Ch. I
Pent–Up Frustrations

He's frustrated.

He knows it, and he's fairly sure everyone around him knows it, too. All except for her, with awkward smiles and genuinely worried questions about his health. Even if the situation is, indeed, spelled out for her, she's too innocent. Plus, Steven has his reputation to maintain, and sex is a deliriously dangerous subject, when you are an international star. Also, he's fairly sure he genuinely loves her, and that only adds insult to injury, seeing as he not only has to deal with lust, but also with tangible, actual feelings.

He's frustrated, and half the world knows it. Usually he wouldn't care, but when half the world includes Wallace, the situation is more complicated. Because Wallace doesn't get that the best way for Steven to deal with this is just by ignoring it, or hoping it will go away, or something that doesn't involve actual contact with Flannery. So, Wallace just grabs him by the shoulders one day, and shoves him against her during one of the gym leaders' meeting.

It … doesn't go so well: Flannery's face goes red from – he deduces – embarrassment, and every nerve of his skin sparks off, making his legs tremble and his cock react. It's shameful that he's instantly, achingly hard, just because he feels the soft press of her breasts against his chest and because his ears are dangerously close to her mouth when she makes a flustered little noise. That's why he darts off, stiff as a board, towards the bathroom with a grimace. And it's horrible and disgusting, but if he doesn't touch himself thinking of her, then he's going to keep staining his sheets, like a teenager or a lewd man. To make things worse, he likes to think they are pretty good friends, and it's more often than not when they have awkward conversations and flustered expressions (especially on his part … ).

He's so horribly frustrated. And Wallace – he does not give up. Wallace makes it a point to try and get them together, when, obviously, Flannery doesn't want anything to do with him, and he doesn't want to force her of shove his status on her face as a way of blackmail (like his flamboyant best friend keeps doing). But something must happen behind his back, because one night, as he drowns himself into papers just to try and forget about her, Flannery sends a message to his pokénav, and it reads when will you visit Lavaridge?

Steven nearly jumps out of his chair and eagerly replies, the machine almost shaking in his nervous hands. He asks her what is she talking about, although he promises to visit her – Lavaridge, he means Lavaridge – in the near future, if she so wishes. She replies with a nonchalant, alterations in the bedrock surrounding Mt. Chimney. I thought you'd be interested. And he is! Of course he is, with what she being there, touring and existing and holding out his hand, and kissing him –

I'll look into it, he replies, and loosens his ascot tie, feeling too hot even in the room's cool ambient.

He's tired.

He does not sleep well. The night is filled with dreams of her, and vibrantly red hair on his pillow, and he has to get up and do something about his recurring hard-on. He takes coffee twice before leaving the house, but even still … not even the short nap he takes during the flight to Lavaridge helps him regain any form of energy. He briefly wonders why he pushes himself so hard for her, when he's fairly sure that everything she feels for him is admiration. His champion status hinders his attempts to be gracious and romantic with women – it's happened before; but never in such grandness. Steven Stone has never spent a night awake just because of a woman. He has never lost sleep over the way someone's skin felt against his.

And yet, his heart hammers loudly against his chest when Flannery waves from afar, a bright smile already on her pretty face. And yet, he needs to harrumph quietly (just to make sure his voice doesn't crack with wanton lust) before he greets her in that polite, calm way of his.

"Good morning," he says, and marvels at the ability he has to maintain a perfect blank face even in the front of her, "I trust everything has been alright with you, ever since we last met." And he mentally chides himself for bringing up the incident in which he was pushed against her, the palm of his hand against the small of her back for leverage, her mouth against his ear –

"Hello!" she replies excitedly, a healthy blush to her cheeks (in no doubt from the air, of course, he denies any possibilities that she might be infatuated with him, because every other woman disappointed him, and he does not want to create false hopes), "Yes, it has, thank you for wondering. And you?"

He's nervous.

They dabble in small talk; the awkward, cute kind of conversation that makes him blush more often than not, because of minuscule innuendos that only he would ever understand, in his sex-crazed state of frustrated self-satisfaction. Flannery – after showing him the grounds around Mt. Chimney, the place hot and stuffy – does notice the bags under his eyes, and wonders whether he would like to come with her to have some tea, or at the very least eat some scones – and she says that she might not be the best cook, but she assures him she's good enough not to burn the food …

How could he ever turn down the offer to visit her home, where they can be alone and where he can feed his fantasies safely and resolutely? How could he ever tell her no, how could he ever deny her something, the way he is so incredibly taken in with this pretty girl? Steven just nods, incredibly taken in with her and with the way her stomach is so pale and soft under the bright sunlight.

Her house smells of apples. She leads him into the kitchen, talking about her gym leader's life, about the way she sometimes loses but usually wins, and then bends over to grab whatever. His throat tightens and he loosens his cravat (it's starting to become an habit) as he gulps in dry. Her pants are loose, so they drop just slightly, until he can see the small dimples in the end of her lithe back, and he wants to kiss them, bad.

"Would you like sugar with your coffee?"

He snaps out of it soon enough, his heart hammering wildly and loudly in his chest, threatening to leap out through his throat; he manages to muster out a shaky affirmation, and when she turns and puts herself in the tips of her toes, it's her shirt that rises dangerously. This time, he drops the spoon he is holding, and it clatters on the tiled floor and he can already feel all the blood in his body rushing away from his brain and into his –

"Are you … alright?" she asks, turning to him with a concerned expression, her right hand already reaching for his forehead as she says, "Maybe you're coming down with a fever? You're looking really red."

When her hand touches his skin, he stiffens in his seat; he's fairly relieved that it doesn't draw steam, because her palm is cool and soft, and his face feels like one hundred degrees, exactly, the line of boiling point, and he can't help but to reach back instinctively. Steven regrets it immediately, because the look of hurt on her face seeps inside his heart and breaks it into pieces. He feels horrible and divided, because he knows that if he remains close to her, then she will notice the growing pain inside his pants and she will be horrified and his reputation and his heart will break and die, and crumble.

"I … I'm sorry—?" she says, shocked and worried and blushing madly.

So, Steven reaches out for her hand and pulls her closer to him and presses his lips against hers in what is nothing but a hastily done decision in the heat of the moment (and isn't that a heated moment in his skin and nerves and groin). Flannery makes a surprised noise, and squirms against him when he slips his tongue inside her mouth in an all-for-nothing play; after seconds that drag for millennia, Flannery parts to breathe, her cheeks a dark tone of pink, her mouth relaxed and her eyes downcast.

He feels faint and can only mumble something like, "I'm, I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, Flannery," and he keeps babbling pathetically until Flannery looks him in the eyes again and leans in for another kiss. He feels his chest swell with pride and disbelief as he pulls her closer, as he pulls her softly into his lap. He tries taking it slow – he does, but his desire for her is so much that when she pulls apart to breathe, her cheeks dark (and it's by then he understands that she's not as experienced him when it comes to matters such as these), he kisses her jaw and her neck.

Steven practically forces himself not to drag his teeth across the soft skin of her neck, just to make sure he doesn't startle her, because he doesn't want this to end, not so soon. Not when she has her knees on each side of his thighs, not when he's dreamt of this many times now. She is leaning on him now, hiding away her face, and Steven keeps his hands tightly close to his thighs, because even if he wants nothing more than to touch her, he doesn't dare to, because he will ruin everything. That is his reasoning. Which is why, when she leans her forehead on his shoulder and says, "I've liked you for a long time," he closes them into fists, feeling the helplessness of want take over him.

"S-so have I," he manages to get out, gritting his teeth when she inhales and her leg brushes against his erection. He doesn't know whether she's noticed it yet, but he doesn't want her to learn that he gets so wound up just because of her. Just because of one kiss or two. "I was … however, under the impression that … ungh—" But the pretense is lost when he groans into her ear, bucking up slightly into her thigh, force of reflex, and Flannery just freezes above him.

Steven bites into his lip to muffle the rest of the sounds that are threatening to arouse from his throat, all the while thinking that it will be impossible for him, to escape this one, and that he's ruined everything – and that is when she shyly kisses him again. Flannery reaches for his closed hand slowly, and brings it towards her waist, placing it there. He thinks he might die.

"I … I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Flannery tells him, hiding away her face again. He feels his left hand flinch when she talks, because her lips are close to his ear. "So … can you tell me what to do? I'll … I'll try my best!"

He puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the eye: "I don't want to force you to do anything."

Flannery does a little sound, and giggles, half-nervous, her thumb hooked on his cravat as he swallows. "It's not like I haven't thought of this before," she says, and his whole resolve goes down like a castle made out of cards; he grabs onto her arms and his eyes widen. "S … Should I have not said that?"

"It's not … No, no. It's too soon," he says, and even if he is hard and ever so willing to … well, he knows it's too soon for them, yet. But he is aching inside his pants and Flannery is too shy to actively take care of the situation, so Steven just presses a chaste kiss on her lips and says, "I need to go. I'll see you later—"

And in a startling display of ferocity, she sits on him, finally putting all her weight (which, frankly, isn't all that much) on him. Steven lets out a hissing sound as she leans on his shoulders for support. "Sorry," she sheepishly says, "Did that hurt?" He doesn't trust his voice, so he just shakes his head twice, stiffly. "I … I'm not letting you go out … l-like that," Flannery stubbornly says, and for a moment she becomes the ferocious gym leader conducting a battle. "So."

So.

Steven doesn't know what so say without having his voice crack, or without letting out a groan or (god forbid) a moan, and he's not going to tell her what to do –

And he doesn't have to: by the time he notices, Flannery is out of his lap and on her knees, a fierce blush covering her cheeks, and Steven's hands grab the chair's arm in expectation and … he's feeling too nervous for it to make sense; he's no beginner on what it comes to sex but – she is and maybe he'll ruin everything for her. The chain of alarming thoughts, however, comes undone when she puts her elbows on his thighs and unfastens his belt; his brain short-circuits and all he can do is to grab the chair's arm tighter as her hands explore and if Wallace knows about this, he's never going to let him live it down (not that he wants to, ever).

Down come the doubts, then – is he appropriate? Is he her first, and if so, does she really want to do this, or is she just being pressured by his urgent need? The chain of alarming thoughts steels itself in his brain again as she runs her thumb across his cock – and his head falls back as he swallows.

"Am I … doing it right?" she asks, and squeezes slightly; his eyes roll in their orbits, and Steven's knuckles are white. If she doesn't know how to pleasure a man, then she is hiding it very well, especially when she strokes with curiosity latent in her touch. He lets out a straining sigh and wonders – this is the most fun he's ever had, he's sure of that. And then, just as he is getting used to her hands, because if he comes it will be embarrassingly early, he feels a warmth and – he has to see to believe, but she's actually swallowing him, eyes closed and eyebrows frowning in concentration, a hand holding her bangs in place, tucking her hair behind her ear.

It takes all the self-control in the world not to buck into her mouth – but he's good at that, so it's fine. Except she uses her teeth, and when her teeth scrape against his flesh, the hyper-sensitivity too much for either his brain or his cock, Steven's hips grind towards her. Flannery hums, then, and the vibration (and the fact that she opens her eyes, then, just to see his reaction) sends him over the top, and he's reduced to a relaxed mass of slim muscles and low, velvety groans of her name.

"That was – ungh … " she stops and wipes her mouth with her fingers, and he comes to the realization that she's swallowed, "I wouldn't mind doing it again."

Steven, too relaxed and tired and happy, just slumps in her kitchen chair, feeling his neck cramp. He resists the urge to ask her where she's learned to give blowjobs, because would that not only be insulting (he's a gentleman after all), it would be degrading, and … it's not like he's complaining.

He's frustrated.

He knows it, and she knows it, and everyone else around him knows it; he hasn't been able to forget about the way she worked her mouth on him, the way he managed to lose his composure for minutes, the way he had a mind-blowing orgasm just from her. Wallace just stares at him, like he knows what happened – and he probably does, knowing him – and he doesn't really annoy him about her, anymore. At least that's gotten out of the way.

But he's frustrated again and he wants to pin her to something and … he's a pervert, because she's still a virgin and he isn't, but she looks willing, and isn't that good? But they have not established a relationship, although he assumed immediately that they're now both unavailable, because, after all, he sort of loves her madly. He's frustrated and now it's not because he has no way to erase his sexual frustrations, but because he overthinks things too much.

As he watches her from across the table, ignoring the other gym leaders, and ignoring the way her cheeks turn rouge, he thinks that it could be worse.

After all, they've got all time in world to make things work.