(Hopefully I can drop the full story in the description)

He should be happy, shouldn't he?

The bastard was reduced to dead meat in his digestive tract... having been pinned beneath the Marshtomp's body about an hour prior, the Sneasel mocked and berated for finally slipping up and allowing the Water-type to capture him, the begging and protesting of his prey having been absolute music to his ears as he decided to deal with them once and for all, by cramming the squirming Dark-type down his damp gullet, a few pushes and several swallows sealing the Outlaw's fate.

No more pesky villain loudly mocking him from the rooftops as he stole away his goods, no more being challenged to chase them across treacherous terrain only to inevitably fall short of capturing them, no more archnemesis... he should be happy.

Yet here he stood not feeling like he'd won... he just felt something missing.
No happiness, no joy, no anger, not even sadness... just the same fullness he always had after having a meal.
He thought he'd be riding the high of finally putting his sworn enemy into a churning coffin, happily swaying his stomach about and feeling their liqueifying remnants pumping through him... but once the adrenaline faded after the chase, disappointment slowly replaced it.

He found himself prodding at his stomach, which had long since flat-lined, as if still expecting some cutting remark from his foe-turned-food; A witty one-liner, a scathing taunt, or even the flash of a Reviver Seed stowed away nearby so the chase could begin once more. Just any indication that his prey had a plan to get out of this.

"Gwwrrggll..." was the only noise mustered in reply as his nemesis, his rival, the cheeky bastard who kept swiping his goods and mocking him as they fled, filling the Marshtomp with hate and hunger... was gone, reduced to a simple, unthinking slush pumping through his innards as he just stood blinking dumbly, his mind unable to properly process this... while his body knew exactly what it was doing, continuing it's millenia-perfected role of turning a former Pokemon into fuel for it's predator's body, whether or not said predator was in a good mood.

It was only now that his mind began to understand what was happening, and why this emptiness was clinging to him.

He'd been pretty much single-mindedly obsessing over his enemy. Days spent following their trail... nights spent trying to predict their next move... laying awake in the darker hours daydreaming of hard-hitting retorts to the thief's own words... and sleep spent dreaming of what he'd do when he finally got his hands on that annoying prick.

...and now, it was hitting him that the reality of the situation was far less glamorous than the fantasies he'd conjured up.
An expectation of glory and excitement and the pleasure and pride of devouring his pursued opponent... giving way to the truth of a simple full stomach and slight belly-ache from those bones being pushed into his bowels, as it just felt like any other live meal.
"BROOAAAP" A loud belch rumbling out of the predator's gullet to help ease the building pressure in his belly and forcing the Sneasel's skull out from his gullet, purged of flesh to land in the grass near the Marshtomp, which he'd approach to pick up while pursing his lips to blow some of that rancid gut-flavored air out of his mouth... not as big of a fan of the Sneasel's flavor the second time.

It felt good to finally put his opponent to rest, but nowhere near as good as it should. Yes, he was full with a satisfied hunger, and he'd no longer have his valuables swiped by a Sneasel... yet as he held his former foe's cleaned head, he pondered now what exactly he'd even do now?
Digest his quarry was the obvious answer, and one that was already well under way... his belly that'd once been filled with squirming life now just full of a motionless soup and bone steadily pumping into his innards... but after this, what was next?
It wasn't as if he had some other secondary rivals to go track down now...

...he'd just been a dock worker at one of the coastal towns, hauling cargo, making sure the docks are swept and ready, and mooring the rare ship before returning to his simple home to eat dinner, do chores, and snooze the night away.
It'd been the simple routine of any hobby-less worker, and he'd never afforded himself the luxury of having something to do after work to occupy his time between shifts... it was always just him preparing for the next job... and most of his friends were also his coworkers and didn't invite him to anything so they must've not had anything special going on either.
His closest thing to an 'enemy' at home was a Floatzel coworker he was at odds with, yet the Floatzel was just an asshole, not a villain. He built tension and annoyance... but both the Marshtomp and the Floatzel mutually knew to just keep it to mocking one another's work ethics, rather than actually come to blows and get personal... they were adults after all! Petty, bickering adults, but still adults.

Maybe that was why he'd so suddenly taken to hunting the Sneasel down, after the devious Dark-type was caught rooting through the Marshtomp's house. It was a disruption to his routine... it was something new and engaging to finally break him from the rut he was in and to actually branch out for a change.
Most Pokemon would shrug their shoulders after not catching the thief the first time, thinking "It wasn't even that much money" and "I can just report it to the authorities, they'll handle it!", but the Marshtomp had been stubborn.

He took the disruption of routine personally, and hunted that Sneasel across 11 villages, 3 towns, 1 city, and 2 continents, day and night just a few steps behind the Dark-type.
...and for what? A stomach full of food? A few taunts to his victim? Whatever small treasure trove the bastard had nearby, which was just a fraction of the fucker's squirreled-away wealth anyways!?
Why had he even done this! He should've just stayed home, and resumed his normal life... it wasn't like the Sneasel would come back after the local Guild was informed of their presence!

...yet now, the Marshtomp didn't even know how to return home. He had the funds to get back, sure... and he knew how to read a map to figure out which paths to take and ferries to pay to make it to his home town... but would there even be a job waiting for him?
He'd been at this for... fuck... two months? Just suddenly up and disappearing in the evening two months ago to hunt down some bandit scum... and he wasn't even certain if it'd been worth it in the end. It was unlikely his acquaintainces, or even his boss, would take kindly to him just waltzing back into their lives because he 'wanted to teach a thief a lesson'.

What was he going to do now, after leaving his life behind to end the Sneasel's?

The Water-type pondered this for a while... idly pacing around the meadow he'd finally ended his nemesis in, ex-enemy softly bouncing to and fro on his midsection with each step.
He felt kind of tired and fatigued... yet he hadn't even noticed because he was so focused on hunting the Dark-type in front of him, that the weariness was now only settling in once the job was done and his brain had time to relax.

His feet hurt from all the uneven terrain he'd been dashing over, his leg muscles felt like they were burning up from all the running day in and day out, his heart was beating faster than usual, and his arms were bruised and cut from the occasional claw-slash or geo pebble administered by his target while they tried to escape, along with having to scrabble up the occasional rock face to reach his target.

...and finally, the Marshtomp, after some meditation to the soothing noises of nature, and his own antagonist steadily transforming into ass fat, came to a conclusion: He didn't even want to go home.
He didn't hate his home... the work and people were fine... but something about going place-to-place all across the world with one specific goal, who's requirements to meet were constantly changing, excited the Marshtomp.

He didn't want to do the same dock work again and again... he'd already lifted every size and shape of cargo he could imagine, swept over the dock hundreds upon hundreds of times, seen the same various Lapras from overseas just about as much, and even helped tie a few ships up to port.
...but this... this 'hunting' was new, and exciting. He went through all kinds of trials, fights with the Sneasel along with whatever wild Pokemon the Dark-type managed to bait the Marshtomp into, climbs, swims, and crawls through a variety of new environments, and overall... he kinda had fun.

He'd eaten foods he'd never tried before (most of which gave him food poisoning), met new Pokemon he'd never seen in his life (though he was often too focused to converse), and been to places he'd have never seen while peering out to the horizon from the docks he worked at.
Yes, if his old life didn't seem appealing, he'd start anew from the ground up... maybe his skills in tracking that Sneasel could be put to use in another venture! Surely, chasing an Outlaw for THAT long was worth something in somebody's eyes, and not just a personal achievement for the Marshtomp! Perhaps he could hunt more! Some kinda... Outlaw Hunter or something!

He wasn't aware 'Bounty Hunter' was an occupation due to his relatively sheltered home town, but he'd definitely be in for a treat once he did the research!

Now, he felt excited... as well as incredibly tired. All this thinking after a long hard day of single-mindedly hunting a bandit was really putting a number on the Marshtomp's stamina, as he'd walk over to the Dark-type's camp, flopping over onto the Sneasel's now-empty bedroll, which now had a new (too large) owner to sleep on it.

The Water-type would look to the afternoon sky with a new perspective on life... before his gaze traveled down to his own slightly rounded-out midsection.
The Sneasel had gone to all sorts of places on the Water-type's body, mostly the very gut that'd claimed their life, though the Marshtomp's thighs had already been given a bit of extra cushioning, and although he couldn't see it from his sleeping angle... he could FEEL that his ass had gotten a little bit larger, squishing more provocatively against the bedding beneath his backside, the cloth forced to contour more closely to him.

After that moment spent admiring himself, the Marshtomp's eyes lingered on his own stomach a bit more, along with the skull he'd been holding onto for some reason, knowing that even just a small vestige of his vanquished villain probably still existed.
It was unlikely they were still sentient at this point, nor that if their spirit was still around... but he felt he had to say something.
"Thanks for... the chase... I guess... and the uhh, inspiration for what I'll do next?" He'd awkwardly murmur out, feeling a bit uncomfortable talking to 'nobody', even if there had been somebody inside of him around an hour ago... his belly only giving a modest 'grll' in reply... which just felt like the digestive equivalent of 'OK'.

A little frustrated by his own lack of linguistic skill, the Marshtomp gave his belly a slap, setting his pudge wobbling, while dropping the skull down into his own backpack.
"Fucking whatever, you're dead anyways, enjoy being ass fat, I'm gonna put more pricks like you on this body of mine soon enough!" He'd snapped more passionately, which while a lot more honest than the attempt at a somber goodbye... was nowhere near as kind. Not like the Sneasel deserved kindess, at least in the Marshtomp's mind.

The Water-type gave off one last huff, satisfied enough with the way this day went... before rolling onto his side to nuzzle into the bedroll a little more, dusting aside some Sneasel fur still clung to the fabric, as he'd fall asleep... not taking long at all to lapse into unconsciousness, which would assure that every last trace of his foe would be gone come morning.

Please login to post a comment.