just another blog

|| 30+ year old nerdy chick writing fiction ||

[sinaliciousposts]

Hey all. So I've been weeping the loss of another awesome franchise: Vampire The Masquerade Bloodlines.

What they are calling VtMB2 is everything but a Bloodlines game. I waited so long and now this was released....

Well, this is not about moping around. This is about a great character in my opinion: Bishop Vick

Just hear me out! I love his voice acting and I love the character (hate the fight against him, he and his shotgun just suck. Died multiple times in every playthrough).

There is no denying, I think Vick is hot. It's such a cool concept of a Toreador being twisted and only seeing beauty in ruin, sickness and death. Fantastic concept! At least that is how I see Vick.

And so I have written a small little smut piece with Bishop Vick at the center. And my favorite clan on the opposite: Malkavian.

Who else could appreciate madness ensing in ruin and destruction like Vick?

I hope you like it. I sure as hell loved writing it. Enjoy!

Minors do not read! You have been warned!

Fandom: Vampire The Masquerade Bloodlines

Pairing: Bishop Vick/female (Malk!) Reader

18+ only, smut, "choking", overstimulation, oral (Reader recieving), multiple orgasms, visions

Beautiful ruin

The candlelight wobbles, soft and fractured, bouncing shadows across concrete and bare skin. She’s already sprawled, eyes wild with secrets. There’s something about the way she grins. Malkavian madness, electric and impossible to pin down. I want to devour her and never let her out of my mouth.

I kneel between her legs, knees planted wide, cargo pants still on. She’s not afraid, not even pretending—no, she’s waiting, like she’s read this scene before and wants to see how I’ll improvise.

God, she’s beautiful in the kind of way only the broken are. I catch her gaze and see my own ending in it.

“You’re trouble,” I murmur, fingers trailing up her calves, over her knees, slow and firm. “Worse than the rest. You see too much. You laugh when the world burns.”

She tilts her head, birdlike, curious and hungry. “And you keep looking for a punchline, Vick. Isn’t that what you want?”

I chuckle. That rasping sound always comes out when she’s close by. “No punchline tonight. Just ruin.”

I slide my hands under her thighs, hoist her higher, press her open. She’s cool to the touch—dead, yes, but she feels alive under me. That’s her trick. That’s why I keep coming back.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, sharp little tugs, not in control but desperate to ground herself in the moment.

I lower my head and taste her, slow at first. She shudders—there’s no pulse, but there’s need, and I can sense it, thick and loud, thrumming through her like static. Her nails dig into my scalp, a warning and a plea.

“You’re a work of art,” I growl, licking up her inner thigh, tasting the madness, the hunger, the sheer fucking joy in her. “I want to tear you apart and paint the walls with what’s left.”

She laughs with a discordant melody, shivery and sweet. “Make it pretty, lover. Make it last.”

My tongue finds her, my mouth claiming everything she offers, and she falls apart in fits and starts, all wildness and wonder. I keep her pinned, worshipping her with my mouth, drinking in every fractured moan. She’s the only thing that makes sense in a world that’s already ended.

Let the world burn. Let madness reign. Tonight, I’ll worship her ruin until we both forget our names.

Her legs tense around my shoulders, thighs flexing hard, like she’s trying to hold on to something solid. Either me or the last scrap of reality in her chaos. I dig my fingers into her hips, greedy, pulling her down, making sure she doesn’t slip away when she starts to writhe. Her sounds start low, almost a hum, and then spiral higher—soft at first, then those broken little mewls that get stuck in her throat.

She tastes like iron and madness, like rain on old stone. I lap at her, relentless, tongue working in slow circles and then rough, fast flicks. I know what she likes now, the places that make her shudder, the way she can’t keep still when I get it right. Her hands fist tight in my hair, pulling, anchoring, begging without a word.

She falls apart for me. Her voice sharp and sweet, hips bucking, legs trembling. Her whole body goes taut, sharp gasp breaking on my name, then dissolves into helpless, delirious moans. I keep her there, mouth pressed tight, licking her through the aftershocks until she’s nothing but shivers and spent laughter.

When I finally lift my head, her eyes are wild and glazed, a crooked grin stretching her lips. She looks at me like I’m the only sane thing left in her world. And we both know that’s a goddamn lie.

My breath’s ragged, jaw slick from her, and I don’t even bother wiping it away. I kneel up between her legs, fingers fumbling at my belt. The metal clicks loud in the hush. She’s watching me, pupils blown wide, lips parted, hair wild from the way she thrashed. She’s whispering—snatches of prophecy, maybe, or riddles twisted up with want. None of it makes sense, but it’s music all the same.

I work the buttons of my pants, shove them down to mid-thigh, cock already hard, aching for her. Her gaze drags down, lingering, pupils glinting with some secret only she can see. I don’t care what ghosts she’s talking to.

I grab her by the hips, voice low, steady—hungry.

“I’m not done with you. Not by a long shot.”

She smiles, a wicked, knowing thing, and starts to laugh. It's low and unhinged, like she’s seeing the world split at the seams and wants to drag me through the tear with her.

Let her. I want all of it. Her madness, her ruin, her body clutching mine. I guide myself to her, rough and sure, and push inside. The world could end around us, and I’d call it art.

I sink into her slow, savoring the stretch, the way her back arches up—offering herself, surrendering, or maybe just chasing some vision only she can see. Her legs fall open for me, limp and wanting, breath stuttering as I bottom out, every inch of me buried deep. She feels impossibly tight, impossibly alive. Her nails rake along my sides, desperate for something real to hang onto.

I start moving, steady at first—long, deep strokes that have her moaning, her head rolling against the mattress. The sounds she makes aren’t words, not anymore, just broken hymns and stuttering pleas. Each time I thrust, I watch her fall apart a little more—hair wild, eyes wide, mouth open as if she’s trying to swallow the world and scream it back out again.

She’s perfect like this: wild and shattered, all ruin and splendor, the way only a Malkavian can be. I want to break her more, drag us both deeper, make us something holy in our destruction. I grab her thigh, wrench it higher, spreading her wider. My other hand finds her jaw, thumb stroking over her lips, smearing her moans across her skin.

“Look at you,” I rasp, voice raw with awe and hunger. “So fucking beautiful when you break. Let me see more.”

And I fuck her harder, chasing that perfect ruin, wanting to be remade in her madness and desire.

Her pulse doesn’t beat, but I feel something under my palm anyway—some phantom rhythm, some echo of the woman she used to be. My hand slides from her mouth to her throat, fingers spreading, thumb pressing just enough to make her eyes snap to mine.

She wants this. I see it. That fever-bright hunger.

“Do it,” she whispers, voice frayed and distant, like she’s listening to something behind me. “Break the last piece.”

I tighten my grip—a purely symbolic gesture. Just to take control. I press enough to make her gasp, enough to make her pupils swallow the color of her irises whole. My pace changes. Slower for half a breath—then harder. Deeper. I drive into her with intent, watching the way her body reacts.

She flutters around me, tight and erratic, every thrust pulling a new sound from her. Her hands claw at my shoulders to drag me closer, to anchor herself in the friction and force.

I squeeze her throat just a little more, feeling the tension ripple through her. Her back arches higher, offering her chest, exposing her completely. She looks ruined already with her hair tangled, lips swollen, eyes glassy with visions.

And I am mesmerized.

This is art. This moment. The way she trembles, the way her mind fractures open under pleasure instead of fear. I want to see it all spill out. I want to be the one who pushes her past the edge she’s been circling.

“You’re so close,” I murmur, voice rough and reverent. “I can feel you breaking.”

My hips snap harder now, rhythm relentless, cargo pants still hanging low around my thighs, knees planted firm on the mattress as I drive into her. She spasms around me, tight and desperate, and that almost undoes me. The way she clenches, the way she tries to swallow me whole—

She laughs and sobs in the same breath, a sound that makes my chest ache. Her nails dig in deep, sharp enough to tear skin, and I feel her coming on the edge of something wild and irreversible.

I hold her there.

Right at the brink.

Because when she shatters, I want to see every piece fall.

And she does shatter.

It hits her all at once. Her whole body going rigid beneath me, back bowing off the mattress, a broken cry ripping out of her like something being torn open. Her legs clamp tight around my hips, heels digging into the mattress, trying to find ground. Her nails carving down my shoulders as she comes hard around me.

I feel it. Those violent, pulsing contractions, tight and relentless. She’s shaking, shuddering, laughter bleeding into sobs, eyes unfocused and full of things I’ll never understand.

It’s breathtaking.

I keep moving, but let go of her throat — the gesture more ritual than necessity — and slide my hand down, fingers digging into the weight of her breast. I palm her roughly, thumb dragging over her nipple, feeling her jolt again even in the aftershocks.

She’s still clenching around me. Still fluttering.

My thrusts turn heavier, more deliberate. No more teasing pace. I drive into her with purpose, hips snapping, my knees braced against the ground. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, wet and obscene and perfect.

She’s still coming down from it, her body twitching, mouth open, whispering fractured nonsense — and I’m watching her like a man witnessing revelation.

“You see it now?” I growl, breath rough, pace unrelenting. “You see how beautiful it is when you fall apart?”

Her head lolls, eyes trying to focus on me, lips parted around another broken sound. I grab her hip harder, spreading her wider, angling deeper. I want her to feel every inch of me while she’s still trembling, still open.

She wanted the last piece gone.

And I’m going to make sure it shatters properly.

My hand slides down from her breast, over the soft curve of her stomach, until my thumb finds her clit — swollen, sensitive, wrecked from what I’ve done to her.

I press there deliberately.

She jolts.

A broken sound spills out of her. It is half protest, half plea, and I start rubbing slow, tight circles. Not kind. Not gentle. Just enough pressure to drag her right back toward the edge she barely survived.

Her body reacts instantly. Her hips twitch uncontrollably, trying to escape and chase at the same time. She’s still pulsing around me, still sensitive from that last climax, and I can feel the way overstimulation makes her shudder.

“Too much?” I murmur, knowing damn well she doesn’t want me to stop.

She shakes her head weakly, whispering something that doesn’t belong here.

I frown, but I don’t slow down.

Something is crawling through her mind.

It makes no sense to me. It never does. But the way she says it, so breathless, her eyes wide and glassy, staring at something beyond my shoulder — it’s beautiful. Terrifying and beautiful.

My thumb keeps working her clit, relentless. My hips snap harder, driving deep, keeping her pinned open beneath me. Every thrust forces a new gasp from her, every circle of my thumb pulling her closer to another collapse.

“You’re seeing things again,” I rasp, almost reverent. “Tell me what you see.”

She whimpers, tries to speak, but it dissolves into a sharp cry when I press harder, when I grind into her just right. Her legs shake violently around my waist.

She’s unraveling again.

From me.

From pleasure forced so hard it fractures whatever thin line of sanity she’s clinging to. And I can’t look away. I don’t want to.

If this is madness, if this is the last light before the world goes dark, then it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed.

And I push her right back into it.

I lean over her, grip tightening on her hips as I keep driving into her, thumb still circling that swollen, oversensitive spot. She’s trembling, barely coherent, eyes rolled half back.

“Tell me,” I demand again, voice low and sharp. “What do you see?”

Her head jerks, breath hitching in broken pieces.

“The man in numbers… the full moon beast, it tears and tears—” Her fingers claw at my shoulders. “The beastly scholar watches, he knows, always knows— the nasty ones, trapped by rotten flesh, they’re screaming— the hunters— they burned the prophet, they burned him—”

It’s nonsense. Fractured poetry from a shattered mind.

But the way she says it, like it’s truth carved into her bones, makes something inside me tighten.

I don’t understand any of it.

I don’t care.

Her body is shaking harder now, words dissolving into sobs and gasps as I press harder with my thumb, thrust deeper, faster. I can feel her right there again—tightening, quivering, losing whatever thin thread she was clinging to.

“Look at me,” I growl, forcing her focus back down to earth, to flesh and heat and force. “Stay here with me.”

Her mouth opens in a scream—

And she breaks.

Her whole body convulses violently around me, muscles locking, back arching so high I have to hold her down. She cries out loud and raw, and warmth spills between us in a sudden rush, soaking my stomach, my thighs, dripping down my cargo pants.

She’s shuddering uncontrollably, climax ripping through her in waves that don’t stop.

I freeze for half a second, stunned by the sheer intensity of it—by the way she floods against me, around me, like something finally tore open inside her.

Then I move again.

Slow at first. Then deeper.

Watching her collapse back to the mattress, eyes glassy and distant, chest heaving out of habit more than need.

I drag my thumb lazily over her one last time, smearing the evidence of her unraveling across her skin.

“Beautiful,” I rasp, almost to myself.

I don’t understand her visions.

But the way she fractures for me?

That makes perfect sense.

Her body is limp beneath me, shuddering in aftershocks, slick and wild and ruined. I plant both hands hard on her waist, fingers digging into the curve of her ribs, pinning her exactly where I want her. I need the leverage. I need to feel every last spasm wracking through her, every helpless clutch and flutter as I drive into her, chasing the end.

She’s gone, completely lost—her head thrown back, hair plastered to her temples, eyes unfocused and lips moving, whispering over and over: “Don’t open it… don’t open it… don’t open it…”

I slam into her, relentless, the sound of skin against skin echoing off the walls, knees braced on cold concrete now, body slick with sweat and her. Every few thrusts she clenches around me, still milking me, nerves firing at random—making me groan, making my own control fray and snap.

She keeps whispering.

She doesn’t even see me anymore, but her body knows me. Knows what I’m doing to her.

I can feel it building. Tight, electric and inevitable. My hands flex on her ribs, holding her in place as I piston into her, faster, rougher, breath snarling out through bared teeth.

She’s all broken prayers and ruined beauty and I want to come inside her, want to drown in the madness we’ve made together.

I let myself go, chasing that raw, perfect oblivion.

I jump over the edge.

Everything inside me snaps tight, the world going white and raw. I lunge forward, one hand shooting past her head, gripping the filthy mattress for purchase as I slam in deep—hips locked, thighs trembling. My cock pulses hard, wave after wave tearing through me, spilling everything I am inside her. It rips a guttural groan from my throat, low and broken, nothing but need and relief and that rough edge I can never file down.

I stay there, shuddering, every muscle locked, breathing hard out of habit. My chest presses against hers, her body still twitching under me, those whispers finally fading, the trance broken by the violence of my release.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of my forced breath and her occasional gasps turning into breathless, empty laughter echoing off bare concrete and old candlelight. The world outside doesn’t matter. The future doesn’t exist.

It’s just ruin, and beauty, and us.

Then her fingers graze my ribs, soft and aimless, dragging shivers up my side. My skin prickles, nerves still raw from everything we’ve done. That touch—gentle, almost innocent—makes something animalistic rise up in me.

I bare my teeth, lips curling, breath rough against her skin. I don’t warn her. I just strike. Fast and hungry of a different kind, fangs driving into her neck. She yelps, the sound high and shocked, body going taut beneath me as I draw a deep, greedy gulp of her blood in this feral act of diablerie.

It’s electric. Her vitae floods my mouth, hot and vital, filled with that crackling Malkavian madness. I drink, just enough to feel her inside me. Feel her visions sparking along my nerves, her chaos mixing with my darkness. I feel her clench again, muscles tightening around me in another involuntary spasm, as if the bite and the memory of what we’ve done ignite her all over again.

I take another pull, then force myself to stop. I tear my mouth away, lifting my head, blood slick on my lips and chin, throat burning with satisfaction. My eyes fix on the wall, vision swimming, the taste of her driving me wild and grounding me all at once. I groan, deep and guttural, not caring about the mess or the blood running down to my chest, dripping into her face.

Beneath me, she mewls—soft, ruined, sated and undone. The world could end right now, and I would gladly accept it.

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Part 8

Last part. Also nsfw.

Again:

Minors do not read!

The rest of you degenerates? Feel free to enjoy ;)

PART 8

You’re still shaking. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but doesn’t look away from you.

You’re flushed, panting, thighs still twitching where he spread you open. And he just stares. The way a man stares at something he’s earned and is about to ruin all over again.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You look wrecked already.”

Your voice is hoarse, eyes half-lidded. “Then finish the job.”

He surges up over you, grabs your thigh, yanks it up around his hip. You barely get your breath back before the blunt head of his cock is sliding against your soaked folds, hot and thick and twitching.

He drives in with one swift thrust, and your mouth falls open in a strangled gasp.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls through clenched teeth, hips slamming flush to yours, balls heavy against your ass. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”

Your hands scramble up his back, nails dragging down muscle, clinging as he starts to move. His thrust’s hard and fast, like he’s been holding back since the second you opened the door.

He pins your other leg up into your chest, folding you open, grinding in deep on every stroke. The slap of skin-on-skin echoes in the room, raw and filthy and perfect.

He buries his face in your neck, grunting with every thrust, breath hot against your ear.

“You feel that?” he snarls between thrusts. “That’s what you do to me. Teasin’ me like that with all your talk. Fuck….”

You cry out, clutching his shoulders as he pistons into you, deep and forceful.

“I knew you’d take it,” he groans, pace relentless. “Knew I’d end up buried in this sweet little cunt.”

You choke on a moan when he hits a spot just right, again and again and again, until your thighs tremble, your fingers spasm against his back.

“Say it,” he growls, fucking you harder now, his cock stretching you wide, your body arching under him. “Say you wanted this.”

“I—fuck—yes,” you gasp. “I wanted it. Wanted you.”

His hand snakes between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing fast and rough. “Then come on it again, girl.”

You can’t do anything but follow his command, your body clenching around him, hot and tight and fluttering as your second orgasm of the night rips through you. It’s sharp and dirty and full of heat.

He grunts at the feel of it, hips stuttering. “Shit, shit, I’m gonna—”

He pulls out just in time, his grip tightening on your thighs as thick ropes of cum paint your stomach and tits. His chest is heaving, groans are spilling out ragged and raw.

He stays like that for a beat, looming over you, all sweaty, flushed and spent. Then he collapses beside you, one arm flung across your belly, breath shaking.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters again. “You definitley are the dessert.”

The only sound in the room for a while is the quiet drag of breath. Yours, high and unsteady. His, deep and heavy, like a man who’d just survived a storm of his own making.

Guzma lies half-sprawled beside you, arm draped over your waist, his hand splayed low on your stomach where streaks of his come are still warm against your skin. You’re still catching up. Your chest is rising and falling, your lips parted and your brain fogged from back-to-back orgasms and the feeling of him inside you like he’d meant to fuck the memory of it into your bones.

He groans softly, more content than pained this time. His thumb draws a slow circle over your belly, smearing some of the mess he left behind.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little smug. “You’re filthy.”

You smirk, breathless. “That your fault or mine?”

“Both,” he grins. “But mostly mine.”

You give his chest a lazy shove, and he just chuckles, shifting to roll onto his side. He almost absentminded presses a kiss to your temple, before finally pushing up from the bed and padding off toward the hallway in all his naked glory.

A moment later he returns with a damp towel and a glass of water.

“Drink,” he says, handing it over like it’s a command.

You do. Too tired to sass him. Too warm and boneless to pretend you’re not secretly pleased by the gesture.

Then he leans down, his big hand bracing your hip as he kneels beside the bed to clean you up in slow strokes, careful where you’re still sensitive. The towel’s warm and rough, but he’s gentle with it. Too gentle for a man who just fucked you like that.

“You always clean up after yourself?” you ask, amused, eyes half-lidded.

“Not really. Only when I care about where I made the mess,” he murmurs, wiping your thighs, then tossing the towel aside.

You blink. You didn’t expect him to give you an almost earnest answer.

But he’s already climbing back into bed, dragging the sheet up over both your bodies and pulling you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You nestle into his bare chest, letting your cheek rest against the light sheen of sweat. His skin smells like aftershave and heat and sex, and you close your eyes for a second, letting yourself melt there.

“So…” he says after a beat, voice low, lazy. “Was that a curse or a blessing?”

You smile against him. “Depends how your legs feel tomorrow.”

He lets out a short, winded laugh. “Then definitely a curse,” he pauses for a moment. “Nah, a blessing.”

He makes another pause and his voice gets quieter. “…You know I wasn’t just in this for the sex, right?”

You tilt your head, looking up at him. “No?”

“Nah,” he says, brushing a thumb down your arm. “You had me the second you sassed me at that party. You looked like you didn’t need a damn thing. Made me wanna see if I could be the one you wanted instead.”

Your throat tightens, but you play it cool. “Guess we’ll find out, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, turning to face you fully. “But if you keep makin’ pasta like that and kissin’ me like you wanna bite, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He leans in again and kisses you slow, deep. There is less heat now, but more weight.

The kind of kiss that says I’m staying if you let me. And right now, you don’t feel like cursing a damn thing.

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Part 7

Now we're talking.

This part is NSFW. So I got one thing to say:

Minors do not read!

I am serious. Most of your life will circle around nsfw topics anyway. Don't need to start now. Give yourself time to just be a kid. I swear to you, it's over faster than you'd like.

PART 7

When he reaches the door, kicks it open with one smooth motion. He doesn’t bother closing it. You don’t either. And he doesn’t slow down. You don’t want him to.

You barely register the creak of hinges before he strides in and drops you onto the mattress in an act of rough deliciousness. The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp little gasp, your hair fanned out as far your messy bun allows it, your back arching instinctively from the shock of landing.

But Guzma doesn’t give you a second to adjust.

Standing at the foot of your bed he’s already grabbing the waistband of your shorts and panties in one motion, yanking them down with zero ceremony. The fabric peels from your skin, leaving you bare before him, flushed and open under the soft light spilling in from the hallway from the lamp on your nightstand.

He tosses the clothes away without looking, but you can see the way his eyes drag down your body. With a slow greediness and his jaw tight with something closer to reverence than cockiness. Your breath hitches at that and even more heat pools low in your belly and even lower.

His hand drops to palm himself through his sweatpants, and his moans. “Fuck, girl…” His voice is hoarse now. Thicker. He makes a motion with his other hand. “Move up. On the bed.”

You scramble back, heart thudding, legs brushing together, the cool sheets suddenly feeling like fire under your bare skin. You don’t break eye contact.

He watches you go, lips parted.

Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and pushes them down, boxers and all. His cock springs free, thick and hard, and for a split-second you swear you stop breathing.

He kicks his socks off last, and then, naked now, all muscle and tension and hunger, he climbs onto the bed after you.

Not fast. Purposeful. Like a lion on the prowl.

His hands find your ankles first. He kisses the inside of one, slow, warm lips against skin that instantly prickles. Then the other, trailing up kisses along your shin, soft at first, almost tender.

Your breath catches when he reaches your knee, both hands gripping your thighs now, nudging them apart as he shifts higher.

And he looks up at you, grey eyes burning, almost dark with his pupils blown wide, lips parted, ready to devour.

His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, slow and firm, thumbs pressing into muscle like he’s feeling out every reaction. He kisses his way along your inner thigh, faint scruff of his chin grazing sensitive skin, making you shiver beneath him.

“Spread those legs for me,” he murmurs, voice thick, low. It is not a question. And you do as he says.

His grip tightens in approval. He groans as if seeing you open like this for him might push him past the edge.

“Fuckin’ beautiful…”

Then he ducks his head. His tongue drags up your slit in one long, unhurried stroke, and your whole body tightens. The first touch is warm, wet and soft. Then again, but firmer. His hands are anchoring you down, thumbs spreading your lips so he can really get in there.

He doesn’t rush. He explores.

His mouth settles against you, lips sealing around your clit as he starts to suck, slow and rhythmic, pulling soft little gasps from your throat. Then he flattens his tongue and rolls it once and your hips twitch up off the bed.

He grins into you. You can feel it. The cocky bastard likes that.

His hands slip down to your thighs again, keeping them open, keeping you grounded as he eats like a man with no intention of stopping. The pressure shifts. A soft lick here, a firm suck there, his tongue flicking faster, then slower, just to tease out the exact way your breath changes.

And then he finds it, that one spot that makes you almost see stars, and stays there. He’s not too fast and not too hard. Instead his mouth, his lips and tongue move steady against your core. Perfect.

“Come on, curse girl,” he mutters into you, lips brushing slick heat. “Gimme that first one.”

You can’t hold back. Your heels dig into the mattress, hands gripping the sheets, your spine arching as the pleasure starts to crest —

And he doesn’t let up.

The pressure at your clit stays constant, just enough friction, just enough rhythm, his mouth locked to you like your orgasm is the only thing that matters.

Finally it hits like fire. Sharp and hot and immediate, blooming from your core and spreading out until you're shuddering beneath him, hips stuttering, lips parted in a silent cry.

He groans when you come, eating you through it, letting you grind up into his mouth as much as you need. His fingers dig into your thighs like he feels it, like your release is his too.

Only when your body starts to twitch with overstimulation does he finally ease up. His mouth then softening, his licks turning gentle, almost affectionate.

He kisses your inner thigh again.

Then looks up to you. His lips wet, his chin glistening with your juices.

But that look in his eyes?

Starving.

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Part 6

Uuuhh, almost there. I promise the next part will be nsfw.

But this one is right on the edge.

Enjoy!

PART 6

His eyes flicker. Then his grin comes back, just not as wide as before.

And when he opens his mouth again to speak his voice is low. Almost gravelly. Too loaded to be casual. “Well, maybe I was wrong.”

You raise a brow. “About what?”

He doesn’t blink. His eyes intently watching you.

“Maybe you’re the dessert.”

The words hang heavy between you. Like a fact he’s only just figured out and is already half-drunk on. Your lips part. Not from surprise, but from the heat that coils low in your belly at the way he looks at you when he says it. Like he’s starving and you just walked in covered in honey.

You stretch out your leg beneath the table, your bare foot lightly nudging his leg. “You sure you can handle that?”

He lets out a slow breath and you swear it almost sounds like a groan. Like you’ve made it harder to keep still for him, to behave.

“Who says anything about handling it?,” he says, fingers tightening around his beer bottle. “I wanna taste it.”

There’s a moment of silence between you. You scramble at what to say next. But since nothing comes to mind, you just rise slowly from your seat, your fork clinking softly against your plate. His eyes follow you as you move. Oogling your body seemingly unashamed. Up your bare legs, then your tank hanging loose over the curve of your hips. You realize you haven’t bothered wearing a bra underneath and you now feel slightly exposed under his intense gaze, your skin nearly prickling at the underlying tension in the air. Heat creeps up your neck.

You feel on fire.

You collect the plates, trying to be calm and unfazed, and turn toward the sink. “So that’s why you came over. Not for the pasta.”

“I came over,” he says behind you, the scrape of his chair audible, “’cause I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

You rinse one plate, then another. “And now you’re thinking about what’s under this tank top.”

He’s standing closer now. You can feel the warmth of his body behind yours. He’s not touching you, but so there it makes your skin prickle even more.

“I been thinkin’ about that since I saw you in it.”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s only a foot away. His smirk is gone. There is a hunger in those grey, stormy eyes. The tension between you barely leashed.

You dry your hands slowly and set the towel aside. “That still doesn’t mean you’re getting dessert.”

He lifts a hand and grazes his fingers over the small of your back, a light touch through the fabric. Just enough to test the line between tease and intention.

“’Cause I’m in the mood for something sweet,” he murmurs. “ And I’ll try anyway.”

Your breath catches. Heat licks up your spine. You turn around, his fingers now resting on your hip. His chest is inches from yours. The kitchen feels too small all of a sudden.

Your voice stays even. Cool. But your heart is thudding. “And what makes you think I’m sweet?”

His grin returns. Slower. Darker. “Even poison can taste like sugar.”

You stare at him for a long second.

And then he kisses you. His hand is still on your hip when he leans in. Slow enough to give you a chance to stop him and fast enough that you don’t. His mouth crashes into yours with heat and hunger and something almost like relief, like he’s been holding it back since the second you opened the door.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. But it’s good.

Hot and rough, his lips a little chapped, the edge of his teeth dragging against your bottom lip like he wants to leave a mark. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying over the fabric of your tank as he pulls you in. As if to say that now that he’s got you, he’s not letting go.

You kiss him back. Hard. Greedy. Your hand curls into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, letting the length of his body press against yours. You can feel the flex of his stomach under the fabric, the steady thump of his heart as wild as your own.

He groans against your mouth, low and wrecked. Like this kiss is undoing him one second at a time. Like you are. And maybe you are.

Because when you finally pull back for breath with your lips tingling and your eyes hazy, he doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

Like he’s already starving for more.

You don’t even wait for the look in his eyes to shift. You dive right back in, catching his mouth with yours, all heat and teeth and tongue. The kiss turns hungry instantly, deep, messy and wet. The kind that makes your stomach drop and your pulse hammer against your ribs.

Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, tugging, wordlessley demanding it to vanish. He groans low against your mouth, teeth grazing your lip before he yanks the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere he doesn’t care about.

His chest now bare and his skin so warm. The smell of his aftershave now more than intoxicating and there’s a faint whiff of salt from his neck.

Then his hands slide down, big and rough, gripping your ass like he’s been thinking about it since the party. He lifts you with a sudden, effortless jerk, and you gasp into his mouth as your feet leave the ground.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, locking behind him. Your arms hook over his shoulders and around the back of his neck, clinging as he supports you easily, palms spreading over the backs of your thighs.

He kisses you again, hard enough to bruise, breaking just long enough to rasp against your lips, “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Down the hall,” you murmur, mouth still against his, breath catching. “Second door on the left.”

“Good.”

He starts walking, carrying you like you weigh nothing, kissing you between steps. Open‑mouthed kisses and biting at your bottom lip, your tongues fighting for dominance. The hallway walls blur past in the corner of your vision.

You pull back just enough to grab the hem of your tank top, tugging it upward. The fabric slides over your head and onto the floor, leaving your bare skin pressed to his chest. The heat of him is immediate, his palms flexing tighter on you when he feels it.

“Damn…” he mutters into your neck, his voice almost a growl, while he suckles at the flesh there, making you shiver and claw your nails into his back and shoulders.

Then you’re back to kissing him, breathless, him half‑stumbling with you in his arms, half‑fused, making your way toward the bedroom door.

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Part 5

Now we'll get a little bit steamier.

Guzma is really good at that.

I always imagine that he most likely starts romantic relationships in a physical way. Like a hookup or friends with benefits situation that slowly becomes more.

I am also convinced that he can be quite selective in his sexual partners. But maybe that's just my headcanons talking :P

Enough talk, more story!

PART 5

The sauce is done, simmered down into something thick and rich with garlic and basil. The pasta’s been drained, tossed with a bit of olive oil to keep it from sticking. You’re plating it when the doorbell rings.

Right on time.

You wipe your hands on a dishtowel and glance at yourself in the hallway mirror out of habit. You have no makeup on and there is paint smudged near your collarbone and on your forearms. Your hair is twisted into a lazy, chaotic bun with some rogue curls hanging over your temple, framing your face. You look like a mess. But a deliberate, effortless kind of mess, because you haven’t expected company tonight.

You consider changing. Briefly. Then decide against it. If he wants to eat your food, he can see you like this.

You pad barefoot through the hall and unlock the front door, pulling it open just wide enough to lean against the frame, hip out, gaze cool.

There he is.

Guzma, all tall swagger and sharp white hair under the porch light, wearing the same black and white jacket from the party, now half-zipped over a tank top. A six-pack of beer hangs from one hand, not the cheap kind either, and his other hand is bracing himself on your doorframe. He’s got a cocky grin on his face. When he sees you, his smile falters a little.

His eyes do a full sweep. From the mess of your hair to the bare curve of your shoulders under the tank, to the paint-smeared across your clothes and parts of your skin, your shorts riding high on your thighs. His gaze doesn’t linger long on any one part, but it’s thorough, and it’s not subtle.

You raise an eyebrow. “Stare any harder and you’ll burn holes.”

His mouth twitches. “Didn’t know the curse queen has a domestic side.”

“Didn’t know Team Skull’s boss can read a map.”

He grins at that, lifting the six-pack like a peace offering. “I bring tribute. For the witch who agreed to feed me.”

You open the door wider and step back without another word, letting him in.

He moves past you, and you catch it again. The same aftershave as the other night. That earthy smell with that citrus kick underneath. Familiar now. Almost intoxicating.

“Shoes off,” you say over your shoulder as you head back into the kitchen.

“You always this bossy in your own house?” he calls after you, teasing.

You glance back. “Only when I have guests who need taming.”

Another chuckle. The sound of him toeing off his sneakers, setting the beers down on the counter and slipping out of his jacket.

When you turn back to face him, he’s already watching you again. Now only in a white tshirt and his black sweatpants, leaning a hip against the wall, arms crossed and with that same lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You really cooked.”

You shrug, reaching for plates. “Said I would.”

He whistles low. “You didn’t have to go that hard. This smells better than half the food I’ve ever eaten.”

You hand him a plate and a fork. “Then sit down and shut up. Before I change my mind.”

He takes the plate, but doesn’t move to sit right away. Just watches you for another second, quiet now. Eyes softer.

“You look different,” he says finally.

You glance up, mid-pour with the drinks. “Different how?”

“Dunno,” he murmurs. “Less armor. More you.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hand him a beer and gesture to the small table by the window.

“Eat, Guzma.”

And eat he does. Like he hasn’t had a real meal in days. Fork moving quick, elbow on the table, barely a pause between bites except to make a sound deep in his throat that could be a moan if you were feeling generous.

You’re halfway through your own plate, curled one leg under you in your chair, watching him over the rim of your beer bottle.

“You good?” you ask, dry.

He grunts through a mouthful of spaghetti. “This shit’s criminal. You didn’t tell me you could cook this good.”

“You didn’t ask.”

He points his fork at you. “Remind me to thank whoever raised you.”

You shrug, picking at a strand of pasta. “Didn’t really get raised. Just kind of… existed. House was mine after my aunt passed.”

That softens his chewing. He glances up now, a flicker of something serious behind his usual grin.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

You wave him off. “Don’t be. She was weird, but she liked me. I got the place, and she left me a fully stocked herb cabinet. So, win-win.”

He chuckles, mouth tugging back into familiar territory. “You really a witch, huh?”

You meet his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He leans back slightly in his chair, pushes his empty plate aside with the back of his knuckles. “Gotta admit… didn’t think you’d let me come over.”

You sip your beer, slow. “Didn’t think you’d actually call.”

“Took me all day to talk myself into it,” he says without shame, stretching one long leg out under the table. “Never called a girl like you before.”

“Like me?”

“Yeah. All dark and sharp. Kinda like touchin’ a blade to see if it cuts.”

You tilt your head. “And? Do I?”

He grins. “I think you do. If not handled right.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s thick and loaded.

You glance down at your half-empty plate. “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“What’s your deal, Guzma?” You rest your elbow on the table, cheek in your palm. “Aside from crashing parties and flirting like it’s a sport.”

He runs a hand through his messy hair, eyes drifting toward the kitchen window for a second like maybe the answer’s out there somewhere.

“Po Town’s a dump,” he starts, voice quieter now. “But it’s mine. Team Skull — they’re not bad kids. Just no one else wanted ‘em. Like me.”

Your eyes stay on him. You’re just listening, wondering what he might tell you now.

“I was supposed to be somebody. Strongest trainer. All that shit. But the Trials didn’t want me. The old Kahunas didn’t either. So I said fuck it. Made my own place.”

He looks at you now, his expression almost raw and not a grin in sight.

“Sometimes I forget I don’t gotta be loud all the time.”

You don’t speak. You don’t know what to say to that. So you just watch him settle back into himself, shoulders rolling once, like he’s putting the armor back on. Hopefully not all the way. At least not with you.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat, trying to shift the mood. “You gonna make dessert too? Or do I gotta earn that some other way?”

You arch an eyebrow. “Dessert? You think I made a three-course meal for you?”

He leans forward again, elbow on the table, grin back in place. “Nah. Just figured you’d like seein’ me beg.”

You hum, finishing your drink. “If I ever make you beg, Guzma, it won’t be for food.”

He goes still. Then exhales slow, like he’s trying to keep something caged.

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Part 4

I love this part.

Why? Because I like dialogue, even though I find it very hard to write. Way harder than anything else. Especially since English is not my native language.

I always hope I get it right. But: I am open to feedback, if you've got some :)

Yeah, yeah, 'am no longer stalling.

Enjoy!

PART 4

The apartment smells faintly of turpentine and acrylics. You’d spent the whole afternoon hunched over a half‑finished canvas, headphones on, losing track of time until the colors blurred together. Now, your hair’s twisted up out of your face, fingers smudged with black and umber, no make‑up, just skin that’s gone soft and warm under the lazy light spilling through the kitchen window.

Dinner was supposed to be simple. Pasta, maybe. Something you could eat out of a bowl while standing. You’re halfway through chopping garlic, wearing an oversized black tank and shorts that already had paint stains from some other project, when your phone buzzes against the counter.

You glance at the screen. You don’t recognize the number.

You hesitate. A slow pulse, once, under your ribs. Then you swipe and lift it to your ear, still absently wiping your fingers on a paper towel.

“Yeah?”

First you hear a beat of static, before his voice rings through.

“Yo.”

His voice is low, a little rougher than you remember, like smoke curling through the speaker. He asks if he’s speaking with the correct person, using your name in the process.

You lean a hip against the counter, eyes flicking to the pan on the stove like it’s suddenly unimportant. “Depends who’s asking.”

There’s a laugh on the other end. It’s not loud, but unmistakable. “C’mon. You know who this is.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, a smile threatening. “Do I?”

Another beat of silence. “Guzma,” he says finally, his name coming out like a statement and a dare all at once. “From the party. Big guy. White hair. Bad reputation. You wrote some dark magic on my hand, remember?”

You can almost hear the grin through the line.

“I remember,” you say, voice a touch softer than you meant.

“Good,” he drawls. “Was hopin’ you’d pick up.”

Your eyes drift toward the canvas drying in the other room, the half‑set table, the way the evening light has gone gold on your walls. You twirl the phone cord around your finger. A habit, from when you still had a landline with a cord. And you’re really trying to sound casual.

“So what’s up?”

“Was thinkin’ about that number you gave me.” He pauses, and for a second you hear only faint street noise and his breath. “You free tonight, witch girl?”

You press the heel of your palm against the counter, grounding yourself. “Maybe.”

“You sound busy,” he says, teasing but a little tentative. “I could… I dunno. Bring food. Or just talk. Whatever.”

You let out a soft laugh through your nose. “You always call girls you barely know suggesting ‘whatever’?”

“Nah,” he admits, a smile in his voice. “Just you.”

You glance down at your paint‑stained fingers, then back at the stove, your pulse a small, deliberate drum.

“Well,” you murmur, shifting the phone to your other hand, “you called. Now what, Guzma?”

On the other end, you hear his chuckle — low, warm, full of the same promise as his eyes the night you met.

“That,” he says, “depends how much trouble you wanna get into on a Saturday night.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it, shifting the phone against your shoulder while you stir the garlic before it burns. “Trouble, huh? That your idea of a pick-up line?”

“Depends,” he shoots back. “Did it work?”

“Not really,” you deadpan.

He laughs, rough and genuine, the sound rumbling low through the speaker. “You’re killin’ me here.”

“I warned you. I curse people.” You toss in a handful of chopped tomatoes, the pan hissing in response. “Maybe you’re next.”

“Yeah?” He sounds amused, leaning into it. “Then curse me good, goth girl. ‘Cause I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

That stalls you for half a second. The way he says it, not slick, not coated in bravado. Just plain, simple truth slipping out in his gravelled voice. And it makes your pulse quicken.

You shake your head, smirking despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” A pause, a breath. “But I’m hungry too. You cookin’ for yourself?”

Your gaze flicks to the simmering pan, the pot of pasta waiting its turn. “…Yeah. Why?”

“’Cause I’m starvin’,” he says immediately, like he’d been waiting for the opening. “And I bet you make somethin’ better than Skull grunts’ instant noodles.”

You snort. “That’s not a high bar.”

“Don’t care. Let me come over. I’ll bring somethin’ to drink. You feed me, I’ll…” He makes a pause, his voice dropping lower. “…behave. Maybe.”

You lean your hip against the counter again, tapping the spoon against the pan, letting the steam warm your face. “Behave? From what I hear, you don’t know how.”

“You could teach me,” he says, smooth but with that lazy grin under it.

For a second, you let the silence hang, knowing he’s waiting. Then you decide to throw him a line. “Fine. Bring beer. I’ll save you a plate.”

“Yeah?” The grin is so clear in his voice it almost warms your kitchen.

“Yeah,” you reply, tossing the pasta into the boiling water. “But if you piss me off, I’ll actually curse you this time.”

He laughs, bright and unbothered. “Worth the risk.”

The call ends with a click, leaving you with the bubbling of the pot and the faint thrum of your heartbeat, faster now than it should be.

You exhale, set the phone down on the counter, and shake your head. Guzma. Of all people.

Still — your lips curl as you reach for the herbs, stirring the sauce just right.

You don’t know what you’ve invited in. But tonight, you’ll find out.

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Interlude

I usually like to keep my pov in stories intact. But yeah, this time this felt right.

So we make a small interlude with Guzma's pov. And I had to write this in past tense. I prefer present tense, but it just sounded all wrong. So I switched. Maybe because it's third person? I don't know. I just write what feels right.

So without further not needed words.

Let's go!

INTERLUDE

Damn.

She really just walked away like that. All hips and wicked smiles, like she knew what she was doing to him. Like she’d carved her name into his hand and into his fucking brain in the same breath.

Guzma sat still, legs apart on the low table, half-finished beer sweating in one hand, the other flexed open like he might smudge the number if he breathed too hard. He didn’t even hear the door shut behind her. Jus didn’t care.

His pulse was still ticking high in his throat.

He looked down at the ink on his palm. Fresh and still a little wet around the edges. She's got neat handwriting. Looks purposeful to him for all he can judge. Dark like the liner around her eyes.

He didn’t expect her to be his type, not really. But she was. The second he saw her from across the room, standing there in all black, lips sharp, skin pale, curves poured into that tight little outfit like she’d been born to make people suffer — he knew he was gonna do something stupid.

All that dark makeup, heavy lashes, lipstick like blood and smoke… And her tits had been front and center in that corset thing. More than enough to make it hard not to stare, and she probably knew it. No, she definitely knew it. But it wasn’t just that.

It was also her attitude. The way she stood with one boot turned out like she was ready to kick someone. The way she didn’t fidget or shrink or try to smile or to make herself seem smaller.

She just was, almost unapologetic. And that shit? That’s what hit him hardest.

Most girls either avoided him or wanted something from him. They’d flutter, simper, pull the whole fake-cute thing and maybe he’d play along if he was bored enough. But her?

She gave him nothing he didn’t earn. And he earned that number.

That smirk. That breath on his ear. That little whisper laced with enough heat to light a damn match in his jeans.

“Call me, Guzma. You might find out what else I like doing.”

Fuck.

He let out a slow exhale through his nose, rubbed the back of his neck with his inked-up fingers, then glanced down at the number again. Could still smell her on his skin. Her perfume or maybe just her shampoo, clinging faint like flowers pressed between burned book pages.

The beer in his hand was warm now. Didn’t matter. He took a swig anyway.

He didn’t move. Didn’t want to go back inside, didn’t want to chase. Not yet. She said her piece. Walked off like she owned every step.

And now he had her number. In his hand. Literally.

He wasn’t sure if she was just flirting, if she meant it, if he’d call and she’d answer, or if he was already halfway down some road that was gonna fuck him up sideways.

But he knew one thing.

He wanted more.

More of that voice. More of that smirk. More of those eyes that looked at him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces.

And definitely more of that ass.

He leaned back a little on that stained table and stared up at the stars like they owed him something.

“…Damn, girl,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out rough and low. “What the fuck did you just do to me?”

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Part 3

I just love writing with Guzma. His character is just so interesting. He's the only character I really like from Pokémon. Other characters are okay too, but him I really enjoy.

Well, that being said.

Let's continue!

PART 3

You sip your drink. The smirk on his face goes tight at the corners, a flicker of something hotter under the cocky exterior. He takes another swig of his beer and leans back slightly, bracing one broad palm behind him on the weather-stained table.

“So,” he says, casual as smoke. “What’s a spooky lookin’ stunner like you do for fun, huh? Raise the dead? Curse exes? Bite necks?”

You internally laugh about him insinuating you’re a witchy vampire, cock your head and grin sarcastically. “Only on Tuesdays.”

“Damn,” he grins, tongue flashing behind his teeth. “Lucky it’s Friday, then.”

You shrug, eyes drifting toward the moonlit garden, the flickers of soft, half-hidden movement where couples suck face or straddle laps. “I paint,” you say, after a beat. “Sometimes write. Go to graveyards when it rains.”

Guzma whistles low, like he’s impressed. “You got that whole tortured artist vibe goin’ on, huh?”

“I get bored easily,” you reply, voice soft but cool. “Most people don’t hold my attention long.”

He chuckles again. Like he expected that answer and liked it.

“Yeah? Then why’m I still here?”

You level your gaze at him over the rim of your cup. “Still deciding if I want you here or not.”

That earns a low laugh, full belly, head tipped back for a second before he leans forward again with his elbows on his knees, beer bottle swinging lazily from one hand.

“Fair. That’s fair.” He tilts his head. “What about work? Or you too mysterious to work retail like us peasants?”

You sigh, exaggerated and dramatic. “PokéMart cashier. I scan potions, sell Pokéballs, and watch ten-year-olds blow through allowance money like it’s their birthday every day.”

Guzma barks a short laugh. “Shit, for real?”

“Mm-hm.” You swirl what’s left of your drink. “The uniform’s blue. It clashes with my entire existence.”

“You should wear black anyway. Make it a statement.”

“I did once.”

“…And?”

“I got written up.”

He grins wide. “Hell yeah, that’s my kinda rebellion.” Then he jerks his chin slightly toward the couple in the hammock. Their limbs a tangled mess and low moans barely masked by the music. “What about that? You the type to do that kinda thing at a party?”

You glance that way. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, huh?”

“If I was into someone enough.”

His brows lift, expression suggestive. “And you into me yet?”

“Still deciding,” you echo with a smirk.

His grin doesn’t fall, but there’s something more behind it now. No so much bravado, more curiosity. He taps the neck of the bottle against his knee. “You should come to Po Town sometime,” he says. “If you ever wanna have a real good time.” His tone is suggestive paired with his slightly cocky expression.

You tilt your head. “Team Skull’s infamous hideout? Where dreams go to die and no one ever has clean sheets?”

“Hey,” he holds up one hand, mock insulted. “First off — our sheets might be questionably sometimes, but usually they tend to be clean…ish. Second — it’s more fun than this overhyped bullshit,” he waves his empty hand around motioning to your surroundings. “Music’s better. Drinks are cheaper. And I wouldn’t have to fight for a chair.”

You glance down between your boots and his spread legs. “You didn’t fight for one tonight either.”

“Technically not a chair, but okay. And other than that, it’s ‘cause you let me sit,” he fires back.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He leans in again. Not all the way, but just enough that his voice still reaches you although he makes it drop. “Too late. You’re already in my head.”

You blink at that. It’s not subtle. Not even clever. But it lands with a weight that isn’t entirely teasing anymore. It makes your heart flutter for a second while you fight the heat rising to your face. And for a breath, the noise of the party dulls. You’re aware of the night air, of how close he is, of the warmth bleeding off his knees brushing yours. Of his grin, yes, but more so the focus in his grey eyes. Not just looking. Observing.

You draw in a breath. Speak low. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m learnin’.” He makes a pause. “Let me.”

His words sit between you. Heat spreading slow like spilled liquor, like something flammable, like gasoline waiting for the right spark.

You click your tongue, breaking the tension first. The sound is soft but final, like snapping a match. You shift slightly in your chair and set your empty cup beside him on the low table, eyes lowered, hiding the faint curl of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

He’s watching you. You can feel it in the way the air seems to move with him. There’s a heat radiating from his body and a weight behind his stare, that makes you shiver a little.

You start rummaging in your belt pouch, fingers brushing past crumpled receipts, coins, a stick of gum, until you find what you’re looking for. A pen. You twist the cap off and reach for his free hand without a word.

His skin is rough beneath your fingers. Warm and calloused, the kind of hand that holds Pokéballs like weapons and slams fists into walls when he’s angry. He doesn’t resist. He just lets you take it, his thumb flexing slightly, as if testing how this feels.

Leaning forward, you press the pen to his palm. As you bend in closer, the scent of his aftershave hits you — sharp, masculine, layered over musk and a faint sliver of beer. It fills your nose, clings to the back of your throat, something earthy cut with a bite of spice and citrus. For a moment, the pen wavers because you’re too aware of it, of him.

You start writing anyway. Numbers, neat and deliberate, now etched into his skin like an incantation. You angle it so you won’t smudge it while writing, slow enough that your nails graze him with every stroke.

When you’re finished, you snap the cap back on, tuck the pen away, and let go of his hand. You’re close enough now to see every tiny scar on his knuckles, the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

“Use it sometime,” you say, voice dry but laced with humor. “If you ever need tips on how to curse your enemies.”

His grin cracks wide at that, teeth flashing, but before he can reply you’re already moving.

You rise from the chair, brushing past his knees. The hem of your skirt whispers against his legs, your hip nearly grazing him. You lean down, lips near his ear, the smell of his aftershave even sharper this close, filling your senses until it’s dizzying.

Your breath ghosts against his skin as you murmur, low enough for only him to hear:

“Call me, Guzma. You might find out what else I like doing.”

Then you straighten, wink, and turn back toward the glow of the house.

You don’t look back as you walk inside, ready to slip out of the party.

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Part 2

So, since I have finished the whole Hot Topic series, I am going to post them part for part.

I do like it. Maybe I also post it on Ao3. Not sure yet.

But other than that. This one is still sfw. But I will still mark it mature, because Guzma. It's also a little shorter than the first, but who cares?

Enjoy!

PART 2

The air outside is heavy with sea salt and smoke — not clean, not quite fresh, but better than the jungle of sweat and bass inside. Someone’s got a portable speaker set up on the far edge of the terrace, playing something with a lazy Alolan beat, drowned occasionally by muffled laughter or the wet sound of a kiss.

You step out and scan the space. It’s chaos in soft focus: half-drunk bodies sprawled over each other like they’re trying to merge into one skin. Laughter bubbles from the corners, a girl squeals into someone’s neck. No one’s paying attention to anything but lips and heat and the trickle of cheap booze.

There’s only one garden chair left. It’s made of faded plastic and looks a little crooked. There’s also a low table in front of it, ringed with water stains and the ghosts of old beer labels. You claim the chair with a decisive flump, crossing your legs and leaning back like a queen in exile.

Following closely behind you is the man himself.

As Guzma steps through the door, he lifts one arm to block the glare from a bare patio light. He’s got a fresh beer in hand he grabbed on the way, the bottle already starting to sweat and he has that same predatory ease in the way he moves. Not only that natural swagger. Just confident. Like he’s done that before. Like this isn’t the first time he’s followed trouble out into the dark. His eyes skim the terrace just like yours did. There’s no room anywhere. Not unless he wants to wedge himself between the pair dry-humping in the hammock.

Without asking, he drops down onto the table in front of you, straight on. His legs apart, elbows braced on his knees. Like he’s holding court. Or like he’s daring you to look at him. He twists the cap off the bottle with a sharp crack. Lets it fall and takes a swig.

“Alright, goth queen,” he says, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s your name?”

You let the silence hang for a beat too long. Long enough to make him wait. “Why? You planning to tattoo it over your heart?”

He smirks. “Nah. Chest’s already got a few names. Figure I’ll put you somewhere more personal.”

You arch a brow. “My name deserves better than your ass.”

“Didn’t say ass,” he replies, tipping his head slightly. “But now that you mention it…”

You snort. The sound came unexpected. You catch yourself fast, a short hitch in your breath. But from the twitch at the corner of his mouth, he caught it.

He leans forward a bit. Close enough that you can see the faint scar at his jawline, the dark scruff threading along his throat, the twitch of a muscle when he grinds his teeth, like he’s trying not to smirk too hard.

His voice drops a little. “I ain’t tryna be smooth, alright? I just—” He takes another swig. You see his adam’s apple bob while he swallows. “I saw you. You look like you came out here to hex somebody, and I wanted it to be me.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Maybe it will be you.”

“Then I’ll be honored.” He grins again, slower this time. More genuine. “But for real. You got a name, or should I just keep makin’ ‘em up?”

You let your gaze slide over him. The heavy chain, the battered sneakers, the chipped polish on one thumbnail. His knees are so far apart on the table, you could slide your boots between them and he’d let you. Might even like it.

You sip your drink. Let it burn a little. Then finally you tell him your name.

He repeats it once, low. Testing how it feels on his tongue.

Then he nods, like it’s settled. Like it means something.

“Aight.” A pause. “Now that we got that outta the way…”

He leans in just enough that you catch a whiff of his aftershave. His voice drops to a rasp, full of promise.

[sinaliciousposts]

Hot Topic - Part 1

I was thinking about a new short little thing with my favourite bug guy: Guzma.

Doesn't matter how many other objects of desire I have, I always go back to Guz. He's just the best. Interesting, not past redemption and I like the Pokémon universe.

So I write about him. And here I did another short story.

The first part is sfw, but there will be parts that are nsfw. Just as a warning.

And since I am a goth chick, reader will be too. Talk about self-indulgence, right? ;)

PART 1

The house thrums with bass, some local remix rattling the drywall and shaking loose the picture frames. Neon strips flicker along the ceiling, casting everything in a headache of blue and red. It’s too hot, the air dense with sweat and spiked soda and the cloying sweetness of someone’s overripe perfume.

You shift your weight, black boots planted firm on the sticky tile. The circle of people you’d been talking to begins to dissolve.  One of them wanders off in search of a bathroom, another’s halfway into a grind with some dude she swore she hated fifteen minutes ago.

You drain the last inch of your drink. Syrupy, warm. Disgusting. With a sigh, you pivot toward the kitchen. Or try to.

Leaning against the doorframe like it’s his domain, one sneaker crossed over the other, silver rings flashing on his fingers. That bleach-white hair with the black undercut glows under the neon light. The messy crown of it leans forward as he tilts his head, scanning you like he’s got all night.

You’ve seen him before. Of course you have. Who hasn’t? Guzma. Big man. Big ego. Leader of Team Skull. Loud. Dangerous in the way gasoline is dangerous, not because of what it is, but what it can become in the right spark.

And right now, he’s looking at you. His grin creeps across his face slow, lazy, like a flame licking paper.

“Yo,” he says, voice rough and low and unhurried. “You always look this good when you’re bored… or is that just for me?”

You blink. One brow arches. You don’t stop walking, just shift your path, forcing him to move. He does. But not much.

He steps back just far enough for you to pass through the doorway, but stays close. Too close. Heat radiates off him, the scent of sweat and cologne and something faintly metallic like coins left out in the sun. You brush past, your black velvet skirt grazing his leg. You feel his eyes drag down your spine.

You make it to the counter and set your empty cup down and open the fridge. The light blooms stark and white, unnatural against the deep shadows. You crouch and still say nothing.

“Damn,” he mutters behind you. You hear the amused suck of teeth. “Kinda like the view.”

You straighten with a bottle of something clear and sugary in your hand. You don’t turn. “I didn’t realize Team Skull was recruiting perverts now.”

Guzma chuckles. It’s a low, gravelled thing. “Nah, we always been perverts. Some of us just… tasteful about it.”

You finally look at him over your shoulder. His shades are tucked into the collar of his shirt, his jacket open. The gold chain glints at his neck. His grin hasn't faltered. If anything, it’s grown, deepening those lines at the corners of his mouth. Like he’s enjoying the fact you haven’t smiled back.

“Tell me somethin’,” he says, stepping fully into the kitchen. “You always dress like a funeral got cancelled and turned into a strip club? Or is that just for me too?”

You stare at him, deadpan. “I could ask if you always look like a delinquent got lost in a Home Shopping Network clearance bin, but maybe that’s too easy.”

“Oof.” He slaps a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “You got claws. I like that.”

You shrug, twisting the cap off your bottle. “You’d like it more if I scratched.”

He steps closer. One hand braces the counter next to you, caging you in without touching. “Try me.”

Your pulse jumps, but you don’t back down. You meet him eye to eye, lips barely parted. He’s taller. Broader. Everything about him should feel like a threat. And maybe it is. But there’s something addictive about standing in the heat of it, letting it lick at your edges.

“You flirt with everyone like this?” you ask, voice smooth and cool. “Or am I just lucky?”

“Lucky,” he says, without missing a beat. His voice dips, softer now, as if it’s just for you. “'Cause I don’t got the patience to chase, but I got the time for someone who knows how to play.”

You take a slow sip. Let the sugar coat your tongue before you swallow. Then: “And what makes you think I’m playing?”

He smirks, letting the corner of his lip curl, crooked, cocky and lazy. “'Cause you didn’t tell me to fuck off. And you ain’t walkin’ away.”

Touché, you think. You look at him, really look. Bleach and black, gold and grime. There’s something wild in his eyes, not reckless or stupid, but somehow untamed. The kind of wild that never learned to ask. And yet here he is. Hovering. Waiting.

You lean just an inch closer, tilting your head like you’re studying a strange bug. “What if I do walk away?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just says: “Then I’ll watch you go.” He makes a pause. “But you better believe I’ll follow.”

You smile faintly. Only the hint of a smile to be exact.

“Then keep up, Guzma,” you say, brushing past him — this time on purpose — and walking back into the pulsing haze of the party.

You don’t need to turn around to know he’s following. You can feel him behind you. Like thunder, promising rain.

[sinaliciousposts]

Last part of my Guzma series. And it is getting steamy again.

So, minors do not read!!!

You've been warned!

This one's nsfw.

Part Seven:

Pairing: Guzma x fem!Reader

NSFW - 18+

You pull back, brows furrowed, mood gone.

“This party sucks,” you mutter, eyes flickin’ over to where those assholes still linger at the edge of the room. Then toward where Kukui vanished, probably off to go ruin someone else’s night with more awkward invitations and too many exclamation marks.

I exhale through my nose, noddin’. “Yeah. No arguments here.”

You glance down at me, one eyebrow arched. “You good? Or you need a minute before I stand up and give the whole room a show?”

I smirk, dry and humorless. “I’m good. Kukui killed the vibe and the hard-on.”

You click your tongue, clearly over it, and shift off my lap. I let you go, my hands slide off your hips slow, reluctant—but I get it.

Then you hold your hand out.

Not to yank me up.

But to tell me something. Without a single word.

I look at your hand. Then your face. Then back at your hand.

I slide my palm into yours and stand, grip solid.

“Yeah,” I mutter, eyes catchin’ yours again. “Let’s bounce.”

We walk under streetlights, the air warm but not suffocatin’, your hand swingin’ lazy in mine. Still quiet between us. Still a little bitter from all the interruptions. Finally Malie City comes into view and with that your building, lights hummin’, that busted old neon sign flickerin’ over the entryway like always.

You beep the door open with your fob. We step into the lobby. Carpet’s not fancy, but it’s clean. Smells like old lady laundry and incense from someone on the second floor. Elevator’s already hummin’, headin’ down.

I glance at you. You glance at me.

“Alright,” I say, cracking my knuckles, “so how we savin’ this night? ‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ Kukui be the last fuckin’ memory of it.”

You hum, thoughtful, already grinnin’. “Could just get naked and let instinct take over.”

I snort. “Now that’s a plan.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it.

“Plumeria,” I say. “Wants to know why we ghosted.”

Before I even finish the sentence, you’re already smirkin’.

“Gimme that.”

I hand it over without hesitation. Ain’t the first time, won’t be the last. We do this shit all the time. It’s our thing. If I can send your best friend a photo of your feet in wool socks and say "she's in goblin mode", you sure as hell get to answer Plumeria.

I watch you type, not even tryin’ to stop you.

You hit send.

Then hand it back, face smug as hell.

I glance down at the screen.

we just needed to leave so we could fuck in peace

And not even five seconds later, her reply pings back:

WAY too much info, wtf 💀

The elevator dings.

Doors slide open.

I laugh. You do too.

We step inside.

Mood’s definitely lookin’ better already.

You press the button for the eighth floor, your thumb barely off the panel when the doors shut with that low thunk.

And that’s all the permission I need.

I crowd you instantly—pressin’ you into the back wall of the elevator, my hands landing heavy on your hips, mouth crashin’ into yours like I’ve been holdin’ back since Po Town. And I have. Every look, every grind, every time someone cut between us tonight just built it higher.

Now?

No one here to interrupt.

You moan into my mouth, soft and breathy, your hands already tanglin’ in my shirt, pullin’ me closer. And I kiss you like I need to. Like the second those doors close, you became mine all over again.

My hips pin yours to the wall, hard and sure, and I feel the way your body responds—melting into me, archin’ just enough, givin’ in completely.

You taste like tequila and that stupid cherry lip balm, and I want more.

No words now.

Just mouths, breath, friction.

I swear if this elevator stops before we hit 8, somebody’s gonna get thrown out.

Ding.

Eighth floor.

Doors slide open and I don’t wait. Grab your wrist, pull you with me, fast but not rough—like I need to get us outta this hallway before I lose what little restraint I’ve got left. I hear you giggle behind me, high on adrenaline or arousal. Or both.

But every few steps, I can’t help it.

I press you into the wall beside someone’s apartment, kiss you hard and deep, hands roamin’ your waist, your ass, your lower back. Then I pull you forward again, just to shove you into the next surface I can pin you against. Doorframe. Wall. Doesn’t matter. You kiss me back every time like it’s oxygen.

By the time we reach your door, I need you.

I spin you, press you against the wall right beside it, my hands already on your thighs, and you get it—you jump, legs wrapping around my hips like muscle memory. I hold you up with ease, body tight against mine, my cock hard as fuck between us, grindin’ up into you like I can already feel how wet you are through those panties and shorts.

Your breath stutters in my ear when I rock my hips once. Slow. Deliberate.

I groan.

Then my hand slides up, palmin’ your tit through that tight black tank, thumb draggin’ across your nipple until you moan into my mouth again—raw and perfect.

My lips break from yours, trailin’ down your jaw, across your throat, suckin’ and kissin’ every inch of skin I can reach, heat spillin’ outta me like I’ve been holdin’ back for days instead of hours.

Then—low, rough, right at your ear:

“Keys, babe. Gimme the fuckin’ keys before I fuck you right here.”

You fish the keys out of your pocket and drop them into my waiting hand like a challenge.

I fumble with the lock—still holdin’ you up, still too busy kissin’ your throat, still hard and barely focusin’—and yeah. No shot.

“Fuckin’—ugh, damn it,” I growl, finally setting you down with a frustrated groan, one hand lingering on your hips even as I squint at the lock like it personally offended me.

This time I get it open.

Door swings inward and I grab your wrist again, tug you inside just enough to slam the door shut with a sharp kick, the sound echoing through your apartment and probably the building's corridor. I toss your keys onto the sideboard without lookin’, already comin’ back for you, mouth findin’ yours with a kiss that’s all tongue and heat.

We stagger down the hall, barely makin’ it past your coat rack before I need more skin. My shirt’s gone in a flash, tossed somewhere behind me. Then I reach for the hem of your tank and yank it up and over, and your tits bounce free, all perfect and soft, and fuck, I swear I stop breathin’ for half a second.

“Goddamn,” I mutter, hands instantly on you, thumbs brushing your nipples, groanin’ into your mouth like I haven’t seen you naked a hundred times before.

We don’t stop movin’. Through the living room now. You kick off your shoes mid-step, one then the other, and I do the same—less graceful, sure, but they’re off.

Then I shove my sweatpants down, no ceremony, just need. They pool around my ankles and I step outta them, still kissin’ you, hands on your back, your ribs, your waist.

And finally—finally—we crash into your bedroom, breathless and tangled, mouths still fused, bodies already burnin’.

Your legs hit the edge of the mattress and I don’t slow down—not for a second. I press into you, hard, mouth still chasing yours, hands already at your hips.

Then I push.

You fall back onto the bed with a bounce and a gasp, and I’m on you instantly, yankin’ at those tight little shorts with zero finesse—just hunger. Your panties come off with ‘em, one swift motion, and I toss the bundle somewhere behind me without lookin’. Don’t care. Don’t need to. Not when you’re lyin’ there bare and breathin’ heavy, tits up, thighs spread, lookin’ like every fuckin’ wet dream I’ve ever had.

I step outta my boxers in a rush, cock hard and heavy now, twitchin’ with every heartbeat.

Then I grab your hips, drag you back toward the edge of the bed—ass just barely hangin’ off—and lean down, mouth goin’ straight to your tits.

I lick one, then the other, slow at first, then sloppier, wetter. My tongue circles your nipple, then I suck it in, teeth grazin’ just a little. You arch your back, moanin’ already, fingers twitchin’ like you don’t know whether to grab my hair or the sheets.

“Fuck, babe,” I murmur against your skin, “these tits—never get tired of ‘em.”

You moan again, voice shaky.

And just when you’re startin’ to melt under me—when your eyes start to flutter and your thighs twitch like you’re gettin’ ready for more—I pull back just enough and give your right tit a sharp, open-palmed slap.

The sound echoes.

You jerk, your moan sharp and sudden, body lurchin’ toward me like you need that now.

I grin, lips still glistenin’.

“Oh yeah,” I mutter, voice low and wicked, “you like that.”

I pause—just for a second—and straighten up, chest heaving, lips parted, the taste of your skin still fresh on my tongue. And I look down at you.

That look I give you? Yeah, I know what it does.

The smirk. That crooked, cocky one—full of filthy promises and no shame. I don’t even say a word. Just give you a little gesture with my fingers, that slow, lazy motion that says turn around. Now.

And you do. Immediately.

Fuckin’ perfect.

You roll over onto your hands and knees, ass pushed out, back arched, legs just wide enough that I can see how wet you still are. You’re glistening. Ready. Begging for it.

My hands are on you the second you settle—palms full of your ass, kneading, dragging my fingers down your thighs, then back up again to your hips, your back. I push your shoulders down into the mattress, makin’ your ass tilt higher, your spine curve.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” I growl, voice low, filthy. “Back arched, pussy drippin’, just waitin’ for this dick. You need it, don’t you, baby?”

You moan, push your ass back a little more like it’s an answer.

I chuckle darkly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

I take one hand off of your delicious ass to grab my cock. Fuck, I'm hard.

Then I press the thick, hot head of my cock right against your soaked entrance. I don’t push in yet. Just glide it up and down through your folds, gatherin’ all that slick, lettin’ it coat me, slow, teasing.

I hear you pant and moan and in between your quiet curses. A mix between fuck and my name.

“Shit,” I hiss. “You’re so wet for me… I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

I press the head in first—slow, so fuckin’ slow—and your body opens for me like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.

The stretch hits you deep. Inch by inch, I slide into your soaked, flutterin’ cunt, thick and pulsing, every bit of me dragging against your slick walls. You’re so goddamn tight it makes my jaw clench, breath catchin’ in my throat as I bury myself all the way to the hilt.

You moan—long, drawn out, raw—and press your face into the sheets like you’re tryin’ to muffle it, like the pleasure’s already too much.

“You feel so fucking good,” you breathe, voice muffled, wrecked.

And I swear, my control almost snaps.

I grit my teeth, hold still for half a beat, just feelin’ how your pussy clenches around me, flutterin’ and greedy, like it doesn’t want to let go.

Then I start to move.

Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust deliberate, grindin’ into you like I wanna memorize every squeeze, every wet sound between us. My hands are tight on your hips, holdin’ you in place, possibly pressin' bruises into your skin, lettin’ you feel all of me, makin’ sure you take all of me.

Your right hand slips down between your legs. Fingers find your clit. You start circlin’ it, tight and fast, your body shiverin’ under me like you’re already climbin’.

“Fuck yeah,” I growl, hips slappin’ into your ass, “rub that pretty little clit for me while I fuck this pussy.”

Your moan breaks, higher now.

My thrusts pick up—not much, just enough to make your ass jiggle a little more, to drive in a little deeper, a little firmer. But I’m still holdin’ back. Still movin’ at that same slow, steady rhythm I know drives you fuckin’ crazy.

Because I feel it.

The way your thighs tremble.

The way your breath stutters.

The way your cunt keeps flutterin’ around me tighter and tighter with every grind of my hips.

And you keep rubbin’ your clit, fingers workin’ fast now, desperate, hips twitchin’ back against me with every thrust like your body’s chasin’ something it’s already about to lose control to.

You come hard—fuckin’ hard—your pussy clampin’ down on me so tight I hiss through my teeth, nearly foldin’ over you from how good it feels. You moan, head buried in the sheets, body shiverin’ like you’re unraveling from the inside out.

I don’t stop.

Don’t change a thing.

I keep fuckin’ you at that same slow, deep pace, lettin’ you ride it out, drawin’ every last second of that orgasm from you like I own it.

“Yeah, baby,” I mutter, voice low and filthy, leanin’ down over your back, lips at your ear. “That’s it. Let it fuckin’ happen. So tight around me—fuck—you were made for this dick.”

You twitch when I say it, but I know you barely register the words.

And I fuckin’ love that.

As soon as your body starts to loosen, your muscles stop twitchin’, and that last aftershock rolls through you, I know it’s time.

I dig my fingers into your hips and start driving into you.

No more slow.

No more tease.

Just hips slammin’ against your ass with hard, fast thrusts, thick cock poundin’ into that soaked, stretched pussy like I’m tryin’ to fuck the goddamn soul out of you.

The sound of it—skin slappin’, wet and obscene—fills the room, and every thrust hits so deep your back arches more, your mouth open but nothin’ comin’ out except shaky breaths and broken moans.

I see it. The way your arms tremble tryin’ to hold yourself up, elbows braced, hands clutchin’ the sheets like they’ll keep you grounded.

They won’t.

Every thrust knocks the air outta your lungs, makes your tits bounce, your body jolt. You’re drippin’, droolin’ onto the bed now, completely gone.

And I’m losin’ it too.

“Fuck—fuck, look at this pussy,” I growl, voice strained, pantin’. “So fuckin’ wet—so fuckin’ tight—you feel that? Feel how deep I’m in you, baby?”

You whimper, ass pushin’ back into me like you need more.

“Oh, shit—shit, you’re close again, ain’t you?” I babble, filthy and mindless now, hips poundin’ harder. “I can feel it—your cunt’s squeezin’ like it’s beggin’ to come on my cock again—fuckin’ greedy little thing.”

You moan something I can’t even make out—too wrecked to speak.

And I’m right there with you.

Teeth gritted. Breath ragged.

Your pussy’s clutchin’ me so tight it’s almost hard to move, every thrust draggin’ through that soaked heat like your body’s trying to hold me in, tryin’ to keep me right there.

I’m babblin’ now—words slurrin’, nothin’ coherent, just raw, desperate noise spillin’ from my mouth while my hips keep slammin’ into you, over and over, faster, harder, deeper.

“Shit—so good—you feel that, baby? I’m gonna—fuck—I can’t—”

You come like a fuckin’ explosion—screamin’ into the mattress, your whole body jerkin’, shakin’, squeezin’ down on my cock so hard it almost forces me out.

My mind goes blank.

I groan—loud, hoarse, broken—as my hips stutter, then slam one final time, deep as I can go. I bury myself in that clenching, dripping cunt and cum, thick pulses shootin’ out, spillin’ inside you, cock twitchin’ with each hard jerk of my body.

“Fuuuuck…” I groan, head droppin’, hands still locked on your hips like I can’t let go even if I wanted to.

We stay like that—frozen, breathless, wrecked.

My cock still buried inside.

And you? Still trembling underneath me, your body twitchin’ with aftershocks while you try to remember how to breathe.

I stay inside you for a few beats longer, just feeling it—your pussy still flutterin’ around me, still milkin’ me like your body doesn’t want to stop.

Then I pull out, slow, and watch.

My thumbs part you, spread you open just enough to see it—my cum, thick and white, already startin’ to drip from your swollen pussy. It clenches again, around nothing now, pushing my cum out in a slow drip, that spills down, glistening, warm, obscene.

I hear it hit the floorboards in soft little splatters.

Fuck. That sight—those sounds—it’s filthy and perfect.

But my hands finally leave your skin, and you crumble forward, all the tension drainin’ outta you as you roll onto your side. Your breathing’s shallow, uneven. Blissed out. Fucked out. Beautiful.

I collapse next to you, flat on my back, chest still rising like I just ran a mile uphill.

Drape one arm over my eyes.

The other just rests on my stomach, fingers twitchin’ a little like my body still ain’t processed all of that.

We’re quiet.

Spent.

Your bedroom smells like sweat and sex and skin. The sheets are wrecked. The air’s thick.

And it’s perfect.

I hear your voice first, still breathless but steady.

“That was so fucking good.”

And yeah, it hits me straight in the ego—but I earned that one. Every damn thrust. Every moan I wrung out of you. I smirk under my arm, chest still rising slow, cock twitchin’ once like it heard you too.

You slide outta bed carefully, naked, gorgeous, a little wobbly on your feet. I watch you sidestep the mess on the floor—our mess—and grab a towel. You clean yourself up first, then me, gentle and unbothered, and finally the floor like it’s all just part of the aftercare ritual now.

I watch everything from the bed, one arm behind my head, hair all wild, still sweaty and bare.

When you come back, I’ve shifted—now laid out proper on the bed, head on your pillow, eyes locked on you. You climb in on top of the covers, like me, ‘cause it’s hot and we’re still radiatin’ heat like a fuckin’ furnace.

But I don’t let you just lie there.

I tug you closer, wrap one arm around you, pull you into my chest like I can’t stand to have even a centimeter of air between us.

Then I tilt your chin up with my other hand, make you look at me.

“You’re perfect,” I say, voice low, steady. “Best fuckin’ thing I ever got. And I’m never lettin’ go. I know I ain’t perfect—never will be—but I’m damn glad you even looked in my direction.”

You smile, soft, eyes gleamin’. Then you kiss me.

And after, you just murmur, “I love you too. Now can you hit the lights so we can sleep?”

I huff a quiet laugh, reach over, and flick the switch.

Room goes dark.

And I pull you even closer, like you’re mine.

Because you are.

[sinaliciousposts]

Part six of my little Guzma series.

The party is on going.

Part Six:

Pairing: Guzma x fem!Reader

We’re locked in, hips in sync, heat rollin’ between us, your breath hot on my neck—then bam.

Some dipshit backs right into me mid-grind.

I stumble hard, crashin’ into you, nearly knock you flat on your ass. Your arms flail a bit, and for half a second my heart drops—but my hands shoot out, grip firm around your waist, catchin’ you before you tip.

“Got you,” I mutter, jaw tight, eyes already flickin’ up.

You steady yourself, a little dazed, your palms pressed to my chest. I don’t let go, don’t even think about lettin’ go until I know you’re okay.

Then I turn.

The dude’s already mutterin’ some lazy-ass “my bad,” not even lookin’ me in the eye, tryin’ to play it cool in front of his buddies. Too much cologne, too much swagger, not enough brains.

I straighten up.

And it’s like the air changes.

I tower over him—easy—and I don’t slouch this time. I square my shoulders, let him feel the height, the weight of me. The room doesn’t go quiet, but the air sure as hell gets thicker.

“You bumped into me,” I say, voice low. Flat. “Made her stumble.”

He tries to wave it off with a shrug. “Yeah, man, whatever. It’s a party.”

I step closer.

“Nah. You don’t ‘whatever’ that shit. You say you’re sorry. To her.”

His friends shift behind him, quiet now, watchin’. He glances at them, tries to puff his chest a little, but it’s weak. He ain’t dumb—he knows who I am. Knows what I used to be. Probably heard the stories.

And maybe he don’t know I don’t throw first punches anymore.

But he should know I could still end him in three seconds flat if I wanted.

Your hand slips onto my arm—light, a little tug.

“Guz,” you murmur, calm, steady. “It’s fine.”

I glance down at you. See the look in your eyes. You ain’t scared. You just don’t want this to go sideways. And I get it.

I exhale through my nose, slow, then turn back to the guy.

“You’re lucky she’s got more patience than I do,” I mutter, then step back. “Now fuck off and watch where you’re steppin’.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just backs off, draggin’ his ego with him. His boys scatter with him. No one wants that smoke.

I turn back to you, hands back on your waist.

“You good?” I ask, voice a notch softer.

And I swear, even though I didn’t throw a punch, I feel your pride in my chest.

“I’m good,” you tell me, voice steady, though I can see it in your eyes—that moment broke the groove. Music’s still loud, lights still pulsin’, but the high we were riding just hit the pavement.

“Yeah,” I mutter, lips twistin’. “Let’s chill for a bit. Get some drinks.”

You nod. I take your hand, lead you through the crowd, past a few familiar faces, until we spot it—a big-ass bean bag just freed up, half-sunken and lookin’ like the comfiest fuckin’ thing in the whole house.

“Sit,” I tell you, voice firm but warm. “I’ll grab your drink.”

You drop down into it like it’s home, legs tucked, hair all tousled, cheeks flushed from the dancing and the tequila. Still the hottest thing in the damn building.

I head off toward the bar, shouldering past a couple guys without so much as a glance. I ain’t in a mood to joke right now—gotta get that taste of dumbass testosterone outta my mouth.

You watch me go. I feel it. The weight of your eyes on my back, lingerin’ even as I order another tequila sunrise for you, somethin’ cold and citrusy for me. The bartender already knows not to put pineapple in your drink. You’ve been around long enough.

From where you sit, you’ve got the perfect view.

I’m still movin’ like I own the place. Sweatpants hangin’ low, white tee stretched across my back and shoulders, arms still loose and flexin’ every time I reach. That undercut you like, messy now, damp with sweat at the sides, bleach light as hell under the neon.

Even when I ain’t tryin’, I know I’ve got your attention.

And I like that.

I grab the drinks and start back toward you, crowd partin’ just enough to let me through.

Your eyes haven’t left me once.

As I’m halfway back to you, I hear it.

Some cheesy-ass line, loud enough to cut through the bass.

“C’mon, girl, bet you’d look even better ridin’ somethin’ else.”

My eyes snap toward the sound.

You're still sittin’ in the bean bag, face set, eyes sharp, lookin’ at that same little punk from earlier—who’s now got the balls to sit next to you, tryin’ to hit on you with his buddies watchin’ like this is some kinda fuckin’ joke.

Then I hear you.

“Fuck off. I told you I have a boyfriend.”

Your voice is steady. Cold. Sharp enough to cut glass. You’re not afraid. Just pissed.

And he laughs.

Fucking laughs.

That’s it.

I don’t rush.

Because I don’t need to.

Just keep my pace over to you steady.

My shoulders square up, face locked in neutral, eyes locked on the little shit who’s already about to regret breathin’ in your direction. People start clearin’ a path. They know the walk. They’ve seen it before. It’s not loud, it’s not showy—it’s just final.

That punk doesn’t see me yet.

Well, he’s about to. But you see me comin’.

I catch the tension in your shoulders, the way your jaw’s set. I’m close enough now to see that bastard still perched right next to you, leanin’ in like he didn’t just get his ass warned not even ten minutes ago.

You say it again, firmer this time. “I have a boyfriend. Get the fuck up and leave me alone.”

His buddies? Still laughin’. Still tossin’ out trash comments from behind him, like this is some kind of damn game.

It ain’t.

I step up behind him.

You look up at me, eyes flashin’, a silent he’s still at it, and I nod once. Calm.

I don’t even look at the guy right away. I hand you your drink—your drink—first. Carefully. Then mine. Real casual.

Then I turn.

“Hey, man,” I say, voice level. Calm. Even pleasant.

The dude turns his head—probably thinkin’ it’s just someone passin’ by—until he sees me.

All 1.92 meters of me.

Towerin’ over him, lookin’ down with a face that doesn’t need to yell to be real fuckin’ clear.

His eyes go wide.

He tries to move fast, but in his scramble he slips—slides right off the edge of the bean bag with a stupid yelp, ass hittin’ the floor with a thud.

Dead silence from his buddies now. One of ‘em coughs. The rest suddenly real interested in their drinks.

I take a step forward, but don’t crouch, don’t yell, don’t flex.

Just look at him.

“You deaf, or just stupid?” I say, quiet but sharp. “She told you three times. You don’t fuckin’ sit next to her. You don’t talk to her. And you don’t make her repeat herself.”

He stammers, hands up, face red. “I-I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t care what you meant,” I cut him off. “You meant to walk away. So go. Now.”

He scrambles up, doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t look at me, either. Just stumbles back to his little crew, who can’t get outta the spotlight fast enough.

I exhale slow. Then turn to you.

“Sorry, babe,” I murmur, dropping into the bean bag beside you, hand brushing your knee. “Didn’t mean to take that long.”

I sip my drink like nothin’ happened. But I’m still watchin’ you from the corner of my eye. You good?

‘Cause I am now.

You lean into me, legs sliding over my lap like you belong there—because you do—and I catch that little grin on your lips before you say it:

“I liked how you handled that douchebag.”

I smirk, sip my drink. “Yeah, well. Took everything in me not to plant his face in the floor.”

You chuckle, soft and smug, then settle back against the bean bag. Your legs shift a little over me, warm and comfortable, and my hand ends up resting naturally on your thigh, thumb stroking slow while we people-watch.

Which is when the real entertainment begins.

You nod subtly toward a girl in way-too-high heels trying to keep up with the beat. “How long you think before she snaps an ankle?”

I snort into my drink. “Five minutes, tops. Those shoes weren’t made for Ula‘ula roads or that weak ass core strength.”

You laugh behind your glass.

Then I nod toward a dude posturing way too hard in a tank top two sizes too small, arms flappin’ like he’s tryin’ to take off.

“Bet he spent more time on that flex than his whole Pokémon team.”

You choke a little on your sip. “He’s trying so hard not to blink, it’s giving me secondhand tension.”

“Prob’ly thinks blinkin’s beta behavior.”

We go back and forth, quiet and ruthless, but never loud enough for anyone else to hear. It’s just our thing—your hand lightly resting on my chest now, my fingers rhythmically tap-tappin’ your thigh to the beat. The drinks are good, your laugh’s better, and the fact that we’re doin’ all this from the same seat, you half in my lap?

Yeah. This night’s back on track.

We finish our drinks, glasses again discarded to the side, and I feel you shift again—subtle at first, like you’re just gettin’ comfortable.

But I see it in your eyes.

You’re done people-watchin’.

Your gaze flicks over my shoulder. I don’t even gotta turn around. I know who you’re lookin’ at. That same crew, still hoverin’, still peekin’, tryin’ not to look like they’re watchin’ but absolutely watchin’. Like they’re waitin’ for somethin’.

And you?

You’re about to give it to them.

You move slow—intentional, deliberate. Slide from your casual sprawl to straddle me, sinkin’ into my lap as best as the bean bag allows. Your thighs bracket mine, your weight settles on me like heat, and suddenly I’m not relaxed anymore—I’m wired.

Then your mouth’s on mine.

Properly this time.

No playful peck. No casual affection. Just lips, open and wanting, movin’ with mine like you’re tryin’ to shut down every thought I was just havin’. You kiss me like you mean it. Like I’m yours and you want the whole damn building to remember.

Your hand presses against my chest, firm, anchorin’ yourself. The other curls into the back of my head, fingers diggin’ into the undercut—short and neat, still a little damp with sweat from earlier. You drag your nails just enough to make me shiver.

My hands grip your waist, tight, almost too tight. I groan into your mouth, hips twitchin’ under you, already gettin’ hard again from just this.

Fuck the crowd. Let ‘em stare.

You wanna give ‘em a show?

Baby, I’m all in.

My hands slide lower, greedy now—fingertips gropin’ your back, palms full of your ass like I own it, and I do. You rock forward just a little, grindin’ down on me through those tight little shorts, and I feel you shudder.

Fuck, girl.

My thumbs slip just under the hem, draggin’ slow over the soft skin at the tops of your thighs, and that earns me a moan straight into my mouth. I swallow it—don’t even try to pull back—just keep kissin’ you deeper, rougher, like I forgot where we were.

And maybe I did.

Your hips keep movin’, lips still locked to mine, and all I can think about is how you taste, how you feel, how good it is to have you straddlin’ me like this in front of everyone, claimin’ me right back.

Let the little pricks watch.

Let ‘em choke on it.

You moan again, low and sweet, and I groan right into your mouth, grip tightenin’ on your thighs. I kiss you like I’ve got no intention of stoppin’. And honestly?

Right now?

I don’t.

The second I feel that tap on my shoulder—mid-makeout, mid-claiming what’s mine—I already wanna punch whoever it is.

I pull back from your mouth, barely, still breathin’ heavy, lips kiss-swollen and jaw tight.

Then I hear the voice.

“Yo, glad you two finally showed up! This party’s been missin’ some real heat, heh!”

I blink.

Kukui.

Fucking Kukui.

“What the hell…” I mutter, still holdin’ you in my lap, still hard, still annoyed, voice low.

You turn your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder, and I feel your whole mood shift. Gone is the fire from a second ago—now it’s cold, sharp, irritated. He doesn’t get it.

He’s standin’ there all casual, shirt wide open as always, sunglasses at night like a dumbass, actin’ like he didn’t just ruin the moment of the damn night.

“Iki Town’s throwin’ a luau next weekend,” he goes on, grin like this is some laid-back reunion tour, “Figured I’d invite the two of you while I had ya. Food, drinks, music, good vibes—you’ll love it!”

I stare at him. Then at you. Then back at him.

“…You for real right now?”

He laughs.

Like this is all just fun.

I glance at you again—your expression says it all. Unamused. So over it. You’re still sittin’ in my lap, legs tight around my hips, and I can feel your annoyance match mine perfectly.

You don’t need this.

We don’t need this.

And neither of us wants to hear about a fuckin’ luau right now.

“Cool,” I say flatly, voice deadpan. “We’ll think about it.”

And I don't move.

Still got my hands on you. Still sittin’ like he didn’t interrupt exactly the wrong moment.

He doesn't catch the hint.

“Great! I’ll tell Hala to set aside spots for you guys!”

Then—finally—he backs off, wandering off into the crowd like he didn’t just nuke the mood.

I let out a long-ass sigh, jaw clenched.

You don’t even say anything.

Just roll your eyes.

[sinaliciousposts]

On to the next part of my little Guzma series. I hope it's kind of interesting that we are basically in Guzma's head.

I did a lot of prompts trying to grasp certain characters that way.

Well, enough babbling on my part.

Part Five:

Pairing: Guzma x fem!Reader

Takes us a while, sure—Melemele to Ula‘ula and back up to Po Town ain’t exactly a quick ride, but we make it. Sun’s long gone, moon startin’ to creep up, sky painted that deep purple-gold haze that always hits different out here.

And the second we hit the outskirts of Po Town, I hear it.

Bass. Real low. The kind you feel in your chest before it even registers in your ears.

You glance at me, grinnin’. I smirk right back.

Yeah. This is gonna be a good night.

The old Shady House comes into view a minute later—and shit, it don’t even look that shady anymore. Paint’s fresh. Lights spill warm outta the front windows. There’s a banner strung over the steps—probably Plumeria’s idea—big bold letters: "FAM FOREVER".

I feel your hand brush mine, and I link our fingers without thinkin’.

I helped rebuild this place. Brick by fuckin’ brick. With busted knuckles and long-ass days and more than a few arguments. All the Kahunas backed me. Even Nanu, though he acted like he didn’t care. But they knew I meant it when I said I wanted to fix shit.

Still… I don’t brag about it. Ain’t my style.

You look up at the house, eyes wide, and I know you see it. What this used to be. What it is now.

And yeah, maybe I still wear that “destruction in human form” title like armor. But you? You see past it. Always have.

“C’mon,” I say, pullin’ you forward by the hand, that music gettin’ louder with every step. “Let’s show ‘em how good trouble looks.”

And just like that, we head inside—together.

Place is packed wall to wall—old grunts, old heads, even a few new faces hangin’ around. Not “Team Skull” anymore, not officially, but family’s family, no matter what badge you wear. Most of ‘em still call me Boss, though they try not to say it in front of the League people.

Music’s bumpin’. Bass heavy, vocals damn near swallowed up by the beat. But the dance floor? Barely touched. Shame, really. Lights strobin’, DJ settin’ the vibe right—and nobody movin’. These fuckers forgot how to party or what?

I lean close, breathin’ in the smell of your perfume and sweat and whatever you put on that made your skin taste sweet earlier. Gotta raise my voice, even right by your ear.

“What d’you wanna drink?”

You glance at me, that slow grin spreadin’. “Surprise me.”

Aight.

I shoot a wink and head for the bar, partin’ the crowd like I still own the room. Maybe I don’t anymore, but people still move when I pass. Old habits. Ain’t complainin’.

While I’m waitin’ on drinks, I lean one elbow against the counter, eyes on you—always on you. That ass in those shorts, hair done up, makeup perfect. Fuck. You light the place up just by standin’ in it.

Then I see Plumeria make her way over to you. Girl’s always been sharp, never misses a beat. She taps your shoulder, and the way you turn—grin wide, arms already movin’—I know it’s all love.

You two hug like sisters. She leans in to say somethin’—probably about us bein’ late. I see the way you wave it off, sass in your smile, and whatever you say makes her snort and toss her head back. Yeah, you handled that. Like always.

Bartender slides over the drinks. I grab the tequila sunrise—no pineapple, obviously. I ain’t tryna kill you on a Friday nighty, and my beer.

I shoulder my way back through the crowd, step in behind you, hand slippin’ onto your waist after I pass you the glass.

“Sunset for my sunshine,” I say, voice low by your ear.

You glance down, see the drink, and that grin hits me hard.

Yeah. I did good. Real good.

I clap Plumes on the shoulder and pull her in for that side-hug, thumpin’ her back once like always.

“Yo,” I say, grin crooked. “You still stealin’ all my good ideas or what?”

She scoffs. “Please. Your ideas come with fire damage and unpaid fines.”

“Exactly,” I smirk. “Means they work.”

You sip your cocktail while I lean into our little strategy talk, namin’ trainers, battlegrounds, how to get the word out without makin’ it all ‘League-official.’ We’re halfway through talkin’ about whether we’re gonna let outside Alolan teams register when I hear it:

“I hate to interrupt you two.”

Your voice, cuttin’ through the bass, smooth and bright and just a little mischievous.

I look over. You’re smilin’ at Plumeria, but that fire’s aimed right at me.

And I know what that means.

Plumeria raises an eyebrow, already guessin’. “Oh, for real?”

You shoot her an apologetic look. “Sorry, but I need to dance with my man.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smilin’, arms crossed. “Go. Get it outta your system.”

You grab my wrist and drag me toward the center of the floor before I can even answer.

We still got our drinks in hand—mine’s a half-full, yours that perfect pink-orange sunrise—but we make it work. The second we hit that empty space, the bass drops, real low and slow, the kind that wraps around your bones.

Your arm slides up around my neck, and I instinctively slide mine around your waist, pullin’ you in close.

We sway, close enough to share heat, hips movin’ together like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Your hair brushes my jaw when you lean in a little more, and your scent is all I fuckin’ breathe in.

My free hand taps rhythm against your hip. Yours traces the back of my neck, cool fingers against hot skin. The tequila’s hittin’ you now—I see it in the looseness of your grin, the glint in your eyes as you look up at me.

You’re feelin’ the beat. And I’m feelin’ you.

You press against me, chest to chest, hips syncin’ up like we been doin’ this forever. And I move with you—smooth, natural, nothin’ forced. I don’t brag about it, nah. Never saw the point. Let other people talk. But you? You notice. You feel it.

And that’s all I give a fuck about.

You grind slow, barely-there at first, then bolder with the beat, every roll of your hips matchin’ mine like your body knows exactly what mine’s doin’. Every now and then, you take a sip from your straw, drink almost gone, but you don’t stop movin’. Neither do I.

Your hand’s still on my neck, fingers trailin’ up into my hair, and I’ve got my palm splayed across your lower back now, holdin’ you there like you’re mine.

‘Cause you are.

Your head tilts back a little, eyes half-lidded, and your smile—that real, genuine one that you only pull out when you’re not thinkin’ about shit, just feelin’—it fuckin’ kills me.

I lean in close, my breath hittin’ your ear, voice low and rough.

“You’re trouble on the dance floor too,” I murmur. “And I fuckin’ love it.”

You laugh, that kinda buzzed, uninhibited sound that makes my stomach flip. You’re floatin’, caught in the music, the drink, the way we move like the world’s too slow to keep up with us.

And me?

I’m just glad you’re here. That you’re mine.

You toss your empty glass onto the nearest table like you don’t give a fuck, and honestly? That’s hot. You’re in your zone, buzzed and glowing, hips still movin’ against mine like the beat lives in your bones.

I follow your lead, ditch my bottle just as easy.

Now both our hands are free.

So I use ‘em.

One settles on your waist, the other slides lower, fingers splayed over your ass like I own this moment—because I fuckin’ do. You wrap both arms around my shoulders, pullin’ me in until there’s nothing between us. Your hips grind against mine with every pulse of the bass, and I match your rhythm, our bodies rollin’ together slow and dirty like the track was made just for us.

We breathe the same air now. Our mouths brush without kissin’. Teasin’. Teasin’ like we don’t already know how this night ends.

Your eyes meet mine, all heat and wickedness.

And I feel it. All of it.

My cock’s already startin’ to take notice again, caught in the press of your hips, but I don’t rush. Nah. This? This is foreplay. Every sway, every grind, every subtle roll of your pelvis—that’s you, lightin’ the fuse again.

And I’m not stoppin’ ‘til we both burn.

You’re flush against me, body slick with heat, hips never stoppin’, and I can feel it—you’re gettin’ all worked up. That tequila, the music, the press of my thigh between your legs—it’s all doin’ its job.

And you still try to talk.

You lean in, breath warm against my ear, voice just a little shaky. “You havin’ fun?”

I grin, hands still on your waist, rockin’ you against me slow and deep. “Babe, I’m havin’ a fuckin’ blast. You?”

You nod, but your breath catches when my hand slips a little lower again, fingers spread over the curve of your ass, pressin’ you right where you need it. That little grind you give me in response? Shit, it’s filthy. Like a promise with no shame.

You try again. “Think anyone’s… watchin’?”

I glance around—don’t really care. “Probably. Let ‘em.”

You laugh, half-gasp, half-snort, head fallin’ to my shoulder for a beat as your hips keep movin’. “You’re so bad.”

I chuckle, voice dark against your temple. “You like it.”

You nod. “Yeah. I really fuckin’ do.”

You try to say more, but your voice stutters when I shift your hips just right, grindin’ you up my thigh, the friction hittin’ just right. I feel your nails dig into my shoulders through the shirt.

“Guzma—” you half-whisper, half-moan.

I smirk.

“Yeah, babe?”

You don’t answer.

You just move. And I move with you.

[sinaliciousposts]

The next part is a little more... without the smut. But I do like some domesticity. So I always try to include some in any way, shape or form.

So, I guess it's not really 18+

But there are still some parts with naked bodies and stuff. So you have been warned!

Still wanted to keep it as close as possible to Guzma and his beautiful personality ;)

Part Four:

Pairing: Guzma x fem!Reader

Your breathing stirs first, a subtle shift against my chest. But I don’t wake.

Not ‘til your lips find my jaw. Then my cheek. Then—shit, again—my nose.

I grumble low in my throat, still hazy, and when your lips brush mine, I kiss you back on instinct. Soft. Sleepy. Like my body knows you before my brain even catches up.

Then my eyes open—slow—and there you are.

Half sprawled on top of me, your tits pressed flush to my chest, warm and perfect, your grin already teasing like you’re five steps ahead of me. My arm's still slack around you, the other one flopped out above my head, but when you speak, I register the words through the sleepy haze.

“If we wanna be fashionably late,” you murmur, “we gotta get up.”

My hand twitches, already reachin’ for your waist—but you’re gone.

You slip outta bed, bare and smug as hell, and all I can do is lay there, eyes trailin’ your every fuckin’ move.

Then you bend over.

My jaw tightens. “Fuckin’ hell…”

Full view of that sweet, bare pussy, glistenin’ just a little in the sunset light, and I swear I could weep. My cock twitches, lazy but interested.

You rummage through your bag, ass on display, totally unbothered. You know exactly what you're doin'.

And you love it.

You find what you’re lookin’ for—tight black panties, denim shorts, that clingy little tank top—and start getting dressed like you haven’t just fried every last nerve in my body.

I prop myself up on my elbows, still naked, still buzzin’ from sleep and afterglow and the sight of you. And I smirk.

Because yeah. I’m watchin’ you.

And yeah. I’m already thinkin’ about round two.

Even if my dick’s still soft, it won’t stay that way long. Not with you struttin’ around like that.

“Keep bendin’ over like that, girl,” I murmur, voice rough with sleep and need, “and we’re gonna be more than fashionably late.”

I hear your makeup bag unzip behind me as I finally drag my lazy ass outta bed. The sheets are still warm, smellin’ like sex and sweat and you, and I almost crawl back in. Almost.

Instead, I grab my boxers off the floor—still inside out, still a little damp from bein’ yanked off in the heat of it—and slide ‘em on without a care. Then the sweats. Black, loose, comfy as fuck, white zig zags around the ankles. You’ve told me before how much you like the way they hang low on my hips. I don’t forget shit like that.

I stretch, arms overhead, roll my neck once before grabbin’ my white tee off the back of the chair. Still smells clean enough. I tug it over my head, not thinkin’ much—just gettin’ dressed, scratchin’ the back of my neck as the collar slides down—

And then I feel you.

You’re close. I don’t even need to see you. Just feel your eyes on me, that heat, that little shift in the air like you’re watching me do every little thing, and lovin’ it.

When my head pops through the collar, you’re right there.

Standin’ in front of me, eyes already locked on mine, lips parted just slightly. I see it in your face—the way you’re bitin’ your bottom lip, the way your chest lifts as you breathe me in up close. You just did your makeup, that soft smokey look that always makes your eyes pop, and your lips look just a little glossy from whatever balm you used.

You’re fuckin’ lethal.

My hands pause mid-adjust on my shirt hem.

“Damn, girl,” I murmur, eyes draggin’ down your body, slow. “You look like trouble.”

But I don’t step back.

I don’t ever step back when it comes to you.

“I am trouble,” you murmur, smirkin’ like sin, and then you kiss me.

It’s not rushed—not sloppy. Just firm, full of attitude, a little taste of that lip balm and your fuckin’ spark. The kind of kiss that says you’re mine and you know I fuckin’ love it.

When you pull back, eyes gleamin’, you say it like it’s not gonna ruin me.

“C’mon, let’s go, big guy.”

I huff a laugh through my nose, hand ghostin’ over your hip as you turn. “Yeah, yeah…”

And just like that, we’re out the door. You strut ahead, hair a little tousled, shorts tight, tank tighter, leavin’ my brain fried and my dick reconsiderin’ its current state.

Trouble?

Yeah.

And I wouldn’t have you any other way.

[sinaliciousposts]

And the next part (part 3) in my little Guzma series. That one's a little longer. And waaay more NSFW/18+

So minors, pls do not read.

I am always open to constructive criticism. So please let me know if you enjoy what I wrote.

Thanks :)

Part Three:

Pairing: Guzma x fem!Reader

NSFW - 18+

I push off the bed, still buzzin’ from the taste of you on my tongue. My shirt comes off first, then pants, boxers—don’t even fold ‘em. Just peel everything off and let it fall. I’m hard as fuck, and I know you’re watchin’. You always watch.

You scoot back on the bed, slow and deliberate, barin’ that bare little pussy as you move, like you want me to look. Like you know I will. Tank top still on. No panties. Legs open just enough to tease.

Fuckin’ dream girl.

I crawl onto the bed between your thighs and lean in for one more long, slow lick. From slick entrance to swollen clit, I savor it. Breathe it in. My tongue flicks once, and I hum against you.

“Still tastes like heaven, babe. Better than fuckin’ candy.”

You twitch. I grin.

Then I sit back on my heels and crook a finger. “C’mere.”

You rise, slow and smooth, smirkin’ like you already know what I want.

I slide my hands up under your top, no resistance, no bra. Just soft skin and perfect tits. My palms mold around them, thumbs brushin’ your nipples through the thin fabric. They perk up right away. You gasp—quiet, sharp—and I fuckin’ love that sound.

“This all for me?” I murmur, fingers pinchin’ lightly. “No bra, no bullshit? Just ready for me to unwrap you?”

You nod, still smirkin’. And that’s all I need.

I grab the hem and pull the top off, slow enough to watch your tits bounce free.

My mouth’s already waterin’.

I press my palm to your chest, gently easing you back down. You go without a fight, that smirk still playin’ at the corner of your lips as your back hits the mattress. Now you’re layin’ there—naked, spread out like art, skin still flushed from earlier, legs parted just enough to make my head spin.

Fuck.

I crawl up slow, takin’ my time, mouth already trailin’ kisses as I go. Startin’ at your hip, where the skin’s smooth and warm, I suck a little—just enough to leave the ghost of a mark. You shift under me, already reactin’.

My lips move to your stomach, open-mouthed, hot and wet. I don’t rush. I kiss just below your navel, then a little higher, until I’m slidin’ up your body like I belong there.

And I do.

When I reach your tits, I pause. Can’t help myself. I take one into my mouth, tongue flickin’ over the nipple, slow and greedy. You gasp, archin’ into me, and I feel your thighs twitch against my hips.

I groan around your nipple, then switch to the other, suckin’ harder, lettin’ my teeth scrape just a little. You squirm beneath me, and that only makes me hungrier. I lick, I suck, I palm both tits, pressin’ them together so I can move between ‘em with my mouth, like I can’t decide which one I love more.

You’re breathin’ harder now. Fingers in my hair. Legs shiftin’ like you don’t know whether to pull me back down or wrap around me.

Only when I feel you writhe under me—really start to lose it—do I move on.

I kiss your chest. Your collarbone. Then up, over your throat. One more kiss to your jaw.

And finally—finally—I reach your lips.

I hover there for just a second, smirkin’. “Still smug, huh?”

You grin.

So I kiss you. Deep and messy. Like I mean it—deep, tongue tangled with yours, mouths open, breath hot and uneven between us. You taste like want. Like heat. And every time your hips roll up into me, I feel it—your slick, bare pussy rubbin’ against my cock, glidin’ through your folds like I already fuckin’ belong there.

Shit.

I groan into your mouth. You keep movin’, rubbin’ that sweet little clit right against the head of my cock with every grind, and it’s makin’ me lose it. You’re drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy.

“Fuck, babe,” I murmur against your lips, but you don’t stop. Can’t blame you. You’re pantin’ into the kiss, hands cuppin’ my face like I’m the only thing that exists. Like you need this.

And hell, I do too.

I rock my hips just once, slow—let my cock slide right through that wet heat again, from entrance to clit, leavin’ us both breathless.

“Keep doin’ that,” I growl, forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck… you’re so wet, baby. Feels so good.”

You moan—half into the kiss, half into my mouth—your legs spread wider, invitin’ me in, practically beggin’.

Your hands are everywhere—palmin’ my shoulders, glidin’ down my chest, fingers trailin’ across my neck and the back of my head. That touch? Fuckin’ electric. You rake through the short undercut at my nape, then up into the bleached mess on top. I feel your fingers tighten just a little, and it makes me groan low against your skin.

Shit, you know exactly what that does to me.

All the while, you’re still grindin’. Still rollin’ those perfect hips, lettin’ my cock glide slick and hot through your folds, bumpin’ your clit just right. Every time it slides up, I feel your thighs twitch. You moan, panting against my cheek like you’re gonna fall apart just from this.

And baby, I’m right there with you.

I bury my face in your neck, kissin’ along your jaw, your throat—slow, messy, open-mouthed kisses. I find that one spot just below your ear that makes your whole damn body shudder, and I bite it, soft but greedy.

“Fuck, girl,” I growl into your skin. “I love this—I love what we’re doin’—but if you keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna bust all over your stomach before I even get inside you.”

You gasp, fingers still tangled in my hair, hips still rollin’.

And then you whisper it—soft, needy, wicked.

“Then slide in already.”

My whole body goes still for a beat.

Then I lift my head, eyes dark, breath heavy, mouth still kiss-swollen.

“Say less, baby.”

I pull my hips back just enough—just enough to feel the tip of my cock line up with your entrance. You’re soaked, hot, so fuckin’ ready for me. I press forward, slow… steady… controlled, even though my whole body’s screamin’ at me to bury myself all at once.

You gasp when I push in. Your eyes flutter, fingers tightening in my hair again. And I feel it—every inch of me sinking into that warm, perfect heat, stretchin’ you just right. My hips meet yours and I shudder, fuckin’ shudder, jaw clenched tight.

“Shit, baby…” I pant. “So tight…”

I hold myself up on my hands, chest hoverin’ just above yours, but then I shift—drop to my left elbow so I can free my right hand. My weight settles more on that side, and my fingers are everywhere—glidin’ over your ribs, thumb swipin’ your nipple, hand draggin’ down to your waist.

Then I start movin’.

Slow thrusts, deep and smooth, hips grindin’ into yours with a rhythm that’s got both of us moanin’. You tremble under me, legs twitchin’, gasps catchin’ in your throat like you’re already right there on the edge again.

And I feel that.

I grab your thigh, hoist it up over my hip, and the second I push in again at that new angle—you shudder. Hard. That perfect little cry leaves your lips and I lose my fuckin’ mind.

Your hands fly to my back, nails diggin’ in, and you whisper it between breathless moans, voice shaky and raw—

“God, I love you…”

I freeze for half a second. My hips still buried deep, my hand holdin’ your leg up high.

Then I look down at you, eyes dark, lips parted, fuckin’ stunned.

“Say that again,” I murmur, voice wrecked.

“I love you,” you whisper again—clear, breathless, wrecked.

And I fuckin’ feel it. Like a punch to the chest and a shot to the cock all at once.

I smirk. Try to play it cool. “Yeah?” I murmur, hips still buried deep. “Well shit, babe… sayin’ that while I’m inside you? Dangerous move.”

But my voice cracks a little. You know. You fuckin’ know. I’m done for. I love you too—I just haven’t figured out how to say it yet without my dumbass brain short-circuitin’.

So instead, I show you.

My hips start movin’ again. Faster. Harder. Still deep, still hittin’ that perfect angle, but now I’m grindin’ into you with every thrust. My pelvis presses against your clit every time I bottom out, and you break. I feel it. Your legs clamp around me tighter, your hands clawin’ up my back, scratchin’ my shoulders, draggin’ down my ribs like you’re tryin’ to hold on to something solid before the world rips away.

I groan—loud, ragged—as your pussy flutters around me, tight and wet and desperate. Fuck, it’s all I can do to keep it together.

“Fuck, girl…” I pant, mouth by your ear, “you feel that? You feel what you’re doin’ to me?”

You moan—no words now, just sounds—like you’re gone, floatin’ somewhere high and close to the edge.

“Shit,” I growl, every thrust gettin’ sloppier, deeper, more raw. “I can feel you clenchin’… you gonna come for me, babe? You gonna fuckin’ soak me?”

You whimper. Nod. Maybe say my name—I can’t even tell anymore.

I keep movin’. Same rhythm. Same steady grind. Each thrust hittin’ just right, makin’ you moan louder, makin’ your whole body tighten around me. I know you’re close. Fuck, I can feel it.

Then I give you one thrust—just one—deeper, a little rougher, hittin’ that perfect fuckin’ spot inside you like a hammer to glass.

And you break.

Your whole body arches. Your moan rips right next to my ear, raw and wild, and your pussy clenches down on me so hard I damn near lose it right then. But I don’t stop. I don’t even stutter. I just keep movin’, same slow rhythm, drivin’ that orgasm out of you like I wanna keep you there forever.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” I mutter, voice ragged, chest heaving. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, baby…”

You’re gone. Eyes shut, mouth open, still pantin’, still twitchin’. And I love it.

Eventually you start to come down, legs loosening just a little, moans softer now, breath less frantic. That’s when I shift.

Both hands brace beside your shoulders, and I lean up, face hoverin’ above yours, gaze dropin’ right between us.

And I watch.

Watch the way your soaked pussy swallows me again and again. Watch the shine. The stretch. Hear the fuckin’ wet sound of my cock drivin’ into you harder now, faster, hips smackin’ against yours with every thrust.

You gasp. You moan. Every time I bottom out, your whole body jolts, and I feel you shiver.

I start babblin’, can’t help it.

“Fuck, baby, you see this? You see how perfect you take me?”

“Drippin’ down my cock, so fuckin’ wet…”

“This pussy was made for me, yeah? Always this tight—fuck—always this fuckin’ sweet…”

I slam in harder.

“You feel that? That stretch? That’s mine, girl. All mine.”

And I’m so close. So fuckin’ close.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—so tight, so good, gonna—gonna—nghhfuck—”

It turns to noise real fast. Words slurrin’, breath catchin’. I’m babblin’ nothin’ now—just raw sounds, guttural and helpless, the kinda shit that spills out when every part of me’s burnin’ for release and you’re still squeezin’ me like you want every drop wrung outta my soul.

Then you hike your legs higher.

Fuck. Fuck.

My cock sinks deeper, hits that spot that lights me the fuck up from the inside out. My whole body tenses—stiff, like a bowstring about to snap—hips startin’ to stutter, rhythm shatterin’ as everything in me goes.

And I lose it.

I slam into you one last time, as deep as I can go, and I come hard—groanin’ from the gut, cock throbbin’, pulsin’ again and again as I shoot deep inside you, every shudder of my hips wringin’ more out of me than I thought I even had left.

Your name’s on my tongue, half-said, half-moan, broken open and raw.

When it finally stops, when my body’s too wrecked to keep movin’, I collapse onto my elbows, barely holdin’ myself up, forehead fallin’ into the crook of your neck. My breath’s a fuckin’ mess—hot, ragged, loud in the quiet that follows—and I can’t move. Won’t. Not yet.

You hook your feet behind me, lockin’ me in. And your fingers start movin’ across my back—soft, slow, tender. It sends goosebumps up my spine so fast I shiver, muscles jumpin’ under your touch.

I groan, lips brushing your throat. “You tryna kill me?” I rasp.

But I don't move.

I’m exactly where I wanna be.

I feel your lips press against my temple—soft, sweet, like you’re tryin’ to soothe the last tremors outta me. Your fingers still stroke down my spine, leavin’ a trail of warmth and goosebumps, even though I’m already spent and floatin’.

My breath’s still a mess, but I’m comin’ down. Slowly.

Then you murmur it, low and smug, right against my ear.

“That was so fucking good. I love your dick game.”

My head lifts, heavy as it is. I gotta see that look on your face.

You’re grinnin’. All smug, all sparkle. And before I can get a word out, you lean in and kiss the tip of my damn nose.

I snort. “You’re fuckin’ ridiculous,” I mutter, but I don’t pull back. Don’t roll away. I stay right there, arms still braced on either side of you, chest pressed to yours, our skin sticky and hot but perfect.

Because yeah, I do love the soft shit. Won’t say it. Not out loud. But I melt when you do it. Especially after I’ve just wrecked you and you still look at me like I’m your favorite thing in the world.

You wrap your arms around me, cuddlin’ up, kissin’ my shoulder, my jaw, wherever you can reach. And I let you. I want you to.

For a while, we just breathe. Hold each other.

Then you whisper, “God, I hope your parents didn’t hear us…”

I grin against your neck.

“Babe,” I murmur, voice low and lazy, “if they did… who cares?”

You slap my back, laughin’. I chuckle right into your skin.

“Nah,” I add after a second. “They ain’t gonna say shit. They stopped givin’ a damn what I do a long time ago. And I sure as hell don’t mind.”

I kiss your collarbone, soft this time. “But you? You can make all the noise you want, girl. I like hearin’ it.”

I feel myself slip outta you, slow and wet and perfect. And even that—that—makes me groan a little. Like my body don’t wanna leave yours, not even for a second. The way you clench around me right at the end, even after? Shit. I feel it.

But I finally roll off, land on my back with a heavy sigh, left arm draped across my eyes. Can’t even think straight. Breathin’s slowin’ down now, but my chest still rises deep. I’m spent. Totally fucked out. Dick soft now, layin’ across my thigh, twitchin’ once like it’s still mad I pulled out at all.

And I know you’re watchin’.

I always know.

You scoot in, lay your head on my shoulder like it’s your fuckin’ spot—which it is—and my right arm wraps around you without thinkin’. Just reflex. Natural. Like that’s where you go.

And damn, you feel good there.

You start tracın’ lazy little circles on my chest, and I melt a little more. Your fingers drag through the hair there, soft and slow, down to my stomach. You always do that—feel me. Like you like all of me, even the parts I used to be insecure about. My chest, the way it’s built. The scars. The mess of dark hair that thins into a clean line down my belly.

I breathe out slow as your touch dips lower.

That happy trail’s clean—always is. I keep it neat. You like that. I like that you like it. Trimmed up, smooth just under the waistline, right where it matters.

Your fingers graze close to where my cock’s restin’, and I twitch again, sensitive now, but not complainin’.

“You tryna rile me up again already?” I mumble, voice scratchy, still half-fucked.

But I don’t stop you.

Hell, I’d let you touch me like this forever.

You murmur it against my skin—low, soft, warm against my chest.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to rile you up again… just enjoyin’ you.”

And fuck me, if that doesn’t hit harder than anything else tonight.

Your hand slides back up, resting over my heart now, and you press in closer—your whole body molding to mine like we’re built for this. For each other. You kiss my chest once, then go still, eyes closed, breath even.

I let my arm tighten around you, fingers brushing slow across your back, just idly. You’re warm. Soft. Here. And for once, the noise in my head shuts the fuck up.

Quiet settles.

My breathing finally slows, chest steady, everything in me relaxed in a way I don’t even know how to name.

Then you break the silence—gently. “How was your day?”

My lips twitch into a lazy smirk. “Better now.”

You snort, but wait for a real answer. I exhale and drag my hand down your spine, thinking.

“Eh… it was whatever. Had to deal with a bunch’a dumbass calls from the Skull boys. Plumeria tried to start shit again about that new kid I benched. Said I was lettin’ my dick make decisions.” I scoff. “Joke’s on her. You didn’t even touch me yet when I made that call.”

You hum against me, maybe amused, maybe smug.

Then you ask if I still wanna go to the party.

I glance down at you, lips close to your hairline. You don’t open your eyes, but you’re waitin’.

“Yeah,” I say after a second. “Yeah, I do.”

Because you wanna go. Because I know you like it when I put my arm around you in front of people, when I call you mine and everyone sees it. You eat that shit up.

And honestly?

So do I.

“You look hot as fuck when you’re dressed up,” I add, voice low. “And I love showin’ you off. You’re the best thing I got goin’. Might as well let the whole fuckin’ island know.”

[sinaliciousposts]

I've got another part.

Again: 18+ Guzma stuff

Don't know how many parts I'll write. But I still got enough to post here.

Part Two:

Pairing: Guzma x fem!Reader

NSFW - 18+

You’re layin’ there like you’ve just seen god. Breathin’ all slow, legs still open, hair a mess on my pillow. And fuck, if that ain’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t even go for the towel on the nightstand. Nah. I like the mess.

I drop back down beside you, propped on one elbow, my other hand already sliding up your thigh. Can’t stop touchin’ you. Don’t wanna.

“You really did that just for me?” I ask, fingers drifting up to your hip, down again, brushing real light against your skin.

You hum, soft and lazy. “Mhm. Thought you’d like it.”

I huff a quiet laugh, eyes dropping to the smooth slick between your legs. I run my knuckles down your inner thigh, slow, before sliding two fingers through your folds again—gentle. Just enough to make you twitch.

“Like it?” I murmur. “Babe, I almost fuckin’ died.”

You snort, but you’re still floatin’, and I can tell. Your body reacts to every little graze of my touch—hips shiftin’, breath catchin’ when I ghost past your clit.

“But hey…” I add, voice lower now. More serious. “You don’t gotta do that. Not for me. You know that, right?”

You blink at me, still dreamy, but your gaze sharpens a little. “I know.”

My thumb draws circles just above your knee. I don’t push more than that. Just keep feelin’ you, lookin’ at you. At all that bare skin. Your soft, flushed lips, still swollen from my mouth. The shine. The way your thighs part easier now without a damn hair in the way.

“It’s just… fuck, girl. You looked so good layin’ there like that. All smooth, all soft… I thought I was gonna lose it.”

You smile slow. “I did it for me, too.”

That makes me pause.

You shift a little, one leg brushing mine. “It feels good. I like how it looks. Clean. Pretty. Makes me feel… I don’t know. Confident.”

My hand stills. Then I press my palm to the inside of your thigh and drag it down, real slow. “You should. You look unreal.”

I slide my fingers through your folds again. Just once. Then again, slower this time. You shiver.

“And it’s not just the waxin’,” I add, voice rough around the edges now. “You could come in here with nothin’ done and I’d still drop to my fuckin’ knees for you.”

You bite your lip. I see the way your chest lifts when you breathe in. And I know you believe me.

“But this…” I whisper, thumb teasing your clit now, feather-light. “This right here? Fuck, baby. I could look at it all day.”

You whimper. Just a little.

I lean down, mouth close to your ear. “You want me to look closer?”

Your breath hitches.

[sinaliciousposts]

I am currently trying something new. Got a lot new stuff on AO3, but even more, completely self indulgent and unpublished.

So I guess I just put it here.

This time I am better with the smutty shit. So please don't read if you're a minor. This one's 18+ only!

I tried some Guzma stuff from his perspective, but still as reader-insert. Just, see for yourself.

Personally I think it's awesome, but then again I might be biased.

Part One:

Pairing: Guzma x fem!Reader

NSFW - 18+

It starts when you kick the door shut behind you and throw your bag on the floor like you own the place. Which, okay—you kinda do. My room’s always been a mess, full of dumb trophies and shit I never wanted. But you? You belong here.

You peel off that hoodie, flashin’ a bit of belly, and my eyes catch on the curve of your hips under those tight-ass shorts. But it ain’t until you stretch—arms overhead, tits lifted in that thin lil’ top—that I realize somethin’s off.

Different.

You walk past me and plop onto the bed like nothin’s changed, but I can smell that sugar-sweet stuff they use at those salons. And I can see the way your legs glide against each other when you move.

“You smell real fuckin’ fancy,” I mutter, leanin’ back in my desk chair like I’m not already picturing you spread out. “You go get pampered or somethin’, babe?”

You don’t answer. Just give me that smirk. That one that means you know exactly what you’re doing.

I push off the chair, slow-like. Crawl onto the bed, arms on either side of you, mouth by your ear. “You gonna tell me,” I growl, “or do I gotta inspect you myself?”

Still not talkin’. Just layin’ there lookin’ smug. Dangerous game, baby.

So I nudge your thighs apart and slip my hand between them. Ain’t even tryin’ to be sneaky. I rub slow, palm flat over your shorts, and you let out this soft little breath that makes my cock twitch. Then I tug the waistband down—no panties.

Fuck.

I blink. Then blink again. “No fuckin’ way,” I mutter.

And there it is. Smooth. Soft. Not a single damn hair. I run my thumb along your slit, just to feel it.

You’re already a lil’ wet.

“Damn, girl.” I sit back on my heels, eyes locked between your legs. “You really did that? For me?”

You hum, all innocent-like. “Felt like a change.”

“Shit, you’re gonna kill me.” I grab your thighs and yank you down the bed until your ass is right on the edge. Then I bend, mouth inches away, just lookin at you. “This fuckin’ pretty little pussy all bare like this… fuck, baby, you don’t even know.”

You twitch when I breathe on you. Your fingers dig into the sheets.

And then I go in.

Tongue flat, wide, dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit. You gasp. Legs jerk. I press them open with my palms and keep goin’. Slow licks. Then faster. Then I wrap my lips around your clit and suck, just a little. Just enough to make your hips lift and a choked moan slip out.

“Taste even better,” I growl into you. “Like candy, babe. Fuck.”

You squirm, and I fucking love it.

I lap at you, steady, tongue working in tight circles. Your thighs start to tremble, but I don’t stop. I grab your hips, keep you still, bury my face deeper. Nose pressed against your skin, tongue flicking just right, lips sealed around that sensitive little spot until—

“Oh my god, Guz—!”

There it is.

You buck against my mouth, one hand fisting in my hair. I don’t let up. I can’t. Got your legs locked around my head now and all I wanna do is drink you down. So I do. Ride out your high with my mouth, moaning low like I’m the one getting off.

Only when your grip loosens and your thighs stop twitching do I pull back.

Lips shiny. Chin wet.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and grin down at you.

“You ever do that again,” I say, voice rough as hell, “I swear, I’m gonna keep you in this bed all goddamn day.”