Pairing: Evan Buckley x Reader
Words: 1850
Rating: Explicit
Warnings/Tags: p in v, finger fucking, dirty talk, intimacy, fuck buddies to something more (ambiguous ending)
Prompt: #34. Late-night hookup that turns unexpectedly intimate.
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He already has three fingers buried inside you before you get an eyeful of him.
Your head tips back against the wall of your apartment, breath breaking apart in erratic bursts, but Buck looks like he’s the one struggling to stay upright.
His mouth hangs open a little, brows drawn tight in concentration as he works his fingers in and out of you —slow, deep, deliberate. Like he’s rediscovering you from inside out.
“God… you’re so wet,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that low, honey-thick rasp that goes straight to your stomach. “Can feel you sucking me in.”
Your hips jerk, chasing more. Buck’s thumb grazes your clit, just barely, just enough to make you gasp.
“Yeah,” he whispers, leaning in, breath warm against your ear. “You like that, baby? Hmm?”
His free hand braces beside your head, caging you in. And you love how it makes you feel trapped, at his mercy. His fingers move steadily, curling just right, and your knees start to weaken.
You cling to his shoulders. “Buck—”
He groans, like your voice is a hand closed tight around his spine. His pupils blow wide. His hips push forward like his body reacts before his brain can catch up.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he whispers.
And god, he’s filthy —saying all the right things, watching every twitch of your body like he wants to memorize it.
You blink and your back hits the couch cushion, legs shaking, breath coming out in broken little whimpers that Buck swallows.
But his fingers don’t falter —slow, deep pumps, curling just right, his palm grinding against your clit with the kind of precision that says he’s been paying very, very close attention to what makes you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he murmurs, staring at where he’s stretching you open. “You take me so good.”
He sounds confident, dirty, in control —only his cheeks give him away.
Buck’s always like this with you: dirty mouth, filthy hands, and a pretty blush that gets him every time he realizes you’re watching him want you.
His thumb circles your clit again, harder this time. Your hips buck up, and he grabs them to hold you down.
“Easy,” he breathes, leaning in just enough for his curls to brush your cheek. “I wanna feel all of it. Don’t rush.”
Coming from anyone else, it’d sound cocky.
From Buck, it’s reverent.
He slips his fingers deeper, and you clutch his shoulders, panting. “Fuck, shit, baby—.”
He shudders, actually shudders, like the word is wired directly to his spine.
“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he says, half-laughing, half-begging. “I don’t know what it is, but… every time you call me that—”
He cuts himself off, embarrassed. His fingers speed up instead, plunging into you in slick, obscene strokes that have your legs trembling.
It was supposed to be just another hookup.
That’s what Buck kept telling himself from the first night you met on Tinder.
He wanted something —connection, closeness, anything real— but every time he asked his hookup for their number, they always said no.
You were the first person who didn’t look at him like he was just the pretty blond guy with the big wet dick. The first person who kept coming back, wanting him.
He still hasn’t processed that.
“Look at me,” you whisper.
He does —eyes blown wide, fingers still working you open, but something vulnerable flickers under the heat.
You slide your hand up the side of his neck, and speak your mind. “This feels good because it’s you.”
He freezes for a beat. His fingers curl without him meaning to, and your whole body jolts.
“Fuck— sorry— are you okay?” he blurts, cheeks flushing.
“Better than okay,” you gasp. “Don’t stop.”
His relief is a full-body exhale.
Then he’s kissing you —hungry, sweet, desperate. His fingers thrust deeper, your wetness dripping down his fingers.
“You’re so perfect,” he whispers between kisses. “So warm. So soft. You make the prettiest sounds, you know that? God, I could listen to you all night.”
Your hips grind down into his hand. “Buck, I’m right there—”
His forehead presses to yours, voice shaking. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel that squeeze.”
You break apart around his fingers, pleasure tearing through your body in hot, blinding waves. He keeps working you through it, whispering your name, kissing your cheeks, your neck, like he can’t stop touching you.
“Good… good girl,” he murmurs, breathless. “Just like that. That’s it— keep going for me—”
You cling to him, thighs trembling, the world narrowing to the sound of his voice and the firm, steady pulse of his fingers inside you.
When the aftershocks finally ease, he eases his hand out with slow, careful gentleness.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he brings his fingers to his mouth.
His tongue swipes along them.
“Sweet,” he pants. “You taste so sweet.”
Heat blooms under your skin.
“Sorry,” he grins even as his own cheeks redden too, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I, uh— I really wanted to taste you.”
But before you can tease him, he surprises you —leaning his forehead to yours, nose brushing yours, his voice quieter than anything he’s said all night.
“I want to be inside you,” he says.
You pull him down into a kiss. He melts into you, kissing you slow —nothing like the frantic heat from earlier. His hand cups your jaw, almost tender.
God, when did this become tender?
He pulls back just far enough to look at you, breathing unsteady.
You run your fingers along his jaw. “Buck…”
“Can I?” He glances down at your body, flushed and open beneath him, then back at your face. “Be inside you?”
You tug him closer. “Fuck, baby, yes. Come here.”
Buck exhales like you just handed him permission to breathe.
His mouth crashes to yours, not rushed, not frantic —hungry, yes, but threaded with something gentler. It’s confusing but your focus is wavering.
His hand slides down your thigh, guiding it up around his waist. You feel him settle between your legs, the hard, heavy heat of his cock nudging against your slick entrance.
He drags the tip through your wetness once, twice; his breath shaking every time your body twitches.
“Fuck,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re dripping.”
You don’t get the chance to answer.
He pushes in —slow, steady, eyes locked on yours like he’s watching your soul shift under your skin.
Your lips part in a gasp.
He sinks deeper, inch by inch, until his hips are flush to yours and you’re so full you can’t speak. Buck’s forehead drops to your shoulder, a low, shaky groan tearing out of him.
“You feel—” His voice breaks. “Fuck.”
His hands grab at you like he needs something to hold onto —your thigh, your waist, the couch cushion, anything. You run your fingers through his hair, and he shivers like you hit every nerve in him at once.
He pulls out an inch, thrusts back in with impossibly slow control.
Your nails dig into his back. “Buck…”
That sound you make wrecks him.
He lifts his head, lips parted, pupils blown wide. His thrusts stay slow but deeper, heavier, each one landing with purpose.
“Baby,” he breathes, voice trembling. “You’re so warm… so tight— shit—”
You tighten around him, and he growls, the sound punching out of him like he wasn’t ready for it.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect. Made for me, aren’t you?”
Your hands cup his jaw, pulling him down into another kiss. It starts messy —your legs tight around his waist, his hips rolling— but it melts. Softens. Turns into something that lingers, a kind of kiss meant to be savored.
His thrusts slow even more, deep and smooth, like he’s trying to memorise the feeling of you.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his lips across your cheek, your jaw, your throat —tiny, reverent touches that make your chest ache.
His breath warms your neck as he whispers, “You feel like heaven, baby. Like— fuck— like I’m supposed to be right here.”
He says it so quietly you know he wasn’t planning to.
It slipped out, raw, unguarded.
“More,” you whisper. “Buck… more.”
He nods, breath catching.
His hips pick up a slow, delicious rhythm, rolling into you with controlled strength. Every thrust hits that spot that makes your toes curl, every withdrawal dragging beautifully against your slick walls.
Your eyes flutter. “Baby—”
He groans, forehead pressing back to yours, eyes half-lidded and desperate.
“You’re… unreal,” he pants, thrusts getting deeper, harder, but still with that same unbearable tenderness. “Everything about you— every sound— every… fuck, what the fuck are you doing to me—”
Your walls flutter around him, tight and pulsing.
“You’re close,” he says, so familiar with the tells of your body.
“Give me another one. You can do that for me, baby, I know you can,” he murmurs. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you.”
His thumb finds your clit without hesitation, rubbing tight circles that push you straight to the edge. His hips keep their rhythm, deep and steady and so full you can barely think.
Your climax hits like a shockwave.
Your body arches, walls clenching hard around him, pleasure tearing through you until your vision blurs. Buck gasps —actually gasps— swearing under his breath as he tries to keep thrusting, tries to ride your trembling out.
“Fuck, fuck, yes— baby, that’s it— that’s it— oh my god—”
You can feel it, the way his muscles tighten, the way his breaths fall apart, the way his thrusts lose their perfect control.
And then you whisper, “Buck, come inside me,” and his entire body shudders.
He grabs your hips —gentle but desperate, and buries himself deep with a ragged groan that sounds like it’s ripped straight from his heart.
He spills inside you in hot, pulsing waves, hips grinding against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he falls apart— quiet, breathless, undone.
His arms lock around you and he doesn’t move for a long moment.
Breathing hard, face pressed into your skin, body still shivering with aftershocks.
You stroke the back of his head, fingers threading through sweat-damp curls.
Your mind floats a little.
Nothing but the sound of your breathing syncing, his weight heavy and warm on top of you.
Buck eventually lifts his head, blinking down at you with flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.
His voice is hoarse, almost shy.
You smile softly. “Yeah. You?”
He huffs a tiny laugh, brushing his nose against yours.
And then he kisses you again —slow, warm, lingering. Your fingers curl in his hair.
You don’t say it. But you both know something’s changed. And you can only hope that it’s for better. Because honestly? Everything’s been better with this man in your arms.
written for @lovely----------------notlovely . thanks for the ask!
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