PrettyGrl Archives

Issue No. 01

THE DEBUT ISSUE

Inside This Edition:

Master Archive: Complete publication records

Editors Profile: Meet the editor-in-chief

Ask The Editor: Submit inquires, confessions, or requests

Affiliated Society: Joaquin Torres fan club registry

Become A Subscriber: Receive future releases automatically

Edited by A.

Issue No.2014

Friction

-

Overview: ‘Just Friends’ till you weren’t.

Warnings: Porn no plot, Grinding, Mutual Masturbation, Fingering, Handjob, Clothed Sex, Underwear Soaking / Visible Arousal, Multiple Orgasms, Interrupted Sex, No penetration, Impulse Decisions, Teasing, Awkward Aftermath, Sexual Tension, Poor Decisions Between Friends

Editors Note: Love this and loved writing it, however I never proofread so…sorry if it sucks.

-

Joaquin’s hands are on your hips, firm, impatient, already moving you before either of you can pretend this isn’t happening. You’re on top of him, thighs bracketing his waist, your hands braced on his chest, your mouth locked with his like you’re trying to win something.

You’re both in your underwear.

Which feels like a mistake.

His fingers flex against your hips, dragging you down against him in a slow roll that pulls a sharp inhale out of your throat. He exhales hard through his nose at the same time, jaw tightening, eyes flicking up to yours for half a second.

“Don’t—” you start, then stop.

Because you do it again.

Grinding down, slow and deliberate, testing.

His head drops back against the pillow with a quiet, wrecked groan he clearly didn’t mean to make.

That sound goes straight through you.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, half laughing, half shocked at yourself.

He lets out a breathless laugh too, hands tightening like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. “This is a bad idea.”

Neither of you stops.

Not even a little.

Your mouths crash together again, messier this time, teeth clashing slightly, both of you smiling into it like you can’t believe yourselves. His grip slides from your hips to your thighs, squeezing, thumbs dragging along the inside like he’s thinking about it too hard.

You rock against him again, and this time he actually swears under his breath.

“Jesus—”

His fingers dig in, guiding you back into it, more deliberate now, more desperate. He’s breathing harder, chest rising under your hands, his control slipping in real time.

This is months of accidental touches and too-long hugs and sitting too close finally snapping.

You break the kiss just long enough to breathe, your forehead hovering over his, both of you panting, both of you very aware of everything.

“You’re my friend,” you say, like maybe saying it will stop this.

His eyes flick down to your mouth.

Then back up.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

His hands tighten on your hips.

He pulls you down again.

And you let him.

You both feel it now.

There’s no pretending anymore.

The kiss has fallen apart somewhere along the way, not because you wanted it to, but because feeling became more important.

You’re sitting on him, hips rolling slow, hypnotic, your hands planted on his chest while his hands stay locked on your hips like he’s afraid you’ll stop.

The room is quiet except for breathing. Yours. His. The soft drag of fabric against fabric every time you move.

His mouth is open slightly, eyes fixed on where your bodies meet, watching the way you move on him like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Your panties are warm. Damp. Clinging in a way that makes every shift feel sharper. Every tiny movement sends a pulse through you that makes your stomach tighten.

You swallow.

He notices.

His fingers flex.

You look at him, and he’s already looking at you.

His hands move again, slower now, guiding instead of taking. Your hips rocking forward, and he exhales hard through his teeth, his head falling back for a second.

“Fuck,” he breathes, barely audible.

Your heart jumps.

You’ve never seen him like this.

Never seen him lose composure. Never seen him affected.

His grip tightens suddenly, pulling you down more firmly, and this time he moves with you, meeting your rhythm, controlled but clearly slipping.

The friction makes your breath hitch.

You freeze for half a second.

Not stopping.

Just feeling it.

Feeling everything.

He notices that too.

His eyes snap back to yours, searching your face, checking, making sure. His hands loosen slightly, ready to stop if you pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you move again.

Slow.

Intentional.

His jaw tightens, and he lets out a shaky breath that turns into a quiet laugh, disbelieving.

“This is—” he stops, shaking his head once against the pillow. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

But his hands never leave you.

His thumbs trace absent circles into your skin, like he’s memorizing you through touch.

You’re both breathing harder now.

Neither of you kissing.

Neither of you speaking.

Just moving.

Just feeling.

Just two friends who definitely crossed a line five minutes ago.

Your release hits fast.

Too fast to stop.

Your hips stutter against him, breath snapping in your throat, and suddenly you can’t keep the rhythm anymore. Your thighs tense around his waist, fingers digging into his chest as the feeling crests hard and overwhelming.

You freeze on top of him, a broken inhale leaving you as everything spills over at once.

Warmth floods through your panties, spreading, soaking the thin fabric until there’s no ignoring it. It makes everything hypersensitive, every tiny shift sending aftershocks through you.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

Joaquin feels it immediately.

His hands clamp down on your hips, not pushing, not pulling, just holding you there as his brain tries to catch up with what his body already knows. His breathing turns sharp, uneven, his stomach tightening under you.

He looks down.

Sees it.

Feels it.

His hips jerk, breath catching as his release spills into his underwear, the mess of it impossible to ignore.

“Fuck,” he breathes, low and wrecked.

His hips jerk up once before he can stop himself, chasing friction that’s already too much. His jaw tightens, head falling back as he exhales hard through his teeth, his grip on you turning almost bruising as he loses the last bit of restraint he had.

He stills underneath you, muscles tense, breath caught halfway in his lungs.

Then he exhales.

Slow.

Shaky.

You both stay like that.

Sitting there.

Underwear completely soaked through, clinging, warm and uncomfortable and undeniable. Your thighs are still around him, his hands still on your hips, fingers flexing slightly like he’s grounding himself in the reality of it.

He looks down again.

Not romantic.

Not soft.

Just… stunned in a purely physical way.

Like his brain is stuck on how hot it was.

Like he’s replaying the last thirty seconds on a loop and can’t turn it off.

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. “We really just did that.”

Not regretful.

Just shocked.

You’re still sitting on him.

Still breathing hard.

Still very much just friends.

Except now there’s this.

And there’s no pretending it didn’t happen.

Neither of you moves for a few seconds.

Not because it means anything.

Just because your bodies haven’t caught up yet.

Your breathing is still uneven, chest rising and falling while you sit there on top of him, both of you very aware of how soaked everything is. The fabric clings, warm and cooling at the same time, and every tiny shift makes your stomach tighten again from leftover sensitivity.

Joaquin’s hands are still on your hips.

Not gripping anymore.

Just… there.

His thumbs drag once, absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Then he lets out a short breath through his nose, almost a laugh.

You huff quietly, looking down at him. His hair is a mess, lips slightly swollen, chest still moving faster than normal. He looks like he just got hit by a truck.

Or like he wants to get hit again.

“You good?” he asks, voice rough but casual. Like he’s asking if you finished a workout, not… this.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, because apparently you have no self control, you shift slightly on him.

He inhales sharply.

His fingers tighten on reflex.

You both freeze.

Then you both laugh.

Nervous, disbelieving laughter.

His hands slide off your hips finally, falling onto the bed beside him. Not pushing you away. Just releasing you.

Giving you the choice.

You stay there for another second anyway.

Looking at each other.

Heat still hanging in the air, thick and undeniable.

He runs a hand over his face, exhaling. “We’re idiots.”

You snort softly. “You started it.”

He immediately shakes his head. “No way. You climbed on me.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Because he didn’t.

You’re still sitting on his bed.

Still half naked.

Except now there’s this unspoken awareness sitting between you, heavy and alive, waiting to see what happens next.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He’s just looking.

Not at your face.

Not at your lips.

Down.

Right where you’re still seated on him.

His chest rises slowly, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s studying it, like he’s replaying exactly what happened and feeling it all over again through the damp heat still trapped between you.

You follow his gaze and immediately feel heat crawl up your neck.

“Don’t,” you murmur, half laughing, half embarrassed.

His mouth tilts at the corner. Not apologetic.

Cocky.

“What?” he says lightly. “I’m just thinking.”

His hands slide back to your hips, slower this time. Less desperate. More curious.

His thumbs brush your core without urgency, just grazing. Feeling the damp fabric clinging to you. Feeling the proof of it.

Your breath hitches before you can hide it.

He notices that instantly.

His eyes flick up to yours.

That look spreads across his face, the one he gets when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You feel that?” he asks quietly.

You swallow. “Feel what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, one of his hands shifts slightly beneath you, fingers brushing where your release mix together soaking his underwear. He exhales softly through his nose at the contact, like he didn’t realize how much there was until now.

Then his fingers drift back.

Unhurried.

He presses lightly, just enough to feel the warmth, the dampness still there. Not pushing. Not asking for more. Just… touching. Exploring something he’s clearly fascinated by.

You tense immediately, hips twitching without permission.

“Joaquin,” you whisper, breath thinner now. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs one shoulder against the pillow, eyes never leaving your face.

“Nothing,” he says easily. “Just playing.”

His fingers linger.

Not moving much.

Just feeling.

Your stomach flips hard at the contact to your clit, nerves still raw and sensitive, every tiny brush sending sparks up your spine. You shift instinctively, and his grip tightens slightly in response, steadying you.

His voice drops a little.

“You’re so wet.” The words land heavy between you. “You did that,” he adds quietly. “All over me.”

You stare at him, your lips parting slightly, your brain scrambling for something clever to say back, and finding nothing except the heat still buzzing under your skin.

So instead, you tilt your head slightly.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

His jaw tightens.

He didn’t expect you to lean into it.

His fingers press a little more firmly, still slow, still casual, like he’s testing how much he can get away with.

Neither of you looks away.

Neither of you stops him.

Not after he feels how sensitive you still are.

If anything, he gets quieter. More focused.

His fingers drift away from you for a second, brushing over the damp front of his own underwear again, testing the spot where everything soaked through. His breath shifts slightly at the contact, eyes flicking down.

Then back to you.

Like he can’t decide which he likes more.

His thumb presses lightly against you again, lingering there, feeling the warmth that hasn’t faded yet.

Back to himself.

Then you.

A slow, absent back-and-forth. Curious. Fascinated. Completely unashamed.

You watch him do it, heat pooling low in your stomach all over again, your thighs tightening slightly around his waist.

His fingers drift over himself again, then back to you, slower now, rubbing. Memorizing how you feel under his hand.

Your breath gets thinner.

You don’t even realize you’re moving your hand until it’s already happening.

Your fingers slide down between you, hesitating for half a second before pressing lightly against him the same way he’s been touching you.

He inhales sharply.

His eyes snap up to yours.

That cocky expression flickers, cracks just slightly.

You drag your fingers lightly over him, curious in the same way he was. Feeling the warmth. The wetness. The way he reacts instantly to your touch.

His jaw tightens.

“Careful,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t stop you.

His hand settles more firmly on you now, not drifting away this time.

Your fingers do the same, resting against him, feeling him without urgency, just existing there.

Neither of you is moving much.

Just touching.

Just feeling, rubbing.

Breathing slower now, but heavier somehow.

His thumb traces a slow, absent stroke over you, and you twitch immediately, still sensitive, still reactive. He notices that too, of course he does, his mouth tilting faintly.

“You’re still sensitive,” he murmurs.

Your fingers press slightly more against him in response, testing, teasing.

His breath stutters.

Now you’re both doing it.

Both settled.

The air shifts again.

His hand stays on you, thumb resting there moving in slow circles. The dampness hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s worse now. Your body reacting all over again just from his attention alone.

Your hand stays on him too.

He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes locked downward, watching where your hand rests like he’s trying to stay still through it. His stomach tightens under you, muscles shifting, his fingers pressing slightly more firmly against you in response.

Your breath gets quieter. Thinner.

You press slightly more against him, experimentally, and his jaw clenches immediately, his fingers reacting in tandem, pressing more deliberately against you like its instinct.

A silent trade.

Touch for touch.

Reaction for reaction.

His voice comes out lower now. Rougher.

“You like that?”

You nod before you can stop yourself.

He swallows.

His thumb drags unhurried, and you twitch hard at the contact, breath catching. Your fingers tighten against him at the same time, and he exhales sharply through his teeth.

You’re both watching.

Fixated.

Like you can’t look anywhere else.

Like nothing else exists outside of this tiny space between your bodies.

His chest rises and falls slower now, controlled, but his hand stays exactly where it is, feeling every tiny reaction you give him. Your hand stays on him too, feeling how he’s still reacting, still affected.

Two friends, sitting on his bed, completely absorbed in something neither of you planned, but neither of you are stopping.

You’re barely thinking anymore.

Your hand is still on him, still tracing, still feeling the way he reacts under your touch, every tiny shift, every tightening muscle, every sharp inhale he tries and fails to hide.

You’re watching it.

So focused you don’t notice what he’s doing at first.

His other hand slides from your hip, slower now. Not drifting this time. Intentional. His fingers hook lightly into the side of your underwear, hesitating just long enough that you could stop him if you wanted to.

You don’t.

He shifts the fabric to the side.

Then he touches you.

Actually touches you.

No barrier.

No fabric.

You gasp immediately, your body jolting on top of him, eyes snapping to his face. “Joaquin—”

He freezes for half a second, watching you carefully, gauging your reaction.

You’re surprised.

That much is obvious.

But you don’t pull away.

Your breath is still coming fast, your body still leaning into him instead of away.

His voice drops, quieter now. “This okay?”

You swallow.

Then nod.

That’s all he needs.

His fingers move again, slower this time, exploring instead of teasing, feeling how your body reacts instantly, how sensitive you still are. Your hips twitch involuntarily, and he exhales softly at the reaction, his focus completely locked on what he’s doing.

The sensation is overwhelming.

Your hand tightens slightly where it’s resting on him, and without really thinking about it, you move too. Your fingers slide under the waistband of his underwear, mirroring him, curiosity and heat driving you forward.

He inhales sharply the second you touch him.

Not fabric.

Him.

His head falls back slightly, jaw tightening as he exhales through his teeth.

“Okay,” he mutters under his breath, half to himself.

His fingers move carefully, testing, learning what makes your breath catch, what makes your hips twitch. Your hand does the same, feeling how he responds instantly, how impossible it is for him to hide it.

It becomes impossible to think.

His fingers move with more confidence now, less tentative, more deliberate. He’s watching your face like it’s giving him instructions, every hitch in your breath, every twitch of your hips telling him exactly what’s working.

“Fuck,” he exhales under his breath, voice strained now.

Your hips rock slightly without meaning to, chasing his hand, and that’s when he really loses his composure. His fingers press more firmly, more intentionally, and your head tips forward, forehead nearly falling against his shoulder as your breathing turns uneven.

You’re both unraveling again.

That tight, overwhelming pressure winding higher and higher.

Your breath breaks into a soft moan you can’t hold back.

His fingers don’t stop.

Neither do yours.

Everything snaps all at once.

Your body locks, a helpless sound leaving you mid-breath as the feeling crashes through you, overwhelming and sudden. Your hand tightens on him at the same time, and he follows right behind you with a strained exhale, his head falling back hard into the pillow as his body tenses under your touch.

Everything goes still.

Except your breathing.

Except your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Except—

Knock knock knock.

The sound slices through the room like a blade.

You freeze instantly.

Joaquin’s eyes snap open.

Neither of you moves.

Neither of you breathes.

Another knock.

“Joaquin?” a voice calls from the other side of the door.

His hands are still on you.

Your hand is still on him.

You both stare at each other, wide-eyed, caught red-handed in the most literal way possible.

He lets out a silent, disbelieving laugh, chest still rising and falling hard.

“Don’t move,” he whispers.

Like moving would somehow make this worse.

Like you’re not already completely screwed.

-

Issue No.1962

Wake Up To You

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: Somnophilia

Warnings: Smut like pure smut, somnophilia, fingering, p in v sex, pet names (baby),

Editors Note: This has been trapped in the drafts never really knew how to finish it till I saw some of these prompts for the Kinkuary event. Hope you enjoy!

-

You’re both asleep…at least, you are, curled into him, his chest to your back, warm and familiar. Until you start moving.

Not fully awake. Just restless. Dreaming.

You shift again, hips rolling back into him, slow and searching. Once. Twice.

Peter groans quietly before he can stop himself.

Your breathing turns ragged, little sounds slipping from you without permission, soft moans pulled straight from whatever dream has you wrapped up so tight. You grind back into him again, and this time there’s no mistaking it, need unmistakable and aching.

He’s hard almost immediately.

His arm tightens around you on instinctive and he lets his hands wander slowly and teasing. Over your stomach. Your ribs. Up to your chest, cupping you gently, thumbs brushing until you sigh in your sleep. He squeezes your hips next, grounding himself, before letting his fingers drift lower… just close enough to make you squirm, never quite where you want him.

You push back again, desperate even in sleep, the thinnest layer of fabric between you as he rolls his hips forward, matching your rhythm.

God.

He remembers your words from weeks ago murmured, shy but certain. You can touch me when I’m asleep… if I’m already wet.

He hadn’t tried.

Until now.

His hand slips between your thighs, no teasing this time and he feels it immediately. Heat. Slickness soaking through your underwear.

You moan at the contact, breath hitching.

“Fuck,” he thinks, dizzy. You really need this.

He slides his hand beneath the waistband, fingers parting you, finally giving you what you’ve been asking for without words. He rubs slow at first, learning the way your body reacts even when your mind is elsewhere, grinding into you as your moans spill freely now.

“So needy,” he murmurs against your neck.

“God, baby… you’re so wet.”

“I’ve got you. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

His fingers slip inside you, thumb circling your clit, steady and patient. Your brows knit, a soft whine breaking from you as your body tightens around his hand, riding it instinctively.

You come like that, quiet but intense, shuddering against him, breath falling apart.

Only then does he pull his fingers away, hooking your leg over his, guiding you open. He frees himself, nudges your underwear aside, and presses into you slowly, carefully, easing you around him while you’re still half-lost.

You’re already holding him when he starts to move.

Slow thrusts. Deep. His arm curls around your waist, keeping you close as his other hand finds your clit again, gentle circles that make your breath catch sharply.

That’s when you wake fully.

A loud moan tears from your throat as he fills you completely, hips rolling just right, hitting that spot that makes your mind go blank.

“Peter—”

“Yeah, baby?” he breathes, voice wrecked.

“Don’t stop.” Your hand reaches back, fingers tangling in his hair.

He doesn’t.

It’s unhurried, intimate, devastatingly good both of you whispering sounds into the dark, clinging to each other until you fall apart together. He slows after, helping you ride it out, pressing soft kisses to your neck as you both pant and smile like idiots.

“Wow,” you breathe.

“Amazing,” he finishes for you.

You laugh quietly, still catching your breath. “I need to wake up like that more often.”

He chuckles, still inside you, arms wrapped tight around your body. “Pretty sure you were dreaming about me.”

You roll your eyes, exhausted and blissed out. When he shifts like he’s about to pull away, you whine softly, reaching back. “Wait… stay.”

He raises a brow, confused but absolutely not complaining. Instead, he pulls you closer, holding you there. You whimper at the sensitivity, then melt, relaxing back into him.

Still connected. Still warm.

Still very, very in love.

-

Issue No.2014

Between The Stars

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: Stargazing

Overview: Romeo and Juliet but Joaquin and you. And less violent.

-

The roof is the only place that comforts you.

Concrete still warm from the Sun. The low hum of the city. And the stars.

You sit cross-legged near the edge, chin up, pretending thats all you’re here for.

Pretending you’re not waiting.

You check the time on your phone.

1:12 AM.

He’s late.

Your heart does that stupid thing it always does when he’s late, starts building stories you don’t want. Missions gone wrong. Emergency calls. Orders he couldn’t ignore.

Orders that don’t include you.

Orders that might one day include stopping you.

A faint sound cuts through the air.

Not loud. Not obvious.

But you know it by heart.

The subtle shift of wind.

Your breath catches.

He lands behind you with practiced silence.

You don’t turn immediately. You let yourself feel it first. His presence. You smile.

Then—

“You’re late,” you mutter.

His voice comes warm and familiar.

“Had to make sure nobody followed me.”

You turn.

His helmet is off. His hair is a little messy. His eyes are already on you.

“I missed you,” he says.

And that somehow makes it Better.

You stand, closing the distance without thinking.

His arms wrap around you instantly, like muscle memory.

Your face presses into his chest, breathing in metal and air and him.

He exhales against your hair.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against him.

“I am now.”

He laughs quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Yeah?”

You tilt your head up.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you.

Soft at first. Always soft at first. Like he’s checking. Like he’s making sure you’re still real.

Your fingers curl into the fabric at his waist, pulling him closer.

He deepens it, slow and careful.

The world disappears.

No Avengers.

No Thunderbolts.

No lines drawn.

Just this.

Just him.

Just you.

When you finally pull apart, you both linger close, foreheads touching. “You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Probably not.”

You brush your thumb along his jaw. “Sam would kill you.”

“Bucky would kill me faster.”

You snort quietly. “Probably.”

He sits beside you, pulling you gently so you lean into him. His arm wraps around your shoulders, tucking you against his side like you belong there.

Like you always have. You both look up. The stars are faint against the city glow, but they’re there. Always there.

A loud clang echoes from the stairwell door. You freeze. His arm tightens around you instantly.

Another sound. Footsteps. Your heart drops. “Shit,” you whisper.

He’s already moving, silent and efficient. “Inside?” he whispers.

“No—too risky.”

The footsteps get closer. Your brain scrambles. You grab his hand and pull him toward the shadow cast by the stairwell structure.“Here.”

You press him back against the wall, stepping in front of him. From a distance, you’d just look like someone standing alone.

His hands settle lightly on your hips. You glare up at him silently. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t exist.

The door creaks open.

Yelena steps onto the roof. Her eyes finding you instantly. Of course they do. She tilts her head. “You are out here late.”

You shrug, forcing casual. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “You hate being outside.”

Your stomach drops. “I—”

She steps closer.

You can feel Joaquin behind you. Silent. Still.

Yelena studies your face. “You are acting weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

She hums.

Circles you slowly.

You try not to panic. Try not to look behind you.

She stops in front of you again. “You have been disappearing lately.”

Your throat goes dry. “I go for walks.”

She raises an eyebrow. “At 1 AM.”

“…Yes.”

She stares. Long. Knowing. Too knowing. She sighs. “You’re seeing someone.”

Your heart stops. “What?”

She crosses her arms. “Do you think I am an idiot?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

She glances around the roof.

You swear she looks directly at him.

But she says nothing. Instead, she smirks faintly. “He’s Sams Avenger, yes? The new bird boy?”

You choke on air.

She laughs quietly. “I knew it.”

You whisper, panicked. “Yelena—”

She raises a hand.“I don’t care.”

You blink.

She shrugs.

“You deserve something good.”

Her eyes flick past you again.

Just for a second.

Then back. “But,” she adds calmly, “if anyone else finds out…” Her voice sharpens slightly. “It will not end well.”

You nod quickly. “I know.”

She studies you one more time.

Softens. Just a little. “Be careful.”

Then she turns toward the stairwell.

Before she opens the door, she pauses.

Without turning around, she says, “He should leave soon.” Then she disappears inside.

The door closes.

Silence.

You don’t breathe for three full seconds. Joaquin exhales behind you. “…She knew.”

You turn.

“She knew.”

He looks equal parts impressed and terrified. “That was the most intense five minutes of my life.”

You laugh shakily. “She let you stay.”

He reaches for your hand. “Yeah.” He pulls you gently back down to sit with him. You lean into him again, fitting perfectly against his side. Neither of you speaks for a while.

The stars don’t care about teams. The sky doesn’t pick sides.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“When this is over,” he whispers, “we won’t have to hide.”

You look up at him. “Promise?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

That’s enough.

Because every night, he still comes back to you.

And every night, you’re still waiting.

Issue No.2014

Shh…

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: Sex work

Overview: Joaquins audience is oblivious to his girlfriend on his desk trying not to make a sound.

Warnings: smut, sex work, secret relationship, dirty talk, breath play, voyerism, exibitionism

Editors Note: This is heavily inspired by the Quinn app. I remember when that add with Chris Briney. I was curious i downloaded it and I’ve explored the page, This is audio erotica. Also so many senarios lmk if i should make this a series I might just anyway.

-

The recording light flicks red.

He doesn’t look at you immediately. That’s part of it. Instead he’s adjusting settings on his mics testing them and making sure the audios recording.

You’re already where you’re supposed to be, sitting on the edge of his desk in nothing but lace, His hands already resting on your bare legs. You know the drill.

He puts on his headphones, rolls his shoulders once, settling into that voice.

Not louder. Not deeper.

Just controlled.

“Ive been waiting for this.”

His hands slide up your calves slowly, deliberately. The movement makes the faintest sound against your skin. The mic catches it.

Online, they’ll think it’s fake, sound effects.

You know better.

He moves closer between your knees. His fingers dragging lightly along the inside of your thigh, and you press your lips together.

He watches that.

Likes that.

“You don’t get to make a sound tonight,” he mutters toward the mic.

His eyes stay on you. You know the rules by now and the number one rule is silence.

Because they don’t know you exist.

Your breath stutters.

He reaches up and gently presses a finger over your mouth, just firm enough to remind you.

He leans in as if he’s addressing the listener, “Have you missed me” but his mouth brushes your cheek instead. The kiss is soft at first, almost lazy, until your body reacts.

You inhale sharply.

He kisses you deeper before the sound can escape.

Swallows it.

Perfect timing.

The mic picks up the faint press of lips down your body, the shift of fabric as you grip the desk.

Tomorrow, someone will comment about how “real” it sounds.

They won’t know your nails dug into his shoulders while he pushes your panties to the side and started rubbing right where you want him.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth “Careful.”

Then, louder, for the recording.

“Does it feel good when i touch you like that.”

His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, and your breathing changes again. He hears it instantly.

He cups your jaw and pulls you in, kissing you slow and consuming, so if you gasp, it dissolves into him.

The desk shifts faintly.

Your back arches before you can stop it.

His other hand moving from your center to your hips drawing you closer to the edge of the table.

“You ready baby,” he says calmly into the mic.

That one is entirely for you.

You nod.

He stands his chair scraping against the floor. You hear the shuffling of his clothing, and the noise your bodies make as he pushes in. He quickly kisses you deep grunting to cover up your moan. Before he starts moving he kisses you again softer, “you feel that, feel me filling you up,” he breathes, “You’re doing so well.”

His hand returns over your mouth just as your breath hitches again.

The mic catches everything.

The sound him thrusting into you, The sound of the desk creaking with each movement.

His breathing growing heavier.

Your sounds are muffled against his hand.

“Don’t come yet, just a little longer.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, your mouth falling open in silent moans.

“Don’t you dare” he whispers right into your ear. He’s talking about your noises, they think he’s talking about their release.

Your body arches into him, his composure cracks “fuck” he grunts as he starts thrusting faster.

He kisses you again, hard and messy, completely disguising the sound that escapes your throat.

The mic catches the kiss, the rhythm of his hips, his breath.

To his subscribers, it sounds intense, immersive. Perfectly produced.

They often comment about how he “loses control just enough.” But they never know he actually did.

He grips your hips tighter, moving you to meet his movements voice dropping “Thats it.”

Your own hand covering your mouth, shaking as the pleasure takes over you.

He can barely manage an ending line, “Good. You did so well for me.”

Click.

The recording ends.

For a second neither of you moves.

Then he rests his forehead against yours, breathing real now. No persona. No performance.

You exhale shakily.

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip and studies you like he’s evaluating the take.

“You almost ruined the take,” he mutters.

You grin weakly. “You liked it.”

He leans in, softer now, no mic, no persona.

“Of course I did.”

Later, when the upload goes live, you read the comments curled against him.

“I swear i could feel the desk moving”

“The breathing in this one???Respectfully.”

“Not me replaying the part where he says ‘don’t you dare’ ten times.”

You smile to yourself.

-

Issue No.1962

WARM

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: hugs/cuddles

Overview: You just wanna be close to him.

Editors Note: sorry it took me so long to remember to post. I’ve been bingeing the new season on School Spirits! Ugh it’s soooo good!

-

The room is dark and quiet. That fragile first-sleepover kind of sacred.

You’re tucked into Peters chest, but something in you wants more. Not in a dramatic way. Just… closer.

You shift.

Peter stirs instantly. Not alarmed, just aware.

“Mm?” he hums sleepily.

Without saying anything, you take his wrist and gently pull his arm tighter around your waist.

There’s a pause.

Then—

Oh.

His arm tightens immediately.

“Bossy,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You slide your leg over his hip, slowly at first. Testing. Seeing if that’s too much.

It’s not.

Peter actually inhales softly when your thigh settles over him. One of his hands drifts down, hesitant for half a second, then rests on the back of your leg. Just holding it there.

Like he’s anchoring you.

You feel his thumb move, small, absentminded strokes against your knee.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“So are you.”

“You’re like… a heated blanket.”

You make a sleepy noise and nuzzle closer.

Now your bodies are fully aligned, chest to chest, hips tucked together, your face pressed into the curve of his neck. Your fingers sneak under the hem of his t-shirt just to feel skin.

He shivers.

“Cold?” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes. “Just— you.”

You wiggle impossibly closer anyway.

His hand on your back spreads wider now. Fingers splayed. Instinct kicking in even in sleep. He tucks you in tighter.

And then, because he can’t help himself, he gently adjusts your leg higher over his hip and keeps it there.

Secure.

You press a lazy kiss under his jaw.

He freezes.

“…You can’t just do that when I’m trying to sleep,” he whispers.

“Watch me.”

He huffs a soft laugh against your hair, then presses his face into your temple, nose brushing your skin. His arms tighten around you again, and this time it’s natural.

You can feel how settled he is now.

How his breathing deepens when you’re fully wrapped around him.

Your fingers trace lazy patterns against his ribs.

His hand traces the same rhythm on your back.

You match without even realizing it.

After a few minutes, he mutters, almost shyly.

“You can… stay like this all night. If you want.”

You smile against his skin.

“Planning on it.”

Peter falls asleep with his chin resting on your head, one arm tight around your waist, the other draped over your thigh.

Your room feels different with him in it.

Smaller. Warmer. Like it’s been rearranged around the shape of him.

Tomorrow morning, you’ll wake up in your own bed.

But it won’t feel like just yours anymore.

-

Issue No.2000

Just Because

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment:Just Cause Gifts

Overview: Bob loves to spoil you

Editors Note: sorry it’s so short I wasn’t totally in love with this.

-

Bob’s love language is gift giving.

You notice it early, not because it’s flashy, but because it’s consistent.

It starts with snacks.

You hear him come back to the Tower, boots off, keys in the bowl, and a minute later he’s in the kitchen, setting a paper bag next to you. You look down immediately. You always do.

You smile before you even open it.

“…You remembered.”

He washes his hands, glancing over. “You like them.”

“I’ve mentioned it once.”

“Mm,” he hums.

You take one and bump your shoulder into his in thanks.

A few days later, you’re standing at the fridge and you pause.

He’s added your tea to the shared grocery list.

You grin to yourself. When he walks in, you tap the paper. “You put this on here.”

He nods. “You were almost out.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You’re too sweet.”

A week later, it’s a book.

He hands it to you on the couch and you recognize it instantly. Your face lights up.

“Is this the one you just finished?”

“Yeah.”

“Yay,” you say, already opening it.

Then you see the margins. His handwriting. The underlines. The small, sharp comments that sound exactly like him.

From across the room, Bucky looks over. “Is that annotated?”

“Yes,” you say.

Bob answers at the same time, easy. “We trade books we finish.” He shrugs. “The commentary’s nice.”

You reach over and squeeze his hand, just once, just enough to say thank you. He squeezes back.

When you wake early and curl up on the couch, he brings you coffee without asking every time.

Practical things show up exactly when you need them.

You thank him every single time, and he never brushes it off.

One morning, you wander into the kitchen in a robe over your pajamas, matching slippers padding softly against the floor. You catch Yelena looking you over.

“Cute set,” Yelena says. “Where’s it from?”

You smile, tugging the robe closed. “Thanks. I don’t actually know, Bob got it for me.”

Bob answers over his shoulder, already moving on. “That store that just opened down the street.”

Jewelry shows up like that too.

You notice immediately. Always. A bracelet you fasten and unfasten all day. Earrings that somehow go with half your wardrobe. You thank him every time, and he always nods.

Later that day, you’re in the kitchen with Ava, trying a new snack.

You light up. “Oh—try this.”

She does. Nods. “Good.”

“Bob bought it,” you say, pleased.

From down the hall, Bob calls, “You’re welcome.”

You grin to yourself.

Every complaint you make, every single one, is solved.

You mention once that his room is too cold when you sleep over. The next time, there’s a heavy blanket folded neatly on your side of the bed. It matches his room perfectly.

You run your hand over it, heart softening.

“This is for me.”

“It is,” he says.

“Thank you.”

He presses a kiss to your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Another time, you grumble about his bathroom counter space. Just a passing comment.

You leave on a mission, and when you get back late, Bob is waiting.

“Come here,” he says.

He leads you into your bathroom. There’s a new mirror, with a bow stuck right in the middle.

You laugh softly. “Bob…”

He opens it. Inside, your things are already organized.

“You noticed,” you say, a little awed.

“You complained,” he replies.

“Once.”

“Once was enough.”

You kiss him, slow, grateful, smiling into it. He holds you close, steady as ever.

Later, curled up under your blanket, sipping your tea, wearing your jewelry, you rest your head on his chest.

“You know I love you, right?” you murmur.

He hums. “I love you too.”

You smile, press a soft kiss to his jaw, and let yourself sink into the quiet comfort of being loved so deliberately, again and again, over time.

-

Issue No.00

4 Ways to Love

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: Multiple Penetration

Overview:You have 4 boyfriends and they only just learned how to share.

Warnings:Explicit, smut, porn with plot, poly, group sex(m/m/m/m/f), praise, dirty talk, some degradation, oral, multiple orgasms, cum play,mutual masturbation, fingering, penetration, pet names (baby, good girl), aftercare

Editors Note: This was way harder to write than i thought. I love the idea of PB&JJ fics, i might start doing more… Also idk i tried to give Peter like a really ready side later in the fic but idk that i translated that well. Also it was supposed to be like bob is the main boyfriend but… i like Joaquin too much i guess because i kinda centered him.

-

You moved into the apartment a couple months ago, half-expecting chaos and noise and four men who didn’t know how to close cabinet doors. Instead, you got…kindness.

They gave you space when you needed it. Helped you carry boxes without making it weird. Asked before borrowing your things. Johnny labeled the shelves as a joke, Peter apologized every time he bumped into you in the hallway, Bob quietly made sure you always had a mug clean when you wanted coffee, and Joaquín somehow became the one who remembered what groceries you liked.

Living with four men took getting used to…but it never felt unsafe.

It felt warm.

It really started with Johnny.

Johnny flirted like it was breathing.

“You unpack fast,” he’d said, leaning in the doorway of your room.

“You trying to impress me?”

You’d laughed. “You wish.”

After you were fully moved in, the guys insisted on celebrating. Takeout turned into drinks, drinks turned into more drinks, music got louder, laughter easier. At some point Johnny was sitting too close, his knee pressed to yours, his grin softer than usual.

“You good?” he’d asked quietly, just for you.

You were.

The next morning, you woke up tangled in unfamiliar sheets, sunlight too bright, Johnny’s arm heavy and warm around your waist. He blinked awake when you shifted.

“…Hey,” he said, voice rough,

“If this is weird, we can pretend it didn’t happen.”

It wasn’t weird.

It settled into something unspoken, easy, no expectations. Friends who laughed too much, touched too casually, who sometimes disappeared together.

Then there was Peter.

Peter was different. Sweet in a way that snuck up on you. You became fast friends; inside jokes, late-night conversations in the kitchen, him rambling about movies while you leaned against the counter pretending not to stare.

One afternoon, everyone else was out. It was just the two of you, sprawled on the couch, binging movies that neither of you was actually watching.

“You’re not even paying attention,” he said, glancing at you.

You shrugged. “I’ve seen it already.”

He smiled, relaxed, shifting closer without thinking about it. At some point your head ended up on his shoulder. At some point his arm came around you.

“Is this okay?” he asked, quiet and earnest.

It was more than okay.

Things escalated without a plan, without a label. Just closeness that kept happening because neither of you wanted to stop it.

And then there was Bob.

Bob was slow. Careful. The softest of them all.

You cooked together. Read side by side. Shared silence that felt full instead of awkward. You always ended up curled against him on the couch, like gravity worked differently around him.

One night, you told him everything. Johnny, Peter, the messiness of it all. You expected questions. Hesitation.

Instead, he nodded gently.

“I know,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d tell me.”

You blinked. “You’re… okay with it? I just don’t know if I wanna stop.”

He looked at you then, really looked.

“I care about you,” he said simply. “That’s not something I want to control.”

Bob was the first one you called your boyfriend.

You were always aware of Joaquín.

He was fun in the easy way, quick smiles, easy laughter, the kind of charm that made mundane things feel like events. Grocery runs turned into debates over cereal. Late-night food stops felt like mini adventures. He walked beside you, never rushing, never crowding.

If you were honest, half the things you did together felt like dates. You wanted them to be.

Coffee runs that lasted hours.

Takeout eaten on the hood of his car.

Long talks on the balcony, shoulders brushing, neither of you moving away.

He never pushed. Never assumed. Just stayed close enough that you noticed.

One night, you were sitting at the kitchen counter while he leaned against it, arms crossed, watching you with that familiar thoughtful look.

Joaquín stepped closer just enough that you could feel the heat of him.

“I’m trying to figure out what it is about you,” he said. “What kind of spell you’re casting on them.”

“Maybe they just have good taste,” you teased.

The air shifted. Subtle. Heavy.

“I don’t want to make you feel like you’re being pulled in a hundred directions,” he said. “I know you care about them. I respect that.”

He leaned closer.

“But I want you too.”

The words landed softly.

You tilted your head, heart thudding, letting your knee brush his.

“You could’ve said something sooner,” you muttered.

His breath hitched. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I was trying to be good.”

You laughed under your breath. “You are good.”

That did it.

-

Since then, you’ve been with your boys…and things have gotten complicated.

Not messy. Not jealous.

Just… crowded.

Not because any of them wanted you to themselves.

But because they all wanted time with you. All the time.

Eventually, you did start to feel it, that gentle pull in a hundred different directions.

And today?

They were all extra needy.

It started the second you walked into the apartment.

Johnny was already there, leaning against the counter, eyes lighting up.

“There you are,” he said, grinning. “C’mon, sit with me. I barely saw you yesterday.”

Before you could answer, Peter popped his head out of his room.

“Wait, you said you’d help me pick a movie,” he said, hopeful, already holding the remote.

From the couch, Bob looked up from his book. He didn’t say anything just shifted slightly, making space beside him. An invitation.

And then Joaquín, fresh from the hallway, dropped his keys and smiled when he saw you.

“Hey,” he said easily. “I was actually hoping I could steal you for a bit.”

You laughed, standing there in the middle of the apartment, bag still on your shoulder.

Johnny clicked his tongue. “Wow. Look at that. Popular.”

Peter flushed. “I just— I thought—”

Bob closed his book gently. “You don’t have to decide right away,” he said, calm as ever.

Joaquín’s eyes flicked between them, then back to you. Amused. Curious.

You set your bag down slowly, heart thudding, not overwhelmed, exactly, just… aware. Aware of hands brushing yours as you passed, of the way Johnny’s gaze lingered, of how Peter hovered close, of Bob’s quiet steadiness, of Joaquín’s sharp attention.

“Okay,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “One at a time.”

Johnny scoffed. “That’s what we’ve been doing.”

Joaquín tilted his head, studying you. “Yeah,” he added lightly. “And it doesn’t seem to be working.”

The room stilled, not tense, just focused.

“Okay,” you say finally, sinking onto the couch. “Can we— can we talk?”

They all pause.

Peter is the first to move, perching on the arm of the couch, knees knocking yours.

“Yeah. Of course,” he says quickly. “Did we do something wrong?”

“No,” you say, immediately. “No— this isn’t that.”

Bob settles beside you, solid and warm, his presence grounding. He doesn’t interrupt, just waits.

Johnny drops into a chair across from you. “You’re doing the serious voice,” he says lightly. “That’s never good.”

You huff a laugh. “I just… I feel pulled. All the time. And not because any of you are doing anything wrong.”

Joaquín leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you carefully.

“If you’re overwhelmed,” he says, “we can stop. Or slow down. Whatever you need.”

“I don’t want to stop,” you say quietly.

The room goes still.

“I love being with you,” you continue. “All of you. But I’ve been trying so hard to keep everything… separate. Different nights, different moments, different versions of me. And it’s not working anymore.”

Peter swallows. “You don’t have to split yourself up,” he mutters.

“I know,” you say. “But I kind of already have.”

Johnny shifts forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Then what are you asking?”

You hesitate.

“I’m asking what we do. How we fix this.”

Bob’s hand finds your knee, steady and reassuring. “We talk,” he says simply. “Like this.”

Johnny’s eyes flick between the three of them, then back to you. A grin tugs at his mouth, less cocky than usual, more thoughtful.

“Or,” he says carefully, “we stop pretending we’re in four separate relationships.”

Your breath catches.

Peter’s brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

Johnny leans closer, close enough now that you can feel the heat of him. His hand drifts, slow, deliberate, resting against your thigh, thumb tracing a lazy line like he’s asking permission without words.

“I mean,” he says, voice low, “maybe we don’t need to take turns. Maybe we learn to… share better.”

Silence.

Joaquín lets out a slow breath, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You’re saying… together.”

Johnny shrugs, thumb still moving, eyes never leaving you. “I’m saying she shouldn’t have to keep choosing one of us when she wants all of us.”

Peter’s cheeks are pink, but he doesn’t look away. “Only if that’s what she wants,” he says softly.

Bob squeezes your knee once, grounding. “We follow her lead.”

Johnny tilts his head.

“So,” he mutters. “What do you think, baby?”

You don’t hesitate.

You look straight at Johnny, his thumb still tracing slow, deliberate patterns against your thigh, and you say it.

“Yes. I want that.”

Johnny’s grin flashes as his hand stays right where it is, grounding you.

Beside you, Peter moves without thinking, his fingers catching your chin, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him. His eyes search yours one last time.

Then he kisses you.

A breath shudders out of you.

On your other side, Bobs hand trails up from your knee, slow and reverent, before he leans in, lips brushing your neck.

Your head spins, not from being overwhelmed, but from having them all at once.

You don’t notice Joaquín cross the room, standing beside Johnny, eyes dark, completely undone by the sight of you like this. Surrounded.

Johnny looks up at him, breathless, like he can’t help himself.

“She’s beautiful like this, huh?”

Joaquín doesn’t even pretend to joke.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”

He reaches for your hand, fingers warm and steady, and when he pulls you gently to your feet, the others let you go, just enough. A shared understanding.

Joaquín guides you down the hall, his hand never leaving yours.

And behind you, you hear them follow.

Joaquín guides you to the bed, hands firm but careful, like he’s grounding himself through you. He pauses only long enough to look you in the eyes, thumbs brushing your hips as he starts to undress you.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he asks, voice low, meant only for you.

“Yes,” you breathe, already tugging his shirt over his head. “I want this.”

That’s all it takes.

Clothes are shed around the room.

Bob climbs onto the bed first, settling back against the headboard, eyes dark as they track every movement you make. Joaquín guides you down onto the mattress, hands lingering.

You crawl toward Bob, drawn to him, and the moment you reach him you pull him into a kiss, slow at first, then hungry. He exhales against your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself back.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, rough and reverent. “Just like that.”

Peter slides in beside you, lips finding your neck. His hands roam without hesitation.

“You okay?” he whispers, just before kissing the spot again, softer this time. “Tell me if you need anything.”

Johnny settles on your other side, voice already a tease in your ear. “God,” he mutters, pressing a kiss just beneath it, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to see this.”

You turn, catching him in a kiss, and he grins into it like he’s been waiting all day.

Bob’s hands move tighter on your hips, grounding you as his kisses trail down your chest, leaving marks in their wake.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “So beautiful. Letting us see you like this.”

Your breath stutters.

The bed dips behind you. Joaquín’s hand trails up your back, slow enough to make you shiver, lips following from the clasp of your bra up your spine to the base of your neck.

“Relax,” he mutters close.

Fingers find the clasp, unhooking it with practiced ease.

Peter and Johnny are there immediately, helping you slide it off your arms. Their hands linger before you feel Joaquín press closer behind you, his palms settling firmly on your thighs.

“God,” he says low, voice rough at your ear. “Look at you.”

You spread your legs wider over Bob’s hips, feeling him tense beneath you, and rock forward just slightly. The reaction is instant, a sharp grunt pulled from Bob’s chest as your movement drags you against him.

You gasp, breaking away from Johnny’s mouth.

“That’s it,” Bob breathes, voice strained as his mouth drops to your chest, kissing with slow intent. “Just like that.”

Your fingers fist in his hair without thinking, holding him there as Joaquín steadies your hips from behind, guiding you when your movements start to get sloppy.

Peter’s hand trails from your knee upward, unhurried, teasing. When his fingers brush the inside of your thigh, you shudder.

“So sensitive,” he whispers, almost to himself.

His touch presses harder over your panties, exactly where you need him, and he lets out a soft, stunned laugh.

“You’re so wet,” he says quietly. “All from us.”

The sound you make is broken.

Joaquín’s grip tightens just enough to keep you grounded as he guides your hips forward again, grinding you directly against Bob.

“Let it happen,” he mutters. “We’ve got you.”

Johnny’s mouth finds your neck, kisses hot and messy, his hand coming up to your chest, fingers pinching and kneading until you’re arching into the touch.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You sound so pretty when you fall apart.”

You kiss Bob again, messy and desperate, both of you moaning into each other as the sensation builds too fast, too much.

“I— I’m close,” you try to warn them, voice barely there.

They don’t stop.

They talk you through it instead, hands steady, mouths warm, voices low, until you tip over the edge right there, shaking as they hold you through it, murmuring praise and reassurance until you finally come back to yourself.

Yours and Bob’s underwear are totally soaked through with both of your release. You barely catch your breath before Joaquín is turning you, firm and purposeful, guiding you back until you’re laid out on the bed.

“Easy,” he mutters. “Let us take care of you.”

The guys shift around you, practiced now. Johnny settles between your legs, kissing up your thighs as he pulls your panties off, slow and deliberate.

“Been dying to do this,” he mutters against your skin.

You prop yourself up on your elbows just as Peter slides in beside you, his hands cupping your breasts, massaging them. You meet his eyes, heat flashing between you, and reach for him, pulling him free from his underwear.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”

You stroke him a few times, watching his jaw tighten, then look up at him and open your mouth, tongue out in a silent invitation. He groans, one hand coming up to your throat as he spits onto your tongue.

“So pretty when you ask,” he mutters.

You tilt your head back down, letting your mixed spit dribble onto the tip of him. The others watch, Johnny still, Bob stunned, Joaquín’s grip tightening, as you take Peter into your mouth, deep enough that he gasps your name.

“That’s it,” Peter groans. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

That’s when Johnny finally licks a stripe up your folds, and you moan around Peter, the vibration pulling a broken sound from his chest.

“Shit,” Johnny laughs under his breath. “Listen to her.”

On the other side of you, Joaquín’s hand moves down, finding where Johnny’s mouth is working you open, Joaquins fingers joining rubbing slow circles that make your hips jerk.

“We’ve got you.”

Your moans turn helpless, mouth full.

Bob moves in close beside Joaquín, his head dipping to take one of your breasts into his mouth. He guides your free hand to him, warm and solid in your grasp.

“Yeah,” Bob breathes. “Just like that. You feel so good.”

You pull away from Peter just long enough to lick your hand, eyes never leaving Bob as you go back to your rhythm. Peter groans at the loss, hand tightening in your hair.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters. “Look at you.”

You come faster this time, the sensation crashing over you, but you don’t stop, hands and mouth still working until both Peter and Bob finish, right into your chest, the room filled with low praise and wrecked laughter.

You’re tired now muscles loose and spent, but that doesn’t stop Johnny from flipping you back over, pressing you down so you’re on all fours as he switches places with Joaquín.

“C’mon,” Johnny murmurs, hand firm at your hip.

Joaquín steps in behind you, lifting your hips until you’re arched just right. His hands squeeze your ass, spreading you open, slow and deliberate.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “Tell me if you need to slow down.”

He drags his fingers through your slick, spreading it to your puckered hole, his thumb playing there, gentle and teasing, pushing in just a little before pulling back. He praises you the whole time, low and steady, checking in between every breath.

“Good girl, your okay I’ve got you.”

Your voice breaks when you answer, begging before you even realize you are.

Johnny scoffs softly from in front of you. “Hear that?” he says, dark and hungry. “She wants it.”

Joaquín pulls himself free of his underwear and draws you back until you’re against his chest. When he lifts your hips again and lowers you onto him, you gasp, hands bracing the headboard as he starts to bounce you slowly, controlled, letting you feel every inch.

“That’s it,” Joaquín mutters near your ear. “Just breathe with me.”

Johnny slides in front of you, eyes dark, hand immediately rubbing your clit.

“Look at you,” Johnny growls. “So fucking pretty when you fall apart.”

Bob’s voice cuts in. “Just like that. You’re taking them so well.”

Your head drops, voice shaking. “Please,” you pant. “I’m ready.”

Johnny doesn’t hesitate. He frees himself and pushes into your cunt, the stretch pulling a cry from your throat.

“Fuck—yes,” Johnny groans. “S’that what you wanted.”

You clench instinctively, and Joaquín reaches around, rubbing your clit until you relax, whispering praise against your neck.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “That’s it. You can take it.”

Peter’s tone is wrecked now, barely holding together. “Cum for us baby”

Your moans grow louder, breaking apart as you come hard, shaking between them.

They help you ride it out, steady hands and praise, until you finally slump forward, spent.

Johnny pulls out and finishes on your stomach, breathless and laughing under his breath.

Joaquín follows, painting your back, one last squeeze to your hips as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“So good,” he mutters. “You did so good.”

-

The room settles.

Johnny drops back onto the mattress with a dramatic exhale. “Okay,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face, “real talk? We absolutely should’ve been sharing you like that from the start.”

Peter lets out a breathy laugh, still a little dazed. “Yeah,” he admits. “That just… made a lot of things make sense.”

Bob hums in agreement, warm and satisfied, one arm draped around you. “Seeing you like this,” he adds softly, “knowing it was because of us—”

Joaquín is already up, grabbing a cloth. He kneels beside you, gentle as ever, starting to clean you up with careful hands.

Johnny immediately protests. “Hey— no,” he says, half-laughing. “I liked her sticky.”

Joaquín shoots him a look without stopping. “She doesn’t like that.”

Peter blinks. “How do you know?” he asks, a little amused, a little curious. “I mean— she looks really sexy like this.”

Bob nods once, unapologetic. “Yeah. Gotta agree. It’s hot knowing she’s messy because of us.”

Joaquín finally looks at you then, one brow lifting, that smug little smile playing at his mouth. He doesn’t say a word. Just waits.

You huff out a breathy laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah,” you say, voice soft but sure. “I’d rather be cleaned up.”

Joaquín’s smile deepens—quietly smug. “Thought so.”

You lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his lips, sweet and unhurried, before letting yourself fall back again, right into the tangle of arms and warmth waiting for you.

Johnny groans theatrically. “Okay, fine. Clean her. But next time—”

Peter cuts in, smiling. “Next time.”

Bob squeezes you closer. “Next time,” he agrees, content.

You sink back between your boyfriends, surrounded and cared for.

This wasn’t a one-time thing.

This was how it’s meant to be.

-

Issue No.1962

A SOFT PLACE TO LAND

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: sleepy conversation

Overview:After a long night Peter comes home needing your comfort.

Editors Note: I love this it’s so sweet I have so many versions of this in my brain please lmk if you’d wanna read more! Also I know it’s really short it just felt right this way.

-

He slips into bed quieter than usual. Not sneaky, just tired in a way that makes every movement deliberate.

You roll toward him.

“Hey,” you mutter, voice still foggy with sleep.

He exhales when he sees your eyes open.

“Hey,” he says back, softer. His arm finds your waist immediately, pulling you close like it’s muscle memory.

You’re facing each other now. Knees tangled. His forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says too fast. Then, quieter, more honest, “I think so.”

You don’t push. You just slide your hand up his arm, thumb rubbing slow circles into his shoulder. He melts under it. Actually melts.

“Long night?” you whisper.

“Mmh.” His eyes close. “Brain won’t… turn off.”

“I’ve got you,” you say. “You can relax.”

He nods, his hand grips the back of your shirt, fingers curling. Grounding.

“You smell like outside,” you tease gently.

A tired laugh. “Sorry.”

“I like it.”

That earns you a small smile. He leans in without really thinking about it, pressing a soft, sleepy kiss to your lips.

He pulls back only far enough to rest his forehead against yours again.

“Can we stay like this?” he asks.

“Always.”

Your hand keeps moving, shoulder, arm, back, slow and steady. His breathing starts to match the rhythm, each inhale a little deeper than the last.

“Did I wake you?” he whispers.

“Mm-mm.”

“Good.” Pause. Then, “You’re… really good at this. Calmin’ me down.”

You smile into the darkness. “It’s my secret talent.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “My favorite one.”

His voice lowers, softer, sloppier.

“Don’t go nowhere,” he mumbles. “Just—stay right… here.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Okay.” A breath. “…Love you.”

By the time you answer, his breathing has gone deep and even, words already forgotten.

-

Issue No.2000

Untouched

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: Untouched

Overview: Bob never meant for it to happen, but once he realizes what he can do without touching you, he doesn’t stop.

Warnings: Dom Bob/sub reader,power imbalance, smut, fingering???, lmk if I missed any I honestly wasn’t sure how to warn for this one.

Editors Note: Sorry this came out at an odd time. My queue is being weird and started posting stuff at random times. And so I forgot to post this because I was out last night. Sorry hope you enjoy this one I had a hard time writing and wasn’t super into it so idk how it sounds.

-

The team was out, the compound quiet in that humming, half-asleep way, and you were already halfway into Bob’s lap before either of you remembered to pretend you shouldn’t be.

Kissing Bob was never gentle for long. It always started soft, slow mouths, and shared breath. His hand slid to your waist, thumb brushing just under your shirt. You smiled into his mouth when he made that quiet sound in the back of his throat, the one he only ever made with you.

“Door’s locked,” you muttered, barely pulling back.

Bob huffed a laugh, forehead tipping against yours. “You checked twice.”

“Had to be sure,” you said, already leaning back in.

He kissed you deeper this time, unhurried but intent, like he had all the time in the world. His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in a way that made your stomach flip. You could feel him smiling against your mouth, feel the way he relaxed when you melted closer, knees pressing in, breath syncing with his.

Bob’s thoughts were a mess, how easy this felt, but your fingers curling into his shirt anchored him. You tasted like coffee and something sweeter. He kissed you, slow and thorough.

“God,” he whispered against your lips, voice low.

You kissed him again instead of answering, heat building the way it always did.

He kisses you harder, not rough, just deeper. Your fingers slip into his hair, tug just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and the sound does something reckless to him. His hand tightens at your waist. Your knee presses closer. The couch creaks under the shift, fabric against fabric, familiar friction that makes your pulse stutter.

Then the air changes.

It’s subtle at first, warmth blooming where his hands don’t touch, a low hum you feel more than hear. You pull back with a soft, startled breath, and Bob follows automatically, confused, eyes flicking over your face. Something presses in, invisible and intent, curling around you like it’s responding to the way you’re breathing.

“Bob,” you whisper, half a question.

He feels it then. The pull. His power stirring with want. He stills completely, hands hovering, as the warmth deepens, focusing, learning. Your breath catches, body reacting before your mind can catch up, and Bob watches it happen with dawning clarity.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

Not scared. Not sorry.

Bob leans back a fraction, pulling his hands away, eyes dark as he takes in the way you shiver anyway. His mouth curves, not smug, not cruel but fascinated.

“Huh,” he murmurs, voice low. “Didn’t know I could… do that.”

The power hums once more, eager, waiting.

You feel it before he moves.

Your skin prickles, every nerve suddenly awake, tuned to something low and golden that hums just under the surface. It’s not a touch, not really. It’s pressure without weight, warmth without hands. You swallow, pulse skittering, thighs tensing on instinct as your body reacts in a way you didn’t give it permission to.

Bob watches it all.

leaning back just enough to give you space, and somehow that makes it worse. The absence of him sharpens everything. His eyes don’t leave your face as he exhales slowly, and the hum deepens in response. You feel it coil, focus, like it’s listening to him now.

“Oh—” The sound slips out of you before you can stop it, breath breaking as heat blooms low in your stomach. Your hands curl into the couch cushion, grounding yourself as your body betrays you, arching slightly into nothing at all.

Bob’s head tilts, curious.

You can tell the exact moment he understands what he’s doing, because the feeling changes. Becomes intentional. The warmth presses and eases in slow waves, perfectly timed to your breath, your reactions, the way your eyes flutter shut.

You open them anyway.

He’s watching you like you’re something precious. Your pulse quickens. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive.

“Bob,” you whisper again, not a warning. Not a plea.

He smiles small. And the hum answers, patient and exact, as your body shudders in response to a power you can’t see and can’t escape.

Still, he doesn’t touch you.

“Hey,” Bob whispers, voice low and steady as a hand on the small of your back, anchoring. He leans in close, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Look at me.”

You try. The room feels bright. Your hands fumble for him, clutching the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself.

He kisses your throat, then your collarbone, then just below your ear. “Tell me it’s okay,” he says quietly, mouth still warm against your skin. “Tell me to keep going.”

“Yes,” slips out of you on a breath that shakes. “Bob—please.”

He exhales, and his power answers.

It deepens, tuned to the way your hips tilt without meaning to. Bob’s hands are everywhere else, hands at your waist, thumbs tracing your ribs, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

“You’re doing so good,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Your body gives in, breath stuttering as you cling to him, wrecked and trembling and undone.

Bob holds you immediately, arms solid around you, power easing the instant it’s done. He presses a kiss to your temple, slow and grounding, holding you like he planned this all along.

Bob stays close, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm and steady. His hands slide down your waist, unhurried, one of them drifting lower until it disappears into your pants.

Your breath hitches at the sudden sensitivity, nerves already frayed from everything he’s done. He feels it, the way your body reacts to him, and his mouth curves with satisfaction. His fingers move slowly, gathering everything he pulled out of you moments ago.

“All this,” Bob mutters, low and pleased as he draws his hand back, your release glistening on his fingers, “and I didn’t even touch you.”

He brings them to his mouth, lips closing around them with a soft, approving hum, eyes never leaving yours.

“Now,” he says, voice darker, “I wanna touch you.”

-

Issue No.1962

THE WORLD CAN WAIT

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: Care Taking

Overview: Peter tries to juggle the city and the person he loves

Warnings: Illness, vomiting(referenced),hurt/comfort, vulnerability,guilt,soft angst

Editors Note: I really loved this idea im kinda worried it’s not fluffy enough but i hope you like it anyways!

-

You don’t sleep so much as drift, out, back, out again, like your body can’t decide where it belongs. Sheets twisted around your legs. Your head feels too heavy for your neck. Every time you resettle, there’s that awful, hollow ache humming just under your skin.

Peter notices.

He always does.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just adjusts.

When you shiver, his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest like muscle memory. When you sigh, frustrated and restless, he presses a kiss into your hair, soft and barely there. At some point, you half-wake to the sound of the kettle in the kitchen, the low clink of a mug being set out. You feel him slide back into bed, warm hands tucking the blanket up under your chin.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice still sleepy, still gentle. “S’okay. Go back to sleep.”

You do. Mostly because he’s holding you and it’s the most comfortable you’ve felt all night.

~

Morning doesn’t bring relief. It brings heat.

Your skin feels wrong, too warm, too sensitive. You’re shivering even though your apartment is cozy, even though Peters right there, palm flat against your back.

You try to sit up anyway.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, already swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.

Peter’s hand closes around your wrist immediately. Not tight. Just firm enough to stop you.

“Hey—nope. Uh-uh.” There’s a softness to his voice, but an edge too.“You don’t feel fine.”

He presses the back of his fingers to your forehead, and his brows knit instantly.

“…yeah. Okay. You’re warm.”

You try to wave it off. “I can still—”

“No,” he says gently, already reaching for the thermometer. “You can rest.”

He takes your temperature, eyes flicking between the screen and your face. When it beeps, his mouth tilts into a frown.

“Fever,” he confirms quietly, like naming it might scare you less. He guides you back against the pillows, tucks the blanket around your shoulders. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to take care of yourself today.”

~

The city is loud today.

Louder than usual.

Sirens echo between buildings. The TV murmurs with breaking news you’re too foggy to follow. Somewhere outside, something crashes, people shout. The world keeps insisting on existing.

Peter keeps moving.

He’s trying…God, he’s trying. He brings you water, presses a cool cloth to your forehead, kisses your temple before darting out the door again.

“Soup,” he promises once.

“Medicine,” another time.

“I’ll be right back,” every time.

You believe him. Of course you do.

But each hour you feel worse. Your stomach twists into something mean and violent. The room spins when you sit up. At some point, you don’t even call for him, you just stumble toward the bathroom on instinct, one hand dragging along the wall.

You barely make it.

The floor is cold. The blanket you wrapped around yourself feels too thin, but it’s all you can manage. You’re shaking, forehead pressed to tile, tears slipping out without permission. You hate this part, the weak feeling in your bones. You’re honestly kinda happy Peter isn’t here to see you like this, sweaty, shaking, abs sore from vomiting.

The apartment door opens softer than usual.

You hear it distantly, through the ringing in your ears. The familiar thud of his shoes by the door. A rustle of bags. He says your name once, easy and automatic, like he expects an answer.

When none comes, there’s a pause.

Then his footsteps change. Quicker. Searching.

“Hey?” he calls again, closer now.

You manage to lift your head a fraction, throat sore, eyes burning. When he appears in the doorway, your first instinct isn’t relief, it’s embarrassment.

“Don’t—” you croak, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite land. “Don’t come in here. It’s… kinda gross.”

Peter freezes for half a second.

Not because of the bathroom. Not because of the mess.

Because you’re on the floor.

Wrapped in a blanket like it’s the only thing keeping you together. Skin flushed, eyes glassy. Smaller somehow. Fragile in a way that hits him straight in the chest.

“Hey,” he says softly, already dropping to his knees. “No. No, it’s not gross.”

He slides an arm behind your shoulders, careful, slow. You’re lighter than he expects when he helps you sit up, and guilt crashes through him so hard it almost takes his breath.

I should’ve been here.

The city flashes behind his eyes, sirens, shouting, a body pulled from danger, another problem solved. Every time thinking just one more thing, just one more stop, then I’ll go home.

And all the while you were here. Alone. Sick. On the floor.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, steady even when his chest isn’t. He shifts back against the tub, easing you into his lap, guiding your head beneath his chin like it belongs there. Like it always has.

You sink into him immediately.

His hoodie smells like rain and cold air and him, and something in your throat tightens.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, not explaining, not defending, just apologizing.

His thumb rubs slow circles into your arm, grounding, constant.

“I’m here now,” he says quietly, forehead resting in your hair. “Okay? I’ve got you.”

Your fingers curl weakly into his hoodie.

And even with the city screaming outside, the world finally goes still.

He doesn’t rush you.

He stays right there on the bathroom floor, your back against his chest, one arm loose but sure around your middle. When your breathing steadies, he reaches for the bag by the door and brings it closer with his foot.

“I’m gonna grab your medicine,” he murmurs near your ear. “I’ll be right here.”

He helps you sit forward just enough to drink, steadying the cup with one hand at the base, the other warm at your shoulder. You swallow slowly, wincing once, and he eases the cup away without comment.

Silence settles again, the good kind.

After a minute, his fingers start moving along your back, absent and familiar. Slow lines. Soft circles. The kind of touch he uses when he’s thinking.

You squint. “What’re you drawing?”

“Uh,” he says, sheepish. “I don’t know. Shapes.”

“Feels like a badly formed heart.”

“That tracks.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh. It helps more than you expect.

Time passes, long enough that the shaking fades, long enough that the heat in your skin starts shifting into something lighter.

You shift against him. “I’m… kinda hot now.”

He feels your forehead again, softer this time.

“Your fever’s dropping,” he says gently. Relief in his voice. “That’s good.”

He helps you shed the blanket and the hoodie carefully, not making a thing of it.

“Hey,” he adds quietly, “when’s the last time you got sick?”

“Before you got home.”

He nods once. “Okay.”

Then he stands.

“Let’s get you in the bath.”

The water runs warm and steady.

He keeps one hand on your waist while you step in, grounding, unhurried. When you lower into the tub, your shoulders drop immediately.

“That better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Lots.”

He wets a cloth and wipes your forehead, your neck, your arms, slowly. When you lean forward tiredly, he supports you without a word, washing your back carefully.

No rush. No fuss.

Just presence.

He brings you water, then a few crackers spread lightly with butter, holding them when your hands shake too much.

“Take your time,” he says simply.

You eat. You sip. He waits.

And then he sits on the floor beside the tub, arm resting along the edge, fingers loosely laced with yours in the water.

His phone buzzes.

He flips it face down.

Outside, a siren cuts through the ai, sharp and urgent.

For a split second instinct tugs at him.

Then he looks at you. Damp hair. Tired eyes. Fingers curled trustingly in his.

The world can wait.

In his chest, guilt loosens into something steadier, love.

Saving the city is important.

But right now, taking care of you is.

His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.

“I’m here,” he mutters.

And he means it in every way.

-

Issue No.2014

The First Night

A featured publication from the Fluffuary / Kinkuary editorial event.

-

Prompt Assignment: First Time

Overview: A movie night turns into the moment you’ve both been waiting for.

Warnings: established relationship, smut no plot, soft dom, praise, aftercare, protected sex, p in v, oral both receiving, grinding, making out

-

The movie’s still playing, but neither of you could say what it’s about anymore.

Joaquin’s mouth is warm and familiar against yours, and when you grind down onto him, he sucks in a breath like you’ve caught him off guard.

His hands slide to your hips, steadying you there immediately. Not stopping you. Not entirely. Just… holding you.

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly, forehead resting against yours. “I’m serious. I’m good either way.”

You smile, breathless. “I know.”

You’ve been seeing each other for a while now, and he’s been a perfect gentleman, which is almost the problem. Because you want him. Because you need him. Because this is happening tonight.

His eyes search your face, softer now. “This is our first time. I just want it to be right.”

You lean in again. “This is perfect, Joaquin, just—”

You guide his hands back, a little lower, a little more deliberate, before pulling him into another kiss.

He lets you.

And this time, his hands tighten, squeezing, helping you move against him like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this just as much as you do.

You keep kissing, moving together in a slow rhythm. Soft sounds slip from both of you, swallowed between mouths, until Joaquin pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low.

“Yes,” you breathe, already chasing his lips again, but he stops you gently.

“Not here.”

He lifts you easily, leaning in to kiss you again as he walks you down the hallway. You giggle against his mouth, bumping into walls, tangled up in each other in a way that feels reckless and right all at once.

He sets you down in front of your bed, and the kisses barely pause, just long enough for shirts to be pulled away and forgotten. Hands fumble, laughing softly as you help each other with buttons and waistbands, mouths finding skin whenever they can, like neither of you wants to lose contact for too long.

You tug him back into another kiss and fall onto the bed, breathless, the mattress dipping under your weight. Joaquin follows you down, catching himself just in time, braced above you.

Hovering.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you.

Really look.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s committing this moment to memory. His hands stay planted on either side of you, grounding himself, breathing a little heavier than before.

“God,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then, softer, “You’re unreal.”

His thumb brushes your side, feather-light, like he’s asking permission again without words.

“I’ve wanted this,” he admits quietly, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Wanted you. I just… wanted to do it right.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours, breath warm.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, voice low, intimate. “But don’t,” a faint smile curves his mouth, “don’t be surprised if I don’t want to.”

That’s when his lips find yours again, slower this time. Intentional. Like he’s done waiting.

He kisses down your neck, then your chest, and you arch into him as his hand reaches behind you, fingers deft as he unclips your bra. It’s gone a second later, replaced by his mouth and hands, kisses pressed reverently across your breasts, palms warm and sure as they massage you.

“Yeah?” he murmurs softly, like he’s checking in even as his thumbs move, lightly brushing your nipples. “That feel okay?”

Your breath catches, head tipping back in answer.

“Good,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I just wanna make you feel good.”

His hands trail lower, following the path of his lips as he kisses down your stomach, slow and deliberate, making you feel every inch of the distance. He pauses there, right above your waistband, and looks up at you.

“Still with me?” he asks, steady and grounding.

You’re propped up on your elbows, watching him like you can’t look away. “Yes,” you breathe. “God—yes.”

The tension in his shoulders eases immediately.

“Okay,” he says, voice warm. “Tell me if anything feels too much. Or not enough.”

He presses a kiss right where you need him most, and you bite your lip, failing to keep the sound in. Joaquin huffs a quiet laugh, glancing up at you as he slides your panties down your legs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Just like that. I love the sounds you make.”

He kisses back up your body from your ankle, hooking one leg over his shoulder, taking his time as his mouth trails over your calf, your knee, your thigh, lingering, teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“How’s that?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your skin. “You okay?”

Your answer comes out shaky, his name falling from your lips.

“I thought so,” he mutters, and then his tongue finally drags a slow stripe where you want him most.

You moan and instinctively try to shut your thighs, but his hand comes up immediately, firm, holding you open.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Let me. I’ve got you.”

Your other leg stays hooked over his shoulder, heel digging into his back as he keeps going, working you with slow, deliberate movements, checking in with quiet murmurs,“Right there?” “Feels good?” each one pulling another sound from you.

When he groans, the vibration sends you over the edge, and you come apart with his name on your lips.

He doesn’t rush away. He presses soft kisses into your inner thigh, then higher, hands smoothing over you as he makes his way back up your body.

“You did so good,” he whispers, brushing his nose against your jaw. “Feel okay?”

“Mmm, yes,” you murmur, pulling him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. It turns sloppy fast, all open mouths and breathless sounds as you press into him, chest to chest. Your hardened nipples brush his skin and the sensation pulls a soft moan from you, swallowed by the kiss.

He makes a quiet sound at the back of his throat, hands gripping your sides like he’s trying to ground himself.

You shift, rolling him onto his back until he’s sitting at the edge of the bed and you’re straddling him. Now it’s your turn. You kiss down his neck, slow and deliberate, feeling the way his breath stutters as your hands explore his chest, his abs, lower, teasing the waistband of his underwear.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice already rough. “Fuck… just like that.”

You glance up at him. “Can I?”

His answer is immediate. “Yes.”

You cup him through the fabric, moving slowly, deliberately, and his head tips back with a quiet groan. “Feels—” he exhales sharply, eyes dropping to watch your hand. “God, that feels so good.”

You free him from his underwear and start to lower yourself between his knees. His hands come out automatically, stopping you, not pushing, just steady.

“You don’t have to—” he starts.

“I want to,” you cut in softly, looking up at him. “Please. I want to make you feel good too.”

The word please does him in. His breath catches. “Okay,” he manages, voice strained. “Yeah. Okay.”

You look up at him as you lick a slow stripe along the underside of him, watching the way his expression falls open before you take him fully into your mouth. He lets out a broken sound, one hand threading into your hair, resting there, present, never pushing.

“Just—yeah,” he murmurs, breath going ragged. “You’re doing so good. Feels incredible.”

You move with him, slow and steady, and his encouragement turns quieter, more breathless, until he gently pulls you up by the hair.

“I don’t want to finish like this,” he says, clearly fighting for control. “I want…I want to be with you.”

You crawl back up his body, licking a path over his stomach before pulling him into a deep, messy kiss. It’s more intimate now, less teasing, and when he stands to grab a condom, he moves like he knows exactly what he wants.

You adjust yourself on the bed, heart racing, and when he joins you again, he kisses you, slower, sweeter, like he’s resetting the moment.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” you breathe.

His hand squeezes yours once, grounding. “Okay,” he murmurs, and then he finally pushes in.

You moan together as he pushes in deeper, the sound torn from both of you at once.

“God,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel so good, tell me you’re okay.”

You nod, breathless, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “I’m okay. I’m…I’m really good.”

The tension in his body eases just a fraction. He stays there for a second longer, like he needs to feel you around him, like he’s grounding both of you in the moment before he pulls back slowly and presses back in again. His movements are unhurried, every thrust intentional like he’s memorizing the way you fit together.

Fuck.

After all the dates, all the almosts, this is your first time together, and it feels heavy in the best way. Like something settling into place.

“I’ve been wanting this,” you gasp, “I’ve been needing this.” The truth spilling out of you as he keeps moving.

That earns you a soft, breathless laugh against your jaw. “Yeah?” he murmurs, kissing there, then your lips. “Me too. Wanted it, but wanted to make sure it was right.”

His pace picks up just slightly, still deep, still careful.

“I’ve been wanting this since I met you,” he admits quietly. “Since you’d get all dressed up for our dates and pretend you weren’t nervous.” A smile curves into his voice. “You were so cute.”

Your moans start to break, less controlled now, and he groans at the sound, hips moving more urgently.

“I tried to be good,” he says, breath coming faster. “Tried to keep my hands to myself.” His thrusts grow harder, more deliberate, hitting that spot that makes your thoughts scatter. “But you wanted this. Wanted me.”

And you did. God, you do.

His name spills out of you like it’s all you can say, and he keeps talking, soft, wrecked praise murmured between breaths. Asking if you feel good. Telling you how perfect you feel, how much he loves the sounds you’re making, how right this feels with you.

“Still okay?” he checks again, slowing just a little even as his thrusts stay deep.

“Yes,” you whimper. “Don’t stop.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, like a promise.

His hand slides down your side, grounding, before his fingers press to your clit and the pleasure hits you sharp and sudden. You cry out, body tightening, and he groans at the way you flutter around him.

“That’s it,” he whispers, kissing you hard. “Just like that. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

You’re so aware of him, of the weight of his body, the warmth, the way this isn’t just sex but him, finally, completely. Your first time together, and it feels like something you’ll remember forever.

“You’re close,” he breathes, voice shaking. “Fuck…I can feel it. Tell me when—”

“I’m gonna cum,” you choke out. “Joaquin—please.”

His pace stutters, then picks up just enough. “Me too,” he admits softly, breaking as he hits that perfect spot again, tipping you over the edge.

You come undone around him, and he stills for a heartbeat before moving again, slow and deep as he follows you, kissing you through it like he doesn’t want to let go. When he finally collapses to your side, he keeps you close, breath uneven, forehead resting against yours.

“You okay?” he whispers one last time.

This time, your smile answers before your words do.

For a minute, neither of you says anything.

You’re both breathing hard, limbs tangled, skin still warm where he hasn’t let go of you yet. Joaquin shifts first, careful even now, tugging you closer until you’re tucked against his chest like it’s the most natural place in the world.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your arm. “You okay?”

You hum, sleepy already, smiling into his skin. “More than okay.”

That makes him laugh, soft, breathy, a little disbelieving, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head, then another, then one more just because. You tilt your face up and he meets you halfway, kissing you slow and lazy this time, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be.

“C’mere,” he whispers, pulling the blanket up around you both. “You’re warm.”

You tangle your legs with his, bare skin everywhere, and he keeps kissing you, your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t stop. You giggle, a little embarrassed, a little blissed out.

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs, smiling all soft and stupid. “Just… happy.”

That does something to your chest.

You trace lazy shapes on his skin, listening to his heartbeat slow under your ear, and he absently plays with your hair, fingers gentle, unhurried. Every so often he leans down to press another kiss into your hair, your shoulder, your temple, quiet reminders that he’s there.

At some point, the room goes quiet except for your breathing.

You’re half-asleep when you feel him shift, adjusting so you’re more comfortably tucked against him, arms wrapped fully around you now. He presses one last kiss to your forehead.

“Stay,” he mutters, already drifting.

You smile, eyes closed. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

He hums, satisfied, tightening his hold just a little, and that’s how you fall asleep. Naked, wrapped up in each other, warm and spent and safe, like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

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