I Need You
For @xxfmamfxx, who reached out to me with this prompt:
The pokemon men masturbating and saying they need you in the moment only to catch themselves and realize damn they really DO need you
Characters: Corbeau, Philippe, Grisham, Ivor, Urbain, Adaman, Kabu, Leon, Raihan, Guzma, Nanu, Larry, Tarragon
CW: men, nsfw, smut, masturbation, age-gap
Taglist:
@vanillianbean @houndenny @wegotfoodathome @hakuaclovers @reizamoon @averysmolkirbo @bigguscheesius @probably-definitely-a-bard @anothernarutofanaccount @anotherpokemonfanaccount @a-snoozyangel @kociokwiksstuff @kuonhotachii @van1shiro @aki-i-guess @misabelle717 @flagmuncher @blossom-adventures @themoonwalkingbeatle @grisham-enjoyer @xxfmamfxx @dianyx @bigpinkstink @potatoesquad @simptiersuren @butchered-cherry @happinessismagicc @hoenndreamer @juuyeah @godserene @clawshots @greatpretending
Corbeau
Corbeau sat alone in his office, the night spilling in through the tall windows of Lumiose like a slow poison. He had sent Philippe home hours ago. The Rust Syndicate’s headquarters was silent, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside.
He told himself he was working. But work had dissolved into restless pacing, and pacing into sitting, and sitting into the slow, dangerous slide of his hand beneath his immaculate suit jacket.
He wasn’t a man prone to indulging in weakness. Not desire, not yearning, not need. Yet the moment he leaned back in his leather chair, loosened his tie, and finally allowed his fingers to trace the ache throbbing at the front of his slacks—he exhaled your name. Quietly. As though someone could hear.
You were out of town. Busy, gone, unreachable except through the little device on his desk.
He had told you he didn’t mind. That you should go. And he meant it. But the distance carved into him like a blade.
He pushed his slacks down his hips with one controlled, shivering breath, baring the flushed length of himself to the cool office air. His cock twitched desperately in his hand, already leaking, already betraying him. He wrapped his fingers around the rigid heat slow and deliberate. Because Corbeau didn’t do anything hastily, not even this.
His head tipped back, purple hair spilled like a wave across the chair’s high back. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, those sharp yellow eyes half-lidded, molten. The kind of look he never let anyone else see.
“Damn…” he muttered under his breath, voice low, quiet, dangerous. “Why is it always you who does this to me?”
His hand stroked again, firmer this time, and a hiss slipped between his teeth.
“I should…I should be above this.” His voice trembled, frustration bleeding into the edges. “I am a boss. A leader. I don’t have time for—mnh—this kind of…”
But the thought evaporated because he was already fucking into his own fist, hips lifting off the chair in slow, needy thrusts, eyes squeezing shut.
He pictured your hands. Your breath. Your mouth saying his name—soft, teasing, too far away.
He groaned before he could stop himself. A raw sound, and unpracticed.
His strokes quickened, the heel of his palm dragging over the sensitive underside, his thumb smearing pre-cum over the flushed head until he was shaking with it. Breath sharp, uneven, desperate.
“Ah—nn…Arceus—”
He caught himself. The realization hit him like a punch: He needed you. Not wanted. Needed. So badly it unraveled him.
He froze for half a moment, chest heaving, and then he grabbed his phone off the desk with his free hand, fingers trembling as he hit your contact.
The line rang once. Twice.
You answered, warm and unsuspecting. “Corbeau?”
He groaned your name so softly it almost seemed accidental. His hand didn’t stop moving. If anything, the sound of your voice made him stroke harder.
“I am…losing my composure, Angel,” he breathed, breathless in a way he never let anyone hear.
You exhaled, instantly understanding.
“Tell me, then,” you murmured.
Corbeau let his head fall back again, his voice dropping to that silk-soft, dangerous register except now it trembled with lust.
“I’m thinking about you,” he confessed, each word pulled from him like a secret he’d vowed never to speak. “Missing your hands on me. Your kisses. Missing the way you—ah—look up at me when you’re on your knees…”
Your quiet encouragement poured through the speaker, warm, intimate, devastating.
He stroked faster. Harder. The office chair creaked under the rhythm of his thrusts.
“I need you, Angel,” he breathed, the words shaking out of him. “I didn’t realize how badly until—until now—damn—keep talking, please—”
Your voice guided him straight to the edge, low and sinful and tender all at once. His breath stuttered, body tensing.
He grunted your name.
“—I—I’m—ngh—”
His release hit him in a hard, violent wave, spilling over his hand, his stomach, his tightened stomach muscles jumping under the force of it. His moan was harsh, bitten off at the end as though he could discipline the sound, but he couldn’t. Not with how good it felt to hear you in his ear, not with how long he’d been waiting.
He slumped back in the chair, chest rising and falling, sweat beading at his temples, your name still lingering on his lips.
There was silence for a beat. Soft. Intimate.
“…I miss you,” he murmured, quieter than you had ever heard him. The menacing, commanding boss of the Rust Syndicate sounded almost boyish for a moment.
“Come home soon,” he continued. “Please.”
Your voice softened, warm enough to make his eyes close. “I will,” you promised. “I’m coming home soon.”
Corbeau exhaled, long and slow, tension melting from his shoulders.
“Good,” he whispered. “I…look forward to it.”
And for once, he didn’t hide the smile that tugged, faint and rare, at the corner of his mouth.
Philippe
Philippe lay on his back in the broad bed that dominated his bedroom, staring up at the dark ceiling as Lumiose’s distant city lights bled faintly through the curtains. The room felt far too large without you in it. The sheets were cold where your body should have been, the quiet pressing in on him with a weight he didn’t know how to shake.
He had never been a man who struggled with silence. Years running with ruffians had taught him to live comfortably with solitude, with the heavy stillness of late nights and empty rooms. Even after he lost the Rust Syndicate to Corbeau, he remained steady, disciplined, rarely swayed by emotion.
But tonight his body refused to settle.
His broad hand drifted absently over the mattress where you usually slept, fingers pressing into the sheets as if the fabric might still hold your warmth. It didn’t. The emptiness only reminded him how long you’d been gone on your journey.
A quiet exhale left him.
“…Hmph.”
He shifted onto his side, one arm folding beneath his head. The other slid down his chest unconsciously, fingers grazing the buttons of his shirt before slipping lower across his stomach.
Philippe didn’t think about it. Not at first.
His thumb hooked beneath the waistband of his sleep pants, adjusting them slightly. A practical motion. A small comfort against the restless tension lingering in his body.
But his hand didn’t move away. Instead, it lingered there. Heavy palm resting over the growing warmth beneath the fabric.
His brows slowly knit together. He rubbed once, absently. The way someone might soothe a muscle without thinking.
The response from his body was immediate.
A quiet breath escaped him as the pressure sent a slow pulse of pleasure up his spine. His fingers tightened slightly through the fabric, testing the feeling.
“…Tch.”
Philippe shifted again, now aware of the firmness pressing against his hand. His silver eyes narrowed at the ceiling as though trying to reason with himself.
He hadn’t meant to start this, but the moment his hand slid inside the waistband and wrapped around his cock, thick and already half-hard from the slow building ache of missing you, his breath deepened.
His hand was large, warm, and firm. He stroked once, experimentally. The sensation rolled through him like a low hum of steel under tension. Another slow stroke followed, longer this time, his grip tightening around the growing heat of his length.
His chest rose and fell heavier against the mattress.
“…So that’s how it is.”
The realization settled in quietly. Not shameful. Not rushed. Just a simple acknowledgement of the truth.
He missed you.
His strokes became steady, unhurried, his thick forearm flexing as he moved his hand along the thick length of himself. Each movement deliberate, almost methodical, the same controlled patience he used in battle.
Yet the sounds escaping him betrayed the calm exterior. A slow breath. A deeper exhale. Your name murmured under his breath without him realizing it.
Philippe’s eyes flicked open. His hand paused halfway down his cock, thumb resting against the slick bead forming at the tip.
“…Ah.”
He stared at the ceiling for a moment longer. Then a low rumble of amusement escaped his chest.
“So that’s what’s been bothering me.”
His grip tightened again, resuming the slow rhythm, his hips lifting slightly into his palm now that he’d fully accepted what he was doing.
It wasn’t just desire. It was you. The absence of your body beside him. The way you’d curl against his chest when you slept. The way your hands would wander across his shoulders and arms like you were exploring the solid breadth of him.
He exhaled heavily.
“I suppose…this is what happens when you leave a man alone too long.”
The phone sat on the nightstand beside him. Philippe glanced at it.
His hand continued moving, slower now but heavier, the wet sounds of his strokes filling the quiet bedroom.
For a long moment he considered leaving things as they were, handling it himself. But another image of you surfaced in his mind—your voice, soft and teasing, the way you’d whisper his name when he had you beneath him.
His restraint cracked, and for a moment he considered calling you. Just to hear your voice. Just to tell you he missed you.
His hand slid down the thick length of himself again, spreading the slick wetness gathering at the head.
Philippe exhaled slowly. “…No.”
You were out on your journey. Busy. Focused. The last thing he wanted was to interrupt you just because he was feeling restless in the middle of the night. He could handle this.
He imagined the way your hand would wrap around him instead of his own. Smaller fingers struggling to encircle the full width of him. The way you’d look up at him with that soft expression that always made something deep in his chest tighten.
His strokes grew stronger. And his hips began pushing slowly into his hand. A quiet sound escaped him.
The thought of you beneath him, your body pressed into the mattress, your hands gripping his shoulders as he leaned over you, made his breathing deepen.
His strokes quickened, and the steady rhythm turned rougher now, wet sounds filling the room as pre-cum slicked his palm.
He imagined your voice. The way you’d whisper his name.
His hips lifted harder from the mattress.
“Damn…”
The tension built rapidly now, heat coiling tight in his abdomen. His grip tightened instinctively, stroking faster as his body leaned fully into the fantasy of you beneath him.
Your hands on his chest. Your legs wrapped around his waist. The breathy way you’d say his name when he moved inside you.
Philippe groaned deeply. A rough, helpless sound he rarely let anyone hear.
“Ah…if you were here, doll…”
His hand moved faster, powerful forearm working harder now as his hips thrust into his grip.
The pressure crested suddenly, and his breath caught.
“—fuck—!”
His body tensed as release hit him hard.
His cock jerked in his hand as he came in heavy pulses, spilling across his fingers and stomach while his hips stuttered against the mattress. A low groan rumbled from deep in his chest as he rode out the wave, his grip loosening only when the last pulse faded.
For a moment he simply lay there breathing, slow and heavy. His chest rising and falling as the tension drained from his body.
Eventually he wiped his hand with a nearby cloth from the nightstand and settled back into the bed.
The room was quiet again.
Philippe turned slightly toward your side of the mattress, his large hand resting on the empty space where you normally slept.
“…Come home soon,” he murmured quietly into the dim room.
He closed his eyes, finally relaxed against the pillow.
“The bed is far too big without you.”
Grisham
Grisham returned to the apartment long after the streets of Lumiose had dimmed into their quiet evening glow. The soft clink of his keys echoed faintly as he locked the door behind him, shoulders relaxing just slightly once the world outside was shut away.
Work at Café Nouveau had stretched later than expected. Meetings, discussions, careful planning for Team Flare Nouveau’s next steps. The sort of precise, measured responsibilities he carried with quiet confidence.
But the moment he stepped into the bedroom, that composure wavered.
The bed was empty.
He stood there for a moment, glasses catching the soft lamplight as his gaze rested on the sheets. Your side of the bed remained slightly rumpled from the last morning you’d left. You had been gone on your journey for days now.
Grisham exhaled slowly as he loosened the collar of his shirt and removed his bow tie. The small piece of fabric landed neatly on the dresser as he approached the bed. He released his hair from its ponytail, the long strands of red-orange and white falling around his shoulders. He removed his glasses and set them on the nightstand, and sat carefully on the edge of the mattress.
The faint scent of you lingered in the sheets, and something warm settled low in his chest.
He leaned forward slightly, fingers brushing over the fabric where your pillow rested. His hand paused there as he leaned down, almost absentmindedly, pressing his face briefly into the pillow.
Your scent was unmistakable. Soft. Familiar. Comforting. His shoulders eased as he inhaled again, slower this time.
“…I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
You always lingered in his thoughts when you were away. Even during work his mind occasionally drifted to the memory of your smile, your voice, the quiet warmth of you leaning against him.
Still…the scent of you here was different. Stronger. Closer.
He shifted onto the bed, laying partially across the mattress where you normally slept, face turned into the pillow again. He inhaled again, and his body relaxed further into the sheets. And, without quite realizing it, his hips shifted. Just slightly. The pressure against the mattress sent a faint spark through him.
Grisham paused, and then shifted again. A small, slow movement of his hips pressing down into the bed. The warmth spread lower in his body.
His brows knit faintly as he inhaled the scent of you again, and his hips moved once more. Slow. Dragging against the mattress.
“…Mm.” The sound escaped him before he could catch it.
He shifted again, the subtle pressure building slowly as his body began responding to the friction. One leg bent slightly as his hips rolled into the bed again, the movement still absent-minded, more instinct than intention.
Your scent filled his senses, and the memory of you beneath him surfaced without warning. Your fingers gripping his shirt. Your voice soft against his ear.
His hips pressed harder against the mattress.
The movement grew heavier now, a slow grinding motion that pushed heat steadily through his body.
A quiet breath escaped him. Then another.
“…Ah…”
The sound startled him, and Grisham’s eyes opened. For a moment he simply froze there, chest rising and falling slowly as the realization crept in.
He had been grinding against the bed. Against the sheets that still smelled like you.
His face flushed faintly.
“…This is…”
He stopped moving entirely, clearly aware of the firmness pressing against the fabric of his slacks now.
His composure attempted to return, and he rolled onto his back. But the pressure remained. His cock strained heavily beneath the fabric now, fully hard from the slow, unconscious build of friction.
Grisham stared at the ceiling for a moment. “…How unexpected,” he sighed. The words were calm, measured. But the heat in his body was not.
His hand lifted slowly, resting on his stomach. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, it slid lower. His fingers pressed against the obvious bulge in his slacks, and a sharp breath left him. The contact alone sent a jolt through him that made his hips twitch against the bed.
His hand moved more deliberately now, unfastening his slacks and pushing the fabric down just enough to free the rigid length of himself. His cock sprang against his stomach, flushed and already slick at the tip.
He wrapped his hand around it, and stroked. The first motion was firm. Almost rough. And a low breath left him as his head tipped back into the pillow.
The sudden intensity surprised him.
His grip tightened and his strokes became harder, faster, his body reacting sharply to the sensation after the slow build that had started moments earlier.
His hips lifted slightly into his hand.
“Ah—!”
The sound slipped out before he could restrain it.
His hand worked faster now, slick pre-cum spreading along the length of his cock as he stroked with growing urgency. The quiet, composed man who normally moved with such calm precision now gripped himself with an intensity that bordered on reckless.
His breathing grew uneven. His hips began thrusting upward into his hand. The tension built rapidly. Too rapidly.
The pressure coiled tight in his abdomen, his body racing toward release before he had fully processed what was happening.
His eyes flew open as his hand froze mid-stroke.
“…No.” The word left him sharply.
His chest heaved once as he forced himself to stop. The sudden halt left him trembling slightly, his cock twitching angrily in his grip.
He swallowed and tried to control his breath.
Grisham exhaled and let his hand fall briefly to the mattress beside him, giving himself a moment to regain composure, the realization of what he had been doing settled over him fully now.
His cheeks flushed faintly again. “…You really do have quite the effect on me,” he chuckled.
After a few moments, his hand returned to his cock. But this time his touch was different. His fingers wrapped around the base of his length as he began stroking again, careful and deliberate now, rebuilding the tension that had nearly spilled over moments before.
His eyes closed and your face filled his thoughts easily.
He imagined you beneath him again, the way your hands would slide across his chest and shoulders. The way your body would arch toward him when he moved inside you.
His strokes remained slow and controlled, his thumb dragged lightly across the sensitive head each time his hand reached the top.
“…That’s better,” he murmured softly. His breathing steadied, and then the tension began building again, slower this time. His hips started moving with the rhythm of his hand.
He imagined the warmth of you around him. The quiet sounds you made when he moved deeper. Your scent still lingered faintly in the sheets beneath him.
His strokes gradually grew firmer. Then, faster. His composure began slipping again as the heat in his body rose higher. Your name slipped from his lips, and his hips thrust harder now, the slick sounds of his hand working along his cock filling the quiet room.
The restraint he normally carried began to unravel under the weight of the fantasy.
Your body beneath him. Your voice. Your hands gripping his shoulders.
His grip tightened sharply and his strokes became rough again, his hips lifting harder off the mattress as the pressure built rapidly once more.
A sharp breath tore from him as his body tensed, and the coil snapped.
Grisham came hard.
His cock jerked in his hand as thick spurts spilled across his stomach and fingers, his hips stuttering against the mattress as a strained groan escaped his throat. The release came in heavy pulses, stronger than he had expected after holding himself back earlier.
He leaned back into the pillows, breathing uneven for several seconds as the tension finally drained from his body.
Eventually he pushed himself upright.
“…That was…unexpectedly intense,” he breathed.
After a moment he stood and made his way to the bathroom, cleaning himself carefully at the sink.
The cool water helped steady him. But as he dried his hands, a small, thoughtful smile formed.
His mind drifted to you again. To when you would return from your journey.
“…Perhaps,” he murmured quietly, adjusting his glasses again, “I should prepare something special.”
The idea lingered in his thoughts as he returned to the bedroom, already considering exactly how he might surprise you when you came home.
Ivor
Ivor kicked the door to his apartment shut with the heel of his foot, dropping his training bag beside the wall with a heavy thud. The long day had left his muscles humming with that satisfying, deep exhaustion only a good fight and a few hours of drills could give.
“Haah…man,” he laughed to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good session.”
His body thrummed with the pleasant exhaustion of hard work. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking the sleeveless training top that stretched across his broad chest.
Which meant one thing.
A shower.
A few minutes later steam filled the bathroom as hot water poured down over his broad frame. Ivor let out a long, contented sigh as the heat soaked into his muscles.
“Ahhhh…yeah. That’s it.”
The water ran down his chest and stomach, tracing the deep lines of muscle built from years of fighting and training. His long golden-blond hair darkened under the spray, clinging damply to his shoulders and back.
He grabbed the soap and started scrubbing himself down, humming to himself as he worked.
Training replayed in his head automatically: A student finally landing a clean hit on him. A particularly good throw he’d demonstrated. The rush of movement, the rhythm of combat.
His grin spread as he washed his arms.
“Kid’s gonna be scary in a year.”
The soap slid across his chest, over his abs, down his stomach. His hands moved automatically, thorough and confident as he cleaned himself after a long day of sweat and effort.
Then his thoughts shifted to you.
You’d been gone for a bit now, traveling on your journey. And while Ivor kept himself busy there were moments when his brain finally slowed down enough to acknowledge that his life did feel a little empty without you.
His grin softened.
“Wonder how you’re doing out there…”
He grabbed more soap, lathering it across his torso again. His hands moved lower as he washed himself thoroughly, sliding across his hips and down along the powerful muscles of his thighs.
The warmth of the water relaxed him further, and your face drifted back into his mind: you, sitting on the edge of his bed one night, looking up at him with that mischievous little smile before pulling him down by the sash.
His hands moved across his hips, down his thighs, then around himself as he washed—
“…Oh.”
Ivor blinked down at himself under the stream of water where he was already getting hard.
“Well,” he chuckled, amused more than anything, “guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
You had that effect on him. Thinking about you for too long tended to make his brain go in certain directions.
His hand stayed where it was, just resting there for a second. Then he gave a slow stroke. Water ran down his arm as his hand slid along the thick length of himself.
“Man,” he muttered with an amused grin, “you’re not even here and you’re still have this effect on me.”
Another stroke and his breathing deepened slightly as the sensation spread through him.
Ivor wasn’t embarrassed about it. He was alone, relaxed, and the warm water plus a long training day had his whole body buzzing.
The rhythm felt good. Strong strokes sliding along his cock as steam curled around him in the bathroom. His head tipped back slightly, letting the water run across his face.
Your image filled his mind easily. The way you’d laugh when he flexed jokingly after practice. The way your hands would wander over his shoulders and chest.
His strokes sped up and his hips pushed forward slightly into his grip.
“Yeah…that’s—hah—”
The tension built quickly. His body was already wired from exercise, and the pressure climbed fast as he stroked himself harder.
Your voice echoed in his memory. Your legs wrapping around his waist.
“Ah—!” The first orgasm hit him suddenly.
His cock pulsed in his grip as he came with a deep groan, thick spurts spilling across his hand while the shower water washed everything down the drain almost immediately.
He leaned one hand against the tile wall, catching his breath.
But he wasn’t done.
His strokes slowed as the lingering sensitivity set in, each motion drawing a sharp breath from his chest. His hand moved carefully along the slick length of himself, easing back into the rhythm instead of rushing it.
He groaned at the feeling.
The slower pace only made the sensations stronger. The warmth of the shower, the steady grip of his hand, the memory of you still circling through his mind.
He pictured your hands instead of his. The way you’d look up at him with that teasing smile, and his hips began moving again, pushing forward gently into his grip.
The sensitivity gradually melted into pleasure again as his rhythm steadied. His strokes grew firmer, more confident as the heat in his body began building all over again.
Your name slipped quietly from his lips and his breathing deepened as the pace picked up. And before long, the pressure in his stomach was tightening once more.
The second orgasm hit him harder than he expected.
His cock pulsed in his hand again as he groaned deeply, thick spurts spilling over his fingers while his hips jerked forward helplessly into his grip. His entire body tightened for a moment as the release rolled through him, the hot water washing everything away almost immediately.
Ivor leaned forward slightly against the tile, breathing harder now. Then, a breathless laugh slipped out of him as the aftershocks faded, his grip finally loosening slightly as he caught his breath under the steady spray.
“Bet you’d be laughing if you saw this,” he muttered. You’d always teased him about his stamina. But you always tried your best to keep up with him.
Ivor stayed braced against the tile for a moment, breathing steadily as the second wave faded through his body. The hot water continued to pour down over his shoulders, steam curling around the broad lines of his frame.
“…Okay,” he muttered between breaths.
He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing the strands back from his face as he steadied himself. That one had hit harder than the first—his muscles still humming faintly with the aftershocks.
“Man…” He glanced down, and blinked.
He was still hard, and for a second he just stared.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
A baffled laugh escaped him, equal parts amusement and disbelief.
“Seriously?”
He gave himself a small testing squeeze. The response was immediate as his cock jerked slightly in his hand.
Ivor groaned softly and tipped his head back against the tile.
“What the hell…”
A crooked grin tugged at his mouth despite the confusion.
“Two wasn’t enough?”
He shook his head, half-laughing to himself.
“Man, you’re really messing with me tonight.”
Your face drifted back into his thoughts again. That teasing little smile you had whenever he got flustered.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “I know. You’d absolutely be laughing at me right now.”
His hand tightened around himself again.
At first his strokes were cautious. The lingering sensitivity made the first few motions pull sharp breaths from his chest, his hips twitching slightly as pleasure sparked through him again.
“Ah—okay…easy, easy...”
But Ivor had never been the type to quit something halfway. If his body wanted a third round? Fine. He’d give it one.
His hand began moving again, slow and steady under the hot spray. The rhythm gradually returned as the earlier sensitivity melted back into warmth, the familiar build of tension beginning to coil through his body once more.
Your voice filled his thoughts again. The way you’d cling to him. The way you’d whisper his name.
“I don’t even think you lasted three rounds,” he murmured with a breathy laugh.
His strokes grew stronger. Faster. His hips began pushing forward again, thrusting into his hand with renewed determination as the heat climbed steadily through his body.
His breathing deepened as the tension gathered faster than he expected.
“Damn—” His grip tightened instinctively, slick fingers sliding along the length of himself as the pressure spiked.
Your image in his mind tipped him over the edge. Your hands in his hair. Your walls pulsing wildly around him.
“—ahh!”
The third orgasm tore through him.
His body tensed hard as his cock pulsed in his grip again, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as another release spilled over his hand beneath the steady spray of the shower.
The intensity made his shoulders press harder into the tile as the wave rolled through him, his hips jerking slightly with each pulse before the tension finally drained away.
When it was over, he sagged back against the wall, breathing heavily.
For several seconds he just stood there under the hot water, and at last he watched himself begin to soften.
A quiet laugh bubbled out of him. “…Alright.” He shook his head, running a hand through his wet hair again. “Now I’m done.”
He let the water rinse him off properly this time, a satisfied grin lingering on his face. His amber eyes brightened as a new thought hit him.
“You know what?”
His grin spread wide.
“When you get back…we’re totally seeing who taps out first.”
Urbain
Urbain flopped back onto his bed the second the call ended, phone still clutched loosely in his hand.
“Man…” he groaned, staring up at the ceiling.
Talking to you had been great. Seriously great. Hearing your voice after a long day always made his chest feel lighter. But it also made the apartment feel way too quiet once the call ended.
He tossed the phone onto the pillow beside him and dragged both hands down his face.
“You gotta come back already,” he muttered to the empty room.
You’d laughed when he asked on the call, telling him his impatience was showing again. He’d tried to play it cool after that. Told you to take your time, enjoy the journey, battle a bunch of cool trainers, and all that.
But honestly? He missed you like crazy.
Urbain rolled onto his side, grabbing the pillow and hugging it against his chest with a dramatic sigh.
“Ugh…”
Maybe he could nap. A nap would help.
He kicked off his sneakers and stretched out across the bed, one arm draped over his eyes as he tried to settle down. The late afternoon sunlight slanted across the room, warm and lazy, making it the perfect time to crash for a bit.
Except his brain refused to shut up.
Every time he started drifting, your voice replayed in his head. The way you’d said his name. The way you’d laughed when he complained about how long you’d been gone.
He groaned again and rolled onto his back.
“Why do you have to be so far away?”
He grabbed the pillow again, pressing his face into it. It smelled faintly like you.
That didn’t help. If anything it made his chest tighten more.
He shifted restlessly on the mattress, trying to get comfortable, one leg bending slightly as he turned onto his side again.
His mind wandered to the last time you’d been here. You were sitting on this exact be, leaning over him with that teasing smile after he’d lost another battle against you.
The memory made warmth spread through his stomach.
He shifted again, then paused.
“…Oh.”
He was getting hard.
Urbain blinked at the realization, staring down at himself through half-lidded eyes.
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He adjusted himself through his sweatpants at first, intending to ignore it. But the pressure only made the warmth spread more.
Your voice drifted through his thoughts again. He thought of the way you’d said you missed him too.
“…Man…”
His hand slid inside his waistband almost absentmindedly, just to fix things.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
But the moment his fingers wrapped around himself, he let out a quiet breath. He gave a slow experimental stroke, and the feeling hit him immediately.
His hips shifted slightly against the mattress as his hand started moving without much hesitation now, stroking himself with an easy rhythm as he stared up at the ceiling.
He wasn’t overthinking it. Honestly, he rarely did.
Your face stayed front and center in his mind the whole time. The way you’d grin at him after winning a battle. The way you’d tackle him into hugs out of nowhere.
“Man, I miss you, so much…” he murmured softly.
His strokes sped up. The sensation climbed fast—way faster than he expected.
He groaned quietly as his hips began pushing into his hand, the rhythm getting sloppy as the pressure built.
“Mmngh—”
The orgasm hit him before he could even slow down.
“Ah—!”
His body tensed as he came in his hand, hips jerking slightly against the mattress while the release pulsed through him.
For a moment he just lay there breathing, chest rising and falling. He blinked at the ceiling, still catching his breath.
And realization hit him all at once.
“…Oh my god.”
He slowly glanced down, and his face flushed bright red. He dropped his arm over his eyes with a groan.
“Dude.”
A laugh bubbled out of him despite the embarrassment.
“Man…I really need you to come back already.”
Adaman
Adaman lasted four days without you before the gnawing hunger started pestering him every hour he wasn’t buried in work. He’d sworn he’d use the quiet to catch up on clan reports, finish mapping that wild ridge in Coronet Highlands, maybe even sand down the ridiculous driftwood sculpture he kept promising to gift you. Nothing stuck. He paced the length of his cabin again and again, glancing at the doorway as though you might appear despite riding patrols halfway to the Sea’s Legend. Every evening ended the same: sprawled across his futon, frustration humming under his skin with nowhere real to send it.
By the sixth night, rain thrummed on the roof in a steady beat and the air hung thick despite both windows propped wide. He stripped the top of his blue haori off, slung it over a chair, and dropped onto the futon in his sleeveless black jumpsuit. Humidity glued fabric to his lean frame, dampened the tips of his spiky half-ponytail. He didn’t even untie it. Waste of time. He had a sharper need.
He’d been hovering near the map table, staring at the corner where your satchel usually sat, when the memory hit hard—your knees bracketing his hips, the smirk you wore when you dragged nails across his chest. The mental image punched a groan out of him despite the empty room. It catapulted him backward to the futon before he knew he’d moved.
He seized the hem of his pants, yanked them down to his hips. Sweat already peppered his tawny skin as the fine blue diamonds inked near his collarbones caught lamplight. He sprawled out onto the bed, legs spread, one arm thrown over his head, the other hand wrapping around his cock before he even got comfortable. Oil slicked his fingers thanks to the small jar he’d grabbed without looking.
The first strokes were deliberate and slow, his head tipped back, throat long, breathing deep as he listened to rain hammer the roof. Every exhale sounded too loud and his impatience surged fast. His grip tightened until the motion bordered on rough. Wet noises filled the cabin, each drag feeding the ache.
“Where are you,” he muttered, tone ragged, head rolling against the pillow. “You swore you’d be back by the new moon.”
He pictured you straddling his lap, palms on his chest, taunting him for getting riled so easily. His hips lifted off the futon, chasing phantom weight. A low groan slipped loose, unfiltered.
“I need you home,” he said, voice rough. “Need you right now.”
The confession hung in humid air, simple and true. His hand faltered. His eyes opened. Realization flashed, bright and undeniable.
“Okay,” he breathed, laugh soft and amazed. “Guess I really do.”
He’d tossed out jokes before about you wrecking him. Saying it now, knuckles slick, cock throbbing, whole body shaking from restraint, carved it into bone. He needed the way you took him apart, the confidence in your voice when you pushed him onto his back and told him to keep up.
He rolled onto his side long enough to grab the pillow you’d slept on last. He dragged it between his thighs. The case still smelled like your hair oil braided with the sharp green moss you always carried. He groaned low as he ground against it, then wrapped his hand around himself again, no hesitation left.
And then everything sped up. He thrust into his fist with purpose, the pillow providing counterpressure while his hips snapped forward in rough, eager motions. Sweat slicked his temples, melting the blue line of shadow framing his eyes. His diamond earring swung wildly against his jaw as he bit his lower lip, and then released it with a hiss, shadows darkening across his nose as heat flushed his face.
He imagined you kneeling between his legs, mouth sealing around him until his good intentions shattered. He imagined you leaning in the doorway, telling him exactly how to stroke himself. Every pump matched that cadence, relentless and demanding.
“Come back so I can show you,” he rasped, voice cracking with effort.
That admission wrecked him. He pushed onto his knees on the futon, pumping harder, head tipped back until his throat went tight. The bed creaked and the rain hammered louder, wind slinging droplets through the window to speckle his bare shoulders. The bandages on his right arm flexed with each stroke, muscle standing out under taut skin.
A deeper groan tore out of him. “I’m gonna lose it if you don’t get here soon.”
The thought of you opening the door right then obliterated whatever self-control remained. His hips snapped, hand tightening hard at the base. His whole body seized.
Release slammed through him and he came in hot pulses across his abdomen, streaking the pillow, a few drops landing high on his chest. He kept pumping, riding each shudder, groaning through every spasm while the storm outside roared in rhythm. He didn’t stop until the last twitch faded, until aftershocks made him shake, until he collapsed backward, panting like he’d sprinted from the Mirelands to the Coastlands.
The air cooled slowly around him, and the rain softened. Annoyance crept in just as quickly as the satisfaction faded. He stared at the mess drying on his skin and huffed a laugh that sounded more like a curse.
“Damn it,” he muttered to the ceiling. “Should’ve been inside you.”
He wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth, amusement and irritation tangling. Coming on himself felt pitiful. He wanted you under him, full and clenching, voice breaking when he pressed your knees to your chest and pushed deeper. He ran a palm over his stomach, smearing the evidence, and groaned softly.
“Next time you walk through that door, I’m not letting you go,” he said, half a promise, half a threat. “You’re taking every drop. I’ll make sure it sticks.”
The empty room gave no answer. He smirked anyway, rolling his hips once more into the damp pillow before tossing it aside. “Yeah, laugh now. Wait till you’re stuck carrying it, sweetheart.”
He dragged the back of his hand over his eyes, breathing evening out, and stared at the doorway with that same impatient glint he saved for rival leaders. “Come home already. I’ve got plenty more saved up.”
Kabu
He had always treated longing like a thing to be mastered. Desire, impatience, loneliness, frustration—every one of them was meant to be handled the same way he handled a difficult battle or a setback in training. You acknowledged it. You endured it. And you turned it into fuel.
You did not let it rule you.
And for weeks, he had done exactly that.
He rose before dawn and ran until his lungs burned clean. He drilled with his team, adjusted strategy, reviewed challengers, corrected his posture, his breathing, his focus. He answered questions from younger trainers with that same calm gravity that made them stand up straighter without realizing it. In public, he remained exactly as he was known to be: composed, demanding, steady as banked heat under iron.
Tonight, Motostoke was dark beyond his windows, the low industrial glow of the city muffled by late-hour stillness. The gym had long since emptied. His team was settled. The last of his paperwork was done. He had showered, changed into a plain shirt and loose athletic trousers, draped his towel around his neck more from habit than need, and sat alone in his quarters with your latest message open in his hand.
Miss you.
He had stared at the screen for an embarrassingly long time after reading it. Long enough that his chest felt tight. Long enough that some deep, slow-burning part of him had turned greedy.
You would be back in a few days. He should have found that manageable.
Instead, he set the phone face down on the nightstand and exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like he was steadying himself before issuing a Pokémon command.
It didn’t help.
His room was too warm, or perhaps he was, and the air felt thick against his skin. He sat at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders taut beneath the dark fabric of his shirt, and shut his eyes for a moment.
This is foolish, he told himself. You were safe. You were well. You would be back soon. He was not a lovesick youth undone by a little distance.
And yet his body had already betrayed him.
Hard, heavy want throbbed low in his abdomen, insistent and increasingly impossible to ignore. It had been building all evening, sharpened by memory, by restraint, by your little message with its easy confidence, as though you had any idea what that one line did to him.
He planted his elbows on his knees and bowed his head, one large hand dragging over his face. The stubble at his jaw scraped against his palm, while the other flexed uselessly at his thigh.
He knew better than to indulge every urge the moment it rose. That had never been his way. Want was not command. Need was not weakness, but neither was it permission to lose structure.
Still, he sat there breathing harder than he ought to have been, and every thought he attempted to redirect came back to you.
The way you greeted him after returning from your travels, tired and windblown and grinning, only to melt against him the instant he touched you. The heat of your body after weeks apart. The little hitch in your breath whenever he put a firm hand at your waist and drew you closer. The way you looked up at him, playful one second and soft the next, and said his name as though it meant shelter, as though it meant home.
Kabu opened his eyes. He stood up and paced around the room like a caged animal. The movement stirred his blood further, made him more aware of the pressure in his clothes, the friction of fabric, the restless heat coiled in every inch of him. By the time he sat back down, his control had narrowed to a thread.
His hand went to his waistband with visible reluctance, as if he could still stop this from becoming what it already was.
“A poor showing,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and edged with self-reproach. But that did nothing to stop him.
His hand slipped beneath the waistband and closed around his cock, and the first real touch pulled a sharp breath out of him at once. His whole body tightened.
He had not expected to be this hard already. This heated and sensitive from nothing but missing you and thinking of you too much in all the quiet hours he could not fill. The skin of his palm against himself felt almost too good after so much restraint, and when his fingers tightened fully, a heavy pulse of pleasure went through him hard enough to make his spine stiffen.
He had meant for it to be brief. A practical release. A few firm strokes, no indulgence, no lingering, nothing he could not put aside afterward. Instead he found himself slowing almost immediately, because his body refused anything brisk or detached. He was too worked up for that. Too aware of every drag of his hand over the hard length of himself, too affected by the damp heat gathering there, too caught in the vivid memory of how much better your touch felt than his own.
Thoughts of you rose fast and mercilessly. Your legs opening for him. The warmth between your thighs. Your hands gripping his shoulders when he crowded close. The way your mouth brushed his neck while he fought to keep his pace steady, careful, controlled, even as desire pressed against his restraint from the inside like fire behind a closed door.
A rough sound slipped from him before he could hold it back, low in his chest, almost a groan, and his head bowed as though he could hide from the force of it.
He watched his hand move with grim concentration, forearms flexing, broad palm stroking slowly, steadily, the slick slide growing more obvious with each pass. His breathing had already lost its rhythm. His other hand was clenched hard in the bedspread, fingers digging into the fabric while he worked himself with increasing pressure, each stroke drawing another broken exhale from his mouth.
He imagined you straddling his lap, still in your travel clothes, impatient and affectionate and flushed from the journey. Imagined the weight of you settling over him, the way your body always softened and opened under his hands, the little noises you made when he kissed you slow at first, only to lose patience halfway through and start taking what he had missed.
A low groan pressed out of him.
His strokes turned messier after that. Less measured. He could feel control slipping, not all at once but by degrees, each one harder to reclaim than the last. His chest rose and fell under the cling of his shirt. A faint sheen of sweat had already begun at his neck, darkening the collar.
But his mind kept imagining.
The way you leaned against his side while he reviewed battle footage, pretending not to watch him instead of the screen. Your mouth opening on a gasp when he pinned you gently but firmly in place and told you to stay still. The look in your eyes when his restraint finally broke and you realized how much he had been holding back.
His hand moved faster.
Kabu’s eyes squeezed shut and he tipped his head back, throat working, and his breathing lost whatever rhythm it had left. His body was too honest now, betraying every need he had tried to school into silence. The room seemed smaller around him, the air hotter, his own pulse loud enough to drown thought.
His mouth parted on a ragged exhale.
“I need—”
The words came without thought. They startled him even as they formed, and his hand faltered.
For one suspended moment he sat there panting, body strung tight, every muscle in his shoulders and abdomen visibly locked. The sentence hung unfinished in the room, thick with implication.
I need you.
The realization landed hard. Not merely that he wanted you. Of course he wanted you. He always wanted you.
He needed you.
Not in the helpless way he would have scorned in his younger years. Not as a man incapable of standing on his own feet. But your absence had carved out a shape in his life that nothing else could fill, and in moments like this, in the bare privacy where all his discipline could no longer hide him from himself, the truth stood there without mercy.
He needed your voice. Your hands. Your bright, irreverent warmth upsetting the hard edges of his routine. He needed the certainty of your return so badly that he had built his patience around it.
A rough laugh left him then, disbelieving and a little bitter at his own expense.
“Look at you,” he murmured to himself, breathless. “At my age.” The reproach had no real force behind it. Only astonishment.
His grip closed more firmly around himself, deliberate and slow, as though he could somehow master the ache by pacing it. Each stroke dragged a fresh pulse of heat through him, made him harder, more sensitive, left his cock slick in his hand while his breathing turned rougher and less controlled.
He bent over himself with a strained, shuddering exhale, broad shoulders tight, abdomen tense, every movement of his fist pulling another broken sound from deep in his chest. Your name left his mouth once in a low rasp, then again, more ruined, followed by a hoarse murmur about needing you that seemed to shame him and drive him on in the same instant.
His lips parted, jaw loosening as pleasure hit harder and harder, his head dipping while he worked himself with mounting desperation. His strokes lost their measured rhythm, turning wetter, tighter, his hand sliding over his cock in a way that made his whole body twitch. A tremor ran through his thighs, and his shoulders shook.
Every breath came hotter than the last, breaking into harsh fragments, little guttural sounds, a stifled groan, a ragged “ah—hnn—” that he clearly had not meant to let out. He looked overtaken by it, by want, by absence, by the raw frustration of having only his own hand when what he craved was your body, your warmth, your mouth, your cunt taking him in instead of this lonely substitute.
By the time release finally hit, it struck him with enough force to wrench a deep, wrecked groan out of him. He folded forward slightly, fist still pumping through it as he spilled hot over his hand in thick pulses, his whole frame jerking with each one. There was no dignity left in it, no restraint to hide behind, only the helpless intensity of a man coming harder than he meant to because he had gone too long without you and could no longer pretend that was all this was.
He rode it out in ragged breaths and visible shudders, cock twitching in his grasp, hand slowing only when the strongest waves had passed and left him spent, flushed, and shaken by how badly he wished it had been you instead.
He stayed there afterward, bowed over his lap, chest heaving.
The room settled by degrees. The heat remained, but changed shape. Less frantic now. Heavy, spent, intimate. Kabu dragged his other hand over his face again, and sat in the quiet with the aftermath of both release and realization pressing close around him.
You would return in a few days. The thought should have soothed him.
Instead it made his whole body ache anew with anticipation.
He cleaned himself up with efficient motions born of habit, though there was a stiffness to them, a distraction he could not quite smooth over. When he was done, he sat once more at the edge of the bed and reached for his phone.
Your last message still glowed there. His gaze rested on it for a long moment. Then he leaned back, shut his eyes, and exhaled long through his nose, already bracing himself for the next few days of patience. It would be difficult. More difficult now that he had named the truth.
Still, he would endure it. That, too, was part of devotion.
And when you returned, he suspected all that hard-earned restraint was going to last only until the first moment you smiled at him and said his name.
Leon
Leon had faced roaring stadiums, roaring crowds, and Pokémon powerful enough to shake the ground beneath his feet.
None of that prepared him for loneliness.
The hotel room in Kalos was far too quiet. No stadium lights. No cheering crowds. Just the low hum of city lights beyond the window and the distant chatter of people enjoying the evening.
Leon leaned back against the pillows, long purple hair falling around his shoulders as he stared at the ceiling.
“Business trip,” he muttered to himself.
Chairman duties. Meetings with the League officials of Galar and Kalos representatives. Interviews. Promotional appearances.
Normally he thrived on attention. Tonight, though…
His hand drifted down his stomach, fingers brushing beneath the waistband of his sleep shorts.
He exhaled slowly.
“Man…I miss you.” The words slipped out before he even realized he’d said them.
His cock was already hard in his hand when he wrapped his fingers around it, thick and warm as he started stroking lazily. The sensation sent a shiver up his spine.
Leon tipped his head back with a quiet groan.
He’d tried to sleep earlier. Really he had. But every time he closed his eyes he pictured you. The way you laughed at him when he got lost. The way you tugged his cape down so he’d actually sit still for once. The way your body felt under his hands when he finally got home from long tournaments.
His grip tightened and his hips lifted slightly into his fist.
“Mm…”
The slow strokes turned quicker, his hand sliding slickly along his length as his breathing grew heavier.
“God, I need you, love…” The words came out hoarse.
Leon squeezed his eyes shut, imagining the picture. Your thighs around him. Your fingers in his hair. Your voice in his ear.
His hand moved faster, thumb brushing over the sensitive head with each stroke. A quiet groan escaped him as his hips rocked against his grip.
“I need you so bad…” He breathed the words like a confession.
His mind filled with the image of you beneath him warm, soft, and welcoming, and his cock twitched hard in his hand.
He was so close already. Too close.
His strokes grew frantic, breath hitching as pleasure coiled tight in his stomach.
“Need you—fuck—”
His hand froze as he slowed. Amber eyes blinked open as the words echoed in the quiet room. His chest rose and fell as he stared at the ceiling again, cock still hard in his hand.
Leon laughed softly under his breath.
“Well…shouldn’t be that surprised, eh, love?”
He’d said it instinctively. But the realization settled deep in his chest as warm as the afterglow of a hard battle. The Champion of Galar, the undefeated Monarch, the man who could face down any opponent without fear needed you.
Leon exhaled slowly and resumed stroking, slower now, savoring the heat of his palm as he pictured coming home. He pictured walking through the door, dropping his bag, and pulling you into his arms like he’d been starving.
His strokes sped up again, breath hitching as pleasure built rapidly.
“Just gotta make it through this trip…mmngh—!”
His hips bucked once, twice, and then he groaned loudly as he came, hot release spilling across his stomach while his hand pumped him through it.
His body relaxed back into the pillows, chest heaving.
For a moment he simply lay there, catching his breath. Then, he wiped his forehead and laughed again.
“Alright,” he said to the empty room. “Definitely calling you tomorrow.”
Because suddenly, those League meetings couldn’t end fast enough. And when he finally got back to Galar…
Leon planned on showing you exactly how much he needed you.
Raihan
Raihan had zero shame about masturbating.
You were out of town, the bed was empty, and he had a perfectly good phone full of pictures of you. Any sane man would make use of the situation. And Raihan was a very sane man.
Mostly.
The tall Gym Leader lounged back against the pillows in his apartment in Hammerlocke, hoodie long since discarded somewhere on the floor. His shorts hung low on his hips, pushed halfway down his thighs.
His cock was already hard. Again.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered to himself with a crooked grin. “I know. I’ve got a problem.”
His Rotom Phone glowed in his hand. On the screen was one of his favorite pictures of you. One he’d convinced you to send after an especially long day apart.
A little teasing. A little revealing. Just enough to drive him crazy.
“Damn…” Raihan breathed.
His free hand wrapped around his cock, warm palm sliding slowly down the length of it. He hissed softly.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me one day with these, babe…”
His thumb brushed over the head, spreading the bead of precum that had already formed there. His hips lifted instinctively into his grip.
He stroked himself slowly at first. Usually he’d tease himself for a while, drag it out, edge a little, maybe take a quick selfie afterward just to torment you while you were away and not with him.
But tonight felt different.
His eyes stayed locked on the photo as his hand moved steadily, and his breathing deepened.
“Arceus, I miss you,” he murmured.
Normally when he jerked off to you, it was playful. Easy. A quick way to burn off energy before bed. But the longer he stared at the screen, the more something in his chest tightened.
Your smile. Your eyes. The way your body looked when you were actually with him, not just pixels on a screen.
His grip tightened around his cock.
“Shit…”
His strokes sped up slightly and Raihan forced himself to slow down again.
“Nah,” he muttered, smirking to himself. “Let’s see how long I can hold out tonight.”
Competitive instinct. It never turned off. Even when he was naked in bed jerking himself off.
His hand slowed deliberately, dragging teasing strokes along his length while he kept staring at your picture.
“Gotta keep it together,” he breathed.
A minute passed. Then another.
His cock twitched in his grip. Precum smeared along his fingers as he stroked again, slower now, savoring the friction.
“Mm…yeah…”
He imagined it was you instead. Your hand. Your mouth. Your thighs around his hips.
“Fuck…” Raihan groaned softly.
His hips bucked once despite himself.
“Okay…okay. Hooo...” he panted, “Gotta…hold it together, now.”
He exhaled slowly and tried to ease the pace again, but the image of you kept pulling him deeper. The way you looked when you were underneath him. The way you clung to him when he made you come. The way you laughed when he got cocky about it afterward.
His hand sped up before he even realized it. His breathing turned ragged as pleasure surged through him.
“Shit, shit—I was supposed to—”
His hips thrust into his hand as his strokes became frantic.
“God—I miss you so fucking much.”
The confession tore out of him between gasps.
Raihan groaned loudly as his orgasm crashed over him, hot release spilling across his stomach while his hand kept pumping him through the peak.
His head fell back against the pillows. For a moment all he could do was breathe.
“…Well.” He glanced down at the mess across his abs, then at the picture still glowing on his phone.
He snorted. “Great job, genius. Lasted, what…a few minutes?”
He wiped his face with the back of his clean hand, still chuckling under his breath. But as he stared at your picture again, the humor softened.
“…Seriously though.”
His thumb brushed gently across the screen over your face.
“Come home soon, yeah?”
Because suddenly jerking off to photos didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as he remembered.
Raihan grinned to himself, already imagining the moment you walked through the door again.
“Next time,” he murmured.
“Pretty sure I won’t be finishing by myself.”
Guzma
The hideout was loud earlier. Music blasting. Grunts yelling. Someone arguing about who stole whose soda. Normal Team Skull nonsense.
But now? It was dead quiet.
Guzma sat on the edge of his bed in the back room of the run-down mansion on Po Town, elbows on his knees, phone dangling loosely in one hand.
“…Tch.” He glared at the screen.
Your last message was still open.
“Miss you.”
Guzma scoffed. “Yeah, yeah…whatever.”
But he didn’t close the message.
He didn’t stop staring at it either. His jaw tightened.
The room felt way too damn empty.
Normally you were here with him. Sitting beside him while the grunts ran around causing chaos outside. Laughing when he got all worked up over stupid stuff.
You were the one person who didn’t treat him like some kinda unstoppable monster. You just…treated him like Guzma.
And now you were gone for a few days. Which meant Guzma was stuck alone with his thoughts.
And his very obvious problem.
“…Damn it.”
He leaned back on the bed with a groan, one arm thrown over his face. His other hand drifted down his stomach, because yeah, he was horny. Real damn horny.
You had a habit of doing that to him.
“Stupid…” he muttered. His fingers slid under the waistband of his sweatpants, wrapping around his already hard cock. The first stroke pulled a sharp breath out of him.
“Shit…”
His head tilted back against the pillow as his hand moved again. Slow and rough. Just the way he liked it.
“Yeah…that’s it…”
He squeezed himself tighter, thumb dragging across the head before sliding back down his length. His hips jerked slightly into his hand.
“Damn…you do this to me every time…”
Guzma usually acted like he didn’t need anybody. Didn’t care about anybody. Didn’t miss anybody. But the way his cock twitched when he thought about you told a different story.
His strokes sped up.
“God—” He bit the word off with a grunt.
His mind filled with memories of you instead. The way you looked at him. The way you touched him like he wasn’t some screw-up the whole region wanted to laugh at.
His hand moved faster.
“Fuck…need you…”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Guzma froze for half a second.
He kept going anyway. His breathing got heavier as his hips started pushing into his grip.
“Always messin’ with my head…”
His cock throbbed hard in his hand, slick with precum as he jerked himself off faster.
“Should be here right now, with me…”
He imagined it. You sitting in his lap, fingers tugging his hoodie, your sweet voice saying his name.
“Ah—shit—”
His strokes turned frantic.
“Need you so bad, babe…”
The confession came out raw. Not cocky. Not arrogant. Just honest. Because when the only good thing in your life walked out the door for a few days…you felt it.
His whole body tensed as pleasure surged through him.
“Fuck—!”
He came hard with a rough groan, hot release spilling across his stomach as his hand pumped him through it. His chest heaved as he collapsed back against the mattress.
“…Damn.”
For a minute he just laid there breathing. Then he grabbed a towel from the floor and wiped himself off.
His phone was still on the bed beside him. Still open to your message.
Guzma stared at it. His thumb hovered over the screen.
“…Whatever.”
He typed something quickly.
“Get back soon. Po Town’s boring without you.”
He stared at the message for a second. Then added another.
“…and I miss you. Don’t tell the grunts I said that. ‘Specially not Plumeria.”
After sending the message Guzma tossed the phone onto the bed and leaned back with a groan. But the faint smile on his face gave him away.
Because yeah. The “big bad boss” of Team Skull?
He was counting down the days until you came back.
Nanu
Night had settled over Ula'ula Island, and the police station was quiet. Too quiet.
Nanu leaned back in his creaky office chair, long legs stretched out across his desk, sandals hanging half off his feet. The dim light from the desk lamp cast lazy shadows across the room. A kendama rolled slowly between his fingers.
Click.
Miss.
“…Tch.”
He let the toy fall onto the desk with a dull clack.
Normally he’d just sit here half the night doing nothing, maybe napping, maybe pretending to work. That suited him just fine. But tonight something was bothering him.
Actually, not something, but someone.
Nanu sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as his tired red eyes drifted toward his phone sitting beside the lamp.
“…You should be able to handle a few days,” he muttered to himself. He was a grown man. A Kahuna. Former International Police. Dealt with criminals, Ultra Beasts, and more paperwork than any human should ever have to suffer through.
You being away for a few days shouldn’t be a problem.
And yet.
His hand moved almost automatically, grabbing the phone. Your photo filled the screen. Cute. Pretty. Way too young to be dating an old burned-out guy like him.
“…Hmph.”
He stared at it longer than he meant to. “Kid’s got bad taste,” he muttered under his breath.
Still. The empty apartment tonight had been…noticeable.
Nanu leaned back further in his chair, one hand drifting slowly down his stomach.
“…Only human,” he grumbled. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, wrapping around his cock.
He was already half hard.
The first slow stroke pulled a quiet sigh from him. His hand moved again, rough palm sliding along his length as he closed his eyes.
Nanu wasn’t a particularly excitable man. Everything he did was slow. Measured. Even this.
“Should be sleepin’,” he muttered, but his hand kept moving anyway, stroking his length. His thumb brushed the head, spreading the bit of precum that had already gathered there.
He imagined you instead. Your soft voice. The way you’d sit beside him on the couch while he pretended not to enjoy the attention. The way you’d curl up against him like you belonged there.
His grip tightened slightly.
“Damn kid…”
Another slow stroke.
“Got me missin’ you more than I should.”
He exhaled through his nose, hips shifting faintly in the chair as pleasure started to build.
Nanu had always prided himself on being detached. Didn’t get too invested. Didn’t let things get to him. But lately… that rule hadn’t exactly been working.
“…Troublesome.”
His strokes sped up just a little. Not much. Just enough to make his breathing deepen.
His cock twitched in his grip.
“Should’ve known better,” he murmured. But there wasn’t much conviction in it. Because the truth was simple. You made his quiet life a little less…empty. And now that you weren’t here, he felt it.
His hand moved faster. Still steady. Still controlled. But the tension in his stomach grew quickly.
“Mm…”
A low sound escaped him before he could stop it. The chair creaked softly as he shifted his hips again.
“Come back soon…” he muttered.
Another few strokes and his body tensed.
“…Hah.”
His orgasm came quietly, a low grunt leaving his chest as release spilled across his stomach while his hand worked him through it.
For a moment the room was silent again. Just the hum of the lamp.
Nanu leaned back in the chair, breathing slowly.
“…Troublesome,” he repeated.
He grabbed a rag from the desk drawer and cleaned himself off with the same tired efficiency he did everything else with. Then he picked up his phone again.
Your picture was still on the screen. He stared at it for a moment before muttering softly,
“…Get back safe.”
A pause.
Then a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“…And hurry up already.”
Because apparently, even a lazy old Kahuna wasn’t immune to missing someone.
Larry
His room in Medali was quiet.
Finally.
Larry loosened his blue cloud-print tie and let it hang around his neck as he sat on the edge of the bed. His briefcase rested beside the nightstand, still closed. He hadn’t even bothered unpacking.
It had been a long day. Gym Leader duties. Then Elite Four paperwork. Then a meeting with the League. Then more paperwork.
Larry sighed. “…I would really like to sleep.”
That was the plan. Take a shower. Collapse into bed. Maybe dream about rice balls from the Treasure Eatery. A simple, peaceful evening.
Unfortunately, his mind had other ideas.
Larry stared at the ceiling for a long moment before rubbing his face slowly.
“…This is inconvenient.”
Because the room felt…empty. Normally when he got home late from work, you were there. Maybe cooking something. Maybe talking to him while he absentmindedly loosened his tie and collapsed at the table. Maybe just sitting nearby so the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. You had a way of making the end of his day feel…manageable.
And now you were gone for a few days. Which meant Larry was alone. With his thoughts. And a very annoying physical reaction.
He looked down at his lap.
“…I was hoping to ignore that.”
Unfortunately, his body didn’t seem interested in cooperating. Larry laid back against the pillows with a tired groan, one arm resting over his eyes.
“…This is ridiculous.”
All he wanted to do was sleep. Instead, he was thinking about you. Your voice. Your cooking. The way you smiled when he finally came home after overtime.
He sighed again.
“…Fine.”
His hand slid slowly down his stomach before slipping beneath the waistband of his slacks. He hesitated for a moment.
“…I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
His fingers wrapped around his cock. Already hard. Larry stared at the ceiling with the same tired expression he wore during battles.
“…This is not how I planned to spend my evening.”
Still, his hand moved. Slow. Deliberate. The first stroke pulled a quiet breath from him. He paused for a moment. Then continued.
Larry wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about it, but he wasn’t embarrassed either. Mostly he just seemed mildly inconvenienced.
“…This is happening because I miss you,” he muttered.
Another slow stroke. His thumb brushed the head of his cock, spreading the small bead of precum that had formed there.
“…And because my brain refuses to stop thinking about you.”
His grip tightened slightly and the motion became more rhythmic. His breathing deepened as his eyes closed and images of you filled his mind.
You greeting him at the door. You placing food in front of him with that patient smile. You leaning against him while he tried to unwind from work.
“…You’re very distracting,” he murmured. His hips lifted faintly into his hand, and despite his exhaustion, pleasure slowly built in his stomach.
“…I suppose this is unavoidable.”
His strokes sped up just a little. Still calm. Still controlled. But definitely more purposeful now.
“…When you get back…”
He paused for a breath.
“…we should spend more time together.”
His cock twitched in his grip.
“…Preferably without my boss interrupting.”
A quiet exhale left him as the tension finally peaked. Larry came with a soft groan, release spilling across his stomach as his hand slowed gradually.
He lay there for a moment afterward, breathing quietly.
“…Well.” He reached for a tissue from the bedside table and cleaned himself off. Then he adjusted his slacks and sat up slowly. “…That was efficient.”
Larry loosened his tie completely and finally laid down properly. His eyes closed almost immediately.
“…Still,” he murmured sleepily. “…I’d rather you were here.”
Because despite his tired, monotone demeanor, you made his long days feel a little less exhausting.
Tarragon
(for xxfmamfxx only because they keep asking for him. You’re lucky I like you)
Tarragon had been told—very firmly—by the nurse to stay off his back for a few days. Which, in theory, sounded reasonable.
In practice? It was torture.
The old construction boss of Lumiose City lay half-reclined in bed, pillows stacked behind him to keep pressure off his spine. His hardhat sat on the bedside table, the Key Stone glinting faintly under the room’s warm lighting.
“Bah…” he grumbled to himself. “Bad back, they said. Take it easy, they said.”
His large, calloused hands rested on his stomach, fingers flexing absentmindedly.
He’d spent decades working construction. Broken tools, busted scaffolding, Ground-type Pokémon kicking up rubble—none of it had slowed him down.
But one wrong twist hauling a steel beam at the Hotel Z renovation site and suddenly everyone treated him like fragile glass.
Tarragon huffed. “…Could be worse.”
But something else had been bothering him all evening. Normally when he got home from work, you were right there helping him peel off dusty gloves, laughing at his grumbling, and rubbing his back when he overdid it at the site.
Tonight, the apartment felt far too quiet.
His bluish-gray eyes drifted toward his phone on the nightstand.
“…Tch.”
He reached for it. A couple taps later, your picture filled the screen. A soft one this time. Not teasing, not overly suggestive. Just you smiling at him.
The old man’s beard shifted as he sighed.
“Miss ya, sweetheart…” His voice was softer now.
His free hand slid down his stomach slowly, fingers brushing beneath the waistband of his work pants. Even injured, the familiar ache of wanting you hadn’t gone anywhere.
In fact…
Being stuck in bed all day had given his mind far too much time to wander.
“…Hell with it.”
His large hand wrapped around his cock, already half-hard from thinking about you. The first slow stroke pulled a deep grunt from his chest.
“Mm…damn.”
His palm slid along his length again, thumb brushing the head as he exhaled slowly.
“Still works fine, at least,” he chuckled quietly at his own joke. But the humor faded quickly as his hand kept moving, slow and heavy.
His grip was rough from years of manual labor, but he stroked himself carefully, savoring the warmth of his palm.
“Wish this was you…” he muttered.
Another stroke.
Precum gathered at the tip, slicking his fingers as he worked himself a little faster. His hips shifted slightly before he winced.
“Easy, old man,” he grumbled. But the thought of you beneath him refused to leave his mind.
Your hands on his shoulders. Your voice whispering his name. Your body pressed close while he held you tight.
His strokes slowed again, turning thoughtful.
“…Huh.”
He stared at the ceiling. For a moment his hand stopped entirely, his cock heavy and hard in his grip.
Because the realization hit him all at once.
This wasn’t just him being pent up. It wasn’t just habit.
It was the quiet apartment. The empty bed. The absence of your voice filling the space around him.
Tarragon sighed softly. “…Damn.” His hand started moving again, slower now. “Didn’t think I’d miss someone this much at my age.” The admission came out rough, but sincere.
His grip tightened slightly as pleasure began building low in his stomach.
“Mm…there we go…”
His breathing deepened as he stroked himself steadily, picturing the moment you’d come home. You fussing over his injury. You sitting beside him. Maybe climbing into his lap despite his grumbling protests.
His cock twitched hard.
“Yeah…that’s the ticket…”
A few more strokes and his body tensed.
“Ah—” He came with a low grunt, release spilling across his stomach as his hand worked him through the end.
“…Hoo.”
Tarragon leaned back into the pillows, breathing out slowly.
After a moment he grabbed a cloth from the nightstand and cleaned himself up. Then he picked up his phone again, looking at your picture once more. A small, warm smile tugged at his beard.
“Better heal up quick,” he muttered. “Got someone I’m lookin’ forward to holdin’ again.”
And for the first time all evening, the quiet apartment didn’t feel quite so lonely.
