A/N: I'm sorry—something gave me a hormonal explosion. Maybe it was the food, maybe it was ten days of independence and indescribable happiness. Nevertheless, I've been meaning to write this for a long time now. So, I've written sex; yay. And, Red/Yellow is the most difficult pairing to write smut for. I shit you not.

Also, critique is my best friend!

1—
Red & Yellow

…

The house is alone when Red waltzes around in his boxers. The summer makes everything sticky and hot; and he's alone, so why bother with unnecessary layers of clothing? The teenager steps towards his kitchen, watches the radiant sun just born (the yellow light against pale blue sky reminding him of blond hair against blue sheets) and makes a lazy grab for the bread.

He's all out of butter. Red curses under his breath, and after a few minutes of fruitless search of his grocery list, he gives up, falling silently into a cheap chair. He has no idea what day it is today, and to be frank he doesn't quite care, because it's not as if Blue will suddenly remember he exists, and it's not as if Green will drop from the skies and tell him that he prefers to be in his company, instead of burying himself in research papers with his blue-haired assistant.

Red bites the bread and his teeth complain.

Celadon's mall casts a shadow on him, and he stays still for a little while, enjoying the deserted streets and the dry heat. It's rush hour—but it's also too hot, and neither children nor old people walk around because of the heat. He supposes that adults are either working or enjoying themselves at home; with a sigh, he walks inside, and is instantly slapped by a blow of cold air.

The women at the counter don't even glance at him while he passes by, directed towards the stairs. He stops and blows his bangs away from his sticky forehead; pokes around his pockets for the list. He needs to buy butter, food for his pokémon, and while he climbs slowly, feeling the back of his neck still warm, he considers buying a lemonade as well—or at least a soda pop. He doesn't know how much money he's got, and chides himself for forgetting to count the pennies and bills in his brown wallet.

"Can I help you with anything?" the women at the counter ask, politely, and he shakes his head.

It's too hot for him to talk, and he's feeling very lazy as he walks in-between the colorful shelves, full of brand new items and fishing bait. He reminds himself not to think about slim legs and pink lips, because, for Pete's sake, he's in public and the last thing he needs is a quick run to the bathroom while he tries to believe he has everything under control. The picture of her, in a pale-green swimming suit, with red cheeks and flawless smiles just for him (or so he likes to believe), has him struggling for breath.

His skin tingles all over, and his presses his closed fingers tightly against his palm, until it stings. He breathes – in, out, in, out – and tries his best to forget about girls beneath thin spandex. Red fails at that until one of the people around him grabs him by the shoulder and inquires if everything is alright.

"Yes, yes," he hurriedly asserts, but what he really means is I'm not sure?

It's obvious that in the middle of hormonal nightmares, in the end he forgets all about butter and pokémon food, and buys a notepad instead. He's no idea whether her birthday is close or far (actually, he has), but he promises to himself that in the near future, he'll hand it to her offhandedly. Maybe over dinner—maybe over breakfast.

He shuts his eyes and sighs desperately, feeling the urgent need to crumple and/or destroy something. He sticks with the crumpling, grabbing a pair of dirty boxers from the floor of his bedroom and concentrating in nothing but making his arm get tired. It works for three minutes and then an epiphany seizure attacks him with full-force, with the image of a blond girl dressed with his boxers and nothing more, sheets fisted by her chest as he kisses her chastely and not-so chastely.

Red groans irritably, gets up, and locks the door to his bathroom from inside.

He knows it's normal for a guy his age, but still it doesn't mean it makes it okay, the fact that every time he sees her (or even thinks of her), he feels himself harden with half-lidded fervor and a desperate need to touch her in naked spots. He watches Green live each day with resolute normalness, and Blue's limits are located near first base – or so he's heard – so he feels a little bit out. Maybe it's because all his life all he's chased are rare pokémon instead of having chased skirts.

He groans into the shower and feels his knees weaken in accord with his fantasy of him-her-and-a-kitchen-counter. His boxers get discarded by the dirty laundry pile, after he returns.

In his desperation, he assumes that asking Gold for advice on getting the girl is a wise decision.

It turns out it isn't because Gold doesn't stop laughing at him for fifteen minutes; and what a shameful example he is, asking a younger kid for help—especially in such a delicate matter as the fact that he's severely undersexed and going crazier every day that swims by. Of course that Red isn't that stupid, and he doesn't phrase it like that; instead of, I need to screw Yellow's brains out, what comes out is, I want to pronounce my never-dying love for her.

It's fairly the same thing on his opinion, because, well, he's not the type of guy who'd sleep with someone he doesn't have feelings for. And maybe that's why Gold laughs so much, not that he thinks about it; maybe he's too apparent and too obvious in his interest in her.

Gold rubs his nose expertly, "How far have you two gone?"

Something sounds terribly wrong. Red snuffs that sensation away soon enough as he tenses in Gold's bedroom carpeted floor. He can hear his mom downstairs, singing softly while cooking a chocolate cake, and when he turns to express his urgency and distress, because, my god can't he speak lower, the younger boy just shrugs.

"…I—this, this isn't a very good idea," Red manages to say, voice quivering along with his fingers. Pictures and imagined sounds flood his mind as his cheeks burn accordingly, something inside him stretching and touting his need for a lay.

"Suit yourself, virgin-boy," Gold replies immediately, smirk widening in his face. He straightens in his bed; it squeaks and he snorts: "I'll willingly and so awesomely share my past experiences, now. Listen and learn, because I won't last forever."

He sounds more chipper than he should.

He's sure that he won't be managing to stare at Crystal in the face for the next months; at least not while Gold's spicy words are travelling around in his brain, hot and feisty and surprisingly ordinary in their existence, for something coming out of his mouth—he will never stare at Gold's kitchen the same way (the disappointment in his mother's voice almost hurt when he refused a slice of cake, but he wouldn't take anything that had touched the table or the counters).

Red reaches home and picks up his pokégear, absently texts Yellow, and waits. His eyelids are heavy with his lack of sleep, but he forces himself minimally awake just so that he'll feel the vibration of the machine in his hand. It buzzes soon enough, and the ends of his fingers tingle.

These are the little moments that have him feel guilty for grunting out her name and then falling to his knees, out of breath; or for, when he wakes up with a need to touch and be touched, picturing her voice in his ear, pleading and crying for more. And it soothes him that Gold's secrets were well-accepted by Crystal; this makes Red shiver in disbelief, because if the serious and mature girl actually complied to Gold's requests—

Red decides to abandon that disturbing train of logic as he reads soft words and smiley faces in the end of sentences. And, before he can chicken out, he asks her to drop by someday. The answer to his question is fast – so fast that the pokégear almost falls out of his digits – he's startled.

It reads, is tonight alright by you?

He suppresses the urge to reply, anytime you want to—then his heart starts hammering in his chest and he feels his skin go terribly, terribly warm at the thought of having her over. His brain screams control yourself, but his cock doesn't care for control.

Red runs for the bathroom, with both his hands already working on his belt.

It's his opinion that the dinner he made sucks, but Yellow never complains, even going as far as to tell him that it's good (her compliment has him smiling wildly for the following ten minutes). The forks and knives clink against each other as he brings them towards the kitchen. She sits on a counter (but not with before asking if she can or not), and he flushes red, when he catches a slap of white under her pretty skirt.

He focuses on the task at hand, which is putting the dirty utensils in the washing machine; all the while Yellow chippers cheerfully about her life, about her uncle's, and then confides that it's her opinion that Blue and Green are dating. Red swallows.

"You don't say."

"I'm not sure," she whispers softly, cheeks a little darker than before, "I haven't been much time with her, but every time we hang out, it seems that we're always interrupted by Green. Blue's told me something about him being sick – " Red rolls his eyes, " – but besides that, I'm not sure."

"Don't worry about that," he replies to her, getting up and stretching casually. He notices Yellow's eyes on the stripe of skin that his shirt lets uncovered, and her tongue darts out shyly, in what he hopes is an innocent and accidental movement. It's hot, he tells himself. Her lips are dry—his brain scoffs, and he feels himself harden.

Oh—no, no, no, no, no. He drops his arms heavily, droopily, and her cheeks bloom when she catches herself mid-movement. There's a silence, and she gestures, flails about while trying to find the right words, the right apology. Red feels too hot, too curious to know what her tongue feels like.

He puts his hand near her left thigh; then the other, until he's somewhat trapped her under him, and then he peers shyly into her eyes. He's almost scared by the intensity in them; half-hidden shyness also peeks out at him, but is quickly suppressed.

"Can I kiss you?" Red asks, and only notices what's come out of his mouth when her eyes shy away from his. He gets ready to apologize, to say that he's just – he's just what?

He wants to bury a hole and get inside it. But then her lips open to whisper yes, and the hole-theory flies out the window when he leans in, slowly, almost as if he is afraid that she'll break.

It starts out chaste, with Yellow making soft noises, but he loses himself midway and once he is between her knees (and they both notice this fact; she tries to clamp her knees together, startled, and he apologizes before attacking again) the kisses get more rough, more open, and the thought that this is shy, kind, and innocent Yellow is the only thing that gets him to calm himself down, instead of grabbing her by the hips and having his way with her now.

She pulls apart to breathe, her forehead leaned on his shoulder, and Red is in near-disbelief, because, really, this is Yellow and he can't picture her doing things like this (well, he can, but there's a strong difference between dreams and reality).

"Can I try again?" he asks, very quietly, peering down to meet her eyes. He's faced with the sight of her delicate neckline, her lips parted for her to breathe better. Red disregards the fact that he has a great view down her shirt from where he is, but he still commits the nearly-graphic image to memory (for later use).

Yellow nods, but only after five seconds pass. He leans in and tries his best to keep it soft. But a kiss to him is like a battle, he figures that he should give it his best so that he can win—his tongue slips out, very quietly, very slowly so that he doesn't incommode her, and when she closes her eyes and lets him inside, he feels his knees weaken (in that moment, he is glad that he's leaning against her and against his kitchen counter).

But there's a problem; he doesn't want to stop, but if Yellow looks down, he's sure that he's going to die of mortification. He has two hypotheses—first, to excuse himself and take care of things, or second, deal with the consequences and enjoy this in its fullest. Red decides soon enough that it'll probably take a long time before he can have his way with her again, like this, so he embraces both Yellow and the discomfort of being bound in his jeans; her hands fist in his shirt at first, but then she shyly wraps her arms around his neck and he feels blissful.

It's about then that he realizes that Yellow isn't as innocent as she lets on, because, despite the crimson color that extends from her cheeks to her neck (and he wants to check if, under her shirt, she's red as well), her right hand drops from behind his neck and tortuously slowly, she drags it across his chest. He groans into her mouth, and feels her shiver against himself. Yellow moves away, leans her head on his chest—and he's suddenly afraid because she's looking down and he doesn't want to come across like the filthy little pervert he feels like.

"Y – Yellow," he says, trying to disentangle from her soft grip without offending her, "I uh, d-do you want some t—e—a!"

His voice squeaks, high and it would've been hilarious if not for the fact that she's pushing her palm against his groin; her eyes shoot up to find his own, while he fights a losing battle with his lungs. She seems concerned, and her face is probably heating the whole kitchen by now.

"Does that hurt?"

Red inhales sharply from his nose, and all he can do is shake his head. He doesn't trust himself to speak, because he's never been this crazed with hormones before. It's simple, though; the other times, all he had to keep company was the ghostly fantasy of Yellow, but now it's real, and it's a smaller, softer hand that touches him.

He wonders if his legs will hold him. He doubts his legs will hold him.

Something in his throat scratches when she closes the space between them, skinny bare legs suddenly, yet slowly, around his waist. He understands minutes after the funny feeling vanishes that he's groaning into her neck. He feels her hand hovering over his zipper, and suddenly this doesn't sound like a good idea anymore. Red fumbles, pushes her away with the best way he can: hands so bigger than her own grab her by the waist; he tries to render her immobile,, electricity in his fingertips and sweat in the back of his neck.

Yellow looks up at him, "…please."

He feels himself get hotter as she undoes his belt, delicate digits touching his skin with no need to. He stifles a grunt when he feels himself push against the tissue of his boxers, when he feels his jeans drop down smoothly until they settle a little below his hips—he has never felt so thankful to gravity.

This is the part where he wonders if she's thought about this as much as he (he doubts it, but still); he feels something rush to his head and he realizes it's a mix of nervous and excitement, with a big bright red bow of arousal around it. He's sure that he's more concerned than she is, but Yellow's face is red, redder than anytime he's seen before. He's not quite sure of what this means. And, with a pale, soft hand around him, his logic shatters into a million pieces; he's not going to find out anytime soon.

Something in his pelvis dances and he bucks into her with a half-whimper. Yellow stifles a surprised noise.

Both their sounds echo in his kitchen.

It reaches Gold soon enough, after three days (how exactly, he doesn't know): "Second base isn't bad."

Red's ears start heating; he doesn't quite manage to speak after that. The younger boy has a field day.

It takes him a week to realize that his predicament has turned much worse than before. Now that he has real memories to fuel his need of her, he wakes up hard every single day. It's shameful, but he keeps replaying the scenes in his head—hands, nervous but soft, her breath caught in her throat just like his, the moment in which he skidded across bliss and she kissed him, her cheeks dark crimson and her eyes dark yellow.

It's become standard procedure by now. Only now he thinks more about her mouth and less about her hands; and he can almost feel the slow descend into sexed craziness as time passes. So he starts training more – to get his head clear – but his pokémon notice, too, and he gives up soon after accidentally burning down a tree.

His day starts with an unread message in his pokégear: can I come over? He's startled out of his sleepy, narcotic-like daze, and his thumbs reply quick, like lightning, to her. The déja-vu he feels reminds him of soft fingers touching places he desperately needs them to touch. He sits up in his bed and avoids the kitchen for the rest of the day, while he waits for her to drop by announced but yet unannounced.

And when she does drop by, she kisses him in the mouth, harshly—but never without before asking. It surprises him, and before he can keep track of things, his hands are around the small of her back, pushing her closer (he needs her so much closer than this), rubbing small figures on her skin until she squeaks.

Then an idea strikes, and something in his brain shouts control yourself, but then his cock shouts this time we'll have her, and it goes louder than his brain. It's ridiculous but he fingers the hem of her dress just slightly, just to give her an idea of what he wants. He does it just slightly because he doesn't want in any way to force her into this; he knows what she's like, and right now maybe he's influenced her or something—

Yellow breaks away to breathe, puts her head in his shoulder, her chin warm against his skin, and her hands palm his groin with uncertainty. He nearly jumps out of his couch, because this is all a repeat of something that has already happened—not that he minds. He absolutely doesn't.

Her heavy breaths in his ear have him panting with the exertion of not being able to just – just…

"Red," she half-says, half-whines, and throws her arms around him, settling her thighs just above him. The boy almost stops breathing, for a moment, when he feels her warm skin against the pressing in his jeans, when she whimpers so softly, when her arms tighten around his neck.

He's not sure he wants to do this anymore, now that they're so close, because maybe he'll hurt her, maybe he'll—Yellow shifts in his lap and his breath is knocked out of him again. Red makes a small noise against her neck while she moves just above him. He's hot and she's heavy in a good way. The feel of her just there, touching him through his clothes, makes him see white when he closes his eyes.

"C-can I – "

"…Y-yes," she replies quickly, shivering against him. It makes his heart melt, the fact that she doesn't even wait to hear the whole plea, and he'd appreciate her better if it were not for the fact that their skin is sticky and he's ready, so ready to move against her. Her small form trembles against his larger one, her hands on his shoulders as she gives a slight haul of the hips. It's instinct when his hands dart to her hips, then, trying to keep her close and far all the same. She gasps softly, and he regrets the quickness of the movement, but he still doesn't let go.

He kisses her, dips his fingers – so slowly – up her skirt, until she huffs into his mouth and cries his name. He feels the suave cloth of her underwear, the softness of her skin. It's the most fun he's had since winning the League challenge. Yellow gasps and he blushes when she calls out, "Red!"

He freezes against her, while she catches her breath in tiny inhales, small hiccups that have his skin tingling with effervescent desire. Maybe he hasn't given her enough foreplay, maybe it will hurt, maybe she won't like it—because even if he wants so desperately to move and reach something attainable to both of them, he won't do it if it means she's going to get hurt. Yellow kisses him chastely on the mouth, and nods against his neck.

"I – "

"I love you," she whispers, so, so softly against his shirt, and Red feels as if he's won the League again. Only, it feels better, it's a hot, smooth feeling that has him kissing her hard while his trembling hands run up her skirt, his hips tugging against hers while she moans. It's a delicate situation, and he asks her twice before taking off her dress. He slips the straps down her shoulders, kissing the skin as he goes. Her underwear is pretty, cute, and he has second thoughts for three seconds, before she takes out her brassiere.

His mind goes blank. He wonders – since when does Yellow have breasts – if this is alright for him. She looks up at him, and the image of her, in her panties, above him, is too much. Her mouth opens, and then she closes it, her cheeks red. Red wants to run his palm across her skin, but his hands are shaking. Yellow intertwines her fingers with his, and kisses him. His right hand slides across her skin, and the feeling of her has him even more in love.

He doesn't know when she does it, but his fly is open and Yellow is needy. With soft mewls and sharp intakes of air while he touches her, she grabs his shirt and pulls him down with a breathy whisper. She leans against him, smart hands wrapping around him. He catches a glance of her underwear on the floor.

The satisfaction, the tightness, the warmth, it all happens in a second; second which lasts an era. Red's hands fly to her hips, but she doesn't move. He know she needs to adjust, to fit to him, but it's such a rush, it's such an awesome feeling. When Yellow moves, every nerves of his body spark off, and he closes his eyes. He doesn't think he can keep them open. Yellow does a soft noise above him, while he tries to move with her, and she wraps her arms around his neck.

This is much better than when he does it himself—that's his only thought as he presses her harder against himself. He blinks, and keeps his eyes open to watch her. Yellow's a mess, above him, hair still caught in her scrunchie, shoulders high as she shudders and shakes, mouth open as he tries his best to bury himself on her.

They don't last long. Yellow calls out his name, her head hidden away under his chin, in his shoulder, and Red can't last after the sudden shift in weight. The aftermath is calm. He doesn't move – he doesn't think his legs work – and Yellow doesn't get off his lap. He kisses the top of her head, afraid that he's done something wrong. She got off, right? Which means—

"I love you too!" he says, urgently, as if he's forgotten to tell it before. Yellow giggles, and kisses him on the cheek. He thinks he can crack a joke, to alleviate the serious mood. He wants to touch her again. He doesn't think she'd mind: "I'm having a shower. Care to join?"

She kisses him again, this time on the mouth.