Author's note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I do not own Pokemon or related trademarks.

This is a one-shot idea I've had in mind for a while. It's only been recently that I've been able to really put words or form to it. I feel this is a nice, albeit brief, break from my Saffron Justice series, which still has quite a few stories left in it.

Oh, and this has about as much basis in canon as that series. Meaning little.

Sexual content and language warning:

It seems like it has been an eternity since he has last felt the sensation of stillness.

Outside, the bare pavement of the runway gives away no indication of the tropical land she has lured him to, save for the ripples of invisible heat that float into the sky.

Next to him, his beloved Pikachu sleeps, wearing the hat his master has treasured for so long. He gently shakes the little yellow furball. "Wake up, Pikachu, we've finally made it!" he says.

"Piiiiiiiiiiiiikaaaaaaaaaaaaa ," the sleepy Pokemon yawns as he blinks a few times, then looks at his trainer. "Pi-pika?"

"I know," says the human, his dark hair a spiky mess. "We must have been up there for hours!"

He stands up and opens the door above his head, revealing the two pieces of luggage he has been able to keep with him as the third stays with the rest of the cargo. "I'm telling you, Pikachu, this trip is just what I need to get over this damn writer's block," he says as he struggles to get a heavy bag down. "Plus it gives us a break from traveling around Unova so much, right?"

"Pi-pika!"

He has had this problem for some time, of the words he needs to write failing to come from his mind, of his mind so often failing him. He has spent many hours immersed in the history of the American Civil War, digging for information that he needs for his novel, a story of love and war and heartbreak and loss and memory. In short, a story that has elements that he himself has known.

He spends days uncounted trying to weave the fabric together from the threads he sees, but the human mind, the human creative drive, has its limitations. For he, like all of us, is only human himself.

In desperation, he turns to many things to stoke his imagination. He watches movies about that great and terrible conflict. He reads so many books that he fears, as his occasional companions do, that he is letting his greatest dream, of being the greatest Pokemon Master in all the regions, wither and die like fragile wildflowers in the hot summer sun. He spends many hours in museums, often necessitating forcible removal by security guards because he is lost in his absorption. His mother complains that he sends too many things back to his home in Pallet Town for purposes of research. It puts a cramp on her social life, she claims- and by that, her son often feels she means her love life.

So on he goes, studious, showing a serious side to him that his friends and former foes have never known. But he can only do so much, and eventually he finds himself in the same old rut as before.

Which is why he is so quick to accept when she calls him with an invitation to come to her vacation home in Central America. He hasn't really seen her in years, and he isn't quite sure what her true intentions are, but there it is, an invitation. Perhaps, he thinks, all he needs is to relax, to forget about his creative struggles.

"So why," he mutters to himself as he drags the bags through security, "why the fuck did I bring my work with me?"

His Pikachu does not ride on his shoulder as he is so wont to do. Instead, he scurries alongside his master, the human he shares the greatest bond with in his little world.

They ride down the escalator (or he does; Pikachu slides down the handrail as if on an imaginary skateboard) and walk towards the exit.

And there, with a sign bearing his name, stands the invitor herself, her lustrous figure slightly concealed by a thin white blouse and slim (but night tight) jeans. Her raven black hair extends partway down her back, her bangs parted slightly in front of her face.

"So," she says, "you finally made it."

"Yeah," he answers casually as is his habit, "it took me a while to get my bags checked through. I guess I should have just taken two bags and not three."

"It's fairly warm here. You shouldn't overdress."

"It's not all clothes, but thank you for the advice."

"Well," she says, taking what appears to be the lightest piece of luggage, "shall we be going?"

"Yes, let's," is the reply.

She leads her two guests to her car, a simple sedan that betrays none of her true personality.

"Thanks again for inviting me out here, Sabrina," he says as he gets in, Pikachu jumping in his lap.

"Well, you said you needed to relax so you can recharge your brain cells."

"Writer's block sucks, what can I say?"

She can't think of a good answer to this, and so they just drive out of the airport parking lot and onto the main road.

The city is not much different from the others he has known, although it is easy to see that it is much bigger than the small town he calls home. His host and tour guide tactfully decides to avoid the less pleasant areas, which mercifully are almost nonexistent.

He watches the sights pass him by, of people walking the streets, of vendors hawking their wares, of children playing on the sidewalks. He finds it to be a welcome release from his work-

And the mere thought of his work, even in such a light, dampens his mood. He wishes that he had not brought it with him; he feels that it will only serve to be a burden that will prevent him from enjoying his stay. This is supposed to be a relaxation trip, after all, not a workday in a different climate.

They soon leave the boundaries of the city and make their way along a beachside road. They can feel the bumps as they move along, Pikachu especially as he finds himself tossed around in the backseat, trying to avoid being squashed by the luggage, especially by the heaviest bag.

Soon, however, the car comes to a stop. "We're here," she says.

They open their doors and step out. He stretches his back, stiff from much travel, and looks at the place he will be staying at for the next few days.

It is a fascinating-looking structure, one story, but with a vast patio extending off a cliff that descends to the beach. There is a smattering of tropical flora around the house and on the patio, shading the large sliding glass doors that connect the house and the patio. There are windows in the house that allow views from all sides, and he can see a glimpse of the inside from the short distance he stands from it.

He walks around to the back seat and retrieves his luggage and his Pikachu, then follows her inside.

It is rather simplistic on the inside: the kitchen, while vast, has the appearance of only being used a few weeks out of the entire year. The bathroom is spacious, with a shower that seems impossibly large for just one person. The living room is sparse: a coffee table, a couch, a couple of chairs, and no TV, although he suspects that she has one in her room. That, however, is one room she does not show him, so he knows that he'll never know whether she has a TV anywhere or not.

He sets his bags down next to the couch. "So, would you mind if I just slept on the couch?" he asks her. "I mean, unless you have a spare bedroom or something-"

"Let's not talk about sleeping arrangements yet, Ash," she interrupts. "How about you just relax a while while I go to the market and get stuff for dinner?"

"Fine by me." He sits on the couch, willing himself not to touch the manuscript in one bag.

"Do you like fish?"

"Doesn't matter to me, it's whatever you want."

"Well, you are my guest, so it should be up to you."

"No, I mean it. It's whatever you want. I don't want to be a bother to you while I'm here."

She sighs. "Fine. I'll be right back."

He waits for her to leave, then looks at the bag again.

Leave it alone, Ash, says a voice in his head. You're here to relax, not fucking WRITE.

He tries to fight the urge. He sits on his hands, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He tries to think of something, anything. He thinks of the time he re-visited Lavaridge and went to the springs alone one night and was treated to the unexpected yet highly desirable (to him, at least, although he assured himself that his feelings were perfectly normal) sight of Flannery pleasuring herself on the hard ground next to one of the springs, her fingers darting in and out of her, her head thrown back, red hair spilling on the ground, her eyes closed in exquisite ecstasy.

He tries to think of that moment, tries to remember the words she spoke to him afterwards ("You like what you see, don't ya? Well, maybe you want to get ya some, too? Come to me, Ash. Let's you and me let off some steam of our own, all right?").

All he can see are soldiers marching. All he can hear are cannons roaring, rifles cracking, horses braying, and the horrifying screams of the dying.

He can hold back no longer. He grabs the bag, opens it, pulls out a notebook and pencil, and begins writing feverishly….

They pressed on, the bullets thicker than bees from the hive, the sound almost maddening in its buzz.

As he looked around him, one by one, the other members of his company began to fall, their eyes staring emptily into the sky. The survivors began to yell as they approached the wall, but he knew that it was useless to push forward like this.

Nonetheless, he moved closer, the smoke acrid in his lungs-

"Ash? I'm back."

He is startled back to reality by her return, and he sets the document on the floor. She notices, and her right eyebrow tilts in suspicion. "Did you bring your novel with you?"

"Well, uh, I-"

"Ha! I KNEW it! Next time I talk to Clair, I'm telling her that she owes me ten bucks. I KNEW you wouldn't be able to leave that behind!"

He flushes red with embarrassment. "I had figured that maybe some calm could help me get over my writer's block." He looks down, ashamed that he has found himself unable to unchain himself from this obsession, ashamed that he can't bring himself to just relax, enjoy himself. "I'm sorry."

"Well? Is it working yet?"

"Well, I DID start writing something down that just came into my head."

"As long as you're happy, I have no problem with you taking every opportunity to loosen your creative bonds. Just remember, this is supposed to be a vacation for you, not a business trip."

"You're right."

"Of course I am. I got some fresh fish at the market. I'm going to get that started now."

She walks away. He sighs and slumps down in his seat-

"By the way, do you hear from Misty much these days?"

He pauses to think- "Not really." It's the truth: he hasn't heard from her in quite some time. Last time they talked, she had hinted that she and Gary were back in their cycle of weaving in and out of a relationship. It was a drain on her physically and mentally, she claimed; it was distracting her from her duties as Cerulean's Gym Leader. He told her to suggest that maybe the two of them slow down for a while so she could focus. She got mad at him and hung up.

Ash, you dumbass, he thought back then, and still thinks now.

He can hear the sizzling from the kitchen, can smell the light searing of fish. A peppery smell hits him as well, with a stinging sensation that is not exactly pleasant to his nose.

A few minutes later, she calls him. "You hungry?"

He gets up and walks to the kitchen, Pikachu following behind.

The table is free of any cloth or any decoration. The plates and utensils are simple. She clearly does not want to overdo or overwhelm.

On their plates, a fish filet is surrounded by several thin slices of what appear to be habanero. He knows that this will not end well, but she did go through all of this trouble for him. He might as well.

He tears a small chunk from the filet with his fork, then spears a piece of hot pepper before putting it in his mouth. The overwhelming heat causes him to wince.

"I had tried to find a milder pepper but that was all they had," she says, rather apologetically.

He manages to chew it and swallow, but not without discomfort. "It's all right," he says. "I'll finish it."

"Hey, I like hot peppers. You don't want them, just scrape them onto my plate and I'll eat them."

"No, really, I-"

Without warning, she reaches across and takes his plate, scraping the peppers off. "You're my guest, Ash. I'm not going to make you eat something if you can't handle it."

"But I didn't want to be a bother to you by saying anything," he protests.

"You're more a bother not saying anything."

They finish in silence, watching Pikachu happily lick ketchup from a bottle. She told him before they had started eating that she knows the little Electric-type loves the tomato-based condiment, but that it took her a good deal of looking to finally locate a bottle in town. She had kept it concealed so as not to make herself more obviously a tourist.

After they finish their meal, she excuses herself to her room.

He goes back to the couch, staring at the unfinished novel. He's tempted to return to his writing, but that evil bitch known as Writer's Block rears her ugly head again. So he just sits there, staring at the floor, Pikachu curled up on one end of the couch, asleep.

He hears footsteps behind him and he turns his head.

She is wearing a thin camisole top, see-through, and she is not wearing a bra. Her nipples, while not entirely firm at the moment, stand out against the fabric. Her good-sized and shapely breasts press insistently and invitingly but do not threaten to tear through, her areolae showing through. A thin pair of cotton pajama pants hang loosely on her slim hips, revealing nothing to any inquisitive eyes.

She places her hand on one arm of the couch. "Are you sure you want to sleep out here?" she asks. "I have a spare bedroom with bed if you'd rather use that."

"I'll be fine," he replies.

"Well, if you ever change your mind, it's just down the hall to the left. You can't miss it. It's the only one with a bed."

"Well, I'll keep that in mind."

"All right, then. See you in the morning, Ash."

"Good night."

He watches her go, her backside pushing outwards against the cloth of her pants. She doesn't notice him staring at her as she disappears out of sight.

Sighing, he swings his legs up, careful not to crush the sleeping Pikachu, and slowly drifts off to sleep.

The next two days are the same: they wake up, they eat, they chat, they take in the sights, they eat, they come home, they chat some more, they eat, and they sleep.

He doesn't find much time to write. When he does, he can only write maybe two or three pages before the evil bitch Writer's Block strikes again.

She watches him struggle mightily with his desire to finish the task he has been obsessed with for so long. She watches him try to reconcile that desire with his need for relaxation. She knows he wracks his brain to no end to try to find the words to put on paper. She knows how badly this eats at him.

He watches her quietly work to keep him happy, knowing that she only wants him to be able to enjoy himself while he's there. The fact that he's not enjoying himself doesn't seem to affect her. SEEM.

He walks out on the beach sometimes, watching the waves wash over the sands. He never sees her out there.

It has been four days.

His manuscript lies on the coffee table, mocking him.

She cleans up the dishes as he sits on the couch, staring at the unfinished book.

She watches him, feeling as dejected as he is. All she can do is walk back to her room.

He sits there as the light of the sun fades. Soon, all there is is moonlight.

He tries to sleep but can't. Pikachu takes the spare bed since no on else is using it.

As he starts to force himself to drift off to sleep, he starts to hear the sounds of marching, as if of many armies becoming one army, then slowly dwindling until fading out into eternity.

And it finally breaks.

He sits up, grabs the book, and writes feverishly, the words finally flowing from him like water from a burst dam.

As he stood there on the field of battle, he watched as the old familiar faces gathered around him, looking the same as they did all those years ago.

And there, in the near distance, astride Traveler, was Lee himself, looking into the setting sun.

"Let the tent be struck."

He sets it back on the table. He cannot believe what he has done.

He has slain the evil bitch at last.

It was impossible for him to explain, but there it was: the book, just as he had envisioned it.

He doesn't see her at first, he's that absorbed in his shock. But eventually, he turns his head, and she's there.

"Are you still awake?" she asks, no small amount of incredulity in her voice.

"It-it's done," he says, still unable to believe it.

"Well, that's terrific!"

"I know."

He sits there, stunned, as she sits next to him. "You should be proud of yourself, Ash. It was a hard battle, no pun intended, but you won out in the end."

He finally looks at her, and he smiles. "Thank you, Sabrina."

She chuckles. "Come here," she beckons, wrapping him up in a hug.

He can feel her breasts pressing against him, and he does not care and neither does she. They are happy that he has finally conquered his literary mountain.

And then she kisses him.

It's just a simple little kiss at first, just a passing thing on the lips that may or may not linger there for a while before fading away into thin air. But when she pulls her head back and smiles at him, he realizes that he wants more than that. And he can see the same feeling in her eyes.

It's a hunger. Simple as that.

He reaches behind her head and pulls her closer to him. Now the kiss lasts a while, and while he doesn't dare try to part her soft lips with his tongue, not yet, there is still a deep infusion of passion, and then she pushes her tongue through and all bets are off as she leans forward, shoving him on his back.

She's on top of him now, on as close to all fours as she can, her body hovering over his. As abrupt as this has become, she doesn't want to rush this. No, she wants to slowly savor the moment, to devour this man, to quench her lust. Her breathing becomes a bit more shallow as she starts to pull his shirt over his head.

This breaks their kiss, and she pauses to look at him. "You actually look better than the last time I saw you," she pants.

She has a point. While he's not ripped like some men she's known (some of those martial arts fools are impossibly bulging most of the time), he's not in bad shape. There's some faint scars from his past on the road, but it's not that bad.

She rubs her hands over his chest and to his shoulders before leaning forward and kissing him again, her nails digging ever so slightly into the flesh, enough to leave a pleasing sting but not enough to break the skin. He returns the favor, letting his hands traverse the canvas that is her back, feeling underneath the camisole, tracing the ridge of her spine, lightly caressing the base of her neck.

She sits up, still not lowering herself onto him, suspecting that the blood is rushing to a part of him she knows she will soon take inside of her. Taking her camisole by the hem, she pulls it over her head, exposing her soft breasts to him. He pulls her on top of him again, and her nipples brush against him before being pressed closer to his body.

Now he lets his lips slowly move down, away from hers, along the curve of her jaw, following the sensitive spots on her neck, lingering on the soft skin on her collarbone. She closes her eyes and lets the sighs come. She's enjoying herself, and she's happy that he is finally relaxing as well.

Then he cups his hands under her soft posterior and pulls her forward so her breasts are in his face. He nuzzles the space between, and she holds him there. The scent of her flesh there is an aphrodisiac to him, and he breaks his head loose and begins to flick the tip of his tongue on one nipple. Her breath comes out in short gasps and sighs in reaction, occasionally omitting a squeak.

He switches between her nipples frequently, massaging her ass at the same time, kneading into the yielding flesh. She is sorely tempted to lower herself now, to make sure that he is ready, but still she holds back, even when he slides his hands under the waistband, even when he sends sensations beneath her naked skin by continuing the caresses.

Even when one hand slides to her front and slinks between her legs and feels her soft slit, a smooth velvet beneath his fingertips.

Her eyelids fly open as he rubs her vulva, his thumb glancing repeatedly over her sensitive clit. She resists the urge to buck against his hand, but it's a fleeting resistance at best, her will to make her orgasm come slowly overridden by the sensation of a finger pushing in, wiggling around inside of her vagina, teasing the walls within. Her hips move along as he starts to thrust his finger in and out, making the sparks fly in her head.

He pulls his hand out and holds it to her face. The stimulation has made her wet, and she gleefully licks his finger, tasting herself. She has had a vague idea of her own taste before, although she has known a woman's flavor before, in her blue moon flings with other women she has known. She cannot quite describe herself, however.

She sits up then, hooks the waistband of her pants with her thumbs, and pulls them down and off. She's not wearing anything else, although he already knew that.

She scoots forward until she has brought her body close to his face, then leans back and props herself on her forearms so her slit is right in front of him, there for the taking. He leans forward as far as he can and begins nuzzling her, his nose catching her scent, her erotic aroma. His tongue flickers in and out of her as she bucks against his face. "Oh god, Ash, you're- AAAAAAHHHH!" she screams. Still, she knows it will be even more intense later.

She eventually gets weak in the knees and sinks down, sitting on his chest before sliding down his body. She shifts herself on the couch and unzips his shorts and pulls them off with his boxers. Then, her breath hot on his penis, she takes him into her mouth, her tongue rotating around him as she begins to bob her head.

Now it's his breathing getting shallow, it's his head filling with sparks, it's his eyes closed in pleasure as she works him, taking all of him inside her mouth. She tries to go slow, tries to make it tortuous for him, but she can't. She is loving this too much. And they both know it.

His eyes finally open, then catch hers. She stops in mid-move and smiles. There's a lustful glint in her eyes as she pulls away, then takes up a sitting position similar to what she assumed earlier, only further away. "I hope you don't mind me saying so, Ash," she says, her voice husky from arousal, "but I want you to fuck my pussy harder than you've ever fucked a woman's pussy before. Can you do that for me, Ash?"

He smirks. "Oh, I think I can do that. What I want to know is," he adds as he moves between her legs, poised to enter her, "will you be able to make your guest truly happy?"

Her reply is to wiggle her finger at him as if to say Come hither, big guy.

He positions himself then, and he pushes gently forward, parting the lips of her slit as his length fills her vagina and fills her perfectly, triggering a long moan from her. As he slowly pulls out, she moans again in pleasure as she is caressed from inside. His reaction is to speed up, causing her moans to increase in length and pitch.

"Oh fuck yeah, oh yeah, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh fuck me, Ash, fuck me harder!" she screams. She has not felt this good in a long time, and it gets better with every frenzied thrust. Her face is flushed crimson from the tropical warmth still in the air and from the orgasm she knows will eventually come but will take forever to get there. It's a flush that spreads down her neck and to her breasts, which arouses him further, but then again, he just thinks it's pretty on her anyway.

He pulls out, then turns her over. With her backside in the air and her on all fours, he re-enters her, causing her back to arch and her upper body to sink down on the couch. He wastes no time in resuming the speed with which he was pounding her pussy earlier, and every second is filled with his heavy breathing and her cries, her begging him to fuck her even harder and harder, her screaming his name in the moonlight.

How much longer can he do this? How much more of this can she take? They know the answer: not much more.

He slows down, pulls out again, and rolls her to her back once again and re-enters. The thrusting is swift, short, and very piston-like now as they hold each other close. Now they will hold nothing back. They have no choice. Surrender to passion is the only option.

When the end comes, it comes like a flood: her body tenses up, ready to unleash a violent orgasm that she has held back for too long, and her vagina tightens around him and she lets go. The heat inside of her is searing, and it's too much for him, and with a final thrust, he, too, gives up, jets of liquid flame pulsing from him, mingling with her heat. She loves the feeling. So does he.

They don't move for a while after that, him still inside her. They have to catch their breath now, let themselves float down from such a peak.

Neither of them can think of the words to say.

They don't need to.

He wakes up to the sound of gentle rainfall on the windows.

He's alone on the couch, still naked.

He looks up and there she is, standing next to one window, her black hair reflecting very little light at all.

"Looks like one of those rains," she says. "You don't have to leave for a couple of days, at least."

He gets up and walks to her. She is also still naked, and as he approaches her, he tries to stay to one side, knowing that he is getting harder from the sight. He places his hands on her shoulders and kisses her neck, causing her to close her eyes and tilt her head towards him, lips parted in anticipation of ecstasy.

"It's all right," he says to her, softly, almost in a whisper. "I'd love to let this vacation be enjoyable for both of us."

He watches the rain fall as his hands course downward. On the coffee table lies a book, finished. In his arms is a woman, exquisite in all of her beauty. In a different room is a Pikachu, probably still sleeping off the ketchup. And in his head, his heart, is a feeling of peace, calm, rest.

"Would it be wrong to say I love you, Sabrina?" he asks her.

"Maybe, I don't know. But maybe, for the next couple of days…."

"I love you, Sabrina," he whispers into her ear.

She looks up and smiles at him, a soft smile that tells him he's doing and saying the right things in more ways than one. "I love you too, Ash," she says as they draw together for another kiss.