Chapter 38: Nicola's 5th Pokemon
The fire had burned down to ash and memory, and the camp had settled into the kind of silence that only existed in the deepest hours of the night—when even the wind seemed to hold its breath, when the stars hung so low and bright they felt close enough to touch, when the boundary between the waking world and the realm of dreams grew thin and permeable.
Nicola lay on her back in her tent, staring at the canvas above her, listening to the soft sounds of her Pokémon breathing in their balls. Sleep had come for a while—a shallow, restless thing that had left her more tired than before—and then it had abandoned her entirely, leaving her alone with the weight of her thoughts and the heat that coiled low in her belly.
She couldn't stop thinking about the egg.
It sat beside her bedroll, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, warm to the touch. The last egg of the group—the final unhatched mystery from the batch that had been scattered when the Eclipse Squad attacked. Samuel's Hippopotas had hatched just hours ago, and the joy of that moment still lingered in the camp like the scent of woodsmoke. But this egg was hers. Hers to protect, hers to nurture, hers to worry about with every breath.
What if it doesn't hatch? she thought. What if something's wrong with it? What if I'm not good enough to be its trainer?
The questions spiraled, feeding on themselves, growing louder with each iteration. She sat up abruptly, her heart pounding, her skin prickling with a restless energy that demanded release.
She needed air. She needed to move. She needed to stop thinking.
She pulled on her boots, grabbed a light jacket, and picked up the egg—carefully, reverently, cradling it against her chest like the precious thing it was. The camp was still and dark, the embers of the fire glowing faintly orange. She stepped past the tents, past the sleeping forms of her friends, past the perimeter of their little sanctuary.
And she walked.
The forest opened up before her, silver and shadow, the path visible only by the light of the moon filtering through the canopy. She followed it without thinking, her feet carrying her along a route she hadn't consciously chosen. The trees thinned. The ground grew softer, damp. And then—
The lake.
It stretched before her, vast and glassy, reflecting the stars so perfectly that it was impossible to tell where the water ended and the sky began. The shore was a crescent of pale sand, scattered with smooth stones and the delicate bones of fallen branches. A thin mist hovered over the surface, curling and shifting like living breath.
Nicola stopped at the water's edge, her breath catching in her throat.
It was beautiful. It was peaceful. It was exactly what she needed.
She sat down on a flat rock, still holding the egg, and let the quiet wash over her. The mist cooled her skin. The lapping of the water soothed her nerves. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth, the way her mother had taught her when she was young and prone to nightmares. Out. Out.
The heat in her belly didn't fade. If anything, it grew sharper, more insistent. She shifted on the rock, pressing her thighs together, trying to ignore the ache that had settled between them. It had been too long. Way too long. The stress of the journey, the constant danger, the proximity of so many attractive people—it had all combined to leave her wound tight as a spring.
She thought about Briv. About the way he looked at Patricia, with that mixture of love and lust that made Nicola's chest ache with something that wasn't quite jealousy. She thought about the night they'd spent together, months ago, when the rivalry between them had boiled over into something hotter and messier. She thought about the way he'd touched her, the way he'd made her come undone, the way he'd looked at her afterward with those brown eyes full of guilt and wonder.
She thought about Dariana. About the way the other woman moved, all fluid grace and knowing smiles. About the way she'd caught Dariana looking at her sometimes, dark eyes lingering on her ass, on her breasts, on her mouth. About the way that look made her feel—seen, wanted, alive.
She thought about Samuel, with his warm hands and his slow smile and his easy way of touching people. She thought about his dreadlocks and his tattoos and the way he laughed.
God. She was a mess.
The egg pulsed against her chest—a tiny flutter of movement that she almost dismissed as her imagination. But then it came again, stronger this time, and she looked down at it sharply.
"Hey," she whispered. "Hey, little one. Are you—"
A sound behind her. footsteps on the sand. Not trying to be quiet.
She turned.
Axel stood at the edge of the treeline, half-lit by the moon, his Rotom orbiting his head in a lazy flicker of orange light. He was still dressed in the clothes he'd worn that day—dark trousers, a black shirt, no jacket despite the chill. His chestnut hair was mussed, hanging across his forehead, and his green eyes caught the starlight like chips of glass.
He looked like something out of a dark fairy tale.
"You should be sleeping," he said.
"So should you."
He shrugged. "I don't sleep much."
"I noticed."
They stared at each other across the sand. The mist swirled between them.
Nicola felt the heat in her belly spike, reaching up to her throat, her cheeks, her fingertips. The egg was warm against her chest. The night was cool on her skin.
She thought about all the reasons this was a bad idea. All the reasons Axel was dangerous, unpredictable, too much—all the reasons she should turn around and walk back to camp and pretend this moment had never happened.
Then she thought about the way he'd fought against Samuel's Doduo. The way he'd moved, precise and deadly. The way his Rotom had shifted forms mid-battle, adapting and striking and winning.
She thought about the first time she'd seen him, months ago, when he'd stood across from her in a tournament arena and looked at her like she was an opponent worth respecting.
She thought about how long it had been since she'd felt someone's hands on her.
"I can't sleep," she said.
"I know."
"Want to help with that?"
The words hung in the air between them. Axel's expression didn't change—not visibly—but something shifted behind his eyes, some calculation or decision, some acknowledgment of what she was offering.
"I don't do relationships," he said.
"Neither do I."
"I'm not gentle."
"I don't want gentle."
He considered her for a long moment. The Rotom crackled, flickering in a pattern that might have been curiosity or amusement.
Then Axel moved.
He crossed the sand in three long strides, his presence filling the space between them with heat and weight and intent. He stopped inches from her, close enough that she could smell him—leather and cedar and something wild, like ozone before a storm.
"Say it again," he said.
"What?"
"Tell me what you want."
She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes, refusing to back down. "I want you to fuck me."
The words felt obscene on her tongue—raw and filthy and exactly what she needed. She expected him to flinch, to pull back, to tell her she was being vulgar. But his eyes only darkened, his lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Where?" he asked.
"Anywhere. Everywhere. I don't care."
"Careful." He reached out, his fingers brushing her jaw, tilting her face up. His touch was cool and electric, sending a shiver down her spine. "I might take you up on that."
"Promise?"
The word was barely a whisper. She didn't know what had come over her—the tiredness, the stress, the long weeks of forced celibacy in close quarters with attractive people she couldn't touch. All she knew was that she needed this. Needed him. Needed something to break the tension that had been building inside her like a pressure cooker.
Axel's hand slid into her hair, gripping the back of her head, pulling her toward him. His mouth met hers, hard and demanding, and she opened for him immediately, gasping against his lips as his tongue swept inside.
He tasted like mint and whiskey and something sharper underneath. His hands were everywhere—her hair, her shoulders, her hips—pulling her against him with a force that left no room for doubt about what he wanted.
The egg. She was still holding the egg.
"Wait," she breathed, breaking the kiss. "Wait, I need to—"
She set the egg down carefully in the sand, at the base of a large boulder where nothing would disturb it. It pulsed again as she placed it, a soft, rhythmic glow that seemed somehow approving.
Axel watched her, his chest rising and falling faster than before.
"Careful with that," he said. "It's valuable."
"I know." She straightened, facing him again. "Now shut up and kiss me."
He laughed—a low, dark sound that sent heat pooling between her legs—and did exactly that.
This time, there was no hesitation. His hands went to her jacket, pushing it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the sand. Then her shirt, rucking it up to expose the warm skin of her stomach. His fingers traced the waistband of her leggings, teasing, and she gasped against his mouth.
"Off," she said. "Take them off."
"So demanding." But he did as she asked, kneeling before her to peel the leggings down her legs. He took her boots with them, her socks, leaving her bare from the waist down except for the thin cotton of her underwear.
The night air hit her skin like a wave of ice, making her nipples harden, making her shiver—but it was a good shiver, an electric one, chasing the heat that burned in her core.
Axel's hands found her hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of her underwear. His eyes met hers, asking silent permission.
She nodded.
He pulled them down slowly, deliberately, exposing her inch by inch. The cool air hit her cunt, making her ache with emptiness, making her clench against nothing.
When she was fully bare—completely naked from the waist down, her shirt pushed up under her breasts—Axel sat back on his heels and looked at her.
"Fuck," he said softly. "You're beautiful."
It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation, almost clinical, delivered with the same detached precision he used when analyzing opponents. But it still made her flush, made her skin prickle with anticipation.
"Your turn," she said.
He rose, unhurried, and began to undress. He did it without ceremony—no teasing, no performance. Just efficiency. His shirt came off first, revealing a torso that was lean and muscled, crisscrossed with faint scars that spoke of battles fought and survived. His trousers followed, then his boxers, and then—
Nicola's breath caught.
He was hard, thick, fully erect, and he didn't seem to care about hiding it. He stood before her without shame, his cock jutting from a thatch of dark hair, and she felt a fresh wave of heat wash over her.
"Come here," she said.
He moved toward her, and she reached out.
His skin was hot under her fingers—so hot, contrasting with his cool demeanor. She traced the lines of muscle on his chest, trailing down to his abdomen, feeling the way he tensed under her touch. When her fingers reached his cock, he let out a sharp exhale, his hips twitching toward her hand.
She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slowly, feeling the vein that ran along the underside, the smooth head slick with pre-cum.
"Does that feel good?" she asked.
"Keep doing it."
She laughed—a breathless, giddy sound—and did exactly that. Her hand moved faster, twisting gently on the upstroke, and Axel's eyes fluttered closed for just a moment before snapping open again.
"Enough," he said, catching her wrist. "I want to be inside you."
"Where?"
"Here. Now." He looked around—at the sand, the water, the mist—and a smirk touched his lips. "Unless you want to take a swim first."
"I want you to fuck me."
"Then turn around."
She turned.
The sand was cool under her feet, the boulder warm against her back. She braced her hands on the stone, arching her back, presenting herself in a way that felt both vulnerable and powerful. Behind her, she heard Axel move—the soft sound of his feet on the sand, the sharp intake of his breath.
His hands found her hips.
His cock slid between her thighs, teasing, slick with her wetness. She moaned, pushing back against him, trying to angle herself so he'd enter her.
"You're eager," he said.
"I'm desperate."
"Good."
He pushed into her.
A single thrust—hard, deep, splitting her open. She cried out, her hands scrabbling on the rock for purchase, her body arching at the sudden intrusion. He didn't wait for her to adjust. He just started moving.
Fast. Deep. Relentless.
The world narrowed to the feeling of him inside her—his cock dragging against her walls, his balls slapping against her clit, the rough scrape of his belt buckle against her ass. She was being fucked against a rock under the stars, and it was exactly what she needed.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes, yes—"
Axel grunted, his fingers digging into her hips. He was holding back—she could tell by the tension in his grip, by the way he controlled his pace—and she didn't want him to.
"Harder," she demanded. "Don't treat me like glass. I won't break."
He responded by pulling out almost entirely, then slamming back in with enough force to make her see stars. She screamed—a raw, animal sound that echoed across the lake—and her cunt clenched around him.
"That's it," he growled. "Squeeze my cock like that."
She did. She squeezed and released, squeezed and released, a rhythm of internal muscles that she knew drove men wild. Axel wasn't immune. His hips stuttered, his breath coming hard and fast, and he started fucking her in earnest.
Sand scattered beneath them. The mist curled around their legs. The stars watched.
Nicola was close—so close—when she heard it.
A crack.
She dismissed it at first, focused on the feel of Axel inside her. But then it came again, louder, closer. A fissure that spiraled across her consciousness, pulling her attention away from the pleasure that was building in her core.
"Axel—"
"What?"
"The egg."
He heard the panic in her voice and stopped moving. They both turned to look at the boulder where she'd set the egg—the last egg of the group, wrapped in its woolen blanket, pulsing with light.
It was hatching.
"Oh my god," Nicola whispered.
She pulled away from Axel, ignoring the empty ache as he slipped out of her. She dropped to her knees beside the egg, her heart hammering, her mind racing. The shell was cracked—hairline fractures spreading like lightning across its surface—and through the gaps, she could see something dark and green and moving.
"We need to—" Axel started.
"Shut up." She didn't mean to snap, but she couldn't help it. This was more important than sex. This was more important than anything.
The egg split open.
For a moment, there was only darkness inside the shell—a shadowy shape that seemed too large for the fractured remains. Then the shape moved, and the darkness resolved into something recognizable.
A small, chunky Pokémon with a body like a sapling. Its skin was pale green, mottled with darker patches, and its arms ended in branches tipped with snow-white buds. A cap of white rime sat atop its head, glowing faintly in the starlight, and its eyes—dark and solemn—blinked open for the first time.
"Snover," Nicola breathed.
The Pokémon looked at her. Just looked, with those dark eyes, as if it was trying to understand what it was seeing. Then it opened its mouth and made a sound—a soft, querulous cry that was somewhere between a bird's chirp and the creaking of ice.
"Hey," Nicola said softly. "Hey, little one."
She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched the Snover's cheek. The skin was cool beneath her touch—not cold, but cool, like the air after a snowfall. The Pokémon leaned into her hand, its eyes fluttering closed, and made a sound that was unmistakably content.
"You're mine," Nicola whispered. "I'm yours. We're going to be okay."
Behind her, Axel had retrieved his clothes and dressed silently. He stood watching them, his expression unreadable.
"Congratulations," he said.
Nicola looked up at him—at this man she barely knew, who she'd just fucked against a rock, who had witnessed the hatching of her first Pokémon—and felt something shift inside her. Not love. Not even affection, exactly. But recognition. Understanding. The sense that they were both broken in ways that fit together.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For being here."
He nodded, once, and then he was gone—disappearing into the treeline like a ghost, leaving her alone with her new partner and the stars and the quiet lapping of the lake.
Nicola turned back to the Snover. It had climbed into her lap, apparently with some difficulty—but Snover looked content, its eyes at half-mast, and it made a soft crooning sound as she stroked its back.
"I don't know anything about raising a Grass-type," she admitted. "I don't know anything about raising anything. I'm probably going to fuck this up."
She thought about Patricia's Budew. About Briv's Turtwig. About Samuel's Hippopotas, born just hours ago. They were all learning together, all fumbling through this thing called training, and maybe that was the point.
"We'll figure it out," she said. "We'll figure it out together."
The Snover—her Snover—didn't respond. But it didn't look worried, either. Its eyes drifted shut. Its breathing slowed. And somehow, that was enough.
The mist was colder now. The stars were brighter. And Nicola Sunfall sat on the shore of a nameless lake with a newborn Pokémon in her lap, thinking about everything that had happened and everything that was yet to come.