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The Woolherd's Flock - Autumn
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JaspersEevee
JaspersEevee's Gallery (49)

Forbidden Waters - 0 (Remastered)
Woolherd's Flock - Winter

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Keywords male 1235479, female 1122162, pokemon 199853, sex 137982, human 111356, blood 22093, gore 11491, sylveon 6403, vaporeon 5319, violence 4564, pokephilia 3741, adult content 1227, various species 623, mature content 347, literature 228, difficult themes 1, read at your own risk 1
FORBIDDEN WATERS
by Jasper’s Eevee
 


Forbidden Waters


A society that happily marries morality in the morning,

and swiftly shackles itself to draconian laws in the sun,  

ever entwines itself with taboo pleasures in the night.



And pain, it seems, is the price man pays for those purest sorts of joy.

Especially when life, love, and family are the ones left standing on the scale.



Mauville Municipal Jail’s intake cells have a smell that thoroughly burns itself into your memory; a rancid match made in bleach, epoxy-painted steel, and the many assorted odors of substance abuse.

The intense head-melting silence, punctuated only by the strangled rattling of a twenty-year-old air conditioning unit left strung up to die in the corner.

Those retching caterwauls of junkies wracked by withdrawal in the community cells across the hall.

That stainless-steel toilet-sink-combo standing proudly in the corner, separated from Arceus and everyone with a transparent Thriftymart™ shower curtain.

The coarsely-ground men and mon peering through the porthole door; lucario or machoke or steely-faced humans who’d faded into police-uniforms with gazes so suspicious they burn words of ridicule onto your soul. Words so quiet and direct that you lost the will to defend your own honor.

The refreshing taste of coagulated blood stuck to your gums as you wash your own mouth out with bulk-bin soap and a tap of acrid well-water, courtesy of your own tax dollars.

A disheveled long-haired man lays broiling on the ass-burnished benches that evening, curled below the AC in hopes of catching a moment of relief from the heat and the throbbing injuries to his face.

His gentle, effeminate features are now a freshly-beaten cherry-colored steak. The tough fabric and poor fit of his navy blue inmate uniform leaves him squirming with discomfort as he nurses mottled red rings of scabs cuffing his wrists. Missing a dozen patches of the hair she loved so much, his scalp and his skull ache. So it is that the portly inmate hat they tossed in his lap now sits beside his sole-worn sandals a few feet away as he finally finds the courage to root around his mouth with his tongue and count the number of teeth he’d lost.

One of his coffee colored eyes sags to the puke-stained floor, the other swollen shut like a fattened plum.

The worst feeling of all is the hollowness. That empty numbness that comes after a horrific injury to your skin and you can no longer feel the subtle joys of life in those limbs, but you’re still able to experience the pain. The pain was always the last thing to go.

“Vaporeon…” he squeaks to himself as a line of ruddy tears streaks down his cheek, smattering the floor in yet-another pathetic layer of regolith crusting the mismatched linoleum tiles. “...please be safe.”

Hours pass like that until the lights outside the window and in his holding cell slowly flicker to a simmer. On the wall a metal plate over an old speaker shakes with the words, “Dinner. Keep it quiet, offenders. I wanna go home bored, y’hear?”

Steel flaps at the base of the doors flop up against their own hinges with synchronous reverberating thunks, waking everyone inside with a panic.

A thick, green, plastic food tray unceremoniously slides through the opening and scrapes to a halt at the center of the room, spilling a bit of cornmeal slopped in the corner-well to the floor as it comes to rest.

“{Pervert, corner pocket,}” A lucario officer’s aide barks in monster speech and a bottle of water rolls in to bounce against the opposite wall.

Satisfied with his miserable compliance, the bean slot closes and the shadows in the window finally shift away.

He waits for a few minutes, watching the door like a wild pokemon trapped by a predator in its den, before pushing himself up to wipe the grime from his cheeks and collect his food.

No utensils, of course. Good thing for the grain cakes though, stale enough to pick anything up… though their own edibility was definitely in question. “Never thought I’d be thanking Arceus for stale bread,” he whispers to himself, clumsily slopping yellow porridge into his mouth with a flap of leathery breadskin.

He winces as the hot muck kisses a broken-open molar, but he shoulders on, avoiding that side of his mouth as he inspects the rest of this first-class culinary spread.

“Oh Petitils sake…” He retches as he realizes that almost everything on the tray has one of the hundred kinds of hyper-processed meat irrevocably integrated within.

After sleeping in a squad car the previous evening and being processed just after lunch was served the next day, it had been over twenty-four hours since he’d had a single scrap of anything other than his own blood and bits of teeth.

So he voraciously consumes as much as he can, including the individually-wrapped cubes of butter, licking the wrappers clean, and skulks up to the door. Allowing only the corner of his one good eye to bask in the torchlight, he hides the rest of his body from the sight of an older cop lumbering by with a patrol-machoke in tow wearing a blue-and-gold collar and cadet’s cap.

The guy knocks on the window to get the old man’s attention, squinting through the swelling and the shattered glasses missing from his nose. “Hey…”

The guard peers through the wire-grid glass and rolls his eyes in response as he continues his patrol…

Once it is apparent he’s been ignored, another healthy rapping against the glass finally encourages the guard to approach again

“Heated towels are at the other place. All out here.”

The inmate brushes a muddy mat of hair from his face as he looks up to politely speak in turn. “I’m not a ‘mon eater…” he says with a dry half-intentional meekness in his throat. “It’s in my file.”

The guard opens his eyes in mock surprise with an exaggerated guffaw. “Not all that interested in what you do or don’t do with mon, ya little grimer.”

The Inmate’s gaze careens back down to the ground, that judicious angry geyser welling back up in him like it had all those times before. A dense red fury at the world that refused to be quenched with meditation or slow happy thoughts.

“Don’t want anything special,” he croaks, “just more cornmeal.”

The guard looks back to his pokemon partner and the two of them laugh aloud, holding their bellies like a repulsive jail Santa and his musclebound elf. “Cornmeals’ got chikorita fats innit.”

The man glares back at them through the glassy bars of his cage, stomach churning in protest at his own silence.

 “That’s ‘Sir,’ by the way.” The guard waves his hand and waddles along his patrol. “Got nothin’ else for the likes’a you. Y’aint gonna die.”

The man with crusty ropes of hair takes the tray back as he curls himself up in the corner of the floor like a wild monster, already missing the warmth and love of a nest he’s surely lost.

“Guess I won’t…” he says and kicks the tray away, using his hat and shoes as a pillow for what amounted to a nap in that place.


He’s not sure how he managed to sleep like that, perhaps everything weighing down on him finally came to a tipping point and his mind decided it was time to pull the plug. His heart jumps to life like a generator sat cold for years, suddenly fired up to power everything all at once as the guard’s machoke partner slams a hammering fist against the door.

“Your attorney is here,” the guard grouses, rubbing a tired stain from his face. “Turn around, forehead on the wall, hands behind your back.”

The inmate does as he is told, but this is a difficult ask for anyone that’s just woken up in pain. With his cheek against the wall, the door clicks and the sounds of heaving bodies marching in to detain him resurface some very recent and very uncomfortable memories.

His foot slips as he shifts around to get his balance again.

“Don’t move!” the guard shouts with a speed that says he’d really only been waiting for a reason as Machoke’s elbow ever-so-gently slams him between shoulders, into a sandwich of rock and bone. All the breath is squeezed out of his lungs as he’s cuffed at the hands and legs far too tightly again.

He’s dragged out into the hallway, beyond the steel-plate doors that normally lead to the long-term cell tiers, and on to a secure office environment where he’s dropped into a squeaky chair in an out-of-date faux-wood conference room. At its center is a flimsy folding card table, and thankfully the chair he was secured down to had some cushioning.

As he sits and waits in the Arceus-blessed air-conditioned room, at that semi-comfortable desk chair, his head bobs up and down with exhaustion.

The meagre bits of slumber he gets are blown away by a soft knock of the door, then a loud knock, then a doorknob turning with a professionally impatient grumble.

Rogue strands of hair flail about the inmate’s head as he turns to see an unfamiliar blonde human ambling through with a striped suit and teeth like a mouthful of Torchiclet© mints. The smiling suit’s Pokemon, a dapper little Abra with a black bow-tie and a briefcase, floats in behind him as they take their place at the opposite end of the table.

“Mornin’, Emilio!” the stranger says with an enthusiasm so polymer it tastes like a chewed straw.

Emilio’s one good eye glares back at the man and the other manages to pry open a little as the swelling gives way to bruises and fluids weeping from his tear duct. As Abra reaches up to dab his eye with a tissue, he turns to the ‘mon with a completely different state of disposition. “Thanks…”

The guy stops waiting for his client to recognize his existence and prepares to put his student loans to good use. “I’m Zachary Ortiz, I’ve been appointed to represent you at trial, courtesy of Mauville City.”

Emilio nods, “Any chance you can press charges for me too?”

Zachary chuckles with a shake of the head and then stops himself with a surreal gasp. “My apologies, I didn’t mean anything by that. Someone told me a joke earlier and… Aaanyway, it might not seem like it now, but it’s a real blessing that they roughed you up like this. We’re gonna get lots of pictures and the mental imprint from my partner here will tell your side of the story. Juries never like experiencing black gloves hitting their face, even in a painless vision.”

He cracks his knuckles and pops the locks on his bag to get his trusty dusty stationary. “Expecting I can cut some serious deals with this…” he unbuckles an old LudicoloroidⓇ camera from a leather case, then snaps a few pictures of Emil’s face. “Open your mouth please… good good, thanks. Ahem, anyway, nothing I can do about the jail stay until then, of course, since your escapades got you marked as a flight risk…”

“So… my home… my career…” Emil croaked back, suddenly aware of his dehydrated throat. “My--”

Zachary smiles coolly and waves his hand in interruption. “Don’t worry about all that. We’ve got much bigger frillish to fry. Hold up your palms…” he steals another picture with a wincing tsk-tsk-tsk.

“You wouldn’t wanna finance bail on these charges anyway. Crooner law has the privilege of managing your property here forward, rest assured.” He slaps Emil on the back with a cheery thumbs-up, grinning ear-to-ear. “Might even get you outta here by Summerfest, if we play our cards right.”

Emil’s eyes open in surprise. “That soon?” he gasps aloud.

“Definitely a possibility, my friend, but you gotta be one-hun-dred-per-cent honest and tell me everything. No holding back… and most importantly,” he lists as he slaps his Abra on the shoulder too, “don’t fight him when the time comes.”

“I… do we need to do the imprint right now?” Emil asks with a despondent stare into Abra’s quinty little eyes as he can already feel himself being tugged out of this comfy chair by the wrists and thrown back into holding after finding a little bit of relief.

“Not at all. Actually, I find that letting my clients tell it the way they remember it helps loosen ‘em up for Ol’ Shortie.”

Zachary Ortiz, Attorney at Law, scoots another bottle of water towards Emilio Mallison and then leans close to his face with gangly fingers woven together into a fleshy little basket.

“Let’s start from the beginning...”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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The Plumeria
Last in pool
I have made the eyes of those passing by bleed with the awful quality of my early work. So I'm going to be re-releasing my chapters, polished to my current standard of care, for new and old readers to enjoy. I will also be updating the chapter tags so they reflect the whole fic.

Thank you so much to those who suffered as I shook the rust away these last few years.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emil is a quiet man with a well kept secret; he has little to look forward to but even less to complain about as he works his life away and puts up with his obnoxious wealthy neighbor.

That is until a once-in-a-lifetime sequence of events threatens to upend everything he has, should he go for the catch.
Keywords
male 1,235,479, female 1,122,162, pokemon 199,853, sex 137,982, human 111,356, blood 22,093, gore 11,491, sylveon 6,403, vaporeon 5,319, violence 4,564, pokephilia 3,741, adult content 1,227, various species 623, mature content 347, literature 228, difficult themes 1, read at your own risk 1
Details
Type: Writing - Document
Published: 1 week ago
Rating: Mature
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