Archive of Our Own ^beta

He has enough self-control to actually dress down during these periodical visits so he draws less attention to himself, but it's just that—less. He doesn't make enough of an effort to dispel it all. Piers is convinced he still wants recognition even here. Hard not to think so when his coat sleeve will occasionally slide up to reveal a gemstone-studded wristwatch or an elaborate necklace peeks out from beneath his collar.

It's probably only due to his pokémon and reputation he hasn't gotten robbed. He hangs out in the seediest parts of town like he wants to be. Even putting his jewelry aside, his clothes are too conservative and fitted for him to be mistaken as someone from Spikemuth. If they can't afford to even begin to build the bloody foundations for a stadium they sure as hell can't afford a proper boutique and all that comes with it.

Aside from passing glances, Team Yell is unmoved by his presence. Marnie had already beaten him, so he poses no threat.

Piers thinks he sees him once or twice at concerts, towards the back. He idly wonders what he thinks of his music. Surely he's into rock, right?

Brief attendances of his concerts and occasionally lurking in alleyways with his coalossal aside, Piers isn't sure what Gordie actually comes to Spikemuth to do.

Until tonight, that is.

Piers walks into his favorite hole-in-the-wall. For such a grease pit, they make the best tea-based hot toddies and biscuits. The tea is floral and does wonders for his throat after a performance. He suspects that it's purchased in Turffield and painstakingly delivered on foot purely for his benefit. He's probably the only one who ever orders it. His fans are lovelies, really, to a fault. With a shot of bourbon and honey in the tea and a biscuit decorated like a zigzagoon to go alongside, he’s covered for dinner.

Piers turns to look for a seat and who should be there but Mr. Popular wearing an expression that suggests he just watched his shuckle get hit by a bus. Gordie sits at a table in one corner, alone, eating some seismitoad in the hole. Piers would've recommended against that; the sausage from around here tends to be made from whatever poor pokémon corpse washes up on the beach from the mainland. 

Gordie's hair isn't styled today. He looks paler without the foundation and blush that gets glommed onto him for televised matches. Every Galarian gym leader has a makeup artist assigned to make them presentable to the audience. Piers turned his out when his insisted he wore too much mascara. Gordie's makeup artist is always heavy-handed. It makes his bare face seem almost a totally different person's by comparison. 

The contrast isn't as dramatic as with Milo, a least; half the man's freckles are tattooed or painted on to make him look more Turffieldian, whatever that means. His brows aren't nearly as full and manicured as they appear on the telly. If Piers and Opal are the hardest to bully into the league's beauty standards, then Milo is the easiest, just like his gym level. Too appeasing. The poor sod almost certainly got chest augmentation at the chairman's behest because his arms were too big for his body or something. He took sick leave for a couple of weeks at one point and showed back up with tits as defined as a machamp's and a woolooish look in his eyes. If there was a surgery that'd actually work to make him taller they definitely would've done it by now.

It's not just in the big changes like that but the little details. The place where Bea's broken nose healed at a slight angle? The burn scar on Kabu's neck? The birthmark on Raihan's left hand? All gone. He didn't even want to think about what they'd done to Leon to make him as doll-like as possible. Real people don't look like that.

If it were legal or practical they'd probably operate on their damn pokémon to make them prettier. Alas, pokémon can't sign consent forms. Pokémon are far more likely to shake anesthesia off like a bad status condition and bite the surgeon to death after being put under the knife.

As far as he can tell, Gordie hasn't gotten anything major done beyond his teeth, but who can say? Piers is best at picking out makeup or the lack thereof since he uses it himself all the time. 

He doesn't wear mascara or eyeliner on his days off, that much is obvious without his sunglasses in the way. His lips are still just as attention-grabbing and plump without the tinted gloss applied to them. Then again, his whole face is round and full, excepting the sharp little nose he inherited from his mum. It isn't enough to be a second-generation rich boy sponsored by a company that regularly digs up precious gems, oh no, he has to be cute, too. Spoilt in every sense of the word.

"Poké for your thoughts," Piers says, sliding into the seat across from him, drink and biscuit in hand.

"Not in the mood for company, Piers."

The guy gives off the air of someone confident and determined on the pitch, but off of it he can get downright narky. Very little of that flashy smiling he likes to toss around so much on camera. It seems he’s caught him in a particularly bad huff.

"Sorry, mate, just thought you could use a shoulder to cry on. You look gutted." He's knows he's poking the bewear by saying so, but he doesn't expect Gordie to all but shout at him in response.

"I'm not bloody crying."

Several other patrons look over. He was really loud to attract their attention over their own raucous voices. Piers waves them off, but he can see them continuing to glance back, checking to see if he's all right. Gordie will end up thrown head over heels outside if he isn't careful.

"Defensive much?" Piers sips his drink and fiddles with his choker.

Gordie, noticing the reaction from the others, speaks lower this time, but with the same intensity. "Just trying to eat in peace."

He takes a big bite as if to demonstrate and swallows after barely chewing, teeth flashing in an almost obstagoon-esque snarl. Well. Maybe not. Far too blunt and clean for that.

Yeah, Gordie's teeth are in good shape. Too good. He definitely got them straightened and repeatedly whitened, either on his own or after he'd signed on to the league. Gotta look pretty for those playacted smiles. If Piers had to guess, his only remaining issues on that front are a filling or two thanks to one too many bottles of pop, but it'd be resin or whatever-the-hell to make it blend in, nothing too obvious.

Not that Gordie is unique in that regard. Piers theorised in the past that Nessa was the one gym leader that had just been blessed with flawless teeth. Bea and Milo had theirs fixed. The change is obvious from their challenger-level league cards compared to now. Kabu he isn't sure about; could be natural, could be doctored. Raihan's snaggletooth smile is tolerated, no doubt due to his popularity, but the whitening is still in effect. Opal is the only person who probably flat-out rejected it like him based on how tea-stained hers are.

Upon being offered his own dental work and surgery to fix his kyphosis, Piers laughed in Rose's face. He should put money towards Spikemuth's unreliable water supply before he focused on rubbish like that, and Piers told him so. Oleana looked like she wanted to break him in half, but Rose simply smiled at him with his own altered smile and told him he understood. The slight is probably one of many reasons Rose likes to pretend Piers and his home don't exist. The insufferable toff is all about image this, dynamax that. If there was someone of his calibre to replace Piers, he would've done it years ago. Piers' hopes for Marnie to take his place have been severely stunted now that he knows what the league is like. There’ll have to be totally different management before he even considers retiring.

Gordie orders some jellied jellicent before he's finished with his other food. He'd eaten all of the ill-begotten sausage first and is now tucking in to the batter and gravy portion. His ringed left hand rests on top of the crest of his gut in an absent gesture. It serves to emphasize how big he is.

Piers wonders idly if Rose will ever take issue with Gordie's weight. It's fine now, marketable, even, to have a rock type gym leader who isn't all hard edges. Very much a defiance of expectations. Fans like being surprised. Plus, he pulls off acrobatic stunts that challenge even Nessa's flexibility. Milo may be fit, but his coordination doesn't go much further than lifting heavy objects. Bea's moves are all more practical than showy. Gordie has his own brand of flashy physicality. If he ever starts to show wear from all his little circus tricks, though, it’ll all go to pot. One bad landing, one twisted ankle, and they’ll have the excuse they need to get him to bend to their will. Rose, or, more likely Oleana, would pointedly suggest that he slim down. And if he didn't comply they'd start to force the issue. And on and on until he either dieted or got replaced. Knowing how much they love using surgery to "fix" Galar's gym leaders, they might even try to push him into a gastric bypass and liposuction. What if that's what he's so upset about? Nah, couldn't be. He wouldn't be eating like this if it were the case. It'd make him incredibly sick.

Gordie's second helping of food arrives. Then he gets a third of Spikemuth stew, a dish that involves throwing whatever's available in the pot.

He shifts in his seat, belly brushing the table. He's clearly starting to get uncomfortable. He takes another bite. He looks almost pained, like he's fighting down a groan. Maybe it's just his imagination, but Piers swears he hears his stomach grumbling with pained digestion even in the din of the restaurant.

"You're eating a lotta food," Piers observes in as neutral a tone as he can, taking a little nibble of his biscuit.

Gordie's artificially perfect teeth scratch hard on the spoon as he pulls it free from his mouth. “You eat a lotta cock, but you don’t see me pointing it out.”

Piers shrugs and toasts with his drink; that was about the response he expected. “Fair 'nough."

He takes a drink and bounces his foot on the floor. Gordie is a toff just like Rose, but at least he has the decency to be straightforward about his annoyance with a gutter punk like Piers instead of dancing around it. He can respect undisguised resentment in a person; it's much better than fake fondness.

...Arceus, he's calling over the waitress to get more food. Is this normal? It doesn't seem normal.

Piers imagines that he would’ve eaten a quarter of the first plate before handing it off to his groupies, if he ate at all. He can barely handle the small biscuit. He quit smoking for Marnie’s sake, but his appetite never really came back. It makes watching Gordie gorge himself equal parts bizarre and interesting.

He must be watching a bit too closely, because he’s suddenly faced with an icy blue glare from Gordie. Tits on a tsareena, even angry his eyes are adorable.

“There are loads of videos online of me grumpigging out," Gordie says. "Go watch one of those if you're so intent on staring.”

“You upload 'em?” Piers fidgets with his bracelet.

“Of course not. But my fans really like watching me eat, so they follow me around and take pictures and videos. Guess it shouldn't surprise me. They like everything I do. I could kick a yamper and they'd find some way to spin it so I look cute.” For the first time tonight, he smiles a little.

“Huh. No wonder you’re all eggy about it.” Even Team Yell isn’t that overbearing. “But it’s not your fans that have you so riled up, is it? You love 'em too much for that.”

"Yeah. They think really highly of me. I... don't want to disappoint them." Gordie's lower lip wobbles. "I—"

He covers his eyes with his gloved hand, shuddering. Piers doesn't know what he'll do if the guy actually starts crying.

"I lost every single match this week. Every single one."

Oh. That's not so bad. It happens. His gym doesn't have nearly as much traffic as Gordie's but he's suffered a bunch of losses plenty of times. He lost to Leon's kid brother, Marnie, and their friend all in a row.

There's a very real threat of him getting his fat gut cut open and his organs played around with and he's worried about that?

"That all? You're a gym leader, and a high level one at that. Losin' comes with the territory. You're actin' like your pokémon died or somethin'."

Gordie doesn't seem to hear him.

"I let everyone down. I'm going to fade into obscurity. Or if I do get remembered it'll be as a massive screwup." 

He's absolutely spiraling. 

"Steady, mate."

"Why did I think I could do this?" Gordie shakes his head, looking near-delirious with anger and panic. "Mum was right about me. Fuck!"

He bangs a hand on the table and once again Piers has to reassure the other patrons with a look that Gordie isn't a threat to him. They're getting very antsy. If he was closer to Gordie, he might reach out to give him a reassuring touch. With the state he's in, though, Gordie might lash out at him and every Team Yell member in the room will do him over.

"That's some textbook catastrophizin' right there," Piers tries to soothe the way he had with Marnie upon starting her journey. "You'll be fine."

"Being fine isn't good enough, but I guess that's all I've got."

Ain't that the truth?

He still looks absolutely sick and miserable, maybe even more than when Piers had first seen him. It's kind of sad.

"I'll come with you," Piers says, then at Gordie's look adds, "Just seein' you out. Can get dangerous around here."

Corviknight taxis can't get into the city proper, so he'll have to walk all the way to the entrance to get a ride back home. Based on how unwell he looks, he could definitely use an escort that will prevent him getting jumped.

After they've both paid, they start towards the exit. Piers exchanges some small smiles of reassurance with the members of Team Yell present to assure that they won't feel the need to follow them out.

"I'm... feeling a bit poorly," Gordie says the moment they're outside.

"You drink before I got here?"

"No. I just..." His bloated belly rumbles and groans like an angry linoone. "Oh, fuck me—"

Gordie hurls the lid off of a nearby trash can, leans over it, and chunders up a good portion of his dinner. He straightens up a little when he stops, but he still looks paler than usual.

"Piers. Piers, mate, hold my hair back, I don't want to bugger it up..."

Priorities. Still, Piers leans down, grabs the hair hanging around Gordie's face, and pulls it back out of the way. There are a few flecks of foul liquid in his bangs already that he wipes away.

Just in time, too. He dry-heaves, then more vomit spills between his lips. Piers averts his eyes. The food had already looked pretty gross to begin with, he doesn't need to see it half-digested and upswallowed.

Gordie wipes his mouth off on his sleeve at the next break in the action. "That stew was bad. Rotten."

"Nah. Was probably the sausage."

"Guess it doesn't matter what it was, it's all the same—urp—" He voms again, but it's mostly liquid based on the sound of it.

Gordie has really soft hair. It's hard to truly appreciate right now, but Piers at least notices it.

Once he's at least semi-recovered, Piers lets go of his hair and says, "C'mon. You can wash up at my place."

Gordie wipes his mouth off again. "You're just saying that 'cause you want to get in my pants."

Arceus, is he that transparent?

"In this state?" Piers flaps a hand, dismissive. "Hell no." 

Gordie gives him an unreadable look. "But in other states..?"

Piers fidgets with his choker. "My flat's close. C'mon." 

"This place smells like wet zigzagoon," Gordie proclaims once they enter his studio flat a few minutes later.

"Sorry, your highness, would've gotten some incense if I knew you were comin'." Besides, at the moment he smells like vomit, so where does he get off? "Water heater's broke. You're better off washin' up in the sink than the shower."

Gordie takes his advice. He helps himself to his toothpaste and cleans his tongue and teeth with his fingers. Piers goes to the other side of the flat to toss his jacket on his bed. When he turns back, Gordie's struggling out of his jacket and then his shirt, too.

"What're you doin'?" Piers demands.

He throws both articles of clothing to the floor, leaving his upper half naked save for the necklace that comes to rest between his plump pecs.

"You think I didn't notice the way you were looking at me?" Gordie runs his hand down his torso and his ring flashes in the low light.

"You're drunk," Piers says, despite knowing he hasn't touched a drop.

"You wish," Gordie says, grinning with confidence that would not at all suggest he'd just been retching his guts up in a filthy trash can. "Come on. Touch me. Make me feel good about something today."

Piers chews on his lower lip. Gordie clearly couldn't give less of a shite about him; this is all opportunistic. His days of sleeping around have long since passed but Gordie seems right smack in the middle of the phase. It doesn't sound like he wants to go all the way, though.

Touching. He can do touching.

"Fine, then. But only 'cause you're so desperate."

Gordie huffs but looks pleased to have gotten his way. Piers reaches out and skims his fingertips up one of Gordie's arms. He looks like he's got a body like an audino's and provided Piers doesn't press down too hard he feels like one, too. All soft and jiggly with fat unless his fingers sink too deep. Then there's some muscle, sudden firmness, particularly around the shoulders. He's no pushover. Piers looms over him in terms of height, just like he does with most people, but Gordie could probably snap him in half. That shouldn't be a turn-on, but it is.

Gordie, impatient, says, "Come on, really touch me. Grab me. Don't be such a cream puff."

What a needy little—big—thing. Piers makes a face at him and grabs his gut with both hands. Despite asking for it, Gordie makes a surprised noise. Maybe he hadn't expected him to go for his belly.

"Look who's talking," he says, squeezing until the fat bulges between his bony fingers. "You know all about cream puffs, don't you, lard-arse?"

"Fuck off," Gordie growls, but there isn't enough bite for Piers to think he's truly offended.

"Sorry, what was that? I don't speak beached wailord."

Gordie licks his lips and arches his back a little, pressing his belly into Piers' grasp even more. After a moment spent squeezing, sinking the tips of his fingers and nails into him, trying to teach him a lesson, Piers lets his hands relax into a less claw-shaped gesture. He smooths his palms over the widest, plumpest part of his gut, then touches where the fat has gathered into love handles that are usually smoothed out by his gym uniform.

The bit of trimmed ice-blond hair on his lower belly is silky-soft, just like his skin. Piers drags his forefinger and thumb down either side of the trail of hair, stopping once he reaches the hem of Gordie's trousers. He's suddenly the lightest bit self-conscious about his own wiry, patchy body hair.

"You neaten that up yourself or pay people to clean it up?" He asks Gordie.

"What do you think?"

Of course he gets groomed like a prized furfrou. Piers has never seen one in person, but he's seen enough pictures online to know they make his poor obstagoon look even mangier by comparison.

Abruptly, Gordie's stomach rumbles. Piers snickers and Gordie flushes dark red.

"You hungry again?" Piers asks, squeezing his tummy. "You just ate enough for a family of four."

"I vommed most of it up. You know that."

"Yeah, and you ain't nauseous from that, neither?"

"Nope."

Piers glances at his fridge. "Haven't got much."

"I'll take whatever."

"'Course you will."

Piers lets go of Gordie to go investigate the fridge. He doesn't eat much in general, so there's no need for a lot of food. Marnie made him a plateful of sweet slowpoke tail curry that week and he left it covered until now. It's old and kind of gross but Gordie isn't in any position to be picky. He splashes some water from the sink onto it to rehydrate the rice before throwing it into the micro.

Suddenly Gordie is standing beside him, looking very impatient for the food to be done. He distracts himself by reaching out to touch Pier's back, still clothed in his gym uniform. Piers forces himself to stay still. He hadn't expected Gordie would care enough to touch him back.

Gordie runs a fingertip up Piers’ spine, sliding his hand under his hair, then hesitates over his hunchback. "Does this hurt?"

"Nah," Piers says, automatic, used to reassuring Marnie. "Well. Can get a little stiff sometimes. Achey. But it's nothin'."

He rolls his shoulders, reflexive. 

The microwave beeps and he takes the curry out to stir it around with a fork before tossing it right back in. Gordie looks grumpy at having to wait longer, but somehow Piers thinks he'll be grumpier if he gets a mouthful of cold food. 

Gordie crosses his arms over his bare chest. "With your back... did you ever have someone in the league try and get you to—"

"Have it operated on?" He rolls his shoulders again. "Yeah. Rose says it'd be a 'posterior spinal fusion' with some rods n' screws or summat jammed in there, too."

"You don't want to have it done," Gordie says, stating the obvious.

"Not on their poké, no. Don't want to owe them." It could be argued he already does, but that's besides the point.

“I could—“

Piers looks sharply at him “I don’t need to owe you, neither.”

“Got it.” Gordie nods and holds his hands up. "They've tried to pressure me into surgery, too. Not everyone's as charmed by all this as you." 

Gordie gestures vaguely to what looks like his entire person. 

So he'd been right. It makes him ill to have it confirmed. Still, Piers is glad to have the topic of conversation moved off of him.

"Your fans are. Charmed, I mean."

Gordie laughs. "Mm. Yeah. Chairman's worried I'm a bad influence on them. As long as they don't use food as a solution for every friggin' problem I think they'll be okay."

Piers glances at the microwave. Maybe this is enabling behavior and he's just doing the worst possible thing. That said, it's a very reasonable portion of curry, not like the mountains of food he'd eaten earlier. Wouldn't hurt to check...

"You sure you want to eat this?"

Gordie waves him off. "This is different. I'm fine."

Piers isn't sure about that.

The microwave beeps and shuts off again. The sweet smell of cooked berries hangs heavily in the apartment.

"Finally. Give it here," Gordie says.

Piers takes the plate out and holds it out of arm's reach. "What if I feed it to you instead? Can't trust you not to get sick again if you eat at your own pace."

He's mostly teasing, so he's startled when Gordie says, "Fine," almost like he'd been expecting it. Maybe considering the videos his fans had taken of him this is almost normal.

He turns away and sits down on one of Piers' dining room chairs. It creaks dangerously under his weight. 

"Come on, I'm starving."

"No you ain't."

Piers hesitates a moment longer, then joins him at the other chair. He leans forward across the table to reach him. When offered a steaming forkful of curry, Gordie all but lunges forward to take a bite.

"Blimey, you don't have to kill it," Piers says, pulling the fork away, "it's already dead. Sort of." 

The slowpoke isn't but the tail sure is.

"That's not half bad," Gordie comments around the mouthful of curry.

Just as before, it's strangely fascinating to watch him eat. The sound of him chewing. The way his throat bobs as he swallows. The pure satisfaction as he licks his pouty lips.

"My sister made it," Piers says for lack of anything more profound to say and feeds him another bite.

Gordie hums. "Tell her more berries next time."

He shakes off the lingering weird feelings and points at him with the fork. "Don't talk with your mouth full and go slow. You ain't chokin' on my watch." 

Or vomiting again.

Gordie swallows. "You're worse than my mum."

"You still let your mum feed you? You've got issues, mate."

"No—! I meant when I was a kid," Gordie splutters, then looks thoughtful. "Had a sweet Wyndonian lass feed me once in this weird sexual way, too, but she let me eat fast."

Piers feeds him another bite. He's at once jealous of the woman and cross that she'd let Gordie think eating quickly when he's got issues with food is acceptable.

Then there's that other detail—"Who said this was sexual?"

"You're getting turned on by this," Gordie says flatly.

He's not wrong. Piers' form-fitting clothes don't exactly do him any favors when it comes to covering up erections and the table isn't large enough to block it, either. He'd been pointedly ignoring it up until this point just because he knew if he acknowledged it he'd become aware of just how uncomfortable it is. Now he's aware. Tight. So tight.

"You've got a nice mouth when you're not usin' it to talk rubbish, s'all," Piers says, crossing his legs, which only serves to make the restriction tighter.

"That right?"

Gordie licks his plump lips slowly, deliberately, and looks at him with those carbink-blue eyes half-lidded. It's so performative and fake. It makes Piers bite his lip all the same. 

Gordie ruins it with a bellowing laugh. "Oh, you are too easy. Didn't take you for the type to get all hot and bothered with just a look."

"Yeah, well, you don't know me at all, do you?" He shoves a heaping forkful of curry into Gordie's mouth to punctuate the sentiment.

It makes him irritated to be caught out showing any sort of vulnerability beyond the theatrics he pulls during gym battles.

Gordie sobers. He swallows the big mouthful and pushes his hair out of his eye.

"I'd like to. Get to know you, I mean. You've been nothing but nice and I haven't exactly done anything to deserve it," he says, soft, not at all his usual boisterous self.

"Don't get all sentimental on me. I'm just lookin' out for my fellow gym leader, s'all."

To his credit, Gordie stays quiet as Piers feeds him the rest.

Once the plate is scraped clean, Gordie sits back and rubs his pale, plump belly. “Mm, that’s much better.”

Unlike the pure misery on his face in the restaurant, Gordie actually looks contented. No, more than that. He's grinning like a spoiled housemeowth. That shouldn't be hot. That shouldn't be hot. It's so hot.

"You're still hard," Gordie observes.

“Yeah. Wanna help me out?"

"Lookin' out for my fellow gym leader, yeah?" Gordie says in a rough approximation of his accent and smirks. "How would I do that?"

He's going to make him say it. Piers rolls his eyes. Whatever. He's shameless.

He leans forward. "You wanna fuck me?”

Gordie cocks his head. “You want me to do the fucking?”

“I think you’ve been doted on enough tonight, yeah.”

Gordie looks him up and down as if he hasn't had ample opportunity to do so all night. Piers stays slouched and frowning under the scrutiny.

"I could do that."

He puts a towel down on the bed because there is no way he's going to be arsed to wash his sheets tonight or tomorrow for that matter.

"Should be clean down there," Piers says, indicating his bum, "I haven't eaten anythin' besides that biscuit since... mm, day before yesterday."

Gordie raises his eyebrows. "That's... worrisome."

Piers shrugs. "That's just how it is."

"Between you and me maybe we can balance out to make one whole person who eats proper." 

"Or one whole person who's always swingin' between the two extremes," Piers says, then turns to his bed. "Would prefer not to lie down on my back, 'cause—"

"Right, right. On your knees, then?"

Piers nods and assumes the position. Gordie kneels behind him, rubbing lube between his fingers.

Almost at once Gordie gets a little too eager, all but jabbing him in the prostate. It mostly feels good but there’s a definite painful tenderness to it thanks to his fingernails.

“Little gentler—“ Piers grits out.

“Sorry, sorry, been a second since I’ve been with a bloke.”

“Can’t imagine lasses like havin’ you stabbin' 'em with your fingers, neither.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Piers supposes he wouldn’t know. He struggles to think of a woman he regularly speaks with outside of his little sister, and she’s definitely not at the age where Gordie would be ramming his fingers inside her. The thought is such a turn-off he gets a bit soft.

"If you want me to suck you off instead you should just say so," Gordie says, totally misinterpreting the reason his erection flagged.

"It's not that," Piers protests, though the idea is more than appealing.

"All those hints about my mouth?" Gordie draws out the word and licks his lips. "Come on, I'm not thick. Not like that, anyway."

"Maybe not instead, but, yanno. You could do that, too."

He removes his hands and pats his thigh. "Spread your legs."

It takes spreading them pretty far to make room for his broad shoulders, but eventually Gordie ends up on his back between his legs with his fingers reinserted into Piers' arse and his mouth on his cock.

It turns out Gordie gives blowjobs just like he eats, quickly and hungrily. He has no trouble at all swallowing Piers' shaft deep in his throat to the point that Piers wonders how the hell he isn't gagging. The laving tongue on the underside of his cock and the bit of teeth scraping at the base and the contracting of his gullet on his cockhead all come together in warm bliss. Having his plump fingers still inside slicking him up with lube and stimulating his prostate only makes it better. It feels so good his bollocks ache.

It pains Piers to tell Gordie he needs to quit or he's going to shoot his load already. 

"Don't you dare come on my face," Gordie says after releasing Piers' throbbing cock. "I don't handle spunk in my eyes well."

"Don't think most people do," Piers says, shaking his head.

Gordie shimmies out from under him and gets behind him again.

"Still need me to treat you like a delicate little budew?" Gordie asks, patting Piers' arse.

"Tosser. I just didn't need your nails cuttin' me before we even got started."

"But roughing you up with my cock is fine," Gordie says, stroking said cock with slick, lube-enhanced sounds.

"...yeah. More than fine."

“In that case, I’m gonna make you sing for me," Gordie says.

“You’ve been just dyin’ to say that, eh?” 

"For a while, yeah." Gordie drapes his belly on Piers’ lower back as he lines his cock up with his arsehole.

There are more than a few stout lads in Team Yell that he’s fucked, but none of them were so flabby that their bellies drooped onto him. He's so large and heavy in a way Piers isn't sure he appreciated when he was groping his gut.

“Fuck, you’re big,” Piers breathes.

"In more ways than one," Gordie sing-songs as he presses the head of his cock to Piers' anus.

Piers has to hold back crying out then and there at the burning stretch of Gordie’s cock entering him. The anticipation had made him a bit tense even with all the prep.

He grits his teeth and tries to relax. The soft heat of Gordie's belly and thighs and hands on Piers is now complemented by his hotter, pulsing cock inside of him. It's almost overwhelming.

Gordie hums and squeezes Piers' bony hip. "You feeling okay?"

He takes a deep breath. "Mmm. Yeah. Get goin'. Hard, like I said."

The moment Piers gives him the go-ahead, Gordie starts absolutely ramming him.

Piers' worn-out bedsprings squeak and and the frame groans in light of the movements and Gordie’s ponderous weight. It takes all of Piers' limited strength not to pitch forward and collapse under the force of his thrusts. 

"You break my bed you're payin' for it," Piers warns Gordie through sighing gasps.

"You could use a new one," he replies, giving a particularly hard thrust that bangs the headboard against the wall.

Piers cries out as Gordie slams into his prostate in tandem. The resulting tingling sensation spreads out like warm honey to his pelvis and thighs and bollocks.

He balls his hands in the sheets, groaning through his teeth. "Neighbors're gonna hate me."

He usually manages to keep more of a lid on his volume, being that Team Yell members that fuck him always treat him like glass and go frustratingly gentle. When it comes to sex they belie their name. Gordie has no such qualms.

"What? For being loud? You're having a rocking time and you wanna let them know," Gordie pants laughingly, "nothing wrong that that."

"That was the worst pun I've ever heard. Insultin', even. I'm gonna kick your arse, you—" Piers cuts himself off, eyes rolling back as another bolt of pleasure jolts through him. "Fuck—!"

"'Kick my arse.' Ha! You're not gonna be able to stand up proper after I'm done with you."

Gordie sweeps a hand up over Piers' prominent ribs and stops to pinch a nipple. Unsurprisingly, he’s got rich boy hands; soft fingers and palms. It belies how blocky and broad his fingers are. Somehow handling his rock pokémon hasn't torn them up at all. Maybe he uses gloves.

"You like this? You like having your tits played with while I fuck you?"

"Of the two of us, you're the one who's got tits," Piers says, but he has to admit after more teasing that he likes it a lot.

He's already so worked up from Gordie sucking his cock that he doesn't last long at all.

"Please, please—yes, yes—" Piers descends into wordless yelling as he comes.

Some of the ejaculate misses the towel he'd put down and makes it on the sheets. In the small part of his mind that's not absolutely overwhelmed by a post-orgasmic haze, Piers is intensely annoyed.

"Arceus damn it—"

He's distracted from the prospect of having to clean his sheets by Gordie continuing to fuck him for all he's worth. It takes a little while longer and no small amount of compliments on his performance from Piers for Gordie to reach his own shuddering climax.

Fucking again half an hour later in his small, ice-cold shower is a hazardous affair. Piers hits his temple on the shower head and Gordie bruises his hip on the handle when the former tries to adjust his position.

"Stop moving," Gordie says, pushing Piers against one wall.

The iciness of the water is only amplified by the tile. His hot cock gets pinned between it and his concave belly and it's not nearly as unpleasant as it ought to be. It probably helps that his arse is full of Gordie's cock. Anything would feel good in combination with that.

"That's it," Gordie says, pushing aside the sopping masses of Piers' hair out of the way so he can lean against him a bit as he rocks his hips. "That's the ticket..."

Just to spite him, Piers starts to struggle, pushing away from the wall, only to have Gordie pin him with a broad forearm against his lower back. He leans his full weight against Piers, then, enveloping his bony body in plush flesh.

"I said keep still," he growls.

Piers looks over his shoulder with a little laugh. "You're real lush when you're all commandin'."

Gordie blinks, then grins up at him, all but sparkling in light of the praise.

"Don't let that get to your head."

"Too late."

Gordie has to hold Piers up with an arm slung around his middle to keep him from collapsing when they've both come again.

"You're so frail, mate," Gordie says, stroking his side with what Piers can't help but read as tenderness. "Do I need to be worried about you?"

"Jus' a mite worn out after doin' it back to back. We can't all be sexed-up twenty year olds," Piers says, leaning heavily into Gordie's bulk and away from the cold shower water.

He's never had a sky-high libido to begin with, which is why getting so turned on by Gordie had taken him aback so much.

"Aren't you only thirty something?"

"'M twenty-seven."

To be fair, stress hasn't really done his body any favors in that department. He feels closer to Opal's age some days.

After getting out of the shower and taking turns using Piers' blow dryer to dry their hair, Piers lays down on his side in bed. He's a little taken aback when Gordie throws an arm over him and cuddles up to him from behind. He can't recall ever being the little spoon. It's nice.

Well, it's nice up until he discovers Gordie snores. Piers covers his head with a pillow. He barely sleeps as it is but it's particularly annoying and hard to think up song melodies and lyrics in his head to keep him entertained with snorlax-level volume beside him. At least he makes up for it by being cuddly.

Around two in the morning, after he has fallen into blissful unconsciousness for all of twenty minutes, Piers wakes up again to feel Gordie squeezing his thigh.

"You still in the mood?" Gordie asks.

His first instinct is to answer no, he wants to go the hell to sleep, but then he figures he'll just plan on sleeping the day away tomorrow. Not like he's likely to get any gym challenges and his next gig is a week away.

"...yes."

Gordie just about milks his bollocks dry that night.

Piers limps more than a little the next morning.

"Didn't bang you up too badly, did I?" Gordie sounds concerned but the grin on his face suggests he's smug with the state he's left him in.

"M'fine." 

Wouldn't be the first time he got his arse pounded that hard, won't be the last.

Gordie sniffs out a package of expired biscuits in a high shelf and a package of swinub bacon hidden under some empty ice trays in the freezer for breakfast. He puts the kettle on for some tea before frying up half the bacon.

Gordie insists that he eat something, too, so Piers nibbles on one of the hard biscuits and a slice of bacon while his guest gobbles up the rest. He notices that Gordie takes his time a little more and that he hadn't made an entire package worth of bacon. That's gotta be a step in the right direction.

"You really need to get some better food," Gordie says, extracting a biscuit from where he'd dropped it in his tea and tossing the sopping mass into his mouth.

"Why, to feed you?"

"Yeah, but yourself, too. C'mon, have another," Gordie says, holding out another slice of bacon across the table.

Piers rolls his eyes but leans forward and bites the end of it to yank it away from Gordie's hand. 

Gordie's eyes widen and his cheeks flush. "Hm. Can see why you were into watching me eat now."

"You can't seriously be good to go again after last night."

He is. And so Piers sucks him off and humps against his leg under the table without actually getting off himself—he's too exhausted for it—but a small swallow of spunk and lots of cute noises from Gordie are more than enough to satisfy him.

At the door, Piers says, "You should be fine gettin' out of town from here. We're only two lefts away from route 9."

Gordie nods. Then he grabs Piers by the shoulder, pulls him down to his height, and kisses him. It takes him by surprise, both because of the gesture itself and the softness of it. He pulls away slowly. Gordie's bright eyes meet with Piers', which he knows for a fact are a much duller and washed out.

"Still think I have a nice mouth?" Gordie asks, almost coy.

"Yeah. Real nice."

"Well, you can have at it whenever you want." He winks.

Where does he get off being this cute?

He's got to protect this lad from the league however he can. He's too young for them to have truly fucked him over yet and one of few gym leaders Piers thinks will listen to him over Rose. The thought of Gordie's paradoxically soft and strong body and his clearly frangible mental health getting jerked around to suit Galar's needs makes his blood boil.

"Here. Take my league card. You need anythin', Team Yell and I have got you."

Gordie snorts. "If I ever need rescuing by your little sister's fan club I'll be in real trouble."

Still, he accepts the card and hands over his own.

"Thanks for..." Gordie mulls it over, then settles on "...putting up with me."

"Mmhm, you're a handful," Piers says, grabbing one of his round buttocks.

Gordie startles, then smiles at him. He punches him in the arm and nearly knocks Piers over.

"You're coming to my place next time. I've got much better nosh and softer pillows."

"Next time?" He thought that comment from before about full-time access to his mouth was hyperbolic.

Gordie scoffs. "You don't think I'm okay only getting my rocks off with you in your little flat alone, do you? 

"Nah," Piers says, somewhat dazed. "Guess not."

Gordie kisses him again on the corner of the mouth. Affectionate little bugger once he got past all the arseholeishness. 

"Take it easy, Piers."

"Ta, Gordie."

Gordie salutes as he walks out. Piers turns away and closes the door to hide his grin.

He yanks it back open moments later. "You didn't just fuckin' say 'getting my rocks off' just now, did you?"