Laila's faced was pressed down into the freshly cleared desk in Oliver's room, her face twisted into an almost vacant grin of ecstasy. The Weavile lifted her head from the small puddle of drool forming by her mouth to look back at Oliver, a fire burning brightly in her eyes, and the vacant grin twisted slowly into a knowing, thoroughly smug smile. Her eyes flickered from the firm grip he had around the odd, brilliantly red plumage that formed an approximation of a tail, to his abdomen slick with sweat in the stuffy room. He was slamming desperately against her and then her eyes trailed up to his face, lined with trails of sweat, his eyes locked with hers now and reflecting fires that burned behind them as brightly. The odd, ominous creaks the wood gave as he thrusted violently into her twisted her smile again, now into a knowing smirk. And so she pulled her self away from him, only to turn about atop the desk and pounce on him, sending him falling onto the bed behind him.

She straddled him, sliding him back inside her and beckoned for him to sit up, each waggle of a clawed finger catching the sunlight that filtered through the curtains behind them for an instant and bringing to life a bright white gleam that was gone as quickly as it came.

That maddeningly smug smirk was still painted on her face.

He gripped Laila's slight frame close to his body, panting heavily. He felt her clawing at his back, leaving haphazard, winding scratches all along it. Some of them bled, but most simply felt alive with the fires of lust. His stomach burned with more telltale signs of their feverish lovemaking, alongside reminders of how they fell prey to desire nearly each night. The sweltering summer nights rose to unbearable temperatures each time. It was the overriding, intoxicating haze of lust that kept the discomfort blocked from their minds.

And the fact that Laila made for an effective, unorthodox icebox herself.

He felt the constant, soft purr somewhere within her vibrating against him and with a grunt of exertion pushed her off of him flat onto the bed. He grabbed hold of her hips and pressed himself inside her once again, trying to push himself further in than he ever had. His thrusts were wild and erratic, informed purely by the half-shaped thoughts exploding in his head. A guttural, slow groan of carnal desire made manifest crawled its way out of his throat and hung in the hot, humid air of their hotel room. He felt her short legs lock inexpertly behind his back, drawing him in, her eyes wide and wild with desire. The purr was replaced by a long, drawn out growl that said one of the few phrases Laila spoke that Oliver could translate perfectly:

"You're mine."

That did it. Sweet, drawn out release racked his body and made him twitch and gasp erratically. He felt the familiar claws at his back cutting long lines along it to his sides, felt them at his chest again too. The growl peaked and shifted into a purr again. When he removed himself completely to collapse at her side, he watched her roll over as well and scramble up to his face to rub hers against his.

He was hot, panting, hot, out of breath, hot, exhausted and hot. With the little energy he could muster after a particularly spirited session of lovemaking in hundred degree heat, he brought his arms up and around Laila to wrap her up in an embrace. He pressed her cool body into himself and let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank the gods you're cold."

He felt her lips brush against his for an instant before she settled her head into the crook of his neck to drift off to sleep. He sputtered a bit as the huge plumes that sprang out from the back of her head smacked him in the face and pushed them away. It was her favorite spot to sleep no matter the occasion, and had a habit of making winters colder than they should have been. No matter, he thought to himself, it was worth it. The strangeness, the long lead up of awkward stares and confusing signals, mismatched body language and nearly insurmountable language barrier – it was all conquerable.

He heard Laila's breathing slow as she drifted off to sleep and with a sigh he scooted away from her inch by inch until he could reach his cell phone sitting on the dresser. With a few swipes he studied the region map and then dropped the phone by his side to rub his eyes and wipe sweat from his brow.

In less than twenty-four hours they'd be out in the heat again. Out before concerned stares and prying eyes. Out where the façades came alive again. Out where Oliver was Trainer and Laila was Pokemon.

Out there again.

In Johto.