A/N: So I noticed that there are hardly any gay sex stories for Brock, and that is something I intend to rectify. This will probably be a three-shot, with a slow intro, middle body, and conclusion. I really don't like lemons out of context.
You'd think that constant rejection by every girl, every woman, every Nurse Joy you'd ever met for the past five years would eventually tear you down.
You'd be right.
Brock huffs in frustration as he shuts himself in the bathroom and spreads shaving cream around the light stubble forming on his square jaw. Seventeen years old, and he's still traveling the world with Ash. Five years of meeting every type of girl possible—ditzy, intelligent, apathetic, energetic, shy, outgoing, athletic, caring, sassy, arrogant—and he's never gone beyond first base.
He's a fucking breeder, dammit! He knows how to care for almost every Pokemon species out there; he knows what male species should knock up what female species for the best natures and abilities. So why hasn't he been able to pair up with at least one female?
Well, there was Professor Ivy.
Brock shudders. He still doesn't want to recall that experience.
The rock-type specialist runs the razor quickly through the shaving cream, rinses himself, and inspects the smooth cut in the bathroom mirror. His eyes are drift from the good shave to the rest of his body, permanently defined by a tan complexion that makes his features stand out especially well in the morning sunlight streaming in through the window. His wide shoulders descend into thick biceps and bulging pectoral muscles; his dark nipples always poke through the worn orange shirt he's had since the beginning of his adventure with Ash, and every abdominal muscle in his six pack shows. A treasure trail of light black hair leads down from his belly button down into his brown cargos.
Nobody's ever gone down the treasure trail, though. Despite every mile he's walked, flown, or swam with Ash and whatever underage female companion they've picked up in this region, Brock has never reached the point of revealing the treasure at the end of the trail.
Two hard knocks on the door. "Brock?" a voice whines. "You've been in there for fifteen minutes! I really need to go to the bathroom."
That's Ash, the fifteen year old boy Brock's spent five years traveling with. They've been through thick and thin, bashing in Rocket plans and saving the world at least three times. They've spent so much time together, they're practically brothers. They pretty much know each other inside out: Brock knows that Ash likes his food hot and spicy, and Ash knows that, when Brock's been denied by another girl, it's best to give him a ton of money from the budget and let him splurge it on gourmet food ingredients.
Brock feels like the two of them are almost at opposite ends of the spectrum. Ash attacks first and thinks later; he's rash, hotheaded, adventurous, and a natural leader. Brock, on the other hand, would rather analyze the situation first before taking action; he keeps his cool under pressure and would rather follow and support his friends.
Also, Brock unfortunately has the tendency to fall for every beautiful lady (seemingly) available, which Ash... well, let's say that it seems like his only goal is to become the world's greatest Pokemon master, and Brock just wants somebody to love.
Brock's never seen Ash ogle at a girl, not even once. That leaves—
"Brock!" Ash yells louder. "Are you overthinking again?"
Brock starts. Yes. Yes, he was thinking. "Hold your panties," he growls, searching his dirty laundry bag for a relatively clean orange shirt. Damn, he forgot to do the laundry last night. "I'm almost done."
"I've been waiting for hours!" Ash practically moans.
"Liar," Brock laughs. "You just said fifteen minutes."
Ash huffs. "Fine, if you're just going to tease me—" The doorknob squeals as Ash jerks the door open.
The two pause awkwardly for a second. Brock's still searching in his bag for a shirt, and Ash has one hand on the doorknob while the other hand is cupped around his crotch.
Ash's eyes stare blankly, not at Brock's face, but at his exposed body. "I thought you locked the door," Ash eventually says stupidly.
Likewise, Brock also can't take his eyes off Ash—but for different reasons: Ash is still gripping his crotch through his pajama pants. In most ways, Ash is still very much the ten-year old boy he was when Brock first met him; the younger boy probably doesn't realize how awkward his current position is, even if he really has to pee. "I thought I locked the door too," Brock replies.
Ash scampers over to the toilet and stands there threateningly. "If you don't leave right now, I'm just going to start peeing in front of you!"
"Augh!" Brock yells, vacating the premises (but only because he knows that's what Ash wants.) It's only when he's outside that he realizes that he forgot to take the laundry bag with all his (dirty) shirts inside. Which means he'll have to wait here, shirtless, until Ash finishes up.
Ash. Ash, Ash, Ash. Five years, and Ash still acts like a ten-year old sometimes. No raging hormones driving him to every girl they meet; no sexual desires alone in the bathroom; nothing. It really drives Brock crazy. Maybe he absorbed Ash's puberty during their travels together, leaving the younger trainer an asexual prude and the older breeder a crazy sex-driven teenager.
Brock slumps down on his bunk bed. Yeah. That's probably it.
Not like it's really gotten them anywhere when it comes to girls, though.
Brock looks down at his tight abs, at the small treasure trail nestled between them. He follows the trail down to the button in his cargo shorts, about the same color as his tanned skin.
Nobody knows what's at the end of the treasure trail.
Brock unbuttons his shorts, revealing his boxers. He pulls the elastic away slowly, glancing at the paler skin underneath. The soft black hair of his treasure trail stands out much more clearly here, in the one area where the sun-kissed tan does not reach.
The treasure at the end of the trail… so far, Brock's the only one who's ever seen it.
Nope, not even Professor Ivy.
The toilet flushes, and almost immediately, Ash walks out of the bathroom. And stares.
Brock hurriedly zips up his pants and buttons his shorts. "Wash your hands!" he yelps. He hadn't taken off his boxers; Ash had only seen Brock peeking down his own pants. As if that wasn't awkward enough.
Ash's face burns red as he quickly ducks back into the bathroom. "I, um, whoa, I'm sorry, I, uh, forgot…"
Before Ash closes the door, though, Brock thinks he might have caught Ash peeking at him one last time, his gaze lingering.
Then the door slams shut and the water's running and Brock probably just imagined it.
A/N: Anybody know that spicy food boosts Attack stats?