prompt - "If you wanted to take your pants off for me so badly, you could have just said so."
shout out to @ellemj for her encouragement with this ♡
warnings/tags: SMUT, vaginal penetration, oral sex (female receving), face sitting, mentions of violence, description of blood & wounds, no use of y/n, reader is afab, hurt/comfort trope, bickering & banter, friends to lovers, forced close proximity trope. 18 plus only!
“Roll your window up,” Bucky snaps at you as he turns down the music you had just put on moments ago. “The last thing we need is someone noticing the blood caked all over the entire right side of your body.”
As if the lack of functioning AC in the twenty-something year old getaway car (an early 2000’s model Chevy Aveo is inconspicuous, according to Sam) wasn’t stifling enough in the south Georgia summer, the annoyance radiating from the brooding super soldier sitting next to you adds an extra ten degrees.
Sure, Sam. Inconspicuous is the right word to describe a six foot, two hundred plus pound man with a metal arm cramped behind the driver’s seat of the equivalent to a clown car. Bright fucking cherry red and all.
“It’s 103 degrees outside.” You glare at him from the passenger seat, where you’re using a tattered handkerchief found in the glove compartment to put pressure on the knife wound on your shoulder. “I’m going to have a heatstroke.”
“You’re not going to have a heatstroke,” he rolls his eyes at you. “That happening would indicate that I have any amount of good luck.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” you say under your breath, reluctantly rolling up the manual window with your still bleeding arm. “I got the fucking intel, did I not?”
You remove the USB drive from its secure location in the cup of your bra and flash it at Bucky. “Though we’ll be lucky if this thing still works after being drowned in boob sweat, since you won’t let me keep the window rolled down.”
“And nearly got yourself killed in the process.” He grabs the flashdrive from you and grimaces. “We’ll be at the safehouse in less than five minutes, if you can please just refrain from stroking out or bleeding out in the meantime.”
You glance down at the once white handkerchief clutched in your hand. “I’m not making you any guarantees.”
You're welcome for saving your ass, by the way, you resist adding.
Jokes aside, the energy exerted in bringing down over a dozen HYDRA agents in combination with the July heat and the substantial blood loss from your shoulder wound has you feeling woozier by the minute. Factor in a few potentially fractured ribs and a dislocated knee and you're in pretty rough shape.
As promised, just under five minutes later Bucky parks in front of a small trailer just outside the city limits of Valdosta. It's seen better days, but you don't mind as long as it has semi-functioning air conditioning.
Bucky is opening your car door and offering you a hand up before you can take in your surroundings. You force yourself out of your seat, ignoring his outstretched hand and attempting to stand on your own, doing your best to ignore the borderline blinding pain radiating from your right knee.
“Thanks, but I think I can–”
Your vision goes fuzzy as you stumble forward, right into Bucky's chest. Your hand instinctively clutches the fabric of his shirt as you attempt to regain your balance.
“Let me guess. You're capable of stitching up your own shoulder, too?”
He gently loops his arm around your waist, slowly walking the two of you to the front door of the trailer. You try to focus on keeping pressure on the gash on your shoulder and not the feeling of his toned body pressed against you. How does he smell so good after hand to hand combat and sitting in that sauna of a car? You're sure you probably smell like a wet diaper that's been left in the sun for–
Bucky opens the door and guides you inside. The interior of the safehouse is surprisingly homey and clean. It's still uncomfortably warm, but offers a nice reprieve from the violent mid-day sun.
Bucky leads you into the small living space before maneuvering you out of his hold, where you all but collapse onto a suede sofa.
“I guess you do have some amount of good luck, after all,” you mumble, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand.
“What are you talking about?” Bucky glances at you from over his shoulder as he flicks on the AC.
“That happening would indicate that I have any amount of good luck,” you quote his sarcastic comment from the car ride.
“Ha-ha-ha,” he fake laughs just as you did. He rummages through a few cabinets and drawers of the small kitchen before finding everything he’s searching for, then makes his way back to where you are on the couch.
“Drink this.” He hands you a bottle of water that you hadn't even noticed him grab. For once you don't object to his instructions, uncapping the bottle and gulping down the contents as quickly as you can.
“You're not having a heatstroke,” he assures you. “But you are going to have to let me stitch up this crater on your shoulder and pop your knee back into place.”
You sit forward, removing the now fully soaked cloth that you've been holding to your shoulder for the last half hour.
Bucky winces at the sight of it, handing you a dishrag before opening a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “You might want to bite down on–”
“I know the drill.” You sigh before putting the rag between your teeth.
He hesitates for a moment before pouring the clear liquid over the wound. You groan against the rag, your eyes squint shut in pain. You've had your fair share of broken bones and black eyes working in this field, but you don't think you'll ever get used to the pain of getting stitches without the comforts of saline solution and anesthesia.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dabbing the cut dry with a paper towel.
Your heart skips a beat at the nickname. “It's part of the job. I've come out of missions worse than this before,” you shrug, squeezing the dish rag he gave you until your knuckles go white as he makes the first incision.
“Never because of me.”
You glance at him, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. His gaze doesn't leave the thread and needle that he's using to close up the gash on your arm - his normally plump pout set into a hard line.
“You know this isn't your fault, right?” You keep your eyes locked on him. “I saw that guy coming at you out of nowhere and I panicked. I wasn't watching my own back. That's my fault, not yours,” you say earnestly.
“If you say so.” He glances up for a split second, giving you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
“Is that why you've been such a grouch? You're blaming yourself for me not being careful enough?”
“Maybe,” he admits quietly. “Or maybe I just hate seeing you covered in blood for any reason.”
You freeze at the bluntness of his words. You and Bucky have been partners on more missions than you could count at this point - you know that he would have done the same for you if the situation had been reversed; in fact, there had been times where he had taken the brunt of the fight in order to protect you.
All of those instances suddenly flash through your mind.
The time he used himself as a human shield when there was a bomb set off during a recon mission at a warehouse in Tokyo. Or when he football tackled you out of the direct line of an incoming dagger during an operation in Portland. Not to mention the time he left a job all the way in Prague unfinished because he merely suspected you had a concussion.
You had always chalked it up to “that’s what partners do,” but the pained expression on his face as he refuses to meet your eyes has you questioning if there could possibly be more to it.
No. You’re his partner. He’d do the same for anyone else. He wouldn’t want to see anyone on his team covered in blood if he could prevent it.
The two of you sit in a thick silence while he finishes stitching you up.
“There,” he says at last, clipping the excess suture thread with scissors. “Not quite as good as your stitch work, but I think it’ll hold you together.” His voice isn’t as strained as it was moments ago, though you can't help but notice it sounds forced.
“Thank you,” you tell him, ignoring the way your cheeks warmed the tiniest bit at his compliment. “Now for the really fun part,” you add, staring at your throbbing knee.
“You’re in luck,” he says, perking up a bit. “I’ve popped my own knees back into place an embarrassing amount of times, so this should be a breeze.” He repositions himself to have better access to your leg, moving off the couch to perch on the edge of the coffee table in front of you. You attempt to pull the tight fabric of your tactical pants up enough to give him unhindered access to your knee, but it’s too restrictive, immediately causing you to wince in pain.
“Fuck,” you huff. “I’m going to have to take these off.” You pop the button at the top of your pants and begin to push them down your thighs before insecurity can get the better of you. You try not to think about the fact that Bucky's never seen you in such little clothing - pants now pushed down to your calves, only your underwear and the bra and thin tank top you wore underneath the tactical vest that you took off as soon as you were in the safety of the getaway car left to cover you.
Hesitation flashes across Bucky’s face for a brief moment before he scoots over slightly, moving directly in front of you so that he can position his hands on either side of your kneecap. You’re painfully aware of the polar opposite feeling of his right and left hand - his flesh hand is warm and so much softer than you’d expect, his metal one icy and smooth. You aren’t sure which causes the visible goosebumps that now litter your skin.
Maybe it’s not his touch at all. Maybe it’s the way his eyes haven’t left your thighs since you exposed them.
Maybe it’s the fact that if you parted your legs just a few inches, he’d be nestled between them.
Chill out, you berate yourself. He's just relocating your knee for Christ's sake.
“On the count of three,” he starts and you brace yourself. “One, two–”
“MOTHERFUCKER.” You yell out at the same moment your knee creates a loud cracking noise that echoes off the walls of the small trailer. “You said count of three!”
“Would that really have made it less painful?” He shrugs, but doesn't move from where his knees brush against yours. “I think what you mean to say is “thank you, Bucky, you're a lifesaver and I'm now in your debt.”
“In your fuckin’ dreams,” you scoff. “I'm going to wash all of this blood and sweat off of me.” You move to push yourself off of the couch, tugging your pants back up as you stand. You can feel his eyes trail up your body as you do, making you feel woozy all over again. You turn away from him, heading towards the hallway that the bathroom is likely located down.
“I could have done that through your pants, by the way.”
You freeze mid-step, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “What do you mean?” You snap at him.
“Your knee,” he clarifies, a hint of undeniable mischief in his expression. “I could have popped your knee back into place through your pants. If you wanted to take your pants off for me so badly, you could have just said so.”
Just when you thought the safehouse was starting to cool down, your entire body heats up a thousand degrees. You're racking your brain trying to think of a retort when Bucky's ringtone starts blaring from the kitchen countertop. He ignores it, his eyes not leaving yours for what feels like an eternity.
You finally break the silence. “That's most likely Sam wanting to make sure we're not dead. Should probably answer it.”
“Probably should,” he smirks, and at last gets up from the coffee table to answer the phone.
You scurry the rest of the way to the bathroom before he can look back at you again, ignoring the sharp pains that radiate from your ribcage and the now dull ache that spreads from your knee.
You turn the water to cold, and don't get out until you've started to shiver.
— — — — —
When you exit the bathroom and step back into the connected bedroom in only a towel, you see that Bucky has done you the kindness of bringing in the bags that had been stored in the backseat of the getaway car.
You dig through your backpack, pulling out a fresh t-shirt and pair of leggings. From the next room, you can smell the aroma of whatever non-perishable food that Bucky has scrounged together. Despite your growing hunger pains, you take your sweet time combing through your freshly rinsed hair. The thought of looking Bucky in the eye after your last interaction nearly makes you lose your appetite.
What was I thinking? Oh right, I wasn't thinking at all, otherwise I wouldn't have just pushed my fucking pants down right in front of–
“Your five course dinner is getting cold.” Bucky raps his fingers against the bedroom door, startling you from your thoughts.
“Be right there,” you call back to him, swiping some deodorant under your arms. You take a glance at yourself in the bedroom’s small vanity mirror and immediately wish that you hadn't – you're cleaner than you were by miles, at least no longer covered in your own blood as well as the blood of HYDRA agents – but your cheekbone is lightly bruised, there's a slit on your bottom lip, and the bags under your eyes make it look like you haven't had a decent night's sleep in a month.
You take a deep breath and then walk back to the one room that makes up the kitchen, dining area and living room.
“Beef or shrimp ramen?” Bucky asks as you climb onto one of the barstools on the opposite side of the counter from where he's standing.
“Hm,” you contemplate, not meeting his stare and instead occupying yourself with another bottle of water that he's placed where you now sit.
Fucker probably wouldn't fluster me so bad if he wasn't being so damn thoughtful.
“I'll go with shrimp,” you answer, remembering that beef is his favorite.
He slides the bowl across the counter and then hands you a fork. You finally get the nerve to look up and meet his stare that feels as if it weighs two tons.
“So, what did Sam say?” You try to go for light conversation, twisting the fork around your noodles. “Are we free to get out of here once it's dark out?”
“Not…quite,” he hesitates, now seeming particularly interested in his own food. “The car battery kind of died.”
“What do you mean the car battery kind of died?”
“While you were in the shower, I tried to move the car behind the house so that anyone driving by wouldn't immediately know that someone's here. It started fine, but as I was driving it around back it just.. stopped. Had to push it the rest of the way.”
You let out a dramatic groan as he continues.
“I called Sam again and he said the earliest they can send someone to get us is in the morning.”
“Well,” you exhale, blowing a raspberry with your lips. “We can flip a coin to see who gets the bed?” You ask lightheartedly. This isn’t the first time that you and Bucky have had an overnight mission together, but it is the first overnight mission where the two of you haven’t had your own motel rooms or at least a safehouse with two beds.
He looks at you quizzically, furrowing his eyebrows. “You really think there’s a chance of me making you sleep on the couch? In your condition?”
“My condition?” you laugh. “I’ve got a few stitches, I’m not dying of cancer.”
“You don’t think I’ve noticed the way it’s uncomfortable for you to inhale and exhale? You’ve probably got a couple fractured ribs with the way you landed on that cement. If not fractured, then at least heavily bruised. You’re not sleeping on the couch.”
Between his tone and the look on his face, you know it isn’t up for debate. You throw your hands up in faux surrender.
“Serving me instant ramen and letting me take the king sized bed?” you say teasingly. “Keep it up and I'm going to think that you're soft on me.”
His gaze on you is heavy as he takes a long sip of water from his own bottle. “Wouldn't that be a shame?”
— — — — —
The rest of the afternoon is spent with you lounging in bed, resting your injuries and reading some cheesy western romance novel that you found in the drawer of the bedside table.
Bucky keeps to the living room, where you hear a violent sounding movie playing from a TV that has to be as old as you are.
You tell yourself that you're staying in the bedroom because you need to take it easy and relax, but truthfully you feel suffocated by the tension that has been escalating between you and Bucky since you arrived here.
A certain level of tension had always been there, you knew deep down. From the first time the two of you met almost two years ago.
Bucky had been formally introduced to the team just a few weeks prior, and it was his first official mission. An undercover mission - just the two of you.
Posing as an engaged couple at a party thrown at the estate of a notorious crime boss in order to obtain intel. Pretty straight forward - it was far from your first undercover mission. And then it was sprung on you at the last minute that the man who you'd only met once, less than a month ago, was to be your fiancé for the evening.
The bastard even went as far as to slip the fake engagement ring on your finger himself.
“Natasha picked this out. She said it needed to be a princess cut, because that's what you like.”
You chuckled as he went to slide the rock onto your ring finger. “What? You're not going to get down on one knee?”
The mission went shockingly smooth, you and Bucky were in and out with the needed intel in just a few hours. But those few hours replayed in the back of your mind more often than you care to admit.
The way his arm stayed wrapped securely around your shoulder or waist the entire hour that you mingled as guests. How he pulled you into a slow dance to discuss the plan for sneaking into the study on an off-limits floor. The musky smell of his aftershave and the spearmint on his breath.
And especially the way he referred to you as his “bride” when introducing yourselves to people, on more than one occasion throughout the night.
“And who is this absolutely beautiful young woman on your arm?” an elderly man with eye boogers and booze on his breath asks Bucky.
“This is my bride,” Bucky introduces you, giving him your undercover name. “She is beautiful, isn’t she? Most beautiful woman here, if I do say so myself.”
Saying that Bucky played his part well that night would have been an understatement. Saying that he played his part scarily well would be a more accurate assertion.
After grabbing the intel and fleeing the scene, neither of you ever mentioned that mission again. Not the lingering touches, smoldering stares - not even the way he shoved you up against the wall of a corridor, cupped your face in his large hands, and kissed you senseless for half a minute when you came close to getting caught sneaking into the private office by security at the very end of the evening.
“Do you think that was believable?” he asks nervously, his hands still clutching your face as he looks around the hallway for any lingering guards.
“Ye-yeah,” you stutter breathily. “As believable as it possibly could be.”
There’s a light knock on the partially open bedroom door that draws you back to the reality of the safehouse. You realize that you’ve been staring at the same paragraph in your book for the last half hour.
"Yeah?” you answer, bringing yourself to a sitting position.
Bucky peaks his head around the door, opening it further so that you can see what he is carrying.
“I’m tired of watching old James Bond movies,” he sighs, glancing between you and the stack of board games in his arms. “I found these in the TV stand.”
“I kicked your ass in Battleship last time we played,” you remind him. “Do you really want a rematch of that?”
“How about we make a bet?”
— — — — —
Half an hour later, you've eaten your own words, now owing Bucky a large meat lovers pizza from his favorite parlor in Brooklyn and two weeks worth of laundry duty when you return to the compound.
“How'd you get so good?” you demand as he makes the winning attack. “You were so lame at this last time.”
“Maybe I just let you win last time,” he shrugs with a shit-eating grin.
You just shake your head in defeat, wincing as you stand up from where you had been playing on the shag area rug in the living room.
“No,” you declare firmly. “No, I don't believe that. There's no way you'd willingly let me win anything. I've learned that the hard way during hand to hand combat training way too many times.”
Bucky belly laughs from where he still sits on the floor, his gaze trailing after you.
You walk over to where he has piled the board games on the coffee table, trying to find something you were confident you could win.
Monopoly isn't fun with only two players, Risk takes too long —
Your eyes lock onto a card game peeking out from underneath the Sorry! box.
You pick it up, turning back to face him with a growing smile on your face.
“Absolutely not,” he says firmly. “I'm over a hundred years old–”
“What does age have to do with truth or dare?!” You exclaim, sitting back down on the floor once more.
“I haven't been roped into a game of truth or dare since the 1930's,” he groans.
“Scared of what you might have to do?” You tease, unboxing the cards. “Or what you might have to admit?”
He stares at you for a long moment, pursing his lips. The disapproval doesn't quite reach his eyes - you can tell by the way they gleam that he's going to cave.
“Maybe a bit of both,” he admits. He tousles his fingers through his hair and moves to cross his legs at the ankles. “Fine,” he relents. “One game.”
You squeal like a kid in a candy store as you shuffle the deck of cards and lay them in a stack between you.
“Elders first,” you motion to the pile.
He rolls his eyes, drawing one from the top – dare.
“Smell another player's armpit,” he deadpans. You're instantly thankful that you remembered to cram a stick of deodorant into your backpack when packing for the mission.
“Well?” You lift up your arm. “I'm the only other player here and it's not going to sniff itself.”
Bucky sighs, leaning across the game to put his nose directly next to the opening of your t-shirt sleeve. “Lavender,” he observes after inhaling, giving you an approving nod. “As far as dares go, I got lucky.”
“Lucky that I showered earlier,” you mumble as you draw your turn, your cheeks warming slightly.
Truth.
“Who was your last kiss with and what was it like?”
Your heart plummets to your stomach as you read the words aloud. Bucky waits impatiently as you fiddle with the piece of paper in your hands.
“Might I remind you, you are the one who wanted to play this game so desp–”
You hold up a finger and make a shushing sound, silencing him as he grins menacingly.
“My last kiss was almost two years ago,” you answer honestly, looking back down at the card to avoid his stare. He can always tell when you're lying, why even try?
“With a man I barely knew,” you continue. “We had to pretend to be in love for the evening. It was a shockingly easy thing to do. When he pushed me up against a wall and kissed me as a distraction to security guards, I had to remind myself that it was an act. We never spoke about it again. But now two years later, I'm telling him that I think of that kiss often.”
When you finally look up, you can't decipher the look on his face. Long gone is the mischievous grin from just moments ago, in its place is.. shock? Perplexity?
“And why exactly have you not kissed anyone else since then?” He asks quietly.
“Nope,” you say, popping your lips on the p. “That's not how the game works, you don't get to add sub-questions.”
His eyes don't leave yours as he draws his next card.
His turn for truth. He glances down to read his question.
“Have you ever wanted to have sex with any of the players?”
Forget your cheeks feeling warm - your entire body feels like it's on fire as you wait for him to answer.
He chuckles, tossing the card on top of the other two that had already been picked.
“Every goddamn day since I kissed her almost two years ago.”
You aren't sure which one of you snaps first. You lunge forward at the same moment that he's leaning across the splay of cards to grasp your face in his hands just like he did in that corridor two years ago. The same hint of spearmint on his breath, a bit more stubble on his jaw, and a sense of desperation that wasn't there before.
He moves his hands to your lower back, pulling you flush against him as you both sit on your knees. Your own hands find the hem of his shirt, your fingers dancing across the skin of his waistline.
“I asked you why you haven't kissed anyone since we last kissed,” he murmurs against your lips when he pulls away, both of you breathless. “You don't have to answer, but that..” his mouth moves to the side of your throat where he trails open-mouth kisses across the sensitive flesh of your pulse point.
“That's why I haven't kissed anyone else, either.”
A pathetic, small moan escapes past your lips at his admission. In a split second decision, you take control. You place your hands across his chest, pushing him down onto the shag rug that you'd been playing games on just moments ago. He lets himself fall back, pulling you with him.
You straddle him, positioning yourself directly on his already evident erection. You drag yourself forwards, and then backwards, desperate for friction - he groans beneath you, jutting upwards.
The fabric of your pants between you feels like a prison.
You scoot back a few inches - just far enough to give yourself enough room to unbutton his jeans.
“Wait, wait,” he stops you as you're about to begin pulling down his pants and underwear. You freeze, petrified that you've crossed a line–
“I haven't stopped thinking about having your thighs wrapped around my head since I saw them earlier,” he says as he hooks his hands around them and hauls you up to his chest. “Take these off and sit on my face.” He tugs on the waistline of your leggings.
“If you wanted me to take my pants off for you so badly, you could have just said so,” you echo his earlier teasing.
“I'm asking you now, sweetheart,” his voice has a strained edge to it. “Don't make me beg.”
Though the notion of him begging has wetness pooling down your thighs, you're too eager to entertain it.
You stand up, directly above him as he keeps his position on the floor. You shimmy your leggings down your thighs, this time completely removing them and tossing them somewhere behind you. He tugs his t-shirt over his head and throws it in the general direction of your discarded pants.
With you still standing above him, he leans forward so that his face brushes against the inside of your thighs. He brings his hands to the band of your underwear, hooking his fingers and slowly pulling them down until they're at your ankles.
You slip them off as he lays back down on the floor. A bit apprehensively, you sit so that your bare pussy is against his hard chest.
“Just stop me if it's too uncomfortable or if you can't breathe or any–”
He cuts you off by all but picking you up and hauling you up to his face.
“I wouldn't worry about that,” his voice vibrates against the flesh of your innermost thighs. He tugs you down just one more inch so that his mouth makes contact with your center.
You gasp out in pleasure as his tongue begins exploring your folds. There's no restraint about it - he sets a brutal pace, alternating between fucking his tongue into your cunt and sucking on your clit.
You're writhing above him, grinding your pussy against his mouth. You go to squeeze your breasts, pulling your t-shirt off when you realize it's the one clothing article you've yet to shed.
When he realizes that you're now completely naked above him, he lets out an animalistic groan as he laps a thick lick up your center.
The vibration, in addition to him now squeezing your ass with enough pressure that he's bound to leave behind fingertip shaped bruises, is enough to send you spiraling to your climax.
You involuntarily squeeze your thighs around his cheeks, riding out your orgasm as he continues to wrap his lips around your throbbing clitoris.
You go still for a moment, aside from your heaving chest, as you come back down to earth.
You climb off of him, your jellified legs nearly causing you to collapse onto the floor next to him.
He props himself up with one arm, looking down at you. His face is thoroughly glistening with your juices.
You can't help but think he's never looked hotter.
A proud grin begins to form across his features as you pull him down to you by the back of his neck.
You kiss him with as much feverency as you can muster in your post orgasm haze, tasting the semi-sweet tang of your come on his lips and tongue.
“It's your turn to get these off,” you demand, drawing back from the kiss to pull at the waistband of his pants.
“Can I at least take you to the comfy bed before this goes any further?” he bargains. “You are still recovering from multiple injuries, you know.”
“I can assure you that I've never felt better.” But you let him have his way. He stands before picking you up, lifting you so that you can wrap your legs securely around his midsection. His large hands planted firmly on your ass, he walks the short distance to the bedroom. Your nipples pebble as they press against his bare chest.
He gently places you on top of the comforter before standing back, at last removing his jeans and boxers. His cock springs forward, slapping against his lower belly.
Your mouth goes dry at the sight. If it had been a long time since you had been kissed, it had been even longer since you had been fucked.
He crawls onto the bed, hovering above where you lay. You automatically open your legs to allow him between them.
His eyes rake up and down your body, pausing on your breasts.
"You're goddamn stunning.”
Before you can respond, he's leaning down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth. Rolling it between his teeth, the sensation has you arching your back into his touch. You can feel the tip of his cock jutting against your core - teasing but not yet entering.
He starts to line himself up at your hole, his eyes locking onto yours as he pumps himself in his hand. He brings his lips down to yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth at the same moment he nudges his tip past your entrance.
There's a blissful burn as he cautiously buries himself inside you - you're simultaneously thankful that he's going slow and needing him balls deep. He pushes in, inch by inch, until you're filled to the hilt. When he can't get any deeper, he pulls back - and slams back into you all at once.
You swear you can feel him in your stomach. You look down at where your bodies connect, the sight of him sliding in and out of you enough to have you on the edge of climaxing again already.
He brings his metal hand to knead your breast.
"Do you have any idea how many times I've pictured having you under me like this?” He coos. You gyrate your hips to meet his thrusts, causing his eyes to roll back into his head.
“How many times I've thought about what your little moans would sound like?”
Your only answer is a gutteral moan of his name as you wrap your arms around him and dig your nails into the flesh of his back.
“Your pussy feels even more like heaven than I imagined it would.”
His praises send you over the edge - you're coming for a second time, clenching around him as his thrusts grow messy. He fucks you through your orgasm before he loses control himself, burying his face in the curve of your neck as he spills into you.
With you still panting and limp beneath him, his movements gradually come to a stop but he doesn't pull out - instead he flips you to your side and maneuvers himself into a spooning position behind you.
He peppers soft kisses along the skin of your shoulder, being careful to avoid your stitches, and relaxes beside you.
“Remind me to dislocate my knee more often,” you joke, processing everything that just happened.
He snorts, then tilts your head up to meet his gaze. “Remind me to play truth or dare with you more often.” He captures your lips in his, this kiss slower than any of the ones before.
“I guess it would be weird to make you do my laundry for two weeks now, huh?” He teases, earning a laugh from you.
“You do still owe me a pizza, but I'll be happy to share it with you.”
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