This is a oneshot that I have dedicated to that subject that I have denied for many years, one that I have not understood until now...love.

Read on...if you dare...


She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, fueling both his and her confused emotions. The hot Porta Vista sun blazed on their bodies, tanning them to the color of well-baked french fries, heating her heart to the flash point, frying his already shocked brain. Even with the temperatures both within and without feeling unbearable, she didn't want to make the first move. However, when she saw the target of her affection's blank stare, she knew she had to deliver the "preemptive strike". She heard him make some sound, some sort of "huh"; then her hand raked through his hair, her fingers cupping his head with enough pressure to bring him to his toes. He saw her eyes; with enormous deep-blue irises contrasting the white sclerae. Then everything blurred, and her mouth was hard and hot on his.

Nothing hesitant about it on her part, nothing testing; but friendly, loving. He did not know what she intended, even when she was a few inches away, but he knew it wasn't rape. He was enjoying it too much for it to be so; but he couldn't seem to move. Like the girl, he thought dimly; but unlike her he wasn't quite sure what he intended to do, was determined to see it through, but wasn't too pleased about it. And still her heart rammed into her throat, throbbing there to block words, even breath. The fingers that he had lifted to her shoulders in a kind of dazed defense involuntarily dug in. With her hand still caught in his hair, he said "Huh?" She dragged him straight up to his toes, banded an arm around him so that his body was plastered to her. When her mouth swooped down for a second time, any of his brains that hadn't been already fried drained out his ears. He hadn't thought of kissing her. But once he had, he knew she wasn't going to walk away and leave it undone. And now he was in trouble; she was wound up in that spiky hair, that blue denim jacket, those soft lips. And when she deepened the kiss, she let out this sound, a catchy little moan. What the heck was he supposed to do now? To her, his hair felt like a big black Oran bush, and that pretty, curvy body of hers vibrated against him like a well-tuned machine, revving for action. The longer she held him, the more she tasted him, the louder the warning klaxons blared to remind him he needed to get untangled from her. On every level.

When he managed to release her, to lay back on his towel, he saw the flush riding along her cheeks. It made her eyes bluer, bigger. His surprise subsided, but his confusion only grew. His companions' feelings were similarly mixed; one of envy, one of even greater confusion, and one of jaw-dropped lust for Ash's buxom companion.

Finally, Ash turned to his unasked-for paramour and asked a question that changed the fate of their blossoming relationship forever: "Who are you, why did you kiss me, and-"

"When do I get a turn?" Brock giggled.

The slap to Brock's head was heard 'round the world.


"So, whaddya think?" Brock asked as his cursor hovered over the "Submit" button.

Ash sighed "Put on some pants."