PrettyGrl Archives

Est. 2003 Editor-in-Chief: A. Pretty Girl Ave. Tx

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PrettyGrl Archives

Issue No. 01

THE DEBUT ISSUE

Inside This Edition:

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Edited by A.

Est.2025

[heldbybarnes]

heat cycle

pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader | 5.9k words

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), experimental serum, feral heat/rut vibes, breeding play, creampie, multiple orgasms, size kink, mutual obsession, possessive/protective Bucky, praise, a little manhandling, use of “good girl,” locked-door situation, talk of contraceptives/implants, mild dub-con flavor due to serum, soft aftercare, not canon compliant

summary: an experimental hydra serum sends your hormones into overdrive, leaving you feral and desperate for the one man you’ve spent years wanting. bucky locks the door, promises to take care of you until the heat breaks, and keeps you filled and claimed until you’re boneless and glowing.

authors note: the final fic of my 2k follower celebration! remember that? yeah, me neither. BUT WHATEVER; it's finally here! @blowingbarnes i've been edging you for months with this fic baby so i truly hope you like it 🤍 (and everyone else too!) also thank you sweet @artficlly for your help on the moodboard; i was losing my marbles

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You feel it before you understand it.

A prickle beneath your skin, heat licking up your spine like someone turned the temperature in the lab from “Antarctica” to “Florida in July” in the span of a heartbeat. At first you blame the adrenaline—Hydra remnant facility, sirens still wailing faintly down the corridor, the shattered remnants of a glass canister at your feet.

But then the warmth twists lower.

“Hey, hey.” Bucky’s hand lands on your shoulder, firm and steady, metal fingers cool through the torn fabric of your suit. “You with me, doll?”

You blink up at him. Everything is suddenly too bright—his eyes too blue, his mouth too soft and pink, the damp clinging curls at his temples too much. The air between you turns heavy and thick. Your lungs work, but breathing doesn’t help.

“I—yeah,” you say, except your voice comes out hoarse, shaky. “Just—little dizzy.”

You see it then in the periphery: the smeared label on the canister fragments. Experimental. Endocrine. Libido. The rest is an incoherent blur that your brain, for once, refuses to prioritize over the furnace starting to roar between your thighs.

Bucky follows your gaze, mouth flattening. “Fuck.”

You sway. His arm is around your waist before your knees even have the chance to buckle, pulling you into his chest. He smells like sweat and leather and gunpowder, a hint of whatever soap you always steal from his shower clinging to his skin.

The scent hits you like a physical thing.

You bite back a whimper and fail.

His arms tense. “What hurts?”

“Nothing,” you pant, fingers twisting in the front of his tac vest without meaning to. “Everything. I’m just—hot.”

“Yeah?” His thumb presses against the side of your throat, feeling your pulse jackrabbit. His jaw tightens. “We’re getting you out of here.”

The ride back to the compound is a blur of heat and restraint.

You sit in the back of the quinjet, Bucky’s body a solid line against your side, his arm banded around you like he thinks you might fall apart if he lets go. Maybe he’s right. Your skin feels too tight for your bones, your suit abrasive. The straps dig. The seams itch.

The worst part is your own body’s betrayal. The dull throb between your legs has gone molten, slick dampening your underwear with every breath, every tiny bump of the jet through turbulence.

You try to sit still. It lasts approximately thirty seconds.

“Easy,” Bucky murmurs, pulling you closer when you shift, when your thighs rub together in search of pressure. His voice sits in a lower register, rough around the edges. “We’re almost home.”

“Something’s wrong,” you whisper, fingers digging into his wrist where his metal hand rests on your hip. The vibranium is cool, a stark contrast to the fever blistering through you. “Buck, something’s—god—”

The last word comes out as a groan when the movement jostles your clit just right. You clap a hand over your mouth, mortified, arousal spiking anyway at the way his grip tightens.

Eyes you can’t quite meet, voices at the front of the jet. Sam, Natasha, someone else—arguing with medical over comms about quarantine and exposure and protocol. It all sounds distant, irrelevant.

The only thing that matters is the way Bucky smells and feels and the way his thumb is rubbing unconscious circles into your waist.

“Look at me,” he says suddenly, quietly, like it’s just the two of you in the world.

You drag your gaze up.

His expression is grim, focused. Underneath it, though, his pupils are blown wide, breath coming a little too fast. His body isn’t unaffected. That realization sends a needy pulse through you.

“FRIDAY says it’s a targeted hormone serum,” he mutters, voice low enough that the others won’t hear. “Not contagious. Just…intense. They’re still running the numbers on duration and side effects, but—” He swears under his breath. “They want you in a secure room until it passes.”

You swallow, throat dry. “Like isolation?”

His jaw flexes, as if the word tastes bad. “Something like that.”

Panic flares, sharp and cold beneath the heat. The thought of being locked alone in a room while your body does—whatever this is—is unbearable. The ache inside you curls in on itself, clawing for something, someone.

You. Need.

You look at him, the man who has been your partner for years, your best friend, your biggest weakness. The man who has bled beside you, laughed with you, watched movies sprawled on your couch at three in the morning, eyes soft in the glow of the TV. The man you’ve never let yourself touch the way you wanted.

“Don’t leave me alone,” you say, words tumbling out before you can stop them. The plea is ragged, raw. “Please, Buck. Don’t leave me by myself like this.”

His eyes flare.

Every line of his body goes tight as he stares at you—really stares. At your flushed cheeks, the way you press your thighs together, the tremor in your bottom lip. You see the crack in his control when he exhales, the almost inaudible growl lurking at the back of his throat.

Finally, he tips his head, voice calm even as something fierce coils in his gaze. “I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”

They give him clearance, eventually.

Not because it’s protocol, protocol screams absolutely not, but because there’s no logical argument that overrides the way you cling to him when they try to separate you. The way your heart rate spikes and your breathing turns erratic, the way you almost sob when his hand lifts from your hip.

The way he goes lethal-cold in the eyes when someone suggests sedating you and putting you in a glass cell “for observation.”

“She’s not a goddamn lab rat,” he says, voice soft enough to be dangerous. “She needs somebody she trusts. That’s me. Either I stay with her or we have a problem.”

They know better than to argue when he sounds like that.

So they give him a keycard and warnings and an armful of supplies—water, meds, a tablet listing possible side effects—and march the two of you down to one of the reinforced guest suites in the quieter wing of the compound.

The door locks with a final, heavy click.

You flinch.

Bucky doesn’t let go. If anything, he pulls you closer until your chest is pressed to his, his heart pounding steady under your ear.

“Hey.” His flesh hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You okay?”

Your skin burns wherever he touches you. You lean into it helplessly, seeking more. “I’m—” Your breath hitches. “Everything feels wrong.”

“Wrong how?” he asks gently.

“Hot. Empty.” You swallow, ashamed and desperate all at once. “I feel like—I want—” The words choke you. You’d laugh if you weren’t shaking. “Fuck, Buck, I can’t think.”

His throat works. For a moment he closes his eyes, like he’s fighting himself.

When he opens them again, they’re darker. So much darker.

“You trust me?” he asks quietly.

The question is ridiculous. You’ve trusted him with your life a hundred times over. You’ve put your body between his and a hail of bullets because you knew, and he knew, that if one of you didn’t walk out, the other would burn the world to ash.

“Of course I do.” Your answer is immediate. Instinctive. “More than anyone.”

His chest rises on a slow breath, like he’s made a decision. He turns then, reaching back without looking to flip the deadbolt on the door. The sound of it sliding home is final, sealing the two of you in together.

He looks down at you, fingers still on your face, still keeping you anchored.

“Then listen to me,” he says. “I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Whatever this shit is doing to you, whatever you need, I’ve got you. Until it breaks.” His voice drops, a vow more than a promise. “I’m not leaving this room until you can breathe easy again.”

Your pulse roars in your ears, heat spiking at his words. You nod once, twice, because you can’t do anything else.

“Need to hear it,” he adds, thumb stroking along your lower lip, eyes flicking down to watch the movement. “Need you to say yes. Not because of the serum. Because it’s me.”

For a heartbeat, something cuts through the fog—the years of lingering looks, of almost-touches, of nights you’ve lain awake aching for him and tried to swallow it down. The serum hasn’t created this want; it’s just poured gasoline on a fire that was already smoldering low in your belly, waiting for oxygen.

“Yes,” you whisper, chest aching with the force of it. “Bucky, I— I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

The sound he makes is halfway between a groan and a curse.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes.

Then his mouth is on yours.

Kissing Bucky is nothing like you imagined.

It’s worse.

Better.

His lips are soft but sure, slotting over yours like they’ve been waiting, like they know your shape already. His hand cups the back of your head, keeping you exactly where he wants you while his tongue licks into your mouth, slow and thorough.

Heat rushes through you so fast you’re dizzy.

You whimper against his lips, fingers scrabbling at the straps of his vest. You need him closer, need skin, need the crushing weight of him pressing you down into something solid until the frantic gnawing inside you finally quiets.

He backs you up step by step, never breaking the kiss. The backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a gasp, dragging him down with you.

He lands on his forearms, careful not to crush you, but his weight is still there, blessed and heavy, his hips settling between yours. The hard line of his cock presses against your core through too many layers of fabric.

You moan, hips jerking up greedily.

He breaks the kiss with a rough exhale, forehead pressed to yours. “Careful, sweetheart,” he rasps. “I’m hangin’ on by a thread here.”

You stare up at him, chest heaving, and see the unraveling in him as clearly as you feel it in yourself. His pupils blown, color high in his cheeks, the slow flex of his metal fingers in the blanket beside your head like he’s fighting the urge to grab.

“Then don’t,” you say, surprising both of you.

His expression shatters.

He kisses you again, harder this time, something almost feral bleeding through the control. His hand skims down your side, over your waist, to your thigh. He squeezes, thumb digging into the soft flesh as he hikes your leg over his hip.

The new angle drags his cock along your soaked core. You moan into his mouth, shameless.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking away to mouth along your jaw, your throat, breath hot on your skin. “You’re burnin’ up, doll.”

“Too hot,” you whine, fingers flying to the zipper of your suit. Your hands shake. “Clothes—off, need—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, catching your wrists in his gently. “Lemme help.”

He sits back on his heels between your spread legs, hands moving with efficient purpose as he strips your suit down and off your body. It’s almost clinical, like he’s handled a hundred field injuries—except this time his mouth goes slack when your bare skin is revealed, gaze dragging over every inch of you with something that borders on worship.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful.”

You flush, squirming under the intensity of it, your body already slick and needy and exposed. His eyes linger on the damp patch on your panties, the way the thin fabric clings.

He swallows hard.

“Gonna keep you hydrated,” he mutters, almost to himself, reaching back blindly to snag the water bottle from the nightstand. He twists off the cap and presses it into your trembling hands. “Small sips. Won’t help the way you’re feelin’, but we’re not lettin’ you dehydrate on top of this.”

You blink at him, throat tight with something that isn’t just lust. You take a sip obediently, the cool water a small relief in your sandpaper-dry mouth.

“Good girl,” he says absently, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your chest, on the way your nipples strain against the air.

The praise goes straight to your core. You choke slightly on the water, coughing.

His gaze snaps to your face, concern knitting his brows. “Easy, easy.” He takes the bottle, sets it aside, one hand rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades as you get your breath back.

The serum hums in your veins, eating up the tiny touch like it’s not enough.

“Bucky,” you whisper, leaning into his palm. “I need—please, I need more. It hurts.”

His eyes flick over your face, searching. “Tell me what you need,” he says roughly.

You swallow, cheeks burning. “You. Inside me.”

His jaw clenches so hard you can hear it creak.

“Yeah?” he manages, voice shredded. “Need me to fill you up, huh?”

The word fill makes something in you keen.

You nod frantically, hands grabbing at his shoulders. “Please. Please, Bucky.”

He exhales, shaky. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart.” He kisses your forehead, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth, like he’s trying to ground both of you. “I’m gonna take care of you. Gonna give you everything you need.”

His words warm you from the inside out, softer than the fever, deeper than the ache.

He strips quick—vest, shirt, pants, boxers—all of it hitting the floor in a haphazard pile. Your eyes lock on the long, thick line of his cock, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of pre-come glistening there. You lick your lips, hungry.

He catches the motion, groans low in his chest. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, doll, and this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast.”

You can’t help it. “Want you to lose it,” you admit, words tumbling out. “Want you to fuck me until I can’t think.”

His head tips back like the ceiling might offer help. It doesn’t.

He looks back down at you, and this time whatever restraint he was holding onto is hanging by a thread.

“You still on that implant?” he asks abruptly.

The question cuts through the fog. You nod, confused, heat curling in your belly at the reminder of the conversation months ago over takeout, your casual mention of not worrying about condoms because of your long-term contraceptive and his quiet, thoughtful nod.

“Yeah, I— it’s good for three more years,” you manage.

He swears under his breath, something dark and satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Real good.”

He leans over you again, one hand braced by your head, the other sliding between your thighs. His fingers brush the soaked fabric of your panties, and you jolt.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he murmurs, voice gone rough and reverent. “All this for me?”

“Yes,” you gasp, hips chasing his touch. “All for you. Always—fuck—always for you, Bucky.”

The confession slips out like a secret finally finding air.

His fingers freeze.

Then he’s tugging at the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your legs and tossing them aside. The cool air on your slick skin makes you whimper.

He looks. He can’t not. His gaze is hungry, lashes dark against his cheeks as he watches your pussy clench around nothing, your slick glistening.

“Mine,” he says under his breath, like he can’t stop the word.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yours,” you echo, because there’s nothing truer in this moment.

His eyes jerk to yours, something fierce and bright flaring there. For a second he looks like he might kiss you, might say something that will alter the shape of the world.

Instead, he slides his fingers through your wetness, groaning when you arch off the bed with a desperate cry.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, thumb circling your clit with excruciating gentleness, like he’s testing how sensitive you are. “You’re so worked up. Serum’s got you wound tight, huh?”

“Feels like I’m gonna crawl out of my skin,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “Need you, Buck, please—”

“I know,” he soothes, even as he pushes two thick fingers inside you, sinking them deep in one slow thrust.

You keen, head tossing back, eyes rolling. The stretch is perfect, his fingers curling just right to press against that spongy spot inside that makes your vision go white at the edges.

“That’s it,” he croons, fucking you open with steady, deliberate strokes. “Let me get you ready, yeah? Gotta make sure you can take all of me.”

“Can take it,” you babble, bucking against his hand. “Want it, want you to fuck it into me, want you to—”

His fingers scissor, stretching you, and the words dissolve in a sob.

He leans down, catching your mouth in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as his thumb grinds against your clit. The dual stimulation sends you spiraling, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter, unbearably sharp.

“Come for me,” he orders against your lips, voice rough. “Come on, sweetheart. Let go for me. Lemme feel you squeeze my fingers.”

His thumb flicks your clit just right, his fingers crook, and you detonate.

The orgasm hits like a freight train. You scream into his mouth, clamping down around his hand, every muscle in your body seizing and trembling. Pleasure floods you, hot and overwhelming, the tight coil snapping and releasing in wave after wave.

Bucky groans, fucking you through it, murmuring praises into your skin.

“That’s it, good girl, so good, so pretty when you come, fuck—look at you, soaking me, you’re perfect—”

When you finally slump back against the mattress, boneless, your lungs dragging in ragged breaths, the worst of the fire has dimmed. Not gone, but tamped down, the edge taken off the desperation.

For about thirty seconds.

Then the emptiness howls back, louder now that it knows what it’s missing.

You whimper, body already rocking up towards him again, seeking. His fingers slip free with a wet sound, and you cry out at the loss.

“Hey, hey,” he says, voice hoarse but steady. “I’ve got you.”

He wraps his slick fingers around his cock, coating himself in your wetness. He strokes once, twice, biting back a curse, his hips rolling helplessly into his own hand.

“Last chance to tell me no,” he grits out, eyes locking onto yours, blazing. “Once I’m in you, I’m not gonna be able to stop at just once, doll. I’m gonna fuck you ‘til this serum burns itself out, you understand? Gonna fill you up over and over ‘til you’re so full of me you can’t feel anything else.”

The words punch the air from your lungs. Your pussy clenches around nothing, greedily.

“Yes,” you say, and the word feels like surrender, like salvation. “Yes, Bucky. Please.”

He curses, low and vicious, and lines himself up.

The first push is slow, deliberate, the thick head of his cock stretching you inch by inch. You gasp, nails biting into his biceps, eyes stinging.

He’s big. You’ve known this in theory, your treacherous brain supplying images over the years when you were alone in the dark: his hands, his thighs, the size of his gloves. But theory has nothing on the reality of him stretching you open, the sweet burn, the sensation of being filled in a way nothing has ever come close to.

“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re so tight. Grippin’ me like you never wanna let me go.”

“Don’t,” you gasp, clinging to him. “Don’t let me go. Don’t—”

His hips jerk, pushing deeper. You feel him everywhere—thick, hot, pulsing.

Once he’s finally seated fully inside, hips flush to yours, you both freeze.

It’s…too much.

Too much in all the ways you’ve craved. The serum takes the moment and explodes it, amplifying every sensation, every tiny twitch. The fullness, the slight stretch bordering on pain, the awareness of the heavy weight low in your belly—all of it sings.

“Bucky,” you whine, half-mad. “Move, please, I can’t—”

He laughs once, breathless and wrecked. “You and me both, sweetheart.”

He pulls back, just an inch, then thrusts in again.

The drag of his cock along your soaked, sensitive walls rips a sob from your throat.

“Good?” he pants, watching your face like a hawk.

You nod frantically, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. “So good, feels so good, don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He finds a rhythm, slow at first, deep, each thrust measured and purposeful. He adjusts his angle, tilting your hips slightly with his metal hand under your ass until he’s grinding against that spot inside that makes your toes curl.

You come again embarrassingly fast, clamping down on him so hard he snarls.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, pounding into you a little harder, losing some of his careful control. “Milk my cock, baby, just like that. Take it all. God, you’re perfect, you were made for me.”

You keeningly agree—yes, yes, yours, always yours—as the pleasure crashes over you, your body shaking apart around him.

He fucks you through it, never letting up, every thrust driving you deeper into the mattress. The headboard starts to knock softly against the wall in time with his hips. Sweat slicks your skin, his forehead, the air between your bodies.

“Gonna fill you up,” he grits out, the words tumbling free like he can’t hold them back. “Gonna stuff you full of my come ‘til it’s drippin’ out of you. Wanna see you so full of me you can’t take another drop. Want everyone who looks at you to know you’re mine.”

“Yes,” you sob, eyes rolling back at the filthy, possessive edge in his voice. “Want it, want you to fill me up, wanna be yours, please—”

Something in him snaps.

He growls, a deep, animal sound, and his hips slam into you harder, faster, the bedframe protesting. He brackets your head with his arms, caging you in, his hair falling into his eyes as he stares down at you like you’re the only thing in the universe that matters.

“You are mine,” he rasps, thrusts turning erratic. “Serum or not, you hear me? Been mine since the day you walked into that briefing room and smiled at me like I wasn’t a monster.”

Your heart twists painfully even as pleasure claws up your spine again, sharp and bright.

“I love you,” you gasp, the words ripped from somewhere too deep to be anything but true. “Bucky, I—I love you, I’ve always—”

He chokes on a curse, his rhythm stuttering.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t— I love you, too, you have no idea, I—”

The admission is his undoing.

With a broken sound, he slams into you one last time and holds, burying himself as deep as he can go. You feel him throb inside you, thick and hot, and then he’s spilling, his come flooding your cunt in hot spurts.

The sensation—of him, of being filled, finally, exactly how your body has been screaming for—is the last push you need. You fall over the edge again with a wail, every nerve ending lighting up.

You convulse around him, clenching down, milking every drop from him as you come apart, the world narrowing to white-hot bliss and the feeling of him holding you together.

Time stops meaning anything after that.

There’s a moment, hazy and soft, where you’re both collapsed together—Bucky’s weight a pleasant, grounding pressure, his breath hot against your throat, his cock still nestled inside you, softening slowly. You can feel his come leaking around the seal of him, sticky and warm.

You should be sated. You should be asleep.

Instead, within minutes, the serum starts to whisper again.

The emptiness creeps back, insidious, even with him still inside you. Your nipples sharpen, friction aching. Your hips rock upward in tiny, unconscious movements, seeking more.

You feel him twitch in response.

His groan is half-exasperated, half-turned-on. “Jesus, doll. You’re insatiable.”

“Can’t help it,” you breathe, embarrassed and desperate. “I still— It’s not enough. I need—”

He hushes you with a kiss, slow and lingering. “I told you,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. We’re gonna ride this out together, however long it takes.”

You whimper in relief, clutching at him.

“Gonna fuck this fever out of you,” he promises, voice low and dark. “Gonna keep you so full, keep you comin’ on my cock until your body remembers who it belongs to.”

“Bucky,” you whine, the possessive words making your cunt clench around him again. “Yours, I’m yours, just—”

He pulls out slowly, and the sensation makes you both gasp. His come spills out of you in a hot rush, sliding down to your ass. He watches it with ravenous eyes.

“Look at that,” he says softly, thumb catching some of the milky fluid and pushing it back into you, making you yelp. “Already leakin’ me out.”

He slides down the bed, settling between your thighs before you can process it.

“B-Bucky—” you start, but the rest turns into a strangled cry when his tongue licks a slow, filthy stripe up your slit.

He moans like you taste like heaven and home and sin all at once.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, mouth pressed to your inner thigh. “You’re fuckin’ addictive.”

He dives back in with single-minded focus, tongue fucking into you, nosing at your clit, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring every whimper you make. His hands hold your hips steady, metal fingers biting into your skin as you buck and writhe.

The mix of sensations—the lingering fullness, the wet mess between your thighs, his tongue lapping up his own come from your pussy—is obscene. It sends you spiraling into another orgasm so fast you barely have time to breathe.

You scream, fingers tangling in his hair, thighs clamping around his head. He groans against you, eating it up, literally, until you’re sobbing his name.

It doesn’t end there.

He stays between your legs, licking and sucking lazily until you’re squirming under the overstimulation, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Then, when your protests turn back into pleas, the need roaring up again, he shifts, crawls up your body, and slides back inside you in one slick, easy thrust.

You both moan, the fit smoother now but no less intense.

He sets a slower pace this time, rolling his hips, grinding deep, like he’s determined to feel every inch of you, to savor every second. He fucks you on your side, your leg hitched over his hip; he flips you onto your stomach and takes you from behind, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, fucking you into the mattress while he kisses the back of your neck and tells you how good you are for him.

You lose count of how many times you come.

By the time the light outside the blackout curtains shifts, signaling that hours have passed, you’re a wreck—sweaty, slick, throat raw from crying out his name. Your legs shake violently when you try to move them. The sheets are a disaster, damp and twisted, smelling like sex and sweat and Bucky.

He’s not much better.

His hair is a mess, curls damp, chest heaving. His cock is swollen and flushed, spit-slick and red at the tip. His voice is wrecked, low and roughened from hours of murmured praise and filthy promises and whispered I love yous.

Still, every time the serum spikes and the desperation claws back up your spine, he’s there. Hands steady, eyes soft and wild all at once, filling you again and again, whispering, “I know, I know, I’ve got you, baby, take it, take all of me, you’re doin’ so good,” as he fucks you through another round.

At some point, he sits you in his lap in the shower, warm water pounding against your back while he holds you on his cock, lowering and lifting you lazily until the fever ebbs a little. At another, you’re half asleep, cheek pressed to his chest, his hand between your thighs, fingers lazy inside you, just enough to keep the emptiness at bay as he hums something soft under his breath.

You cling to him like a lifeline, nails digging crescents into his shoulders, into his metal arm. He doesn’t complain. If anything, he seems to take it as proof that you’re still here with him—still saying yes, still needing him.

“Mine,” he murmurs into your sweaty hair, over and over. “My girl. My pretty little thing. Look at you, takin’ me so well. You were made for me, you know that?”

You believe him. With the serum burning through your veins and his body wrapped around yours, there’s no room left for doubt.

The break, when it comes, is subtle.

You’re sprawled on your back, boneless, his cock softening inside you where he’s buried to the hilt, his come warm and thick and heavy in your belly. He’s propped up on one elbow beside you, brushing sweat-damp strands of hair from your face, looking at you like you hung the damn moon.

Something in your chest aches at the tenderness, at how carefully he touches you even now, after hours of claiming and being claimed.

“How you doin’, sweetheart?” he asks quietly. His thumb traces idle circles on your collarbone.

You take stock.

You’re sore, in a good way. Your muscles are pleasantly exhausted, the deep, bone-deep kind of tired that comes after pushing your body to its limit. Your skin is still warm, flushed from exertion.

But the clawing, frantic emptiness?

It’s gone.

There’s a lingering echo of need—it’s Bucky, he’s still inside you, you could do this forever—but it’s want now, not compulsion. A craving, not an ache.

You blink, realization dawning slowly. “I…think it’s over,” you murmur.

His eyes sharpen. “Yeah?”

You nod, a little dazed. “The fever. The—” You gesture weakly between your thighs, cheeks heating. “I’m still…y’know. But it’s me again. I’m not drowning in it.”

Relief washes over his features like a tide.

He exhales shakily, dropping his forehead to your shoulder for a moment, his whole body sagging. Only then do you realize how tightly wound he’s been, how much of his focus has been on you, not himself.

You slide your fingers into his hair, carding gently. “Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”

He huffs a laugh into your skin, the sound half-broken. “I should be askin’ you that.”

“You did,” you remind him. “About six hundred times.”

He lifts his head, a faint, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guilty.”

You study his face.

The possessive edge is still there, the fierce devotion, but there’s something else now too—vulnerability, naked and raw in his eyes. The words that burned between you earlier hover in the air again, less fever-bright, more solid.

“I meant it,” you say quietly.

His brows knit. “Meant what?”

“That I love you.” Your voice doesn’t shake. “Serum or not. I didn’t say it because I was high out of my mind on some Hydra sex potion, Bucky. I said it because you locked a door and promised you wouldn’t leave me, and all I could think was that you’ve been taking care of me long before today.” You swallow, throat thick. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

His breath stutters.

He looks wrecked, all over again, but in a different way.

“Say it again,” he whispers, like he’s afraid he hallucinated it the first time.

You smile, tired and sincere and a little shy. “I love you,” you tell him. “James Buchanan Barnes, I am stupidly, hopelessly, completely in love with you.”

He makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before—half laugh, half choked sob. His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs, but there’s awe in it. Reverence. “I love you too, you know. Been tryin’ not to, but I’m no good at that.”

“Idiot,” you say fondly. “Should’ve told me sooner.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs one shoulder, mischief sparking faintly in his exhausted eyes. “Didn’t realize I just needed to lock us in a room with a weaponized aphrodisiac to get you to admit it.”

You snort, then wince at the ache between your legs. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. I think you broke me.”

His expression turns instantly contrite and a little smug. “Sorry, doll.” He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We’ll get you in a bath in a minute. Some food, more water. I’ll grab the med kit, make sure we didn’t miss any bruises. Then you’re sleepin’ for as long as you want. I’ll call in the all-clear.”

The certainty in his voice, the matter-of-fact way he slots himself into every step of your recovery, makes warmth bloom in your chest.

“Gonna stick around, huh?” you tease lightly.

He meets your gaze, serious all at once. “You’re not gettin’ rid of me,” he says simply. “Not after this. Not after…any of it.”

“Good,” you say, voice soft, heart too full. “I don’t want to.”

He smiles then, slow and genuine, the kind of smile that makes you think of home.

“Besides,” he adds, a hint of wickedness creeping back in as he rolls his hips experimentally, making you gasp. “We still haven’t talked about the way you were beggin’ me to fill you up.”

You flush, heat curling low in your belly again, but it’s a manageable, familiar kind of heat now.

“That was the serum,” you protest weakly.

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t look convinced. “So you don’t like it when I tell you I’m gonna stuff you full of my come, make you so full of me you’re drippin’ for days, maybe put a baby in you someday when you’re ready—”

You moan, involuntary.

His grin turns downright sinful. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“You’re evil,” you groan, hiding your face in his chest.

He laughs, the sound delighted and disbelieving. His hand smooths down your back, a soothing stroke. “Nah, doll. Just yours.”

He says it like a vow.

You believe him.

Later, there will be debriefings and lectures and stern warnings about experimental compounds. There will be jokes in the locker room, waggled eyebrows, Sam making some crack about hazard pay and HR paperwork. There will be conversations about boundaries and desires and future plans, about maybe turning dreams of breeding into something real one day, when the timing is right and the world is a little less on fire.

For now, there is this.

Bucky’s body wrapped around yours. The faint ache of being thoroughly, lovingly ruined. The hum of your pulse finally settling into something steady, content.

The locked door.

The man who kept his word—you’re boneless, glowing, and he hasn’t left your side.

You tilt your head up, press a slow, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He looks at you like you’re everything he never thought he’d have and all he’ll ever need.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing you back. “You need me, you just say the word. Heat or no heat.”

You smile into his mouth, fingers curling over his heart, and let yourself believe it.

Let yourself be his.

And let him be yours, over and over, until the only thing burning in your veins is love.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @quantumbarnes @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @barnes-babydoll @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @happygooberpastel @pinksplace @cautiouscas17 @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

[slutdier]

Heyyyy making a request for breeding kink w/Bucky… just being held down and being told to take it and him fucking his cum back into you over and over… and then him just cockwarming you as a plug… hnnngghh gonna go die now byeeee. I’ll read whatever you write. 💞Tyy

 . ୨୧ ݁ ꒰  𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏   ⊹ . beefy!bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.

warnings 18+ : rough sex, breeding kink, possessive/claiming dirty talk, no condoms or pull-out, creampie, overstimulation, multiple rounds, size difference, light restraint (wrist pinning), no use of y/n, primal behavior, come play/keeping it inside, pleading, taunting

author’s note : I loooved this request!!! our favorite beefy man was literally perfect for this

The room was dim, just the low glow of the bedside lamp catching on the sweat already slicking Bucky’s shoulders. You were flat on your back, wrists pinned above your head in his metal hand, the other braced beside your ear so he could loom over you, chest heaving, eyes dark and hungry.

“Stay,” he rasped, voice low and rough like he’d been holding it in for hours. “Right there. Don’t fuckin’ move.”

You tried to arch anyway, instinct, need, whatever you wanted to call it and his grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Uh-uh.” He dipped his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re gonna take it, doll. Every drop. You hear me?”

A whimper slipped out before you could stop it. He was already buried deep, hadn’t pulled out since the last time he came, just kept rocking slow and filthy, stirring his own release inside you until you were shaking.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost sweet except for the edge in it. “So full already… and still clenching around me like you’re begging for more.” He rolled his hips once, dragging a broken sound out of your throat. “That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

“Bucky-” Your voice cracked. Legs trembling where they were hooked over his hips, thighs slick and sore. “I can’t-”

“You can.” He cut you off, soft but firm. The hand not pinning your wrists slid down to grip your jaw, thumb pressing just under your lip so you had to look at him. “You’re gonna. For me.”

He pulled out slow, agonizingly slow, until just the head was still inside, letting you feel the thick slide of his cum trying to leak out. Your body clenched on nothing and he groaned, low and pleased.

“See that?” He tilted his head, watching the way your cunt fluttered, trying to keep him. “Look how much you’re wasting. You don’t wanna make me sad, do you baby?”

Your cheeks burned. “That’s not-”

“Shhh.” He pushed back in, one long, unrelenting stroke that had your back bowing off the mattress. “C’mon. Don’t be selfish. You know how good it feels when I’m deep, when I’m painting you again. You love it. You love being my little breeding slut.”

The words hit like a slap and a caress at once. You moaned, helpless, hips jerking up to meet him even as your brain screamed you were already so full it hurt in the best way.

“One more,” he coaxed, voice dropping to that velvet guilt-trip tone he knew wrecked you. “Just one more load, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna make your Bucky feel good? Don’t you wanna be the reason I come so hard I can’t see straight?”

He rocked deeper, grinding against your cervix until your eyes rolled. “C’mon, baby… do it for me. Let me fill you up again. Let me keep you plugged so nice and warm.”

You were crying now, quiet, overwhelmed tears slipping into your hair and he kissed them away like they were precious.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your cheek. “Cry for it. Cry while I breed you. Fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re this desperate.”

He picked up the pace then, no more teasing, just hard, purposeful thrusts that punched the air out of your lungs. The wet, obscene sound of him fucking his own cum back into you filled the room, louder than your gasps, louder than the creak of the bedframe.

“Gonna- gonna come again,” he growled, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on yours like he wanted to watch every second of your surrender. “Gonna give it all to you. Gonna make sure it takes. You want that, don’t you? Want my baby so bad you’re shaking for it?”

You couldn’t answer with words, just a broken, pleading sob but your body answered for you, spasming hard around him, milking him like it was trying to pull him deeper.

He came with a guttural sound, hips stuttering, flooding you again until you could feel the hot rush of it, the way it forced more of his earlier load to spill out around his cock despite how tightly you were gripping him.

He didn’t pull out.

Instead he sank down on top of you, heavy and warm, pinning you to the mattress with his full weight. His cock stayed buried, softening only slightly, keeping everything right where he wanted it.

“Stay still,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Gonna keep you plugged just like this. Let it settle. Let it stay.” His flesh hand slid down to cup your lower belly, possessive. “Feel that? That’s me. All of me. Right where I belong.”

You shivered, oversensitive and wrecked, and he just held you tighter.

“Shhh. You did so good for me.” A soft, taunting kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Think you can handle one more later? When you’ve had a little rest?”

You whined, exhausted, boneless.

He chuckled, dark and fond. “That’s my girl. Always so greedy for it.”

And he stayed right there, until your breathing evened out and the only thing left was the slow, steady throb of him still inside you, promising he wasn’t done yet. Not even close.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited by A.

[pinksplace]

I’m doing it, are you?

Day 13 - Breakfast in bed 🍒 + There’s only one bed 🌶️

Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Sequestered to a tiny hotel room, you and Steve are forced to ride out a two week quarantine together after a mission gone sideways. The only problem is that there’s something else you really would like to be riding.

PSA: Another prompt bites the dust, lost to the sands of time. I only have one more authors note after this how am I supposed to properly communicate all the love I have in my heart for @wildflowersandvibranium (special special thank you to @blowingbarnes for the banger title)

Warnings: Steve Rogers curses and I don’t do the “language” bit, mutual masturbation

Word Count: a cunt hair under 2k

Isla & Pink's Galentine's Event

The room is too small.

After six days of quarantine it's your most recurrent thought.

You're tripping over each other, bumping hips when you brush your teeth, shoulders brushing when you pass each other going to the bathroom. 

It wasn't meant to be a long-term solution. One night, maybe two, just a stop-gap until you could safely get to a safe house for proper evaluation. 

Shield had at-least put you up somewhere nice. Sure there's only one bed, but it has five-hundred thread count sheets and room service.

That's why you don't think they felt too bad when they called you to say extraction wasn't feasible and that you and Steve would have to ride out the two week quarantine in your room. 

A year from now you'll probably laugh about this, tease Steve about your 'honeymoon' and long for the nice shower.

Right now though? Right now you're bordering on claustrophobic.

The walls feel like they pull tighter every day, each square foot of space slowly shrinking and forcing you closer and closer together.

It's not really the room though, deep down, you know that.

No, it's him. 

Steve fills up every inch of the space. His smell, his heat, his broad shoulders and respectful smiles. 

It's fogs up the mirror after he showers and warms the space between you when he slides under the covers. It charges every moment like static electricity, your hair standing on end with anticipation. 

Tonight it simmers, tension bubbling under the surface as Steve crawls onto the bed next to you. He sits on top of the comforter, legs stretched long in front of him as he settles into position.

His hair is still wet from his shower. Blonde curls stick to his forehead and the back of his neck. You watch a stray droplet glide down his neck, gathering in the curve of his collarbone. You're transfixed by it, by him. Every moment that goes by only amplifying everything you notice. 

The TV buzzes with a shitty movie, something old with poorly aged jokes. The room service tray from dinner fills the end table beside you, empty plates and the desert you still haven't touched. 

That's another thing about the close quarters. You haven't touched yourself.

Not to make it sound like you're a horn dog or anything, but you are a human woman. Being one, and being around certified Adonis Steve Rogers all the time, you're feeling the effects.

Normally you can excuse yourself when he starts to get to you. Take a few hours in your room and handle things, emerge with shaking thighs, a sore wrist and a smile. It tides you over, gets him out of your system and returns the ability to think clearly.

Its a luxury you're sorely missing right now. 

He smells like hotel shampoo, clean and sweet. Underneath though is something else, musky and bordering on patriotic. Distinctly him. 

It clouds your mind worse than any exposure could have. 

Your thighs pull tight against each other, a poor excuse for taking the edge of. The hotel robe lands just above your knees, camouflaging your movement for the most part. You shift again, desperate for any pressure that could help. Your knee lifts, crossing over your other leg and tucking itself tight against it. 

That helps, enough for you to almost sigh with relief. 

Steve notices it though, blue eyes flicking towards you out of the corner of his vision. 

"You okay?" He asks, genuine concern coloring his voice. 

You struggle to keep your voice even when you answer. 

"I'm fine." You lie. "You ready to call it a night?" 

At least then you could shut the lights off, get rid of the hot robe and climb under the covers. Disappear into a dream and put the ache between your legs to the far side of your mind. 

"Yeah," Steve agrees, reaching over to shut off his own lamp. "I'm beat."

The lights go dark with no ceremony, the click of a pull chain as you each silently settle in bed. 

Steve ditching his shirt (he's always too shy to take off in the light) and you the robe, leaving you n just a tank top and panties (it's the only clean clothes you had left okay?).

There's a rustle as each of you sink onto the mattress, awkward silence that hangs heavy in the air while find a comfortable position. The space between your bodies feels cavernous, but not in width. No you're close enough to touch, close enough to feel his breath if you rolled over to face each other. 

It's deep. Deep with emotion, want, the fear of what would happen if one of your crossed that line. It's deep with threat, the looming knowledge that if you did take that step it would be a free fall down into rushing waters. 

Good nights are exchanged, Steve's breathing evens out, and you-

Well, you don't sleep.

No, you don't get to find peace. 

Instead you lie there. Staring at the ceiling with boredom forced by your own hand you listen to Steve's breathing. You listen as he slips further and further into dreams. You listen as your body temperature rises. 

The heat between your thighs doesn't stay quelled, it roars and licks down to your knees and up to your navel. With no sleep in sight, your body makes it obvious that only one thing will cure this insidious breed of insomnia. 

You head swivels, glancing in the direction of Steve's sleeping shadow. 

His back is to you, the large wall of his shoulders blocking your face from the moonlight.

With desperation clouding your judgment, your hand slides low. 

You don't plan to really go for it. Just feel things out, unstick your folds from the cotton and hopefully cool down just a little.

That goes to shit the second you feel it. The comforting touch of your own finger and the immediate release it brings you.

All you've done is ghost over your clit, but the sheer wetness takes you apart. The heat of something living and the threat of it's capabilities sending a white hot shock wave of arousal to your cunt. 

Your sigh is louder than it should have been, stark relief echoing off the white walls. 

Steve tosses, breathing catching for just as a moment too long. 

You freeze, body gone taut and terrified. 

Then he relaxes again, makes a half-conscious noise and falls back into REM. 

You make the fatal mistake of getting bold. 

Your hand resumes its efforts, index and middle finger pressing together and then down hard on your clit. 

You're smart enough to bite your lip this time, keeping any noise that might've threatened to slip by at bay. 

You don't bother to tease, no time for self-love or fore play. You don't even bother trying to go inside. You play your clit like record, scrubbing over it with hard circular motions that have you hips jutting up into your own touch. 

It feels incredible, the fire spreading up every limb and rushing your senses. Your ears pound with your own heart beat, your mouth filling your own spit. and your every nerve standing on end as race as fast as possible towards an orgasm. 

You shouldn't be so worked up after so little time, but Steven Grant Rogers is like the female equivalent of a Playboy centerfold spread and after being trapped with your eyes glued to it you're wound so tight your body might as well be a drum.

You're so lost in the pleasure, in the relief, that you don't hear it when Steve stirs again. So busy writing against your own fingers you don't feel him turn over to face you. Eyes squeezed so tight you don't look over and meet his. 

You're breathing heavier now, hardly loud, not even quantifiable as a moan, but it's enough to give you away. Gentle pants that curl into whines of pleasure. You start to speak, barely audible pants of fuck fuck fuck, whispered as the knot starts to pull.

If only you would look over, you'd see those pretty blue eyes blown with lust and even more devastating, you'd see his arm shaking with the movement of a hand thrown half-haphazardly past the waist band of his sweats and working his leaking cock over.

Unable to stop, Steve props himself up onto his elbow, body curving towards yours instinctively.

His breathing starts to get heavier, matching yours as he picks up speed. 

"God, fuck- you're-" He punches the words out, letting them land on you like hot coals. 

Your eyes fly open, and my god what a sight.

His lips are parted, pink and flushed and wet with his own spit. His eyes are half-lidded, staring at you with an intensity you've never seen on him before. 

There's no space for shame, no embarrassment or fear. Instead it adds another dry log to the flame burning beneath your skin. 

"Steve." His name falls off your tongue like it was always meant to, your hand setting a punishing pace now as you watch his face contort with pleasure.

He groans, tilting until his forehead presses to yours, his arm holding himself up beside your head.

"Shoulda told me." He grunts, forearm brushing your outer thigh as he strokes himself. "Could have helped-"

His nose presses into yours, breath mingling with yours in the space between your mouths. 

"Wanted to help." He admits.

You make a tortured sound, something between yes and his name. God, if only he knew how much he was helping just like this. 

You can feel his body heat, the way it radiates off of him in thick waves of want. It pitches you even closer to that precipice. You're so close, so fucking close

"Fuck, gonna cum." He warns you. "You look so pretty, God I'm gonna cum just like this just looking at you." 

"Please-" you don't know what you're begging for. For him to touch you? For him to cum? For your own body to give in already? "Please Steve I need it." 

His lips slam onto yours and finally put you out of your misery. 

It's sloppy, messy and wet the way kisses are when you're both in the middle of earth shattering orgasms. 

Teeth clash and lips hit the corner of mouths. Your noses bump painfully and your chins get in the way until suddenly it all slides into place.

His head slants, your tongues find each other and with a shared moaned you ride it out together, writhing and wetting the sheets until you feel like you can breathe again.

You pull apart with a string of spit still connecting you, a crude tether, a final piece of mess. It shines in the mood light and pulls as thin as your sanity.

"Oh my god." Steve mutters against you, lips still brushing. 

"Yeah." You agree, nodding as you finally pull your hand out from between your legs.

Mortification starts to creep up as he stays silent. He doesn't move, but doesn't open his eyes either, face settling into something twisted and almost frustrated.

Shit, he's mad. He's realizing what a creep you are. Who does this? Who jerks off in bed next to their co-worker like some kind of-

"Why-" Steve croaks, voice rough as he finally opens his eyes. They're dark and stormy, probably the look he gives someone right before they meet the business end of his shield. 

He clears his throat, and in one swift movement shifts his body to be completely over yours, his knees making room for themselves between your thighs. 

"Why haven't we been doing that this whole time?"

Event Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[prettygrlarchives]

4 ways to love is some of the best smut I've ever read !!

Thank you! I actually had such a hard time finding the right words while writing it, like nothing felt right so that means a lot!!!

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited By A.

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited by A.

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited by A.

[glassfrogforest]

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited by A.

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited By A.

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited by A.

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.”

-

Edited by A.

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited by A.

[prettygrlarchives]

PrettyGrl Archives

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.

-

Edited by A.