Sundown

(This is a pretty recent thread, but I wanted to archive it before it got lost lol)

It’s sunset in Po Town by the time Guzma finally makes it back to Shady House after a long day of...everything, or so it feels like. Chores needed doing, grunts needed supervising, he and Plumeria went for a swim, then he spent the afternoon exercising his team before walking to the station to check in on old man Nanu. 

Nothing chaotic or troublesome, but it had been a full day, for sure. Most of it spent out in the lovely, radiant Alolan sunshine; the rays had left his skin smelling of copper and sweat, a faint heat still rising from his shoulders even as he pulls off his shirt and casts it into the laundry basket tucked into one corner of the bathroom.  

Retiling this bathroom had been one of his other summer projects, and now that it’s complete, showering in here is nothing short of a luxury. 

Through the rippled glass of the window, the sky outside is turning a ripe peach pink as the sun dips towards the horizon, and the former gang boss smiles to himself a little as he reaches in through the sliding glass doors and cranks the water on just shy of cold. The pipes do still rattle, but the jet of water that comes out through the fancy new shower head is clean, and that’s something he’s proud of too.  

Stripping off his sweatpants, he finds a patch of sand left over from the beach on his calf, and swipes it away with a huff, then peels off his underwear and takes a brief look at himself in the mirror.   

It’s probably cliche, but there was a time he used to hate the sight of his own face. Painted it up with purple and black around the eyes to make himself seem ghoulish; everyone called him ghastly, an evil spirit, so why not lean into it?   

Now the whole thing just seems exhausting. He’s tired of hating himself, and after everything that’s happened...someone oughta treat him right, even if it’s just himself. 

That thought has characterised the last year of his life, and the results show. No, he doesn’t have rippling muscles or rock-hard abs, and some of the scars that decorate his shoulders and chest will probably never fade. Some of them he’s proud of, others, less so.

But his skin has gone a few shades tanner from all the time he’s been spending out in the sun, and the neckline of his t-shirt marks a ring around his collarbones. His face looks older, but less tired. His hair is longer, but better-kept.

Guzma might not be the sort of man most aspire to become, but he’s better than he was, and that alone is reason enough to give his reflection a brief smile before following the siren song of cool water into the shower. Stepping underneath, he sighs in pure bliss as the chill of water takes the heat and exhaustion of the day right off him, sluicing over the curves of his shoulders, dampening the hair on his chest.  

On evenings like this, even the air itself is sticky and sweet as rice pudding, heavy with the promise of rainfall held at bay by the breadth of a few hours. A summer thunderstorm is sure to roll in later that night, and he looks forward to falling asleep with the sound of it battering at the windows.   

For now, the patter of droplets around him is tamer and far more rhythmic, and he sighs as he turns around and allows the chilled water to caress over his back, his hips, running warm and then cold again as it pours in rivulets down the inside of his ankles and drains away from his feet.   

Tilting his head back sends the sensation of a thousand reassuring fingertips grazing through his hair, and euphoria prickles at his scalp as he closes his eyes to the feeling of it. Water on his face, his chin, licking down the center of his throat. Drumming a gentle beat all over his body, as though keen to wash away any tiredness this day might have brought, and leave him only with the satisfaction of hours well-spent.  Then a trickle of cold water suddenly unleashes itself across his nipple, and he finds himself biting his lip at the sudden intensity of the feeling. Oh, but how even a tired body can respond...

There’s no hurry to it, like there once might have been. When he was younger, lust was a rush, an itch he was desperate to scratch as quick and rough as possible. A means to an end, a high to be chased and seized and wrung for all it was worth. 

Now, when Guzma touches himself, the hands that slide over his body are unhurried, feeling out the soreness in his muscles from the swimming, inhaling the traces of salt still in the air.   Nothing sudden, nothing urgent.

Only the breadth of his palms cupping and squeezing, the rough of calluses as they grace his skin, and the steady, languorous uncoiling of sex deep in his gut.  Pleasure is always there, if one knows how to find it. Deep and rich and sweet; there was never any need to rush. Guzma strokes across his chest, feeling his lungs catch and then heave in a breath, the joy of filling them suddenly unmatched. The bliss his own body brings, the pleasure-pain ripe as fruit as he pinches his own nipple, causing a shudder to run down his spine.

Both hands smooth across his chest, the wet pads of his fingertips catching over the faint puckering of a healed scar, then down and down over the breadth of his belly, playing with the trail of hair and the weight of his own thighs. There’s no particular vision in his head, no face that needs to be brought to mind for this. A pair of breasts, or a stubbled jaw. Muscular legs, hair short or long—the visions are inconsistent, and only serve as little spurs to reticent flesh.

Outside, a chorus of insects starts up as the sun finally saunters down over the horizon and past the waves, leaving the sky to bleed indigo and violet into the coming night. Far off, thunder rumbles.  

Guzma doesn’t hear it over the rushing water of the shower, and his own quiet moan as it finds his half-hard cock. It’s a tease, an inconsistent lover, too playful by far and he replaces it with his hand after a moment, relishing in the drag of his own palm along the shaft.   

There’s no one else at Shady House tonight, and for once, nowhere he has to be.

In the moment, nothing is more important than this, and Guzma takes the time to pleasure himself slowly. Pumping his cock just the way he likes; peeling the skin back from the head and swiping it briefly with his thumb, then sliding all the way to the base for long, even strokes. It feels like pure heaven, to touch himself for the sake of touch alone, and the heat that lights in his gut is more than enough to carry him through, even when the warmth of the sun finally leaches out into the cold water that surrounds him. 

Pleasure for pleasure’s own sake—for his moans echoing off the tile and the tightness that winds deep in his body, for the way he stretches up onto his toes and fucks his fist in luxuriant thrusts. Allows instinct to set the pace, his mind taking a backseat as his hand guides itself. Under his shoulders, the tile is steady and flat; this is his home, he can do this here. It will hold him.  

Everything inside him strains towards that one simple goal and he allows it, groaning out without any need for muffling. A dozen fantasies flit through his head and he follows them only as far as they make him pulse, push him higher. Bodies of all shapes and sizes, lovers past and lovers yet to come, and most importantly, his own self, his own wanting. 

When he spills over his knuckles, the release echoes from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, a knot of bliss that pulls tight before uncoiling at once in a gorgeous snap. He shoots it all out in thick ropes onto the shower floor, to be washed away by the immaculate hand of his only companion for tonight. He feels hazy when it’s done, content and satisfied in a way that he hasn’t been in...he doesn’t even remember, but what matters is he’s that way now.  

Later, there will be others. Directions for his love and lust, temptations for heart and cock alike. There will be hands and mouths and other body parts, and he will adore them all and give them all of his desire.   

But for now, there’s only the clang of the faucet shutting off, and the softness of the towel that wraps around him as he goes downstairs to find a bottle of lemonade from the refrigerator, and make sure all the windows are shut tight so the rain doesn’t get in.   

For now, it’s only Guzma alone in his house, and that’s nothing but enjoyable for everyone involved.