end—was she not comparable to a little sibling he adored?

‘Oh, I get it! She’s like a little sister to you! Why the hesitation?’ Hop understood surprisingly quick, impressing Alain more and more as the conversation went on. ‘If she calls you her big brother, that means you’re her big brother, no? That makes her your sister! Easy as that!’ 

Alas, if only it were that simple, especially after the whole Chespie incident.

‘So how’s she like?’ Hop pressed on. Seeing the enthusiasm of his trainer, Wooloo got in on the action, bumping against Alain’s arm. ‘Is she as good at battling as you?’ 

‘Not really, but she’s extremely passionate about it,’ usually, Alain was more guarded when sharing personal information, but something about Hop made opening up easy. ‘She’s cheerful though clumsy and kind of a ditz.’

‘She sounds brilliant! I can tell you love her a ton!’ Hop laughed. Alain fought the impulse to shield his eyes at how sunny Hop was. ‘I’m sure she admires you just as much as I do with Lee!’

A sudden compulsion overcame Alain, spurring him to reach out. He barely managed to stop himself in time, his hand hovering inches away from Hop’s head. Hop gave him a quizzical look and he internally slapped himself. What was he even thinking? It was impolite to be so affectionate with a stranger—

But, to Alain’s surprise, Hop registered his hand and leaned in. Nuzzling against his palm, Hop’s eyes fluttered shut with obvious enjoyment like an affectionate little Furfrou—or perhaps more like a Wooloo, the perfect mirror to the one bleating contentedly in his lap.

It reminded Alain all too much of Mairin; the way she smiled whenever he pet her on the head or responded to her hugs.

‘Hop?’ The newcomer’s voice had Alain ripping his hand away from Hop. He made a noise of discontent, though he immediately lit up after seeing who walked in. ‘Oh, Alain! You’re here too!’

Getting up in a flash, Hop plopped Wooloo onto the ground and jumped into Leon’s arms. With a practiced ease, Leon scooped him up and spun him in a circle, both brothers cackling in delight. After putting Hop down, Leon ruffled his brother’s hair harshly and turned to Alain. Leon shot him a handsome smile. Alain looked away.

‘I was trying to find you!’ Hop playfully complained. Leon laughed, leaning down to pet Wooloo who bleated gleefully. ‘You got lost again, didn’t you?’

‘Guilty as charged!’ How Leon got lost inside his own home turf was beyond Alain. ‘You got aquatinted with our Alain yet?’

‘Yup! We’re basically best mates now!’ Hop skipped back to Alain, presenting him before Leon like a child showing off his new friend. Leon winked at Alain, his smile growing wider. ‘He was just telling me all about his little sister!’

‘I didn’t know you had a sister! I expect she’s just as cute as Hop here!’ Leon spoke before Alain could clarify that Mairin was not actually his sister. He doubted they cared, however, if Leon shared Hop’s stance on the whole thing. ‘Hopefully she won’t hold a grudge against me for our battle!’

‘She’s not like that,’ Alain sighed. Mairin was too sweet to hold a grudge against anyone, even when completely justified—he knew from personal experience. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

‘What a dignified little lady!’ Leon mused. Alain almost laughed—Leon had no idea. ‘Well, help me tell her that fighting her big brother was super fun, and that he’s one of the coolest, strongest, trainers I know!’

Mairin’s big brother.

‘…thanks,’ Alain found it hard to keep the smile off his face, especially with the brothers grinning back at him. ‘I’ll make sure to tell her just that.’

Ending Notes: Little siblings in Pokémon are so cute… Hop, Mairin, Marnie, Lillie, Bonnie, Max… the list goes on!

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Are you doubting Charizard’s strength?’

‘I’m not!’ To prove his point, Remo clambered atop Charizard’s back, but he hit one of Charizard’s wings on his way up and received an annoyed swat of the Pokemon’s tail. ‘As you can see, I’m kind of a big guy!’

Ever since the incident with Team Flare wrapped up, Remo and Alain occasionally met for battle. Remo never won once, though he always came back for more, loudly proclaiming that he would defeat his “ultimate rival” every time. His enthusiasm was infectious, as Alain soon found himself looking forward to their battles.

It was no different that day with Alain winning 2-6. As all of Remo’s Pokémon were out of commission, in addiction to both of them being low on potions, Remo had no way to fly to the nearest Pokémon Centre. Said Pokémon Centre also happened to be smack in the middle of Lumiose City, and they were… somewhere, in a forest. 

As waking would take too long, Alain offered to fly him there on Charizard instead. That was when he learnt that Remo was not one for flying. He took to the skies on his Garchomp and—Alain wasn’t sure how—Pelipper before, but he much preferred his feet on the ground. 

It would be Remo’s first time flying with another person.

Alain was surprised by how hesitant he was, but in his defence, an ordinary Charizard would never have been able to carry both their weights—except Alain’s partner was not any ordinary Charizard.

‘To Lumiose’s Pokémon Centre,’ Alain, with significantly more grace than Remo, hopped onto his trusty partner’s back. ‘Remo, hold onto me.’

By “hold onto me”, Alain meant “put your hands on my shoulders”. Remo clearly misunderstood him, as Alain found himself in a rib crushing hug as they took off, Remo’s shrieks in surprise dissolving into melodious laughter.

‘I shouldn’t have doubted you!’ Remo squeezed Alain tightly, his voice bellowing across the whipping winds. ‘What a mighty dragon your Charizard is!’ 

Had he been able to talk, Alain would have corrected Remo on how Charizard were not Dragon types in their base form. The air was thin yet crisp, and with Remo’s crushing grip around his middle, Alain gave up breathing altogether.

‘R-Remo,’ Alain choked out, wincing in pain at the elbows digging into his ribs. ‘Tight…’

He thankfully got the message across. Remo loosened his grasp, chuckling out an apology, though he did not sound sorry at all. Alain chose not to call him out on it; much more distracted by Remo’s muscular arms still wrapped firmly around his torso.

‘Actually, Remo,’ to distract himself from how intimately he was being embraced, Alain struck up a conversation. ‘Why do you call yourself a “Dragon Trainer” when Garchomp’s your only dragon?’ 

They flew over the walls surrounding Lumiose City, Charizard expertly weaving between buildings and structures. Remo gasped and shouted at every turn. It took him some time to quiet down, but when he did, he scooted closer to speak. He did so as to not shout over the wind, but Alain’s cheeks flushed at their proximity anyway.

‘It’s because of you, actually!’

That was not the answer Alain expected. Charizard did a sharp turn and Remo yelped, squeezing Alain tightly in his arms again.

‘My starter was Garchoo, so I initially strove to be a dragon specialist,’ Remo loosened his grip without being told, much to Alain’s relief. ‘But I diversified after my loss against you.’ 

‘It’s the best decision I ever made! Look at how strong my team is!’ Remo boasted. Alain could not help but smile. Confidence suited his rival perfectly. ‘I guess I should thank you for motivating me to get even stronger!’ 

Alain stayed silent, unsure how to respond. He instead admired the glittering Prism Tower in the distance, ready to shine bright once the sun set, as well as the people below who looked up at them. Alain spotted a little girl bouncing up and down as she pointed at them, yelling what sounded like “dragon riders” to her laughing father.

‘I never flew over the city before,’ Remo chuckled. A quick glance back showed Remo observing the hustle and bustle below him with great awe. ‘It’s really pretty!’

‘Will you be staying in Lumoise?’ Spurred by something unknown, Alain asked. ‘Or will you be heading off?’ 

‘I’m probably not staying as there’s not much places to train here,’ Remo’s swift response sent a slight pang of disappointment through Alain. ‘I’m going to train at the sea this time! My mountain training clearly wasn’t enough!’ 

It was Alain’s first time meeting someone who sought strength so enthusiastically. While Ash strove to be a “Pokémon Master”, whatever that meant, and Mairin wished to master Mega Evolution, Remo simply chased strength for the sake of it; it was a pure kind of desire free from regret, unlike Alain’s own. It was immensely admirable.

For a moment, Alain wanted to tell Remo that he was so much stronger than he realised—even more so than Alain himself.

‘You’re really admirable,’ Alain settled on a compliment instead, spotting the Pokémon Centre a short distance down. ‘You impress me every time, Remo.’ 

Remo gave him another hefty squeeze, cackling as Alain choked. Thankfully, the bear hug didn’t last long with Charizard landing before the Pokémon Centre. For a moment, Remo lingered, his arms tight around Alain. Before Alain could say anything, he leapt off Charizard and stretched with a loud groan. He whirled around to face Alain, an expectant smile on his face.

‘I’ll be heading off, then,’ Alain petted Charizard on the neck, unwilling to look directly at Remo’s handsome smile. ‘I’ll heal my partners back at the lab. See you next time.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Remo gave Charizard an appreciative pet, the dragon swatting the man with his tail once again, though this time with more playfulness than annoyance. ‘Goodbye then!’

In a movement so quick, Remo leaned in and pecked Alain right at the corner of his mouth.

Alain nearly fell off Charizard, his heart pounding in his chest. Remo guffawed at his bewilderment, completely unapologetic.

‘Take that as a thank you!’ Remo whipped around and marched toward the Pokémon Centre. ‘I promise I’ll return stronger than ever!’

Remo disappeared into the Pokémon Centre, leaving Alain both confused and embarrassed. It took Charizard batting him with a wing to snap him out of his stupor.

‘Shush,’ Alain smacked his partner gently when Charizard gave him a knowing grunt. Heading back to the labs, they took off into the sky. ‘We better get ready for our next match with Remo.’

His eyes could have been playing tricks on him, but Alain swore Remo’s ears turned red when they parted ways. 

Ending Notes: Remo is extremely underrated and deserves so much more love. It’s so cute that he and Alain share a special kind of love that can only be achieved when one guy repeatedly tries and fails to beat the crap out of the other guy. It’s perfect!

Their assailant was far from finished. Scooping up a particularly large rock off the floor—for there were no end to rocks in Granite Cave—the angry Makuhita hurled it straight at Mairin.

‘…how is she doing so badly with a type advantage?’ Leaning against the wall some distance away, Alain exasperatedly watched Mairin—barely—dodge the projectile. ‘Save for Chespie’s toxic earlier, She hasn’t even hit the guy once.’

‘Correction: “little lady”,’ Steven observed Mairin with great amusement, scooting closer to Alain as his scrambling friend attempted to retrieve Bébé. ‘Have you already forgotten what Brawly said?’

On the contrary, Alain recalled Brawly’s words perfectly. According to him, the Makuhita that presently harassed Mairin was a “beautiful, feisty girl who’s the perfect fit for a trainer like Mairin”. Alain never disagreed with someone more.

The Makuhita clearly shared his sentiments, howling in rage as she stomped about. 

Alain never understood how Brawly and Steven were such good friends until he actually met the latter; they were both equally delusional in certain things, such as wholeheartedly believing Mairin would have no issues catching the damn Makuhita.

As tempting as it was to tell Steven just that, Alain opted to shut up and fix him with a blank stare instead. Steven, composed and confident as always, simply grinned and leaned in, soft lips meeting Alain’s cheek in a tender kiss.

Though Steven was his first love, even Alain knew that spending one’s first anniversary in a dank cave, watching a mutual friend struggle with a task as simple as catching a Pokémon, was out of the ordinary. When Steven promised to whisk him away to Hoenn a few days before, Alain had expected a mini honeymoon of sorts; basically, he thought they would be alone. Unfortunately, when Mairin begged to tag along, he found himself unable to say no to her pleading.

So there Alain was, wincing as the ever suffering Bébé got knocked out by a resisted, though particularly vicious, Vital Throw.

‘H-How is she so strong?!’ Mairin cried out to no one in particular, scrambling to find Bébé’s Poké Ball. ‘Isn’t she still poisoned?!’

‘I guess Brawly neglected to mention her ability!’ Steven called out, his voice echoing over the Makuhita’s cries. In a much softer tone, he added: ‘but in his defence, he also didn’t think you’d struggle this much.’ 

While Mairin tried to recall what she read on her Pokédex, Alain attempted to figure out what made Brawly delusional enough to believe the little one would be an easy catch. Feral was a far more fitting word than feisty for her. Not only did the Makuhita unleash a merciless onslaught of attacks onto both Pokémon and trainer, she was also smart enough to throw whatever she got her hands on. The three unconscious Zubat sprawled around them beside their rocks was proof enough. 

Mairin’s face paled as she finally recalled Makuhita’s possible abilities. Left with no other option, she threw out Chespie who, ever the intelligent soul, took one look at the angry, guts-boosted Makuhita and tried to make a run for it. But Mairin’s heart was set on catching the Makuhita, so she pleaded with Chespie to get back into battle. Just as weak to her pleading as Alain was, Chespie did just that, albeit with great reluctance.

Alain pitied them both deeply. When Mairin heard from Brawly about a rare female Makuhita spotted lurking around Granite Cave, she had gotten all excited and asked Alain and Steven to accompany her to catch the little one. It proved to be the pragmatic choice, considering the two new Zubat that joined their brethren as collateral damage.

Not that Steven was inclined to help. 

Alain had wanted to assist her right away but was stopped by Steven. He told Alain to let her do it by herself, to let her grow as a trainer, though Alain knew he also harboured ulterior motives.

‘I’m just going to help her,’ Alain reached into his pocket, digging for Unfezant’s Poké Ball. ‘Chespie took damage at the start of the battle already, so he’s not going to last long.’

‘Just trust her,’ Steven plucked out the hand in Alain’s pocket and brought it to his lips, planting a sweet kiss on Alain’s knuckles. ‘It’s not as if poison isn’t doing its job.’ 

Just as he said that, the Makuhita wavered and dropped the rock she in her hands. Noticing the shift in demeanour, Mairin immediately began her counterattack, inciting a sort laugh from Steven as he pulled Alain into an embrace. Perhaps she could do it without help after all.

‘Did you struggle to catch Pokémon when you first started too?’ Relenting to his lover’s whims, Alain stroked Steven’s hair, who purred into his collarbone. ‘Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you were some natural prodigy.’

‘I struggled more trying to capture your heart,’ in classic Steven fashion, he dodged the question. ‘My goodness were you stubborn! Rejecting me over and over because you thought I was making a mistake, as if I ever do.’

‘Seriously?’ Opting to ignore the latter half of Steven’s statement, Alain sighed. That was cheesy even in Steven’s standards, but Alain’s heart raced anyway. ‘What kind of answer is that?’ 

Steven merely kissed his neck in response. Alain sighed, unable to suppress the small smile creeping up his face. He had always been the sentimental type. Alain never thought he would care about things like anniversaries and whatnot, but with Steven? It was just as incredible as falling in love. 

‘Alain! Steven! I think I got it!’ Mairin’s shrilly voice tore Alain away from Steven. Naturally, Steven pouted and Alain ignored him. ‘Wait, where’s my Poké Balls?!’

Chespie, cradling the unconscious Bébé—why Mairin had yet to return her to her ball was beyond Alain—in his arms, knocked over his trainer’s bag with his vines. Mairin seized the first empty ball she saw, and with the sleek luxury ball Steven gifted her in hand, she lobbed it straight at the wobbling Makuhita.

One flash of red later and the Makuhita was gone. The Poké Ball clattered to the ground with a loud thump. Everyone held their breaths as it shook once, twice, thrice, before clicking shut with a sparkle.

‘I did it!’ Mairin whooped, dancing in a circle as she scooped up the ball. She skipped over to Steven and Alain, who were standing a respectable distance from each other, and proudly showed it to them. ‘I caught a Makuhita!’

‘Good job!’ Steven, his pout replaced with an encouraging smile, ruffled her hair. Her beaming smile warmed Alain to the core. ‘You did it all on your own, too!’

‘You better get to a Pokémon Centre,’ as much as Alain wanted to hug and tell her how proud he was, that could wait. Someone needed to remember the important things. ‘Fast.’

Mairin yelped and scrambled off, tripping over her spilled belongings multiple times in the process. Once she returned Bébé and Chespie as well as packed her bag, she dashed toward the entrance with Alain and Steven hot on her heels. She was never the fastest runner anyway, so catching up posed no problem.

‘You can ask Brawly for tips on training Makuhita,’ Steven suggested. It was an obvious attempt to rid of her, but she thankfully failed to notice. ‘Why not stay at his gym? We can meet after dinner!’ 

‘Okay then!’ The first rays of sunlight hit Mairin’s face as they finally exited the Arceus-forsaken cave. ‘I’ll be off then! See you tonight!’ 

Mairin broke away from them, sprinting for the Pokémon Centre. Stopping at the cave’s entrance, Alain watched her figure shrink in the distance, Relaxing at the familiar weight of a hand settling into his own, slender fingers intertwining themselves with his.

‘So, now that we’re alone and Mairin’s not coming back,’ Alain squeezed Steven’s hand. Steven squeezed back, a brilliant smile on his face. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I was thinking we head back inside,’ Steven prattled off as he tugged Alain into the cave with him. ‘I heard that a new ore vein has recently been discovered…’

Alain groaned. He suddenly wished Mairin would come back.

Ending Notes: With this, Alain Shipping Week TSME Week has officially started! I’m really looking forward to the next few days! What do you think Mairin would name her Makuhita?

Against her better judgement, Furina often daydreamed about another world where they were coworkers rather than… political acquaintances. Arlecchino had all the makings of a movie star: the dignified demeanour, the elegant presence that commanded absolute attention, the seductive beauty…

…the ability to make anyone swoon and agree to things they probably should not be doing…

Furina could not remember how she got into her present situation—only that she had agreed to it against all her sense of self-preservation.

She could not move, or more specifically, she dared not to move. Seated primly on the scarlet loveseat before Furina, dressed to the nines with only her hands bare, Arlecchino rested her drink over her crossed legs. The cup of black tea looked dainty against her thin fingers, slender yet strong enough to snap necks. Merely looking at them set Furina’s face aflame, memories of what exactly those fingers could do flooding her mind.

Arlecchino’s gaze was a blade against Furina’s skin, contrasting the languid sip she took of her tea. Furina did her best to stay still, arms stiff by her side as she tried not to buckle under the scrutiny, shivers raking through her body in sporadic bursts. The cause of her shaking was unclear; it could be Arlecchino’s piercing eyes, the coldness of the room, or both. 

It did not help that she was stark naked while Arlecchino remained impeccably clothed.

Furina once dreamt of a noble stranger sweeping her off her feet, taking away the need for her to keep playing the farce of Hydro Archon. Then, the Traveller came, and she could live her days in leisure with Neuvillete more than happy to provide all she required for a good, comfortable life. Yet, it was not her otherworldly companion who watched her whimper and shake, nor was it the dragon who stayed with her through thick and thick staring at her thighs soaked with slick. It was instead Arlecchino, who set her cup to the side and folded her hands over her knees.

She smiled—a beautifully wicked thing—her tongue swiping at her rogue-painted lips.

Furina shuddered again, swallowing the whine that bubbled up the back of her throat. The fondness in Arlecchino’s eyes went straight to her heart.

‘Good girl,’ Arlecchino’s low whisper was almost a moan. Furina bit her lip, clenching her fists as another wave of arousal washed through her. ‘Breathtaking, my princess, utterly beautiful.’

Furina moved to respond, to tell Arlecchino that she was just as gorgeous: an ice queen below only to her Archon, a stern but loving father, a blazing warrior of a woman. The words died on Furina’s leaden tongue. Arlecchino incited fear and arousal in all who gazed upon her, Furina included. The human body was truly strange; it instinctually turned from danger yet also grew excited by it.

Furina could never forget the first time Arlecchino showed up at her door. She almost had a heart attack on the spot. Carrying Furina’s favourite cake in hand and a pleasant smile on her face, Arlecchino had asked with unsettling tenderness for entry. Had they been lovers, it would be a scene for the ages; a romantic tryst while the rest of the world slept, the audience waiting with bated breaths for the moment they kissed.

Arlecchino claimed to have heard of her role in the prophecy from Neuvillette and wanted to apologise. Much praise was given to her “incredible strength and “endless pains endured”, and they ended that night in Furina’s bed.

Furina could still hear the sharp ring of Arlecchino’s cackling while she cried and screamed like it was yesterday. She had not been able to look Neuvillete in the eye ever since. 

‘The sight of you naked, vulnerable…’ with particular emphasis on the last word, Arlecchino rose from her seat. ‘I can scarcely believe it’s all mine.’

Arlecchino strolled to Furina, circling her like a predator would their prey, their bodies inches from touching. Furina flinched, freezing under Arlecchino’s cold voice. The icy bite of her tone! The sheer reverence in her voice! Furina never knew worship could be delivered with such intimacy, such tenderness, such possessiveness! Their relationship would be the scandal of the century, requiring the utmost secrecy. The layer of excitement it added to their dance was a small consolation.

Waiting became simultaneously the worst and best kind of agony, Arlecchino having trained her body in ways even the raciest stories failed to fathom. Arlecchino merely threading a hand through her hair, caused another gush of slick to erupt from Furina’s pussy. Furina’s face burned with humiliation, her arms twitching upward, desperate to cover her exposed chest and private parts.

‘Colour?’ Arlecchino’s drawl was expectant—a warning to be completely honest. ‘I want the truth, darling.’

There was no “stop” or “please let me go”,  only “red”, “orange” and “green”; the proof of Arlecchino’s deep respect for her boundaries. Furina was immensely grateful for it, as deep down, she knew she enjoyed the treatment—she just disliked admitting it. 

‘…G-Green,’ Furina closed her eyes in shame, humiliation burning deep in her belly. She heard a pleased hum as a slender finger traced up her back. ‘P-Please continue…’

‘Good girl.’

Furina almost passed out. 

‘You’ve gotten so much lovelier since we last met,’ Arlecchino’s hand planted itself at her hip, the other stroking her shoulder. ‘And I know I’m not biased from missing you so much.’

The hand from her hip travelled to her stomach, Furina instinctually sucking in her gut at the ticklish sensation, preening beneath Arlecchino’s featherlike caresses. Just a little more pressure and Furina would bruise—a stark reminder that she was completely at Arlecchino’s mercy.

‘Have you been eating well?’ Arlecchino stroked her arm, fingers caressing her trembling skin. ‘You’re getting thinner.’

Arlecchino stopped her ministrations, stepping behind Furina and pulling back her hands. While Furina could not see her expression, the pause indicated she wanted—demanded—an answer. 

‘I’ve been eating all rig—’ piles upon piles of empty macaroni boxes flashed through her mind. Furina desperately shoved the thoughts away. ‘—I-I haven’t been skipping meals!’

A gentle smack against her behind made Furina lurch. She quickly straightened herself up, pointedly ignoring how wet her thighs became.

‘Lying does a disservice to your beauty, dearest,’ Arlecchino tutted. Furina thought to defend herself, but Arlecchino silenced her with a touch. ‘As does not caring for yourself.’

Arlecchino’s arm snaked around Furina to the front, resting on her chest. Cupping one of her small breasts, Arlecchino squeezed hard. Furina whimpered. She hated and loved the enjoyment it incited in her. Arlecchino’s other hand landed on her shoulder, rubbing assuring circles into them. She caught Furina’s arm in her grip, tracing her hand down, up, down, up… the slow movement was hypnotic to Furina’s frayed consciousness. Furina pressed her legs together, hissing at the rough fondling of her body.

A sudden urge to see Arlecchino’s face seized Furina. Her fear momentarily forgotten, Furina craned her neck, only for the hand on her arm to grab her face. She froze, forced to stare right ahead as Arlecchino harshly pinched her nipple, tears prickling at her eyes from the Knave’s disapproving tut. The last thing she wanted to do was displease Arlecchino.

‘Patience, dearest,’ two slender fingers swiped against her lips. Furina parted them on reflex, her body awfully accustomed to taking Arlecchino’s orders. ‘See? It’s not that hard.’

Arlecchino’s nails were short; a testament to her wanting it as much as Furina did. Furina brought her lips around Arlecchino and sucked in her cheeks, pressing the flat of her tongue against the perfect pads of Arlecchino’s fingers. Slicking them up with her mouth, she held her jaw slack, tonguing at Arlecchino’s digits as a memory of the first time she went down on Arlecchino resurfaced. She had sobbed while desperately lapping at the Arlecchino’s folds, drinking in the woman’s laughs that were as sweet as the ambrosia on her tongue.

To think she once hated her tears. Crying was liberating—especially when Arlecchino kissed them away afterward.

Arlecchino let go of her breast, and before Furina could take a breath, those cruel fingers curled around her arse. Furina gasped, a flood of tears and slick escaping her eyes and cunt respectively. She felt so small. So weak. Arlecchino could crush her at any moment. It terrified her, aroused her, to no end.

‘What a lovely sound,’ Arlecchino’s nails dug into soft flesh, squeezing once as she bit the shell of Furina’s ear. ‘No need to hold back, my little songbird.’ 

Arlecchino’s tongue was scalding hot; no doubt supplemented by her pyro vision. Furina keened at the warmth, moans muffled by the fingers that heated up as they toyed with her tongue. Some of her saliva escaped her lips, dribbling down her chin to the ground, her mouth kept open by Arlecchino’s silent command. The hand on her rear crept lower, ghosting over her pussy, and Furina’s knees buckled, nearly giving way as Arlecchino stroked her folds oh so gently—a stark contrast to how roughly she toyed with Furina’s lips.

Furina sucked on Arlecchino’s fingers like her life depended on it. Arlecchino slipped her middle finger into Furina, meeting no resistance with how soaked Furina was, Furina inches away from biting down in her ecstasy. 

‘You’re so wet,’ Arlecchino’s tongue swiped against Furina’s ear, a hint of teeth grazing her skin. ‘Is it because of your Hydro vision, or do you just enjoy being toyed with that much?’

Offering her some mercy, Arlecchino kissed her ear and told her to relax, requesting Furina to relinquish her everything to Arlecchino like an obedient pet. Furina obliged. Her body, once pulled taut like a bowstring, relaxed. Furina shuddered at easily Arlecchino could command her body to comply. 

Pulling her fingers out of Furina’s mouth, Arlecchino wrapped her hand around the Furina’s middle, muscular arm hidden beneath the cloth of her coat. Furina desperately wanted to feel Arlecchino’s bare skin against her own. Still, she knew her place: she was not to speak up unless requiring the safeword.  

Arlecchino shifted her finger, allowing Furina to grow used to the sensations, sliding in her ring finger when Furina loosened up enough. For some time, she slid her digits in and out with languid cruelty, torturing Furina with pleasure and anticipation.

Bracing her arm against the flat of Furina’s stomach, Arlecchino brushed her index finger against Furina’s clitoris. Furina’s knees finally gave way to the shock of pleasure up her spine, but Arlecchino kept her standing. Moaning, Furina tried and failed to ignore how turned on she was by the fact that Arlecchino could support her full weight with just one arm.  

‘Easy there, dearest,’ Arlecchino’s smirk felt searing against Furina’s hair. ‘I’ve got you.’

She slackened her arm, threatening to drop Furina, before tensing it once more. The spike of panic only made Furina even wetter, leaving her vulnerable to the sudden wave of heat that enveloped her pussy. Her face just as soaked as her cunt, Furina sobbed, strangled moans flying freely from her mouth. Her arms remained no longer at her sides, instead clawing pitifully at Arlecchino’s sleeve.

Muffled by her hair, Furina barely registered Arlecchino’s chuckle. A part of her wanted to beg for mercy, to tell Arlecchino to stop, but the other demanded to be set aflame; Arlecchino’s fingers felt like they were on fire, so warm it fuelled Furina’s tears, hurting her in all the best possible ways. She was terrified of being burnt inside out, yet she relished in every second she drowned in the blinding pleasure that made her forget the world.

‘You’re doing so well,’ Arlecchino was usually more stingy with her affections, but with Furina, she showered her in it; bathed her with the attention she craved so badly. ‘Orgasm for me. Let me hear you sing.’ 

Arlecchino parted her fingers, searing digits rubbing against sensitive walls. Furina’s clitoris jumped at every touch, the onslaught of ecstasy vaporising her mind, a blinding pressure blossoming throughout her legs. It took a moment to realise the heat was not from Arlecchino’s vision, but rather, her impending climax.  

‘Let go, Furina.’

With a choked scream, Furina flung her head back and fell apart. She went slack and cried through her climax, slumping over Arlecchino’s arm, her orgasm rushing forth like a flood, spilling all over Arlecchino and the carpet beneath them. Blinking away the tears that blocked her vision, Furina shivered as dexterous fingers massaged her spasming walls, milking her cunt for all it had while shooing away the aches and pains.

Only when the throes of pleasure passed did Arlecchino exit her. Arlecchino skilfully scooped her tired body into a bridal carry.  Panic seized Furina during the brief second she was in the air, but a bleary look at Arlecchino’s smile—doting, much less wicked than the predatory ones before—calmed her instantly.

‘Are you alright, dearest?’ Her voice was thick with adoration as she kissed Furina’s tears away with all the love in the world. ‘I’ll have your carpet cleaned later, so don’t worry.’

‘Mmn…’ Furina could only offer up a tired smile. Leaning up, pleading, she requested for a kiss and was indulged immediately. Mustering all the strength she had left, Furina pulled Arlecchino into a hug. ‘…’M tired…’

‘I’ll draw a bath for you,’ strolling toward the bathroom, Arlecchino transferred Furina into a one-handed carry. ‘So rest, my dearest, and let me handle everything.’

Exhaustion overcame Furina in the absence of arousal. Clinging tightly to Arlecchino’s neck, Furina busied herself with idle thoughts, musing at the baffling changes of their relationship. She would have never let Arlecchino, or anyone else for that matter, handle anything in the past that she could deal with herself. She could not with the role she played.

But now, in the privacy of her loft, they stood as just Furina and Arlecchino. Not the Hydro Archon and the Fourth Harbinger of the Fatui. Only them. 

Closing her eyes, Furina relaxed in Arlecchino’s embrace. It took her a long time to learn to let go, to feel comfortable passing the reins of control to someone else. Fear was once something she despised, but now, she could enjoy it freely. It was a controlled terror with Arlecchino, one that propelled her pleasure to new heights.

Arlecchino may be an enigma, but Furina did not feel scared at all.

Ending Notes: As the guy who third-wheeled them at all their meetings, Neuvillette was probably the one who gave Furina’s address and favourite cake flavour to Arlecchino 🤭

Stormy Night, Warm Embrace

Chapter 1: Stormy Night, Warm Embrace

Clear Day, Cold Touch

Chapter 1: Weeping Sun

Chapter 2: Smiling Rain

Till Evening Comes

Bystanders murmured freely from the sidelines as Amethio paused in his step. Tightening his grip on the bag pressed to his chest, he turned around with a slow, deliberate flick of his ankle, his heeled boots clicking against concrete, the stiffness of his back natural enough to pass off as casual alarm. 

‘How may I help you?’ Amethio tilted his head, a polite smile flickering over his lips. He let it drop as quickly as it appeared, furrowing his brows. ‘Officers?’

A displeased snort rumbled from Charizard beside Amethio. He appraised the two police officers—a man and a woman—with open disdain, his tail lashing against the ground as a smoke-filled huff escaped his jaw. He sidled closer to Amethio, draping a protective wing over his friend.

The officers suspected nothing; anyone would be nervous when halted by law enforcements, and a Pokémon protective of their trainer only indicated a healthy bond.

‘Ah, of course not!’ The policeman rushed to assure him, raising both hands in assurance. ‘We’ve just received a tip-off that two wanted criminals might be around the area.’

Amethio dropped his shoulders and smiled, catching the subtle way the police officers relaxed with him. They were too easy. 

‘Have you seen these men before?’ The policewoman produced a tablet, holding it up for Amethio to see the screen. ‘They’re notorious criminals.’ 

Amethio knew what he would see even before the screen came up. As expected, displayed on the tablet was his own face, staring back at him with an unamused expression—a direct contrast to Friede’s grinning, handsome visage next to him. Feigning concentration, Amethio stared long and hard at the screen, all while Charizard ignored the photos in favour of glaring at the officers.

‘Unfortunately not,’ after some time, Amethio shook his head and stepped away. The motion jostled the bag at his chest, the leaves of a leek peeking over the rim. ‘Charizard, dear, take a look too.’

Charizard turned to the screen with great reluctance, the policeman obviously stifling a smile as his colleague made small talk. The policewoman innocently inquired about the contents of Amethio’s bag, which he was more than happy to show the groceries inside; to be made into a lovely dinner for he and his spouse, Amethio claimed. 

Charizard interrupted them with a loud grumble.

‘He has not seen these men either,’ Amethio bowed his head apologetically. ‘Sorry about my Charizard, by the way, he’s the protective type.’

Amethio hooked an arm beneath Charizard’s head, pulling the Pokémon closer to press a kiss to the side of his snout. Like magic, Charizard’s open hostility transformed into gentle affection. He nuzzled closer to Amethio with a satisfied snort; together, they made the perfect illusion of Pokémon and trainer.

‘It’s alright! It’s heartening to see that they love you so much,’ the policewoman laughed, tucking the tablet back under her arm. ‘We’re sorry for springing this on you as well.’

‘Truth is, one of the criminals we showed you also owns a Charizard,’ the policeman added, rubbing the back of his neck when Charizard’s glare returned. ‘And the other wields technology that helps him change disguises quickly.’

Amethio pretended not to notice the way they zeroed in on his wrists. They first looked at his right hand, tucked beneath Charizard’s chin, and glanced to his left after noting it bare—which was even easier to see, pressed against his grocery bag. Amethio wore black fingerless gloves, a staple of trainers everywhere, that exposed his pale, and very much empty, wrists. The only adornment that decorated his arms was a plain yet elegant golden ring, wrapped snugly around his wrist.

Satisfied with her survey, the policewoman sought an excuse to end their conversation: a sign that Amethio passed their secret interrogation with flying colours.

‘We shan’t steal you from your spouse any longer, sir,’ the policewoman made a big show of staring at his wedding band, her smile transforming into a grin. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’

‘Then, if you’ll excuse me,’ Amethio nodded, scratching at Charizard’s chin. The light of the setting sun reflected rainbows off his gold ring. ‘Good luck with your search.’

The officers gave him a flyer with some information on the “criminals” before leaving to speak with a staring passer-by. Amethio handed the paper to his partner as they neared their home base, Charizard reducing the flyer to ashes over a nearby bin once they were far enough. Amethio supposed that Lady Luck had yet to forsake them. He wished the police luck with interrogating every trainer with a Charizard, considering how common the species was as a whole. 

Acting natural came all too easy to Amethio, reading the law enforcement even simpler. He stroked Charizard between the wings as they walked, exactly as he knew the Pokémon liked it, offering his thanks to his wonderful co-star. Charizard was just as shrewd and affectionate as his real trainer, the former a useful trait to have when one was on the run.

The sky was a dazzling gradient of purples and oranges by the time Amethio reached his flat. He knocked on the door three times, paused, and then twice: a code to inform the occupants inside of his identity. They were not the only ones who utilised disguises, after all.

The door opened a crack to reveal a sliver of Ceruledge’s gleeful face. Amethio returned Charizard to his Poké Ball and slipped inside, locking the door behind him with a click.

Someone immediately went thundering towards him. Before a pair of arms could crush him in an embrace, Amethio flung the Poké Ball at his assailant.

Friede yelped in protest, forced to catch his partner instead, giving Amethio the time to fasten the extra chain lock on the door. Temporarily giving up on getting his hug, Friede petted the ball a few times in greeting, apologising to his partner for the umpteenth time for the tiny, one-room flat that Charizard was too big to wander about freely.

‘Welcome home~!’ Friede sang with the same grin as the one on his wanted poster. ‘My cute husband!’

‘For the last time, the ring is part of the disguise,’ Amethio tugged said ring off his finger for emphasis, laying it atop the kitchen counter. His gloves followed shortly after. ‘You’re the one who insists on wearing the matching pair.’

Amethio removed his wig and hair net next, the blond bob making way for his natural, two-toned strands, cascading below his collarbones. Wavy like a flickering flame, Amethio flipped them over his shoulder the way he remembered his mother did too little times before. He deposited his disguise and the bag of groceries beside his ring. 

A tap of metal on his hip spurred Amethio to look. Ceruledge balanced a small container on the flat side of his flaming blade, opened for Amethio to divest himself of his contact lenses. Amethio accepted the container with a soft word of thanks. As he stroked the smooth helmet of his partner, Friede watched him with a fondness that had heat crawling up the length of his spine.

In the past, he would have cursed the flutter in his chest, but there was no need to at preset. He basked in the feeling while putting away his contact lenses, leaving it in the pile of items that crowded the counter.

‘I got stopped by the police looking for us,’ Amethio brushed past Friede as he spoke, making a Combeeline for the bed in their combined living-and-bedroom. ‘We’ll have to move soon, preferably tomorrow morning.’

Ceruledge skipped to Friede’s side, the professor pulling out his Poké Ball for him to return to. Friede followed Amethio out of the kitchen, depositing their partners on the sofa where they rolled towards each other.

Containing only a modest kitchen, sofa, table, and a bed, there were no paintings to brighten up the clinical white walls of the flat nor were there flowers to grace their low, sparse table. Their flat was a temporary living space, after all, not a proper home. With nothing to get attached to, there was nothing to mourn when they were inevitably left behind.

‘Boo, just as I was getting cosy here,’ Friede’s sigh rang hollow in Amethio’s ears. Should he turn around, Amethio knew he would still see Friede smiling; though it shall not reach his eyes. ‘Being a wanted criminal is so tough.’

Their backpacks remained always packed for that very reason. Tucked at the foot of the bed, they contained everything two outlaws needed for the road; a constant reminder of the life they lead.

‘You should be grateful that I’m the one who found you,’ Amethio kicked off his shoes and clambered onto the bed, already dreading their imminent moving. ‘At least I know how to avoid the law.’

‘Obviously! Thanks for everything, babe!’ Friede flopped down next to Amethio without asking, the mattress sinking under their combined weight. He took Amethio’s hand into his own and slipped something onto Amethio’s finger. ‘I guess I should be grateful that you turned down my offer to join the Rising Volt Tacklers once upon a time.’

A whole lot of good that did, Amethio almost blurted, but the ring stopped him in his tracks. It was bright around his slender finger, though Friede’s smile—actually genuine—far outshone the glittering gold. Amethio bit back his bitter thoughts and plucked his hand from Friede’s grasp.

He lay down on the soft bed, the pillow warm beneath his head; Friede must have laid it in not too long ago. A pair of arms snaked around Amethio’s hips as Friede descended next to him. Exhausted by their prospects for the future, Amethio permitted Friede to hold him close.

Past him would be mortified to see where he was now: playing at lovebirds while being hunted, indulging in stupid domestic fantasies and egregious physical intimacy with his ex-nemesis whom he found on death’s door just a few months ago, no thanks to his former colleague.

It flew in the face of everything he once stood for.

‘It’s been nearly a year, huh?’ Friede buried his face into Amethio’s hair, brushing his lips over silken locks. Amethio allowed the ensuing shudder to run through him. ‘I wonder how the others are doing.’

Amethio said nothing. He twisted around to wrap his arms around Friede’s middle, folding himself into his companion’s body with practiced ease. Having been the biggest advocate for burying one’s feelings until they broke for most his life, comforting others was not Amethio’s strong suit. He usually relied on Friede to be the bubbly one in their relationship; the carefree pillar who kept them both sane in the depths of darkness, unfazed even as the world turned against them.

However, unlike him, Friede had lost so much more to the cruel whims of both man and fate; the fact he still smiled was a testament to his strength.

‘…Friede,’ out of options, Amethio fell back on the one tactic that never failed. ‘Kiss me.’

Amethio lifted his head and closed his eyes, relaxing in the comforting weight of Friede’s arms as a pair of lips promptly covered his. Amethio opened his mouth, permitting entry to Friede’s inquisitive tongue, their bodies moving to a familiar, invisible melody. They knew the dance all too well, as, after all, entertainment was limited in a life on the run. 

Friede unbuttoned Amethio’s dress shirt with one hand, the other entangling itself into his flowing locks. Their tongues swirled around each other with the gentleness of a raging Tauros. Amethio prodded the back of Friede’s mouth, spurring tender lips to clamp around his tongue in protest, a soft suck extracting a moan from Amethio’s willing throat. Friede hastily removed and threw Amethio’s shirt to the ground with great prejudice, his belt, trousers, and briefs following shortly after. The ring stayed on.

‘On the bright side of things,’ Friede pulled away with a gasp, breaking the string of saliva that connected their lips with a playful swipe of his tongue. ‘I get to have you as my darling husband.’

Amethio did not correct Friede, simply shutting him up with another harsh kiss. Fully naked, his cock stirred against the bulge in Friede’s trousers, demanding the touch of the man who knew him inside out. He groped at Friede’s crotch while tugging at his partner’s shirt, the article of clothing flying off the bed soon after to join his own on the floor. The obvious stirring in Amethio’s palm notified him of the lack of protection beneath Friede’s trousers, as if their exact situation was planned from the start. The bottle of lubricant suspiciously left by the pillow only confirmed his hypothesis.

Friede undressed himself with great haste, some assistance from Amethio allowing them to make quick work of his clothes. They left alone the wedding band on Friede’s ring finger—seductive silver a perfect pair to glittering gold. 

Amethio grabbed the lubricant and twisted off the cap. He emptied the little that remained in the bottle onto his palm; proof of the sheer number of times they fell into bed together. Amethio made a realisation: he could not recall the last time Friede or he slept separately from the other. Since when had the distance between them disappeared?

He had no time to ponder, not when Friede clambered atop him and planted both palms on either side of his head. Friede’s laugh at Amethio’s knotted brows brimmed with warmth. Friede’s libido exhausted Amethio on most days, old wounds and ugly scars doing little to deter Friede from seeking his carnal affections, but trapped beneath the stupidly alluring professor, Amethio melted like pliant wax, embarrassment replaced with the fierce longing to have Friede, wholly connected with him body and soul.

He refused to admit his appreciation of Friede’s open admiration of his body. He knew Friede was aware of it all the same.

Amethio took Friede’s cock into his hand, his scarred palm eliciting an electrifying hiss from his partner. The coolness of the ring shielded him from the passion of Friede’s heated skin. Amethio slathered lubricant over the professor’s cock with quick, deliberate pumps, the familiar weight in his hand dragging his heart down to his loins, affection flaring through both their bodies where hand and cock intertwined.

The perfunctory stroking was more to lubricate Friede than to actually pleasure him, but the harrowing desire for more ignited within Amethio nevertheless. He blamed the blazing gaze that Friede subjected him to.

‘You always know how to make me happy,’ Friede snickered, leaning back to drink in the sight of Amethio, admiring the demure pink that flooded Amethio’s pale cheeks. ‘You’re beautiful, babe.’

‘Quiet,’ Amethio increased his grip, the yelp he elicited tempering his embarrassment. He guided Friede to his unprepared rear with more force than necessary. ‘Just put it in already.’ 

Exactly as requested, a sharp thrust cut Amethio off, pain erupting through his body with torrid pleasure overpowering it shortly after. His body embraced Friede with little protest despite the lack of preparation. Ecstasy seeped straight into his bones, turning him soft and malleable in Friede’s arms. Amethio had grown used to Friede’s shape, Friede’s warmth, Friede’s love that he delivered with each buck of his hips. It could not have differed more from the other men Amethio slept with before; those men did not prepare him as they were impatient; Friede did not prepare him as Amethio was impatient.

Amethio threw his arms around Friede’s neck, dragging the professor into a desperate kiss. Save for the initial breach, Friede inched his way into Amethio with great care, dragging the length of his cock over oversensitive walls. Amethio let out a muffled cry, the burn of the stretch aggravating his cravings for more, the grin against his mouth only feeding his vigour.

Friede was long and thick, though not big enough to hurt Amethio to the point of distress; the absolute perfect size. Friede exuded a warmth that incinerated Amethio’s shame and pride, spurring him to cling to Friede as if the universe would steal his love away the moment he freed Friede from the cage of his limbs. Amethio struggled to breathe with Friede’s tongue down his throat, his chest heaving at the gradual stretch; the slow, tantalising slide of Friede’s cock deeper into his body. Sparks exploded behind Amethio’s eyelids, his fingers tangling themselves through Friede’s snowy hair. Just like Amethio’s, his hair was longer than before, from the past that could be a lifetime ago.

‘Fuck,’ Friede whimpered as Amethio broke away to breathe, chasing his lips with an eager tongue. ‘You’re so tight—!’

The slow rocks reverberated through Amethio with the force of an earthquake, Friede’s low groans rumbling through his body as aftershocks. Amethio sucked in a deep, haggard breath, forcing himself to relax around the cock that twitched viciously against his prostate. The pain never lasted with Friede; only pleasure remained to envelop Amethio whole. Friede radiated with heat, with love, and looking at him almost hurt. Yet, Amethio threw himself happily beneath Friede’s rays anyway.

It was just them in that little room: two souls entangling themselves together, two hearts beating as one.

Friede wrapped a hand around Amethio’s cock, stroking Amethio in tandem with his hurried thrusts. Amethio arched his back into Friede’s torso, the ring searing against his sensitive cock, branding him in ways he never knew possible. He tugged Friede’s hair, scraping blunt nails through his lover’s scalp.

Amethio bucked into Friede’s fist while Friede pushed into him, slow yet desperate, gentle yet powerful. Gasps tumbled freely from Amethio’s lips. Friede pumped excruciating ecstasy through him with each perfect strike against his prostate, bruising grip constricting further around his cock.

As he whimpered around Friede’s cock, Amethio thought about how they were going to get the life they deserved. Amethio would tear apart heaven and earth for Friede to see the Rising Volt Tacklers again. Friede would be allowed to embrace them exactly as he did with Amethio, bask in their long-missed presence, and reminisce about better days. Just as how Amethio still had Zirc and Onia to rely on, Friede must reunite with his friends. 

As he dragged Friede into another kiss, Amethio fumed about how people like Friede—people like himself—belonged under the sun, meant to relish in each other without a care, high strung and desperate for touch. Friede was born to be above him and he below Friede, locked in a tangle of limbs and lust. Making love as the world crumbled around them was not their promised future.

As he felt the heat pool at the base of his belly, pleasure sapping the strength from his muscles, Amethio dreamt about an adventure with Friede. They would spend their days exploring through the wide, wide world, passing their nights in the passionate embrace of each other beneath a sky blanketed by stars.

As he felt the crushing rush of his impending orgasm, Amethio mustered the courage to utter the three words that plagued him. Be it his best days or his worst, the feelings he bore stayed stubborn in the depths of his heart. Friede had burrowed deep into his soul and made a home for them in there. There was no other way to describe the agony they shared as anything else.

‘Friede,’ Amethio cried as the claws of climax shredded through him. He spilt himself all over Friede. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ with Friede, one never needed to hesitate or second guess themselves. Their matching rings, bought at some random store on some random day, bore the promise of that. ‘I will never, ever, forget to tell you that.’

Friede stroked Amethio through his explosive orgasm, wringing out every last drop of semen from his convulsing body. He slammed all the way in at the same time, burying himself as deep as he could, filling the cracks and crevices that made up Amethio with his love. Like everything else about him, Friede’s climax was searing. Amethio relished in the heat that flooded him, the shallow rutting of Friede’s hips, the press of metal against his whimpering cock…

Amethio released Friede to pluck the his lover’s hand off his length, twining their fingers together in a firm hold. They lay together in silence as dreary reality returned to them piece by piece. Even as the hymn of heaven sang its last note, Friede remained buried deep in Amethio.

‘We’ll get it back: our lives, our freedom, our dreams—’ Amethio rambled like a man desperate for vengeance. ‘I’ll officially join the Rising Volt Tacklers, I swear.’

‘You will,’ Friede pulled him in for another deep kiss, voice thick with devotion. ‘And I’ll be the first to welcome you home, Amethio.’

Friede laid kisses over Amethio’s flushed cheeks, his sharp, neat brows, and his fluttering eyelashes that framed his piercing eyes, smouldering with a myriad of emotions. There was nothing more to say after that. Their matching rings kissed around their fingers, one gold, one silver, and Amethio and Friede fell into each other once more.

Tomorrow they would survive. Today they would live. 

Ending Notes: Back then, I fell out of the Pokémon fandom and when I returned, Friede apparently fucking “died” 🤣 This was my headcanon back then on what happened during the time skip. I written this (in a 3 hour sitting from 12-3am…) mostly because I wanted to end off the series, but also the thought of Friede becoming a criminal with Amethio was WAY too funny to pass up.

I took too long trying to figure out how to conclude the series so Horizons goes and does it for me HAHAHA

I’m quite surprised we got a canonical time skip, considering we got Mr 10 years old for 25 years Ash, but I loved it! This ship holds a very special place in my heart as my first work on AO3 after a few years of no writing… so I do hope that you found it a pleasant read!

He was uncomfortably warm despite the room’s air conditioning, no thanks to the sweat that trickled down his body in sticky rivulets. His nails were stuck in his blanket from clawing it in his sleep as if it were a straitjacket. Amethio blinked once, twice, and scowled. What a perfect way to start the morning. He forced himself to breathe deep, instructing his frazzled heart to focus on the plain ceiling above, tapping into his long-honed skill of tampering panic.

It did the trick, the ceiling growing clearer with each breath, chasing off most of the unpleasant remnants—memories—of the night. Most. 

His dark callused hands caressed Amethio’s scars, his snowy white hair damp with fresh rain, his concerned eyes a soft plea for Amethio to consider it, please consider it…

Join the Rising Volt Tacklers. 

Since that fateful thunderstorm, the same sorry dream had haunted Amethio nearly every night. Allowing Friede to wait out the weather in his base had been a grave mistake, and taking him to bed an even bigger blunder. What was he thinking back then? Tempted by that cocky smirk and bronze skin—focus. He needed to focus. There was no time for drifting. Casting his treacherous thoughts aside, Amethio dragged himself out of the swamp of sleep, exhaustion clinging to his eyelids like sticky mud.

Extremely annoyed, disoriented, and also in pain both physically and spiritually, Amethio braced himself for a new dreary day. The clean ceiling politely wished him a good morning as he sat upright, absentmindedly looking down his body. 

Suddenly, Amethio was free from the haze of sleep, the iron hammer of shame smashing his dignity to pieces. The large stain on his trousers greeted him with much less tact than the innocuous ceiling. Ripping off his blanket, Amethio surveyed the damage, anger surging through him. Thankfully, his body’s juvenile stunt failed to soak through his clothes and into the sheets. 

Rising from the coffin of his bed, Amethio glanced at his clock on the wall. The mocking clock hands gesticulated that it was eight in the morning, long past his usual rising at six.

Just. Bloody. Perfect.

The thought of sleeping in came and was cast out just as quickly. Amethio swept a glance around his room, taking in the austere residence devoid of windows, lights, and dreams. Outside would be the same; headquarters was nothing more than a glorified sepulchre, after all, full of desiccated halls teeming with lonely shadows. The last time Amethio had been there in the creeping cemetery was when he failed to secure Liko’s pendant.

This time he was not alone. Spinel’s unexpected fuck-up followed by an even more embarrassing string of recent failures had incurred the acrimony of his grandfather, and with his rage came the whip of discipline: Hamber, anathema to grunt and admin alike. It was a group burial for the admins of the Explorers, with Hamber playing their necromancer who rose them each day to train them until dusk. Even Amethio, strict on others and more so on himself, could not fault his body for remaining drained despite a long night’s sleep. The dream only contributed to his predicament. 

At least Hamber was not a monster. He knew humans were like machines: even the best of them would break down without proper maintenance. Hence, everyone was permitted a day for recovery, self-reflection, and personal betterment. The break was welcomed by all except for Amethio. The break was torment to his proclivity for making his own life difficult. He wished, his colleagues be damned, that they could train instead.

He wanted, needed, to redeem himself for all the mistakes he made. Distracted, he had embarrassed himself in front of his fellow admins the day before. Coral’s opprobrious remarks meant as little to him as Spinel’s blistering taunts, but his grandfather was another story. Amethio had long shed the shell of a gauche, frightened teenager. He was a coiled rod, ready to strike on command, tempered and honed to perfection.

Yet, he failed.

Merely thinking of Gibeon’s displeasure had Amethio sinking into the familiar abyss of frustration and guilt. He refused to disappoint his grandfather the same way his father did.

But aren’t you already disappointing him by cavorting, desiring, the enemy?

Rising from the murky depths of Amethio’s mind was his greatest critic: himself. The wicked voice’s saccharine sweet cadence reverberated through his skull. Amethio threw himself onto his feet, his loathing chasing the voice back beneath the darkness, though he knew—and hated that—it would return soon enough. The vestiges of filthy compunction lingered, ringing true and persistent.

As much as he wanted to crawl back into his coffin and shut himself from the world, sitting around solved nothing. Shedding his soiled layers, Amethio went to the bathroom to scrub his clothes in the sink, exchanging the walk of shame to the laundry room for the tedious task. Once he was finished, he mechanically freshened up for the day, going through the motions like a record on repeat, executing each task with a focus he wished he had the day before.

Soon, he stood before the mirror as the quintessence of monotonous professionalism—the perfect package to shield the storm that raged within. His deepest, darkest, fantasy was safe for another day.

Feeling much better, Amethio headed to the communal kitchen. With the morning fiasco having killed his appetite, he settled on having a simple blend of coffee, preferably made from the beans he saw Hamber prepare the day before.

Striding through the ebony-arched doorway into the kitchen, two heads swivelled around to meet Amethio. Behind his mask of indifference, Amethio scowled. There went all hope of some peaceful alone time.

‘Ladies are out: Coral dragged Chalce with her to some trendy café,’ Spinel, succinct as ever, informed Amethio in lieu of a greeting. ‘Not sure where Hamber is. Probably with the boss.’ 

At least the noisiest of them was out. Sidian contributed nothing to the statement, his golden eyes narrowing at Amethio who in turn fearlessly met his gaze. The staring contest lasted for three seconds before Sidian broke eye contact, finishing off the onigiri in his hand.

‘You’re late today,’ Sidian stalked to the sink to wash his hands. ‘What happened yesterday? You were fucking up left and right.’ 

‘Good morning to you too, Sidian,’ Amethio spoke evenly, anger kept tightly under wraps. He made a Combeeline to the coffee cabinet, pointedly keeping his ramrod straight back turned to Sidian. ‘If you’re trying to gloat, I’m not in the mood.’

Cracking open the cabinet, Amethio scanned the shelf for the coffee beans. He found an empty packet instead. Sighing, he resigned himself to the other coffee beans available, already wishing to get back to training posthaste.

‘Sheesh, I’m just asking,’ Sidian’s meaty hand came to rest on Amethio’s lower back, huge enough to cover the small of it. ‘You were a mess yesterday. It’s not like you to screw up ‘till Hamber lectures you— that’s more of Coral’s style.’

‘Well, it’s obvious he’s still upset by Hamber’s scolding,’ a set of fingers dug into Amethio’s shoulder, this time belonging to Spinel. His cutthroat colleague stepped into the line of his peripheral vision. ‘Though I expected him to be happier about it; to have an excuse to make it up to Hamber— if you catch my drift.’ 

His body moved before he could stop himself. Amethio slapped Spinel’s hand away and backed into Sidian, thumping against his colleague’s rigid chest. Spinel raised both arms in mock surrender, heart-curved lips blossoming into an easy smile.

Amethio mentally cursed, hurrying away from Sidian to his unbrewed coffee. Losing his temper was a mistake.

‘Wow, you’re really out of it,’ Spinel laughed. ‘Little Purrloin has claws—’ 

‘Seriously, is everything alright?’ Sidian, in a rare act of consideration, cut Spinel off. The hand around Amethio’s waist squeezed tighter, more placating than violating. ‘Is it about the recent missions? Did something unpleasant happen?’

Abandoning his coffee altogether, Amethio turned to address Sidian, readying himself for an argument before the realisation struck: he could make use of the situation.

‘I’m just frustrated from yesterday,’ Amethio placed his gloved palm atop Sidian’s bare hand, curling it around meaty fingers. ‘I need to let off some steam.’

‘Oh?’ If anyone were to be a Purrloin, it was Sidian, with the way his eyes narrowed to slits at the admission. ‘My Pokémon are tired from yesterday, so if you want a fight, it’s going to be with our fists. Or do you—’

‘We’ll do it as we always do,’ Amethio interrupted. ‘Fight, then sex.’ 

⊰———❤︎———⊱

‘Hamber texted back,’ Spinel’s Rotom Phone went zipping back into his pocket. ‘We can use the place.’

Spinel stalked over to Amethio’s side and nudged a rough knuckle against his cheek. Amethio, who was in the midst of stretching his legs, straightened up.

‘Sucking Hamber’s dick must really pay off.’

‘If you’re so desperate for Hamber, go fuck him yourself.’

‘You two cut it out,’ Sidian snapped, halting the start of a lengthy argument. He stomped to the middle of the dojo, stopping at the centre of its open sparring field. ‘Amethio, hurry over here.’

Sidian got into stance, spreading his legs and bending his knees, holding his bare fists up to his face. Amethio took his place before Sidian but did not mirror his actions. Instead, with an elegant sweep of his leg, Amethio positioned one foot in front of the other, his knees also bent, with his arms rigid by his sides. Both of them had ditched their gloves, spurred on by the idea of raw-knuckled brutality.

‘Let’s have a fair fight,’ Sidian tilted his head, the crack of his neck echoing through the dojo. Amethio responded with a swift nod. ‘Spinel, you’re the judge.’

‘Fight’s over when someone gets knocked onto their back or receives a major injury,’ Spinel stood outside the court, raising an arm. He dropped it with a shout. ‘Begin!’

While he was not the best Pokémon battler, Sidian, both metaphorically and literally, stood head and shoulders above everyone else when it came to physical combat. Aside from Hamber, who taught all the admins sans Spinel everything, none ever bested Sidian before. Even Spinel, two years older than Sidian and also not above playing dirty, could not beat him.

He and Amethio were only a year apart and yet so different. It made Amethio seethe. Why could he not be stronger? Faster? Better? Sidian’s build was deceptive; most expected him to be easy to trip up with his burly shoulders and lumbering gait, but in actuality, Sidian was as fast as a raging Mabostiff off its leash, each strike delivered with pinpoint ruthlessness.

Amethio had made the mistake of underestimating Sidian’s speed the first time they clashed. It ended with Sidian fucking his bruised and broken body on the floor right there and then like some washed-up whore, each pump of Sidian’s hips filling him with raw, hot shame. Hamber watched the whole thing unfold with a face devoid of expression: no anger, no disappointment, and no arousal, either.

Sidian left many scars that day on both his skin and soul, his defiant spirit beaten into submission. Just thinking back on it made said wounds sting once more. Hamber had lectured Amethio on the dangers of assuming back then, all while Sidian wordlessly patched him up.

Sidian kissed him once Hamber left, telling him with great aplomb that he would never, ever, win.

The humiliation was unbearable.

Once more did Sidian display his speed. Zipping forth, the first punch was thrown: a left hook, swung right for Amethio’s face. Utilising the difference in their heights, Amethio ducked down and drove a closed fist into Sidian’s abdominals. Spinel would have aimed for the crotch, but Amethio refused to stoop to that smarmy, dishonourable bastard’s level. Spinel prioritised subterfuge and mind games. Amethio and Sidian preferred to speak with direct action.

Sidian’s flexed stomach was a concrete wall, Amethio’s knuckles screaming in protest, fingers creaking under the weight. Despite the added force from Amethio’s swing and the momentum of his dive, Sidian did not bat an eye. Both hands locked in a fist, Sidian swung his arms down. As much as Amethio disliked attacking from behind, it was his best shot at victory against the ogre that was Sidian. He dove to the left around Sidian, striking his palm against the ground as leverage to swing his body up, slamming both his feet into the back of Sidian’s knee.

Sidian barely sidestepped the kick. Grasping the opening, he seized one of Amethio’s ankles and yanked with all his might. Adrenaline rushed to Amethio’s head, blurring the world around him as he went soaring through the air. He managed to twist his body at the last minute, landing square on his stomach with a wheeze.

Amethio immediately rolled away, Sidian’s fist landing where he previously lay, the loud ‘bang!’ of the monster’s hand colliding with the floor assaulting his ears, shaking his confidence. Channelling the spiking fear into his kick, Amethio executed his previous failed manoeuvre, his shoes slamming into Sidian’s cheek. The beast finally flinched, though he otherwise remained unmoving. Sidian made a grab at Amethio’s ankle, but Amethio never repeated mistakes, swiftly backing off and putting distance between them. 

Their scuffle went on for what felt like eternity. An almighty Garganacl, spewing salt all around, and a desperate Ceruledge diving into shadows, striking blunt blades into unmoving stone. No matter how much hits Amethio got in, Sidian did not falter. On the frustrating flip side, Amethio could not afford to get hit even once; a single misstep spelled his end. Strategy thrown out of the window, Amethio fell back to base instinct—pure unbridled violence, blurred and desperate, a frenzied tango. His muscles protested at every step, every attack, while rushing adrenaline and stubborn will kept exhaustion at bay. Amethio’s clothes were soaked in sweat, bogging down his quick, agile movements.

Amidst the haze of mania, a thought crept to the forefront of Amethio’s mind. Friede looked plenty horrified back when he revealed his wounded flesh. Granted, the Rising Volt Tacklers had no reason to train, evident with how helpless Friede was back when he first attacked in their little cabin. What would Friede think now, seeing Amethio willingly throw his fleshy, weak body into the meat grinder?

Those thoughts lingered for a moment before the wind was knocked out of his lungs.

Amethio caught a glimpse of a burly fist before he was sent flying back, pain exploding through his body. He did not go far thanks to a large, meaty hand that seized his shoulder. The fist that struck him unclenched itself and grabbed the back of his head, and with a shove, Sidian sent them both tumbling to the ground. Amethio landed with an enraged cry.

Thankfully, Sidian’s hand protected him from a concussion and possible death. How considerate.

It made Amethio mad.

Once more he had crumbled; the loser, the prize, to Sidian’s victory.

‘So sloppy,’ Amethio tried to kick out, but Sidian’s heavy knees pressed painfully into his thighs, keeping him pinned. The man was damned heavy. ‘You’re distracted, Amethio.’ 

Left with no other choice, Amethio deflated. He tilted his head back, a show of reluctant capitulation.

‘Battle over!’

Spinel padded over, dropping into a squat next to Amethio’s limp form. He clapped Sidian’s shoulder and dragged his hand down Sidian’s muscular arm; a silent congratulations, and an encouragement to claim the prize that lay all nice and pretty before them. Sidian shivered, lifting his knees from Amethio’s thighs to shove them between his colleague’s parted legs.

‘You’re really out of it,’ Sidian withdrew his hands, dropping Amethio’s head to the ground with a soft thump. ‘Seriously, what’s wrong with you?’ 

It was an honest entreaty, albeit harsh. One that Amethio could not—would not—answer. What else should he say? That he had been thinking, pining for the enemy? He would have locked his mouth shut and thrown away the key. However, the war of attrition was not his to win, just like how he lost the fight. He was stubborn, but Sidian even more so.

Instead, Amethio pushed himself up and crashed his lips against Sidian’s own.

Sidian froze for a moment before returning the kiss tenfold. He followed Amethio’s lead, tilting his head to the side to lick at Amethio’s lips. Amethio heard Spinel’s soft chuckles off the side, drawing visceral rage from within the very depths of his soul. Forcing himself to ignore their audience, Amethio bit down on Sidian’s lip like a wounded, cornered Sprigattito. Sidian’s mouth parted to protest, but Amethio gave him no such luxury, pushing his tongue into Sidian’s wet heat, forcing his way through walls of teeth.

If he could not beat Sidian in a brawl, he sure as hell could in a kiss.

Naturally, Sidian refused to go down without a fight. He pressed his knee against Amethio’s growing arousal, his tongue, thick and heady, pushing back into Amethio’s mouth. The taste of Sidian was overpowering. Getting swept up in the rush of euphoria, Amethio brought his lips down on Sidian’s tongue, sucking hard, in half a mind to bite before Sidian ripped them apart. Saliva connected their tongues, spilling down Amethio’s chin. Sidian wiped it away almost tenderly with his thumb.

Sidian unceremoniously ripped Amethio’s lower layers off, shoes excluded, and a hefty bulge made itself known against his bare legs. The familiar weight shot arousal and—most despised of them all—fear straight into Amethio’s veins. Sidian hurriedly stripped himself as well, shirt left on in his haste, his heavy, half-hard cock jumping out of its confines. It landed with a loud slap squarely on Amethio’s thigh.

Amethio eyed up the absolutely massive monster, masking the horror in his gaze with fierce defiance. He could never get used to its sheer size.

‘Hey, sweetheart,’ Spinel’s soft purr snapped both Sidian and Amethio to attention. He nudged a small bottle of lubricant to Sidian’s cheek. ‘If he dies, Hamber would throw a fit.’

Sidian snatched the bottle out of Spinel’s hand without saying thanks. Dumping a good half of it onto his cock, Sidian stroked himself to full hardness. Spinel eased Amethio up to his feet while Sidian was busy.

‘You’re gorgeous, dearest,’ Spinel knelt before Amethio, caressing and kneading his thighs. Amethio’s head spun. ‘Your only good point, if I say so myself.’ 

Amethio did not bother with a response. Behind him, he heard Sidian rise, the wet sounds of masturbation making him cringe. Amethio focused on Spinel’s rough hands instead, manhandling him, violating him, sweetly coaxing out the urge to cry within him. Amethio forced himself to remain equanimous. He already gave them enough weaknesses to use against him.

Soon, the noises behind him stopped. Sidian’s lubricant-soaked hands grasped Amethio’s waist, the bottle pressed against the small of his back, and he was bent forward lower and lower until he came face to face with a grinning Spinel. The hand on his back left, cold lubricant drenching the outline of his hole after a short pause.

It conveyed a silent message, one Amethio was all too familiar with. He would not have the privilege of being prepared.

Sidian occasionally pulled such shit when he was impatient, and Amethio naturally had no say in the matter. After all, losers had no right to complain.

‘Give me your hands,’ Sidian’s growl was followed by the crash of the lubricant bottle thrown hastily to the side. ‘I’m going to fuck you now.’

Amethio acquiesced, crossing his arms over his back, allowing Sidian to grab his wrists with one beefy hand while the other secured itself at his hips. The blunt head of his cock pressed against Amethio’s entrance, prodding at the twitching, tight ring of muscle. Amethio did his best to relax through the bubbling tension in his chest. The lack of preparation contributed to his discomfort, not that it would stop Sidian.

Thankfully, Amethio was used to rough treatment. When Sidian breached into him without warning, his body parted with minimal complaint, the knowledge that succumbing was easier than resisting ingrained into his nerves, his pride be damned. Pulsing pleasure accompanied the discomfort; a dizzying, confusing, myriad of sensations. Forced onto tip-toes, Amethio parted around Sidian’s cock, stretched to his absolute limit. He flitted his eyes shut, unwilling to meet Spinel’s wicked gaze.

He wondered if Friede be horrified or amused if he was seen penetrated in such a humiliating pose—

Amethio halted his train of thought, his eyes flying open. Of all times to be thinking about Friede! Spinel, basking in the attention he finally received, scooped some lubricant from Amethio’s thighs and wrapped his damp hand around Amethio’s cock, stroking it to full mast. 

‘Try to relax, I’m only halfway in,’ Sidian was at least enough of a gentleman to pause. Amethio wanted to snap back at Sidian, but Spinel silenced him with a wet kiss. ‘I don’t want you to bleed.’

Amethio fell apart at the ministrations of Spinel’s stupidly skilled tongue, coaxing his body to loosen. Once he was adequately relaxed, Sidian pushed forward, forcing into him inch by torturous inch. Amethio did his best to ignore the burn, focusing on Spinel’s thumb stroking the head of his cock. Spinel’s kiss was sickly sweet: full of insincerity and false affection. The teasing nibble, the gentle suck… it sickened Amethio to the core of his rotten heart.

The slap of Sidian’s balls against his rear was both relieving and panic-inducing. Amethio was ridiculously full, stuffed so deeply he felt it all the way to his stomach. A silly part of him begged him to run before Sidian started moving, before the behemoth would break him apart. However, Sidian must have felt the way he struggled, the grip on Amethio’s wrists tightening. He left behind ugly bruises on the soft skin—more wounds added to Amethio’s growing collection.

Spinel pulled away, giving Amethio one last peck on his kiss-swollen lips. He cupped Amethio’s face, caressing him, stroking his hair and cheeks in a gentle, loving, condescending, fashion. Amethio was in half a mind to bite his hand.

Spinel only chuckled at Amethio’s ill-concealed aggression, his hand retreating into his jacket to pull out something. A glint of silver, stark white from the blinding overhead lights, made Amethio recoil, bumping back against Sidian’s torso. Spinel, undeterred, brought the terrifying object to Amethio’s face; a tiny pocket knife, no more than two inches long and an inch wide, that balanced the precipice of life in its narrow, straight blade. Spinel traced it down Amethio’s forehead, skipping his eye, and dragged it to his cheek, leaving in its wake streaks of rosy white.

‘Put that fucking thing away,’ Sidian stilled immediately, his grip tightening to hold Amethio rigid, unwilling to risk dropping his colleague onto the accursed blade. ‘Hamber’s going to kill you.’

‘It’s fine, it’s fine, I’ll be careful,’ Spinel pressed the knife into Amethio’s cheek. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, I promise. Besides, it’s not our little prince’s first rodeo.’

Amethio suppressed a shiver, eyeing the bead of scarlet that formed against his reflection. He knew his sweet, mercurial colleague far too well to dare hope that Spinel would relent. As unwilling as he was to have such a dangerous thing dancing atop his body, Amethio would have been much more terrified had the blade not been in the dexterous hand of the sadistic Spinel.

Spinel spoke the truth: in the throes of bloodied passion, knives were not new to either of them. If he refused to relent, it was up to Amethio to do so. With a scowl, Amethio nodded, prompting Sidian to reluctantly permit the blade to stay.

Sidian pulled back, slowly raking his cock over sensitive nerves and encapsulating walls. Lubricant splattered to the ground around his dick, rivulets of translucent white trickling down Amethio’s pale legs to the strained arch of his ankles. Overwhelmed by the sensations, sounds, and smells, Amethio went limp in Sidian’s hold. Even with just one hand, Sidian easily supported his full weight. Sidian held Amethio rigid as he drew out to his tip.

‘Ready?’

A warning rather than a question.

Scowling, Amethio retreated from Spinel’s kiss and took a deep breath. 

‘Do it.’

Sidian slammed all the way in.

Amethio’s vision went white, his throat ripping itself raw with a scream. The ringing in his ears drowned his cries in senseless noise. His body split open with a burst of blood, kicking it into overdrive, alarms blaring in his head of danger, danger, danger.

Spinel dove back in and smashed their lips together, cutting off his aria at its climax. Meanwhile, Sidian set a punishing pace, each pump shooting pure agony up Amethio’s spine, accompanied by boiling pleasure that somewhat doused the inferno of suffering. Sidian aimed for his prostate with reckless abandon, pounding the abused gland like a hammer to a nail. Amethio’s cock jerked and jumped, his body rocked forth by the impact of each thrust right into Spinel’s unrelenting grip. Spinel greedily ate up his pained moans, swallowing his fears and pleasure, consuming him from inside out. Spinel tugged on Amethio’s cock, stealing laboured breaths from struggling lungs. He pushed the blade to Amethio’s clavicle. The uncontrolled rocking of his body threw Amethio repeatedly onto the knife, each cut digging deeper than the last.

Sidian was never the most vocal, his low, heavy groans nothing compared to Amethio’s muffled shrieking. Yet, Amethio suffered under his passion all the same. Sidian cared for him to some extent, that much Amethio knew, but there was no love in his actions—only fierce craving. To Sidian, when joined in the most intimate way possible, Amethio was a mere cute, tight, hole; a warm cocksleeve; a toy to use and abuse.

Amethio’s feelings were much more complicated. Sidian’s cock filled him with pain, pleasure, and a whirl of clashing thoughts. There was a deep fondness for Sidian whenever they coupled, brimming with love for his colleague and the thick weapon that brought him such ecstasy, though immense loathing too lined his affections, driving him to the brink of madness, his hatred manifesting itself in fantasies of Sidian’s death. So many feelings and none could fill the gaping void Amethio called his heart.

That could only be done with love; a love Sidian could never give even if he wanted to. A love Spinel was unable to even comprehend. A love his grandfather had that died with his mother. A love Hamber harboured for him only through his grandfather. 

A love Friede had openly offered him in that unfeeling, weeping storm.

A love Amethio rejected himself.

Succumbing to his frustration, Amethio submitted fully to Sidian’s conquest. He needed to forget that man named Friede. He needed to forget everything. He needed the repetitive pain-pleasure that numbed his psyche and wet his eyes with tears.

He always had a proclivity for dissociating during tumultuous moments, shutting down when the going got tough—a trait his grandfather hated most.

Spinel began exploring the rest of his body, fist still tightly balled around Amethio’s cock. With a flick of his wrist, he slashed Amethio’s shirt open, ribbons of mauve fluttering uselessly to the ground. Spinel dragged the knife all over as if Amethio were a piece of meat, choosing and cutting the places with the most fat, creating fresh ruby wounds over sweaty, scarred skin. The blade always returned to Amethio’s belly, as if trying to cut out Sidian’s shifting cock from within him. 

Amethio lost track of how much time passed. Most of it was spent quashing any thoughts of Friede, the rest of it relishing in the little enjoyment he received. Sidian’s pace grew erratic: a telltale sign of his impending climax. Spinel’s grip grew harsher—Amethio’s cock crying in protest—and Amethio rolled his eyes behind his eyelids. Spinel wanted a turn too, so of course he disallowed the exhausted Amethio to take his pleasure.

With one final, full-bodied, plunge, Sidian howled and a rush of warmth flooded Amethio. Semen spurted out from around Sidian’s cock and splattered over his cheeks. Sidian rode out his orgasm, violent thrusts pushing each new load of his orgasm deeper into his partner. Amethio pushed back onto Sidian, accepting him whole, milking his cock for all it was worth. The warmth in Amethio’s own cock screamed for attention, but Spinel’s hand kept it at bay.

Amethio used to love the feeling of being stuffed full, delighting in the calm afterglow with the knowledge that it was finally over. But Friede had ruined it for him. Friede came way less than Sidian and yet filled Amethio in ways he never knew possible—ways he wished he never knew existed. How was he supposed to go back to his usual hollow relationships after he had tasted the ambrosia of love?

Sidian yanked himself out of Amethio as Spinel retreated a distance away. Amethio, freed from Spinel’s invasive hands, dipped his head between his legs to take a look. He felt it before he saw it, the fluids exiting his body, dragging his coherency along with it. Blood rushed from his head to his legs. He was dizzy, euphoric, and angry at everything. A waterfall of pink cascaded between his thighs to the floor in an obscene puddle. There was so much. Amethio wanted to throw up. He felt so used, so violated, so dirty.

It took nearly a minute for Amethio to empty most of Sidian’s essence from his body. Back to being the world’s most confusing gentleman, Sidian pulled him into a hug, lowering Amethio onto his back a small distance from his puddle of shame. Sidian was delicate and slow, like how a newlywed would lay down his bride on their marital bed. Amethio noted the twinge of concern lacing Sidian’s expression. How sweet. How disgusting.

Amethio reached up, choking back bile and tears, and cupped Sidian’s face. The tentative action was an act of esoteric affection. Sidian held no judgement for him, caging his shivering body between powerful arms.

‘Aw, he’s all loose now,’ Spinel clicked his tongue, tugging Sidian away from Amethio, who turned to face him with a glare. ‘C’mon, big boy, it’s my turn.’

Sidian shifted away, leaving Amethio’s hand to fall from his cheek. Amethio nearly missed his warmth. Spinel slid into Sidian’s previous place, nestling himself snugly between Amethio’s shaking legs. Sidian took the spot beside his head, watching with an intensity that had Amethio’s hair standing on its end, the weight of scrutiny settling over his chest again. If only Friede was there to comfort him. That man always had a way of somehow making the world brighter.

After being broken open by Sidian, Amethio could hardly feel Spinel penetrating him. He lay boneless like a corpse, shutting his eyes and resigning himself to a slow, exhausting descent. Unlike Sidian, Spinel was loud; his breathy, clipped laughter a thousand arrows slicing through Amethio’s defences. Each wound was an insult, a mark of ownership, an act of forceful, unwarranted dominance.

If Sidian’s touch was unfeeling, Spinel’s was much worse: affectionate in a plastic, artificial way, it was poison packaged in pink-ribboned tenderness; a multi-faceted masquerade; the very picture of hateful, sartorial elegance. Amethio let himself drift, impatiently awaiting the curtain call, floating in and out of consciousness like how Spinel pushed Sidian’s semen in and out of his body.

Spinel thrusted carelessly, hands flitting all over Amethio. Spinel pinched Amethio’s nipples, squeezed his arms, and caressed old scars. Spinel dug bellicose fingers into the cracks of Amethio’s facade, tearing down the walls his heart constructed to shield him from people precisely like Spinel. He stuck his fingers into open wounds, spreading them wider, relishing in the beads of red flowers that bloomed atop scarlet seedbeds. Amethio would long have passed out had he not been so numb to hurt.

However, Amethio was abruptly plunged into the depths of hell, liquid fire roaring through his body. He lashed out in his distress, but a vicious hand seized his neck and squeezed, choking off his cry. Alarmed, Amethio looked up through a veil of glassy tears.

Spinel was not smiling.

The fear that lunged from the dark and clamped around his heart reminded him how pathetic he was. Tearing his eyes from Spinel’s terrifying expression, the first thing he saw when he glanced down was a shock of scarlet, pooled around the knife buried into his side. Amethio heard a horrified gasp from Sidian, who quickly rushed to grab the handle, but was frozen when Spinel shot him an icy glare; a warning that much worse would happen to Amethio should Spinel be stopped.

Amethio tried to move, but both Spinel’s cock and knife plunged deeper into him, his head sent flying back against the ground, pain ricocheting off his skull. Pressing his lips to Amethio’s ear, Spinel whispered:

‘You’re thinking about Friede, aren’t you?’

Spinel set off a bomb with the name. Panic set in through earth-shattering shock waves, his legs instinctually kicking out like a fearful Deerling, pride collapsing under frenzied, futile attempts to escape. Where? When? Why? How did Spinel know about Friede? Amethio jerked, but Spinel kept him squarely pinned, nails dragging down his thighs, leaving long, fresh lines of white scratches.

It was a grim reality Amethio lived in. He was weak. Unable to bear the misery, the only thing he could do was refuse to cry.

‘I’ve been keeping tabs on him,’ Spinel enunciated each word with a thrust, heedless of Amethio’s rising horror. ‘He’s been looking for you, dear, asking around and everything.”

Amethio turned his head away the best he could, Spinel’s grip still firmly around his neck, to the side where Sidian sat there like a fool, exceedingly confused. Sidian was unable to hear what Spinel whispered to him, but the panic was written all over Amethio’s face. Sidian met his eyes worriedly. He offered a lifeline, a plea; he asked Amethio to have him rip Spinel off and smash that bastard’s face in. 

Oh sweet Sidian—so kind, so honourable, and so fucking stupid.

Just like Amethio himself.

In the world he lived in, Amethio only had two things: strength and dignity, but his strength was a pedestal of glass: easily broken, easily taken. With his “strength” so mercilessly ripped from his grasp, what else could Amethio be if not the proud, resilient fool? Amethio sealed his lips shut and closed his eyes, turning limp once more. Spinel wanted to devour his fear, rip into his heart and dig out his petty, humane imperfections. Amethio would not give him that.

‘Just what have you done, you stupid little thing?’ Spinel hissed, pushing the blade deeper into his side with steel-sharp aggression.  ‘Do you seriously believe he cares for you? Or, dare I say, loves you?’

‘Did he come onto you first, or do you just open your slut legs for anyone?’ Spinel grabbed his cock, roughly squeezing it, jamming unwanted pleasure alongside humiliating fear down Amethio’s throat. ‘Is Sidian and I not enough for you? Is Hamber not enough for you? Here you are, having dreams of more, hoping to leave us now?’

‘S-Shut… up..!’ Amethio barely managed to choke out the words. Spinel, expectantly, only cackled.

‘There’s nothing out there for you, love. You’re nothing without the Explorers. Nothing!’ Spinel kissed Amethio once more, enunciating each excruciating word against his lips. He ripped the blade out of Amethio in an arc of crimson. ‘We’re the only ones who can accept you for who you are: a mangy, pathetic stray that’s spoiled, dumb—’

‘—weak.’

Amethio’s climax crashed upon him as a tidal wave of shame and loathing. Spinel came shortly after with a dark shriek, pumping the limp body beneath him full of dirty, unwanted semen. As the world faded to black, Amethio briefly registered Sidian yelling.

Images of a man flashed before his eyes, and for once, Amethio clung to the thoughts. He latched onto that name, the last—and perhaps only—thing that brought him the feeling of being truly safe in the torturous world.

Friede...

⊰———❤︎———⊱

Amethio awoke with a start.

He shot upright, the familiar thrum of painkillers numbing the throb of his temples. Before he could take in his surroundings, a firm hand pressed itself against his chest, coaxing him back into lying down.

He would recognise that touch anywhere. 

‘Young Master,’ Hamber’s gentle chide was a bucket of cold water to Amethio’s face. ‘You need to rest.’

A glance around confirmed for Amethio that he was in the medical bay. Curtained off from the rest of the world, he lay tucked into a snow-white bed dressed in a matching hospital gown, perfumed with the subtle scent of lavender to mask the nauseating notes of antiseptic—no doubt the precise work of Hamber. Perched on a chair by Amethio’s bedside was the man himself. Hamber drew his hand back from Amethio’s chest and folded it over the other on his lap, completely prim in all his obsequious glory. His neat appearance filled Amethio with an irrational loathing.

‘The others brought you in after you lost consciousness,’ Hamber informed, his disapproving gaze flicking downwards to the bandages that enveloped Amethio’s body like a lover. ‘They are carrying out a punishment as of now, Young Master.’

Hamber only ever called Amethio “Young Master” in private; a special little title for a special little brat like Amethio; deference showed to the whore he raised and loved as his own. Hamber was the edifice of expectation, of Gibeon’s heavenly will, the carrier, the messenger, the proof of all that was right. 

‘If I could be frank, Young Master, your disregard for your own health is both an asset and a foible,’ Hamber sighed. ‘In this case, it is the latter. Please take care of yourself more.’

Amethio thought to snap at Hamber for chiding his own master, but Hamber—who always knew what to say—went in for the kill: 

‘Remember that you are deeply important to your grandfather and I.’

Amethio’s heart dropped, vitriol vanishing. Had his voice not been screamed hoarse, he would have yelled, cursed, and struggled. He wanted to rip Hamber’s tongue out so that such wicked, beautiful lies could never be uttered again.

Undeterred, Hamber reached out to grab Amethio’s hair, firm fingers tugging apart two-toned strands. He was the perfect facade of a doting butler, a cherishing mentor. He wound his fingers around Amethio’s locks and pulled, hard, and Amethio gasped like the slut he was, repulsed by the shock of arousal that went through him. Still, ever the starved fool, Amethio devoured the pain that conveyed Hamber’s affection. It tasted so sweet—the illusion of the love Amethio chased all his life, the same love his grandfather dangled before him to keep him wanting, eager, for every new mission.

‘The Explorers are your family, Young Master,’ Hamber traced a hand down Amethio’s shoulders to his torso, stern fingers pressing on the bandage right atop his wound. Amethio hissed, whether from ecstasy or shame he did not know or care, as the bandages wept hot red tears.  ‘It would do good to get along with them.’

The touches soon evolved into a soft embrace. Holding him tight, tender, and sweet, Hamber had Amethio’s body crumpling against his will. He clung to Hamber like a cowardly child would to their father, the way he never once did to his own flesh and blood. He felt safe in Hamber’s arms, at least for the moment.

‘Amethio, please cherish your family,’ Hamber murmured, each word forged with molten, burning concern. The worst part was that Hamber spoke from the heart; he was somehow completely genuine. ‘Love your Pokémon, love your fellow admins, and love the Explorers who will support you through thick and thin.’

‘Love us like how your grandfather and I love you.’

Hamber reached down, fastening a familiar, shackling hand at the back of Amethio’s neck, and opened the floodgates. 

Amethio sobbed and sobbed, a pathetic weakling in Hamber’s arms, a broken soul who sought a love he never should have known. Spinel was right: he could never leave. There was nothing out there for him.

Nobody was going to save him. Not Zirc, not Onia, not Hamber, not Friede…

…and certainly not himself. 

Ending Notes: I’ll confess that this chapter was a lot more fun to write than the previous one. What can I say, being ✨extreme✨is just great! Imagine being stabbed while trying to have sex… so freaking rude!

He was uncomfortably warm despite the room’s air conditioning, no thanks to the sweat that trickled down his body in sticky rivulets. His nails were stuck in his blanket from clawing it in his sleep as if it were a straitjacket. Amethio blinked once, twice, and scowled. What a perfect way to start the morning. He forced himself to breathe deep, instructing his frazzled heart to focus on the plain ceiling above, tapping into his long-honed skill of tampering panic.

It did the trick, the ceiling growing clearer with each breath, chasing off most of the unpleasant remnants—memories—of the night. Most. 

His dark callused hands caressed Amethio’s scars, his snowy white hair damp with fresh rain, his concerned eyes a soft plea for Amethio to consider it, please consider it…

Join the Rising Volt Tacklers. 

Since that fateful thunderstorm, the same sorry dream had haunted Amethio nearly every night. Allowing Friede to wait out the weather in his base had been a grave mistake, and taking him to bed an even bigger blunder. What was he thinking back then? Tempted by that cocky smirk and bronze skin—focus. He needed to focus. There was no time for drifting. Casting his treacherous thoughts aside, Amethio dragged himself out of the swamp of sleep, exhaustion clinging to his eyelids like sticky mud.

Extremely annoyed, disoriented, and also in pain both physically and spiritually, Amethio braced himself for a new dreary day. The clean ceiling politely wished him a good morning as he sat upright, absentmindedly looking down his body. 

Suddenly, Amethio was free from the haze of sleep, the iron hammer of shame smashing his dignity to pieces. The large stain on his trousers greeted him with much less tact than the innocuous ceiling. Ripping off his blanket, Amethio surveyed the damage, anger surging through him. Thankfully, his body’s juvenile stunt failed to soak through his clothes and into the sheets. 

Rising from the coffin of his bed, Amethio glanced at his clock on the wall. The mocking clock hands gesticulated that it was eight in the morning, long past his usual rising at six.

Just. Bloody. Perfect.

The thought of sleeping in came and was cast out just as quickly. Amethio swept a glance around his room, taking in the austere residence devoid of windows, lights, and dreams. Outside would be the same; headquarters was nothing more than a glorified sepulchre, after all, full of desiccated halls teeming with lonely shadows. The last time Amethio had been there in the creeping cemetery was when he failed to secure Liko’s pendant.

This time he was not alone. Spinel’s unexpected fuck-up followed by an even more embarrassing string of recent failures had incurred the acrimony of his grandfather, and with his rage came the whip of discipline: Hamber, anathema to grunt and admin alike. It was a group burial for the admins of the Explorers, with Hamber playing their necromancer who rose them each day to train them until dusk. Even Amethio, strict on others and more so on himself, could not fault his body for remaining drained despite a long night’s sleep. The dream only contributed to his predicament. 

At least Hamber was not a monster. He knew humans were like machines: even the best of them would break down without proper maintenance. Hence, everyone was permitted a day for recovery, self-reflection, and personal betterment. The break was welcomed by all except for Amethio. The break was torment to his proclivity for making his own life difficult. He wished, his colleagues be damned, that they could train instead.

He wanted, needed, to redeem himself for all the mistakes he made. Distracted, he had embarrassed himself in front of his fellow admins the day before. Coral’s opprobrious remarks meant as little to him as Spinel’s blistering taunts, but his grandfather was another story. Amethio had long shed the shell of a gauche, frightened teenager. He was a coiled rod, ready to strike on command, tempered and honed to perfection.

Yet, he failed.

Merely thinking of Gibeon’s displeasure had Amethio sinking into the familiar abyss of frustration and guilt. He refused to disappoint his grandfather the same way his father did.

But aren’t you already disappointing him by cavorting, desiring, the enemy?

Rising from the murky depths of Amethio’s mind was his greatest critic: himself. The wicked voice’s saccharine sweet cadence reverberated through his skull. Amethio threw himself onto his feet, his loathing chasing the voice back beneath the darkness, though he knew—and hated that—it would return soon enough. The vestiges of filthy compunction lingered, ringing true and persistent.

As much as he wanted to crawl back into his coffin and shut himself from the world, sitting around solved nothing. Shedding his soiled layers, Amethio went to the bathroom to scrub his clothes in the sink, exchanging the walk of shame to the laundry room for the tedious task. Once he was finished, he mechanically freshened up for the day, going through the motions like a record on repeat, executing each task with a focus he wished he had the day before.

Soon, he stood before the mirror as the quintessence of monotonous professionalism—the perfect package to shield the storm that raged within. His deepest, darkest, fantasy was safe for another day.

Feeling much better, Amethio headed to the communal kitchen. With the morning fiasco having killed his appetite, he settled on having a simple blend of coffee, preferably made from the beans he saw Hamber prepare the day before.

Striding through the ebony-arched doorway into the kitchen, two heads swivelled around to meet Amethio. Behind his mask of indifference, Amethio scowled. There went all hope of some peaceful alone time.

‘Ladies are out: Coral dragged Chalce with her to some trendy café,’ Spinel, succinct as ever, informed Amethio in lieu of a greeting. ‘Not sure where Hamber is. Probably with the boss.’ 

At least the noisiest of them was out. Sidian contributed nothing to the statement, his golden eyes narrowing at Amethio who in turn fearlessly met his gaze. The staring contest lasted for three seconds before Sidian broke eye contact, finishing off the onigiri in his hand.

‘You’re late today,’ Sidian stalked to the sink to wash his hands. ‘What happened yesterday? You were fucking up left and right.’ 

‘Good morning to you too, Sidian,’ Amethio spoke evenly, anger kept tightly under wraps. He made a Combeeline to the coffee cabinet, pointedly keeping his ramrod straight back turned to Sidian. ‘If you’re trying to gloat, I’m not in the mood.’

Cracking open the cabinet, Amethio scanned the shelf for the coffee beans. He found an empty packet instead. Sighing, he resigned himself to the other coffee beans available, already wishing to get back to training posthaste.

‘Sheesh, I’m just asking,’ Sidian’s meaty hand came to rest on Amethio’s lower back, huge enough to cover the small of it. ‘You were a mess yesterday. It’s not like you to screw up ‘till Hamber lectures you— that’s more of Coral’s style.’

‘Well, it’s obvious he’s still upset by Hamber’s scolding,’ a set of fingers dug into Amethio’s shoulder, this time belonging to Spinel. His cutthroat colleague stepped into the line of his peripheral vision. ‘He’s a good little boy, remember? Give him time to cry from his itty bitty fear of being a failure.’ 

His body moved before he could stop himself. Amethio slapped Spinel’s hand away and backed into Sidian, thumping against his colleague’s rigid chest. Spinel raised both arms in mock surrender, heart-curved lips blossoming into an easy smile.

Amethio mentally cursed, hurrying away from Sidian to his unbrewed coffee. Losing his temper was a mistake.

‘Wow, you’re really out of it,’ Spinel laughed. ‘Little Purrloin has claws—’ 

‘Seriously, is everything alright?’ Sidian, in a rare act of consideration, cut Spinel off. The hand around Amethio’s waist squeezed tighter, more placating than violating. ‘Is it about the recent missions? Did something unpleasant happen?’

Abandoning his coffee altogether, Amethio turned to address Sidian, readying himself for an argument before the realisation struck: he could make use of the situation.

‘I’m just frustrated from yesterday,’ Amethio placed his gloved palm atop Sidian’s bare hand, curling it around meaty fingers. ‘I need to let off some steam.’

‘Oh?’ If anyone were to be a Purrloin, it was Sidian, with the way his eyes narrowed to slits at the admission. ‘My Pokémon are tired from yesterday, so if you want a fight, it’s going to be with our fists. Or do you—’

‘We’ll do it as we always do,’ Amethio interrupted. ‘Fight, then sex.’ 

⊰———❤︎———⊱

‘Hamber texted back,’ Spinel’s Rotom Phone went zipping back into his pocket. ‘We can use the place.’

Spinel stalked over to Amethio’s side and nudged a rough knuckle against his cheek. Amethio, who was in the midst of stretching his legs, straightened up.

‘Our dear Hamber is so kind… or perhaps he just doesn’t care that Sidian’s about to beat you senseless.’ 

‘Shut your mouth, Spinel.’

‘You two cut it out,’ Sidian snapped, halting the start of a lengthy argument. He stomped to the middle of the dojo, stopping at the centre of its open sparring field. ‘Amethio, hurry over here.’

Sidian got into stance, spreading his legs and bending his knees, holding his bare fists up to his face. Amethio took his place before Sidian but did not mirror his actions. Instead, with an elegant sweep of his leg, Amethio positioned one foot in front of the other, his knees also bent, with his arms rigid by his sides. Both of them had ditched their gloves, spurred on by the idea of raw-knuckled brutality.

‘Let’s have a fair fight,’ Sidian tilted his head, the crack of his neck echoing through the dojo. Amethio responded with a swift nod. ‘Spinel, you’re the judge.’

‘Fight’s over when someone gets knocked onto their back or receives a major injury,’ Spinel stood outside the court, raising an arm. He dropped it with a shout. ‘Begin!’

While he was not the best Pokémon battler, Sidian, both metaphorically and literally, stood head and shoulders above everyone else when it came to physical combat. Aside from Hamber, who taught all the admins sans Spinel everything, none ever bested Sidian before. Even Spinel, two years older than Sidian and also not above playing dirty, could not beat him.

He and Amethio were only a year apart and yet so different. It made Amethio seethe. Why could he not be stronger? Faster? Better? Sidian’s build was deceptive; most expected him to be easy to trip up with his burly shoulders and lumbering gait, but in actuality, Sidian was as fast as a raging Mabostiff off its leash, each strike delivered with pinpoint ruthlessness.

Amethio had made the mistake of underestimating Sidian’s speed the first time they clashed. It ended with Sidian fucking his bruised and broken body on the floor right there and then like some washed-up whore, each pump of Sidian’s hips filling him with raw, hot shame. They were alone yet Amethio felt thousands of mocking eyes upon him.

Sidian left many scars that day on both his skin and soul, his defiant spirit beaten into submission. Just thinking back on it made said wounds sting once more. Hamber had lectured Amethio on the dangers of assuming back then, all while Sidian wordlessly patched him up.

Sidian kissed him once Hamber left, telling him with great aplomb that he would never, ever, win.

The humiliation was unbearable.

Once more did Sidian display his speed. Zipping forth, the first punch was thrown: a left hook, swung right for Amethio’s face. Utilising the difference in their heights, Amethio ducked down and drove a closed fist into Sidian’s abdominals. Spinel would have aimed for the crotch, but Amethio refused to stoop to that smarmy, dishonourable bastard’s level. Spinel prioritised subterfuge and mind games. Amethio and Sidian preferred to speak with direct action.

Sidian’s flexed stomach was a concrete wall, Amethio’s knuckles screaming in protest, fingers creaking under the weight. Despite the added force from Amethio’s swing and the momentum of his dive, Sidian did not bat an eye. Both hands locked in a fist, Sidian swung his arms down. As much as Amethio disliked attacking from behind, it was his best shot at victory against the ogre that was Sidian. He dove to the left around Sidian, striking his palm against the ground as leverage to swing his body up, slamming both his feet into the back of Sidian’s knee.

Sidian barely sidestepped the kick. Grasping the opening, he seized one of Amethio’s ankles and yanked with all his might. Adrenaline rushed to Amethio’s head, blurring the world around him as he went soaring through the air. He managed to twist his body at the last minute, landing square on his stomach with a wheeze.

Amethio immediately rolled away, Sidian’s fist landing where he previously lay, the loud ‘bang!’ of the monster’s hand colliding with the floor assaulting his ears, shaking his confidence. Channelling the spiking fear into his kick, Amethio executed his previous failed manoeuvre, his shoes slamming into Sidian’s cheek. The beast finally flinched, though he otherwise remained unmoving. Sidian made a grab at Amethio’s ankle, but Amethio never repeated mistakes, swiftly backing off and putting distance between them. 

Their scuffle went on for what felt like eternity. An almighty Garganacl, spewing salt all around, and a desperate Ceruledge diving into shadows, striking blunt blades into unmoving stone. No matter how much hits Amethio got in, Sidian did not falter. On the frustrating flip side, Amethio could not afford to get hit even once; a single misstep spelled his end. Strategy thrown out of the window, Amethio fell back to base instinct—pure unbridled violence, blurred and desperate, a frenzied tango. His muscles protested at every step, every attack, while rushing adrenaline and stubborn will kept exhaustion at bay. Amethio’s clothes were soaked in sweat, bogging down his quick, agile movements.

Amidst the haze of mania, a thought crept to the forefront of Amethio’s mind. Friede looked plenty horrified back when he revealed his wounded flesh. Granted, the Rising Volt Tacklers had no reason to train, evident with how helpless Friede was back when he first attacked in their little cabin. What would Friede think now, seeing Amethio willingly throw his fleshy, weak body into the meat grinder?

Those thoughts lingered for a moment before the wind was knocked out of his lungs.

Amethio caught a glimpse of a burly fist before he was sent flying back, pain exploding through his body. He did not go far thanks to a large, meaty hand that seized his shoulder. The fist that struck him unclenched itself and grabbed the back of his head, and with a shove, Sidian sent them both tumbling to the ground. Amethio landed with an enraged cry.

Thankfully, Sidian’s hand protected him from a concussion and possible death. How considerate.

It made Amethio mad.

Once more he had crumbled; the loser, the prize, to Sidian’s victory.

‘So sloppy,’ Amethio tried to kick out, but Sidian’s heavy knees pressed painfully into his thighs, keeping him pinned. The man was damned heavy. ‘You’re distracted, Amethio.’ 

Left with no other choice, Amethio deflated. He tilted his head back, a show of reluctant capitulation.

‘Battle over!’

Spinel padded over, dropping into a squat next to Amethio’s limp form. He clapped Sidian’s shoulder and dragged his hand down Sidian’s muscular arm; a silent congratulations, and an encouragement to claim the prize that lay all nice and pretty before them. Sidian shivered, lifting his knees from Amethio’s thighs to shove them between his colleague’s parted legs.

‘You’re really out of it,’ Sidian withdrew his hands, dropping Amethio’s head to the ground with a soft thump. ‘Seriously, what’s wrong with you?’ 

It was an honest entreaty, albeit harsh. One that Amethio could not—would not—answer. What else should he say? That he had been thinking, pining for the enemy? He would have locked his mouth shut and thrown away the key. However, the war of attrition was not his to win, just like how he lost the fight. He was stubborn, but Sidian even more so.

Instead, Amethio pushed himself up and crashed his lips against Sidian’s own.

Sidian froze for a moment before returning the kiss tenfold. He followed Amethio’s lead, tilting his head to the side to lick at Amethio’s lips. Amethio heard Spinel’s soft chuckles off the side, drawing visceral rage from within the very depths of his soul. Forcing himself to ignore their audience, Amethio bit down on Sidian’s lip like a wounded, cornered Sprigattito. Sidian’s mouth parted to protest, but Amethio gave him no such luxury, pushing his tongue into Sidian’s wet heat, forcing his way through walls of teeth.

If he could not beat Sidian in a brawl, he sure as hell could in a kiss.

Naturally, Sidian refused to go down without a fight. He pressed his knee against Amethio’s growing arousal, his tongue, thick and heady, pushing back into Amethio’s mouth. The taste of Sidian was overpowering. Getting swept up in the rush of euphoria, Amethio brought his lips down on Sidian’s tongue, sucking hard, in half a mind to bite before Sidian ripped them apart. Saliva connected their tongues, spilling down Amethio’s chin. Sidian wiped it away almost tenderly with his thumb.

Sidian unceremoniously ripped Amethio’s lower layers off, shoes excluded, and a hefty bulge made itself known against his bare legs. The familiar weight shot arousal and—most despised of them all—fear straight into Amethio’s veins. Sidian hurriedly stripped himself as well, shirt left on in his haste, his heavy, half-hard cock jumping out of its confines. It landed with a loud slap squarely on Amethio’s thigh.

Amethio eyed up the absolutely massive monster, masking the horror in his gaze with fierce defiance. He could never get used to its sheer size.

‘Hey, sweetheart,’ Spinel’s soft purr snapped both Sidian and Amethio to attention. He nudged a small bottle of lubricant to Sidian’s cheek. ‘If he dies, Hamber would throw a fit.’

Sidian snatched the bottle out of Spinel’s hand without saying thanks. Dumping a good half of it onto his cock, Sidian stroked himself to full hardness. Spinel eased Amethio up to his feet while Sidian was busy.

‘You’re gorgeous, dearest,’ Spinel knelt before Amethio, caressing and kneading his thighs. Amethio’s head spun. ‘Your only good point, if I say so myself.’ 

Amethio did not bother with a response. Behind him, he heard Sidian rise, the wet sounds of masturbation making him cringe. Amethio focused on Spinel’s rough hands instead, manhandling him, violating him, sweetly coaxing out the urge to cry within him. Amethio forced himself to remain equanimous. He already gave them enough weaknesses to use against him.

Soon, the noises behind him stopped. Sidian’s lubricant-soaked hands grasped Amethio’s waist, the bottle pressed against the small of his back, and he was bent forward lower and lower until he came face to face with a grinning Spinel. The hand on his back left, cold lubricant drenching the outline of his hole after a short pause.

It conveyed a silent message, one Amethio was all too familiar with. He would not have the privilege of being prepared.

Sidian occasionally pulled such shit when he was impatient, and Amethio naturally had no say in the matter. After all, losers had no right to complain.

‘Give me your hands,’ Sidian’s growl was followed by the crash of the lubricant bottle thrown hastily to the side. ‘I’m going to fuck you now.’

Amethio acquiesced, crossing his arms over his back, allowing Sidian to grab his wrists with one beefy hand while the other secured itself at his hips. The blunt head of his cock pressed against Amethio’s entrance, prodding at the twitching, tight ring of muscle. Amethio did his best to relax through the bubbling tension in his chest. The lack of preparation contributed to his discomfort, not that it would stop Sidian.

Thankfully, Amethio was used to rough treatment. When Sidian breached into him without warning, his body parted with minimal complaint, the knowledge that succumbing was easier than resisting ingrained into his nerves, his pride be damned. Pulsing pleasure accompanied the discomfort; a dizzying, confusing, myriad of sensations. Forced onto tip-toes, Amethio parted around Sidian’s cock, stretched to his absolute limit. He flitted his eyes shut, unwilling to meet Spinel’s wicked gaze.

He wondered if Friede be horrified or amused if he was seen penetrated in such a humiliating pose—

Amethio halted his train of thought, his eyes flying open. Of all times to be thinking about Friede! Spinel, basking in the attention he finally received, scooped some lubricant from Amethio’s thighs and wrapped his damp hand around Amethio’s cock, stroking it to full mast. 

‘Try to relax, I’m only halfway in,’ Sidian was at least enough of a gentleman to pause. Amethio wanted to snap back at Sidian, but Spinel silenced him with a wet kiss. ‘I don’t want you to bleed.’

Amethio fell apart at the ministrations of Spinel’s stupidly skilled tongue, coaxing his body to loosen. Once he was adequately relaxed, Sidian pushed forward, forcing into him inch by torturous inch. Amethio did his best to ignore the burn, focusing on Spinel’s thumb stroking the head of his cock. Spinel’s kiss was sickly sweet: full of insincerity and false affection. The teasing nibble, the gentle suck… it sickened Amethio to the core of his rotten heart.

The slap of Sidian’s balls against his rear was both relieving and panic-inducing. Amethio was ridiculously full, stuffed so deeply he felt it all the way to his stomach. A silly part of him begged him to run before Sidian started moving, before the behemoth would break him apart. However, Sidian must have felt the way he struggled, the grip on Amethio’s wrists tightening. He left behind ugly bruises on the soft skin—more wounds added to Amethio’s growing collection.

Spinel pulled away, giving Amethio one last peck on his kiss-swollen lips. He cupped Amethio’s face, caressing him, stroking his hair and cheeks in a gentle, loving, condescending, fashion. Amethio was in half a mind to bite his hand.

Spinel only chuckled at his ill-concealed aggression. He prised Amethio’s mouth open with two fingers, surging in for another kiss far harsher than before. Spinel dragged his tongue over Amethio’s teeth, tracing each molar, and bullied his way past Amethio’s resisting tongue. Reaching the back of his throat, the invasive fingers kept Amethio’s mouth locked open.

Emphatic in his raw want, Spinel squeezed his cock hard, spurring Amethio to violently bite down on the bastard’s fingers. Said bastard only laughed into his lips.

Sidian pulled back, slowly raking his cock over sensitive nerves and encapsulating walls. Lubricant splattered to the ground around his dick, rivulets of translucent white trickling down Amethio’s pale legs to the strained arch of his ankles. Overwhelmed by the sensations, sounds, and smells, Amethio went limp in Sidian’s hold. Even with just one hand, Sidian easily supported his full weight. Sidian held Amethio rigid as he drew out to his tip.

‘Ready?’

A warning rather than a question.

Scowling, Amethio retreated from Spinel’s kiss and took a deep breath. 

‘Do it.’

Sidian slammed all the way in.

Amethio’s vision went white, his throat ripping itself raw with a scream. The ringing in his ears drowned his cries in senseless noise. His body split open with a burst of fluid, kicking it into overdrive, alarms blaring in his head of danger, danger, danger.

Spinel dove back in and smashed their lips together, cutting off his aria at its climax. Meanwhile, Sidian set a punishing pace, each pump shooting pure agony up Amethio’s spine, accompanied by boiling pleasure that somewhat doused the inferno of suffering. Sidian aimed for his prostate with reckless abandon, pounding the abused gland like a hammer to a nail. Amethio’s cock jerked and jumped, his body rocked forth by the impact of each thrust right into Spinel’s unrelenting grip. Spinel greedily ate up his pained moans, swallowing his fears and pleasure, consuming him from inside out. He tugged on Amethio’s cock, stealing laboured breaths from struggling lungs.

Sidian was never the most vocal, his low, heavy groans nothing compared to Amethio’s muffled shrieking. Yet, Amethio suffered under his passion all the same. Sidian cared for him to some extent, that much Amethio knew, but there was no love in his actions—only fierce craving. To Sidian, when joined in the most intimate way possible, Amethio was a mere cute, tight, hole; a warm cocksleeve; a toy to use and abuse.

Amethio’s feelings were much more complicated. Sidian’s cock filled him with pain, pleasure, and a whirl of clashing thoughts. There was a deep fondness for Sidian whenever they coupled, brimming with love for his colleague and the thick weapon that brought him such ecstasy, though immense loathing too lined his affections, driving him to the brink of madness, his hatred manifesting itself in fantasies of Sidian’s death. So many feelings and none could fill the gaping void Amethio called his heart.

That could only be done with love; a love Sidian could never give even if he wanted to. A love Spinel was unable to even comprehend. A love his grandfather had that died with his mother. A love Hamber harboured for him only through his grandfather. 

A love Friede had openly offered him in that unfeeling, weeping storm.

A love Amethio rejected himself.

Succumbing to his frustration, Amethio submitted fully to Sidian’s conquest. He needed to forget that man named Friede. He needed to forget everything. He needed the repetitive pain-pleasure that numbed his psyche and wet his eyes with tears.

He always had a proclivity for dissociating during tumultuous moments, shutting down when the going got tough—a trait his grandfather hated most.

Spinel began exploring the rest of his body, fist still tightly balled around Amethio’s cock. He hiked Amethio’s shirt up, caressing his stomach as if trying to feel for Sidian’s shifting cock. He worshipped Amethio like the statue of a saint, appreciating every contour and curve, rough fingers dragging over sweaty, scarred skin. His touch burned with the mockery of a thousand suns. 

Amethio lost track of how much time passed. Most of it was spent quashing any thoughts of Friede, the rest of it relishing in the little enjoyment he received. Sidian’s pace grew erratic: a telltale sign of his impending climax. Spinel’s grip grew harsher—Amethio’s cock crying in protest—and Amethio rolled his eyes behind his eyelids. Spinel wanted a turn too, so of course he disallowed the exhausted Amethio to take his pleasure.

With one final, full-bodied, plunge, Sidian howled and a rush of warmth flooded Amethio. Semen spurted out from around Sidian’s cock and splattered over his cheeks. Sidian rode out his orgasm, violent thrusts pushing each new load of his orgasm deeper into his partner. Amethio pushed back onto Sidian, accepting him whole, milking his cock for all it was worth. The warmth in Amethio’s own cock screamed for attention, but Spinel’s hand kept it at bay.

Amethio used to love the feeling of being stuffed full, delighting in the calm afterglow with the knowledge that it was finally over. But Friede had ruined it for him. Friede came way less than Sidian and yet filled Amethio in ways he never knew possible—ways he wished he never knew existed. How was he supposed to go back to his usual hollow relationships after he had tasted the ambrosia of love?

Sidian yanked himself out of Amethio as Spinel retreated a distance away. Amethio, freed from Spinel’s invasive hands, dipped his head between his legs to take a look. He felt it before he saw it, the semen exiting his body, dragging his coherency along with it. Blood rushed from his head to his legs. He was dizzy, euphoric, and angry at everything. A waterfall of white cascaded between his thighs to the floor in an obscene puddle. There was so much. Amethio wanted to throw up. He felt so used, so violated, so dirty.

It took nearly a minute for Amethio to empty most of Sidian’s essence from his body. Back to being the world’s most confusing gentleman, Sidian pulled him into a hug, lowering Amethio onto his back a small distance from his puddle of shame. Sidian was delicate and slow, like how a newlywed would lay down his bride on their marital bed. Amethio noted the twinge of concern lacing Sidian’s expression. How sweet. How disgusting.

Amethio reached up, choking back bile and tears, and cupped Sidian’s face. The tentative action was an act of esoteric affection. Sidian held no judgement for him, caging his shivering body between powerful arms.

‘Aw, he’s all loose now,’ Spinel clicked his tongue, tugging Sidian away from Amethio, who turned to face him with a glare. ‘C’mon, big boy, it’s my turn.’

Sidian shifted away, leaving Amethio’s hand to fall from his cheek. Amethio nearly missed his warmth. Spinel slid into Sidian’s previous place, nestling himself snugly between Amethio’s shaking legs. Sidian took the spot beside his head, watching with an intensity that had Amethio’s hair standing on its end, the weight of scrutiny settling over his chest again. If only Friede was there to comfort him. That man always had a way of somehow making the world brighter.

After being broken open by Sidian, Amethio could hardly feel Spinel penetrating him. He lay boneless like a corpse, shutting his eyes and resigning himself to a slow, exhausting descent. Unlike Sidian, Spinel was loud; his breathy, clipped laughter a thousand arrows slicing through Amethio’s defences. Each wound was an insult, a mark of ownership, an act of forceful, unwarranted dominance.

If Sidian’s touch was unfeeling, Spinel’s was much worse: affectionate in a plastic, artificial way, it was poison packaged in pink-ribboned tenderness; a multi-faceted masquerade; the very picture of hateful, sartorial elegance. Amethio let himself drift, impatiently awaiting the curtain call, floating in and out of consciousness like how Spinel pushed Sidian’s semen in and out of his body.

Spinel thrusted carelessly, hands flitting all over Amethio. Spinel pinched Amethio’s nipples, squeezed his arms, and caressed old scars. Spinel dug bellicose fingers into the cracks of Amethio’s facade, tearing down the walls his heart constructed to shield him from people precisely like Spinel.

Sharp discomfort snapped Amethio’s eyes open, forcibly dragging him back to the present. He saw Spinel’s fingers pressed into his side, carving red-rimmed crescent moons into his star-white skin. Hesitant, Amethio looked up through a veil of glassy tears.

Spinel was not smiling.

The fear that lunged from the dark and clamped around his throat reminded him how pathetic he was. Amethio tried to move, but Spinel plunged in and sent his head flying back against the ground, pain ricocheting off his skull. Pressing his lips to Amethio’s ear, Spinel whispered:

‘You’re thinking about Friede, aren’t you?’

Spinel set off a bomb with the name. Panic set in through earth-shattering shock waves, his legs instinctually kicking out like a fearful Deerling, pride collapsing under frenzied, futile attempts to escape. Where? When? Why? How did Spinel know about Friede? Amethio jerked, but Spinel kept him squarely pinned, nails dragging down his thighs, leaving long, fresh lines of white scratches.

It was a grim reality Amethio lived in. He was weak. Unable to bear the misery, the only thing he could do was refuse to cry.

‘I’ve been keeping tabs on him,’ Spinel enunciated each word with a thrust, heedless of Amethio’s rising horror. ‘He’s been looking for you, dear, asking around and everything.”

Amethio threw his head to the side where Sidian sat there like a fool, exceedingly confused. Sidian was unable to hear what Spinel whispered to him, but the panic was written all over Amethio’s face. Sidian met his eyes worriedly. He offered a lifeline, a plea; he asked Amethio to have him rip Spinel off and smash that bastard’s face in. 

Oh sweet Sidian—so kind, so honourable, and so fucking stupid.

Just like Amethio himself.

In the world he lived in, Amethio only had two things: strength and dignity, but his strength was a pedestal of glass: easily broken, easily taken. With his “strength” so mercilessly ripped from his grasp, what else could Amethio be if not the proud, resilient fool? Amethio sealed his lips shut and closed his eyes, turning limp once more. Spinel wanted to devour his fear, rip into his heart and dig out his petty, humane imperfections. Amethio would not give him that.

‘Just what have you done, you stupid little thing?’ Spinel hissed, striking his thigh with steel-sharp aggression.  ‘Do you seriously believe he cares for you? Or, dare I say, loves you?’

‘He’s using you, can’t you see? You shitty fucking brat,’ Spinel grabbed his cock, roughly squeezing it, jamming unwanted pleasure alongside humiliating fear down Amethio’s throat. ‘You trying to leave us now?’

‘S-Shut… up..!’ Amethio barely managed to choke out the words. Spinel, expectantly, only cackled.

‘There’s nothing out there for you, love. You’re nothing without the Explorers. Nothing!’ Spinel kissed Amethio once more, enunciating each excruciating word against his lips. ‘We’re the only ones who can accept you for who you are: a mangy, pathetic stray that’s spoiled, dumb—’

‘—weak.’

Amethio’s climax crashed upon him as a tidal wave of shame and loathing. Spinel came shortly after with a dark shriek, pumping the limp body beneath him full of dirty, unwanted semen. As the world faded to black, Amethio briefly registered Sidian yelling.

Images of a man flashed before his eyes, and for once, Amethio clung to the thoughts. He latched onto that name, the last—and perhaps only—thing that brought him the feeling of being truly safe in the torturous world.

Friede...

⊰———❤︎———⊱

Amethio awoke with a start.

He shot upright, the familiar thrum of painkillers numbing the throb of his temples. Before he could take in his surroundings, a firm hand pressed itself against his chest, coaxing him back into lying down.

He would recognise that touch anywhere. 

‘Young Master,’ Hamber’s gentle chide was a bucket of cold water to Amethio’s face. ‘You need to rest.’

A glance around confirmed for Amethio that he was in the medical bay. Curtained off from the rest of the world, he lay tucked into a snow-white bed dressed in a matching hospital gown, perfumed with the subtle scent of lavender to mask the nauseating notes of antiseptic—no doubt the precise work of Hamber. Perched on a chair by Amethio’s bedside was the man himself. Hamber drew his hand back from Amethio’s chest and folded it over the other on his lap, completely prim in all his obsequious glory. His neat appearance filled Amethio with an irrational loathing.

‘The others brought you in after you lost consciousness,’ Hamber informed, his disapproving gaze flicking downwards to the baffling number of bruises and scars that embedded Amethio’s skin. ‘They are carrying out a punishment as of now, Young Master.’

Hamber only ever called Amethio “Young Master” in private; a special little title for a special little brat like Amethio; deference showed to the tool he raised and loved as his own. Hamber was the edifice of expectation, of Gibeon’s heavenly will, the carrier, the messenger, the proof of all that was right. 

‘If I could be frank, Young Master, your disregard for your own health is both an asset and a foible,’ Hamber sighed. ‘In this case, it is the latter. Please take care of yourself more.’

Amethio thought to snap at Hamber for chiding his own master, but Hamber—who always knew what to say—went in for the kill: 

‘Remember that you are deeply important to your grandfather and I.’

Amethio’s heart dropped, vitriol vanishing. Had his voice not been screamed hoarse, he would have yelled, cursed, and struggled. He wanted to rip Hamber’s tongue out so that such wicked, beautiful lies could never be uttered again.

Undeterred, Hamber reached out to stroke Amethio’s hair, firm fingers tugging apart two-toned strands. He was the perfect facade of a doting butler, a cherishing mentor. Hamber poured love directly into his scalp with each stroke, and like a starved fool, Amethio devoured the pain that conveyed Hamber’s affection. It tasted so sweet—the illusion of the love Amethio chased all his life, the same love his grandfather dangled before him to keep him wanting, eager, for every new mission.

‘The Explorers are your family, Young Master,’ Hamber traced a hand down Amethio’s shoulders, careful not to disturb the wounds that littered his milky skin like stars in the galaxy. ‘It would do good to get along with them.’

The touches soon evolved into a soft embrace. Holding him tight, tender, and sweet, Hamber had Amethio’s body crumpling against his will. He clung to Hamber like a cowardly child would to their father, the way he never once did to his own flesh and blood. He felt safe in Hamber’s arms, at least for the moment.

‘Amethio, please cherish your family,’ Hamber murmured, each word forged with molten, burning concern. The worst part was that Hamber spoke from the heart; he was somehow completely genuine. ‘Love your Pokémon, love your fellow admins, and love the Explorers who will support you through thick and thin.’

‘Love us like how your grandfather and I love you.’

Hamber reached down, fastening a familiar, shackling hand at the back of Amethio’s neck, and opened the floodgates. 

Amethio sobbed and sobbed, a pathetic weakling in Hamber’s arms, a broken soul who sought a love he never should have known. Spinel was right: he could never leave. There was nothing out there for him.

Nobody was going to save him. Not Zirc, not Onia, not Hamber, not Friede…

…and certainly not himself. 

Ending Notes: I consider this the “tame” version with the next chapter being the “pain” version. Writing the dynamic between these three was a blast. Amethio’s internal monologue was especially delightful to craft, and I had fun portraying the contrast between Spinel and Sidian!

Gritting his teeth, Friede scanned the surrounding area for somewhere safe—not that the dark skies offered any visibility. As strong as Charizard was, forcing a fire-flying type to fly in a thunderstorm was incredibly stupid, and not to mention cruel. He needed to land. Fast. But fate seemed intent on mocking him. All that greeted his gaze was gloomy forest canopies, spanning beyond the horizon. 

The supposedly simple trip of gathering herbs for Mollie turned out to be a nightmare in disguise. Who knew the herbs would be so far from the ship? They had parked in a hidden part of the forest after running into signs of the Explorers’ activity, but they did their job a little too well, for Friede presently could not find the Brave Olivine himself.

He would have praised himself for being so skilled had death not been nipping at his heels.

Wincing as another crack of lighting resounded behind him—concerningly close—Friede finally spotted a beacon in the dark: a tiny wooden house with a humble, yet sturdy, appearance, the light of a fireplace spilling from the singular window. 

Hoping the house’s tenant was friendly, or at least would accept Mollie’s herbs as payment, Friede pointed the house out. Charizard folded his wings and did a dive, as eager to escape the rain as his trainer was, and landed in front of their destination with an unceremonious thud. Friede hastily returned Charizard and slammed his fist on the door.  The door swung open after six violent knocks.

Friede had already put on his best pleading look, but stopped dead upon coming face to face with his ‘saviour’. Staring at Friede, his trademark impassive expression carrying a twinge of surprise…

…stood Amethio.

‘Uh,’ he must have done something to offend Lady Luck. Blindsided by the turn of events, a sheepish smile crept onto Friede’s face. ‘Hi?’

A shock of white, followed by a loud clap of thunder, startled them as a large tree branch behind Friede crashed to the ground. Friede threw a worried glance over his shoulder. He would have been crushed had he been standing further back. Thankfully, one look at the branch had Amethio grabbing Friede by the collar and yanking him into the house.

A flood of warmth embraced Friede’s frazzled nerves the moment the door slammed shut. The interior was as modest as the outside, the minimal furniture displayed more for function than form. Friede mentally kowtowed to all the gods he never believer in before that it was Amethio. While Amethio may be part of the enemy team, he was more knight than dragon, unlike his less… savoury colleagues. He would not leave anyone to their death if he could do something about it. All in all, it could have been worse, and Friede was not one to look a gift Ponyta in the mouth.

Amethio disappeared behind another door that Fride assumed lead to the bathroom. While his kind host was busy, Friede moved closer to the lovely lit fireplace, fighting the urge to settle into the plush armchair that lay near it, soft cushions and red velvet pleading for an embrace. He redirected his focus to a small coffee table before the armchair, frowning at the neat stack of suspicious files that mocked him. 

Amethio abruptly emerged with a towel and clothesline, dropping them on the coffee table for Friede before swiping the files. He hurried to the single-sized bed in the corner of the room and shoved the files into a wooden drawer beside it. He switched on a dim table lamp atop said drawer when finished, diffuse lamplight illuminating his two-toned hair in a soft, sensual amber. 

A familiar and much unwelcome desire crept its way up Friede’s gut. It was not the first time he looked at Amethio in a more… shameful light, but it was different now. With dancing shadows accentuating his picturesque profile, Amethio was perfect, all curves and whispers like a debonair dream. Add some smooth jazz and the scene would have won an award in a film festival. 

‘You’re staring,’ Amethio’s blank statement cut through Friede’s growing vice, quashing down the impulse Friede was entertaining to embrace his enemy from behind. ‘Is there something you want?’

Friede bit back the “you” that nearly escaped his lips. Damn him and his utter lack of self control. Amethio’s age was still a mystery to him! Friede tore his eyes away from his stunning saviour, scrambling for an excuse.  

‘I’m just surprised you’re showing your back to the enemy,’ forcing out a breezy laugh, Friede shrugged off his jacket. ‘I could sooooooo easily attack and throw you out right now—’

‘You won’t do anything,’ Amethio cut in to Friede’s great surprise. He sounded so sure, his voice softening at the latter half of his reply. ‘You’re not that kind of person.’

‘…Thanks,’ Friede’s smirk made way for a genuine smile. Learning that Amethio trusted him was both unexpected and incredibly touching. ‘Can I pay for the couch with a battle?’ 

‘We can talk about it in the morning,’ Amethio threw a look over his shoulder, the curve of his lithe hips affecting Friede more than it should have. ‘Dry your clothes by the fire. My spares definitely won’t fit you. You can tell me why  you were stupidly wandering around in a storm while you’re at it.’

Exactly as he said, their statures were unfortunately too different for clothes-borrowing, as cute as the idea was. Kicking off his shoes, Friede detailed his circumstances to Amethio before throwing back questions of his own. He learnt that the Explorers had small residences scattered all over the country in the case of emergencies, such as the storm they were currently in. Amethio had previously split up with his two subordinates to scout, but the storm threw a wrench into their plans to regroup. Thankfully, he got the memo that the other two made it safely into hideouts of their own. 

Basically, he and Friede were in the same boat: stuck waiting. What Amethio was doing in the same forest as the Rising Volt Tacklers went unsaid. Friede made note to check the airship for any trackers when he got back.

Friede left his bag of herbs on the table, hanging up the clothesline before the fireplace. Hanging his jacket up, he wondered how much clothes he should be removing. He was drenched completely through, and while he had no shame in nudity, the comfort of his gracious host was still paramount.

He waited for Amethio to complain, but Amethio remained quiet even as he stripped down to his briefs. 

Smile reverting to a smirk, Friede hung up the last of his clothes and turned to Amethio. Amethio was like a lover anticipating their partner: beckoning, wanting, eager for their forbidden to commence. With the poise of a movie star, he lay propped up by his elbows on the bed, blazing gaze unabashedly trailing up and down Friede’s body. While his expression was one of clinical observation, the heat in his eyes betrayed his passion.

‘Like what you see?’ Friede could not help but tease. ‘Never took you for one to ogle older guys.’ 

‘I’ve seen better,’ Amethio’s slender fingers curled around the bedsheets. He lifted his head, silken hair parting around his ears, and Friede glimpsed the slightest tinge of red splashed over his pale skin. ‘Besides, I’m twenty-one. I’m only two years younger than you.’

Affection flooded through Friede’s chest. Much bolder, Friede plopped down beside Amethio, who in turn dropped his elbows to go properly prone. Amethio refused eye contact the whole time.

‘It’s not good to lie—’ Friede stopped himself, processing Amethio’s earlier words. ‘Wait, how do you know my age?’

Lovely strands covered Amethio’s flushed ears, rushing to mask his embarrassment as he finally moved to face Friede. He had returned to the cold beauty Friede was oh so familiar with.

‘We dug up everything about you: age, occupation, family, schools you went to…’ Amethio’s lips quirked into a smile at Friede’s flabbergasted face. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared. ‘Also, I’m not lying about anything.’

‘You laughed!’ Friede cast aside the concerning revelation, prioritising the clearly more important image of Amethio’s tiny smile. It was the cutest thing he had ever seen, a sight rarer than a shiny Pokémon. ‘I saw you!’ 

‘You’re delusional,’ unhappy with his slip-up, Amethio’s retort came out a lot weaker with Friede beaming above him. ‘You can sleep in the armchair. Goodnight.’ 

Unwilling to let it go, Friede made a grab for Amethio. This time, unlike their usual battles, Amethio was one step ahead. Strong hands seized Friede’s arm, yanking him down between powerful, perfect legs, Friede wheezing as Amethio’s locked his tone calves around his neck and squeezed. Amethio tugged the arm he had trapped in his grip more out of spite than malice. His legs did not choke hard enough to actually kill, but the pressure was unbearable.

‘Okay! Okay! I surrender!’ Heat flooded Friede’s face, a pain almost pleasant shooting down his neck and arm. ‘You can let me go now!’

Pleased with his pleading, Amethio acquiesced. Free from the admin’s iron grip, Friede stood, gasping, trying to regain his bearings. Getting nearly choked to death should not have been as arousing as it was, and unfortunately for him, his body only made things worse: blood rushing from his head right down south. 

Even more unfortunate was that Amethio chose to look down right at that moment.

‘Huh,’ Amethio remarked, eyeing up the obvious tent in Friede’s briefs. ‘Didn’t know you liked younger guys.’

‘Shut up,’ usually, Friede would be politer, perhaps cracking a joke to diffuse the awkward situation. But it was Amethio. Friede refused to admit anything to his rival-slash-enemy. ‘I’m virtually naked and literally had my cheek against your crotch!’ 

Amethio gave no response to that.

Sitting back down on the bed, Friede tried to will away his erection to no avail, cursing his immaturity. He always thought himself above making stupid decisions like some horny teen. Of course he was wrong.

Just as he was overthinking it, five elegant fingers curled around his wrist, one at a time. 

Gently, Amethio tugged.

‘Come.’

The implications were as clear as day. Amethio spoke with uncharacteristic meekness, the smooth, elegant timbre of his voice quivering like a leaf in a storm. The offer was a lightning strike, a torrential rain of ice, a blazing flame; Amethio sounded unsure, or perhaps scared. 

Casting his anxieties to the wind, Friede turned to Amethio, tracing his sprawled figure across the bed, sweet as sin. He looked breathtaking: two-toned locks falling around his soft features like a frame, brilliant amethyst eyes curtained by long, curled, lashes. He was seductive, the very incarnate of beauty, but in a rare display of restraint, Friede hesitated.

They both knew it what would happen once the line was crossed. They could never return from it when they did. While Amethio did just save Friede from potential doom, he remained an Explorer: a wickedly dangerous man, as vicious as he was alluring. Friede knew he should look away; show discomfort; say no and sleep in the armchair before absconding once the sun rose. Nothing needed to change. Nothing should be changed. Yet, Amethio still offered himself up on a silver platter, the future be damned, his gaze ablaze with tender fondness and fierce vulnerability.

When Amethio tugged once more, Friede allowed himself to fall.

They met in the middle with a deep kiss, mouths slotting against one another like lock and key. Friede slid his arms beneath Amethio, committing every twitch and touch of his partner’s deceptively fragile frame to memory. Amethio arched into his hold, fitting perfectly into Friede’s body. Friede could almost convince himself that Amethio belonged there. Suddenly, the difference in their physiques was a boon: while clothes could not be shared, Friede was able to envelop Amethio completely beneath him.

Amethio parted his lips—a silent invitation for entry. Friede devoured him like a ravenous beast. He pushed his tongue into the warm embrace of Amethio’s mouth, responding to the call for a dance. The admin rewarded him with a gentle suck on his tongue. A pleasured shiver shot down Friede’s spine.

Suddenly self-conscious about his near nudity, Friede fiddled with Amethio’s black button-up, expensive silk kissing his fingertips with feathery soft bliss. Friede slid a hand down the small of Amethio’s back, cupping the curve of his rear through the thin fabric of his trousers. He swallowed the moan he wrenched from Amethio, grinding into his partner’s hips as desire steadily consumed them.

As much as he wanted to keep kissing Amethio forever, the need for air forced Friede to retreat. A trail of saliva connected their tongues where they parted. Amethio’s usual gaze was now flickering with something beautifully heated.

While they caught their breaths, Friede worked open Amethio’s shirt, his movements growing clumsier with every button popped, revealing a sliver more of Amethio’s pale, pristine torso. It was tantalisingly smooth, akin to cut porcelain, the teasing bits of uncovered skin only fuelling their mutual arousal.

Once the last of Amethio’s buttons fell away, Friede eagerly pushed open his shirt. His breath stopped. Large scars marred Amethio’s otherwise perfect skin, Friede identifying scrapes, burns, and what looked like an actual stab wound; a grim reminder of Amethio’s unsavoury line of work.

‘How did you get these?’ Friede asked, his heart dropping at the grisly sight. ‘Most of these don’t look like Pokémon wounds.’

‘Field missions and sex with my colleagues,’ Amethio muttered. ‘Mostly Sp—Mr Beheeyem, who is also the man who gathered your information.’

Concern overshadowed the creeping jealousy at hearing about another man who graced Amethio’s bed. Of course it would be that guy. Friede held himself back from asking which wounds fell into which categories. 

At the fall of Friede’s expression, Amethio leaned up to brush a kiss against his cheek. The affectionate gesture was almost like a lover’s, warmth stamping away the worst of Friede’s worry. Amethio’s stomach flexed under Friede’s roaming touch. His muscles were toned despite his demure appearance, evident with the stark shadows that outlined his arms as he raised them. Friede assisted Amethio out of his button-up, and once the article was fully off, Friede shucked it over the side of the bed, consigning it to the cold ground for the rest of the night.

Casting aside all thought of other people, Friede kissed Amethio’s neck, leaving behind a string of bruises like a collar with tender nibbles. Protectiveness and possessiveness fuelled every kiss, further fed by the dark thoughts that maybe, just maybe, if enough marks were on Amethio, he would no longer be able to face the other Explorers and leave. 

It was a stupid yet wonderful fantasy nonetheless. Leaning back to admire his handiwork, Friede absentmindedly mulled over the purple hickeys that would match Amethio’s usual colour scheme perfectly. Amethio did not seem to mind the overt ogling, though Friede could only glean little from the cute face his partner got under control.

Planting a kiss against a small scar below Amethio’s rib, Friede lavished each blemish with love, roaming hands holding Amethio down, worshipping his body. Amethio tensed with every kiss, a hand tentatively threading through Friede’s snowy locks.

‘Your scars are terrifying,’ Friede murmured into the old stab wound above Amethio’s iliac furrows, carved right into the flesh of his belly. ‘But you’re still so damn irresistible.’ 

Amethio responded in silence, but the erection straining against the confines of his clothes told Friede everything. Among all the partners that Friede ever had the pleasure, and sometimes displeasure, of sleeping with, Amethio was easily the most unresponsive. At the very least, his body was honest in its own cute way.

Insistent tugs in his hair put a pause to Friede’s ministrations. Amethio was turning agitated, each pull against his scalp harsher than the last. Glancing up, Friede was greeted by a lube bottle held to his face, the drawer beside the bed pulled open.

‘…why do you have lube?’ Thinking aloud, Friede plucked the bottle from Amethio’s grasp. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

‘For Zirc, who else?’ Amethio stated. The blithe name drop left Friede more than a little affronted. Amethio silenced his complaints with a sharp pull of his hair. ‘Do you want to do it or not?’

As adorable as his signature eye twitch was, Friede stopped pushing it. He hooking four fingers into Amethio’s waistband and yanked. Amethio raised his hips, his trousers sliding right off, leaving him in just his dark purple briefs where a wet spot pooled at his cock strained against the fabric.

‘Do you want to be on top or below?’ It took everything in Friede to hold back mouthing against the straining bulge. Friede returned to his original hover above Amethio, stealing a quick kiss from those darling lips. ‘I don’t have a preference.’ 

‘I’m fine with anything,’ Amethio’s response was quicker than usual, his carefully constructed facade fraying at the seams. ‘So long you hurry up.’ 

One look at Amethio’s pliant body had Friede making up his mind. Amethio was already breathtaking just by laying there, so how much more lovelier could Amethio get when speared open on his cock? 

‘I hope you’re ready to get fucked then,’ Friede grinned, nipping at Amethio’s lip. ‘My Amethio.’

Amethio abruptly grasped Friede by the shoulders and flipped their positions, tossing him onto his back. The impact knocked most of the breath out of Friede’s lungs, but the last of it was stolen at the sight of Amethio straddling his hips, wearing the most adorably annoyed expression ever. Amethio’s eye twitched as he yanked his briefs off in an undignified fashion, amusing Friede by the uncharacteristic impatience.

Amethio’s cock was half-hard; pale and pretty like the man himself. Friede hardly had the time to admire before Amethio made quick work of his own clothes. Throwing Friede’s briefs over his shoulder, Amethio slid down Friede’s body, pausing once his face was directly at his partner’s stiff manhood. Amethio stared openly, his eyes widening for a split second before the mask of indifference slipped back into place—sans the growing blush on his cheeks.

‘Big, isn’t it?’ Teasing, Friede thrusted against Amethio’s face. Amethio’s scowl deepened in a way he adored. ‘No need to force yourself if you don’t want to.’ 

‘I’ve seen bigger,’ Amethio shot him an unamused look. ‘My colleague’s—the one with the Garganacl, not Beheeyem—cock is the size of my forearm.’ 

Friede did not need or want to hear that, nor did he acknowledge the twinge of jealousy that worm its way into his heart. Thankfully, Amethio gave him no time to dwell on it. Extending his right hand, Amethio held it before Friede, expectant. Refocusing on the task, Friede dumped a generous amount of lubricant onto his open palm, admiring his hand as the viscous fluid flowed. His work be damned, it was well cared for with little callouses decorating otherwise tender and smooth flesh.

Amethio tucked his hair behind his ear with his left hand, his right taking Friede’s throbbing erection into his grasp. Instinctively bucking his hips, the electrical pleasure made Friede shudder. It required every ounce of his willpower to keep his eyes open.

His efforts were rewarded with a tender kiss to the tip of his cock. Pursing his lips, Amethio pressed his mouth against the shaft, soft, pink tongue darting out to flick at the dribbling precum that leaked freely like raindrops. Much more expressive than the chilly admin, Friede grinned when Amethio glanced up at him, pushing himself onto his elbows, then hands, to sit upright and get a better look. With the new angle, Friede received the full view of Amethio’s pale face, ever so subtly flushed.

Amethio broke eye contact in favour of wrapping his lips around Friede’s tip. There was a calm appreciation that stoked the flickering heat in Friede’s belly, the arousing sight and sensations accompanied by tender, docile affection. Amethio lowered himself to take the rest of the cock’s head. The warm, wet heat of his mouth engulfed Friede snugly, pulsing as Amethio gave an experimental suck.

Friede pushed a hand through the flowing strands of Amethio’s hair, keeping a firm grip on his scalp. They were silk curtains against his skin, parting easily between his fingers. Stroking Amethio’s hair, Friede massaged his scalp as an encouragement, a thank-you, and a plea to keep moving. 

Inch after inch of Friede’s cock slid into Amethio’s willing mouth. He did so with little effort, the priceless sight no doubt going to plague Friede’s waking nights. Amethio worked his tongue around the shaft languidly, throwing in the occasional swallow that tightened his throat until Friede saw stars. He kept going even after reaching the base of Friede’s cock, where he held himself still until he choked for air.

Dexterous fingers toyed with his testicles, Amethio rubbing a thumb against them in tandem with every swallow. The way Amethio fought against his limitations flattered Friede, his stubbornness both endearing and erotic. Throughly charmed by the eagerness, Friede dragged his gaze up Amethio’s arched back. As a result of their positions, Amethio’s hips shook hypnotically. Friede used his free hand to give it a tight squeeze, Amethio’s cheek fitting like a glove in his palm, the perfect ratio of firmness and softness. Amethio’s throat spasmed with a choked moan.

Amethio lost his composure fast, pulling off Friede’s cock before diving back down, unwilling to relent. While it was fun toying with his body, nothing beat the sight of Amethio struggling to swallow down his cock. The stubborn way he kept at it was exceedingly beautiful, the obscene stretch of his lips around the base even more so.

As tempting as shooting down his throat or on his face sounded, Friede wanted to finish inside of him properly; it may be their only time together, after all. He refused to entertain the notion of possible future encounters.

Reluctantly, Friede yanked Amethio off his cock, relishing in the lewd “pop” and gasp that Amethio let out. Emptying a good portion of the lubricant bottle onto his hand, Friede abandoned it back into the drawer as Amethio clambered into his lap, bumping their cocks together.

Friede held the admin still as he eased a finger inside. Strangely enough, Amethio’s entrance was soft and pliant, as if he had already been taken before…

‘Zirc had me this morning,’ ever the mind-reader, Amethio muttered into Friede’s shoulder. ‘I’m probably still loose from that.’ 

Friede’s eye twitched.

‘Please don’t—’ pushing Amethio down, Friede glared at him with no real heat. ‘—talk about other men while we’re doing this.’

Amethio’s surprise only lasted for a second, pleasure knitting his brows together as Friede jammed two more fingers inside. Friede reckoned he could take it and take it he did, Amethio willing himself to relax around the three digits that ravished his hole. The way he steadied his breathing spoke wonders of his experience, and while Friede never minded a mature partner before, it brought along quite the unpleasant feeling.

Friede twisted his fingers around until Amethio let out a gasp. Satisfied with the reaction, Friede pressed into the same spot, and when Amethio arched up into his touch, he made mental note of where it lay. Friede pulled his fingers out, the trail of lube connecting them to Amethio’s gaping entrance. The debauched sight would definitely be his masturbation material for the next month or so.

‘Do you have any condoms?’ The logical part of Friede hoped so, but the horny part of him begged to forgo it altogether. ‘Not sure if you have my size—’

‘It’s fine, I’m clean,’ Amethio cut him off to the cheers of his horny half. ‘You can go in raw.’

Friede gaped at him. Amethio rolled his eyes. 

‘I trust you.’ 

Amethio trusted him.

Despite being incredibly touched, the underlying tone of indifference didn’t sit well with Friede. Did Zirc fuck him without protection as well? Did his colleagues hold him down, take him without even thinking about the risks, all while Amethio gritted his teeth and bore it? Friede’s heart ached at the thought. He distracted himself with another kiss, the sparks between their mouths casting his worries away, chasing desperately after Amethio’s slim tongue.

Pressing the head of his cock against Amethio’s wet entrance, Friede eased himself in. The tip slipped inside without resistance, all-encompassing warmth threatening to have him climax on the spot. Amethio made a sharp sound. Beneath Friede, he felt so small, so fragile, his soft cries only feeding the worry of hurting him.

Noticing Friede’s hesitance, Amethio’s eyes softened. He raised his legs, as if to assure the professor that everything was okay…

…and delivered a swift kick to Friede’s hips.

Pain exploded from where Amethio’s heels dug into his hipbone, the force sending Friede falling forward. Keeling over the younger man, his cock plunged into Amethio’s tight body, the burst of pleasure flooding his vision with white. Amethio’s legs locked themselves around Friede’s waist, forcing him to stay buried inside.

Growling, Amethio gripped Friede’s face, forcing his partner to look him in the eye.

‘I’m not some blushing virgin, so stop treating me like glass!’ Impatience finally rearing its head, Amethio gave Friede another brutal kick. ‘Do I have to describe in detail how I got fucked by others for you to move?!’ Short nails dug into Friede’s shoulders, scarlet crescents blooming around pale fingers. The sudden crass outburst felt a thousand times dirtier coming from the stiff and curt Amethio. His expression was one of hate, of desire, of rage; it was a confusing myriad of emotions that clearly frustrated him. The loss of composure would have been comical in a less intimate situation.

It was cute how much Amethio hated being underestimated, but the bubbling jealousy Friede had suppressed all night finally broke through. Like a vexed husband, the thought of another man in Amethio’s arms infuriated him to an unreasonable degree, but at the same time, confusion plagued his haze. They were not friends, let alone lovers, so why did the words make him seethe so?

That was when it clicked, or rather, when Friede was forced to acknowledge the feelings he tried so hard to ignore.

He had always wanted Amethio, both body and soul.

Friede yanked himself out of Amethio’s grip, pulling back until only the tip of his cock remained. Slamming back inside against his prostate, Amethio threw his head back with a scream, his body spasming as Friede set a brutal pace. Shoving his arms beneath Amethio’s arched back, Friede pulled their bodies close and mashed their lips together. Amethio kept his legs around Friede’s waist, though he could not muster enough strength to maintain his grip.

Indignation having washed away any worries, Friede plunged himself in and out without hesitation. Amethio was the one who wanted to get fucked out of his mind, and Friede loved a good challenge.

Amethio’s furious expression made way for desperate pleasure. His eyes squeezed shut and his lips parted, clipped moans accompanied every thrust against his prostate, Amethio’s cock grinding into Friede’s abs, painting dark skin in white, legs slackening from the onslaught. Friede drew his strength from the image of a stranger’s hands all over Amethio. The thought of Amethio splayed out for someone that was not him proved to be as erotic as it was infuriating.

Friede was hell bent on making Amethio’s body remember. He wanted no one but he to ever satisfy Amethio again. He wanted Amethio to think about him, especially when beneath another man, and wanted Amethio to wish that the stranger was he. Most of all, Friede wanted to hear his name. He needed to know if Amethio yearned for him the most. 

Even with exhaustion weighing down his every action, Friede kept the intense pace. The rocking of Amethio’s body into his own was all the motivation he needed. Crescents evolved into rivulets down Friede’s back, Amethio’s nails clawing angry red lines into his skin; it was not enough to draw blood, but nevertheless hurt in all the best ways.

Their voices melded together in an obscene harmony, angry cries and sharp gasps muffled by aggressive kisses an accompaniment to the wet sounds of sex. Pleasure peaked at every squeeze of Amethio’s tight warmth, given in response to the overwhelming love Friede showered upon him. Amethio bit down on Friede’s lip—a desperate attempt to regain some control. Feeling both generous and delirious from the mind-numbing ecstasy, Friede conceded to Amethio’s tongue, granting him the small victory. Amethio’s cock pulsed. No doubt that Amethio was as close to climax as he was, a welcoming heat building at the base of Friede’s cock.

‘I’m close,’ pulling away to warn him, Friede tilted his chin up to mouth at Amethio’s sweat-lined forehead. ‘Do I—’

‘Just do it inside!’ Amethio snapped, pushing back against Friede’s cock. ‘Fuck, Friede!’

Hearing Amethio cry out for him was enough. Sheathing himself fully inside, Friede let go. The flood of heat from his own semen was as scalding as Amethio’s walls. At the same time, a similar fluid splattered across the muscle of his pectorals. 

Without the buzz of arousal to hold it at bay, the full brunt of exhaustion ripped away the remaining strength in Friede’s arms. Tilting to the side, he pulled out and flopped boneless to the side of Amethio’s body, thankfully moving fast enough to avoid crushing his partner beneath his full weight. Amethio cringed as semen leaked out of him. He buried his face into the crook of Friede’s neck, relaxing under the shower of kisses that was rained onto his scalp.

‘Stay the night,’ his indifference returning amidst the high of afterglow, Amethio ordered rather than asked. 

Friede held Amethio tight in lieu of a response.  Their bodies pressed flush against each other, adrenaline made way for the somber, wistful aftermath. Friede wanted nothing more than to forever stay pliant against Amethio’s warmth; he wanted his affection to permeate the very marrows of Amethio’s bones, to bury itself so deep it could never disappear.

At that very moment, their positions, their animosity, and the likely future that stretched before them did not matter one bit.

But good things had to come to an end.

‘We have to clean up,’ Amethio smacked Friede on the arm, the violent action contrasted by the tender kiss pressed to his neck. ‘Get up.’

Friede obliged, still having Amethio nestled in his arms as he sat up. Love and logic blurred, dreams and reality clashing. If only Friede could stop time and stay with him for eternity—

‘Join the Rising Volt Tacklers.’

He settled for the next best thing instead. 

The statement rendered Amethio speechless. He planted both his palms against Friede’s chest, tearing himself away from the embrace. The genuine confusion he wore was a sight to behold, his eyes conveying a silent message: 

You’re joking. 

‘I’m serious.’

Grasping Amethio’s wrist, Friede brought it up to his lips, kissing the soft flesh of his beloved’s calloused palm. Amethio looked at him as if he had gone mad. In all honesty, Friede knew he was being crazy, too. What was he thinking, inviting the enemy right into his home base? To the crew that was his life?

But Friede had no regrets. In his heart of hearts, he knew it better than anything else: he wanted Amethio by his side.

‘We’ll protect you from the Explorers,’ firm and steady, Friede contested Amethio’s shocked gaze with grim determination. ‘After seeing the state of your body, I can’t stand the thought of you—’

Amethio ripped his hand out of Friede’s grasp.

The slap that followed hurt a lot more than expected. The light sting snowballed into full-blown pain, agony erupting across his cheek like wildfire. Amethio’s palm remained against his face even after the strike. He pressed down on the sore flesh, the ache causing Friede’s eyes to water, his thumb inches away from a forming tear.

‘No.’

It was an answer Friede expected, but the delivery was all wrong.

‘But—’

‘Friede!’

Amethio’s eyes said the rest: Stop. Please.

Friede wanted to ask why, but his voice lodged itself in his throat. Amethio sounded so small, so hurt. He may as well had begged. It killed Friede to see him like that. 

‘Come with me,’ he wanted to say. ‘Whatever it is, we can face it together. Rain or shine, I want to stand next to you.’

I love you.

‘…You’re welcome to join us when you change your mind,’ Friede instead muttered, embedding all his hopes into the “when”. Standing up, Friede tucked his arms beneath Amethio’s knees. ‘Just think about it, alright? I’ll be waiting.’

‘…fine,’ Amethio offered no protest as Friede lifted him into a bridal carry. ‘So clean me up already.’

  ⊰———❤︎———⊱

Amethio swiftly evicted him in the morning, their promised battle be damned.

Left with no other options, Friede sought out the Brave Olivine, which was much easier to locate with the sky clear and bright. Friede flew back on Charizard in silence. His best buddy was obviously curious about what troubled him, but knew better than to ask even as they returned to the airship.

‘Friede!’ A worried Liko perched at the battlefield’s stairs was the first to greet him. She bounded over and threw her arms around his waist, burying her face into his torso. ‘We were so worried!’ 

The commotion alerted Roy, who came rushing out to join the hug. The rest of the crew sans Dot also came out to welcome their wayward leader back. Friede ruffled the heads of his two favourite teenagers and threw the bag of herbs at Mollie, who caught it with expert precision. Liko and Roy wailed into his shirt, banishing most the unpleasant remains of his previous night. 

‘You should’ve called us!’ Murdock scolded, folding his burly arms over his chest. His relieved expression trivialised the anger in his voice. ‘The storm was terrible!’

‘Wait, I didn’t call?’ Friede cocked his head to the side. Liko and Roy pulled back with incredulous expressions while the rest groaned. ‘Sorry! Must’ve forgotten!’

‘Ah, whatever, at least you’re okay,’ Orla smiled, giving him a cursory once-over just to be safe. ‘Did you find a cave or something?’

‘Not important. I want to check the ship for trackers,’ Friede brushed her off, ignoring the pointed look she gave him. ‘So we shouldn’t fly off yet.’ 

Friede knew the chances of a certain someone’s arrival was slim, but who could fault him for hoping?

After all, he promised to wait. 

Ending Notes: This is dedicated to Amethio pushing his hair back during the rain in Episode 2! It still lives rent free in my head to this day. Even after so long, Amethio and Friede remain as some of my favourites, and as my first Horizons ship, revisiting this story has been a delight.