Video Games

It’s almost a perfect day, in Guzma’s books.

Woke up at a reasonable hour, had a scalding hot cup of coffee and watched the rain come down, checked in on his grunts and found that all was well.

Most importantly, Piers is coming to stay.

Not forever (not yet), but an entire three months with just the two of them at Shady House. It had taken a lot of effort from the both of them, and a lot of convincing on Guzma’s part, but Piers had finally managed to wrangle some free time on the excuse of writing new songs.

He’s flying in this afternoon, and Guzma even did his best to tidy up Shady House so they don’t have to think about anything but each other for a while. It’s like a dream come true—and the only obstacle, the only dent on this otherwise amazing day is that he can’t meet Piers at the airport. Stupid Nanu needing him to run some stupid errand to another stupid island. It’s an irritation, for sure, but Piers knows the way home (those were his words, not Guzma’s, and his chest still clenches whenever he thinks about Piers calling it ‘home’) and Guzma should return shortly after he gets there. No problem, no big deal. Piers can carry his own luggage, he’s a grown man. It’s only an extra hour apart, maximum.

So Guzma takes the ferry and ignores the way people shoot him dirty looks, because seriously, nothing is bringing him down today. He does Nanu’s errand with a minimum of bitching and a maximum of efficiency, which earns a “hm” from the old fart when he calls in to report that he’s finished that roughly translates to “damn, well done” in the language of grumpy codgers.

Nice.

Guzma is on the ferry ride back and wishing the damn thing would go faster when his phone buzzes, and he takes it out of his pocket.

[Piers]: put your headphones in. got a message for ya.

Does he want to video chat? If that’s the case, he probably made it to Shady House already...maybe he’s just that eager to see Guzma’s ugly mug. The thought has him grinning, and he fishes around in his pocket for the fancy-shmancy earbuds his boyfriend gifted him with for his birthday. The two of them are borderline technophobes, only getting phones that could even support video chatting when they started dating long-distance, but Piers is always willing to shell out for quality when it comes to music or sound equipment.

Guzma pops them in and texts back that he’s ready, then taps the “accept” on the incoming call.

Piers’ face fills the screen, and it takes a moment for Guzma to realize that the black fabric stretched across his nose is one of the Team Skull bandanas.

There’s a mixed feeling—they don’t wear those anymore now that they’re walking the straight and narrow, but on Piers, the cloth looks damn good. Sexy, rakish, with that bad-boy vibe he wears oh so well. Even though his mouth is covered, Guzma can picture the smirk curling on his lips, can see it in the crinkle of his blue eyes as he leans back from the camera.

“Hey, the hell did you find that? It looks good on y—“

The words die in his mouth when Piers stands up, and Guzma sees that he’s not wearing a single fucking stitch otherwise.

Tapu Bulu help him.

Automatically, his eyes dart around the ferry to make sure no one could possibly catch a glimpse of this, but it’s a little past midday, and the seats are almost empty. What few passengers there are happen to be sitting up front, and Guzma is in the back row, safely out of sight.

Even still, his heart pounds at the risk. It feels perverted, wrong, to be looking at this in public, and yet he can’t drag his eyes from the screen as Piers smooths his hands down his slender body, that long hair pouring over his shoulders and half-hiding him from view. Burlesque dancers everywhere would envy that sort of tease, and the casual confidence with which Piers gropes and fondles his own body. Damn. It’s been so long since Guzma has seen every inch on display like this—they swap nudes and have phone sex, but it’s not the same as a live show.

While Piers is wearing his bandana. And that choker. And pinching his sweet, pink, beckoning nipples until they harden. Guzma feels something that could be either a growl or a groan rumble in his chest, and clenches his jaw to keep the noise from becoming audible to anyone but himself. Piers’ fingers might be clever, but surely this would be so much better if his own hands replaced them, or perhaps his teeth and tongue, intent on wringing out more of those sweetly musical noises.

He’s so enraptured by the way Piers’ fingers ghost down his skin, skimming across the jut of his hipbones, that Guzma doesn’t realise where this is being filmed until Piers takes a step to the side.

His throne.

Piers is in his room, doing this. Touching himself. Waving the red flag in front of the Tauros.

That’s his own throne, and Guzma can only watch as Piers slides himself onto it, all casual, sensual grace as he props one elbow up on the arm and rests his face against the side of his fist. Settling himself like he belongs there, like he’s one of Guzma’s things too.

If a man’s home is his castle, Piers is declaring himself royal consort, and goddamn if Guzma isn’t rock-hard in his sweatpants about it. Glancing around again, he exhales shakily and palms his cock through the fabric, trying to take the edge off without actually whipping his dick out in public. Fucking social graces.

“I missed you, boss.”

That husky voice is a struck match against his lust, burning him hotter and higher than he ever remembers going from such simple words. Piers must be wearing his own earbuds, to be so easily audible, and it sounds like he’s practically whispering in Guzma’s ear. Fuck.

The grip on the front of his sweatpants tightens to the point of near-pain as Piers’ creamy thighs spread wide and inviting, one slim ankle hooking over the other arm of the throne. Showing off everything, without a trace of shame. Guzma wants to put his mouth on every last inch and devour until Piers remembers who touches him best, who gives him everything he needs. He’ll erase every last thought in that pretty head of his, until all Piers can think about when he has needs is that it’s Guzma who will sate them. That’s what being the boss means, after all, taking care of the needs of the people who depend on you. And the people who spread their legs for you.

Yet Piers is already managing his own needs, already wrapping a hand around his dick and pumping it to hardness, luxuriant and lazy as he jerks himself off on Guzma’s throne. Enjoying it, if the way his hips steadily roll into his fist is any indication. Doing nothing but soaking in the sensations his body gives him as he pleasures it, sitting pretty on the messy, scrap-throne that Guzma made for himself like the loveliest princess in the world.

He ought to be ruined for it.

It’s faint, but the mic in the earbuds is just high enough quality to pick up the rasp of Piers’ breathing as it begins to approach panting, his hand speeding up in a little indication of how good this is for him. Has he been waiting a long time too?

A pause, a slower stroke, and the flash of black-varnished nails as Piers swirls his fingertips around the head. The camera doesn’t quite pick up on more than a faint glistening when he spreads his fingertips apart, showing off the wetness, but the fact that it’s there is enough that Guzma is pretty fucking sure that growl is audible now. Good thing he’s alone back here, horny and frustrated and pawing his cock through his clothes to take the edge off. Little Galarian minx.

Then Piers pushes his fingers up under the bottom of the bandana, and the microphone is plenty good enough to catch the lewd wet noise of him sucking his own precum off his fingers. Slick and messy, with his knuckles moving out of sight as he undoubtedly caresses his tongue and tugs on his lips.

“You little shit,” Guzma manages under his breath. “I oughta—“

Piers ignores him, and removes his hand from under the bandana, bending down to rummage through a bag that had gone unnoticed at the foot of the throne. There’s the slide of a zipper, and a brief flash of his hair wafting around his shoulders before he finds what he was looking for and sits up again.

In his hand is a thick dildo, the same brilliant hot pink that he so loves to wear.

Guzma’s entire body pulses so hard it physically hurts, and he slides halfway down the seat, still gripping himself desperately. Fucking hell, can’t this ferry go any faster? If it takes much longer he’s going to have to jerk off right here and now, damn public indecency laws. Heat rises up his neck and stings the sides of his face, but he still can’t bring himself to look away.

Piers is making him into an exhibitionist, and he wishes he cared more about that fact. All he gives a damn about in this moment is the flash of Piers’ mouth when he bunches the bandana up on his nose, pressing the dildo to his lips and giving it a sloppy, sticky kiss to the tip.

His free hand inches lower, and when his knuckles curve underneath himself, Guzma bites into his lip so hard he wonders if he’s about to break the skin. Piers must’ve slicked and prepared before turning on the camera; this was all planned, right from the start.

“It’s your fault for not meeting me at the airport,” Piers murmurs the second he moves the toy away from his lips, and licks off the strand of saliva connecting them. The bandana falls back into place, and Guzma has never loved or hated that fabric so much.

“Now I’m here, all by my lonesome...gotta entertain myself, don’t I?” His voice is dripping with faux-sweetness, and it makes Guzma see a very particular shade of red that doesn’t have anything to do with anger at all. He’s helpless here, in a boat far away from his lover’s eager body, and Piers is playing that knowledge for all it’s worth. Guzma can’t touch himself, can’t even speak very loudly, can’t do anything more than watch with envious and frustrated lust as the toy slides down over Piers’ belly. The thick pink head brushes the inside of his thighs, and then Piers raises his hips and positions himself over the toy.

“I’m imagining this is you,” he purrs, and then starts to sink down.

Watching Piers take a cock is a sight that will never fail to hypnotise. His waist is so slim it seems like the size should be impossible, yet every time, his body widens to take it. It tears the breath from Guzma’s lungs to see it, even at an angle where half the sight is hidden. Deeper and deeper still, until Piers stills, thighs trembling and shaking against the throne.

“Fuck—boss, boss—I need a minute, I—I can take it, I promise, I just need—“ Nothing in this world sounds sweeter than Piers pleading with the cock inside himself, struggling to take it all in. Guzma remembers their first night together, the way Piers had fisted a hand in his own hair when Guzma was only halfway buried inside, staring down his body in dazed shock. Wait a minute, it’s so thick, you’re gonna turn me inside out!

“It’s okay, baby. You can do it, seen ya manage before...just take a deep breath, and think about how good it’ll feel to have it done.” Not precisely the most lascivious dirty-talk he’s ever come up with, but it won’t get him banned from riding the ferry at the very least. Even if someone overhears, only the growl in his tone might give them away.

That, and if whoever it was happened to look around the seat and saw the massive tent he’s pitching in his sweatpants, but whatever. Hypotheticals.

Piers would’ve made a hell of a camboy, if he’d ever felt the need to get into it. Not that Guzma isn’t more than grateful that this sight belongs to him and him alone, but...the way Piers’ head falls back, exposing the column of his throat and the glitter of his choker feels like pure art encapsulated in such a simple motion. His moans are deep, guttural noises, and when he lifts his shaking hips and seats himself fully onto the toy, it’s a level of erotica few could ever dream of reaching.

Piers makes a habit out of seeming unreal, and that makes holding him all the more delightful. Guzma knows the scent of the cologne he wears when it gathers in the crook of his neck, and the silken softness of his hair. He has intimate knowledge of every warbling, ecstatic cry that can be wrung from the singer’s throat, and how heavenly that tight, clenching body feels wrapped around an aching cock. Yet even with all of that stripped away to a mere image on a screen, Piers is a vision.

Guzma’s eyes fixate on the flat space between his navel and the start of his curling pubic hair, watching intently to see if—yes, just on certain strokes, when he leans far enough back, there’s a quick bulge that appears and disappears. Piers is moaning, wanton and needful, calling any who hear him to help him sate his need.

Because it’s not enough. Even when he presses the flat base of the toy down against the seat of the throne and bounces on it, fucking himself greedily, it isn’t what he craves. And only Guzma can give him that.

Watching him do this, then, becomes a delight. An exercise in the primal satisfaction of watching Piers try and fail to take what he needs from a toy.

The bell on the ferry chimes that they’ll be reaching the dock in a few minutes, just as Piers has started biting the inside of the bandana and stroking his dick with one hand. Guzma knows he ought to be frustrated, but this is his game now. Sitting up in his seat, he strips off his jacket and ties it around his waist just so he doesn’t get any more dirty looks from the other passengers when he steps off the ferry, then clears his throat just a little so Piers will pay attention. On the other end, the moaning tapers off, and he looks down at his phone to see Piers with the toy still buried deep in his ass, laying in an aching heap on the throne. The sight brings a smile to curve on his lips, and his voice is warm and casual when he speaks again.

“Doin’ such a good job, princess. Don’t worry, boss’ll be home to help soon.”

Then he hangs up the phone, and wonders if it would be too much to jog a little.