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Your bedroom is warm with the soft glow of Christmas lights strung along the headboard, little gold stars reflecting off the mirror as you stand in front of it wearing nothing but the gift you've decided Bucky Barnes has waited long enough to receive.
The red lingerie clings to you like it was stitched onto your skin, lace blooming over your hips, sheer panels tracing your curves, the color deep enough to make your lips look fuller, your skin warmer. The matching black stockings complete the look, hugging your thighs, the garter straps snapping lightly as you adjust them.
Your heart is hammering, but for once it's not because you're nervous. It's because you're excited.
Because it's him, because he's been so patient... too patient.
Weeks of dating, of touches that lingered just a little too long, of kisses that left you breathless, of his hands always stopping at your waist like a gentleman, even when his eyes absolutely weren't.
And tonight?
Tonight you're done waiting.
You smooth your palms down your thighs, feeling the delicate fabric, imagining his metal hand tracing the same path, slow, reverent, a little unsure, like everything between you has been so far.
You spray your perfume, just one spritz on your neck, one on your inner thigh, letting the scent warm on your skin.
Then you reach for the dress. Deep green, silky, slipping over your head and settling perfectly over the lingerie like a secret only you know about. It hugs your waist, flares around your hips, hides the red lace that's practically buzzing with anticipation beneath it.
You lean closer to the mirror and add a touch of lip gloss, smiling at your reflection as you imagine the look on his face when he realizes what you're wearing under this.
The knock on your door is soft, familiar. "Doll? You ready?" Bucky's voice filters through, warm and low, like he's smiling.
Your breath catches. He has no idea... no idea what you're giving him tonight, no idea how much you want him.
You take one last look in the mirror, smoothing your dress, making sure it falls just right.
"Coming," you call back, letting the word curl in your throat with unspoken promise.
Your fingers brush the hem of the dress one more time, feeling the lace beneath it, remembering its purpose.
Your Christmas gift. Your leap. Your invitation.
And when you open that door, Bucky Barnes is going to get the first hint that tonight... he's not getting the gentleman's version of you.
He's finally getting the one who wants him.
The Thunderbolts' Christmas party is already in full swing when you and Bucky step out of your room and into the warm glow of the common area. Lights twinkle, someone put too much cinnamon in the cider, Yelena is piling cookies onto a plate like she's smuggling them, and Bucky?
Bucky hasn't looked at a single one of them. Not since you stepped into the hall in that green dress, not since he got a full look at you.
He's walking beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours every few steps, but he hasn't said a word in a solid minute. And for Bucky, that silence is deafening.
You pretend to adjust your hair, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.
His jaw is clenched, his throat works with a swallow, and his eyes...
God, he's trying to look anywhere else, he really is, but he keeps coming back to you.
Lingering, dropping, softening in a way that tightens low in your stomach.
Finally, he lets out a breath like he's been holding it since your door opened. "Uh... doll?" His voice is low, hesitant, like he's afraid of how it'll sound if he lets himself speak too freely.
"Yes, Buck?" You ask innocently, though your heart is pounding beneath the red lace he doesn't know about.
He stops walking for a second, eyes sweeping down your body before he catches himself and looks away, too fast, too guilty, too aware.
"You look..." He clears his throat. "...real pretty tonight."
It's the same tone he uses when he's trying to play it cool but absolutely failing at it.
"Thank you," you say with a soft smile, brushing your fingers over his metal arm just long enough to watch his breath hitch.
You move toward the party, and he follows, silently, almost protectively, his gaze brushing over you every few seconds as though he can't help it.
Yelena spots you both immediately. "Oh my God," she whispers loudly, elbowing Ava. "Look at Barnes. He's broken. She broke him."
Ava snorts into her cup.
Bucky shoots them a glare that does nothing except confirm it.
He stations himself beside you, close, very close, every time someone passes by. His arm drapes behind your back on the couch; he stands so near your shoulder that you feel the heat of him at all times. Whenever you laugh, he smiles like he's forgotten how to hide it.
And yet he still won't touch you the way he wants to. He won't cross that invisible line.
But he's staring, oh, he's staring.
Every time you shift your legs, the dress riding just a little, his eyes follow. Every time you lean forward, he inhales sharply. Every time you smile at someone else, his jaw ticks.
And then, a moment.
The room is loud, but Bucky is quiet beside you, watching you talk to Bob about the ridiculous tree ornaments he made. His gaze slides down your body, slow, devouring, unaware he's even doing it, like his mind and his eyes are no longer in sync.
You curl your fingers around your dress beneath the table... feeling the lace.
Your secret, your gift. The thing he'll unwrap tonight. When you look at him again, he blushes. Actual, real pink across his cheeks.
"Doll," he murmurs, leaning closer, voice barely more than a breath, "you're killin' me here."
You smile sweetly. "It's Christmas, Bucky. I wanted to look nice for you."
His eyes darken, hungry, warm, almost pained with wanting. "You always look nice," he says softly. "But tonight... I don't think I can stop looking at you."
And he doesn't.
Not for the rest of the night.
The party winds down slowly, laughter softening, lights dimming as people drift to their rooms. Yelena, John and Ava are arguing over who cheated at charades, Bob is half asleep on the couch, and Alexei is snoring loud enough to rattle ornaments.
But Bucky hasn't moved from your side. He's been there all night, hovering close, stealing glances, pretending he's not dying inside every time your dress shifts just an inch.
Now the common room is nearly empty, and he's standing beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks like he's trying to keep them from doing something reckless.
You feel his eyes on you before you look up.
He's leaning against the doorway, blue eyes warm and intense, cheeks a little flushed from the cider and the emotional restraint of a man barely holding himself together.
"You tired?" he asks quietly.
"Not really."
You step closer to him, tilting your head slightly. "You?"
He smiles, soft, crooked, shy and wanting. "Not if you're not."
For a second, neither of you move. You just stand there in the quiet glow of the tree lights, the world feeling small and soft and waiting.
Then you reach out, slowly, deliberately and tug gently on his sleeve.
"Come to my room?"
His breath catches, you feel it. His eyes widen just slightly, blinking like he's trying to make sure he heard you right. Like you might disappear if he looks too eager.
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice going rough. "Yeah, doll. Lead the way."
You turn toward the hallway, and Bucky follows a half step behind you, close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back, his presence wrapping around you like a second sweater.
Every quiet footstep down the corridor heightens the tension. Every time you glance over your shoulder, he's watching you with that same helpless, hungry softness.
You reach your door. Your heart flutters, nerves, anticipation, desire all tangled into one dizzying rush. You open it slowly, the soft glow of the Christmas lights washing over your room. The green dress shifts around your thighs, brushing the lace beneath it.
You step inside and turn back to him.
Bucky stays in the doorway for a moment, one hand braced on the frame, like he needs the support. His eyes move over you once, slow and reverent.
"Doll..." Your name in his mouth is almost a groan. "If you keep lookin' at me like that..."
You smile, lifting your fingers and curling one toward him, inviting him in. "Come here, Bucky."
The door clicks shut behind him, soft and final, and Bucky stands there for half a heartbeat, just looking at you in the warm glow of your Christmas lights. His chest rises and falls a little too quickly. His eyes flick to your lips, then away, then right back again like gravity is pulling them.
"Doll..." he breathes, voice strained with weeks of restraint. "I don't know what you're doin' to me tonight."
You open your mouth, maybe to tease him, maybe to guide the moment, but you never get the chance.
Because Bucky moves. Not fast, not rough. Just decisive. He closes the distance in two steps, one hand lifting to your jaw, the other settling at your waist like he finally stopped fighting the urge to touch you.
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft, like he's afraid to push too far, too fast, but the second he feels you melt into him, something breaks loose in him. His fingers tighten at your waist, pulling you closer, and his lips grow hungrier, deeper, like he's been starving for you.
Weeks of slow touches, half finished kisses, and held back desire rush into the space between you.
You gasp softly against his mouth, and that tiny sound ruins him.
He groans, low, helpless, and his metal hand slides to your lower back, pressing you fully against him. His body is warm, solid, trembling just enough to give him away.
Your hands find the lapels of his jacket, curling into the fabric as you tilt your head, letting him in. His tongue brushes yours, tentative at first, then surer when you respond with a soft, needy sigh.
"God, sweetheart..." he murmurs against your lips, his forehead touching yours as he breathes you in. "I've wanted to do that all night."
"All night?" you whisper, teasing but breathless.
He huffs out a shaky laugh.
"Longer."
His thumb strokes your cheek, gentle despite the heat thrumming through him. He kisses you again, slow this time, reverent, like he's savoring a gift he's afraid to unwrap too quickly.
You feel the warmth pooling under your skin, your dress brushing the matching red lace beneath it. His hands haven't found it yet... but they will.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, voice rough, "and I will. But if you don't..."
His gaze drifts to your mouth again, darkening. "I don't know how gentle I'm gonna be able to keep bein' with you."
And God, he means it. He's holding himself back by a thread.
One word from you, one touch, one invitation and he'll let go.
But you don't want to stop him. You never did.
You slide your hands up his chest, slow, deliberate, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. His breath catches when your fingers drift over his collar, then trace the line of his jaw.
Then, without looking away from him, you take his left hand, and guide it behind you.
His brows draw together in confusion for half a second until his fingertips brush the top of your zipper.
His breath stops. "Sweetheart..." he murmurs, swallowing hard. "What..."
You step closer, chest brushing his, your voice soft and intoxicating in the quiet room. "Bucky," you whisper, "I want you to."
His pupils blow wide. The hand at your waist tightens, pulling you flush against him, and the metal one trembles just slightly where it rests at your back.
"You sure?" he asks, though his voice isn't steady. It's hushed, hopeful, desperate.
You nod once, lips brushing his. "Unzip it."
That's all it takes.
His breath leaves him in a slow, shaky exhale, one that sounds like surrender, relief, and absolute hunger all at once. He leans in, kissing you once more, slow but with an edge deeper than before, while his fingers curl around the zipper.
You feel the cool metal drag against your spine as he eases it down, inch by inch. Steady, reverent.
The fabric loosens around your shoulders, the dress softening, slipping, barely clinging to your body now. His hand pauses at the small of your back, like he's trying not to rush this, like this moment is something fragile he's afraid to break.
He pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes flickering with something intense, undone. "Doll…" he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates in your chest, "you're really gonna be the death of me."
The dress hangs looser with every breath. One more step and it'll fall. He hasn't seen the red lace yet, he doesn't know what's waiting beneath. But he can feel the heat of you now, can sense the shift in the air, and it's making him look at you like you're the only thing in the world worth falling apart for.
"Tell me when," he whispers, fingers pressing lightly to the zipper, ready to pull it the rest of the way, ready to see all of you.
Your move. Your reveal. Your gift.
You take a slow step back. His brows lift slightly, confused for a heartbeat, and then you turn around.
Your back faces him now, neck exposed, shoulders bare beneath the relaxed dress straps.
The deep green fabric hanging open just enough to show the curve of your spine, the hint of lace peeking at the small of your back.
Bucky's breath stutters, you hear it.
"Sweetheart..."
His voice is rough, frayed like he's unraveling just from the view.
You look at him over your shoulder, lips curling in the softest, most devastating smile.
"Finish unzipping it," you whisper.
And that's it. That's the moment he breaks.
His metal hand slides to your lower back, steadying you with a tenderness that makes warmth bloom low in your belly. His flesh hand finds the zipper again, fingertips brushing your bare skin as he lowers it, slowly, carefully, reverently.
The zipper slides, the dress loosens. Cool air sweeps across your back.
You feel him stop halfway because he's staring. The lace is visible now, red, delicate, perfect against your skin.
His breath leaves him in a soft, shaken exhale. "Doll..." he murmurs, voice barely a whisper, almost pained with wanting, "what're you doin' to me?"
You don't answer, you don't have to.
He drags the zipper the rest of the way down, the sound loud in the quiet room. The dress hangs from your hips now, just waiting for gravity or his touch to let it fall.
His hand remains at your back, not moving, not daring to claim more than you give, but trembling faintly with restraint.
Then he speaks, voice low, reverent, ruined. "You're beautiful."
He hasn't seen all of you yet.
Not even close.
Bucky's breath is warm behind you, uneven in a way that tells you exactly how close he is to losing control. The dress hangs from your hips, the zipper fully undone, the red lace peeking out like a secret meant only for him.
He doesn't move. He just stares.
His metal hand trembles lightly against the small of your back, cool, steadying, reverent. His flesh hand curls at his side like he's physically restraining it from touching you without permission.
You inhale softly, then reach back.
Your fingers slide over his, warm against the cool vibranium, guiding his hand from your lower back down... down... until his fingertips rest at the edge of the dress where the fabric clings to your hips.
He shudders. "Sweetheart," he whispers, voice cracking like he's on the edge of something he can't come back from, "you sure? Once I... once we do this... I'm not gonna be able to pretend anymore."
You look over your shoulder at him, eyes soft, teasing, wanting. "I don't want you to pretend." And with your hand still wrapped over his, you press his palm gently against the dress. "Push it down, Bucky."
He exhales a shaky breath, like the world just tilted, and his hand obeys your guidance. Slowly, with a reverence that makes your heart twist, he applies the slightest pressure.
The dress slips. First an inch, then another. The fabric glides over your hips, your thighs, catching for a second on the curve of your ass before gravity takes over and it falls, pooling silently at your feet.
Bucky makes a sound, barely audible, a strangled inhale that might as well be him dropping to his knees without actually doing it.
Because you're standing in front of him now in nothing but red lace and black stockings, the garters kissing your thighs, the lingerie hugging the shape of you he's only imagined.
His hands hover at your sides, not touching, shaking with restraint so intense it feels like the air hums with it.
He whispers your name like a prayer.
"Turn around," he murmurs, voice raw, reverent. "Please… let me see you."
So you do.
Slowly, achingly slowly, you turn around, your eyes meet his.
Bucky's entire world goes silent. His breath catches halfway up his throat, his eyes widen just a fraction, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it, and you are, and his lips part like he's trying to speak but forgot how.
Because there you are.
Standing before him in deep red lingerie, lace hugging every curve he's been trying not to stare at for weeks. The color warms against your skin, rich and intimate, like it was chosen from the start to be seen only by him.
And below it, his gaze drops before he can stop himself, the black stockings.
They glide up your legs in a way that makes his pulse slam hard against his ribs. The contrast of dark silk against your thighs is almost too much; he swears he feels heat crawl up his neck, into his chest, down his spine.
He doesn't move, he can't.
You're looking at him with that soft, nervous hope like you're afraid he won't like it, like this wasn't enough to unravel him entirely.
Bucky blinks, slow, as if trying to wake up from something too perfect. "Doll..." Your name leaves him on a breath, dragged from somewhere deep, somewhere unguarded.
He takes a single step toward you, not touching you, not yet, because he's terrified his hands will shake if he tries, but he needs to be closer, needs to see you without the distance blurring the edges.
His eyes travel up again, your thighs, your hips, the dip of your waist, the red lace soft against your skin. Every inch he sees tightens something in his chest.
"You're..." He stops, jaw flexing, breath uneven. Words fail him, and that never happens. He tries again, voice low, raw, reverent. "You're absolutely stunning."
You shift your weight, stockings catching the glow of the tree lights, and he makes a sound, quiet, pained, like the sight physically affects him.
He drags his metal hand through his hair, grounding himself, because he feels the pull, the urge to touch you, kiss you, sink to his knees in front of you.
But he wants to get this right. He wants you right.
His gaze lifts back to your eyes, warm and intense. "Tell me this is really for me," he whispers, almost afraid to believe it.
For a suspended heartbeat, Bucky just stands there, close enough to feel your breath, close enough to catch the soft heat radiating from your skin, but still holding back because he's terrified of rushing you, or losing control.
But then you whisper it
"Bucky... It's for you."
And whatever threads of restraint he was clinging to snap. Not violently, not hungry all at once. But with a quiet, aching surrender, the kind that comes from wanting someone for so long it stops feeling real until they say it is.
His hand lifts slowly, like he's approaching something sacred. "Sweetheart..." A warning, a plea, a question.
He waits, not for permission exactly, but for any sign that he's misreading the moment.
You don't pull away, you don't flinch, you lean in.
That's all it takes.
His fingertips brush your waist first, right where the red lace meets your skin. The touch is feather light, barely there, but you feel the tremor in his hand, a betrayed shiver of want he can't hide.
He exhales, shaky. "You're so soft..." he murmurs, almost to himself, voice thick and low.
His metal hand, cooler, steadier, raises to follow the curve of your hip. The contrast makes you gasp, and Bucky's eyes snap up to yours, pupils blown wide.
"Tell me if it's too much," he whispers.
You shake your head, breath catching. "It's not."
He swallows hard, his thumb brushes the lace edge of the stocking on your thigh, and you watch his expression soften into something purely awestruck.
"Been imagining this," he admits in a low, reverent murmur. "But nothing came close."
He steps in, closing that last inch between your bodies. His chest nearly touches yours, but he doesn't rush the kiss, doesn't devour you. Instead, he cups your cheek gently, thumb stroking along your jaw.
"You look beautiful, doll." His voice drops even lower. "And I'm gonna take my time appreciating every inch of you..."
His lips finally graze yours, slow, warm, cautious only for a second, before he deepens the kiss, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding behind your thigh, fingers brushing the stocking again as if he's learning you by touch.
A soft sound escapes you.
Bucky pulls back just enough to breathe against your mouth "That's it... let me touch you."
His hands slide down your waist, moving slowly, reverently, as if he's mapping the lines of you for the first time. His thumbs brush along your ribs, over the curve of your hips, gliding lower until, he reaches the lace top of your stocking again.
Everything in him stills.
His breath stutters, warm against your collarbone. His metal fingers press lightly into your thigh as if he's trying to feel both you and the fabric at the same time.
"Jesus..." he whispers, voice almost hoarse, like he's just realized he's in real danger of losing every last boundary he set.
He drags his thumb along the edge of the lace, slow, tentative, almost reverent.
The contrast of textures, your warm skin, the delicate lace, the smooth satin, short-circuits something in him. "You have no idea," he murmurs, eyes locked on where his hand touches you, "what this does to me."
His palm slides down your thigh, following the stocking's smooth surface. He does it again and again. Slow strokes, fingertips memorizing every inch like he's hypnotized.
He's not even pretending to hide it, he's completely gone.
His other hand joins the first, warm fingers tracing the line where your stocking meets bare skin, traveling up the curve of your thigh, letting the pads of his fingers catch gently on the lace.
You feel him shiver.
"Doll..." He says your name again, breathy, dazed, reverent. "You're... God, you're beautiful. But these..."
His breath gets shallow as he slides a hand behind your thigh, lifting it slightly, testing how it feels to guide you closer with nothing but his hold on the silk hugging your leg.
You gasp softly, and he freezes for a split second.
"Too much?" he asks, voice tight.
"No," you whisper. "More."
Something flickers in his eyes, something dark, hungry, and entirely unguarded.
His hands resume their path, tracing up both thighs now, thumbs smoothing over the lace, palms gliding slowly down the black silk, then up again, repeating the motion like he can't stop himself. Like touching you in the stockings has become instinct.
"I knew you'd look good in red," he murmurs, eyes never leaving your legs, "but this... sweetheart, this is gonna ruin me."
The soft glow of the Christmas lights drapes over the room like warmth, but on your skin, on the red lace and the black stockings, the light turns decadent.
It casts gold along your thighs, deepens the shadows beneath the lace, makes every line of your body look softer, warmer, impossibly inviting.
Bucky doesn't stand a chance.
One second he's standing, tracing your thigh, the next, he's kneeling before you like your body just pulled gravity out from under him.
His palms smooth up your stockings again, slower now, like he's savoring the way the light makes the silk gleam beneath his touch.
"God, sweetheart..." His voice is quiet, wrecked, a rasp pulled out of him by the sight of you. "You're glowing."
His hands travel higher, fingertips brushing the scalloped edge of the lace at your thigh. He watches it like it's holy. The golden lights flicker across his metal hand, catching the shadows on his knuckles as he gently traces up your leg.
Then he leans in.
Not touching with his mouth, but close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath through the stocking.
You feel his inhale, slow, deep. Like he's grounding himself on the scent of your skin and the silk beneath his hands.
"You're... beautiful," he whispers, the lights turning his eyes almost soft blue, pupils widened with want. "But in this? Doll, I..."
He breaks off with a shaky exhale.
You shift your weight just slightly, the movement making the lace at your thigh dip closer to his lips.
His hands tighten around your leg, gentle but possessive. "Careful," he murmurs, voice low, trembling around the edges. "You do that again and I'm not gonna be able to hold back."
You do it again. Just a slow tilt of your hips, a soft press of your thigh toward him.
Bucky's breath leaves him in a rough, involuntary sound.
The lights catch the way his jaw clenches, catch the way his metal hand moves up, higher, firmer, until his thumb brushes the bare skin above your stocking.
And then, he finally breaks. His lips brush the lace. Barely a kiss, more like a reverent touch, but the moment he feels the softness of fabric beneath his mouth, the warmth of your thigh under it, he groans, quiet and deep.
His lips press again, this time lingering. His eyes flutter closed. "Sweetheart..." he breathes against your skin, "you're... you're too much. You're perfect."
He kisses higher, slow, aching, savoring, each kiss lighting another fuse inside him.
His fingers slip beneath the stocking, sliding between silk and skin until his whole palm is pressed to the warm curve of your thigh underneath.
You gasp, sharp, involuntary, and his eyes flick up to your face instantly, pupils blown wide, lips just parted in awe at the sound you made for him.
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice low and dangerously soft. "That's what I wanted."
Then with a sudden, confident motion, he pulls his hand back out just far enough to snap the stocking against your thigh.
A sharp sting, a soft gasp from your lips, a soft, dark smile from his.
"These," he says, thumb brushing the lace as if he's marking the words on you, "stay on. No matter what happens tonight."
Your breath shivers in your chest.
The Christmas lights dance over his face as he rises just slightly from his kneel, not standing, not leaving, just shifting closer, chest nearly brushing your stomach, his hands sliding back up your thighs.
Both hands now. One metal. One warm. The contrast makes your knees threaten to give out.
He drags them upward in a slow, consuming path, tracing the outside of your stockings, then slipping beneath the fabric again, higher this time.
Your thighs part instinctively. You don't even realize you've done it.
Bucky does.
And the sound he makes, low, rough, almost reverent, goes straight to your pulse.
"Doll..." he warns softly, his thumbs stroking small circles into the softest part of your inner thighs, "you gotta tell me to stop."
He doesn't sound like he wants you to. He sounds like he's barely holding together. His hands keep drifting upward, closer and closer to the heat between your legs.
"Tell me," he breathes, voice trembling with restraint, "that you don't want my hands here."
His fingers slide higher, dangerously close, close enough that the warmth radiating off your skin makes his breath hitch.
The Christmas lights flicker across your body as his forehead drops briefly to your stomach, like he needs one second to gather himself before he loses every last bit of control.
"Tell me not to touch you," he whispers against your skin, but his hands... his hands inch even closer. His thumbs graze the very edge of your panties through the red lace.
You whimper.
His whole body reacts, a sharp inhale, a subtle tremor, his hands tightening just slightly. "Doll... I'm begging you..." He lifts his face, eyes dark and pleading and starving all at once. "Say the words. Tell me to stop."
You don't.
Bucky's hands don't hesitate now. Not after you stayed quiet. Not after you let your thighs part for him and refused to say stop.
He exhales slowly, like he's trying to keep himself grounded, but his hands? They're steady. Sure. Almost reverent.
One glides to the curve of your hip, anchoring you, while the other slides between your thighs again. He moves achingly slow as if he has all night. As if he's determined to memorize how you feel just like this.
His thumb presses lightly over the lace between your legs.
You twitch. Your hips shift forward, just a fraction, seeking more pressure.
Bucky notices, of course he does, and smiles, low and crooked, dark with intent.
"Sensitive already?" he murmurs. His voice is a whisper, deep, teasing, almost gentle. "I've barely touched you."
His thumb strokes again, slow and light, just enough to drive you mad, not enough to satisfy. He watches you squirm, watches your lips part, eyes flutter, body react like it's out of your control.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Already this wet for me... and I've still got your panties on."
His fingers move in a slow, steady rhythm, teasing circles over the lace, feeling everything, giving nothing.
It's maddening. Exquisite. Torture.
You let out a soft whine and he groans in response, eyes dark and hungry.
"Yeah... that sound," he mutters, almost to himself. "Been dreaming of that."
You press your hips forward again, needing more, desperate for friction.
He rewards you with just a little more pressure.
Just enough to make your breath stutter.
His fingers tease lower, then back up again, tracing the soaked lace, pressing just enough to make you arch, never enough to let you fall apart. "You want me to take these off?" he asks, voice barely a whisper, brushing his nose along your inner thigh. "Or do I keep touching you just like this... until you can't take it anymore?"
He kisses the inside of your thigh again, right above where his fingers are working. You feel his breath, feel how wrecked he already is even as he draws it out.
"Tell me, sweetheart..." His fingers slow even more, torturously soft now. "Tell me how bad you want it."
Your hands grip his shoulders for balance, for something to hold on to, maybe even to ground yourself, but you're trembling now.
His fingers keep teasing you through the soaked lace, maddening and precise, slow enough to build the ache until it's almost unbearable.
You whimper his name, just once, broken, breathless, and Bucky's head snaps up.
His eyes are blown wide, dark, jaw tense. "You say that again," he growls low, "and I swear, doll..."
You cut him off with a plea, voice soft and wrecked "Bucky… please. I need you. I need more... please, don't tease..."
That's all it takes. The frayed thread of restraint finally snaps. His mouth crashes against the inside of your thigh in a hot, open mouthed kiss, groaning deep as your body shudders beneath his grip.
Then... RIP.
A clean, swift tear of lace between your thighs, the fabric splitting as easily as paper in his hands.
You gasp.
"Couldn't wait," he mutters, voice rough and thick with want, staring at the soaked scrap of lace now pulled to the side, baring all of you to his hungry gaze.
"Fuck," he groans, hands sliding up to grip your hips. "Look at you..."
His fingers move back between your thighs, no more teasing now, finally sliding against bare skin, against heat and slickness and need.
The first touch is firm, perfect, just right. Your body arches, a helpless moan leaving your lips.
Bucky growls again, kissing the inside of your thigh like he's starving, his voice ragged. "This? This is mine now," he says, low and reverent. "You understand me? This wet, this soft, this perfect... every fucking inch of you."
His fingers begin to move with purpose now, sliding between your folds, circling your clit with delicious, deliberate pressure that makes your knees weaken.
You grab for his shoulder again, but he's already bracing you, already there, already unraveling you.
His fingers slow, just enough to make you whimper, hips chasing his touch. But he's already moving, already wrapping one strong arm around your waist, guiding you gently, carefully.
"Come here," he murmurs, voice low, deep, wrecked with restraint he's not sure he can keep holding onto. "Let me lay you down right."
You let him lead you back, step by step toward the bed as the soft, golden Christmas lights flicker across the walls, your skin, the lace, the black silk still hugging your thighs.
He watches you lower onto the mattress like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, your flushed skin glowing in the soft light, red lace framing your chest, and those stockings still clinging to your legs just like he said they would.
He kneels at the edge of the bed, eyes locked between your thighs. "Hold still, baby..." he murmurs, voice gritty with want. His metal hand catches the torn edge of your panties, the ruined lace still clinging to your hips, and then he peels them down slowly, dragging the soft fabric past your thighs, down your legs, careful not to disturb the stockings still in place.
He lets the panties fall to the floor behind him. Then his hands grip your knees, firm, warm, reverent, and he eases your thighs apart. The way his gaze darkens is enough to make your whole body pulse.
"Fuck..." He exhales like he's looking at something he's wanted for years. "You're... you're soaked, sweetheart."
You whimper as the cool air brushes against your skin, as his fingers glide up the inside of your thighs one more time.
But then, his mouth is on you. Not a tease, not a brush. A full, slow, hungry kiss, his tongue sliding between your folds with a groan so deep you feel it in your spine. Your back arches, a sharp moan tumbling out of your mouth.
Bucky grips your thighs tighter, holding you open, his stubble scratching lightly against your skin as he buries himself between your legs like he's starving. He eats like a man with a purpose, like he wants to memorize how you taste, how you sound, how you fall apart on his tongue.
"Bucky..." you moan as your hands tangle in his hair, and he growls against you when you pull.
"That's it," he murmurs against your clit, lips slick, voice reverent. "Come on, baby. Let me have it. Let me ruin you."
His tongue circles, flicks, dips, expert, relentless, tender and filthy all at once.
The room spins. Your legs start to shake, and he just keeps going, moaning against you like every sound you make is his reward.
"Stockings stay on," he rasps, fingers digging into your thighs as you writhe. "Wanna feel them wrapped around me later when I fuck you."
The promise in his voice shatters something inside you.
And then you're gasping his name, falling apart under his mouth, your body trembling, his arms holding you together as your orgasm crashes through you like a wave.
He doesn't stop until you're whimpering, oversensitive, panting, even then, he licks you once more, slow and soft, savoring you with a satisfied groan.
He lifts his head, his lips are slick, eyes wild, and he's never looked more in love with you.
"You taste like heaven, sweetheart," he murmurs, crawling up your body, kissing your skin along the way. "And I'm nowhere near done with you."
Your breathing is still uneven, thighs trembling from the way he worshipped you, stockings pulled tight against your skin. Bucky kisses up your stomach, your ribs, your chest, slow, reverent, savoring the aftershocks rolling through you.
When he reaches your lips, you grab the collar of his shirt and pull him down into a needy kiss, messy, hungry, desperate. "Bucky," you whisper against his mouth, voice weak from pleasure, "please... I need you. I need you inside me."
He freezes.
Not because he doesn't want you, but because he wants you so much it hits him like a punch. He pulls back an inch, breathing hard, eyes blown dark. "Sweetheart..." he murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek. "You begging like that? I swear, it's gonna break me."
"Then break," you whisper, tugging him closer. "Bucky, please. I want you."
He groans, low, feral, from deep in his chest, and then he kisses you again, harder this time, like he's been starving for this moment.
But when you reach for the button of his jeans, he catches your wrist gently.
"Wait." His voice is deep, warm, unbearably tender.
He sits back on his knees at the edge of the bed, between your spread thighs, and he looks at you with something raw and reverent in his eyes. "I want you to watch," he says quietly. "Wanna give you a show too, doll. You gave me one tonight... let me return it."
You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly again.
Bucky's hands move to his shirt, and he pulls it over his head in one slow motion, muscles stretching, chest rising, the golden Christmas lights painting warm shadows across the scars on his body.
Your thighs press together instinctively, and he notices, of course he notices.
"Keep them apart for me, sweetheart," he murmurs.
You part them again, breath shaky, stockings taut and perfect.
His pupils dilate.
"Good girl."
He unbuttons his jeans next, slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. Every pop of metal is a promise, every movement is controlled, intentional. He pushes the denim down his hips, revealing hard muscle, a growing bulge straining against the fabric beneath.
You whimper softly.
His lips curve into a hungry smile. "You're ready for me, aren't you?" His voice drops, slow and warm like molasses. "So ready for me to be inside you."
"Yes," you breathe. "God, Bucky, yes."
He exhales sharply like your words hit him straight in the chest. Then he crawls up your body, slow, predatory, savoring every inch of you sprawled out beneath him in red lace and stockings.
When he settles over you, not quite touching, his mouth brushes your ear. "I'm gonna make it feel so good, sweetheart..." One metal hand slides up your thigh, hooking behind your knee to pull you open for him. "So good you won't remember anything but my name."
The warmth of his breath makes you shiver.
His lips drag down your neck, hovering over your breasts in the red lace. "But first…" His tongue flicks your skin, teasing. "I want to hear you beg one more time."
His hand moves between your legs, brushing lightly over your still sensitive clit.
"Tell me," he whispers, "exactly how much you want my cock inside you."
Your chest is rising and falling in shaky gasps, stockings still stretched across your trembling thighs, Bucky's hand braced beside your head, his body hovering over yours.
His other hand cups your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing your skin like a tether.
He's close, so close. You feel the hard length of him nudging between your thighs, not quite inside you, but so goddamn close you can't think straight.
"Please, Bucky," you whisper, eyes shining up at him. "I need you. I need to feel you. Please..."
That's all he needed. His jaw clenches, he nods once, low and tight. "I've got you, sweetheart."
His hand drifts down, guiding himself to your entrance with maddening slowness. And then he pushes in. Just the tip, just enough to make you cry out, to arch against him, to feel the delicious stretch as your body gives way to him inch by inch.
"Fuck..." Bucky grits, head dropping to your shoulder as he sinks in deeper. "So tight. So warm. You feel... fuck... feel better than I ever imagined."
He's slow, measured. He wants you to feel everything. Every inch, every burn and slide and snap of tension as he fills you completely.
Your nails dig into his shoulders as your back arches. "More," you gasp. "Please, Bucky, give me all of it."
"Goddamn," he growls, his restraint unraveling as your hips lift to meet him.
He rocks forward, deeper, harder this time, until he's fully seated inside you, his hips flush against yours.
You both moan, loud, raw, tangled.
"Look at you," he pants, glancing down to where your bodies are joined. Your stockings press against his hips, your thighs trembling around him, and his eyes darken. "Wrapped around me with those fuckin' stockings on... doll, you're gonna ruin me."
His hand curls under your knee again, holding your leg open by the lace, deepening the angle. You cry out, your whole body tightening, pulsing around him.
He stills. "Feel that?" he whispers, voice rough and reverent. "I'm inside you. Finally. After all that waiting."
You nod helplessly, eyes fluttering.
He brushes his lips over yours. "Don't hold back, baby. I wanna feel all of it. All of you."
And then he begins to move, slow, deep. Every stroke hitting something perfect, dragging moans from your throat as he rocks into you with purpose.
The room is bathed in golden Christmas light, your body trembling beneath his, the red lace of your bra still on, the black stockings framing you perfectly.
Each thrust presses pleasure deeper into your body, but you want more of him, not just between your legs, but everywhere.
Your hands slide up his arms, across his broad chest, until your fingers catch his wrist. You guide it, shaking, breathless, upward, until his hand is resting over your breasts, the red lace of your bra still clinging to your skin.
"Touch me," you whisper, voice rough with need. "Bucky, take it off. I want to feel you. All of you."
His eyes snap open, dilated, dark, full of something almost primal.
"Please," you beg softly. "I need it. I need your hands on me."
That's all it takes.
Bucky growls low in his throat, half lust, half adoration, and he wastes no time. His hands slide behind your back with practiced ease, fingers working the clasp of your bra as his hips grind into you, not stopping for a second.
You feel the lace loosen, then slip away.
He pulls the bra off and tosses it somewhere across the room, not caring where it lands. Then he looks down at you, completely laid out, stockings still hugging your thighs, your chest now bared completely for him.
"Fucking hell…" he breathes, awestruck.
His warm hands cup your breasts instantly, palms rough, thumbs brushing your nipples in slow, reverent circles that make you arch beneath him.
You gasp, back bowing, walls tightening around him.
"Jesus, sweetheart," he grits, hips stuttering. "You're gonna be the death of me."
He leans down, mouth hot and open against your chest, kissing across soft skin, licking over one peaked nipple, groaning as you cry out.
"Been dreaming about this," he murmurs, his voice muffled as he sucks lightly, "About your sounds, your skin, your body under mine... fuck, you feel better than I ever imagined."
His hand kneads your other breast, the rhythm of his hips faltering as he loses himself, in your scent, your heat, the way you gasp when his teeth graze just right.
"You feel everything now, baby?" he pants, mouth warm on your skin. "No lace. No barriers. Just me and you."
And you do, every inch of him. Your chest tingling under his touch, your thighs trembling from the stretch, your heart pounding from the way he's finally giving you everything.
Bucky's mouth is hot against your chest, sucking, licking, worshipping every inch of newly bared skin while his hips roll slowly, too slowly, into yours.
Every thrust is deep, perfect, devastating... but not enough.
Not anymore.
You rake your fingers through his hair, tugging at the dark strands until he groans against your breast. Your legs wrap around his waist, your stockings brushing his hips, that touch alone makes his rhythm falter.
"Bucky..." you gasp, voice shaking. "Harder."
His breath catches. His lips freeze against your skin. "What?" he pants, pulling back just enough to see your face, your flushed cheeks, swollen lips, the need in your eyes.
You tighten your legs around him, dragging him deeper. "Harder," you repeat, breathless. "Please... I need you. I need all of you."
Something inside him breaks. You see it. You feel it.
A low, guttural growl vibrates in his chest as his hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging in, holding you exactly where he wants you.
"Sweetheart..." he rasps, voice dropping to something feral, "you ask me like that, and I'm not gonna be gentle."
"Good," you whisper, nails clawing at his back. "I don't want gentle."
That's it, his control snaps.
Bucky drags his hips back, slow, deliberate, until only the tip of him is still inside you, stretching you open around him.
You gasp at the sudden emptiness.
Then, he slams into you.
A sharp cry rips from your throat as pleasure explodes through your body. Your back arches off the bed, your hands claw into his shoulders, holding on for dear life.
"Fuck... there you go," Bucky groans, thrusting again, harder, deeper, hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars. "That's what you needed, isn't it?"
"Yes... Bucky, yes... don't stop..."
"Goddamn," he growls, pounding into you now, pace rough, desperate, overwhelming. "You feel so fucking good... so tight... gripping me like you don't wanna let go..."
You don't, Your legs lock tighter around him, stockings pulling against his waist, driving him insane. You tug his face down to yours, kissing him hard, messy, needy. He moans into your mouth, thrusts turning frenzied as your hips lift to meet his.
"Faster," you whisper against his lips.
He obeys instantly. His hips snap against yours, skin slapping, breath ragged, his metal hand sliding beneath your thigh to lift it higher, opening you for him, letting him go even deeper.
You cry out, louder, helpless.
"That's it, baby," he groans, forehead pressed to yours. "Tell me. Tell me you want it."
"I want it... I want you... don't stop, please don't stop..."
His lips crash to yours again, swallowing the sound of your moan as he fucks you harder, deeper, faster, driving into you like he's been waiting years to feel this.
Your voice breaks. Your body shakes. You can feel the orgasm building, fast, sharp, unstoppable.
And Bucky feels it too. "Oh, I feel you," he pants, thrusts turning rougher, needier. "You're close... aren't you? You're about to come all over me, fuck... do it, sweetheart. Do it."
His pace becomes devastating. "You asked for this," he growls, slamming into you with everything he has. "So take it. Take all of it."
And you do, as pleasure crashes through you, pulling you under, your cry echoing through the room while Bucky fucks you through your orgasm, not stopping, not slowing, Because now he is the one unraveling.
Your orgasm hits like a wave, hard, consuming, glorious. Your whole body trembles beneath him, thighs tight around his waist, back arching as you cry out his name like a prayer.
And Bucky? He's right behind you.
The second he feels you clench around him, the second your walls tighten, fluttering, pulling him in deeper than deep, his control unravels completely. "Fuck... sweetheart..." His voice breaks, ragged and rough, barely human.
He thrusts once, twice, then slams deep and stays there, hips pressed flush to yours as his head drops to your shoulder. You feel it, the sharp, guttural groan vibrating against your skin as he comes, hard and deep inside you.
His whole body tenses, muscles flexing, arms shaking from how hard he's holding onto you, his metal hand gripping the sheets like he'll tear them. "Jesus... fucking... Christ," he pants against your neck, hips twitching with each pulse of release. "You feel so good... I can't... fuck..."
He's already lost in it, buried in you, coming hard, gasping your name like it's the only thing grounding him. You wrap your arms around his back, legs still locked tight around his waist, holding him as he shakes through the aftershocks.
His lips find your skin again, pressing desperate kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your cheek, like he's trying to thank you with his mouth. "God... I've never..." he breathes, voice hoarse, broken open. "Never came that hard in my fucking life."
You smile faintly, chest still heaving. "Good."
He lets out a rough laugh, shaky, stunned, then lifts his head to look at you, your faces are inches apart, like you're the only thing in the universe worth falling apart for.
He kisses you, slow, messy, soft, and you feel him start to soften inside you, but he doesn't pull out yet.
His hand slides to your cheek, cradling you as he whispers. "You okay?"
You nod, breathless. "Perfect."
He brushes your damp hair back and rests his forehead against yours.
"Then don't move yet," he murmurs. "Wanna stay inside you a little longer."
And so you do, wrapped around each other, bodies tangled in heat, stockings still on, Christmas lights flickering gently across your skin as you hold Bucky Barnes while he comes down from the best orgasm of his life.
You're both still breathing hard when the world finally starts to come back into focus.
The Christmas lights are the first thing you really notice again, soft little halos of color glowing across the ceiling, the wall, the curve of Bucky's shoulder where he's still hovering over you.
Then him.
His weight settles a little more fully on you, careful but unguarded now, like he's finally stopped holding himself back. He presses one last lazy kiss to your mouth, then another to the corner of your lips, then your cheek, tiny, unfocused, like he's drunk on being this close.
"Hey," you whisper, a small, dazed smile tugging at your lips.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, just as breathless. "Hey yourself."
Slowly, he eases out of you and rolls to the side, immediately tugging you with him so you're pulled into his chest, tucked under his arm. His metal hand finds your thigh automatically, fingers resting over the stocking like it's his new favorite place.
You curl into him, cheek pressed to the warm skin of his chest, feeling the slow thud of his heart finally starting to settle.
For a few beats, neither of you says anything.
It's just the sound of your breathing, the faint rustle of the sheets, the soft hum of the world outside your door... and the glow of the lights painting the room in gold and green and red.
His thumb starts tracing lazy circles on your hip. "You okay?" he murmurs again into your hair, voice low and rough around the edges, but soft in a way that makes your chest ache.
You nod against him. "Yeah. More than okay."
He exhales, a long, relieved breath, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Good. 'Cause if I hurt you, I'd never forgive myself."
You tip your head back to look at him. His hair is a mess, his cheeks are still flushed, and he's looking at you like you hung the damn moon.
"You didn't hurt me," you say quietly. "You were... perfect."
He swallows at that, eyes going a little shiny in the low light. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you whisper. "I wanted this, Bucky. I wanted you."
His gaze drops for a second, like he needs to hide how much that hits him, then he pulls you even closer, tucking you under his chin as if he can shield you from everything else in the world.
"For the record," he mumbles into your hair, "you in that red lingerie and those stockings? I'm never getting over that."
You snort softly. "Good. Took me long enough to work up the nerve."
He pulls back just enough to see your face, brow furrowing. "You were nervous?" he asks, genuinely surprised.
You shrug a little, fingers absentmindedly tracing the lines of a scar on his chest. "Yeah. I mean... it's you. I wanted it to be special."
His expression softens in an instant. "Sweetheart," he says, voice barely above a whisper, "you could've shown up in an old T-shirt and I still would've thought it was the best night of my life."
Your heart flips.
"But," he adds, a little smirk tugging at his mouth, "not gonna lie. The red and the stockings might've killed me a little faster."
You laugh, swatting his chest lightly. "I noticed."
He catches your hand, laces his fingers with yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles. "You did that for me?"
"Yeah," you admit, suddenly shy. "All of it. The set, the dress, the whole... dramatic reveal."
He's quiet for a moment, just looking at you, thumb stroking over the back of your hand.
"Thank you," he says finally. It's simple, but heavy with meaning. "For trusting me with that. With you."
Your chest feels too full. "You don't have to thank me for loving you," you murmur.
His breath stutters. "Say that again."
You smile up at him, eyes soft. "I love you, Bucky."
Something in his face just, breaks open. All the careful control, all the hesitance, all the self doubt you know he still carries, it all flickers in his eyes for a second before it melts into something warm and bright and a little disbelieving.
"I love you too," he says, like it's both a confession and a vow. "More than I know what to do with, most days."
You rest your forehead against his, both of you smiling like idiots now.
He shifts onto his back and pulls you fully onto his chest, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped securely around you. Your leg drapes over his, stocking still on, and he absently runs his fingers along the top of it like he can't quite stop touching it.
"Just so you know," he murmurs, voice getting sleepier around the edges, "I'm never gonna forget tonight. Red lace, stockings, Christmas lights... you. That's burned into my brain forever."
"Good," you mumble, already starting to melt into the warmth of him. "Means it worked."
He chuckles, low and fond, kissing your forehead one last time.
"Yeah, doll," he whispers as your eyes drift closed, "it worked."
You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in his arms, stockings still on, the Christmas lights casting soft colors over both your tangled bodies, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he gets to have this.
You.
Warmth.
Home.
And the quiet, steady certainty that when he wakes up, you'll still be here.