pairing: man of your choice x you
rating: explicit
warnings/tags: p in v, mirror sex, wet/messy, third round, bent over, visual kink.
You’re already ruined.
Your thighs are sticky with slick and spend, the ache between your legs deep and sweet from the last two times he had you —slow and then fast, both of them messy. You should be spent. Boneless. Wrung out.
But then he bent you over the edge of the bed on his side, caught your eyes in the mirror, and pressed the head of his cock to your dripping slit like it was the first time all over again.
And now your knees are shaking.
He slides in slow, one long stroke, and it’s obscene how easily he sinks inside —your body greedy for him, your walls fluttering around the stretch, welcoming, wanting. The slick sounds of your bodies meeting echo off the walls, loud and shameless, wet from the mess he left in you already.
His hands grip your hips, firm and steady, dragging you back onto him as he starts to move. Slow at first —just enough to make you gasp, just enough to feel the way everything inside you clenches. He keeps his eyes on yours in the mirror, gaze dark and focused and hungry.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes roaming across your reflection. To the way your mouth parts, to the way your body bends, to the way your tits bounce with every thrust.
He fucks you with purpose. Deep. Thorough. Like he’s chasing the last of your breath just because he wants to.
Your hands clutch the bedding, knuckles white, hips arching back into him helplessly. You can feel the slick coating your inner thighs, the glide of him inside you easier than it has any right to be. It’s filthy. It's too much. It’s perfect.
Your eyes keep catching in the mirror —the sweat glistening on your body, the flush blooming across your chest, the way he’s watching every second of it, his jaw tight, his chest rising with ragged breaths, eyes hungry and trained where his cock is disappearing into your cunt.
You meet his gaze again and whimper.
He answers by fucking you deeper.
Your body jolts with every thrust now. His hands spread wider on your hips, fingertips digging in. His cock drags against your sweet spot with maddening precision, and the pressure in your belly coils fast and sharp —no build-up this time, no teasing. Just white-hot need from the first stroke.
You can feel him watching it happen. Watching you fall apart again.
And you love it.
Love the way your thighs shine with the mess he left. Love the way he grunts through his teeth every time your cunt clenches tight around him. Love that you’re both staring at the same thing: the wreckage of you and him. The way you take him. The way he wants you.
Pairing: Evan Buckley x Reader
Words: 3000
Rating: Explicit
Prompt: #26. Stuck in a cabin during a storm.
Title: Zayn Malik's Natural
prompt list 🩶 read on ao3
He pushed into you until your back hit the wall near the fireplace, bare feet quiet on the floor, and suddenly there wasn’t much room for thinking. He kissed like was starving and you kissed him back just as hungrily, curling your fingers into the back of his neck to pull him closer, closer, closer .
“Wait,” Buck murmured, breaking the kiss with a soft gasp. “We should— fire. We need the fire.”
“Uh…,” you blinked, momentarily dazed. “That supposed to be a metaphor, or…”
He let out a huff of a laugh, “Actual fire, baby. You’re freezing.”
You let out a sigh and stepped back, watching as Buck crouched by the hearth, carefully stacking logs. You pulled off your damp clothes, and added them to the pile of jackets by the couch before wiping the dirt from your skin with them.
A smile tugged at your lips when he finally got the fire going —on his third try, after a few sparks, a couple of muttered curses and a small flinch when the flame caught a little too aggressively.
Warm light blossomed through the room, casting dancing shadows along the walls. The fire crackled to life, its golden heat washing over Buck’s bare skin. When he finally turned to face you, his soaked track pants clinging tightly to his thick thighs — fuck , he was good enough to eat.
continue reading on ao3
A/N: this was double the length of what i initially planned. but i had so much fun writing it! i love writing sequels lol. thanks for the response on the first part!
rating: explicit
warnings/tags: p in v smut, clothed male/naked female, rough sex, couch sex, unprotected sex, no dialogue.
You’re bent over the back of the couch, skin bare and flushed and slick with sweat. Every part of you is exposed —tits hanging, thighs shaking, ass high and begging for it— and he hasn’t taken off a single thing.
Shirt clinging to his back, jeans shoved just far enough down to free his cock, boots planted on the floor as he fucks into you like he owns you.
Raw.
Ruthless.
His grip bruises your hips, fingers digging into the flesh like he’s anchoring himself. Like if he doesn’t hold tight, he’ll lose whatever shred of control he has left.
But there’s nothing careful about the way he moves. No rhythm, no tenderness. Just the steady, punishing drive of his cock stretching you open, bottoming out with every snap of his hips.
He’s so deep you can’t breathe right —can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but take it. You’re soaked for him, folds slick and swollen, clenching down every time he hits that brutal spot that makes your knees buckle.
The angle is perfect. Vicious.
Your stomach’s pressed to the couch-rest, breasts bouncing and dragging across the rough fabric with every thrust. Your breath is shaky. You are a mess. Slick dripping down your thighs, knees scuffed from when he fucked you on the floor earlier, throat sore from how hard you moaned the last time he slammed into you just like this.
And he’s still clothed.
There’s something fucking obscene about it— his jeans rubbing your bare skin, the cool drag of his shirt collar brushing your shoulder blades when he leans forward to grind deeper, harder, rougher.
His skin is sweat-damp and hidden, the heat of him bleeding through cotton and denim and leather, everything tight and constraining and hot, like he’s holding back the weight of something even filthier.
But he doesn’t say anything.
He just grunts through his teeth and fucks you harder.
The couch scrapes a little against the carpet. The slap of skin on skin echoes filthy and loud through the room. His cock drives into you, raw and thick, stretching you out with every punishing thrust.
Your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, cunt fluttering around him as you crash into another orgasm with a silent scream. Your back arches, whole body seizing, and he fucks you through it —relentless, steady, giving you no room to come down.
He doesn’t even slow.
Just keeps going, fucking you into the aftershocks like he’s determined to feel every twitch, every clench, every ounce of you breaking apart around him.
His jeans scrape against your ass as he grinds in one last time, cock buried to the hilt, balls tight against your dripping cunt. He groans— low, wrecked, gorgeous— and spills inside you, heat flooding your already-soaked core.
You whimper, legs trembling.
Still bent over.
Still bare.
Still stretched wide around him, dripping with come, your skin still burning against the worn fabric of the couch.
He leans over, breath hot at your ear, cock still buried deep.
pairing: man of your choice x you
rating: explicit
warnings/tags: explicit oral smut, oral cockwarming, implied subspace.
He’s watching some sitcom, legs spread, one arm draped along the back of the couch and the other buried in your hair.
You’re between his thighs, mouth stretched full, your lips soft around the girth of him. His cock sits heavy on your tongue —warm, thick, still— but not soft. Never soft when you’re like this.
He shifts slightly, gaze flicking toward the screen. End credits track plays, something about roommates and a dog and laughter, the hum of the TV barely cutting through the haze of heat and spit pooling under your tongue. His hand drops lazily to the back of your head, not to push, just to rest —fingertips brushing your scalp like it’s second nature.
You’re floating.
Your knees and ankles are numb. Your jaw aches in the sweetest way. Saliva slicks your chin and his skin and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t fuck into your throat. Doesn’t ask for more.
Just lets you keep him warm.
Your eyes flutter closed.
You feel everything. The twitch of him now and then. The slight throb that says he likes this, even if he’s acting like he’s paying attention to the show. The weight of him across your tongue, the taste of his skin, the salt, the heat, the way your throat flutters every time you breathe in deep.
He shifts again. His thighs tighten slightly.
You think you might moan, your hands squeezing your thighs.
You can’t help it —how full your mouth feels, how grounding it is to just… stay here. Let him rest inside you. Let your body be what holds him, quiet and soft and willing.
Between you and him, it’s not about control. It’s not about power. It’s just about being his favorite place to be.
You blink up at him, lashes damp, lips swollen and slick and red. He glances down.
His eyes soften instantly —something warm, heavy and fond that coils low in your belly.
“Still good?” he murmurs.
You hum. The vibration makes him inhale slow through his nose, but he doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t chase it.
You both stay like that.
The laughter fades. A new episode starts.
His cock pulses gently in your mouth.
You sigh around him, your cheeks hollowing slightly as you shift for comfort, settling back in. He pets your hair absently, thumb brushing along your temple. It’s mindless. Thoughtless. A familiar weight.
Pairing: Evan Buckley x Reader
Words: 1850
Rating: Explicit
Warnings/Tags: p in v, sweaty sex, dirty talk, bet gone right, protected sex.
Title: A lyric from Zayn's Scripted
Prompt: #28. A bet turns into sex neither of them expected to be that good.
prompt list 🩶 read on ao3
🦌.💕
Buck’s cleared the whole open space under the loft, shoving the coffee table to the corner and rolling out two big blue mats. The punching bag sits from a fresh mounting point he installed last week just to show off.
He and Eddie have taken it upon themselves to teach Maddie some self defense moves. She’s convinced you to tag along, because “I need another woman at my six to bear with that much testosterone.”
So, here you all were.
He’s barefoot, shirt damp with sweat, hands taped.
Eddie matches him —calmer, more focused than cocky and smug.
“Okay, again,” Buck taps the center of your gloves lightly. “And this time, don’t drop your guard. Unless you’re trying to get decked. Which is a valid choice, but not for today.”
You glare up at him. “I didn’t drop it.”
Eddie snorts. “You dropped it so bad that self-defense said goodbye.”
Maddie cackles from behind Eddie’s shoulder, wiping sweat from her forehead with a towel. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just showing off in front of Buck.”
Eddie turns. “Me? Showing off? In front of Buck?”
Buck grins proudly. “It’s okay to be intimidated. Happens to everyone.”
Eddie throws his towel at him.
You punch Buck’s shoulder.
Maddie laughs again.
A couple of hours pass.
You’re all sweaty, flushed, and vaguely dying. Eddie is lying starfish on the mat. Maddie is sitting cross-legged beside him, catching her breath.
Buck is pacing around, full of unused energy because apparently this counts as “light warmups” for him.
Eddie checks his phone and groans. “I gotta go. Christopher gets out at three.”
“And Jee’s art club ends at three-thirty,” Maddie adds, already hauling herself upright. “I need approximately an hour to shower before I step into the public again.”
You throw your towel at her. “Same.”
She catches it with two fingers. “Eww, you definitely need an hour-long shower.”
“Maddie!” You laugh.
“Yeah? Bet she smells like defeat,” Buck teases.
“Oh, shut up.”
Eddie claps Buck’s back. “Try not to break anything while we’re gone.”
Buck smirks. “Can’t make promises.”
Maddie narrows her eyes. “And try not to hit on her while we’re gone.”
Buck immediately looks offended.
You immediately look away.
“Do not do anything I’ll have to hear about later,” Eddie says, picking his bag.
Maddie says, “You will absolutely hear about it later.”
Buck opens the door for them. “Goodbye, you two.”
“Behave!” Maddie calls.
“Not happening,” Eddie mutters.
The door shuts.
Silence drops into the loft like a stone.
Buck turns back toward you, wiping sweat from his jaw with the back of his wrist —shoulders loose, grin slow and dangerous now that there are no witnesses.
The loft suddenly feels a lot smaller without Maddie’s chatter or Eddie’s dad-stare filling it up.
He rolls his shoulders back, loose and fluid, before throwing a series of quick, showy combinations into the air —jab, cross, hook, pivot, kick. It makes you wanna lick the sweat bead trailing down his neck.
He looks good. And he knows you think that.
You cross your arms, feigning boredom. “Wow. Incredible. Truly inspiring.”
Buck drops his hands, smirking. “You sure you wanna talk like that? Because last I checked, you’re the one still dropping your guard.”
You scoff, annoyed at the repetitive taunt, stepping onto the mat. “Bet I can still take you.”
“You?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Take me down?”
“Yep.”
A low whistle. “Sweetheart… you barely took Eddie down when he was lying on the ground contemplating his life choices.”
You jab a finger toward him. “That was because he was parked like a concrete slab.”
“And I’m not?” Buck gestures to himself, flexing his arms in a way that makes your stomach flip. “This— this is prime firefighter muscle.”
“This?” You laugh outright, resisting the urge to press your thighs together. “This is ego.”
He presses a hand to his chest, offended. “My ego does not bench press 225.”
“Put your money where your mouth is, Buckley.”
“Oh, it’s like that?” He shakes out his arms, stepping closer, eyes bright with that reckless, competitive edge you’ve only seen when he’s seconds away from doing something stupid or impressive —usually both.
“What’s the bet?”
You hum thoughtfully. “Loser will… clean the bunk room. For a week.”
“That’s it?” He snorts. “I was thinking the loser has to do something more fun for the winner.”
Your stomach flips. “We’ll… renegotiate after I win.”
Buck laughs —low, warm, challenging. “Deal.”
You both raise your hands.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Are you?”
Buck circles you, loose and eager, that confident bounce in his step.
“Keep your guard up this time,” he taunts.
“Eat shit,” you counter sweetly.
He laughs, but his eyes track your every move.
He lunges first —light, teasing strikes, the kind meant to test you more than tag you. He’s quick but not serious, smiling every time you dodge, duck, or swat him away.
“Not bad,” he says. “You sure you’re not secretly training when I’m not looking?”
“Maybe I’m just naturally talented.”
“You’re naturally annoying.”
“You love it.”
He hesitates —just a flicker— but it’s enough.
You use it.
You fake left, step right, and hook your foot behind his ankle.
Buck doesn’t expect it, at all.
He stumbles.
You shove his shoulder.
He goes down hard.
Right onto his back.
You drop onto him before he can recover, knee pinning his ribs, palm on his chest, and another arm against his throat, breathless and triumphant.
“HA!” You grin down at him, faces inches away from his. “Say it. I won.”
Buck stares up at you, hair mussed, chest rising fast. Then, slowly, he smiles. A full on grin.
“I didn’t know we were allowed to cheat.”
Before you can blink, he shifts —hips twisting, arm hooking around your waist, momentum flipping you effortlessly.
You gasp as your back hits the mat and he ends up over you —hovering, braced on his forearms, bodies lined up far too perfectly. His face inches from yours once again, breath hot on your lips.
And wow, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it. But being pressed up like this, you’re pretty you don’t have to guess his size. And the thought makes your cheeks heat up.
He’s still grinning. Focused entirely on you.
“I’ll give you the win,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Only because everything’s fair in war. But baby, you play dirty.”
“That’s the only way I can take you.”
“Is it?” he whispers, leaning in just a fraction, pressing your hips closer. “You sure about that?”
You swallow hard, your legs falling wider on their own. “Buck—”
He dips lower.
Barely touching.
You surge up.
And Buck kisses you —hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting all damn day and finally has you right where he wants you.
His weight presses you into the mat, hips grinding down with a low, pleasured groan that vibrates straight through you.
There’s nothing hesitant in him. Nothing careful. Just heat and need and the kind of want he’s clearly been biting back for way too long.
Your fingers fist in his damp shirt before you shove it upward. He breaks the kiss only long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere behind him. Then he’s on you again, kissing you like he’s starving, like he can’t decide between your mouth or your neck so he devours both.
“Fuck—” he mutters against your throat when you arch beneath him, nails dragging down his back. “You’re driving me insane.”
“You’re the one who challenged me,” you gasp.
“You liked it,” he growls, biting your shoulder just enough to make your breath hitch into a moan.
His hand slides down your hip, between your thighs. His eyes meet yours in an obvious question —“are you sure?”. The answer is in the way your hips jerk when his fingers slip under the waistband of your leggings. In the sound he makes when he feels how wet you are..
“Jesus, baby…” His voice breaks. “You’re already— fuck.”
He kisses you again, messier this time, his fingers sliding through your slick heat, teasing, stroking, spreading you open until you’re gasping into his mouth.
“Buck,” you whimper, hips pushing up into his hand.
“I know.” He bites your lip. “I know, I know—just let me— fuck, you feel incredible.”
Your leggings are shoved down in the next breath, tangled around an ankle, and he slots his body between your legs like he belongs there. His cock is heavy against you even through his shorts and the noise you make when he grinds down —slow, rough, deliberate— makes him swear and bury his face in your neck.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, rocking harder, pushing his shorts down and lining himself up without even thinking about it, breath shaking. “I’ve been wanting— God, I’ve been wanting this.”
You wrap your legs around him, anchoring him against you. “Then take it.”
He groans —deep, wrecked— and pushes forward, the blunt head of his cock sliding just barely inside you, stretching you, hot and perfect—
You gasp. He shudders.
“Fuck— wait— shit,” Buck manages, the words a strangled growl because he is seconds away from just thrusting all the way into you. “Condom. I need— I don’t—”
Your hand curls in his hair, tugging. “Buck!”
“Gimme just a sec,” he says, pulling you back into a kiss because he just doesn’t want to leave now.
You huff, pushing his shoulders, “Go.”
Buck pulls away like it physically hurts him, stumbles to his feet, and immediately breaks into a sprint toward the stairs.
He misses the first step, catches himself on the railing, and still takes the stairs two at a time, breathless and frantic.
“Don’t move!” he shouts from the landing, as if you’ll vanish in the ten seconds it takes him to get protection. “I— fuck— don’t— just— stay right there!”
You laugh, aching for him as you hear him tearing through drawers upstairs like a man possessed.
Fuck him for being the responsible one.
By the time he makes a victorious sound upstairs, you’ve managed to pull all your clothes off. It doesn’t take you long to push two fingers into yourself, your body a bit relaxed from the little self-love moment you had this morning.
Buck almost falls down the last step in his rush back to the mats.
He stops dead, brain blue screening at the sight of you naked and legs spread wide, three fingers buried inside yourself, dripping, needy, working yourself open for him like you couldn’t wait another second.
“Fuck, baby,” the condom packet in his hand crinkles violently as he drops to his knees between your legs, licking his lips.
He kisses you like he’s furious you undressed without him, mouth hot and greedy, hands everywhere —your hips, your thighs, your waist..
“Buck—” you breathe, arching into him, pulling your fingers out and wrapping them around his cock.
“Yeah,” he groans, voice gone wrecked and reverent as he tears open the condom with shaking hands. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m right— fuck—”
And then he’s gripping your thighs, pulling you down to meet him. Your breath stutters when the head of his cock presses against you, nudging where your fingers had just been.
Buck moans, shuddering, pushing in. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”
And fuck it, you’ve always loved a moaner between your legs.
“Buck— just—” You gasp, back arching off the mat as his hips finally meet yours.
He drops his forehead to your shoulder, panting as he holds himself still for one razor-sharp second.
He hums, “You’re so warm, baby, I can’t— I can’t go slow.”
“Who said I want slow?”
He lifts his head. Pupils blown wide.
“Fuck,” he grins slowly. “I really am gonna lose my mind over you.”
Then he pulls out just a little and thrusts back in —deep, hard, all the way— your cry echoing off the loft walls as your nails dig into his shoulders. He groans into your neck, the sound guttural, relieved, hungry.
“God— you’re perfect,” he rasps. “You take me so fucking—” Another thrust. Sharper. Your breath breaks. “—so fucking good.”
Your legs lock around his waist, heels digging into his thighs, pulling him deeper. He takes the invitation with a deliciousmoan, hips slamming into yours, the pace immediately brutal and intoxicating.
The mat slides beneath you both with each drive of his body.
He kisses you between thrusts —messy, biting, all tongue and teeth and want— as if he can’t decide whether to fuck you harder or kiss you deeper.
“You feel unbelievable,” you can’t help but moan against his throat.
Your fingers tangle in his hair and you drag him back down when he tries to lift his head, kissing him like you’re trying to swallow the sound he makes.
His rhythm stutters. He laughs breathlessly against your lips.
“Bossy,” he murmurs, another thrust snapping your breath away once again. “I like it.”
“You talk too —ah, too much,” you manage.
He bites your neck, sucking hard enough to mark. “Oh, baby, but you have such a way to shut me up.”
You roll your hips to meet him and the noise he chokes out is downright obscene, his thrusts getting rougher, deeper, his pace edging into something frantic like he can’t get close enough to you no matter how hard he tries.
And the look on his face— God. He’s wrecked already. Over you. For you.
You grab his face, forcing him to look at you as he drives into you again.
“Then fuck me harder.”
He absolutely does.
The rhythm he finds isn’t even rhythm anymore —it’s hunger, pure and frantic, the mat squeaking under every sharp thrust as he pounds into you like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as he’s been alive.
Your head tips back, a whine tearing out of your throat. “Buck—”
He braces one hand beside your head, the other dragging up beneath your thigh, shoving your knee nearly to your chest just to get deeper.
The new angle knocks every thought out of your head.
You claw at his shoulders, words dissolving, brain white-hot static. You can’t decide whether to hold onto him or shove him closer.
He dips his head to your neck, kissing, biting, devouring the sounds you make.
“You feel that?” he bites your jaw, thrusts sharp enough to rattle through your spine, his palm spreading under your naval. “Feel how deep I am?”
“Y-yes— Buck—”
“That’s it,” he groans, kissing the corner of your mouth before swallowing your next moan. “Take it, baby.. Just like that.”
Your body bows beneath him, desperate, pleasure coiling tight and fast.
He sees it.
He feels it.
“Oh, fuck— you’re close, hmm?” His forehead knocks gently against yours, breath mingling. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you. I want you to come all over my cock.”
His voice is gravel and worship and filth all tangled together.
He reaches down, thumb slipping between your bodies, rubbing your clit with messy, desperate circles that match the brutal drive of his hips.
Your back arches hard.
“Buck— I— I’m—”
“Yeah,” he urges, voice breaking. “Come for me. Right now. I wanna feel you— please—”
And then you do.
God, you do.
It’s just white pleasure behind your lids, mouth gasping lungs full of breath that makes you wonder if you’ve ever felt this light.
It rips through you like a wire pulled tight and snapped, pleasure exploding outwards in waves so strong you sob his name, shaking under him as your orgasm rolls through every inch of you.
Your nails dig into his back. Your legs lock around him. You squeeze down on him so hard he grunts, hips stuttering as he tries— and fails— to keep pushing through it.
“Baby— fuck— you’re—” He drops his head to your shoulder again, voice shattering. “I’m gonna— oh god— I’m—”
His thrusts turn frantic, messy, losing all control.
He’s right there.
Right on the edge. You clench around him unconsciously.
And then he’s falling.
“Fuck— I’m coming—” His voice cracks as he slams into you one last time, hips grinding deep as his whole body trembles and he spills into the condom with a broken, guttural moan. “Jesus— oh— fuck—”
For several seconds, all you can hear is breathing — his, yours, tangled, uneven, wrecked.
He lowers himself gently, forearms bracketing your head, chest heaving, forehead resting against yours.
Then—
He laughs.
Soft. Breathless. Disbelieving.
“You…” He kisses you, slow this time, lingering. “Are going to be the death of me.”
You smile up at him, still panting. “You started it.”
He kisses you again, deeper, lazier, satisfaction humming in his chest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs against your lips, a grin tugging at his mouth. “And I’m never gonna regret that.”
“Guess I like taking you this way better,” you grin, dazed.
His weight settles over you, warm and solid and perfect.
🦌.💕
written for @out-ofocus. thanks for the ask!
prompt list 🩶 read on ao3
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.
prompt list 🩶 read on ao3
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.
Until you.
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.
Not fully.
“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.”
And that’s all it takes.
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.
He moans.
“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.
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.
His eyes flutter. “Mmh—”
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.
You arch into him.
“More,” you whisper. “Buck… more.”
He nods, breath catching.
“Yeah. Yeah, I got you.”
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.
You nod, breathless.
“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.
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.
“Fuck—“
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 whole body trembles.
His breath shudders.
His arms lock around you and he doesn’t move for a long moment.
Just holds you.
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.
He melts into the touch.
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 okay?”
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!
prompt list 🩶 read on ao3
part one | part two | part three
pairing: man of your choice x you
rating: explicit
warnings/tags: p in v, mutual orgasms, mild overstimulation.
You’re still pulsing around him when he finally moves.
It starts with a twitch —his cock jerking inside you as if your orgasm dragged the last of his control right out of him. And then his hips draw back, slow, thick, dragging along soaked walls made tighter by aftershocks.
You sob. Still, your cunt clenches like it doesn’t want to let him go.
But he doesn’t stop.
He pulls out halfway, just enough to make your cunt flutter in protest —and then he slams back in, hard and deep, knocking the breath out of you in one ruined moan.
It’s raw after that.
No more patience. No more teasing.
Just the sound of his skin slapping against yours, the wet, filthy squelch of his cock plunging into you again and again. The sharp drag of his teeth on your neck, the low curse he groans when you tighten around him mid-thrust.
He fucks you like he’s been holding back for hours. Like your first orgasm broke something open in him. His hips snap forward in brutal rhythm, each thrust punching a gasp from your lungs, making you arch and tremble and cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.
You’re already too sensitive.
Still, your body climbs again —too fast, too hard— pushed past overstimulation straight into a second crest. And he feels it. Feels the way your thighs start to shake, the way your cunt clamps down tighter with every thrust.
“Yeah, baby,” he pants into your ear, hot breath against your cheek. “That’s it. Fuck, give it to me again.”
You do.
You fall apart a second time, squeezed around him, so full and stretched you swear you can feel him in your throat. Your orgasm hits harder —messier— your cunt spasming around his cock, milking him with every pulse.
And this time, he doesn’t hold back.
He drives into you with a low, broken moan and spills inside, thick and hot, buried to the hilt while your bodies shudder together. You can feel it —the warmth, the flood— and the way his hips grind through it like he never wants to leave your body again.
He doesn't pull out.
He just breathes into your neck, still twitching inside you, both of you slick and shaking and wrecked.
part one | part two | part three
pairing: man of your choice x you
rating: explicit
warnings/tags: p in v, slow build, mild cock warming, penetration, soft filth.
You’re already breathing heavy, thighs twitching where they rest against the sheets. He hasn’t touched you properly yet. Not where you need, but his hands are everywhere else —teasing the curve of your waist, brushing up your sides, stroking along the inside of your knee just to watch you shiver.
And then his voice, low and coaxing, curls over your skin like heat.
“Spread your legs, baby. That’s it… Wider.”
It’s not a command —it’s a request soaked in praise, spoken like he already knows you’ll listen. And you do. Your thighs part further, knees falling open for him, heat pulsing between them, bare and slick and throbbing.
He watches you with a slow exhale, like the sight of you undone is a gift.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
His hands trail down again, palms warm and steady, and his fingers dip just under the crease of your thigh, holding you open as he settles between your legs. His shirt is still on, unbuttoned and clinging to his sides, the contrast of cool fabric against your heated skin making your breath hitch when he leans in.
You feel him —the heat of his breath against your knees, the way his chest brushes against your thighs, the heavy drag of his cock just barely grazing your slick folds. Not inside. Not yet.
He’s teasing you, letting you feel the weight of him there— thick and warm and pulsing— but not giving in. Not thrusting. Not filling.
You want to beg.
But you don’t have to speak. Your body’s already doing the pleading for you —slick dripping onto the sheets, your hips arching up, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his name caught in your throat like a broken sob.
And he’s so calm about it.
He just kisses the inside of your knee like he’s got all the time in the world, letting his fingers trail higher, higher, until he’s pressing the soft flesh just beside where you need him most. You tremble. You writhe. Your eyes fall shut.
“Look at you,” he murmurs again, voice rougher now. “So pretty like this. Dripping for me.”
You can feel him smiling against your knee as he presses closer. His cock nudges your entrance, slow and slick, the head just barely pushing in —and your whole body tenses in greedy anticipation.
He still doesn’t thrust.
Just rocks forward, one slow inch, until your breath breaks and your nails dig into his back.
“Oh, baby,” he whispers again, breath hot against your neck now as he finally starts to sink into you. “Let me in. Just like that.”
And you do.
You open for him, take him in —inch by inch, stretch by stretch— and the groan that tears from his chest when he bottoms out is the filthiest sound you’ve ever heard.
He holds there, buried deep, not moving. Just breathing. Just feeling the way your walls flutter around him, the way your body clenches like you never want him to leave.
