Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon, which belongs to: Nintendo; the Pokémon Company; Creatures; GAME FREAK; TV Tokyo; ShoPro; Jr. Kikaku; Shogakukan Production Co, Ltd.; Satoshi Tajiri; and Ken Sugimori. These companies and the creators rightfully own the franchise. In addition, I do not own the poem below by Pablo Neruda. Please note that I do not write this story to infringe on copyrights or to earn money; this is merely for the entertainment of individuals who share my interests, who desire new adventures for the characters they love.

Story Warning: This story details sexual acts between a human and a pokémon. If such content disturbs you, then you are strongly advised to hit the back button.


Hunting for Your Hot Heart


"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

Your hands the color of a savage harvest,

Hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

The sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hungry for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."


"Sonnet XI."

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), Chilean Poet, Diplomat, and Politician.

This story is dedicated to Renn Ireigh, who is this story's creative co-author.

"Come find me."

That was what the note on her pillow said. The clone of mew traced a fingertip over the words, his eyes gleaming as he considered the familiar challenge. His quarry, if he dared call her that, enjoyed playing these games with him. And this game – where she would go to ground and he would seek her out – was one of their favorites. Yet as he prowled through the manor, visiting her usual haunts and hiding places, he found only traces of her jasmine scent. Returning to her bedroom, he turned over the note to find the hint she always provided, which read: "This time, I have left you a map. Search my desk." He went to her office and found a pocket-sized book in the first drawer. It was a tourist's guide to Guyana, complete with a fold-out map inside its front cover. Scanning it, he found that she'd circled an island off the country's northern coast, which had a single outpost and a considerable amount of wilderness. These would be his hunting grounds.

He remembered her mentioning wanting to take a week off from her duties, leaving her clan and the League behind. He hadn't realized she'd meant to leave Japan entirely, preferring to travel to some nation nestled in the rainforests and crags of South America. Yet he was intrigued, so he drew his cloak over his shoulders and set out.

As he left, icy wind nipped at him through the cloth. It was winter in Japan, and the ground was hard from frost. They'd begun their relationship around a year prior, when mistletoe and holly were being hung side-by-side. After wearying of wandering around the archipelago, he'd returned to the province of Kanto, drawn back to its familiar mountains and meadows. He'd stayed for some time in the caverns north of Celadon, but had visited Saffron City on a whim. Despite himself, he'd enjoyed the festivities of Christmas: the lights and the ornaments and the pristine snow, the scents of spices and the sounds of seasonal music, and the permeating sense of good cheer. In his ease, he'd rested on the property of one of the noble families, watching cardinals dart between the branches of the trees and the brambles, feasting on frozen winter berries.

He hadn't anticipated being discovered there. Yet discovered he was by a woman out on her evening walk. She'd bundled herself in a dark coat that ended past her hips, her black-furred boots laced up to her knees. The crimson scarf around her neck had added a splash of color, as if her throat had been slashed open. It had brought out the color of her eyes and lips, which he'd found his gaze strangely drawn to. He'd stirred from the shelter of the shrine then, standing and looming over her - and she, in turn, had tilted her umbrella back, allowing the snow to fall on her black hair. He'd stared, sensing the psychic power stirring beneath her skin, vast beyond what he'd thought a human could possibly hold. And he'd felt her doing the same to him, reaching out her senses to try to decipher who and what he was.

This had continued for a time, before she'd greeted him in a low, melodic voice, "Good evening. Do you know these are private grounds? Trespassers are not allowed here."

"Perhaps not human ones," he'd conceded. "But I see little reason to obey such boundaries. I have no intent to harm you or yours."

She'd regarded him for a moment before giving him a brief nod. "I didn't think you did." There had been a pause, during which she'd looked him up and down, noting the thinness of his fur and cloak. Her stare had felt like a hand on him, and he'd found his muscles coiling in response and a shiver racing over his limbs. To him, it was an unprecedented reaction and thus provoked his curiosity. Yet seeing the shudder, she'd asked, "Would you like to go inside? It's warmer there."

His expression must have betrayed his suspicion, for she'd lowered her mental shields, giving him a glimpse into her thoughts: curiosity, sincerity, concern, with no intent to capture him or harm him in any way. So he'd accepted the arm she'd extended to him and walked with her, weaving over the walkways and eying warily the manor they were soon approaching. When they were nearly at the gates, she'd asked him to teleport into a room on the second floor, the one whose window overlooked the grounds. She'd join him there in a few minutes with tea.

Musing that he could teleport away if this meeting went amiss, he'd done as she'd requested and found himself in a bedroom. Going over to her window, he'd peered out, noting that he could step onto the roof of the veranda with relative ease. From there, he could climb down the tree nearby to reach the ground. Even if his psychic abilities were somehow disabled, the architecture of the manor would provide him with an escape. As he'd contented himself with that knowledge, the door behind him opened. The woman had stepped in with a tray, the sheet of silver laden with a kettle, two teacups and teaspoons, and small dishes of lavender sugar, purple honey, crème, and slices of lemon. She'd shed her winter-wear, revealing what she wore beneath: a cashmere turtleneck of sable hue and pants of the same color. She was a slender creature with gentle curves, and smaller than him by a considerable amount. But she was finely formed and pleasant too look upon - for a human, of course.

She'd asked him how he'd like his tea (he noted he took hers with two slices of lemon), and he'd replied to liking a fair amount of cream in his. She'd given him a small, fleeting smile at that – "Cream for the cat, then" – and had handed him his cup. They'd drunk without another word, her sipping at her drink and him lapping up his, him sitting on her bed and her, cross-legged, in a chair. They'd watched each other over the rims of their cups, until finally they'd began to talk about little matters. They'd said things they'd later not recall, at least not as clearly as the minute movements they'd made in those moments. They'd shared a couple cups more, neither of them touching the sugar or honey, before he'd made ready to leave. She'd nodded, suggesting a place where he could stay (he'd known it to be on the grounds; she must have realized he wouldn't be comfortable in the manor proper) and also giving him her name: Sabrina. He'd given her his, obeying the social protocol, and had then headed out into the snowy night. He'd followed her suggestion, going to a small grove in the woods where the trees had shielded him from the wind. He'd slept with the taste of cream in his mouth and the scent of her perfume in his nose. He'd stayed warm throughout the night.

He'd made brief visits to her in the weeks after that - visits which grew longer as the months passed by. Their talks went on for hours and small touches between them became tolerable. He'd learned with some wariness her role in the League, of the expectations of her clan (her team reassured him they were treated well, and Sabrina had her own ambitions); and he'd eventually confided in her about the nightmares he had (and felt lighter for it). It came to a point where they felt comfortable naming each other as friends, though neither knew when that change had taken place. When Sabrina battled with trainers and spurned her suitors, Mewtwo had watched from afar, supporting her even when flushed with anger. When Mewtwo visited a widow in Viridian, going with her to the graves of her husband and daughter, Sabrina had lingered near, there to offer him her hand if he needed comfort.

It was sometime after these events that their relationship had deepened in its intimacy. It had been the night of her birthday, and she'd noted – after drinking a considerable amount of wine – that she hadn't received the one thing she'd really wanted. When he'd asked what that had been, she'd turned to him and reached into her pocket. She'd pulled out a small cloth bag, stuffed with some strongly scented herb, and had wafted it beneath his muzzle. A fragrance like mint had rushed through his nostrils, making him heady with euphoria and a hint of agitation. Catmint, he'd thought wonderingly, not having realized he'd be susceptible to it.

And then he'd felt soft hands on his chest and warm lips on his collarbone, and heard her whisper in a quiet and husky voice, "You."

The things that had followed had been a series of firsts for both of them. But even with the small bloodshed and the overwhelming sensations, they'd both enjoyed it thoroughly. He'd woken up afterwards on his side, her hair clinging to his muzzle and her back and buttocks pressed up against his front. Their legs had been in a tangle, his arms encircled around her waist, and he'd simply stared in confusion and grudging appreciation at the creature beside him. When she'd awoken sometime later, he'd still been perplexed…but then she'd rubbed herself against him deliciously and he'd stopped questioning it. The morning had proved just as sweet as the evening had been, with the sun warm on their backs and the wing quiet around them. She later told him she'd taken the day off and ordered for no one to disturb her. They'd made good use of the time, exploring the new benefits of their relationship and setting aside their worries of how this might complicate things.

So their meetings had become trysts, which had turned into indulgent games. Mewtwo soon found he had a taste for hunting her and toying with her, while Sabrina, in these private moments, did not mind being his mouse, susceptible to the pricks of his claws and fangs. The aftermaths had been tender, though; so tender that it was sometimes acutely painful for him, realizing how much he'd come to cherish her. If she ever scorned him, he'd thought, his heart would surely harden, and the warmth he'd gained would cool. That Sabrina enjoyed holding him and being held by him was a comfort - but even so, he did all he could to please her. He wanted to keep her. He wanted her to stay his. The expectations of her clan and the world be damned, he could scarcely tolerate the thought of losing this woman, and she seemed to understand that. She'd whisper promises to him at night, her fingers stroking his furrowed brow and the creases of his frown, then moving down, down until he was hot and hard and aching in her hands. As they would come together, she would gasp and sigh for him…and in those moments as she stared up at him, her red eyes turning violet from a trace of psychic power, he believed.

"You are mine," he'd growl in the midst of pleasure, and every last part of her would quiver in response and she would breathe, "Yes."

That he was hers went without say. His actions said enough.

And so, months later, he didn't hesitate to pursue her across the Pacific Ocean, stowing away in the belly of a plane flying to New York City. In that place of steel and ice, he boarded a southward flight and curled up among the luggage, waking when it landed in Georgetown. Keeping his cloak wrapped around him, he teleported into the capitol city, looking around himself with interest. Its buildings were whitewashed and capped with red tiles, the streets lined with leafy palm trees and tropical gardens. A clock-tower in the distance announced the early hour, and people in light clothes - speaking in a bastardized version of English and an assortment of regional dialects - were milling about the streets. Strange animals and pokémon he'd only seen in pictures wandered down the cobbled alleyways, some squawking in alarm as he swept by.

Beneath the pale morning light, he passed by marketplaces and booths of fried foods, the air hot and humid and heavy with spicy scents. Occasionally his ears caught the sounds of music, the voices of the street musicians and the notes of plucked strings combining into Latin songs. He weaved his way to the banks of the Demerara River that bordered the city, its waters brown from the silt of the rainforests it was born in. As he traveled down it, he glimpsed fields of sugar cane and wild grasses, smelled the potent odor of the swamps beyond them, and listened to the rush of the river and the calls of colorful birds. This place was different from any he'd ever known, yet he felt invigorated by it somehow. It was as if there was an undertone to it that matched a rhythm playing deep inside him. He breathed in deep and picked up his pace, racing to the sea and leaving a trail of pawprints behind him. They would be erased by rain soon enough; there were low-hanging clouds following him, spilling rain onto the city in a dark and heavy curtain.

In the distance he saw the sea opening up before him, with the smallest of abrasions rising from the waves. Those were the stony islands of the Guyanese waters, crowned in forests and the ruins of an old people, perhaps the first people that had settled these lands over a millennium past. He halted in his tracks for a moment, scanning the empty beach that had cleared at the onset of rain. He took a few minutes to swipe some fish out of the shallows, eating their white flesh raw and licking their blood from his chops. He remembered sushi dinners with Sabrina and glanced out at the largest of the distant isles, suddenly longing for the scent of jasmine and taste of her skin. Tossing the bones of his meal aside, he waded into the brown waters of the delta, and then swam until the saltwater became cool and clear and a shade of deep blue-green.

Not wanting to exhaust himself before the real hunt began, he focused his psychic energies and had them propel him along. His body cut through the waves effortlessly, the power that was writhing around him bringing forth wisps of steam. Soon enough he reached the treacherous cliffs that surrounded the largest of the islands, which he circled around until he found the pier. A tourist boat had landed sometime earlier that morning, and on the stepped crags above it were buildings of the same style as those in Georgetown. One of them was the Faraway Inn, which he crept towards, broadcasting a psychic suggestion for the humans inside to pay him no mind. He was something mundane: perhaps a group of seagulls fighting over a scrap of bread, or a stray cat or dog looking for a handout. Eventually he found his way to the door and breathed in deeply, smelling seafood and baked bread, juices and wines made from native fruits, and sweat and soap and suntan lotion. And there, in the midst of those scents, was the faint fragrance of jasmine. He followed the aroma into town, the streets hot beneath the pads of his feet, until he reached the northern outskirts of the outpost. Stretching before him was a road that wound up the crags and into the depths of the jungle.

If he followed this road he would find her. Of that he was sure. And so he stalked forward, his long strides carrying him to the edge of the trees, their trunks and branches knotted, their bark decked in vines and hanging moss. The world grew hushed and dim as he stepped into the forest, the ferns and fronds and patches of fiery-hued flowers thick between the trees, some tall enough to rival his height. Here and there rays of sunlight fell through the leaves, illuminating creeping ivy, poisonous fungi, and strangely smooth boulders in golden-green light. As he headed deeper into the jungle, the foliage around him thickened, only to occasionally thin to reveal bubbling pools, curving riversides, or expansive fields of flowers. In the moments when the sky opened up above him, he glimpsed mountains wreathed in mist in the distance, and mused that the island must be more expansive than the map let on.

He eventually discovered that he wasn't alone, either. Beyond the native birds, he also watched a group of mankey pass overhead, and looked on with interest as a flock of butterfree settled into a meadow. There were others, too, who he only glimpsed, but all let him go on his way. He noted that some peered at him curiously, as if there was something they recognized in him but could not name. Yet he dismissed their reaction when he saw a boot-print in the wet soil, choosing to focus himself on the hunt. Somewhere ahead of him was his quarry, and they had spent too long apart. He was determined to catch her before the afternoon deepened, for he was beginning to hunger for things that had nothing to do with food….

He was certain he was getting close by the time he passed the first ruins: pillars with worn human faces and strange markings, many of them projecting from angles out of an easterly lake. The remains of old human habitation became more evident the further he went, with crumbling brick walls and building foundations scattered along either side of the road. Soon there was a steep incline that gave way to stairs, and as he mounted the steps to what had once been a paved square, he found himself standing before a sprawling set of ruins. At one point it might have been a small city, or perhaps a temple complex, given its remote location. Looking closer, he saw carvings of beasts – real and fantastical – etched into the walls around him, and peered through the wide archways to see the interior of the site.

Wandering beneath the arches and through the streets, careful not to trip on the gaps in the stonework, he noted the sculpted maws of what might have been crocodiles, their snouts projecting from the walls and pillars. He recalled, distantly, that the ancient peoples of the Americas had believed that crocodiles floated between this world and the underworld. That they were guarding this place made him almost certain that it had once had a religious function of some sort - though what that function might have been, he wasn't sure. Yet if there were tombs in this place, he certainly wouldn't be surprised.

As he mused on that, he felt the first drop of rain sink into his pelt. He looked up to see the sun being swallowed by storm, the air turning an amber hue that made the pale stones look golden. Realizing the rain would wash away his prey's faint scent, he pressed forward, directing his psychic senses to scour the area. The ruins seemed to ignite in his mind, for though they were quiet, they were filled with life: there were the low embers of the plants that were devouring the streets; there were the sparks of the insects that swarmed and scuttled; there was the flare of an occasional bird or rodent that was scurrying to find shelter. And there, in the center of the ruins, was a fire far greater than the others, who sought to hide herself behind walls of stone and psychic shields.

With a smirk, Mewtwo stalked towards her, stepping through the buildings and approaching the tallest structure in the complex. It was one of the stepped pyramids the Americas were famous for, yet it was not as grand as those that could be found on the mainland: there were only two sloping levels, with one built-in staircase leading up to a rectangular crown. There were angular archways in its walls, and as he drew closer, he saw that there had once been designs etched into their frames. The other decorations were in similar states of decay: the stacked-block pillars around the pyramid had mostly collapsed, but one remained, standing proud and tall, the human faces carved into it bearing the features of beasts – among them, a mankey.

And there beside it, turning to face him, was the woman he'd pursued across half the world.

She'd tied her hair up into a messy bun, was shouldering a hiker's backpack, and was casually clothed – more casually than he thought he'd ever seen. She was wearing hiking boots rather than ones of black leather; white jeans that rode low on her hips, held up by a belt with a silver buckle; and a red, sleeveless shirt that exposed a generous portion of her stomach. The fact that the soaked cotton had conformed to her breasts was something he also appreciated. She placed a hand on her hip when she saw him, gesturing to her drenched clothes as if to ask, "What took you so long?" But then she shook her head, smiled, and walked over to him.

He stepped forward until there were only centimeters between them. Leaning down, he breathed in the jasmine scent on her neck and murmured, "I found you." He gave the skin of her shoulder a little lick: she tasted of rain and salt and something sweet, the flavor ever so tantalizing on his tongue.

He saw her lips curl into a faint, pleased smile at that. "So you did."

A moment passed as they drank in the sight of each other, and then: "We should get out of this rain. I would not want you to catch a chill."

"Thoughtful of you," she said with a shiver, goosebumps erupting over her arms. "Yet I'm certain you'll find a way to warm me up, won't you?"

He didn't answer her. Instead he drew her against him, focusing his eyes on her and his will on the pyramid's crown. The world blurred and shifted into hues of blue, and when stone and sky and storm reappeared, they found themselves standing beneath an archway. Beside them, rainwater spilled from the roof and flowed down the steps, making the stairs slick and treacherous. Yet from here, they could see the whole complex spread out beneath them, with the jungle and the sea stretching beyond it. With the faintest of smirks, Sabrina slid from his arms and stepped into the half-illuminated chamber. The amber air trembled and grew charged as she used her telekinesis, stringing up some vines between the remaining pillars. Shucking off her boots, she stepped carefully over the loose blocks of stone to reach her handiwork. Tugging on the fibrous line and appearing satisfied with it, she set down her pack and began to tug off her shirt. The clone eyed the fabric as it was jerked upwards, exposing her rain-slickened back to the sodden sunlight, with only the strap of her bra remaining. His appreciation deepened as she unbuckled her belt and slid it through the loops, removing her jeans (albeit with some difficulty) and then her socks, hanging each of her clothes on the makeshift clothesline. Her undergarments, red like her shirt, remained on. No doubt she was trying to torment him.

It was no matter. He'd make short work of those soon enough….

His eyes tracked her as she crossed over to what might have been a table - or perhaps even an altar - which she lifted herself to sit on. She removed her hair tie, the sable strands tumbling down over her neck and shoulders, making a sharp contrast to her ivory skin. Then she leaned back on her arms, seeming not to mind the moss beneath her fingertips, nor the fact that she was still soaked. She glanced at him and inclined her head, inviting him in. As much as he desired to go to her, to spread her out on that table and feast on her, he stepped towards the clothesline first, pulling off his cloak and hanging it up beside her clothes. From across the room, he heard her sigh and then sensed the stirring of psychic power. He felt the nerves at the base of his back tingle, followed by the sensation of a fingertip tracing up the curve of his spine. He turned and saw that Sabrina hadn't moved from where she sat, but her eyes were gleaming with mischief.

"Let's play another game," he could almost hear her say. And he could never turn down a challenge.

He gathered psychic energy around himself, directing wisps of it towards her. Where they touched her skin, they ignited the nerves beneath – for what were sensations but flashes of electricity passing between cells? She would feel his fingers running through her hair and massaging her scalp, while little licks flicked across her eyelids, cheeks, and once upon her lips. At the same time, his palms swept up her arms and his fingertips dug into her shoulders and back, encouraging her muscles to loosen. Sabrina smiled, appreciating the gestures, and she returned the favor in full. Invisible hands swept over his face, while kisses were pressed to his forehead and muzzle. Another pair of hands ran down his chest and stomach, their fingertips tracing kanji into his fur. He smirked and directed his energies downwards, making her feel as if paws were kneading into her buttocks and the base of her spine. As her eyes closed in pleasure, he added the sensation of his tail brushing up against the backs of her legs.

She opened her eyes slightly and her hands twitched against the stone. He felt two pairs of lips blossoming against his necks, which moved down to purse at his collarbone. Hands swept down his back with a hint of nails, followed along the length of his spine to the tip of his tail, flowed back up to dance over his sides. He matched her, palms moving over her stomach and ribs, cupping her breasts and giving them a squeeze. He watched her skin flush prettily at that, and decided to press the advantage: he manipulated his own energies, turning fingers into a pair of rasping tongues, which spiraling inwards over each of her breasts, with teeth nipping at her nipples. Her breath hitched and she gave him a half-hearted glare, pleased at the feeling and displeased that he'd skipped her turn.

She responded by doubling her efforts, dropping all attempts for her psychic touches to remain innocuous. The pair of mouths traveled down his breastbone and across his ribs, teeth biting at the edges of the bony armor guarding his heart and lungs. Tongue thrust into his maw, dancing with his own and sweeping over his gums. And her hands plunged below his waist, stroking at the insides of his thighs and offering tantalizing, feather-light touches to the sensitive spot between them. Heat flared across his face and in his loins, and he struggled to repress the purr rising in his throat, gritting his teeth in the attempt to keep arousal at bay. That she added the sensation of her knees and legs brushing against his scarcely helped.

She'd caught him off guard, he realized. It smacked of cheating to him, but he supposed that two could up the stakes, and he forced his energies over her with new vigor. Teeth nibbled at her earlobes and on the insides of her thighs; tongues lapped at the sensitive spots of her neck and into dip of her navel; and paws rubbed into her hips and the outer folds of her sex. Sabrina limbs quaked and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. He could almost hear her curse, and certainly noted the gleam of growing desperation in her eyes.

And then she smiled a wicked smirk, and before Mewtwo could even think to steel himself, she went in for the kill. The sensation of firm lips and tongue swept over his groin, the ecstasy of wet heat encompassing him and deepening as his control slid. He attempted to counter it, projecting the sensation of his fingers exploring her folds and circling the bud of her, intending to stroke her into readiness, but he'd already lost the battle. Her climax would be a slow, building thing, while his could be brought on far more swiftly. She'd beaten him, had drawn him out and exposed him, and was now making him weak with the excruciating pleasure of it. She, for her part, was attempting not to moan from her own enjoyment, but she didn't allow herself to be distracted by it. For that, she won the game. He reached the point of utter need first, walking towards her and taking her by the shoulders, pressing her down against the stone.

She gave him a smug look at that. "Always so impatient for the real thing. That is why you always lose this game, Mewtwo."

"Perhaps so," he growled, jerking the clasp of her bra apart and tossing it aside, tearing her panties away with his claws. The ivory hooks were ever so multi-purposed. "But I will content myself with the consolation prize."

Yet even though she lay bare beneath him, her energies still washing over him cloyingly, he wasn't content to take her then. He looked over to her pack, which upended itself in midair to reveal its contents. A map, a book, a canteen and some rations, a flashlight and a length of rope, a spare set of clothes, a towel, and some basic bath and medical supplies. The rope was what captured his interest, and bringing it to them, he lifted her hands and tied them in a simple knot – nothing she couldn't slip in a second if she wanted to. Yet she'd experienced this more than one before – in fact, she'd suggested it herself the first time – so he doubted she'd be so inclined.

He tied the remaining length around a nearby pillar, keeping her arms extended out over her head, leaving the rest of her entirely exposed. She might very well struggle against such bonds – it was a part of the fun – but she would never attempt to writhe away from him. She was his prey, and he fell on her then like a puma might a doe, biting at her neck, her breasts, and her stomach. He traced a claw down her breastbone and the line of darker flesh at her abdomen, the possibility of evisceration hanging between them. And then he lapped at the sweetness of her mouth and at the bitter moisture between her thighs, feeling her gasp and her spine arch.

Through it all her psychic energies waned and waxed, invisible hands flowing over him and making the ache of unfulfilled lust deepen. He resisted for a time, turned her over and nipping her down her spine, leaving bite-marks where no one but he would ever see. Then finally the ache in him became a persistent pain, and he flipped her over, pushing her legs open and grasping her hips. He moved himself forward, sinking himself into the silken heat of her. A snarl tore itself from his throat as pleasure washed through him and pooled in the base of his stomach. Beneath him she moved against her bonds, as if she wished to grasp at him, but all she could do was wiggle against the cool, damp stone streaked with moss. Her tiny movements made his toes curl, and he pulled back, beginning to move into her in slow, shallow thrusts.

At times she thrashed against him, making low, animalistic noises that made him go almost feral with lust. Then there was the taste of her skin - salty and with a hint of copper where he drew blood - and the pungent, natural scent of her when she was so inflamed. It was more mouthwatering than the jasmine, he found. At other points he watched her squirm helplessly beneath him, her legs kicking over his hips, her wrists going red from the friction of her bonds. At some point he leaned forward, squeezing her breasts hard and leaving pinpricks from the tips of his claws, his movements turning into long, deep thrusts, the pressure in him building.

As his thoughts began to unravel beneath sheer need, he remembered to lower his mental shields, which he soon found Sabrina had already done. The auras between them blended then: he basked in her pleasure and her desire, in her appreciation and her adoration. Her soul was as warm and welcoming as her body, and he found his lips curling in a smug smirk at that. No one but him could make her feel like this, so wild and filled with fire. He was the only one, and as he bit at the curve of her neck, feeling her pulse beneath his tongue, he mused that he would never give anyone else the chance. She was his, his lover and his beloved. He would share her with no other creature, not like this, not ever.

He closed his eyes, his pace beginning to pick up and grow unsteady, the pressure within him – and within her, too, he sensed – primed to burst. He braced himself, placing his paws on the stone near her sides, his claws scratching white lines into it, with the claws of his feet doing the same to the floor. Behind him, his tail lashed and twitched violently, shivers of ecstasy racing through him and the need for release growing intolerable. He thrust into her harder, feeling her quake beneath him, her spine arching and strangled gasps escaping her lips. He felt it when she went over the edge, her flesh shuddering around him, the heat of her intensifying until it almost burned. He felt it when her mind began to clear and her psychic energies surged anew, and felt, for a brief moment, her lips on his face.

His heart tightened at that, and so did his sex far below. The dam burst as he plunged into her hard, his vision going white and his legs growing weak as he spent himself. In that high moment of bliss, he heard her sigh as he sank against her, and felt his claws scrape through moss and at the surface of the stone. The rope strained but held, and when he returned to himself, he lifted his head from her shoulder, gazing at her face. Her eyes peered at him in the low light, soft as they met his, her expression one of amusement and gratification. He wove an arm underneath her waist and gave her cheek an affectionate lick. Beyond the chamber, rain continued to pour, strong and steady.

He loved her in a terrible way, he thought. He prayed she loved him back as deeply.

They rested like that for a few minutes, content, before Mewtwo lifted himself off her. He reached for the rope around her wrists, undoing the knot with a few quick tugs, and Sabrina turned onto her side gratefully. He lay back down then, spooning himself up against her, his arms wrapping around her and reaching out to cradle her chaffed wrists. He directed a different sort of energy through his fingertips, the glow of it silver, and watched with satisfaction as the bruised and reddened skin returned to its healthy ivory color. He licked at her neck and shoulders, healing the bite-marks there, knowing she would scarcely want the world to see them. It was not that she was ashamed, he knew; she just didn't like people prying into her personal life by asking questions. He did the same to some of her other superficial wounds, lapping at them or stroking them away, but a number of them would remain as evidence of their lovemaking. She sighed, closing her eyes as he tended to her, her body relaxed and languid. When he settled down behind her, she took his paws into her hands, weaving their fingers together. He exhaled into her hair and did not speak.

They might have dozed then, but as the rain began to lighten, Mewtwo opened his eyes and looked around the chamber. The air was shimmering as if with heat, and occasionally the gloom would flicker with blue sparks: the insects seeking shelter here were being fried from the overcharge of psychic energies. Outside, the clouds seemed to be clearing, so the afternoon light was beginning to flow into the room, revealing some of the carvings etched into the walls. He saw humans and stylized monsters peeking out from behind strands of ivy, and saw the maw of a crocodile, greened from moss, gaping at them from across the room. Yet there was one patch of stone almost entirely free of foliage, and as he traced the outline of the creature, he felt his stomach jerk from shock. It seemed to be a small cat with wide eyes and horn-like ears, its paws spread playfully, its lengthy tail curling behind it. He recognized the image from a photograph he'd seen in the laboratory where he'd been created. It had been in Dr. Fuji's office, a reminder of the creature he'd been commissioned to recreate.

Mew, its clone thought then. This place is a shrine for Mew.

Suddenly he understood why Sabrina had brought him here. He understood why this place filled him with vitality and that sense of familiarity. This region, this island in particular, was the habitat of his ancestors. It was written in the script of his genome and scrawled across his dreams. Sabrina had found what he could very well call his homeland, his inheritance, and perhaps even his place of conception, albeit not his birth. As she felt his embrace around her tighten, she turned her head and whispered, "Have you figured it out yet?"

"This place…you found a place where I could belong. I had not realized you were interested in such a thing."

She turned around in his arms, gazing up at him. "I thought it would be a fitting gift. Today is your birthday, after all."

He blinked, and then mentally calculated the date and realized she was right. It was the sixth of February, the day he'd opened his eyes to this world and howled at it. He must have mentioned that fact in passing sometime in the last year, but surely it had only been in passing. He hadn't thought it an important matter, and had certainly never thought she'd remember that tidbit of information…but sure enough, she had. She'd tucked it away, counting down the days until the event and making plans around it. Moreover, she'd kept her research and intentions a secret from him, determined to surprise him on the day itself. He felt an awed sort of humbleness spread through him then, and he reached up a paw, running the backs of his knuckles over her cheek.

She leaned into his touch, but did not quite meet his eyes as she asked, "Do you like it? Being here…?"

There was something in her voice then, something small and frail. He thought he sensed a stirring of fear in her, and realizing what she was worrying about, he passed a fingertip over her lips and said, "It is…revitalizing. But my home is in Saffron City, with you. I will not stay here, but I may return to visit it from time to time."

She closed her eyes, her expression smoothing from relief. "I see." She pressed herself closer to him, burying her face in his neck, the warmth of her sigh rolling over his throat. He stroked her hair soothingly, and thought he heard her murmur, "I'm glad…."

And somehow, that was enough to show him that she cared for him as much as he did her. In the minutes that followed, he listened to the trickle of the fading rain and the distant call of tropical birds. He breathed in the fragrance of rainwater and flowers, of jasmine and the scents of sex. He felt the hard coolness of the stone beneath them, in places peppered with moss, and the smooth warmth of her body against his fur. He tasted the moisture of the storm and in her hair, and simply watched the rise and fall of her side as she rested. As the sunlight fell on her, making her almost seem to glow, he glanced outside, seeing the vestiges of amber clouds and a rainbow streaking across the sky. He remembered, vaguely, that a rainbow was supposed to be the promise of some deity, somewhere, telling mortals that he would never flood the earth again and destroy the life in it.

And so he wouldn't. Mewtwo had everything he wanted. He closed his eyes, sighing into the woman's hair, and heard her shift in his arms and whisper, "Happy birthday, Mewtwo."

He smiled the rarest of his smiles - one of simple happiness - and then drifted into dreams of the hunt and of the love of gods….

They awoke several times during the evening and night, continuing their explorations underneath the stars and yellowed moon. When the morning dawned, they wandered through the ruins, dodging the islanders and tourists who were half-admiring the crumbling buildings, half-searching for the Japanese noblewoman who'd vanished the day before. At one point Mewtwo roped her into an experiment, convincing her with cunning fingers and a crafty tongue to submit to him not two meters from the others. He manipulated the senses of the searchers, deafening their ears to her cries and his snarls, blinding them to the sight of a human and pokémon coupling against a nearby wall. There was a sort of thrill to almost being caught with her that he couldn't help but indulge in, here in this place so far from her manor, here in this place that drew out his primal side….

Afterwards she dressed and tried to smooth her hair, all the while giving him that amused and pleased smile she reserved only for him. Then she headed out into the sunlight, greeting the rather surprised group in the plaza beyond. He watched her from the shade, the tang of her skin still in his mouth, the scent of her still strong in his nose. She glanced back at him once before heading down the road with the others, her red eyes gleaming with an invitation to follow. He did, joining her in her room for a midday meal and a saucer of milk-tea. They took their time showering, then headed back out once more, determined to enjoy their stay on the island thoroughly. They spent the next week exploring the jungle and the rocky beaches, swimming in clear pools and sunbathing, savoring their uninterrupted hours together.

On the morning of Valentine's Day, he brought her red orchids, placing them on her pillow and in her hair. She'd packed the night before, her tickets and passport on the bedside table, a change of clothes on top of her suitcase. As the sun rose, gilding the isle's mountains in gold, he wrote her a note which read: "I will be waiting for you across the sea." He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, gave her forehead a small lick, and then began his return journey to Japan. He would beat her to the capitol, would light the candles in her room, would leave a tribute of dark chocolate on her desk (she would reciprocate on White Day – they enjoyed turning traditions on their heads), and would wait for her as patiently as he could.

And when she walked through the door, he would whisper "Welcome home" and extend a hand to her.

And she would take it with a smile, gazing only at him, and whisper, "I'm home."

Thank You: To my beta, Larka, who took on the admirable job of looking over this one-shot for me. Thank you also to those who have read this story and, I hope, will leave a review for it.

Author's Note: Well, that took a surprisingly long amount of time to wrap up, but I'm content with how this turned out. This was yet another lemony one-shot concerning Mewtwo and Sabrina, and I have to say, I'm starting to think I'll never write a clean story with the two of them. Since they're my favorite pairing, that's probably inevitable. In any case, as mentioned in the dedication, this piece is the product of conversations I've had with Renn Ireigh (a fabulous writer, by the way!), in which we discussed Pablo Neruda's poetry and Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel's Legacy – specifically, the Phédre Delauney trilogy – which are both very sensual works. This was also my way of acknowledging Mewtwo's canon birthday – February 6th – and mixing in a hearty dose of game canon. Finally, this was meant as a Valentine's Day treat, but due to being on my semester abroad, that didn't happen.

I have some more psishipping works in progress, which you can read more about on my profile. When will those be released? Well, as with the next chapter of Angelic Shadows, I honestly have no idea (though that chapter is now fully written, for those who might be curious). Hopefully they'll all be worth the wait.

In any case, I hope you are all having a good day! Until next time.